‘How’s Hater?’ Baird went on.
They both looked at the still body lying at the bottom of the boat. They were startled to see the dark eyes were open and watching them.
Baird shifted over to Hater and knelt at his side.
‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘You’re okay now.’
Hater made a soft, moaning noise, but he kept still. Rico leaned forward to stare down at him. Could this frail, odd little man, with his beetling eyebrows, his thin, emaciated face and body, his wild, staring eyes, be Paul Hater, the internationally renowned jewel operator? It didn’t seem possible, until Rico remembered Hater had been inside for fifteen years: probably been working in this ghastly heat and swamp for most of that time. He shuddered at the thought, wondering what he himself would look like if he had been through what Hater had had to face.
Baird undid the gag and lifted Hater’s head.
‘Have a drink, pal,’ he said, and offered the whisky bottle.
‘Who are you?’ Hater asked in a hoarse whisper. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘We’re getting you out of here,’ Baird said. ‘You’ve got friends on the outside rooting for you.’
Hater licked his lips. His eyes went from Baird’s hard, expressionless face to Rico.