by Will Adams
A minor incident from her original visit to Mustafa’s house came to her mind. After he’d agreed to help her put together the ransom, she’d asked to freshen up before setting off back to Eden. When he’d led her inside, one of his staff had called him to an important incoming phone call. He’d begged her to excuse him, then opened and closed his office door in such a way that she wouldn’t be able to see inside.
She hadn’t thought anything of this at the time, other than that he valued his privacy; but now she wondered whether there might not have been something in his office that he hadn’t wanted her to see. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was better than sitting here doing nothing. She thrust the Toyota back in gear and accelerated away.
II
It was the metallic shrieking that stopped Boris from shooting Knox. He knew what it was and what it signified and the world seemed to stop for a moment as he waited for and then heard the crash of shelving that he himself had precipitated by swinging himself around on it. A cacophony of ceramics shattered on the concrete floor. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again with renewed hatred of Knox. ‘If those two pieces are broken…’ he warned.
‘There are more of them,’ said Knox, his hands above his head. ‘Lots more.’
‘Where?’
He nodded towards the sea. ‘Out there.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I swear. I found them yesterday. I’ll take you out there.’
‘Like you were going to take us to the golden fleece?’ he scoffed.
‘The golden fleece existed,’ said Knox. ‘So does this. You saw those pieces downstairs. Do you think they appeared out of nothing? They came from a Chinese ship that sank outside the reef.’
‘That’s further north.’
‘No. We thought it was, but we were wrong. It made it down here before it sank. That’s where the bowl came from. That’s where the flask came from. And there are dozens more pieces like them. Hundreds. And not just porcelain. Gold and jewellery too.’
‘And you just left it all on the sea-bed?’ sneered Boris.
‘I’m an archaeologist, not a thief.’
Boris coloured, raised the gun at Knox. ‘Where exactly is this place?’ he asked. ‘Describe it to me.’
‘It’s forty metres underwater,’ protested Knox. ‘How am I supposed to describe that?’
‘Then what use are you?’
‘I can show you. I can take you out there.’
He’s a liar, said a voice in Boris’s head. A proven liar. Don’t fall for him again. But the Chinese pieces downstairs had looked real enough. And what if he was telling the truth this time? What if others came down here and found all this wealth that could have been his? He’d be cursing himself for the rest of his life. He motioned Knox to his feet, marched him back downstairs. If either the bowl or the flask had survived the carnage, then he’d have no more need of Knox. But neither had. ‘Okay,’ he told Knox. ‘You’re going to take me out there. But if you try anything, anything at all, by God you’re going to pay.’
III
Rebecca drove briskly north, anxious to make good time yet without drawing attention to herself. A bank of smoke from some charcoal makers drifted like fog across the road, making her eyes smart and her throat tickle enough to send her into a coughing fit. She came out the far side to find a bus unloading passengers, forcing her to brake sharply and swerve. A pair of panicked goats scrambled over each other to squirm through sliver-thin gaps in the fence, while a girl in a cut-down wedding dress snatched up a scrawny black chicken from almost beneath her wheel.
The guard on duty outside Mustafa’s house flicked away his cigarette as he sauntered across, blowing smoke out his nostrils in twin plumes, like a cold-weather bull. Mustafa was in Tulear, he told her. She asked for Ahdaf instead. He slouched back to his hut, then beckoned Rebecca over so that she could speak to Ahdaf herself on the intercom. ‘I’m afraid my father had some business in Tulear this morning,’ said Ahdaf. ‘But he should be here in an hour or two, if you’d like to come back.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Rebecca, who’d anticipated this possibility. ‘It’s actually you I wanted to talk to.’
‘Me? What about?’
‘You made some very perceptive comments about my programmes the other night,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about them a great deal. I’d like to talk to you about them, if that’s okay.’
‘Oh!’ Ahdaf sounded thrown. ‘Then yes, come on in.’
The gates slid open as Rebecca returned to her Toyota. She drove up to the house, looking all around her for anything out of place. The front doors opened as she parked, and Ahdaf emerged, swathed in silks. She led Rebecca around to a shaded veranda with a long glass table. Two maids appeared from nowhere to lay a tablecloth, napkins, cutlery and bone china. ‘I don’t have long,’ said Ahdaf. ‘My studies, you understand.’
‘Then let me get straight down to it,’ nodded Rebecca. ‘I feel the same way about science as you obviously do. Truth should be enough. But it isn’t. Natural selection operates on TV just like in any competitive environment. The weakest programmes are ruthlessly killed off. You need special qualities to survive, let alone prosper. My programmes succeeded because they were fresh and startling and they looked damned good. But audiences grow bored. They crave the new. What you said the other night-’
Ahdaf had the grace to blush. ‘I didn’t mean to-’
‘It’s okay. You were right. My last few programmes have been flat. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. And I’ve been thinking about moving to the other side of the camera anyway. Maybe now’s the time.’ She looked Ahdaf straight in the eye. ‘But do you know what I’ll need most, if I’m to become a successful director or producer?’
Ahdaf’s mouth turned sour, as though suddenly she understood what was going on. ‘Money, I suppose?’
‘No,’ laughed Rebecca. ‘Money’s easy. Money’s everywhere. Talent is what I need. Specifically, I need a qualified zoologist with zest, youth and beauty. A young woman of forceful ideas, and with the confidence to express them. Someone who can dazzle a screen; someone exotic. And preferably someone fluent in French as well as English, because my programmes do very good business in France.’
Ahdaf placed a hand on her chest. ‘You can’t mean-’
‘Ahdaf,’ said Rebecca earnestly, ‘have you ever considered a career in television?’
Ahdaf looked up and away, her eyes glinting. Rebecca remembered the moment she’d got her own series; the intoxication of it, the absurd conviction of how perfect life would now be. ‘It’s not…’ stammered Ahdaf. ‘No, that is, I have sometimes thought I might be… but my father wouldn’t-’
‘This isn’t an offer, you understand,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’m only asking hypothetically.’
‘Hypothetically.’ Ahdaf seized gratefully on the word. ‘Yes. I think I can say that hypothetically I’d be interested.’
‘Good. Then may I ask you some questions?’
‘Of course. Of course.’
‘Thank you. When do you finish at university?’
‘This summer.’
‘Are you planning postgraduate studies?’
‘Yes. In Antananarivo.’ Then she added hurriedly: ‘But that’s not definite.’
‘If I could arrange for a scholarship to Oxford, would you consider that?’
‘Oxford?’ Ahdaf swallowed. ‘Yes. I think I could-’
‘Do you drink?’
‘No.’
‘Drugs?’
‘No.’
‘You have a boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘A girlfriend?’
Ahdaf blushed furiously. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘If I’m to put my reputation and my business behind you, I need to know what I’m getting. Do you have a girlfriend?’
‘I… No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not like that.’
‘Good. Is there any reason you wouldn’t live in England?’
Ahdaf made fists of her hands. ‘I don’t know… Wouldn’t there be immigration and work permits and-’
‘I have people to take care of all that,’ said Rebecca airily. ‘I mean personal reasons. Would you get homesick? Are you promised in marriage to some nice Indian boy? Would your family stand in your way?’
Ahdaf said defiantly. ‘They could try.’
Rebecca stood up, walked around the table, tugged back Ahdaf’s silk head-scarf, combed her fingers through the wiry, shoulder-length black hair. She tilted back Ahdaf’s chin, examined her throat, her profile, her pierced but empty ears. She asked: ‘What about your hair? Would you want to keep it covered on TV?’
‘I… Yes. It is… That is, yes, it’s part of-’
‘That may be a problem,’ said Rebecca. She took a pinch of Ahdaf’s sleeve, rubbed the silk between her fingers. ‘And these clothes wouldn’t do at all.’
‘But your programmes aren’t on fashion,’ protested Ahdaf. ‘They’re on science.’
‘No,’ said Rebecca. ‘They’re on television.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh well. Best to know early. Too bad, though. I really thought you-’
‘I’m sure something can be arranged,’ said Ahdaf quickly.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m sure we can find a compromise.’
Rebecca snorted. ‘Oh yes. I know compromise. You pretend you’ll do what I tell you until the last moment, and then I’ll be screwed.’
‘I wouldn’t be like that.’
‘How can I be sure? You’re implying you’ll agree some time in the future. If so, why not now? Don’t you realise what I’m offering you? Do you imagine I’d risk my reputation on someone who thinks her hair too precious to-’
‘Okay,’ said Ahdaf.
‘You’ll go bareheaded if I tell you to?’
Ahdaf twisted her hands in her lap. ‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘Sorry? I didn’t hear.’
‘Yes,’ said Ahdaf, more loudly.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I’d go bareheaded if you told me to.’
‘Good.’ Rebecca reached to take Ahdaf’s hands from her lap. She separated them, examined the stubby fingers artificially lengthened by false nails of burnished brown; the smudges of ink on her index finger and thumb. ‘You’ll wear what I tell you to wear?’
‘Yes,’ said Ahdaf.
‘Clothes that showed off your figure?’
‘I…’ Ahdaf bowed her head. ‘Yes.’
‘That flattered your breasts and waist and hips?’
Ahdaf’s head drooped lower and lower. ‘Yes.’
‘That showed your cleavage?’
‘Yes.’
Rebecca pushed back Ahdaf’s sleeve and jangling silver bracelets, revealed dark forearms soft with downy black hair. She reached up inside the material all the way along Ahdaf’s arm to her shoulder. ‘Clothes that showed your legs and arms?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll put yourself completely in my hands?’
‘Yes.’
Rebecca leaned backwards. ‘Why do I get the impression you’ll be too proud to take orders?’
Ahdaf said softly: ‘I can take orders.’
‘From me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll obey me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look at me, Ahdaf.’ Ahdaf raised her eyes slowly, reluctantly. Their gazes met and locked. Ahdaf seemed to quiver, almost to shrink. ‘Sometimes, to succeed,’ said Rebecca, ‘we must do things we wouldn’t want to do, things that clash with our image of ourselves. I need to know you’ll do such things, if I tell you they need to be done.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘I can’t predict that,’ answered Rebecca. ‘Each person balks at different obstacles. I only know that if you want to succeed, you must be willing to sacrifice everything else, including your pride. Are you willing?’
‘Yes,’ said Ahdaf quietly.
‘Your family? Your friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without protest? Without bitterness?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Rebecca. ‘Then take me to your room. I need to see you in some other clothes.’
FORTY-TWO
I
Boris had been diving several times in his life, on holidays in Bali, the Red Sea and the like, but it had been a while and he’d forgotten much of what he’d learned, particularly on equipment set-up and safety. He and Knox were much the same size and build, however, so he removed the man’s flexi-cuffs, had him turn on the compressor to fill a pair of scuba tanks with air, then made him assemble two complete sets of dive-gear. ‘I don’t need any,’ said Knox. ‘Mine’s already on the boat.’
‘What I dive with, you dive with,’ Boris told him. ‘And I’m not saying who’s getting which set until we suit up. So no tricks, eh?’
Knox shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’
The compressor took forever. Boris made Knox carry the dive-gear out to the boat while they waited, keeping the gun on him all the time, half expecting him to try something; but he didn’t. When they returned to the boathouse, the reels of fishing line gave him an idea. He cut off several metres, coiled it up and put it away in his pocket. The second tank was still filling; Boris took Knox to collect his belongings from the lodge, so that he wouldn’t have to return here once this was done. The compressor finally finished. They turned it and the generator off, locked up the boathouse, carried everything out to the boat then motored through the pass and north-west, navigating with GPS and a local chart until Madagascar was just a dark line on the horizon behind them, and Knox finally cut the engine.
‘This is it?’ asked Boris.
‘This is it,’ nodded Knox, deploying the anchor. ‘See what I mean about trying to describe the place?’
It was true enough. The water was too deep here to see the bottom, and they were too far from shore for landmarks. ‘You fuck with me down there, you’re going to regret it.’
‘Then let me go collect some pieces for you.’
‘Sure!’ Climbing into a wetsuit was an awkward and ungainly process, during which Boris knew he’d be at his most vulnerable. He had Knox suit up first, therefore, then tied his wrists behind his back again with another set of flexi-cuffs. He took out the fishing line he’d cut earlier, looped it around Knox’s neck and then knotted it tight enough to cut into his throat a little, whiten his skin.
‘What’s that for?’ asked Knox.
‘You think I’m going to let you swim around loose? What kind of idiot do you take me for?’ He suited himself up, chose a BCD and tank, weight-belt, mask and fins, then he knotted the other end of the fishing line around his left wrist, so that Knox was like a pet dog on a long leash. If he tried to get away now, all Boris would have to do was give the fishing line a good sharp tug and it would choke Knox, bring him within the business range of his knife. He picked up the Heckler amp; Koch again before releasing Knox from his cuffs so that he could finish suiting up. There was no way of cuffing his wrists behind his back again, not with his scuba tank on, so he cuffed them in front instead.
‘Okay,’ he told Knox. ‘In the water.’ He waited until Knox was down, gave a little tug on the fishing line to remind him who was boss. No point taking the Heckler amp; Koch down with him. It was useless underwater, and cumbersome too. On the other hand, he didn’t want just to leave it on board, lest Knox somehow make it back here first and use it against him. He ejected the magazine, therefore, and zipped it away in his wetsuit’s waterproof pouch. He hid the gun itself in a side-pocket of Knox’s dive-bag, on the basis that it was the last place he’d look, then he took his knife in his right hand, climbed down the stern ladder and joined Knox in the water.
II
Rebecca was thinking furiously as she followed Ahdaf through a vast atrium and up a marble staircase. Ahdaf might be vain enough to buy her cover story, but no way would her father fall for it, and he was due back here within an hour or so.
She needed to find her proof and get away fast.
Ahdaf’s bedroom was pastel pink with spectacular views of the beach and lagoon. She led Rebecca into a walk-in closet, a narrow aisle several paces long between rails of dresses and blouses on her left, shelves of folded silks on her right. It wasn’t perfect, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Rebecca stepped back out, closed the closet door with Ahdaf still inside, then pinned its handle with a leaned chair.
‘Rebecca?’ asked Ahdaf tentatively, as though suspecting some curious joke. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just give me a moment,’ said Rebecca. She picked up a remote control at random, pressed buttons. The flatscreen TV came on. She flipped through until she found a music channel, turned the volume up just enough to muffle Ahdaf’s increasingly panicky pleas of claustrophobia, then hurried back down through the atrium to Mustafa’s office. The door was locked. She tried to force it but it wouldn’t give. She heard footsteps approaching, so she hurried the other way into a plush drawing room. The footsteps drew closer. She went to stand before a vast acrylic family portrait to make it look as though she belonged there. There were more Habibs than she’d realised. Mustafa, of course, was the focal point. Dominant, serious and kindly, sitting on a high-backed red armchair. His wife stood in a floral dress beside him, somehow managing to look down on the artist, despite her own low starting position. Ahdaf stood on Mustafa’s other side, her face half shadowed by her scarf. And there was a young man on either flank too, presumably Mustafa’s sons. The first looked athletic and handsome, with arrogant hooded eyes. The second was thin with high cheekbones and wavy hair, his hips thrust out like a model at the end of the catwalk.