By now, there were emergency teams working alongside them and stretchers to load those still alive onto and take them to the hospital. They heard a rumour the medical supplies had run out, and a sense of desolation fell on them, even as they found survivors. Some were entirely unhurt, just sitting with a possession, perhaps a precious plate or jug also undamaged in the midst of all this ruin.
By nightfall of that second day, the conditions were so bad they were forced to return with an ambulance to the hospital. They’d entirely lost their jeep, as there were no landmarks to use to navigate through the ruin. At the hospital, they treated themselves as best they could for the renewed damage to their feet. Ben’s bruises were spectacular now, but he claimed he couldn’t feel them. Snakes had bitten them both; they just washed the bites and ignored them. The tented complex had grown as aid agencies moved in from other parts of the country. Some were international, and they heard a mixed smattering of voices. Unbelievably it seemed to Nikolas, he heard a Russian voice and discovered a young girl in her teens trying to ask if anyone had seen her parents. He translated for her, and that was the beginning of his new job. He spoke most of the European languages well enough to translate such a simple question—“Has anyone seen the people I love?”—and to translate the heartbreaking answer, “No.” He was assigned to an army unit. This came with the unbelievable privilege of being able to use the field showers that had been erected, as well as having a space to sleep allocated in one of the tents.
Standing under the cascading hot water together, stripped of the awful stinking shorts they’d been wearing for days, was one of the most luxurious things they’d ever done. They washed each other, hair and skin all gently soaped and rinsed, soaped and rinsed. They’d been found some sarongs, as none of the army fatigues would fit them, and these they tied with wry smiles of amusement. They looked like native gods. Finally they were clean, and they were alive. It was enough. The cot beds they’d been allocated didn’t seem as if they’d support their weight, but they dragged them together, climbed on and knew nothing more until they woke to the increasing chaos of the fourth day.
Bodies were appearing everywhere. They were being washed up on the shore, falling literally from the sky, as people who’d taken shelter in trees and then drowned anyway fell bloated to the ground. The fourth day in the blistering sun, these bodies weren’t easy to handle. They came apart unless carefully eased onto stretchers. Ben carried on with a small team of Red Cross workers, searching the devastated areas, while Nikolas became more and more involved with the authorities. Once he’d begun helping, just with some translation, he realised how much chaos there was, how lacking in any systems they were. He began to organise. Soon people were listening to the giant, blond-haired man who could switch from English to French to Spanish to Russian, Danish or German, and was willing to make decisions. They went from listening, to seeking his advice, and then nothing seemed to get done unless he drove it through. He was allocated an office, acquired a phone, and the following day was given a laptop with satellite communication. He immediately contacted Kate.
He and Ben managed to snatch an hour or so together in the evenings, to shower, to eat, and they moved their camp beds into Nikolas’s office and slept side by side. Ben was having a rougher time than Nikolas, for his job was impossibly emotionally draining. But Nikolas listened to his stories, ensured he was eating and taking his antibiotics to ward off infection from the dead, and held him until he fell into exhausted sleep every night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Four days later, Kate arrived. She brought a crate of satellite laptops and mobile phones, and, most importantly, boots and clothes for Ben and Nikolas from home and a suitcase full of medical items Nikolas had asked for. Now he was able to set up the office properly, and the lost and bewildered came in their hundreds to register, to seek information, to contact loved ones at home to say they were still alive. The media had descended upon the disaster by now, and Nikolas pulled Ben off his search for bodies and put him in charge of escorting them through the destruction. Ben then became the spokesman for the tsunami, sought and feted for his startling presence on camera and his genuine knowledge of events. Kate established a database of missing and found, kept the computers running and took some of the load off Nikolas’s shoulders.
She’d clearly hardly recognised either of them when she’d arrived. The last time she’d seen them they’d been badly scarred, gaunt survivors of a bitter personal winter. She’d arrived to find them bursting with health and vitality amidst all the ruin, totally engaged by what they were doing. Tired, sure, but tired in a way that made them keen to sleep, so they could wake the next day and continue with the job.
And the job just went on and on.
The count of the dead was now thought to be over one hundred thousand across all the islands and the mainland coast. They had well over eight thousand in their small resort island, over three thousand from the lagoon and surrounding complexes alone. On top of this were the thousands of survivors, displaced, utterly bereft of anything—no clothes, no money, no passports and, in most cases, no loved ones. Flights had to be organised, temporary documents issued, accommodation found, food provided, medicine given, simple things like clothes in all sizes made available. Nikolas’s work, helped now by Kate, went on well over twelve hours a day, but gradually he turned it from an overwhelming wave of hopelessness into something like order. Once or twice, Ben even returned with a team of journalists to find Nikolas with his feet upon his desk drinking tea, as if he were in his Kremlin office surrounded by staff. To be fair, he was always on the phone as well.
Nikolas began to spend an increasing amount of his time on the phone. He used his extensive contacts shamelessly. He even swallowed his pride and phoned Philipa. Ben didn’t hear that conversation, but two days later, a royal visitor arrived. He flew in on a British army helicopter and toured the devastated site, visited the hospital and spoke with survivors. If he recognised the young man with the wide-set green eyes who showed him around and briefed him, he didn’t let on. The last time he’d seen Ben, Ben had been rescuing him from terrorists, so it was possible he didn’t. He knew Nikolas, of course, and they greeted each other like old friends. Ben was astounded once more at how little he still knew about Nikolas Mikkelsen. Seeing him chatting with the heir to the throne, unconcerned, in his element, he realised for the first time why Nikolas had often seemed bored and restless over the last year—why he seemed to constantly get into mischief.
The prince’s visit generated a vast amount of funding. Donations flooded into the various charities that had arrived on the scene in their brand new Range Rovers and with their state-of-the-art equipment. None of the money, however, seemed to be actually getting to the hospital to buy basic medicine or food or fuel, or any of the other things the locals needed to start rebuilding.
One day, Ben woke to find the bed next to him empty. He had a note pinned to his boxer shorts. He couldn’t believe he’d been so deeply asleep Nikolas had been able to pin a note to him there or that Nikolas had been annoying enough to think of it. The note was very helpful: I’ll be back. He was amused and furious in equal measure. So was Kate. They hadn’t realised just how much everything in the relief camp had come to rely on Nikolas until Nikolas was absent for the day. People streamed in all day asking for decisions which neither Ben nor Kate felt qualified to give. They didn’t understand half the questions in the first place.
It was getting on toward evening and darkness, and Ben was taking a group of American journalists around the hospital when he saw Nikolas’s blond hair in the distance. At six foot four, both of them were easy to spot over a crowd, and they’d grown into the habit since the disaster of constantly looking around, just checking to see if they could see one another, reassured at the other’s presence. He finished his briefing and escorted the journalists back to the press tent and went in search of his errant lover. Nikolas was in his office. He was making some tea and added a bag to another mug f
or Ben. He was pretending to be engrossed in this mundane task, but Ben could tell by his expression Nikolas wanted to be asked where he’d been all day. Ben gave him a look, just so Nikolas knew he was pissed, but asked anyway. Nikolas pointed.
Ben couldn’t believe it. Sitting on his cot was the aluminium case he hadn’t seen for…was it years? It felt like years. He tried to work it out. Days. A little over a week had passed since he’d scaled the wall of the cave and tucked it into a hollow to keep it safe. He’d had no idea just what he’d been keeping it safe from.
Nikolas had returned to the cave and retrieved the case.
Ben opened it.
Fifty kilograms of pure gold, one-and-a-half million pounds worth, and possibly no one left alive knew of its existence—except them. He sat heavily on the cot, which wobbled alarmingly. “How did you get there?”
Nikolas looked up, pretending to be unconcerned, but Ben knew he was very pleased with himself. “I went inland then around by sea. It seemed easier.”
He really didn’t want to ask—didn’t want to hear it. “What was it like?”
Nikolas sat next to him, picking up a gold bar and sliding his hands around it. “There was nothing left…no huts, no hotel, no beach—no lagoon really. Just floating bodies. It was all mud and ruin. Like everywhere.”
“Just like here, Nik. The rest of the world is still out there, remember?”
Nikolas frowned as if he had forgotten this. “Yes. So…” He pursed his lips. “I have a confession.”
Ben never liked Nikolas’s confessions much. They usually involved some illegal substance or people who’d soon be trying to kill them. He nodded dubiously for him to continue. Nikolas took Ben’s hand, ostensibly studying the calloused fingers. “I’ve begun to believe in your ridiculous belief in fate. If we hadn’t found the gold, we’d be dead, for we’d have been in the hut when the water hit with nowhere to go. The gold saved our lives. If we hadn’t found the gold, it wouldn’t be here. The gold will save all these lives. I’m in awe of the power of your belief, Ben. All things seem to have a purpose.”
Ben put a hand up and stroked Nik’s head, running his fingers over the scar. “And your brother warned you to climb.”
“Yes. I believe he did.” He took a breath and stood up, walking to the door, which he locked. He turned back, pulled Ben to his feet, and seized his mouth, kissing him. Ben was instantly hard, instantly desperate for the touch, the intimacy, the release and escape for the first time since the day of the disaster. They’d not had time, inclination, energy, privacy, all the many reasons why only a brief touch of lips or fingers had had to suffice for what they’d been longing to do. They stripped out of their clothes quickly, a sense of fun and anticipation for the first time returning. This was when they stopped being individuals and became one, knowing each other so intimately, knowing things about the other no one else knew bound them and gave them strength. They kissed hard and passionately for a long time, hands on cocks, stroking, sometimes their own, sometimes the other’s. They eased down to the floor, and Nikolas rose over Ben, hand on his thigh, lifting it, gaining access—then entry. It had been almost a week. Ben arched and cried out in pain, but as always, Nikolas swiftly turned it to pleasure.
They drew it out for a while, enjoying the sensation, talking softly, saying things they’d waited these long days to say, saying new things they’d never admitted to each other before. They’d been bound in blood and pain, but it had been their own; now they were bound in the blood and pain of others, and it was a far stronger bond. They’d seen overwhelming suffering and need, and had responded. For Nikolas, this had been a revelation of a better nature he’d not known before, a part of him that hadn’t been given the opportunity to develop in the frozen wastes of his childhood. Ben had watched the flowering of an inner beauty in Nikolas that now matched the outer beauty he’d always worn as a mask hiding the darkness.
As Nikolas and Ben made slow love upon the floor, people came to the door, knocking, seeking entry. They shouted back they were busy. Most people got the message. Neither Ben nor Nikolas cared if the whole camp knew they were lovers. These things, in the face of the almost unthinkable horror they’d witnessed, were insignificant. All that mattered was that you loved. Who you loved was immaterial.
Ben took his turn when Nikolas was finished, the heat making their bodies sweat, their release copious and spilling out and sticking them together. Their bodies were so alive and hard and healthy and uninjured. Everything worked; nothing caused them pain. They were a small oasis of life and vitality in a world around them filled with injury and death. It was like replenishing a battery, feeding a hunger. They finished and lay entangled, just running fingers through hair or stroking sweating skin and talking, still talking, sharing words and thoughts as freely as they’d shared their bodies.
Finally, Kate came to the door and told them she had a key and she was giving them five minutes or she’d come in and find out answers to a lot of questions she had. Ben shouted back something rude, which only made her laugh, and they reluctantly rose to their feet. They had work to do.
By now the bodies had to be buried in mass graves. They needed more supplies of everything, chainsaws, bulldozers, and always fuel, more fuel. Everything, from the generators in the hospital, their lights and field kitchens, to the vehicles and equipment, ran on fuel, and it was constantly in short supply. Nikolas, through his contacts, sold the gold, turning it into actual money, not donations, promises, foreign aid, or charity budgets, but unaccounted for cash that he handed to nurses, doctors, teachers at the newly established orphanage, locals who wanted to buy a new boat so they could resume fishing, anyone and everyone who had a genuine need. He was either a very good judge of human nature or his physical presence and quirky personality ensured he wasn’t often wrong in his choice of recipient. He even used the money freely to bribe officials if things weren’t done fast enough. He had no moral qualms at all about bribery. He was half-Russian, after all.
Ben brought in almost as much money through his appearances in the media as Nikolas did from his gold sale. Ben had become something of a media star. As he was told by one production assistant in the BBC, to his intense embarrassment, in the world of television, where the next new thing was constantly being sought, finding a genuine expert on anything who looked like he did and who had authentic experiences was like a god falling into their greedy hands. He had empathy for loss that cut across the shallow, empty sympathy of the paid correspondents who tried with great gravitas in their voices to convey horror they hadn’t personally experienced and grief they couldn’t understand. Ben could. If the rubbing of his wrist was usually off camera, it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He knew only too well what losing someone you loved could do to you, and this knowledge flowed like visible truth through his words.
He was constantly referred to as Ex-Special-Forces-Expert Ben Rider, as if this were an official title, and donations to the hotline appeal were always in direct relation to Ben Rider’s appearances on television. He was offered the chance to make a documentary about the disaster, which Nikolas insisted was tacky and incredibly insensitive. Ben retorted he was just jealous, which earned him a taking down. In more ways than one.
§ § §
Nikolas tried to stay out of the limelight, working tirelessly in the background but refusing to appear on camera or be quoted directly in the press. He wasn’t even sure which identity he was there under anymore, and didn’t want or need the attention. Secretly, he revelled in Ben’s new fame. He loved watching him giving interviews while standing at the back of the group of journalists. Ben was a natural, charming, beautiful, well spoken, articulate and genuine. They ate him up.
By the middle of the fifth week, things had become more officially organised. There were so many government agencies on the ground Nikolas’s work often became mired in frustration, tangled up in red tape. He didn’t do red tape—refused to acknowledge it, cut it, trampled it into the mud of the tsunami. Eventual
ly, however, like a man in a net, twisting to free himself, he only entangled himself more. One evening at the end of a day when he’d seen bulldozers turned away from the site because they had the wrong documentation, and local children from his makeshift orphanage were being bussed out away from the remainder of their fractured community to the big orphanage in the capital, he knew their time on the island was done.
He called Ben and Kate in and told them they’d all leave the next day. He expected opposition, but they both acquiesced to his decision. He knew Ben felt he’d become more of a star than the tsunami, a distraction from the real story. Ex-Special-Forces-Expert Ben Rider was done. Kate said she wanted to leave on a high and not have all their work undermined by the new political atmosphere and the backbiting and in-fighting of the various charities.
Conscious Decisions of the Heart Page 30