by Berry, Tony
‘Heads down!’ snapped Cedric.
This time Bromo didn’t hesitate. It was a good move, bridge or no bridge. With any luck, anyone peering over the high parapet through this gloom would see nothing more than a long dark object being carried seaward, their bent backs and black clothing disguising their narrow craft. He waited patiently while they glided under the old bridge, still standing after more than two centuries of daily pounding, and were well clear of any watchers. As he sat up, a broken umbrella drifted by, the discarded victim of earlier gales. Ahead, Justin was paddling to hold his kayak sideways to the river’s flow, pointing it at the riverbank. He raised a hand to signal directions but said nothing.
Cedric understood. He nosed their craft alongside Julian’s before back-paddling furiously to bring it alongside a roughly levelled space between a mass of spindly trees and vines.
‘Out!’ commanded Cedric.
Bromo faltered and fumbled. He felt the fragile craft rocking beneath him. Where had that nimbleness gone that once saw him crewing racing dinghies way out in the bay, hanging perilously over the side, straining on the sheets and going about with split-second timing? He pressed his hands down firmly on the cracked paving stones of the pseudo-jetty and swung his right leg up, stumbling forward, face down. Somehow the other leg followed.
‘The eagle has landed,’ he muttered.
‘More like a bloody beached porpoise,’ chuckled Cedric, making a surprisingly nimble landfall alongside him. He pushed a rope into Bromo’s hands.
‘Here, pull on this. Let’s get this thing ashore.’
Within minutes the kayak was hauled out of the water, deflated and folded away into a backpack now strapped to Cedric’s shoulders.
‘This way.’
‘Justin?’
‘He’ll keep watch for a few minutes then paddle back to the car. Just about make it. Ebb tide. Nothing but mud flats up there then.’
The rain had eased. Lights from a nearby road threw shadows on to a narrow path between the river and two blocks of apartments, the bottom level showing a front of plain brick and the upper floors with whitewashed walls stained by the droppings of seagulls. He counted upwards: four windows, one above the other, the ground floor with curtains closed and the others throwing the low glow of standard lamps and the flicker of televisions out into the night.
‘What’s this? Looks like retirement homes.’
‘It is.’
‘Just what I need.’
They could check him in and throw away the key. No more muggings and threats; an end to dodgy diamonds and gun-toting mercenaries. Forget Sigiriya and sat-nav hackers. Drag out the fluffy slippers and the cardy and let his feet stay firmly on the ground. Bugger long-haul flights and kayaking safaris in pissing rain. He gathered his coat close to him and huddled deep into it as Cedric unbolted a gate marked “Private” and crept along the narrow passage between the two buildings. Bromo kept close to the wall, two steps behind, anxious about unfamiliar territory.
A tall hooded figure loomed out of a doorway, almost treading on Cedric’s toes, towering over him. His bomber jacket and tight tracksuit pants glistened from the earlier rain. A spiral of wire trailed from an earpiece down under his hooded collar. The man cast a suspicious eye in Bromo’s direction.
‘This him?’
‘None other,’ replied Cedric.’
‘Just say the word.’
Bromo strained to hear Cedric’s whispered response but it was drowned out by a seagull’s angry outburst. The man nodded, satisfied, and mumbled something into a speaker clasped to the neck of his anorak.
‘He’s waiting. You know the way.’
The man swung an arm backwards, his palm pushing at a wooden door with big black iron hinges and set flush with the side of the building. The door, like the wall surrounding it, had once been white but was now scarred by dents and scratches. Despite its thickness and weight, it opened smoothly inwards into a square space a couple of metres high and large enough to take two cars. Cedric kept going, waddling across to a door immediately opposite. Bromo stopped, two steps in, and looked around. The walls on either side were lined from floor to ceiling with racks of wine bottles. To his right, planks of well-worn timber made a bench for three barrels, tapped and with drip buckets attached. Facing him was a similar, shorter bench, hosting two more barrels.
‘You carry on. This’ll do me.’
Cedric turned and hissed at him.
‘Move it. Stop being such a naughty child.’
Bromo chuckled at Cedric’s admonition. Such a fairy yet such a stalwart.
‘Okay, okay, I get the message. What’s the rush?’
‘The man’s waiting and in an hour the tide will be too low.’
Neither explanation made much sense. Bromo shook his head and decided it was better not to ask. He trudged on in Cedric’s wake, taking a flight of carpeted stairs. Somewhere on their ascent – was it the second or third floor; he’d already lost count – he tapped Cedric on the shoulder.
‘What was all that password bizzo with the gorilla at the gate? Bit old hat isn’t it?’
Cedric marched on, throwing words over his shoulder as they took another turn in the stairs.
‘Yes, dearie, old but reliable. I love a touch of theatre. Better than all today’s hi-tech nonsense.’
Bromo decided to push his luck.
‘Didn’t quite catch the word you used …’
They had reached the top floor. An oak-panelled door with a peephole in the centre faced them. Cedric had his hand poised to knock.
‘Oh that, dearie. I thought you would have guessed. “Sigiriya”, of course. What else?’
TWENTY-TWO
BROMO classified the man who greeted them as ageless. He guessed at somewhere in his late 40s, revised it to possibly nudging 70 and finally settled for perhaps a decade less. A thin layer of short-cropped hair topped a round smooth face totally unblemished except for the remnants of a scar from his left ear to the corner of his fully-lipped mouth. His dark skin hinted at origins in Africa or somewhere further east. He stood erect and tall, the bearing of a military man.
Bromo clasped the hand being extended to him and noted the firm, muscled grip. Definitely military.
‘Welcome Mr Perkins. My apologies for such a tortuous journey. But circumstances deemed it prudent.’
‘Perhaps I should have caught the bus.’
‘Ah,’ said their host, withdrawing his hand, ‘a disciple of the KISS principle I see.’
‘Keeping it simple often fools the most devious of people,’ said Bromo. ‘They spend so much of their lives creating complications that they are bamboozled by the straightforward.’
The man’s face softened into a gentle smile.
‘Come, let us talk simplicity.’
The sleeve of his three-quarter length Nehru jacket brushed the fronds of a tall palm sat in a bronzed container as he stepped aside and gestured with a flowing movement of his right arm for Bromo and Cedric to precede him into a room opening off the vestibule.
‘Simplicity’s certainly the word,’ said Bromo as he surveyed the room.
An oval table in light oak, six high-backed matching chairs spaced around it, filled an alcove where a dormer window jutted out over the riverbank to give a wide view of the steadily ebbing stream. Over to one side, three deep dark red leather armchairs surrounded a low, glass-topped coffee table. To the right, almost hidden behind the door, a laptop rested on a narrow desk with a two-drawer filing cabinet beneath and a high-backed office chair pulled close in. No artwork on the walls, no shelves of books, no personal knick-knacks or family photographs. Bare, minimal, a nowhere place for nowhere people.
Bromo rubbed his earlobe between thumb and forefinger. Where was the promised food? Not a sit-down, slap-up dinner but just something, anything. He felt uneasy, stressed. His hunger wasn’t helping. Neither was the lack of information; nor the absence of an introduction. He turned to face their host.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch you
r name.’
Gervase Morales switched his gentle smile back on.
‘As you are well aware, Mr Perkins, I didn’t give it. However, if you seek a label to use for the sake of politeness you may call me Mr Blood. You can rightly assume that it is not my real name but I’ll think you’ll find it to be most appropriate.’
Bromo nodded agreement without understanding any of the implications hinted at by the so-called Mr Blood. The clue was too cryptic. He took the information in his stride, determined to show no reaction. He sought for clues in the man’s voice. It was deep and well-modulated, the words used and delivered with the precision often found in western-educated elites from south and east of the Mediterranean. He kept probing.
‘You seem to be a long way from home, Mr Blood. What brings you to this part of the world?’
‘And you’re even further from home, Mr Perkins. I could ask you the same question, although I’ll confess I already know the answer.’
He opened his arms wide, his long jacket swirling out as he gestured towards the trio of armchairs where Cedric, his anorak dumped on the floor beside him, had already made himself comfortable.
‘Enough of this verbal jousting,’ said Blood. ‘All will soon be revealed but first I am sure you are in need of sustenance after your perilous voyage on our city’s high seas.’
He beamed his cherubic smile at them and pulled open the door.
‘Okay Tarquin, we’re ready for you.’
The security guard who had checked their arrival appeared in the doorway, almost filling the frame. He pushed the door wider open to make way for Mischali who limped slowly into the room wheeling a steel-framed trolley with two glass shelves containing plates, bowls and glasses and a couple of silver salvers well stocked with a medley of delicate canapés and more substantial open sandwiches.
‘My apologies for our cuisine tonight,’ said Blood. ‘I feel it is more bas than our usual haute. It’s all rather last minute and Tarquin didn’t get to the supermarket until just before it closed.’
He picked a bottle off the lower shelf and waved it towards Bromo.
‘But we do have your Lagavulin, Mr Perkins.’
‘A nice touch, Mr Blood. I’m impressed.’
He was also worried. Such detailed personal information as his favourite tipple was something few outside his immediate circle would know. It pointed to very thorough research – and to someone telling tales. His stress level was rising. He scratched again at his ear.
‘Ah, the wondrous Lagavulin,’ chuckled Cedric. ‘We’ve seen you knock a few of those back in the past. Justin suggested to Mr Blood it might help put you at ease after all your trouble.’
Tarquin and Mischali left the room as quietly as they had entered. Bromo’s tension eased. He’d forgotten his own rule of first seeking the simple solution. No one was prying into his alcoholic preferences. He made a selection of sandwiches and canapés and accepted a glass of malt offered by Morales. He felt the warming glow of his first sip and settled back into the chair to the accompaniment of a long exhaling breath. He decided he might as well go along with his host’s name-playing game. One moniker was as good as another; what lay behind it was what really mattered. He took another soothing sip.
‘So Mr Blood, time to cut to the chase, don’t you think?’
‘Indeed it is.’
Morales sat upright and ran a hand, fingers lightly clenched, around the neck of his immaculate white grandfather shirt buttoned high at his throat as if contemplating his next move. He brought hand his down and fumbled briefly in the side pocket of his jacket. In one smooth movement he brought out a small leather pouch, loosened its drawstring closer and tipped a handful of small stones on to the coffee table.
‘Those, Mr Perkins, are what one spoilt and somewhat arrogant and grossly overpaid young woman once famously referred to as “a few dirty pebbles”. She earned herself worldwide headlines and equally extensive condemnation. To those who know better, they are what are known as “blood diamonds”. That is what Sigiriya is all about.’
Bromo bent forward and put a hand on the cluster of stones, rolling them slowly beneath his palm. Rough indeed and definitely dirty. He lifted his hand and leaned back in his chair.
‘Not much sparkle there. Hardly likely to be a girl’s best friend.’
Briefly his mind wandered to the last time he had heard that phrase. It was Liz with her snap response before she put him in touch with Jacowiscz the jeweller. Such a long time ago and close to the start of his travails – and his travels. Oh to be a time-traveller and be back before it all began, perhaps even with Liz providing some of the TLC his mind and body felt they desperately needed. Maybe he should give her a call.
‘Well, Mr Perkins?’
Morales’ words jolted him out of his reverie. He shook his head, clearing it of distant thoughts. Something more than a glib remark seemed to be required. His hand went to his ear, rubbed at the lobe. The nerve ends were tingling. He stopped rubbing and leaned forward, arms folded in his lap, eyes on the scattering of stones.
‘Bit bamboozled really,’ said Bromo. ‘Not really into diamonds. Out of my league. A bunch of flowers and a bottle of plonk is usually the best I can manage.’
He sensed Cedric stifling a giggle on his left.
‘I wasn’t thinking of you and your lady friends,’ said Morales. ‘This is something far more serious than your spasmodic flirtations, Mr Perkins, It is a deadly, tragic business on a global scale. It is not some smart marketing plot to call them blood diamonds; they are awash in the blood of thousands who are murdered and maimed in the name of money. It’s dirty and vile and sadly so little is being done to stamp it out.’
Bromo gave an involuntary shiver and took a bracing sip of his whisky. He felt he was being led down a path he didn’t want to tread. So much for being put out to pasture and leading a quiet life. He turned his head to look at Morales, seeking some sort of reaction but found nothing. The man was impassive, unsmiling.
‘Blood by name and blood by nature, eh?’ said Bromo. ‘Well as far as this little bunny’s concerned, it’s not bloody likely. No bloody way. I think it’s time to call a cab and I’ll be on my way.’
As he began to raise himself out of the chair’s deep hollow he felt a hand grasp his left thigh and push him back into the seat. Cedric loosened his grip.
‘Stay Bromo and hear him out. Remember it is you who came all this way trying to find out about Sigiriya—’
‘And so far I’ve learnt fuck all and been shoved from pillar to post—’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen …’ Morales sat forward, arms half raised, palms spread in supplication. ‘Please, please, please. Let us have some calm.’
He handed the plate of food around. Bromo declined, still fuming. He was conceding nothing, not even his need for food. Cedric took a sandwich and a sliver of toast topped by a layer of smoked salmon and a curl of cucumber. Morales placed the platter back on the table and waved the bottle of scotch at Bromo’s glass. He yielded. There were limits to one’s obstinacy … and abstinence, especially when Lagavulin was being offered in such generous measures.
Morales sat upright, his hands taking hold of the side of his coat and drawing it tighter, rolling his shoulders so that it sat neat and square. Bromo saw the signs; this was a man who meant business and did not accept opposition easily.
‘My apologies,’ said Morales. ‘Your outburst was probably fully justified. We – or I at least – have perhaps not been as open with you as I should.’
‘Cheers, I’ll drink to that,’ muttered Bromo.
He felt a sharp tap on the back of his hand.
‘Shush; naughty boy,’ hissed Cedric. ‘Hear the man out.’
He accepted the rebuke and sank back in the chair, head resting on the high back, eyes half closed. Morales’ deep voice was authoritative but calm. Bromo sensed the concern. A passionate statement without the rant.
‘First about myself. As you realise, I am not from around these
parts, although my parents did send me to get a thoroughly British education, which my government later added to by sending me to the military academy at Sandhurst. An excellent institution, I might add.’
Bromo gave himself a mental pat on the back; he’d been right about the military connection. Definitely officer material. He let the man called Blood talk on.
‘My heritage is Sri Lankan going back many centuries, but sadly my home is elsewhere.’
Bromo bit back on the obvious question; he knew before he asked that Blood would be keeping secret any information about where he actually lived. The man could have been reading his thoughts.
‘I have my bases, my hideouts, like the place beyond Swanpool that you so nearly visited, but it seems even that secluded retreat has become known to those I’d rather not count as visitors.’
He extended his arm in a slow graceful sweep of the room.
‘This modest space so far seems known to only a trusted few …’ he loosed a brief inclusive smile at Cedric, ‘… and has helped preserve my anonymity. Perhaps being a trustee and making the occasional generous donation to the management fund have played a part in that. From here and other places I do what I have to do and, thanks to the advances of technology, I am able to operate globally while living as a humble local.’
Bromo sipped his drink.
‘Come on, matey. Country estate, helicopter, bodyguards, packets of diamonds and God only knows what else – there’s nothing too humble in that lot. Cut the crap and stop dancing around the truth. Give us the movie, not the bloody trailer.’
Morales pursed his lips and nodded gently, unruffled by Bromo’s outburst. He moved his open hands in a calming gesture.
‘Again I apologise, Mr Perkins. Too much information, as they say. The blunt truth is we thought we were closing the flow of these blood diamonds. Unfortunately that is not the case. It is getting worse. The cancer is spreading. It has infiltrated my own country, Sri Lanka, and from there the evil trade has spread to Australia and—’
‘That is where you mistakenly thought I’d come in,’ interrupted Bromo.