The Amulet of Power
Page 23
He looked out the window. It seemed like the ocean was racing up to meet them—and then, at 300 feet, the engines caught again, and this time they purred to life.
The plane leveled out, then slowly began climbing.
“Crisis over,” announced Lara.
“I’ve had a few more crises than I bargained for,” said Oliver. “Do you mind if I move up to the front with you?”
“Not at all.”
He carefully maneuvered himself to the empty seat. “I didn’t know you could fly a plane,” he said.
“You never asked me.”
“Do you know how to get to the Seychelles?”
“He’s got maps here, and we’ll be in radio contact with the Mahé airport in another hour or so.”
“Should we report what happened to Jacobi?”
“Who’s Jacobi?” she asked innocently. “We rented this plane in Mombasa. We’ll return it to your friend when we’re done with it.”
Oliver smiled and shook his head in wonderment. “You seem to make a habit of saving all the people who thought they were supposed to protect you,” he said ironically.
“Not quite all,” she replied. “I owe my life to Kevin Mason a few times over.”
“Tell me more about this second-generation scholar who rescued you from that collapsed tomb,” said Oliver. “We’ve been so busy just trying to stay alive that I haven’t had a chance to ask you about him.”
“He’s spent most of his adult life searching for the Amulet,” she replied. “He’s bright, he seems well-read, and he’s surprisingly good with his fists.”
“You did mention something about that.”
“Then what else do you want to know about him?” she asked. “He’s the son of one of the world’s foremost archaeologists, he’s very personable, and he seems to be totally without fear. At least, he was more than willing to risk his life to save mine.”
“He sounds like quite a man,” said Oliver.
“I suppose he is.”
“And handsome?” he asked.
“Why should you think so?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Handsome, too.”
“Anything else?”
“Just that he hates what he calls hugger-mugger—but it doesn’t stop him from doing whatever has to be done.”
Oliver smiled.
“What’s so funny?” asked Lara.
“He sounds like a male version of you,” he said. “At least he does if he’s rich. Do you miss him much?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“That much?” he said, amused. “If you’re right about the Amulet, we should conclude our business here in a day or two and then you can see him again.”
“I’m right about it,” she said with certainty.
“Well, if you’re wrong, you can always become a ballet dancer, or maybe a broken-field runner in American football,” said Oliver. “You dodged that rhino like you were born to it. Most people lose their nerve the first time—and of course if they do, there usually isn’t a second time.”
“It’s an amazing piece of information,” she said. “I’d never heard that about rhinos before.”
“Nobody hunts them anymore,” said Oliver. “But they’re about as foul-tempered an animal as you’ll ever find. These days poachers just spray them with AK-47s, but back in the old days, when it was still a sport, you’d just wait for a rhino to charge, then step aside and stick a bullet in his ear as he ran past.” He shrugged. “I know it looks terrifying to the uninitiated, but actually it’s quite routine.”
“Shut up, Malcolm,” said Lara. “I’m trying to compliment you.”
“It’s not necessary,” he replied. “There are a lot of things I don’t know. I’m totally ignorant about art and music and most of literature. I flunked math in school. I haven’t seen a movie in thirty years, or a play in even longer. But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s my own business.”
“I’m impressed anyway.”
“No need to be,” said Oliver. “What kind of guide would I be if I got lost in the bush or didn’t know my animals?”
“Okay, you win,” she said with a smile. “I was wrong. You’re nothing special after all.”
And suddenly, there was an almost audible click inside her head as the final piece of the puzzle, the one that had troubled her on the flight from Khartoum to Nairobi, suddenly fell into place.
PART IV
SEYCHELLES
31
They touched down and coasted to a stop, then taxied back to the terminal. It was an odd airport, with 747s from France side-by-side with small passenger aircraft that made the circuit of the out islands, and even smaller planes, such as Jacobi’s, in among them.
“No one’s questioned why you needed landing coordinates?” asked Oliver.
“No,” she said. “It seems to be a very laid-back place. And given how many private planes there are here, it’s only natural that some of the pilots would need directions.” She climbed down to the ground. “I’m surprised that it’s not more humid.”
“Ocean breezes,” suggested Oliver, joining her. “Besides,” he added with a grin, “they wouldn’t allow too much humidity in Eden. The Seychelles have been cashing in on General Gordon’s description for a century or more.” He looked around. “I wonder where Praslin is from here?”
“Twenty miles north and east,” said a voice, and they turned to find themselves facing a tall man in his fifties, his grizzled face browned from the sun, a thick gray beard reaching down to his chest, piercing brown eyes trained upon Lara. He was dressed in a white outfit that wasn’t exactly Western, wasn’t exactly Indian, and wasn’t exactly Arabic.
“Who are you and why have you approached us?” she demanded.
“Do not be afraid, Lara Croft,” he said. “My name is Ibraham Mohammed el-Padir. My cousin told me you would be arriving and asked me to watch over you.”
“You’re another of Omar’s cousins?”
“Yes. I am here to serve you.”
“Prove it,” said Lara.
The man nodded, as if he had expected her to test his claim. “Omar told me to tell you that he had ‘burned the rest.’ He said you would know what that meant.”
Lara smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Ibraham,” she said. “Now, I have something in my shoulder bag that I don’t want to take through customs and immigration. Do you know a way to get it through unnoticed?”
“I can do that,” said Ibraham. “But you must go through Customs.”
“All right. Bring it to my hotel.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I knew we’d be landing just before dark, and I thought it would be too late to take the ferry to Praslin Island, so I reserved at the Beau Vallon Beach Resort tonight. Then tomorrow we’ll go over to Praslin.” She took off the bag and held it out to Oliver. “I believe you have something you’d prefer not to take through Customs, too?”
“It’s no problem for me,” he answered. “As I told you, I’m still officially on the Kenya police force, and I have a license for the Magnum. They’ll let me carry it through as a professional courtesy.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve done it in other countries.”
“All right,” she said. “Ibraham, we’ll meet you at the hotel as soon as we get through all the red tape.”
She left her bag with him, and she and Oliver went off to clear customs. They passed through quickly and without incident, had their passports examined and stamped, and soon caught a cab. It drove west for a few miles, then turned right and shortly thereafter pulled up to a sprawling, luxurious structure right on the beach.
They walked through the spacious tiled lobby to the desk that overlooked a huge T-shaped swimming pool. Lara stopped at the desk, waited while the clerk found her reservation, and picked up keys to adjacent rooms.
“Have you no luggage, Madame?” asked the clerk in a heavy French accent.
She checked the numbers on the keys, then began walking down a long, cool corridor, the walls painted in muted colors, until she came to their rooms. She handed one key to Oliver, then opened her own door with the other.
The room was spacious and filled with all the amenities of a five-star hotel: mini-fridge, complimentary robes, a walk-in closet, coffeemaker, hair dryer, whirlpool tub, and sliding doors to a private patio facing the water. She was still exploring its features when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in, Malcolm,” she said. “It’s not locked.”
“It should be,” said Ibraham, entering the room and tossing her shoulder bag onto a leather chair. “You are not safe here.”
“I won’t be here that long,” she said. “In the meantime, I have a question for you.”
“Ask it, and I will do my best to answer.”
“I know the Seychelles were a former British possession . . .”
“That is true.”
“So why does almost everyone who works at the hotel and the airport speak with a French accent?”
Ibraham smiled. “Have you ever heard of the Chevalier Jean-Baptiste Queau de Quinssy?”
“No.”
“At the dawn of the nineteenth century, the Seychelles were a French colony. Then came the Napoleonic Wars, and first the British claimed them and then the French did. De Quinssy was the administrator of the Seychelles, and though he was French by birth his only concern was for the islands, not for the politics of two nations that were thousands of miles away. So whenever a French fleet put in to port in Mahé he flew a French flag, and when a British fleet approached he flew the Union Jack. And since he never went to war with either side and was never conquered by either side, the English and French who lived here stayed here. Neither was ever forced to leave.” He paused. “You mentioned that most of the people you’d met speak English with a pronounced French accent, and that is true; what you don’t know is that most of the people you would meet at some of the other hotels or certain government offices speak French with a British accent. It is all because of the Chevalier de Quinssy, who refused to take sides in matters that were truly none of his concern.”
“That’s a fascinating story,” said Lara.
“There are many interesting aspects of Seychelles history,” replied Ibraham. “Perhaps over the next few days I can share some of them with you.”
“Were you born here?”
He shook his head. “I come from the Sudan. I have been here for nine years.”
“What are you doing here? You couldn’t possibly have known I was coming.”
“I grew tired of the desert. Only mad Englishmen like Gordon and Lawrence love the desert. Those of us who were born there prefer water and green things.”
“Makes sense to me,” she said.
She walked over to the shoulder bag, withdrew her holsters, strapped it on, and then began checking out the pistols.
“Those are remarkable weapons,” said Ibraham admiringly.
“They’re Wilkes and Hawkins Black Demon .32s. Fifteen shots to the clip, specially weighted, and with a palm print chip lock.”
“They are very impressive,” said Ibraham. “What do you call them?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your weapons.” He pulled out a small pistol from a hidden shoulder holster. “This, for instance, is the Spitting Cobra.”
She sighed. “You guys and your toys.”
Ibraham frowned. “You must have a name for your weapons,” he said in a voice filled with concern. “It is customary.”
“All right.” She pulled out a pistol and twirled it around an index finger. “This one is called Lara’s Gun, and this one”—she pulled out the remaining pistol—“is called Lara’s Other Gun. Okay?”
He looked defeated. “Okay.”
“Whoops—I forgot!” she said, suddenly removing the holsters.
“What is wrong?”
“I’ve got to go out, and I can’t wear my guns out in the street.” She stared at Ibraham. “Maybe you can help me.”
“That’s what I am here for.” His voice took on a hopeful tone. “Would you like me to kill the man you arrived with—the man in the next room?”
“He’s my friend,” she said sharply. “Leave him alone.”
“As you wish.”
“I need to find a really fine artisan, someone who works in bronze. Do you know of such a person?”
“I know many.”
“I want the best. Cost is no object.”
“I can take you there.”
“How far is it? I didn’t see any shops when the cab drove up, except for the gift shop in the lobby.”
“It is not far. I have an automobile here.”
“Let’s go,” she said, returning her pistols and holsters to her bag. “This shouldn’t take too long. There’s no sense bothering Malcolm.”
He led her out of the hotel to a small Japanese car that had seen better days and better decades, headed back to Victoria, and pulled up before a wooden shack a few minutes later.
“You wait here,” she said, getting out of the car.
“I will come in and bargain for you.”
“I don’t need anyone to bargain for me,” she said. “Stay here. I’ll be fine.”
“But—”
“Ibraham, are you going to do what I ask or not?”
“Yes, Lara Croft. I will do as you ask.”
She turned and entered the shop, and emerged ten minutes later with her purchase in a small cardboard box.
“What did you buy?” asked Ibraham.
“A remembrance of the Seychelles,” she said.
“Where can I drive you now?”
“Back to the hotel.”
“Nowhere else?” he persisted. “You came out only to buy a gift?”
“That’s right.”
His expression said that he would never understand Western women, but he did as she asked, and a few moments later they were back in the hotel.
“I’m going to go to my room for a minute and then see if my friend would like some dinner. Do you recommend the hotel’s restaurant?”
“It is one of the best on the island, perhaps second only to the Scala, which is in the capital city of Victoria.”
“Good,” said Lara. “Then we’ll eat here. Would you care to join us?”
He shook his head. “I am not staying here, and only residents may dine in the hotel restaurant. I will watch you from the lobby or the beach, depending on where you are seated.”
“Then thank you for the ride, and I’ll see you later. Or at least you’ll see me, which is probably more important.”
She went down the corridor, unlocked her room, tucked the box into her shoulder bag next to her guns, then stopped by Oliver’s room.
“Ready for dinner?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I knocked on your door a few minutes ago, but you didn’t answer.”
“I was asleep; I just woke up.”
They began walking to the lobby, then turned and entered the restaurant.
The maître d’ escorted them to a table and a moment later a waiter came by to deliver menus and take their drink orders. He seemed offended, as only waiters in very fine French restaurants can seem, when they asked for tea instead of wine.
“By the way, Malcolm,” she said, “there’s a very nice casino just opposite the restaurant.”
“I know. I saw it when I came in.”
“I was thinking we might stop by for an hour or two when we’re done with dinner.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They ordered the lobster thermidor, and followed it with Grand Marnier soufflés, then wandered over to the casino. Lara quickly lost more than ten thousand rupees at roulette, while Oliver bet far less and played far more conservatively at the baccarat table. She was looki
ng around for a different game when an elegant young Frenchman approached her.
“I have a message for you, Lara Croft,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Your table is waiting for you.”
She frowned. “My table?”
“Yes. Please follow me.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Then you will continue to live in ignorance,” he said. “I assure you that this is not a trap.”
“What are your assurances worth?” she asked.
He smiled. “I will enter first. You can watch me every second, even use me for a shield if I have lied to you.”
She considered his offer for a moment. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
He led her to a small door that she hadn’t noticed at the side of the casino.
“This is it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You go in first.”
“Certainly.”
The young Frenchman opened the door and entered the dimly lit room. She followed him in, and the door closed behind her.
“And now I must leave you,” said the Frenchman.
He seemed to grow thinner and less substantial, and then he vanished completely.
“Welcome, Lara Croft,” said a wispy voice to her right. She spun around to confront it, and found herself facing another manifestation of the sand creature she had seen in the desert. This one sat behind a table; it took human form, though its features were very vague, and it wore a hooded robe. “Sit down.”
A chair popped into existence across the table from the sand creature, and she felt an almost irresistible compulsion to walk over and sit on it. She resisted for a moment, just to make sure she could, and then complied with its request.
“You are closer to finding me than anyone has ever been,” said the creature. “Others may guess where I am hidden, but you know.”
“Why do you talk to me through a sand demon?”
“I come from hot dry sands of the desert, and someday I shall return to them. I have power over many things, but foremost among them is the sand.”