Ivory

by Tony Park

  ‘No.’

  Mitch nodded and started heading for the lifeboat.

  ‘Wait!’ Alex shouted. The hatch shouldn’t have been opened. ‘Mitch, check the . . .’

  The blonde-haired woman Alex had seen on the bridge stood in the open hatch and raised a pistol. The weapon seemed too big for her small hands. She squeezed the trigger and Mitch toppled back onto the deck. Alex let go of Heinrich, unclipped his last flash-bang, pulled the pin and tossed it straight at the woman. He charged forwards, rifle at the ready, as she ducked to avoid the missile thrown at her.

  Alex had one man injured and bleeding on the deck and another had just been shot in front of his eyes. His concern for the woman was gone. His finger curled around the plastic trigger of the Steyr. His mask and flame-retardant flight suit would protect him from the effects of the stun grenade, but if the woman was in any fit state to point a gun at him, he would kill her. His pulse beat loud and hard in his ears as he closed the gap to the lifeboat.

  Then he saw her again. She had turned, trying to escape the grenade, and it went off in her face. The force of the blast pitched her backwards into him as he reached the lifeboat. Instinctively, he lowered his rifle and reached for her, wrapping his arms around her to stop her from hitting the deck.

  Bullets clanged on the bulkhead beside him. He pushed the girl back into the lifeboat and wheeled, raising the Steyr again as he did so, and pulled hard on the trigger. He sprayed a long burst of bullets, emptying the magazine in the direction of the fire, several decks above.

  ‘Hold your fire! They’ve got the girl on board that boat and she’s got the stuff,’ an unseen voice called.

  That was their cue. ‘Get aboard,’ Alex roared at his men. He grabbed Mitch by the front of his vest and heaved the motionless American into the lifeboat. He stood by in the open hatch and reached for Heinrich, now staggering, and hauled him inside. Kufa and Novak followed, and Henri was still firing his M4 from the open hatch while Alex and the others strapped the unconscious woman and the two injured pirates into forward-facing seats. Henri slammed the hatch shut and was in his seat, pulling his lap and shoulder straps tight. ‘Head restraints!’ Alex reminded them. He lifted the woman’s chin from her chest and fastened a Velcro band from the seat’s headrest around her forehead. Kevin did the same for the injured and dazed Heinrich. Without the head restraints on they might snap their necks when the boat hit the water. Alex removed the safety pins from the arming device. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Oui!’

  Alex pumped the release lever, causing a hydraulic jack to begin lifting the stern of the lifeboat. The boat was held to the ship by a hook, and when the jack lifted the hook high enough the boat disengaged and they were free.

  ‘Brace!’ Alex yelled as the boat whooshed down its rails. They fell twenty metres and the force of the collision with the water slammed them forward against their restraints. The sharply profiled bow of the lifeboat had been designed to cleave through the water on impact and even before Alex had freed himself from his seat the craft was already well clear of the Penfold Son and still moving.

  ‘Get the engine started,’ Alex said to Novak.

  ‘What about her?’ Henri asked, pointing at the woman, who was still unconscious, strapped into her seat.

  ‘They won’t shoot at us now, because of her, but they’ll be coming after us.’

  Novak slapped a fresh magazine into his rifle and cocked it. ‘Let’s put a lifejacket on her and dump her.’

  ‘No,’ Alex said. ‘We keep her for now. Maybe we can ransom her.’

  He pulled the satphone from its pouch and dialled Jose, on the Fair Lady. Alex gave him their position from the GPS in his watch and told him to come fetch them, quickly. They needed to put as much distance between themselves and the Penfold Son as possible before World War Three broke out.

  7

  Jane awoke to the sound of power tools.

  She tried to open her eyes, but even that small movement caused her pain. Keeping them closed, she gingerly lifted a hand and found the source of the throbbing – a lump the size of an egg on the side of her head.

  She blinked and saw a snowy white ceiling with soft recessed lighting. Perhaps it was all a dream – or a nightmare. But then where had the bump come from?

  Her head was engulfed by a downy pillow in a starched white pillowcase. The sheets she lay on felt luxuriously textured against her skin. She was wearing a T-shirt – a long one – and briefs. She raised her head. More pain. The dark teak writing desk and chair beneath a long mirror looked like they belonged in a hotel suite. Not a lifeboat, that was for sure.

  The noise brought more aching. It was a high-pitched, continuous whine. She breathed a sigh of relief when the drilling stopped. It was dark in the room as the curtains were drawn and the lights dimmed, though she could see a tiny chink of sun. Before the mechanical whine resumed she heard a bird, a seagull she thought.

  Jane started to sit up, but the movement made her feel queasy, as well as bringing on another sharp stab of agony. On the bedside table, which matched the other furniture, she could see a dewy glass of water and a bottle of something called ‘Panado’ which she hoped was paracetamol. She fought back the sickness and sat up. Her need for relief was too great. Her feet touched ribbed, camel-coloured carpet. It felt like the expensive stuff in George’s city flat.

  George.

  He would be worried about her. Jane was worried about herself too. She unscrewed the childproof cap and shook out a couple of capsules. She hesitated for a second then told herself that if someone wanted to kill her they would have done so already. Gulping down the pills and water made her feel better.

  Jane padded across to a door and tested it. It was unlocked. She let herself into an adjoining sitting room. A sofa bed was unfolded, though made. There was a coffee percolator on a benchtop recessed into one wall. She opened the bar fridge beneath it and saw it was stacked with spirits, mixers and a jug of milk. The drill resumed torturing the inside of her skull and she flinched, spilling a little of the milk as the silver jug rattled against the fine china cup.

  She held the cup in both hands. There were Impressionist prints on the wall and dried stems of something exotic in a terracotta amphora. Carved wooden elephants in one corner and a funky ethnic African print on the discarded sofa cushions contrasted with the latest model wide-screen plasma TV and slimline DVD recorder. Looking up and around she saw surround-sound speakers mounted on the walls.

  She remembered pulling the trigger, the pistol bucking in her hands. She saw the face of the man – the shock and surprise as he keeled over backwards. Then the blinding flash and deafening bang. And falling. Perhaps she’d died and gone to heaven. She’d once said to a friend that her idea of heaven would be a five-star resort with room service for eternity. If the door to the bathroom revealed a jacuzzi, miniature bottles of body oils and Moët on ice, then she’d know she was dead.

  Jane moved to the curtains and parted them. She took a breath. The expanse of azure ocean, strip of wedding-white beach and garnish of palm trees were so perfect they could have been lifted from a Photoshopped travel brochure. A black fisherman in a tattered straw hat was hauling a canoe piled with nets up the sand.

  She looked around her and returned to the bedroom, but she couldn’t find any of her clothes. The baggy T-shirt was green. Embroidered above the left breast were a pair of black British Army parachute wings with the Roman numerals for the number three above them. Her father had retired as a major in the Blues and Royals so she knew a bit about military emblems. Odd. Acutely aware that she was naked under the shirt, she nonetheless had to find out where she was, and how she’d got there. She put down the half-drunk cup of coffee on a glass-topped table and opened the door.

  In one step she went from penthouse to building site. The long corridor before her was bare concrete fogged with white dust. Electricity wires dangled from the ceiling. Barefoot, she wove her way carefully between offcuts of timber, chunks of masonry an
d lengths of water pipe and plastic conduit. The source of the cacophony was two doors down. She edged her way around a wheelbarrow stacked with bags of plaster and peered through the doorless entry.

  The man was beautiful.

  It was wrong, she supposed, to describe a guy that way, but that was her first impression. The black wavy hair, a little speckled with white dust, was too long and thick. The nose was too aquiline, the jaw too smooth. The muscles in the tight blue T-shirt were too perfectly defined, the bare skin of the arms and legs too perfectly tanned. He smiled at her, letting his finger off the drill switch as he turned, bringing silence to the room. The teeth were too perfect, the eyes too green. A canvas belt full of other tools hung from his narrow waist. It was only when he raised his left hand, to brush a lock of hair from his forehead, that he revealed his first physical imperfection, which snapped her from her reverie and reminded her she wasn’t dead. Two fingers were missing and the skin on top of his hand was purpled and scarred.

  ‘Good morning. Or should I say,’ looking at his watch, ‘good afternoon.’

  She tried to form the obvious questions – where am I? how did I get here? – but the words wouldn’t come out. Her mouth felt as though it was full of some sticky, gelatinous substance. She felt dizzy and reached for the doorframe.

  He covered the distance between them in a lion’s bound, leaping over a stacked heap of white plasterboard, and caught her around the waist as she sagged. He moved her to the pile of sheeting and sat her down. She put her palms out on either side of her and tried to breathe slowly, letting the nausea subside. ‘Wait here,’ he said to her.

  He returned with her coffee and a fresh glass of water. ‘You’ve had a concussion – quite a serious knock. Feeling woozy’s normal.’

  His accent was English, though there was a hint of something else. He’d pronounced quite as kwaart. South African? And his skin was olive, like a Spaniard perhaps. Now that she was closer to him she could see the left side of his jaw and neck were marred by some faint pitting, like old acne scars. However the blemishing didn’t extend to the other side of his face. It seemed he was perfect on one side of his body only. Human, after all, she realised. ‘Ta,’ she said as she downed half the water and returned to her coffee. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Ilha dos Sonhos. The Island of Dreams.’

  ‘Bollocks. Is this a dream?’

  ‘No, I’m serious. We’re off the coast of Mozambique, not far from Vilanculos. Do you know it?’

  She shook her head. The coffee was good. ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘One of my guys – one of the staff here – was out fishing and he saw an orange lifeboat on the horizon. He rowed to it and you were inside, unconscious. Badly dehydrated, too. Check your arm.’

  She looked down and for the first time noticed a sticky plaster in the crook of her arm. She peeled it off and saw the swollen puncture. She started to panic, and it must have shown in her eyes, because he said, ‘Don’t worry, it was only a saline drip. One of the guys is a trained medic and it pays to be self-sufficient when it comes to health care out here. The hospital’s a boat ride away and I’m afraid not quite up to scratch.’

  ‘Um, thanks. I suppose.’

  ‘You’re welcome. The lifeboat said Penfold Son.’

  She switched to the water. She was incredibly thirsty, she realised, so he must have been right about her being dehydrated. ‘Pirates.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We were attacked by pirates, from a helicopter.’

  He smiled and collected her empty glass. ‘I think that knock on your head might have done you more damage than we thought.’

  She thought his glance might have lingered a little too long on her bare legs. She pulled the T-shirt lower. ‘It’s true. I remember it all – well, most of it.’ Something else came back to her, like someone switching on a light in a darkened room, revealing an item she hadn’t realised she’d misplaced. ‘Um, did I have a bag – a day pack – with me?’

  ‘Yes. There was a bit of seawater and some other muck in the bottom of the lifeboat. My maid took your bag and your clothes and washed them. They’re drying in the garden. By the way, Maria undressed and dressed you, not me.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry, I know I should be more grateful, but this is all so bizarre.’

  ‘You’re telling me. It’s not every day a beautiful woman fetches up on my beach.’

  She felt herself blush at the naked compliment. ‘I’m Jane –’

  ‘– Elizabeth Humphries. I know. I saw your passport. I wanted to wait and see if you remembered who you were. I’m Alex Tremain.’

  ‘You said “my beach”. Do you own a whole island?’

  He laughed. ‘No, only this hotel, and it’s a long-term lease, from the Mozambican government. I grew up here. My parents owned it in the old days, during colonial times. The locals are happy for a few of us with claims on property and farms to come back and get them up and running again. I’m sorry about this,’ he hefted the drill, ‘I waited as long as I could, but we’ve got a span of work to do here.’

  ‘I take it that means a lot. Are you Portuguese? South African?’

  ‘Half English, half Portuguese, and I grew up in Rhodesia – Zimbabwe to you. My first name’s actually Alexandre.’

  ‘I like that better than Alex,’ she said. Why the hell had she said that? He smiled and she blushed again. Somewhere far off she could hear another tool running continuously, buzzing away in the background. Then it stopped.

  Alex lifted his drill and pressed the trigger, but it made no sound. ‘Hell,’ he said. ‘Damned generator’s broken again, I’ll bet. My mechanic left a week ago and everything’s breaking down.’

  ‘You must miss him, being stuck on an island.’

  ‘Her. And you’re right, I do. I miss her a lot. I don’t suppose you’re any good with diesel engines, are you?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer. Look, sorry . . . Alex, but I’ve got to call London immediately.’

  He shrugged. ‘No generator, no power. No power, no satellite. No satellite, no phone.’

  ‘You must have batteries, or solar, or something?’

  ‘All on the blink, or dead, I’m afraid. We’re supposedly getting a mechanic to visit tomorrow. I’ve got to fetch him from the mainland, so you can come with me if you like. You can call from town.’

  ‘Let’s go now – today. I really can’t wait. I have to be in Johannesburg in . . . What day is it today?’

  ‘You tell me. I think you might be a bit groggy still.’

  ‘I’m fine. How long was I unconscious for?’

  ‘About twenty-four hours. I was getting worried about you.’

  ‘Then today’s Tuesday. I’ve got to be in Johannesburg by next Monday. I’ve got a train trip booked from Cape Town.’

  ‘Well, you’re an awful long way from Cape Town. Is that where your ship was headed?’

  She nodded, and the egg on her head hurt some more. ‘If I go with you to the mainland, how long would it take me to get to Johannesburg?’

  ‘Couple of hours by plane from Vilanculos. When the power’s back on you can try calling Pelican Airways. I have to go to Johannesburg myself some time in the next week or so, on business. We could go together if you like.’

  ‘I don’t fly. What about a train?’ She hated admitting her fears to anyone.

  ‘There isn’t one. You could try the local buses, but if you don’t like travelling with chickens and goats I’d swallow my fear and fly if I were you.’

  ‘It’s not funny. I don’t fly.’

  He nodded. ‘Sorry. I understand. I could drive you.’

  He explained the journey to her in more detail. He proposed cutting across Mozambique from the coast, heading north-west to the border with Zimbabwe. From there they would head west, then south, crossing into South Africa at Beitbridge on the Limpopo River. From there, he said, it was less than a day’s drive to Johannesburg. They could make it in three days, which meant if they left Thursday, she
could be in the city by the weekend, in time for her meeting on Monday.

  She desperately needed to call George. He would be worried sick about her, but she eventually conceded that Alex was right and she would have to wait until she got to the mainland to call him. She tried asking him if he could bring his trip forward to today, but he said some work was being done on the hull of his boat. It was frustrating.

  ‘Cheer up. There are worse places to be stuck. I’ll show you around the island if you’re up to it.’

  ‘Thanks, Alex. Look, I’m sorry. You must think I’m behaving like a spoilt city girl. I haven’t even said thank you for rescuing me. It’s all been a bit of a shock to the system.’

  A shock was what it was, all right, Alex thought as he walked downstairs, leaving Jane to change. Maria had finished ironing her clothes and had delivered them and some other things Danielle and Sarah had left behind to his room while they were chatting. He’d planned on giving the leftover skirts and blouses both women had collected during their months in Mozambique to the ladies in the small village on the island, but hadn’t got around to it yet.

  He stepped over beams and around piles of tiles and cans of paint. He was doing all right for materials, it was skilled labour they were short of. And money. There were some things he simply couldn’t steal – like the new commercial refrigerators, stoves and ovens they would need to get the restaurant back on its feet. He stamped on a fat cockroach as he made his way through the filthy kitchen. His mother used to like telling people she’d never minded giving birth to Alex there, as it was cleaner than any hospital she’d ever seen in Lisbon.

  Apart from his suite, where Jane was now dressing, there were no other rooms finished on the top floor. Each of his men had a suite, either on the first or second floor, and while these were renovated and decorated to varying degrees, there was no one of them suitable for a paying guest. If he ever did get the hotel completely renovated, and some or all of the crew stayed on, he would eventually need to find permanent accommodation for them. Alex would stay in the top-floor suite, though, where he had lived as a child. His family could have afforded a grand house elsewhere on the island, but his father had always insisted that the hotel manager’s job was twenty-four hours a day, and that the only way to ensure his guests were getting top-class service was to live like one of them.