by Peter Tonkin
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she whispered. ‘A little water clears us of the deed.’ And on her word, he pulled the knife point along the length of the makeshift money belt.
The belt opened as though he had slit the belly of a snake, the contents bulging out, glistening. ‘Where on earth do you get cling film – or cyan wrap, as our American friends call it – in Eritrea?’ Richard asked.
‘The same place you get duct tape, dummy,’ snapped Robin.
Richard pulled the shiny bundle free and carried it outside to one of the shaded, secluded balcony tables. Robin and he sat on the sides of two sunbeds, leaning into the shadow of a canvas-topped umbrella. The cling film proved stubborn, but at last Richard managed to pull it apart. Then, silently, they worked together piling up the contents on the smooth oiled teak top of the table.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Robin, her lack of salty language reflecting her shock and concern, ‘this does not look good.’
‘No,’ agreed Richard tersely. ‘This does not look good at all.’
In front of them on the table there was a pile of Eritrean nafka notes, mostly in large denominations. A pile of Egyptian pound notes, again, mostly two hundred and five hundred denominations. A pile of US dollar notes in twenties, fifties and one hundreds. And a state-of-the-art Samsung Galaxy almost as cutting edge as Richard’s.
‘That,’ whispered Robin with a sad shake of her golden curls, ‘looks like a people smuggler’s nest egg to me.’
‘Sah! Sah!’
Richard sprang awake and almost shouted with shock. The gaunt figure of Nahom was crouching at his bedside. His white vest seemed to glow in the moonlight. His eyes and teeth glittered eerily. He looked like something out of a zombie film. Indeed, as he blinked himself awake, Richard was half convinced he was in the grip of a nightmare. But as he came fully conscious and realized that this was real, Richard sensed no threat – only desperation.
‘Sah gat mi rubbah?’ the young man hissed urgently.
Richard sat up slowly, his mind racing. In spite of his careful movements, Robin stirred. ‘What?’ she mumbled, turning over. Richard found himself suddenly thankful that they had just talked when they came to bed last night. And that the air conditioning simply required them to sleep under a single Egyptian cotton sheet in matching Chinese silk pyjamas.
Both men froze as Robin moved and mumbled. Richard was pretty certain that with any luck she would just drift back to sleep. But he wasn’t sure he wanted her to do so. She would have an opinion about this situation, and might well be upset if he robbed her of the chance to express it. But at least she would not be aiding and abetting whatever he did if she was still asleep when he did it. They had discussed the contents of Nahom’s money belt at great length last night, and had still been undecided as to the best course of action when they came to bed, which is why they had talked themselves to sleep rather than doing anything more romantic. Her last thought voiced drowsily had been, ‘It’s a pity you took it from him. I mean, given our lives to live over. I’d have let him keep it and be damned.’
And here it was – the second chance. The young man was here, in the bedroom. And all he seemed to want was his rubber back.
Richard had no idea how Nahom had escaped the hospital, found his way here and broken in. But if he just gave him back the money belt and sent him on his way then they would be free and clear of the situation whether Nahom was a smuggler or a victim. He would be out of their lives and their hands would be clean. Job done.
Richard pulled back the sheet and stepped silently on to the cool marble floor. Over Nahom’s moon-silvered shoulder he saw that the curtain of the master suite had been pulled back just enough for Nahom to see. The wide windows stood immediately above the French windows leading out on to the balcony – and that was the most likely way in. Security here was not the tightest. No one in their right mind was going to risk upsetting a Russian oligarch with a reputation like Max Asov had enjoyed in life – and had passed directly to his daughter with his massive fortune and enormous business empire at the moment of his death.
With Nahom close behind, Richard padded silently through to the en suite bathroom. He switched on the tiny shaving light, and that was enough for him to find the rubber tyre where it lay hidden amongst the jumble of diving gear in the bath tub. He handed it to Nahom and watched the young man give it a swift once-over. But they had closed it up pretty well – everything was back in place, wrapped in cling film and resealed with black duct tape. With a practised motion, the young man swung the belt round his hips and tied the cord tightly. He pulled out his vest so it concealed the belt and turned towards Richard. ‘I t’ank. T’ank Ric’ard.’
‘OK, Nahom, let’s get you out of here before anyone else wakes up.’
Silently, side by side, they padded across the bedroom, leaving Robin snoring gently – a sound that Richard found deeply reassuring. They tiptoed down the marble staircase like a pair of ghosts, passing in and out of bars of moonlight. They pushed the half-open door to the dining room wide, crossed that in turn, pushed the French windows open wide enough to allow them each to step out on to the warm balcony, filled with hot, still air, the scent of flowers and the light of the low, full moon. ‘I break lock. So sorry,’ breathed Nahom.
As Richard stepped out he stubbed his toe on the metal clasp that had secured the last – loose – jardinière in place and which had now, clearly, found new employment as a jemmy to force the lock. I’ll sort that out with Sasha tomorrow, thought Richard. In fact, I’ll have to sort out the entire security system with him …
The thought was enough to take them to the gate that opened on to the lift bridge. Nahom crossed the short structure and stepped out over the safety rail. He stooped and lifted what looked like a heavy backpack from its resting place on the outer ends of the boards making up the floor of the bridge. Then, taking firm hold of the metal supports that held the lift shaft itself, he swung down them as though they were a ladder and was gone into the shadows below. Richard closed the gate, crossed the balcony, picked up the metal clasp, stepped inside and closed the French windows as best he could, then padded silently and thoughtfully back up to bed.
‘You did what?’ asked Robin, stunned.
‘Gave it back and let him go. He’s out of our lives and we’re better off. That’s what I thought you wanted.’
It was early afternoon. Richard, uncharacteristically, had been happy for Robin to sleep in, subconsciously – or perhaps semi-consciously – fearing the confrontation they were now having.
He had used the morning to talk through security with Sasha the housekeeper and some very discreet repairs had been done to the French windows while Robin was still asleep. Now, as they sat at the lunch table in the dining room, an equally discreet specialist from Sharm Security was fitting an intruder alarm to the French windows and motion sensor covering the balcony and the dining room.
‘Out of our lives, perhaps – but into how many others? That money belt all but proved he’s a people trafficker even if he does look all helpless and innocent. Ye Gods, Richard, how many other genuinely innocent people will he get his claws into now?’
‘I know the belt looks bad, but I’m still not convinced. There has to be another explanation.’
The conversation was interrupted by a discreet knock. Sasha stepped in, closing the door behind him. ‘There is a police person here who wishes to speak to you, Mister Richard. Are you willing?’
‘Of course.’ Richard met Robin’s I told you so gaze. He stood up, expecting Major Ibrahim, but Sasha showed in Sergeant Sabet. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, masking the surprise in his voice. ‘Please take a seat. Some tea or coffee? What can we do for you?’
The sergeant sat opposite Robin, who examined her with scarcely concealed interest. ‘Some water, perhaps. It is approaching fifty degrees outside.’
Robin poured a glass of iced water while Richard sat down again.
Sergeant Sabet sipped, then sighed gratefully. ‘The prisoner Nahom escaped
from hospital last night. Major Ibrahim wondered whether he might have come here looking for help.’ Her gaze drifted pointedly to the French windows.
‘How on earth did he get out?’ asked Richard, only to receive another one of the dark-eyed woman’s steely stares. ‘The hospital windows opened from the inside and the wire netting over the outside appears to have been less secure than it seemed to be. He was able to loosen some screws, push up the netting and climb through. His clothing is gone and his hospital robe was left on the bed. We have interviewed the others but no one saw anything and our guards outside the door heard nothing.’
‘How would he know to come here in any case?’ asked Robin.
‘“Everyone knows the Villa Shahrazad,”’ she answered. ‘Those were the words spoken to Captain Mariner by a ward orderly yesterday morning – in front of Nahom and all the others. It is not too much of a stretch to assume he heard and understood – and acted on those words.’
‘But why would he come here?’ asked Richard, hoping his tone was one of innocent enquiry.
‘For help, advice, money …’ Her gaze drifted apparently aimlessly to the work being done on and around the French windows once again, and Richard felt almost certain that she had heard about the break-in. His mind raced, trying to come up with an innocent explanation. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot, I admit,’ she continued, apparently oblivious. ‘Our first thought was that he would head for one of the marinas, but apparently not. A fairly detailed search has revealed nothing. None of our people has any word of him in Sharm, but Sharm is a big place with many potential boltholes and it is early days yet. In terms of immediate enquiries, so to speak, that really only leaves the interior. That is, after all, where he was originally headed, we are certain.’
‘But if that is so, then he must have been expecting to go across the Sinai in company with the other twenty-four, was it? With guides. Some kind of transport. Supplies …’ Richard’s voice tailed off.
The sergeant was looking at the French windows again. Then back at him. She knew; he was certain.
There was another discreet knock. With some relief, Richard broke eye contact, rose and crossed to the door and opened it to reveal Sharl. The cook was frowning. In a low voice, he said, ‘Mister Richard, sir, I believe the kitchen was robbed last night.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Richard was simply astonished. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Each afternoon it is my routine to check the inventory. Mr Asov liked every penny accounted for and Miss Asov his daughter has not told me to change my routines. In consequence, I have to report that half-a-dozen bottles of Hayat water, in the one and a half litre size are gone, together with several loaves of bread, beans and cheeses.’
Richard suddenly remembered the backpack Nahom had swung over his shoulder before climbing down the lift housing. And that gave him another idea. ‘Please come in, Sharl,’ he said, loudly. ‘There is a police sergeant here and you can report the theft directly to her.’ He pushed the door wide and stepped back in, continuing to talk. ‘Sergeant, it is a good thing you are here. As you will have observed, we are working on the French windows. This is because there was, in fact, an attempted break-in last night. We didn’t bother reporting it, because nothing was stolen and, frankly, we weren’t sure that the burglar actually got in. We have had the door repaired and as you see security alarms fitted. But now, it seems, Sharl has discovered that the kitchen was burgled. And what was stolen was just the kind of supplies we were discussing – things someone would take if they were thinking of heading across the desert and into the interior …’
FOUR
Market
The next three days were the hottest Richard had ever experienced, and he was used to taking Heritage Mariner supertankers in and out of the Gulf. Temperatures in the early afternoons topped fifty degrees Celsius – one hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit. And that was in the shade. Day after day, Sharm el-Sheikh gave Death Valley, California a good run for its money as the most scorching place on earth. Furnace-hot breezes began to stir like the breath of awakening dragons because the great desert wind of Saudi Arabia was beginning to blow. The wind named for the compass point of its origin – shamaal, which is Arabic for north. Just as the Arabic for desert gives its name to sahaari.
Villa Shahrazad was designed and built for hot weather. The dining room and the master suite above it faced west, not only to benefit from the evening sun but also for protection against the fierceness of noon. The sitting room, beside the dining room, also looked westward on to the balcony, but instead of marble flags it overlooked the cliff-edge infinity pool which swept round the southern aspect of the property, into the full blaze of the sun – for those hardy enough to risk it. But whereas the dining area’s inner side was closed off by the kitchens, the sitting room had a double aspect. The heart of the villa was an open garden, shaded by the three-story building except at noon when the sun was overhead. Here too there was a pool, but a smaller one, with a waterfall feature that could be switched on and off, whose force could be varied from a tinkling trickle to a playful roar. There was room to lounge around the pool but the plants dominated. Carefully trimmed palms stooped, offering yet more shade, especially around noon. Bright pink Bougainvillea Arborea filled the garden with colour and a heady honeysuckle scent as they were supported up the walls, square openings which revealed the marble staircase climbing upward. The feature was practical as well as decorative. It was designed to make full use of traditional Moorish architecture, for the shady, central garden was almost always filled with cool air. And cool air, heavier than hot air, would flow through the sitting room in drafts and breezes that carried with them the relaxing sound of water and the honeysuckle fragrance of the bright bougainvillea flowers.
Three of the suites on the second floor, including the master suite, had double aspect balconies on one side overlooking the cliff-top balcony and the bay and on the other side overlooking the garden, as did three of the guest suites immediately above them. It took a small army of people to run the villa, but Sasha ran the house staff, pool men and gardeners with Rolls-Royce precision, while Sharl ran the kitchens and everything ancillary to them equally smoothly. The staff who lived-in were housed in the east-facing areas where the sun arrived early and hot.
Even in the face of all the carefully designed luxury of the villa, Richard and Robin spent most of the time aboard Katerina, hiding under the white canvas sunshade that stretched right across her top deck, sipping ice-cold drinks with lips that seemed to become parched again within ten minutes. While Captain Husan searched for the best reefs and the coolest currents – in the air as well as in the sea – the Mariners lay restlessly on deck chairs, suspicious that the near-nuclear heat was cutting through the canvas as though it were tissue and searing them unsuspectedly. Or, more often and increasingly, swimming and snorkelling in rash vests to protect themselves against the ultraviolet rays burning down on to their backs and shoulders. But even the Red Sea was tepid and the fish that usually teemed round Ras Mohammed all seemed to be seeking shade and shelter as well.
The matter of Nahom and his money belt remained unresolved between them, combining with the inescapable heat to make even the normally imperturbable Richard short-tempered and snappish. Robin simply grew, simmering, bloody minded but, unable to take her ire out on the endlessly patient and charming people who ran the cliff-top villa and the beautiful boat beneath it, she perforce saved the sharpest edge of her tongue for Richard. And somehow, the unaccustomed tension between them seemed to make any more scuba diving out of the question, even if they had been able to forget their last adventure and the fate of the burning man at the end of it. And even though the deep water was the only place nearby that was anything approaching cool.
The air conditioning in Villa Shahrazad worked overtime while Sharl and his team in the kitchen produced ranges of cold soups, chilled meats, cool salads and iced desserts for meal after meal in a manner that began to tax even their ingenuity. With the st
irring of the desert wind, the evenings became as stultifying as the days, stopping Richard and Robin from making night-time visits to the noisy, vivid, colourful, aromatic shops and bazaars of Sharm el-Maya, the Old Town. Or availing themselves of any of the vibrant nightlife in tourist districts of Shark’s Bay’s SoHo Square and especially Naama Bay, which, like the Old Town, was only minutes away in the Mercedes. But even though they spent their evenings restlessly at home feeling confined – almost imprisoned – and consequently going to bed earlier and earlier, and even though, like snorkelling, love-making was off the agenda for the moment, they found they were sleeping in later and later in the mornings.
So, when Dr Zabr called at eight on the morning of the fourth day, he woke Richard up. As the familiarly intrusive sound of the ringtone penetrated his sleep, Richard reached for his Galaxy on the bedside table and sat up. He cradled it between his naked shoulder and his ear as he unscrewed the top of a bottle of water which he also kept to hand.
‘Captain Mariner?’ Zabr’s tone was hurried and sounded irritable.
‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’ Richard sipped his tepid water and cleared his throat as he listened, feeling the liquid almost instantly transform itself into perspiration on his skin in spite of the air conditioning.
‘The young man you saved from drowning last week has been returned to us by the police. He was discovered somewhere in the desert last night, apparently. The police brought him in half an hour ago. A Sergeant Sabet was in charge and she made the decision to bring him here instead of to the police station. It was a wise decision. He is not well. I am just about to assess his condition in detail. But the finance department wishes to know whether you are still willing to meet his expenses as you were before his escape.’
The doctor said more, but at this point Richard dropped the phone. The shock of the unexpected news combined with the sudden sinking feeling that if Nahom told the whole truth then Ibrahim – and Robin – were going to be even more pissed off with him than they were at the moment, made him seek to get a firmer hold on the slick little handset, which turned out to be as slippery as a soap bar in a hot bath. His instinctive grab to catch it emptied the water bottle over Robin, who sat up as though she had been electrocuted.