Counterpoint

by John Day

  Later that afternoon, a clear briefing with itinerary was faxed to the hideaway, their tickets to be collected at the Airport on departure at 6.30am, the following day.

  “We had better get some new clothes,” suggested Carla. “You can buy your own now you have got money, for the sale of your Camper Van.”

  “Yes, I can, I hated being a bought man.”

  “Well, now you know what it feels like to be a bought woman,” she retorted.

  “So we go 50-50 in the future is that right?”

  “Yup!” She exclaimed.

  On arrival at Colombo, the heat and high humidity, so near the equator was overwhelming. Sweat ran down Max’s face in just the short walk down the steps of the plane, to the bus. Usually on a mission, they would have had fast track processing through customs and baggage collection, but this time they were just travelling like tourists.

  The journey to the hotel in Kandy was by air-conditioned minibus and took them about 1½ hours.

  It was not such a comfortable ride though, for the short, smelly fat man, who followed them unobserved, in the traffic scarred Toyota Carina.

  Next morning at 9.30, after a healthy breakfast of succulent fresh fruits, cereal, toast and coffee, their expected visitor, Marcus Dolby, arrived at the reception.

  Marcus Dolby was the expert, hired by The Organisation, to verify the authenticity of the statuette. The shrivelled 65 year old had lived in Sri Lanka for the last 40 years, as testified by his dark brown wrinkled skin.

  After the usual exchange of pleasantries, a white Mercedes saloon arrived for them and whisked them away in air-conditioned luxury, to their meeting with the mysterious vendor of the statuette. The Toyota Carina was still following a discreet distance behind, with its smelly, fat, and extremely tired driver.

  They eventually arrived at a small modern house, surrounded by a high walled garden. Steel gates swung open as they approached, and closed immediately behind them. Max felt a chill run up his spine, and became extremely concerned for his safety.

  Tall, lush trees and shrubbery, making the rooms inside dark and cool, shaded the house. No one with real money lived here, probably middle management of a small local company, Max supposed.

  The three got out of the car, leaving the chauffeur, and cautiously went towards the house. A young Sri Lankan man walked into the hall from the room opposite, as they entered through the open front door. He looked at the three faces and glanced at the photos in his hand, of the three, to confirm in his mind they were the people he expected.

  “Please come this way,” he said in a quiet voice, ushering them into the room. His English was perfect, there was no doubt he was highly intelligent and well educated by his manner.

  “Please take a seat,” he said, pulling out a chair for Carla, “I know who you are, my name is Abdul, I am the agent for my client, in this transaction.”

  He rather imperiously rang a small hand bell and two men walked in carrying an ornate box of carved hardwood, inlaid with ivory. The box was too small to be sensibly carried by two men, but they did so with much ceremony, placing it reverently on a crimson velvet cloth, at the centre of the polished hardwood table, and stepped back.

  A pair of tough Hombres or the Sri Lankan equivalent thought Max; I bet they are not here just for the ceremony.

  Abdul spoke again. “Please examine the artefact and confirm its authenticity, Mr Dolby.”

  Marcus eagerly pounced on the box, dragging it over the table towards him, on the cloth. He slowly raised the lid as though dreading disappointment. His face lit up as he finally saw it.

  Max could also see it, and was surprised at its beauty. He was not a lover of knickknacks and ornaments or jewellery, but had to admit this was undoubtedly the most exquisite piece of art he had ever seen.

  The figure inside was of a beautiful Sri Lankan girl, who as legend has it, was blessed with the gift of foresight and prophecy. Her body was in unglazed, brown pottery, the natural colour of her skin. The dress was of gold, with thin gauze, gold sheet forming pleats and folds over the solid gold under garment.

  The fine sheets were laced and edged with platinum, to form the delicate design of flowers. To give the flowers colour and depth, the patterns were encrusted with precious stones, individually so small as to be little more than the pixels of brilliant light. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds and topaz were matched for colour and each flower was different in intensity, varying from deep to lightest, for the type of stone.

  Her hair, neck, wrists, fingers, ankles and toes were decorated with delicate jewellery all sized in accurate proportion to the body. It was like a real princess in miniature. Even down to her fine black human hair, ivory fingernails, toenails, and teeth.

  Her eyes had ivory whites inset with the deepest green emeralds twinkling around black obsidian pupils. It was startling to see them so alive and penetrating.

  Marcus knew the legend surrounding the object and had already explained it to Max and Carla, but Marcus was sceptical. He said the spirit of the princess haunted the statuette, denied the eternal peace of the hereafter, because she had misused her powers to amass considerable wealth. It went on to say; certain kindred souls could feel her presence if they touched the figure, but no one had ever admitted to this, in case they were cursed.

  Carla got up and looked at the statuette for herself. “Wow!” She exclaimed in awe, “I can just see that on my hall table.” Max was shocked at the irreverent outburst and thought she might have planned a double-cross, but then dismissed it as ridiculous and in poor taste. She continued to stare at it while Marcus completed his careful examination.

  The statuette was replaced in the box and the lid closed.

  “I am satisfied this is the genuine article,” said Marcus and then got up, and walked out to the waiting car.

  Abdul opened a cupboard exposing a computer, apparently linked to a Bank somewhere in the world.

  “Please type in the transaction password that Mr Leighton gave you,” he instructed Max.

  “I don’t know what you mean!” Exclaimed Max astonished. He pulled out the brief, and as he expected, it mentioned no password.

  “I think Mr Leighton said something rather odd to you before you left, a memorable phrase perhaps?”

  Then it dawned on Max, Sam had wished him Bon appetite instead of Bon voyage. He thought it odd at the time, but assumed because it was lunchtime, that is what he meant!

  “Ah! Yes, I think I know what you mean,” said Max thoughtfully.

  Abdul politely turned away, as Max typed it into the computer. The characters all appeared as asterisks on the screen. Then the screen changed to show large amounts of money, transferred to many numbered accounts. Finally, the screen changed to display, Transaction Completed.

  Max thought to himself, who writes these cheesy programs, don’t they have any imagination!

  Seconds later Abdul’s mobile phone rang; it was his client confirming receipt of the funds. Abdul turned to Max and said he could now take the statuette.

  Feeling possible treachery about to happen, Carla quietly stood up and moved close to the door and glanced into the hall. No one was there, thankfully. Max felt his mouth go dry, he knew the next stage was to take the box and get out quick.

  He moved to the table, lifted the box and walked towards the door. Suddenly he caught sight of a movement outside the window, but a closer look revealed nothing there, so he hurried out.

  Abdul and the two bullyboys did not move or say anything, and left Max and Carla to walk safely out. Placing the box between them on the rear seat, they sank back with relief in the cool sanctuary of the car.

  “Let’s get out of here,” ordered Carla tensely, and the Chauffer drove off smoothly, through the opening gates. The car glided effortlessly along the narrow, winding country road. Bright sunlight flickered hypnotically through the dense leafy canopy causing their anxiety to drain away, as Max and Carla relaxed.

  Suddenly, Max became alert, he was sure they had p
assed this point on the road five minutes ago, and that he did not remember going to the house this way. He then dismissed it, there must be other ways back to the hotel and perhaps the chauffeur missed a turn.

  Several minutes later the Chauffeur spoke. “I think there is a problem with the tyre.”

  Marcus, sat in the front passenger seat, looked at him enquiringly as the car slowed and pulled onto the grass verge, the boot lid popping up as the chauffeur stopped.

  Carla tensed and touched Max’s knee. “I know,” he said, under his breath.

  The chauffeur got out and walked out of sight to the rear of the car just as a battered Toyota coasted up silently behind them, also out of sight, screened by the raised boot lid.

  The chauffeur returned to Max’s door and pointed a gun at him through the window.

  “Get out,” snapped the fat man, who crept up to Carla’s window and motioned her out, with his gun.

  “You as well,” said the chauffeur to Max. They all got out.

  The fat man spoke again. “So you’re the bitch Philippe is so upset about. Well now you will suffer the indignation and pain of losing out, when I relieve you of the statuette.”

  She stiffened in anger; Max saw it and prayed she would do nothing silly. She stayed silent and unmoving.

  The chauffeur frisked Max to search for weapons. Finding none, he turned to Carla. A slight smile crossed his lips as he contemplated sliding his hand between her slender tanned legs and groping her. He passed slowly around the back of the car, and she turned to face him slowly raising her arms.

  The fat man moved slightly away as she moved, holding his gun on her whilst the chauffeur pocketed his. She let the chauffeur place his hands under her raised arms, tempting him to fondle her firm jutting breasts.

  The fat man was desiring them too, but had to watch the chauffeur slowly cup them in his hands, pushing the firm nipples in with his thumbs, she pushed them deeper into his hands squirming slightly as she did so. He felt all around them, the fat man was getting a woody at the thought of what it must be like to hold them.

  She opened her legs more than necessary, as though begging him to fondle her there and raised her arms more.

  “Hurry up!” Snapped the fat man, sweating profusely and getting totally distracted, but the chauffeur wanted to play some more.

  Running his hands down her back, fingers down her spine, she gave a little gasp as they reached the small of her back and pressed her belly, squirming slightly against his. His penis was hard and straining at his jockey shorts, she felt it prodding into her; “it’s working,” she thought.

  As his hands followed the curve of her neat, firm buttocks, he stepped back slightly for the finale between her legs. He could almost taste it with anticipation, she would be small, and tight, neatly trimmed if not shaved smooth, he fantasised.

  He would feel all this through her thin panties. He would slide his hand up the inside of her leg, and slide his finger along the grove up to her clitoris. He wondered if this would make her wet and horny, perhaps she was already wet!

  He went for it and so did she, ramming her knee hard up between the fronts of his thighs, crushing his neatly pouched testicles into his pubic bone.

  He should have known better, it was a classic move for a woman. Simultaneously and with the speed of a striking cobra she smacked the fat man’s gun hand away from her, towards the chauffeur. The gun fired, the bullet hitting the man in the head, as he doubled over with pain. Before the fat man could re-aim at her, she had twisted the gun out of his hand and was pointing it back at him. Staggering back slightly at the sight of his own gun the wrong way round, she kicked him in the balls, as well. The kick was not so well directed; he closed his legs on her foot before it struck. Like a whiplash, she brought the gun down hard against the side of his head; he fell still on the road. “God, he stinks,” she shouted. “Fatso must have a crappy, nappy.”

  Max had reached her by now and looked down in amazement at the two bodies.

  “Remind me not to get frisky with you when you’re moody,” he said grimly. He added, “We had better find our way home before we get into more trouble, with this corpse on our hands.”

  With Marcus’s help, they found their way back to the hotel and packed to leave for the airport, on the next available flight, to Malé in the Maldives.

  After reporting the ambush to Sam, he arranged for someone to meet them at the dock, and take them to the Ocean Raider.

  Marcus received separate instructions, and a substantial increase in his fee, to keep quiet. He then left the hotel.

  In the town, near the airport Max ditched the white Mercedes. He wiped it clean of prints, left the windows open and the keys in the ignition, so someone could steal it. They took a taxi the rest of the way to the Airport.

  There was no wasted time at check-in; they were on the plane within one hour of arrival in Colombo. To their relief, Customs and the flight to Malé went smoothly.

  Chapter - The Ocean Raider.

  Shortly after Max and Carla landed in Malé, the Maldives, it suddenly grew dark, typical so close to the equator. They walked from the plane to the terminal and having collected their luggage and the precious statuette, passed through Customs.

  A well-dressed young man followed them as they stepped out of the terminal building and caught up with them. He was wearing a crisp white shirt with tie and dark, well-pressed trousers. He was a Maldivian and speaking in perfect English, introduced himself as Mohamed, a member of the crew on Ocean Raider, sent to get them. He beckoned bag boys to bring the cases; Max carried the statuette case himself, along to the public jetty.

  Nervously they walked on to the jetty, peering into the darkness beyond the sparse lighting, for signs of attackers. All they could see were motor launches in abundance, busily dropping off returning holidaymakers for the flight home and whisking others away to exotic island destinations.

  Suddenly, out of the darkness hurtled a powerful motor launch, engine racing in reverse to stop the boat, inches away from destruction against the jetty. Mohamed motioned them to board.

  The slightly choppy water and boat wash made boarding difficult; the boat engine was gunned expertly, forward and reverse, to keep hard in but not touching the staging.

  The boat's sudden appearance and urgent revving in this dimly lit and busy harbour, was menacing; they were given no time to think about escape if this was a trap. Two strong men had already leapt out and were loading the baggage.

  Max and Carla carefully picked the right moment to leap aboard the unrestrained launch. As soon as the last pair of feet hit the deck, the boat reversed full throttle out into the night.

  The waves were choppy in the balmy moist breeze, but that did not deter the helmsman from a full 40-knot dash, out into the night. Everyone hung onto something fixed down, with a vengeance, as the powerful launch bucked and slammed into the waves, sending folds of white foam over the black water and heavy spray high into the air.

  Looking up, Max saw the inky blackness of the night sky, pierced with diamond bright stars. Ahead, a myriad of bright coloured lights stabbed across the foam flecked, black ocean where the sky met the sea. A beautiful sight for a holidaymaker, but deadly sinister for Max and Carla, in the hands of the unknown crew.

  Small boats whizzed towards them with flashing navigation lights, dark islands and reefs rose up out of the sea as they approached the reefs and shore, lined with the white tell tale of broken water.

  Many islands lay dark and mysterious, fading away as they passed; others had the twinkling lights of civilization, seeming suspended low down on the black curtain of the tropical night.

  After 15 minutes of clinging onto the careening boat Max’s arms were aching and he wondered when it would stop. He looked across at his beloved Carla. Her face was taut with anxiety, she did not like water deep enough to drown in, and less so when she was not in control.

  Max studied the two men, sat down low in the stern, with the cases. The light from
the open doorway of the cabin just caught their faces. They were slim and muscular, their arm muscles knotted tight as they gripped the gunnels. It was difficult to read their faces, so tense, and in this strange light, but they had a look of menace about them.

  Max looked away, hoping this was not going to turn out to be another showdown.

  In the distance, Carla could see what she thought was a small ship, judging by the lights. Max saw it much clearer with his improved eyes; it was indeed a small ship, in fact, a beautiful white gin palace of a ship. This was the kind of Super Yacht, only the few very seriously rich people in the world, would own, surely, they were not going to be staying there!

  Max discovered later that the 180-metre long £300 million vessel could accommodate 70 passengers in exquisite luxury. There was a helipad at the stern and under it a Robinson R66 helicopter to allow easy transportation of guests and luggage when cruising.

  As the powerful launch approached Ocean Raider, steps were immediately lowered, parallel to the hull, and the area lit by strong lights, so their boarding was safe and swift.

  Max went first, followed by Carla and the baggage handlers.

  Captain Steel greeted them with a warm smile and a firm handshake, as they mounted the deck. The clean-shaven, forty-year-old man in pristine white cotton uniform, was English through and through, probably ex-navy judging by his manner.

  He ushered them through to the lounge, the air conditioning was set at a dry 22 degrees C, but it felt like they had stepped into a cold store by comparison with the 28 ° C humid night air outside. The sheer opulence and grandeur of the lounge was hard to take, Max felt unworthy and dishevelled in these sumptuous surroundings. He felt he wanted a bath and fresh clothes before sitting down on the plush velvet upholstery.

  Still, the steward had just presented them with long cool, non-alcoholic drinks, too tempting to leave, so he made the best of it. Captain Steel already knew about the trouble with the chauffeur and the fat man in Sri Lanka. Sam had briefed him, and warned him to take every precaution to protect the statuette. That was why they were practically, snatched from the jetty, no opportunity for an attacker to plan a strike.