And then he met a man from his hometown who promised he knew a way to change his life for the better. He would send Mattias to Europe, where he could get a job that paid him enough to send two hundred dollars to his parents each month and still have more than enough to live in his own apartment, buy new clothes, eat three meals a day, and perhaps even go to a restaurant or see a movie. One did not have to be a citizen or have a passport. It sufficed to land on their shores.
Mattias would be an asylum seeker. On arrival, he would be placed in an immigration facility—this the man described like a fairy-tale castle: clean beds, hot showers, a cafeteria, even women—and after two weeks, he would be released and allowed to find a job or, as was often the case, given one if Mattias was intelligent enough. The man could see that he was. Mattias was tall and handsome. He had straight white teeth, and did he not speak English, at least a little? A fortune awaited. All he had to do was work up the courage to leave. With luck, there were a last few spots available on a fine vessel leaving in a month’s time.
But first, money.
It was not cheap to travel. The cost was three thousand dollars. Impossible, thought Mattias, his heart aching to miss such an opportunity. Three thousand dollars was a year’s wage, two years’ even. He could never come up with such a sum. The man from his village was undaunted. Surely Mattias’s family had saved. And if they had not, the man had another proposition. He would lend Mattias a portion of the cost. Mattias would pay him back after he found employment in Europe. If not, his father could help repay him. Did his father not own five hundred sheep?
There.
Soon after, the deal was agreed upon. One thousand dollars up front, paid in cash—the family’s entire savings, every last cent. The balance to be repaid over the next two years at a fair rate of interest, to be determined, naturally, by the prevailing market.
Taking in the chaotic scene around him, Mattias knew that the man had lied. What was he to do? There was no choice but to continue.
The Medusa finally left the dock at two p.m. The first day passed in a haze of misery. With no room to lie down, he stood the entire time, hemmed in on every side. Mercifully, the sea calmed. The epidemic of seasickness abated. A boat passed their way, offering water and food, though at astronomical prices. The mood aboard the ship soared. In a day’s time, their feet would touch European soil.
Mattias was the first to notice the problem. It was late on the second day, nearing dusk. The sound of the ship’s engine had changed. Its steady rhythmic chug had slowed. More troubling, it had developed a persistent cough, like an old man suffering from tuberculosis. He sensed the decrease in the ship’s progress. The sound of the waves slapping the bow waned, the boat felt lower in the water.
He began to worry.
With difficulty, he made his way toward the stairwell, sliding and cajoling and worming his way closer and closer. His fingers could nearly touch the railing when suddenly the boat listed to one side. People toppled onto one another. A hue and cry came from topside. The acrid scent of smoke and fire stung his nose. Through the hatch, he saw a plume of smoke as black as night lifting into the air. Then, shooting up, tall, angry flames.
Panic.
Fear spread as if everyone was stung by the same hornet. In a rush to stand clear of the flames, the passengers above crowded to one side of the boat. Already unstable, the boat listed madly to port, her gunwales sinking below the surface, water pouring onto the decks and down the hatches, all kept open to allow precious air into the hold. The engine died altogether. The boat ceased moving. Unbalanced, making no forward progress, the boat became unseaworthy. In seconds, the Medusa lay on her side, taking on water, the ocean pouring over the gangway, flooding belowdecks.
Mattias hauled himself topside, fell, was trampled, got to his feet, fell again, and was struck in the head by a loose piece of equipment—he never knew what. The boat was sinking. From the hold, screams. Then an explosion as seawater engulfed the overheated engine.
Mattias found himself in the water. Unlike nearly all the others, he could swim; in fact, he was a strong swimmer, having grown up in the mountains and spent summers fishing and swimming in their crystalline lakes. The top of a storage locker floated past. He took hold of it, kicking to distance himself from the vessel as it slid below the surface, only the captain’s bridge visible now. Then it, too, was gone.
Where was everyone? He had reckoned that at least four hundred persons had boarded the Medusa. Heads bobbed here and there. An arm reached for the sky, then went under. A few shouts for help, then no more.
Mattias spotted a small raft, hardly larger than a bathtub, a half-dozen men clinging to its sides. Other men held on to pieces of the boat that had broken off or floated away on their own. Fifty yards away, looking like a jaundiced iceberg, a large jagged slab of fiberglass rose out of the water.
Slowly the survivors congregated. Men. Only men. Pieces of the boat were lashed together, the iceberg—actually a section of the stern blown off when the engine exploded—the raft, the locker, a barrel, several life jackets, an oar, anything buoyant. A makeshift life raft was built, eight feet in length, ten across. Bottles of water that had come to the surface were gathered. From the beginning, there was no food apart from what the men had on their bodies, and that was now ruined by seawater.
Thirty-three men survived the initial sinking. All those belowdecks drowned immediately. Most above deck could not swim and perished soon after.
Of the ordeal, Mattias remembered little. The memory was too painful to recall, like placing his fingers around a white-hot teapot. It was easier that way. Others had told the stories.
It was a slow descent into madness. The lack of food, the absence of drinking water, the gradual loss of hope as day after day passed. Men succumbed to their thirst, gulping down saltwater, sinking into delirium. One swam off in search of a boat he was certain was nearby. He could see it! Another claimed he would ride a dolphin to shore.
Each morning they woke to find one less face.
There was more. The violence, the depredations, the primitive evils as the men set upon one another. And then, cannibalism. Men devouring the flesh of another. There was no fire. No time to dry the strips as jerky. Just a few knives to flay a dead man—the upper arm and thigh yielded the most—the pieces eaten raw. The liver, too. It was such a knife, one with a serrated edge, that left the scar on Mattias’s arm.
And then one day—their twentieth at sea—a boat appeared. A vessel of the Italian Coast Guard. They were saved.
Ten of five hundred three.
The incident became known as The Raft of the Medusa, named after a painting Mattias had never heard of and, certainly, never wanted to see. The Medusa he had known was enough.
Five years had passed since.
In that time, he had fallen in love, started a family, found gainful employment and an occupation he enjoyed. A baker—who would have dreamed it?
So why a suicide vest? It was not jihad. Martyrdom was a word that held no meaning for him.
At his core, there was a black, festering hole. Since he’d set foot back on land all those years ago, he’d been more dead than alive. The passage of time had changed nothing. Thoughts of revenge were never far away. Over time, they had grown ungovernable, ever demanding his attention. He came from a cruel, unforgiving land, a land where words mattered little. Only actions.
So why the vest?
Because, as the sheikh had said, it was his chance to turn his suffering to the advantage of others. The world must know that there were others like him. Others with little or nothing. But people all the same. Human beings with the same hopes and ambitions and dreams as any other. They must not be forgotten.
Did a man need a better reason to wish to make a difference? By his actions, he would give those left behind hope.
And, of course, there was the money. The second part of the sheikh’s promise to him. But his soul did not wish to contemplate his sins when it had so little time left.
Chapter 66
Cannes
Simon’s route took him past Zug, along Lake Lucerne, and through the town of Altdorf—no sign of William Tell or Gessler—then into Gotthard tunnel, spitting him out in the Tessin, then skirting Lugano before entering the lake district of Northern Italy. The change upon crossing the border was marked: the roads rougher, litter strewn in the weeds, buildings run down, covered with graffiti. Past Milan, then a straight shot to Genoa and the Mediterranean, 200 kilometers per hour all the way, the Ferrari’s V-12 purring like a tiger on the prowl.
At the four-hour mark, they reached the coast. Snarled weekend traffic cost him an hour. It was nearly two when they crossed the border into France just before Menton, jumping onto the autoroute that wound through the mountains above Monaco, the Tête de Chien offering a mute greeting, before returning to the sea at Nice for the last few kilometers to Cannes.
Home again.
The villa stood at the end of a short drive off the main road. To look at, it was a modest dwelling, typical of those on the Côte d’Azur. White-washed walls, clay-tile roof, wrought-iron fixtures over recessed windows. Old, billowing pepper trees shaded the walk to the front door. Simon took the heavy ring knocker and banged twice.
The door opened. A slim, blond woman hardly old enough to drive gazed at him dully. “You called about delivering some contracts?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m Jen. Samson’s assistant. I’ll get him.”
“Do that.”
They had stopped first at the port, looking for the Yasmina, only to be told that Samson Sun was not aboard. Simon had said something about being an executive for a film studio and that he must have mixed up where they were supposed to meet. The skipper had taken one look at the Ferrari, at London in the passenger seat, and given Simon the address of where Mr. Sun was residing for the length of the festival.
Simon walked into a spacious living area: high ceilings, exposed rafters, art on the walls, sliding doors leading out to a manicured grass terrace. Beyond soft, rolling hills, the Mediterranean beckoned under a royal-blue canopy.
“Not bad,” said London.
“Not bad at all,” Simon agreed.
As they admired the view, Samson Sun entered the room with an audible clearing of his throat. He was dressed for the premiere in an ivory tuxedo, a black silk scarf draped around his neck. “Excuse me,” he said. “You can’t barge into someone’s home without their permission.”
Simon turned. “Hello, Samson.”
Samson Sun didn’t miss a beat. “Riske. Where’s my painting?”
“It’s not yours. It belongs to the Rijksmuseum of Amsterdam.”
Sun bristled at the suggestion, then seemed to think the better of it. “At least I know it was authentic,” he said, his good-natured self once again.
“Don’t be too sure,” said Simon.
“Back for another? Look around…No Monets. I bought the place with all furnishings. If you see something else that’s been stolen, help yourself.” He took note of London. “Who’s your friend?”
Simon introduced them, leaving out that she was a reporter for the Financial Times. Sun took to her, as he did to all beautiful women, gripping her hand too long, asking her why in the world she was with Simon when she could be staying at his, Samson Sun’s, villa. The Sun charm offensive.
“I’m not here to talk about art,” said Simon. “I’m here to take you up on your invitation to the premiere.”
“Too late. All the tickets are spoken for.”
“Two just came free.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hadrian Lester and his wife won’t be attending,” said London.
“Who?”
“Come off it, Samson.” Simon stared at the man. “Didn’t your aunt tell you? Lester’s dead.”
“Aunt Nadya?” said Sun tentatively. How did Riske know her? “She might have mentioned something.” He took a few steps and fell into an oversized armchair. “What are you here to talk about, then, if it isn’t art?”
“Like I said, your movie.”
“What about it?” asked Sun, already softening, gesturing for them to take a seat on the sofa across the room.
“We looked at your press conference online,” said London. “It’s your first film. Where did you get the idea?”
“The screenwriter. M. L. De Winter. She approached me—a friend of a friend—hoping to make it as a documentary. I suggested it might work better as a drama.”
“Tell the story on a more personal level,” said Simon.
“Yes,” said Sun, smiling a bit. “Indeed. That’s the beauty of the film, of film itself. It allows the viewer a glimpse into a character’s heart, as well as their mind.”
“So the film is sympathetic to the refugees’ situation.”
“Asylum seekers,” said Sun. “Fleeing from oppressive regimes. How could it not be?”
“And your aunt was okay with this?”
“My aunt? What does she have to do with my film?”
“I think we both know her political views.”
“She can be a bit conservative,” said Sun. “So what?”
“I’m just wondering,” Simon went on, “since Future Indonesia is a majority shareholder in your company, Black Marble Productions, and since your aunt is not only Indonesia’s minister of finance but also manager of its sovereign wealth funds, why she would agree to finance a motion picture that lionizes the plight of individuals with whom she has a fundamental disagreement. The money to finance your motion picture, The Raft of the Medusa, it came from your aunt.”
“How would you know that?”
“Public knowledge,” said London. “It’s in the fund’s annual disclosures. You see, Mr. Sun, we’ve been taking a close look at Future Indonesia and at Harrington-Weiss lately.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“I’m sorry,” said London. “Mr. Riske failed to tell you that I’m an investigative journalist for the Financial Times.”
Sun shifted in his seat, uncertain how to view Riske or London: friend or foe. “I’m a motion picture producer. I have nothing to do with my aunt’s affairs either in government or in business. If she decided to finance my film, it’s because she realized it represented a good return on her investment.”
Simon laughed, the banker in him rebelling at the suggestion. “How many films ever make money?”
“This one will, I promise you.”
“So your Aunt Nadya gave you free rein to make any movie you wanted?”
“Of course,” said Sun. “She recognizes my skill as a creative professional. One might even say genius.”
“That’s not the way I see it,” said Simon.
“You’re a glorified mechanic, some kind of thief. What would you know about the movie business?”
“Very little, but I know lot about you.”
Sun swallowed, offering a nervous smile to London, adjusting his scarf, his glasses.
Simon stood up from the sofa and approached Sun. “I know, for example, that you worked for a finance and investment company named PetroSaud. I know that it was you who came to Tarek Al-Obeidi and Hadrian Lester with the scheme to defraud your country’s sovereign wealth fund.”
“P-preposterous,” stammered Sun. “Really…”
“You see, I don’t think your aunt had any say in it at all. How could she? The money she stole from Future Indonesia…you thought it was yours.”
Simon set Lester’s phone on the table near Sun. “That belonged to Hadrian Lester. Last night on the flight from Singapore, I spent eight hours reading his old emails. They go back years. It’s all there. I don’t need to remind you. After all, you’re something of a ‘genius.’” Simon kneeled in front of Sun, hands on the chair, effectively imprisoning him. “You worked with my friend Rafael de Bourbon at PetroSaud’s Geneva offices. It was you who told Paul Malloy not to pay him the bonus he was due. Do you remember what you did?”
“You suggested that Malloy invest the bonus in your company,” said Simon. “In Black Marble.”
Sun’s expression hardened. Though the room was cool and pleasant, he had begun to sweat.
“Did he?” asked Simon.
Sun hesitated, then shook his head.
“Smart man.”
Simon stood quickly, eliciting a gasp from Sun. He strolled around the room, needing a minute. “It all started in that office. All of this. You, Rafa, Malloy, Lester, your boss Tarek Al-Obeidi. I’m missing someone. Oh yes, Luca Borgia. The big boss. You met him there, too, didn’t you?”
Sun nodded. He might not really be a genius, but he was smart and canny. He could see where this was leading.
Simon continued: “I wonder what Luca Borgia will say about all this. That it was you who gave Malloy that lousy advice. That it was you who started this whole chain of dominos. Borgia is Al-Obeidi’s partner, has been for years. You know what happened to Paul Malloy, don’t you? And Rafa?”
The first real look of concern. “Why would I? I’m busy working.”
“You don’t read the papers? Look at CNN?”
Sun shook his head, eyes moving between Simon and London, preparing for bad news.
“Your aunt didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“They’re dead. Borgia had them killed.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Malloy took a fall off a cliff in Switzerland last week. Rafa was killed in the shooting in Bangkok, or didn’t that piece of news penetrate your Hollywood bubble?”
“This is true?” said Sun, looking to London in hopes she might say otherwise.
“This is true,” she said.
“Borgia is cleaning up your mess,” said Simon. “We’re here because of you and your petty actions.”
The Palace Page 34