by Susan Lewis
Catching her breath, she pressed a hand hard to her head. Chris was right, being here was proving even more difficult than she’d expected, but it was OK, she’d get through it. Having the camera and feeling productive helped; so did Chris’s unfailing support. As she’d written in her journal, she wouldn’t want to be here without him, but nor did she want him to come too close. As though sensing that, he was keeping a respectful distance, by taking a room at the other side of the pool, in a quaint pavilion that wasn’t even connected to the main house, and by never pressing her to discuss anything personal. It was as though they were on a joint project, producer and researcher, and while he went out around the island, and over to the main island of Tortola, to see what he could find out, and conduct some business of his own, she would either plan what they were going to do next, or go with him to shoot what so far had only been negative leads.
Looking down at her journal again she began reading through the entry she’d made a few minutes ago. It had been an attempt to express, or perhaps unravel, the disturbing emotions she was experiencing about Chris himself, that ranged from guilt at being here with him, and awkwardness at their close proximity, right through to affection for his friendship, and even a sometimes quite strong sexual desire – which took her full circle right back to guilt for even thinking of another man that way. ‘Though I long to be alone here,’ she’d written, ‘to share my grief with no one, the minute Chris leaves I feel empty and want him to come back. I don’t tell him that, of course. I can’t. I would either become a liability, or he might think it means more than it does. I am in such a dilemma, about him, and so many other things. I long to go home, yet I can’t even bring myself to call anyone there. It’s as if I’m afraid, though I’m not entirely sure what of, except where all this might end, of course. If Chris weren’t so attractive would I be having these same concerns about the inappropriateness of being here with him, such a recent widow, and pregnant too? Earlier, when he came back from Tortola, and I was down at the quay, waiting to meet him, I so very much wanted to hug him and thank him for coming. Of course, I didn’t. It’s such a delicate and difficult situation we find ourselves in, with us both seeming to go out of our way to make sure we never touch.’
As she finished reading she heard the Jeep pulling up outside, and felt a glow of pleasure coast through her heart. Putting aside her journal, she got up to go and meet him.
‘Hi,’ she said, watching him come up the steps on to the patio where the glistening blue pool gave the illusion of falling over the hillside into the sea. ‘How did it go?’
His dark, often inscrutable, eyes were alive with mischief, as he produced a six-pack of beer and carton of mango juice from behind his back. ‘Time to celebrate,’ he declared, heading for the kitchen. ‘I’ve just found someone who not only saw her, but actually told me her name before I could tell him.’
‘No!’ she cried, following him. ‘But that’s fantastic. I was almost starting to lose hope. Was it my name or hers?’
‘Yours, I’m afraid,’ he confessed, setting the drinks down on a slate counter top and reaching into a cupboard for two glasses. ‘But this guy recognized the photograph instantly, the passport one of her with dark hair, rather than the blonde one.’
‘Did he mention anything about a man?’
He shook his head. ‘He didn’t tell me much more than that. We were down at the jetty and he was just getting on to the ferry over to Bitter End, so I had to leave it there, but he said if we can get ourselves over to his part of the island he’ll be happy to divulge all he knows.’
‘Will he do it to camera?’
‘Didn’t get the chance to ask, but he didn’t seem the type to have a problem with it.’
Her spirits were lifting by the second. ‘So who is he? What does he do?’
‘Actually, he’s a dive master for some scuba outfit over at the Yacht Club,’ he replied, shaking up the juice carton before tearing it open. ‘Business has been slow, thanks to the weather, so he’s been back in Finland for the past few weeks, which is why we haven’t run into him before, which presumably means that the police haven’t either. So, Watson, we could be getting ourselves an exclusive.’ He filled a glass to the top. ‘Here you go, mango juice, straight up,’ he said. ‘I tried to find fresh, but no luck.’
‘Thanks, Holmes,’ she smiled, taking the drink. After waiting for him to flip open a beer she touched her glass to the can. ‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘A break-through at last.’
He grimaced. ‘A possible one,’ he corrected. ‘After all, we don’t know what he’s going to tell us yet. But at least someone other than Mrs Willard has actually seen her.’ Then nodding towards the outside: ‘Shall we go and watch the sun set? I’m told it’s pretty impressive in these parts, when it manages to get through the clouds.’
Though the wind had dropped slightly, before joining him she went to get a shawl to wrap round her shoulders. Then on impulse she smoothed a transparent gloss over her lips. It would help against the wind, and it made her feel good to see how attractively it accentuated the tan she’d been building up, first in Cornwall and now here, during the infrequent, but blazingly hot spells that broke through the clouds. Looking down at the growing swell of her belly, she felt her heart melt, for earlier that day, for the first time, she’d actually felt the baby stirring. It had made her so happy, and sad, that she’d cried and laughed, and picked up the phone to call Anna. But she’d only got the machine, so she’d hung up, wanting to tell her the news in person.
When she wandered back outside she found Chris sitting at the long, teak wood table, legs stretched lazily out in front of him as he gazed out across the bay to where the grey and orange smudged sky was beginning to shroud the horizon. As she pulled up a chair he hardly seemed to notice, so she sat quietly watching the sunset too, and wondered what he was thinking that had caused such a deep frown line to appear between his eyes. She knew if she asked he’d insist it was nothing, but from the number of phone calls he’d been making and receiving since they’d got here, she couldn’t be in much doubt that it was far from convenient for him to be away from his business now. It made her feel selfish and guilty that she hadn’t insisted he put himself first and leave, but for the moment she couldn’t quite bring herself to.
Taking a sip of her drink she allowed her eyes to drift down from the sky to the lolling peaks of the waves that were riding in to shore like small white boats. She was thinking about Katherine now and how she’d arrived on the island, by private plane from San Juan, all those weeks ago. From the small airfield she and her companion had taken a taxi to Speedy’s, the car rental place in Spanish Town, which was how they knew they’d been here almost since Tim was murdered. But where had she been during those first crucial days, and where was she now? Indeed, who was she now, considering she no longer had a passport or licence in Rachel’s name? How had she got those documents? Who had forged them, and how long had she had them? She’d presumably used them to get herself into the Virgin Islands, though obviously not out again. What state of mind had she been in whilst here? Who had she been in touch with, and how? The villa’s phone records told them only that the phone hadn’t been used at all.
Though the light had faded almost completely now, the air remained sticky and warm, so she unwound the shawl and draped it over a chair. Then feeling Chris’s eyes on her she turned back to him and smiled.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she answered, ‘but I don’t think you are.’
His eyebrows immediately went up. ‘What makes you say that?’ he enquired.
With a self-deprecating laugh, she said, ‘I’m actually still a bit dazed by my own audacity in asking you to come here, but I wish you’d have said no, because it’s obviously caused you a problem, taking off at such short notice.’
His eyes were steeped in irony as he said, ‘I confess, your timing could have been better.’
‘Then please, feel free to go,’
she replied, knowing she’d hate it if he did.
‘I do,’ he told her. ‘But I’m choosing to stay.’
Her eyes remained on his as a faint colour stained her cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
He was still watching her, seeming to take in every contour of her face, until finally he said, ‘Can I talk you into coming out for dinner tonight?’
Feeling her heart respond, as much to his tone as to the idea, she said, ‘Yes, why not? It gets a bit dull sitting around here on my own.’ Then after a beat, ‘Sorry I haven’t been much company before. I just haven’t really felt like eating.’
He glanced down at the mound of her tummy. ‘Then I expect that little fellow’s pretty hungry by now.’
‘I think you could be right. He gave me a bit of a kick today, probably to let me know.’
‘You know it’s a boy?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘It could be a girl. Whichever, we’re both famished and ready to go wherever and whenever you like.’
‘Fifteen minutes to shower and shave?’ he said, scraping a hand over his jaw.
‘Then I’ll go and give my sister a call,’ she said. ‘She’s probably wondering what on earth’s happened to me by now.’
‘You still haven’t spoken to her?’ he said, surprised.
‘I know I should have, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Do you think midnight’s too late to call? Yes, it is. I’ll wait till tomorrow. I should call Laurie at the same time, let her know how it’s going.’
A few minutes later she could hear the pounding jets of his shower, coming from behind the frosted windows at the corner of the pavilion, and not for the first time she found herself picturing him naked. His firm, masculine physique made it all too easy to imagine making love with him, even though it filled her with guilt every time she did. She recalled the way she’d kissed him the day she’d found out about Tim and Katherine. Though those moments were blurred in her mind now, she was certain he’d kissed her back before stopping her attempt to undress him. She still felt horribly embarrassed about that, and profoundly grateful that he’d never brought it up again, but she couldn’t help wondering if the same good manners would make him turn her down again, were she to walk in there now and step into the shower with him. Not that she had any serious intention of doing so, but it was a pleasing fantasy to spend a few minutes mulling over as she waited.
After a while the shower went off, and for a moment she thought he was playing the guitar he’d brought with him, until she realized it was the radio she could hear. And beyond that, she was certain, was the sound of his voice, presumably talking to someone on the phone again. She wondered who it might be, considering the time difference between here and Europe, but maybe it was someone local.
‘OK!’ he declared a few minutes later, finding her in the kitchen, rinsing her glass. ‘Let’s hit the town. Oh hell! Who’s that now?’ he groaned, as his mobile started to ring.
Taking it out of his pocket, he turned towards the pool and while talking, walked on back to his room. Just before going inside he suddenly cried, ‘Rudy, my man, you’re a genius. Tell them from me, everything will be standing by.’
‘Sounds like you’ve just had some good news,’ she commented, as he joined her at the top of the steps leading down to the Jeep.
Grinning he said, ‘You could say that. And one of these days I might just tell you what it was.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘You mean you’re keeping secrets from me, when you know my life inside out? Definitely not fair.’
‘Then to make up for it, I pay for dinner,’ he said, opening the car door for her.
‘Which will only buy you time, not dispensation,’ she warned.
After she was settled in her seat, with the safety belt strapped round her, he rested a hand on the side of the windscreen and looked at her through the open window. ‘Am I allowed to give you a compliment?’ he enquired.
Despite the instant reaction of her body, she shook her head. ‘Definitely not,’ she told him. ‘It might go to my head, and failing to seduce you once was quite enough, thank you.’
His surprise was as great as her own, as he stared, laughingly, into her face, while clearly trying to gauge just how serious she was.
‘You know, I can’t believe I just said that,’ she declared, looking straight ahead and trying not to laugh too. ‘Please just get in the car and try to pretend it didn’t happen.’
Chuckling, he walked round and got in the driver’s side. ‘It was going to be a good compliment,’ he told her, ‘but I don’t think it was that good.’
Spluttering with laughter, she said, ‘You’re supposed to be pretending it didn’t happen.’
‘Oh right, yes,’ he responded. Then cocking an eyebrow, he glanced over at her again and there was nothing she could do but cover her face and carry on laughing.
The air was thick with the choking cumuli of cigarette smoke; pungent with the fumes of the previous night’s whisky. No windows were allowed to be opened, every movement was monitored by security cameras and guards. Not even the hotel’s catering staff was allowed into the claustrophobic second floor conference room.
After three days of attending sessions in this highly noxious setting Elliot was feeling a lot more than nauseous, though it wasn’t so much the air that was affecting him as the mind-numbing reality of what he’d been hearing – and was continuing to hear, as this bizarre, terrifying summit unfolded.
Around the table at that moment were fourteen men, including him. Their nationalities were as diverse as their religions and political persuasions; their dress as eclectic as the many regions of the world from which they came. Most spoke English; those who didn’t brought their own translators. Occasionally a woman joined them, like the Iranian biochemist who’d just left, and the nuclear physicist from a former Soviet Republic who’d made several appearances, all of which had instilled more horror in Elliot than anything else he had heard.
The name of Phraxos had not yet been mentioned, nor did he imagine it would be, for this could never be considered part of any legitimate company’s portfolio, and surely no documentary evidence existed anywhere to connect this Plutonian convention to the parent organization. In fact, it was so much worse than anything he or Max had imagined, that it was almost impossible to link it to the highly respectable outward image of the Group, with its glossy high-rise office blocks, dark-suited executives and legitimate corporate powers. It truly was the cancer within, the dark side of humanity, the ugly face of greed gone mad.
His own contribution to this hellish marketplace was to present his ‘client’s’ willingness to supply certain pathogens, and the follow-up education in their weaponization. This he did three or four times a day, as the interested buyers changed and potential new customers, mainly from Africa, were brought in. The five-page document he read from, after handing copies around the table, had been meticulously prepared by an elite team of microbiologists, and various other scientists affiliated to the British Special Investigation Service, all of whom remained faceless and nameless to him, though he’d been assured that a laboratory had long ago been established to satisfy any number of orders, or customer visits, as well as the inevitable background checks. And those checks had certainly happened, for though representatives from ‘his laboratory’ had attended these meetings before, as a newcomer he’d been questioned intensely, and repeatedly, almost since arriving. So far it seemed his pseudo-identity, which had a background so full of detail he could only thank God he’d had more than three months to digest and prepare, was holding up, but he was all too aware of how easily, and catastrophically, it could all fall apart.
Though it wasn’t possible to know the motives of everyone who spoke, whether selling their talents or product or buying for non-governmental sources, it was clear that they ranged from simple financial greed to political or religious ideology, to sheer fanaticism and hatred. Listening to them wasn’t too unlike listening to a rehearsal for the end of the world
. In fact there were moments when it moved so far beyond the limits of normal comprehension that he could hardly credit it with reality.
Franz Koehler was at the head of the table now, shirt sleeves rolled back, elbows resting on the blotter in front of him, bunched hands supporting the wide, brutal jaw that did little to detract from the strikingly handsome features of his Germanic face. His height, much like his presence, was imposing, his words, though few, were spoken in English, in educated, though slightly accented tones, while his chillingly pale eyes seemed to drill an unnerving intensity into anyone who fell into their path. There had been some talk yesterday, which had particularly interested Elliot, of the transportation of large cash sums to key locations, presumably to avoid the paper trail, though where those locations were, and what happened to the cash then, he still didn’t know.
Glancing up as the door opened, he saw Rudy, the man who’d flown him here, go up to Koehler and speak quietly in his ear. Koehler nodded, then murmured something to Professor Bombola, who was seated next to him, before returning his piercing eyes to the current speaker – a small arms manufacturer from South Dakota. Since the man, for the most part, was repeating the kind of sales pitch that had more or less dominated the proceedings, Elliot waited only a few minutes to see who was interested in his product, then quietly got to his feet and left the room.