The Ego Has Landed (Dave Hart 3)
Page 16
But at least I can’t be dead. That’s important. Because where would the world be without me?
My mouth is parched and my lips feel painful and cracked. I slide and lurch forward a few more yards. Whatever it is I’m lying on is being pulled, slowly, across the ground. Somewhere nearby I hear a soft sigh that’s feminine, wonderful, a weak-strong moan of someone exhausted but determined.
That’s when the memories come back.
I was flying home to London, from a business trip to Africa. I was in a private jet – a Gulfstream 5, my personal favourite, about to sip champagne and toast success – when there was an explosion. I recall the pilot’s voice frantically calling in a Mayday, then another loud bang and everything is hazy.
Until now. Now the memories are flooding back.
I’m Dave Hart.
Knowing my name is important, at least it is for me. With that comes a whole avalanche of other memories. I’m a banker. At the tender age of forty, I became Chairman of the Erste Frankfurter Grossbank, one of the largest financial institutions in the world, and took the whole giant organisation into overdrive. I’ve achieved things, made things happen, financed the unfinanceable, poured money into projects in Africa that no one would touch, changed the world. I’ve done things in the world of business that no other human being ever has. And some that no other human being would ever want to. Either way, I’m a finance rock star.
I’d been visiting Lubumbashi, a godforsaken dump of a place where Grossbank’s New Start Plan for Africa – an investment plan to acquire assets and develop them in return for introducing proper governance and democratic institutions – was re-shaping a nation. I was re-shaping a nation. That sort of thing appeals to me. I like changing things, upsetting people, pissing them off. And I like to think big. If you’re going to bother to think, it’s the only way to go. Only this time someone got really pissed off. Pissed off enough to fire a rocket up the arse of my G5.
There was someone with me. Someone beautiful. An intelligent blonde. Yes, really. Funny too and sexy as hell. And she could drink.
Two Livers.
Laura ‘Two Livers’ MacKay, my head of corporates at Grossbank, my right hand woman, key business winner, planner, strategist, possessor of a brain the size of a planet and a body to die for, was with me when the plane crashed.
Two Livers is different from any woman I’ve ever known, and yes, I’ve known a few. When God made blondes, I truly believe he took all of their brains and gave them to this one woman. In my rare moments of lucidity I’ll admit – privately – that most of my success I owe to her.
She was also my lover.
‘Aaaaaagh…’ A woman’s voice. Weaker now. I’m not being pulled forward any more. My hand slips from the side of what I guess is a makeshift stretcher and touches hot sand. Desert sand. I’ve been pulled across the desert. By her. I feel the end of the stretcher slowly being lowered to the ground, gently, so that I’m resting on the desert sand, hot through the canvas.
Damn. I guess it means I have to get up.
I open one eye cautiously. No need to worry. I can see her kneeling a few yards from me, her head slumped forward, her beautiful blonde hair falling forward over her face, the tattered remains of what was once a beautiful Chanel dress hanging loosely over her perfect body. She’s barefoot. Walking barefoot on the hot desert sand. Like a slave girl. The fantasy part of my brain whirrs into action. It’s like a scene from a movie. If I wasn’t in so much pain I’d think about jumping her right now. Although having sex on a dune is always a bad idea. Sand gets in all the wrong places.
My own clothes are just as badly torn, my shirt hanging in shreds around me. I ease myself up painfully onto one elbow and watch as she slowly rolls forward until her head touches the sand. She’s instinctively curled into a tight ball, exhausted, vulnerable, her last reserves gone.
Bugger. Now I’ll have to get up and start walking.
I pull myself over and slowly stand up. I’ve certainly cracked several ribs, and I feel weak and slightly dizzy. I’d kill for a drink. In fact several, plus a decent meal and maybe a sharp, reviving line of white powder. But at least I’m alive. The sun is unreasonably hot, and I stare in wonder at the tracks left in the sand, extending far away into the distance. She’s been pulling me for miles, for hours, through the heat of the desert, on a makeshift stretcher made out of two twisted metal poles and a length of canvas. Why would an investment banker do that? Would any banker truly rescue his boss, if he had the choice not to and no-one would ever find out? How much more would Two Livers stand to make each year without me top-slicing the bonus pool?
I walk over to her and crouch down beside her, gently stroking her hair. She’s gone, dead to the world. I put my hands under her shoulders and struggle to pull her onto the stretcher. It’s an effort, but once she’s there I pick up the end and prepare to walk forwards, dragging her in the same direction she was pulling me.
Damn, it’s hard. She may be delightfully slim, but to me in this heat she feels heavy. Forget heroics. This is no fun at all. After a couple of paces I ease her back onto the ground. I don’t know if I’m exhausted or lazy, but there’s no way I’m dragging her across the desert. I stare into the distance. It looks the same in each direction, just miles of undulating dunes.
I analyse things the way that only a senior investment banker can. This is a truly desperate, life threatening situation. It’s not like the ordinary, everyday problems I have to endure in London, like not getting my favourite table for an early evening martini at Duke’s Hotel, or getting stuck in traffic on my way to see Fluffy and Thumper from the Pussy Cat Club for a private performance. I could actually die. I could really fucking die!
I look at Two Livers, exhausted and unconscious from her ordeal. Damn. Two of us certainly won’t make it, at least with me pulling. For both our sakes I need to leave her here – obviously after first checking she’s comfortable – and then head off by myself to fetch help. I know I’m fond of her and all that, but it’s in both our interests. Honestly. In fact it’s because I care for her that I have to leave her now. I’m doing this for her.
Phew, that was easy.
Having taken my decision, I start to head off by myself, but I’ve only gone a few paces when I seem to hear a strange sound. Perhaps I’m imagining it, but I’d swear I can hear a tacka-tacka-tacka noise. Maybe it’s just in my head. Fuck it. Must be the heat. Or the drugs. What have I been using lately? Not much, travelling in Africa. In fact I’ve been remarkably clean. I shake my head to clear it and prepare to head off once more in search of salvation – for us both, of course.
That’s when the helicopter appears over the nearest ridge of sand.
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