The warm waters of the Mediterranean wash upon a shore of pebble and stone. Off to the South East lies Sardinia and Corsica, and far beyond Africa, the waters soothing the parched land of the brothers of Voodoo.
We are aboard the Spangle Spray, the Gooselane Yacht off the bustling bay in St Tropez. From my vantage point I can see an array of vessels bobbing insecurely like croutons in a delightful soup.
The pursuit followed us throughout France.
There was no reprieve from gun shot and garot. Connie lies below deck, her gun shot wound to the leg heavily bandaged and covered in life preserving Savlon.
The numbers from the Swiss account are being faxed over directly to the Spangle Spray phone, and the money should carry us into Switzerland.
Connie's sea faring and eccentric Uncle; Francis Merriweather Gooselane appears from the stern brandishing a marlin and a bottle of Chivas.
We know there is not much time. The forces of Auchteraide are circling. Sharks in such a still sea can be fatal. And they can smell the blood of their prey.
RB.
17/08/06
St. Tropez
