Andrea shifted mental gears and turned up the volume on her iPod. The warm voice of Alanis Morissette calmed her spirits. She leaned her seat back, wishing she was already at her destination.
Luckily, First Class had its advantages. The most important one was being able to get off the plane ahead of everyone else. A young, well-dressed black driver was waiting for her next to a clapped-out jeep at the edge of the runway.
Well, well. No Customs, right? Mr Russell has arranged everything, Andrea thought as she descended the staircase from the plane.
‘Is that it?’ The driver spoke English, pointing to Andrea’s carry-on bag and backpack.
‘We’re heading out to the fucking desert, aren’t we? Drive on.’
She recognised the way the driver was looking at her. She was used to being stereotyped: young, fair, and therefore stupid. Andrea wasn’t sure if her carefree attitude to clothes and money were her way of burying herself still further in this stereotype, or were simply her own concession to banality. Maybe a mixture of both. But for this trip, as a sign that she’d left her old life behind, she’d kept her baggage to a minimum.
While the jeep travelled the five miles to the ship, Andrea took photos with her Canon 5D. (It wasn’t really her Canon 5D but the one that belonged to the paper, which she had forgotten to return. They deserved it, the pigs.) She was shocked at the extreme poverty of the land. Dry, brown, covered in stones. You could probably cross the entire capital on foot in two hours. There seemed to be no industry, no agriculture, no infrastructure. The dust from the wheels of their jeep coated the faces of the people who stared at them as they sped by. Faces without hope.
‘The world’s in a bad way if people like Bill Gates and Raymond Kayn earn more in a month than this country’s Gross National Product in a year.’
The driver shrugged in response. They were already at the port, the most modern and well-maintained part of the capital, and virtually its only source of income. Djibouti profited from its favourable location within the Horn of Africa.
The jeep swerved to a sudden stop. When Andrea regained her balance, what she saw made her jaw drop. The Behemoth was nothing like the ugly freighter she had expected. It was a sleek modern vessel whose enormous hull was painted red and its superstructure a blinding white, the colours of Kayn Industries. Without waiting for the driver to help her, she grabbed her things and ran up the gangplank, wanting to start her adventure as soon as possible.
Half an hour later the ship had raised anchor and was underway. One hour later Andrea confined herself to her cabin, intent on vomiting in private.
After two days, during which the only thing that she could handle was liquids, her inner ear called a truce and she finally felt brave enough to step outside for a little fresh air and to get to know the ship. But first, she decided to toss Raymond Kayn: The Unauthorised Biography overboard with all her might.
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
Andrea turned from the railing. Walking towards her on the main deck was an attractive, dark-haired woman of about forty. She was dressed like Andrea, in jeans and a T-shirt, but over them she wore a white jacket.
‘I know. Pollution is a bad thing. But try being locked up for three days with that crappy book and you’ll understand.’
‘It would have been less traumatic if you had opened the door for something other than getting water from the crew. I understand that you were offered my services…’
Andrea fixed her eyes on the book that was already floating far behind the moving ship. She felt ashamed. She didn’t like people seeing her when she was sick, and hated feeling vulnerable.
‘I was fine,’ Andrea said.
‘I understand, but I’m sure you would have felt better if you’d taken some Dramamine.’
‘Only if you wanted me dead, Dr…’
‘Harel. You’re allergic to dimenhydrinates, Ms Otero?’
‘Among other things. Please call me Andrea.’
Dr Harel smiled and a series of wrinkles softened her features. She had beautiful eyes, the shape and colour of almonds, and her hair was dark and curly. She was two inches taller than Andrea.
‘And you can call me Dr Harel,’ she said, offering her hand.
Andrea looked at the hand without extending hers.
‘I don’t like snobs.’
‘Me neither. I’m not telling you my name because I don’t have one. My friends usually call me Doc.’
The reporter finally reached out her hand. The doctor’s handshake was warm and pleasant.
‘That must break the ice at parties, Doc.’
‘You can’t imagine. It tends to be the first thing people remark on when I meet them. Let’s walk around for a bit and I’ll tell you more.’
They headed towards the bow of the ship. A hot wind was blowing towards them, causing the ship’s American flag to flutter.
‘I was born in Tel Aviv shortly after the end of the Six-Day War,’ Harel went on. ‘Four members of my family died during the conflict. The rabbi interpreted this as a bad omen, so my parents didn’t give me a name, in order to deceive the Angel of Death. They alone knew my name.’
‘And did it work?’
‘For Jews a name is very important. It defines a person and it has power over that person. My father whispered my name in my ear during my bat mitzvah while the congregation was singing. I can never tell anyone else.’
‘Or the Angel of Death will find you? No offence, Doc, but that doesn’t make much sense. The Grim Reaper doesn’t look you up in the phone book.’
Harel let out a hearty laugh.
‘I often come across that kind of attitude. I have to tell you I find it refreshing. But my name will remain a secret.’
Andrea smiled. She liked the woman’s easygoing style, and stared at her eyes perhaps a little longer than was necessary or appropriate. Harel looked away, slightly startled by her directness.
‘What’s a doctor without a name doing on board the Behemoth?’
‘I’m a substitute, last-minute. They needed a doctor for the expedition. So you’re all in my hands.’
Beautiful hands, Andrea thought.
They had reached the bow. The sea slid away below them and the afternoon shone majestic and bright. Andrea looked around.
‘When I don’t feel as if my guts are in a blender, I have to admit that it’s a beautiful ship.’
‘His strength is in his loins, and his force is in the navel of his belly. His bones are as strong pieces of brass; his legs are like bars of iron,’ the doctor recited in a lively voice.
‘There are poets among the crew?’ Andrea laughed.
‘No, dear. It’s from the Book of Job. It refers to the huge beast called the Behemoth, Leviathan’s brother.’
‘Not a bad name for a ship.’
‘At one point it was a Danish naval frigate in the Hvidbjornen class.’ The doctor pointed to a metal plate about ten feet square that had been welded on to the deck. ‘That’s where the only gun used to be. Kayn Industries bought this ship for ten million dollars in an auction four years ago. A bargain.’
‘I wouldn’t have paid more than nine and a half.’
‘Go ahead and laugh if you like, Andrea, but the deck on this beauty is two hundred and sixty feet long; it has its own heliport and it can sail eight thousand miles at fifteen knots. It could travel from Cadiz to New York and back without refuelling.’
At that moment the ship cut through a formidable swell and the vessel lurched slightly. Andrea slipped and almost went over the railing, which at the bow was only a foot and a half high. The doctor grabbed her by the T-shirt.
‘Watch out! If you fell in at this speed you’d either be shredded to pieces by the propellers or drown before we had the chance to rescue you.’
Andrea was about to thank Harel, but then she noticed something in the distance.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
Harel squinted, holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. At f
irst she saw nothing, but five seconds later she could make out a shape.
‘At last we’re all here. It’s the boss.’
‘Who?’
‘Didn’t they tell you? Mr Kayn is going to supervise the whole operation in person.’
Andrea turned around open-mouthed. ‘You are joking?’
Harel shook her head. ‘It’ll be the first time I’ve ever met him,’ she replied.
‘They promised me an interview with him, but I thought that would come at the end of this ridiculous charade.’
‘You don’t believe the expedition will succeed?’
‘Let’s say I have my doubts about its real purpose. When Mr Russell recruited me, he said that we were after a very important relic that had been lost for thousands of years. He wouldn’t go into the details.’
‘We’re all in the dark. Look, it’s getting closer.’
Andrea could now make out what appeared to be some sort of aircraft about two miles off the port bow. It was approaching fast.
‘You’re right Doc, it’s an airplane!’
The reporter had to raise her voice above the roar of the aircraft and the sailors’ cheers as it swooped in a semicircle around the ship.
‘No, it’s not a plane – look.’
They turned to follow it. The plane, or at least what Andrea thought was a plane, was a small aircraft, painted with the colours and logo of Kayn Industries but its two propellers were three times the normal size. Andrea watched, amazed, as the propellers began to turn up on the wing and the plane stopped its circling of the Behemoth. Suddenly it was hanging in the air. The propellers had made a ninety-degree rotation and, like a helicopter, were now holding the aircraft still as concentric waves fanned out on the sea below it.
‘That’s the BA-609 TiltRotor. The best in its class. This is its maiden voyage. They say it was one of Mr Kayn’s own ideas.’
‘Everything this man does seems impressive. I’d like to meet him.’
‘No, Andrea, wait!’
The doctor tried to hold Andrea back, but she slipped away into the group of sailors who were leaning over the starboard railing.
Andrea went onto the main deck and down one of the gangways under the superstructure of the ship that connected with the poop deck where the aircraft was now hovering. At the end of the corridor she found her way blocked by a six foot two blond sailor.
‘That’s as far as you go, Miss.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You can have a look at the plane once Mr Kayn is in his cabin.’
‘I see. And what if I want to have a look at Mr Kayn?’
‘My orders are to let no one go astern. Sorry.’
Andrea turned away without a word. She didn’t like being refused, so she now had twice the incentive to fool the guard.
Slipping into one of the hatchways on her right, she entered the main area of the ship. She would have to hurry before they took Kayn below. She could attempt to climb down to the lower deck, but there would surely be another guard posted there. She tried the handles on a few doors, until she found one that was not locked. It was some sort of recreation lounge with a sofa and a dilapidated ping-pong table. At the end was a large open porthole with a view of the stern.
Et voilà.
Andrea put one of her small feet on the corner of the table and the other on the sofa. She put her arms through the porthole, then her head, and slid her body through to the other side. Less than ten feet away, a sailor wearing an orange vest and protective headphones was signalling to the pilot of the BA-609 as the wheels of the aircraft hit the deck with a squeal. Andrea’s hair blew about in the wind from the rotor blades. She crouched down instinctively, even though she had sworn countless times that if she ever found herself under a helicopter she wouldn’t imitate the characters in films who ducked their heads even though the blades were almost five feet above them.
Of course, it was one thing imagining a situation and another being in it…
The door of the BA-609 started to open.
Andrea sensed movement behind her. She was about to turn around when she was thrown to the ground and pinned against the deck. She felt the heat of the metal against her cheek as someone sat on her back. She twisted with all her strength but couldn’t free herself. Although she was finding it difficult to breathe, she managed to peer at the aircraft and saw a tanned, handsome young man wearing sunglasses and a sports jacket exit the plane. Behind him came a bull of a man weighing about 220 pounds, or so it seemed to Andrea from the deck. When the brute looked at her she registered no expression in his brown eyes. An ugly scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheek. Finally there followed a thin, smallish man, dressed completely in white. The pressure on her head increased and she could barely distinguish this last passenger as he crossed her limited field of vision – all she could see were the shadows of the slowing rotor blades on the deck.
‘Let me go, OK? The fucking crazy paranoid is already in his cabin, so get up off my back, damn it.’
‘Mr Kayn is neither crazy nor paranoid. I’m afraid he suffers from agoraphobia,’ her captor replied in Spanish.
His voice was not that of a sailor. Andrea remembered well that educated, serious tone, so measured and aloof, that had always reminded her of Ed Harris. When the pressure on her back eased, she jumped to her feet.
‘You?’
Standing before her was Father Anthony Fowler.
12
OUTSIDE THE OFFICES OF NETCATCH
225 SOMERSET AVENUE,
WASHINGTON, DC
Tuesday, 11 July 2006. 11:29 a.m.
The taller of the two men was also the younger, so he was always the one who fetched the coffee and the food, as a sign of respect. His name was Nazim and he was nineteen years old. He had been in Kharouf’s group for fifteen months and he was happy, for finally his life had found meaning, a path.
Nazim idolised Kharouf. They had met at the mosque in Clive Cove, New Jersey. It was a place full of ‘westerniseds’ as Kharouf called them. Nazim enjoyed playing basketball near the mosque, which was where he had got to know his new friend, who was twenty years older than him. Nazim had been flattered that someone so mature, and a college graduate besides, would speak to him.
Now he opened the car door and struggled into the passenger seat, which is not easy when you are six foot two inches tall.
‘I only found a burger bar. I got salads and hamburgers.’ He gave the bag to Kharouf, who smiled.
‘Thanks, Nazim. But I must tell you something, and I don’t want you to become angry.’
‘What?’
Kharouf took the hamburgers out of their boxes and threw them out of the window.
‘Those burger bars add lecithin to their hamburgers and there’s a chance they could contain pork. That’s not halal,’ he said, referring to the Islamic restriction on pork. ‘I’m sorry. But the salads are fine.’
Nazim was disappointed but at the same time he felt reassured. Kharouf was his mentor. Whenever Nazim made a mistake, Kharouf corrected him respectfully and with a smile, which was the complete opposite to the way Nazim’s parents had treated him over the past few months, constantly yelling at him ever since he’d met Kharouf and started attending another mosque that was smaller and more ‘committed’.
In the new mosque the imam not only read from the sacred Koran in Arabic, but also preached in that tongue. Despite the fact that Nazim had been born in New Jersey, he read and wrote the prophet’s language perfectly. His family was from Egypt. Through the hypnotic preaching of the imam, Nazim began to see the light. He broke away from the life he had been leading. He got good grades and could have begun studying engineering that year, but instead Kharouf found him a job in an accounting firm run by a believer.
His parents disagreed with his decision. They also didn’t understand why he locked himself in the bathroom to pray. But as painful as these changes were, they slowly accepted them. Until the incident with Hana.
Nazim’s remarks
were becoming increasingly aggressive. One evening his sister Hana, who was two years older than him, came in at two in the morning after having drinks with her friends. Nazim was waiting for her and scolded her about the way she was dressed and for being a little drunk. The insults went back and forth. Finally their father stepped in and Nazim pointed his finger at him.
‘You’re weak. You don’t know how to control your women. You let your daughter work. You let her drive and you don’t insist that she wear a veil. Her place is in the home until she has a husband.’
Hana started to protest and Nazim slapped her. That was the last straw.
‘I may be weak, but at least I am master of this house. Get out! I don’t know you. Leave!’
Nazim went to Kharouf’s with only the clothes on his back. That night he cried a little, but the tears didn’t last. Now he had a new family. Kharouf was both his father and his older brother. Nazim admired him a great deal because Kharouf, who was thirty-nine, was a real jihadist and had been in training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He shared his knowledge with only a handful of young men who, like Nazim, had suffered countless insults. In school, even on the street, people mistrusted him the instant they saw his olive skin and hooked nose and realized he was an Arab. Kharouf told him it was because they feared him, because Christians knew that the Islamic faithful were stronger and more numerous. Nazim liked that. It was time that he commanded proper respect.
Kharouf raised the window on the driver’s side.
‘Six minutes and then we’ll go.’
Nazim gave him a worried look. His friend noticed that something wasn’t right.
‘What’s the matter, Nazim?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It’s never nothing. Come on, you can tell me.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Is it fear? Are you afraid?’
‘No. I’m a soldier of Allah!’
‘Soldiers of Allah are allowed to be afraid, Nazim.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
‘Is it firing the gun?’
Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition Page 6