He wondered where Whittaker was at that moment. In Australia, more than likely, dazzling the Australian women with his good looks and all-pink uniform. Whittaker, he thought, should have been a sailor; he already had a girl in every airport.
Ann came to mind then, and he wallowed for a moment in the memory of the smell of her, and the feel, and the touch of her hand on him, and then he forced Ann from his mind.
And then he got a headache. He was suddenly aware of it, a real bitch of a headache behind his eyes and across the base of his skull. He realized that he had been aware of getting a headache for some time.
"Oh, shit!" he said aloud.
He tried to look at his wristwatch to see how long he had been in the trunk. The Hamilton chronometer with the glowing hands was now adorning the wrist of the fishing boat captain. He couldn't even see the watch he had been given in return, much less tell what time it was.
In that ten seconds, the headache seemed to have grown even worse.
And then he knew why he had a headache.
"Pull over!" Canidy shouted.
"Let me out of here!"
There was no reply. They apparently hadn't heard him. He could hear them talking. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he could hear them.
He tried shouting again, and again there was no response. His voice was being muffled, he realized, by the thickly padded leather upholstery in the backseat of the Admiral; and what got through was not audible over the whistling of the wind on the convertible roof and the sound of the engine.
Then there was a momentary wave of terror. He was going to die in this fucking trunk, be quietly asphyxiated by carbon monoxide from the exhaust.
When they got to the Countess's hunting lodge and opened the trunk, they would find him dead.
He thought first of his pistol. If he fired that, they would hear it.
But where was he to fire it? Out the top of the trunk, so there would be a bullet hole for the cops to become fascinated with? Into the trunk floor, where it would pierce the fuel tank?
And what would firing a pistol in the confined area of the trunk do to his ears?
He put both hands to his head and pressed inward as hard as he could
against the pain of the carbon-monoxide-induced headache.
And then he twisted around, shoving to the side the goose-down comforter under him. He felt the floor of the trunk. It was covered with some kind of padding. He found the edge, and with a great deal of effort managed to pry the edge loose. Finally, there was enough loose so that he could grip it. He gave a mighty heave and it came loose. Now there was nothing there but sheet metal.
He balled his fist and struck the floor of the trunk with all of his strength.
And then did so again, and again, and again.
And finally, he sensed that the Admiral was slowing, and then there was the sound of gravel under the tires. The car stopped, and Canidy heard a door open. And then the trunk opened, just a crack. But the light coming through the two-inch opening was so painful that Canidy closed his eyes against it.
"Are you all right in there?" von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
"I'm being asphyxiated," Canidy said.
"Is it clear? Can I get out?"
"Asphyxiated? "von Heurten-Mitnitz asked doubtfully.
"The goddamned muffler leaks," Canidy said.
"Just a moment," von Heurten-Mitnitz said. From his tone of voice, Cani knew that he now believed him.
And the trunk opened wide. Canidy heard the sound of the hinges and aware of more light through his closed eyelids.
"Your lips are blue," von Heurten-Mitnitz said.