by Will Adams
‘And…? What’s the answer?’
‘Depends who you ask. That salvage guy I interviewed, for example. He thinks these maps are more proof that the Chinese got to America first.’
‘Why would European maps prove that?’ frowned Rebecca.
‘Because all these old cartographers borrowed from each other. Piri Reis was Turkish, and the Turks ran the spice trade at the time, so he’d certainly have had access to Oriental sources.’
‘Sounds plausible enough.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Knox. ‘But there are easier explanations. For example, maybe the Portuguese or the Spanish were much quicker at exploring the new territory than most historians believe. They just kept quiet about it. You have to remember that the pope had just granted the Portuguese all new land discovered southeast of an arbitrary line of longitude west of the Azores, while the Spanish got everything to its south-west. But facts on the ground are what count, so both nations made huge efforts to explore and settle these places before the other, and they only broadcast information that suited their claims. These were the great state secrets of the time.’
‘So you reckon there was a mole?’
Knox nodded. ‘A lot of people point the finger at Vespucci. He was working for the Spanish at the time. But I guess we’ll never know for sure.’ He rolled the maps back up. ‘Just odd that your father should have these. Is he interested in this kind of thing?’
Rebecca smiled. ‘He’s interested in everything,’ she told him. ‘But, yes, geography for sure. He used to say that evolution is geography.’
‘I guess.’ A gust of wind sent their sail flapping. ‘Anyway. We’d better get moving again or we’ll never make Eden tonight.’ He replaced the maps, found the chart he needed, took it back to his seat. Then he adjusted the rigging until the sail swelled again and they began once more to pick up speed.
II
Rebecca trailed a hand in the water as they headed north, and watched the shore. A pirogue drew close, a spear fisherman standing astride its narrow prow, shouting directions to the youngster at the stern. They were important and admired men, these spearmen. The best could spike fifty kilos of fish on a good day. Some held rocks as weights so that they could lie on the sea-bed in ambush for big fish; others brashly chased after the shoals, though you needed to be super-fit to fight the currents. Their bodies, consequently, were exquisitely honed, burned of any trace of fat.
The man looked up as they passed, waved exuberantly. ‘Salaam, Becca!’ he cried. He motioned to the youngster and the pirogue tacked and came alongside, holding steady just a couple of metres away. A fat scar glistened on his left hip where a fishing line must once have sliced through his skin, and it was this that gave Rebecca the cue she needed, a sudden memory of the day he’d limped into their clinic with his leg a mess of blood, glimpses of the white bone beneath the flap of skin. ‘Salaam, Toussaint!’ she called out. ‘Inona no vaovao?’
‘Tsy misy.’ He was obviously chuffed that she’d remembered him, though he tried not to let it show. ‘So sorry about Adam and Emilia.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Your father is a very good man. Your sister a very good woman. Whatever we can do.’
‘You can search.’
‘We search already,’ he said. But his eyes dropped just a blink. ‘Is a big sea.’
‘Yes.’
‘You come see us sometime, yah?’
‘I’d like that.’
He pointed at Daniel. ‘Vezo blanc, yah?’
‘Vezo blanc,’ smiled Rebecca.
He made a small gesture to his companion in the stern and they tacked instantly away, waving their farewells.
‘Vezo blanc?’ asked Daniel dryly.
‘It’s a compliment,’ Rebecca assured him. ‘It just means a foreigner who knows the sea. It was years before anyone ever called my father a Vezo blanc. He didn’t stop gloating for days.’
‘He looked a bit sheepish,’ said Daniel. ‘Did you ask him if he’s been out searching?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the problem with these guys?’
‘It’s not that simple. They don’t like visiting the Eden reefs, not if they can avoid it.’
‘Why not?’
She didn’t reply at once, for it wasn’t easy to explain properly. ‘Have you ever heard of the tragedy of the commons?’ she asked finally. ‘It’s a theory about why shared resources don’t work. Imagine you live next to a forest full of trees. Under local law, your family owns a section of that forest, as does every other family. You can do what you like with the trees in your section, but if you cut them all down to sell, then that’s it, you can’t take anyone else’s. So you’re going to look after your own holding, right? Plant new saplings, protect it from thieves, cut only what you need, because your family’s future livelihood depends upon it.’
‘Sure.’
‘Now imagine a different village next to a different forest, where all the trees are common property.’
‘It’ll be logged in a heartbeat,’ nodded Daniel.
‘A short-term feast followed by famine forever,’ nodded Rebecca. ‘That’s the tragedy of the commons. Fishing is a textbook example. No one owns the sea, but they do own whatever they catch, so they’ll fish and fish until there’s nothing left. It used to be fine here, plenty for everyone. But the villages are growing and the lagoon is silting up and the pressure on stocks has become hopelessly unsustainable. My father tried to get everyone to agree not to fish off Eden, leaving it as a breeding ground to keep the stocks up. It worked for a while, but then some people cheated, and the honest ones grew resentful, and it was a free-for-all again.’
‘So what did your father do?’
‘There’s something called fady in Madagascar. It’s like a taboo; very powerful. Fady aren’t just respected and obeyed: they’re feared. He realised that the best way to stop fishing near Eden was to make it fady. The question was how. The people here have always loved stories. Before TV came along, they’d all gather in the evenings, get smashed on rum and marijuana, trade tall tales. My father learned Malagasy so that he could join in. He took the Odyssey and some other Greek myths and transplanted them here. Boats destroyed by clashing rocks, fishermen snatched and eaten by one-eyed sea-creatures with arms thick as trees, families cursed for generations; giant squids lurking in lairs, their tentacles leaving hideous blisters, causing penises to shrivel up and fall off.’
‘Ouch.’
‘He even tricked up some photographs and showed them around, and it wasn’t long before all the fishermen were claiming to have seen them themselves, except bigger and scarier. No one believes a lie like people who’ve made themselves part of it. Within a year, they pretty much stopped coming even to our clinic, because they were too scared. My mother had to lay spells on lanes through the water to make it safe.’ She smiled. ‘A powerful witch, my mother.’
‘So what you’re saying is, they’ll happily look everywhere except off Eden, which is precisely where you need them to search?’
‘The fady’s grown less powerful over the years, but it’s still there. And if I break it altogether, it’ll be a disaster for the fish stocks. I couldn’t bear that.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘Apart from anything else, my father would never forgive me.’
Daniel nodded. ‘Then I guess we’d better just search that bit ourselves.’
TWENTY-TWO
I
The meet with the gun dealer was set for four that afternoon, but Boris showed up shortly after three. Buying guns was notoriously risky on missions like these, partly because gun dealers were scum, but also because so much stock came via the military or the police, who’d often make a token arrest just to show that they were taking the problem seriously. That was why he’d taken such pains yesterday over choosing this site. It was deep in the spiny forest, far enough from Morombe that he could test the guns without attracting undue attention. And, while there was just one track big enough for a car to get here, there was al
so a forest track along which he could make a quick getaway on his bike, if it should come to that. He parked it in cover, then walked around the glade to check for ambush before finding himself a vantage point. He lifted his shirt and taped his hunting knife to his stomach, lest things turn ugly, and settled down to wait.
Four o’clock came and went. Four-thirty. Five. He cursed and wondered if his directions had got garbled. The light was beginning to fade when he finally heard engine noise, and a banged-up blue Mercedes 4x4 trundled into the clearing. There were two men in the front, which immediately put Boris on alert, as he’d only expected one. But the passenger stayed inside while the driver got out. He was short and grossly fat, with a tomatored T-shirt. Boris relaxed at once. If he couldn’t handle this guy, he needed to get out of the business. He put on his sunglasses and went out. The tomato popped his rear door and opened a large steel box inside, revealing three handguns of varying hefts and styles, plus spare magazines, boxes of shells and other gear designed to appeal to Special Forces wannabes: knives, balaclavas, holsters, flexi-cuffs, night-sights.
Boris took the semi-automatic Beretta 92G first, ejected and checked the box magazine, slotted it back in. He’d used one before, and it felt reassuringly familiar, but there was a hairline crack in its frame. He gave the tomato a look and put it back. He passed over the Taurus Raging Bull, which was less a handgun than a midlife cry for help, and took the Heckler amp; Koch. It was a few years old, but he couldn’t see any obvious flaws. It was fitted with a laser sight for competition shooting too, and its elongated barrel was threaded for a noise and flash suppressor. He took up his favoured stance. It felt good in his hands. It felt like authority. ‘Silencer?’ he asked, miming fitting one to the barrel.
The tomato went to consult. The passenger got out, tall and cadaverous, with hair like melted vinyl. He looked nervous, which made Boris nervous too. He opened the rear door, rummaged inside, then stood back up and shook his head. Never mind. Boris hadn’t expected one. He spotted the red dot on a tree across the glade, squeezed the trigger. A chunk of soft flesh exploded from the tree only a little below where he’d aimed. He visualised Knox and fired three more rounds: stomach, heart and head. Perfect. ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘How much have you got?’ replied the tomato. And there was enough amusement in his voice for Boris to know, even before he looked around, that the Raging Bull and the Beretta would both be aimed directly at his back.
II
It was late afternoon when the Yvette neared the Eden pass. The sea was getting rougher, waves breaking hard against the reef. A squadron of jellyfish passed like ghosts beneath their hull, provoking Rebecca to wonder what horrors might lie beneath. But then she stamped down on the negative thought. Adam and Emilia were alive. If there was anything on the sea-bed, therefore, it could only be of help in finding them: and the sooner she found it, the more useful it would prove. She opened a bench locker, fished out a mask, snorkel and pair of flippers.
‘What are you doing?’ frowned Daniel.
‘I thought you agreed it was up to us to search this area.’
‘Yes, but not tonight. It’s too rough. And it’ll be dark soon.’
‘My father and sister had to come out of the lagoon this way. I need to take a look.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘No. Now. What if there’s something down there? I owe it to them, Daniel.’
‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘You owe it to them not to take stupid risks that can’t possibly do them any good.’
‘I’m doing this,’ said Rebecca. She stepped up on to the bench before he could stop her, jumped overboard. She took a little water in her mouth, salty and warm. She sank into the trough of a wave, rode it up high. She hadn’t realised quite how big the swell was, or how fast the Yvette had been travelling. Already she was twenty metres away, Daniel’s back bowed as he worked furiously to bring her around.
‘Listen,’ he shouted. ‘You won’t see a thing. Trust me. I know reefs. Wait till it’s calmer, I’ll bring you-’
‘And when that will be?’ She lifted her right knee up beneath her chin to pull on a flipper. ‘Do you know these reefs?’
He scowled at her, but there was nothing he could do. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Keep it brief. Stay away from the coral. The currents will be ferocious when you get-’
‘I did grow up here, you know.’ She pulled on her second flipper, brought her mask up over her eyes, bit down on the mouthpiece of the snorkel, that familiar taste of rubber and salt. She ducked her head beneath the surface. The swell had kicked up sand and silt, yet visibility wasn’t bad. The coral shelf was a dark mass to her right, but it separated into distinct shades as she drew closer: purple, black, lilac, emerald and ochre. The colours didn’t mean they were healthy, however, for much of it came from algae that grew on dead and live coral alike. That was why it was so important to survey fish populations. Racoon butterflies, convict sugar-fish and striped bristle-fish were bad news, for example, because they could live on the algae. What you wanted to see were red-fin butterflies, long-nose filefish, red-banded groupers and black-tail snappers, because they fed only on live coral, or black and white snappers and A large wave simmered and boiled as it passed her, saltwater splashing down her snorkel into her mouth, making her splutter, while all around her the reef fish mocked her struggles with their serene ballet. The shelf grew steeper; she was near the pass. She warned herself to be careful. The whole lagoon virtually drained and filled with each tide, all that water squeezing through this narrow gap like vast crowds through a single turnstile, creating incredibly fierce currents. A translucent plastic bag floated past. She grabbed for it, lest a turtle mistake it for a jellyfish, as they sometimes did, and choke to death. It eluded her, so she swam after it. She heard Daniel shout a warning and looked around just as another wave struck her obliquely across her face. Water gushed in through her snorkel. She spat it out choking and hacking. A second wave broke over her, taking her tumbling her with it, spinning her out of control. She tried to kick away but her left foot hit something immense and solid, and pain spiked up her leg. A third wave threw her backwards on to the reef. Her left elbow took a bang; the back of her crown smacked dizzyingly hard. The swell subsided, backwash dragging her with it over the coral. She pushed to her feet, clumsy from the blow and from wearing her flippers; but she dared not take them off because of all the sponges, urchins and crown-of-thorns starfish that lived upon these reefs and which would leave you limping for days. She stood sideways to the waves instead, spread her feet wide. Her left shoulder began to throb. She’d dislocated it twice before, was terrified of doing it again; but as far as she could tell it was only wrenched and bruised.
A wave smashed against her thigh and waist, almost throwing her from her feet. Its backwash tried to fold her up like a deckchair. She glanced down. Blood was leaking in thin, watery sheets from grazes in her knee and thigh. Coral was sharp as knives; infectious, too. Her palms were already a lattice of thin red lines that quickly spread and merged. Another wave smashed into her thigh. The sun had already half gone behind the western horizon. Clouds were gathering overhead. Daniel and the Yvette were fifty metres away, and it felt like fifty miles.
TWENTY-THREE
I
Boris dropped the Heckler amp; Koch and raised his hands as he turned around. ‘There’s no need for this,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you whatever you want.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed the tall man. ‘You will.’
Boris belatedly realised why the man had made him uneasy. His jitteriness wasn’t that of someone involved in a risky transaction, but of an addict needing his next fix. ‘My friends will be angry with you,’ he said. ‘They’ll send more people.’
‘Sure they will,’ scoffed the man. ‘Now let’s have your money.’
‘I left it in the trees,’ said Boris. ‘I’ll go get it for you.’
The tall man said something in Malagasy; the tomato nodded and approached Boris carefully, making sur
e not to block his comrade’s line of fire. He patted him down with his left hand, felt the wad of banknotes in Boris’s back pocket, pulled it out and held it up in triumph.
There was only one question on Boris’s mind: what plans did these two have for him now? If this was just a heist, no problem. He’d get Sandro to wire more money, start over. But that wasn’t the impression he was getting. When he’d threatened them with his friends, they’d found it funny. Petr had put this deal together, and Petr was his successor as Sandro’s head of security. What if he was worried that Boris might be after his old job? What if he’d put these vermin up to this, and more? Could he take that risk?
It was getting dark, just enough to give him some cover. He stepped abruptly to his side, putting the tomato between himself and the tall man, grabbing his knife from beneath his shirt as he did so, stabbing upwards. The Raging Bull erupted, a blaze of light and noise. The round caught the side of the tomato’s head, splattered it, spun him around. Boris grabbed the Beretta from him as he went down, fired blind twice, not to hit anything, merely to buy himself time. The Raging Bull erupted again. Boris threw himself sideways, rolled on to his back, took a moment to steady himself and then aimed at the tall man’s torso and pulled the trigger three times. The man twisted as he fell, landing upon his front, the Raging Bull erupting a final time beneath him, lifting his body a little into the air like a comic-book hero diving upon a grenade.
Boris held the Beretta out carefully as he went to look, but there was no need. He spat out a curse. The sound of that damned cannon was bound to bring attention; he needed to get clear. He wiped his prints from the Beretta, put it in the tomato’s hand. With luck, the police would assume an argument that had got out of control. He put away his knife, cash and the Heckler amp; Koch, went to the boot for a couple of boxes of shells, pocketing a pack of flexi-cuffs while he was at it, and hurried for his bike.