by Ian Walkley
Ziad squeezed his fists behind his back. At this point, Fanning would agree with anything. The man had no shame for what he had done, trying to deceive them.
Khalid continued: “Well, enjoy your stay at the Castles. Mai and George will be there very soon. Room 1801. We’ve arranged a little pampering session at the spa for both of you. Please feel free to use the facilities as much as you wish, with my gratitude.”
“You are most generous, Highness.” An exaggerated smile.
“More importantly, your four-million-dollar bonus will be released to your account tomorrow, now that the plans and keys have been returned.”
“Wonderful. Thank you, Highness. And I apologise for the inconvenience I have caused. I was only seeking to ensure the safety of the fortress. I’ll just go and pack my things and be on my way.”
Ziad tightened his lips, but remained silent.
Khalid nodded and shook Fanning’s hand. There was nothing more to be said.
~ * ~
Half an hour later, Ziad, crouched behind a chair on the dark balcony outside room 1801, watched through the transparent curtains as Fanning entered and switched on the lights. He paid the porter, closed the door and locked it. Stretching out his arms, he flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes.
“Fuck you, Khalid! Fuck you, Ziad!”
Ziad’s lips tightened, but he stayed where he was and signalled Sadiq and Ali to stay put for the moment. They needed to wait a few minutes after the porter left. Fanning laughed again, and after a few moments sat up and turned off one of the lamps, making the lighting softer, no doubt in eager anticipation of his wife’s arrival. But she would never come. Ziad felt a surge of resentment flush his face at the anticipated pleasure denied him because of her escape. Now Fanning would pay. He would never get to see his wife, touch her, smell her, fuck her, ever again.
Fanning glanced at his watch and looked over toward the balcony, where the thin curtains were fluttering with the breeze. They’d left the sliding door open so they could hear, in case he contacted the police. Fanning wouldn’t suspect anything amiss, as it was the usual practice of cleaning staff in Dubai to leave external doors open if a smoker had been in the room. Fanning got up like he was going to close the door and Ziad tensed, but the phone rang.
“Mai?”
Someone spoke on the other end.
“Oh. Yes, fine. Excellent. Thank you... Actually, could I order some room service?”
A waste of time.
“Uh, a bottle of champagne. Two glasses. And a kid-size bowl of ice cream.”
Fanning glanced at the curtains and frowned. Had he seen them?
“Yes, thank you... Good night.”
Fanning replaced the handset and walked to the bar, opened a bottle of scotch, poured a glass and took a sip. Then swallowed the lot. He walked over and pulled back the curtains.
They moved fast.
“What’s this—?” Fanning stumbled back. His face paled. “No, please...”
Sadiq and Ali grabbed his arms and Ziad punched him under the ribcage, where he’d winded him before. Fanning buckled, gasping for breath. As the others held him down, Ziad forced the neck of the bottle of scotch into his mouth.
“No, wait...” Fanning pleaded with them.
Ziad ignored him and pinched his nose, forcing him to swallow, or else he’d drown in a flood of whisky.
“Ess... mo...” Fanning spluttered as he gulped the burning spirit.
After he had poured around half the bottle down Fanning’s throat, Ziad removed it and gestured to his men. They hauled Fanning out onto the balcony. Pleading for his life, Fanning grabbed frantically at the rail, but they wrenched his hands off and heaved him up and over.
Ziad felt a tingling in his scrotum as he watched Fanning plunge head-first into the garden bed below. Satisfied, he led the other two back inside. They checked the room, and after wiping the bottle with a cloth, he placed it next to the glass beside the bed. Checking the corridor was clear, they left.
Ziad said, as they entered the elevator, “We will exit at different floors and meet in the car park. The others are waiting,” He pressed three random buttons.
“What was Fanning trying to say back there, do you think?” Ali said as the lift dropped fast.
What did it matter? “Perhaps he was saying, ‘Where’s Mai?”‘ Ziad said, lifting his shoulders casually.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Sadiq said. “I thought he was saying: ‘There’s more.’”
~ * ~
45
Mac’s heart sped up as the island of Andaran appeared ahead. If Sophia and Danni weren’t on the Princess Aliya, they may well have passed through Andaran, he figured, and Tally agreed. Tally was on board with the program now, he decided, even if Wisebaum was still a pain in the butt. Rain began to pound the helicopter’s cabin as they flew under clouds obscuring the summit of Mount Ngouyaezi, the largest of the island’s volcanoes. Down the side of the mountain a waterfall cascaded to an impenetrable green-blue lake, casting a shimmering rainbow across the dense hinterland.
The helicopter’s air conditioner struggled against the pilot’s stale tobacco and cheap deodorant. Captain Olivier Maurin adjusted the microphone as his throaty voice came through the Bose headsets. “The summit of Mt. Ngouyaezi is one of the wettest places on earth. It rains about 360 days of the year, maybe more.”
Wisebaum had arranged for Maurin to collect them at Grand Comore airport. They had the chopper booked for a week, to the delight of the grizzled French expatriate, who explained that his business was suffering the usual seasonal downturn.
“Andaran is an autonomous island. So poor that we cannot even afford a seat at the United Nations. Most people have never heard of us. We are not even classed as a country! Andarans are a mix of African and Arab, but we have a strong Muslim cultural influence, and a French legal system.” Maurin shrugged. “Sometimes it works.”
Mac pointed the duty-free Canon EOS at the beach of sooty black volcanic sand cluttered with rubbish—mostly plastics along the high tide mark that had been washed ashore. Small canoes with outriggers rested on their hulls and fishermen sat around smoking and repairing damaged nets while kids swam in the shallows and played soccer. He needed plenty of travelogue photos for their cover.
Maurin continued: “Back in eighty-six, more than a hundred mercenaries, mostly former French Foreign Legionnaires, landed on that beach in Zodiacs and took the island, hardly firing a shot. The people loved us! Regrettably, France didn’t. When the media made big waves, Paris denied everything—but it was them that gave the order! Cochons!”
“I can relate to that,” Mac replied, over the intercom.
“You military? You look military. The sunglasses, perhaps. But they’re a type, no?”
“They’re a type, all right,” Tally muttered from the back seat.
“Was,” he said, ignoring the jibe. “What did Derek Wisebaum tell you about us, Olivier?”
“Derek and I go way back. He tells me only your cover story, monsieur. It is better that I know nothing. You are a developer of tourist resorts on his honeymoon with his beautiful wife, on the lookout for suitable land to build a resort. And that you are a keen wildlife photographer. I must warn you though, here you may hold hands, but don’t kiss in public.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Tally said firmly.
“But, you will need to behave as husband and wife, otherwise people will talk. And do not discuss politics or religion. We have an Arab billionaire who owns much of the island and is very powerful. He is protected by the Army. This is a subject not to be discussed.”
“Sheik Khalid?”
“Ah, madame. I should have realised. Please, be very careful.”
They crossed the western tip of the island, which was flat and intensively cultivated. “See those? Cananga trees,” said Maurin. “They bear the ylang-ylang flowers used in the perfume industry. Probably about one percent of the French economy is in some way dependent on the
crops in Andaran. This is why the French like to keep an eye on the place. Wiped out many of our indigenous species and birdlife.”
“Tally’s been reading up on the wildlife. You have a rare owl, and unusual species of bats, I believe.”
“Yes, the Scorpion Owl. A magnificent bird. But I have only seen a dead one—stuffed, unfortunately.”
“Can you land at Khalid’s hotel, Olivier?”
“But you cannot be serious, monsieur? One is not permitted in the resort except by invitation. I have been warned by Colonel Boroni. Do not fly over, he tells me. Ha! But it is near our approach to Andaran Airport, you see? So stupid! I fly over regularly before the Yubani Resort is built.”
“Let’s fly over it,” Mac persisted.
“Mac,” Tally said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
That sealed the deal. The smile of an old warrior broke out on Maurin’s face. “Very well, I do it. But do not be surprised if they shoot.”
A few minutes later the half crater of Khalid’s property appeared ahead. Mac changed the memory card in the camera.
“We are coming to the Sheik’s land. See that dhow at the long jetty?” Maurin pointed. “The Alamohamadi. It bring in supplies for the resort. The maintenance compound here is outside the extinct volcano. Built to house workers building the resort. The resort itself is on the other side of those cliffs. Inside the bay that was formed by the crater.”
Mac zoomed the telephoto lens as they swooped near the compound, taking close-ups of the buildings, the equipment and the perimeter fence. The men unloading the dhow at the end of the jetty waved at them.
Closed fists.
“Construction workers lived there for two years, but it’s mostly deserted now, except for the maintenance crew and when Khalid’s boat is here. They bring in groups occasionally for some sort of celebrations at the resort. Weddings, I’d guess. A perfect spot for them. Sometimes funerals, too. There’s a small cemetery at the back of the beach there. Some guests have been taken by sharks, the storytellers say.”
“Do you believe the stories?”
“It is not wise to ask, I think. The local military patrols the perimeter. Colonel Ali Boroni is the army commander. On Khalid’s payroll, I have no doubt. Not someone you want to upset.”
As they flew over the compound, two men with weapons bolted from one of the huts and began firing.
“Merde!” Maurin yelled as he yawed left and right and banked sharply around the crater ridge into the bay.
Mac laughed, and turned to Tally in the back seat. “You okay?”
“I’m getting used to it with you around!” Her knuckles were white as she gripped the back of his seat.
“My apologies, mes amis,” said Maurin straightening up the machine. “I should not have flown so low.”
“No. That was perfect.”
“Hold on! I take you.”
Maurin flew parallel to the coastline between the two ridges forming the crescent-shaped bay. They were about half a mile from the resort complex, but they could see it and photograph it clearly enough. It wasn’t a large complex, Mac thought, but the designers had managed to capture Arabic heritage, with sandstone arches and fort-like ramparts high enough to withstand a significant tidal surge. Here the beach was pristine, without the clutter evident on other beaches they had flown over. But he was more concerned with assessing the potential for a midnight raid than admiring the impressive backdrop of the crater, the brilliant white beach, and the blue waters of the bay. Several Asian men were lounging beside the rooftop pool. An armed figure standing by the helicopter landing pad stared up at them but didn’t fire.
“Now that’d be a place for a honeymoon,” Tally said.
“Except that no travel agent can make a booking,” Maurin said. “I have no idea, madame, how you would get into that place.”
Mac turned and smiled at Tally. That’s what they were here to find out.
~ * ~
46
They were in a big tin shed, although a faded sign proclaimed this was Andaran Aeroport Internationale. The tropical downpour pounded on the roof and, in the absence of gutters, water cascaded straight onto the tarmac around the perimeter of the building.
A tiny, dark-skinned Andaran girl in a patterned cotton sarong gawked at Mac as he sat on the equipment crate, waiting for the immigration official to return from prayers. The girl’s mother was selling coconuts and fresh fruit, but customers were scarce. Mac winked, and the girl tried to copy him, but blinked both eyes. He poked out his tongue. That was something she could do. Tally caught his eye and smiled. She wandered over and bought three coconuts, and with a practiced dexterity the woman lopped the tops off with her machete, inserting a straw in each.
“You actually have a soft side, I see,” Tally said above the clattering rain, handing a coconut to him and one to Olivier Maurin. “Mmm, this is good,” she said, between sips of the coconut milk.
“It’s called winning the hearts and minds of the locals. Strictly according to the manual.” He winked at Tally. She poked out her tongue.
The little girl laughed. Now there were three in the game.
“You’ll need to provide baksheesh for the official, to allow your equipment through. About five euros,” Maurin said, and went over to arrange a rental vehicle.
After Customs and Immigration, Maurin drove up in a Land Cruiser that clearly wasn’t a Hertz. Several bullet holes bore witness to the island’s political instability, and it had a cracked windscreen and torn black vinyl from sun and abuse.
Mac didn’t care as long as it worked. In fact it was better not to stand out.
“You’ll see some soldiers,” Maurin said. “They usually friendly, unless a coup in the making. The weather next few days they forecast mostly fine, but a storm coming from northeast. Might intensify into a hurricane, and if it does I text you. But otherwise, I stay here on standby.”
“Thanks, Olivier. We’ll call you when we need you again.”
“I’m sorry I do not have weapon to give you. If soldiers find one, it would not go well for you. Bonne chance!”
~ * ~
47
The island was shaped like a starfish with three arms. Mac drove west towards the Kimba Peninsula on a rutted bitumen road that took them past woven palm-leaf huts, plantations of cloves, cinnamon and bananas, and cananga trees with their curly ylang-ylang flowers. Laughing, free-spirited children ran beside the car, waving and calling to them as they slowed through villages. Barefoot workers carrying machetes ambled between farms. In Kimba village, they had their passports checked at a military checkpoint where a half-dozen armed soldiers sheltered in the shade.
A few kilometres further on, west of Khalid’s property, they turned north towards the ocean and eventually found a suitable campsite behind the sand dunes, with a freshwater stream nearby. After they’d pitched the tent, Mac lit a fire and cooked the fresh tuna and rice he’d purchased at the Kimba market, while Tally set up the satellite link.
“It’s important we have an established base, in case someone asks questions,” he said, as they sat on large rocks, eating. “We’re going on day hikes to photograph the wildlife and scenic locations. Too bad we got lost and couldn’t make it back to base. We’ll get an early start to hopefully avoid Army patrols. Four a.m. Sorry.”
“I’ll cope. Hey, you cook a mean fish,” she said, sounding surprised.
“Something of a necessity in my line of work.”
“My father cooked a mean fish. We had a boat. He used to take Benita and me out on the lake. Camping too, sometimes. I loved it. Ben, not so much. She’s more a home body, like my mum was. The wilderness wasn’t mum’s thing at all. Deliverance Country, she called it.” Her face took on a faraway look, as though she was watching her childhood like it was a movie. “You know, I can see it so clearly.”
“I didn’t have you pegged as the family tomboy.”
She gave a nervous laugh and wiped an eye. “Sorry. Just
the smoke.” She moved closer, away from the fume. “It’s great to have a break from computers, sometimes. It’s heights I can’t handle. Bungee, roller coasters, abseiling, parachuting, hang gliding—uh-uh.”
“You think about your parents often?”
She stared into the fire and didn’t reply.
“Sorry,” he said. “If you don’t want to—”
“It’s okay. You know, I see them every day. I can picture the last time we said goodbye, at the airport.”
“The photographic memory?”
She nodded. “It was my idea. A twentieth-anniversary present. Mum and Dad ran a dairy farm in Vermont and hardly ever had a vacation. I suggested a week in New York and booked them into breakfast at the Windows on the World restaurant in the north tower that Tuesday morning. I was sixteen, at high school in Burlington at the time. Someone ran into our classroom and the teacher turned on the television. We watched it unfold.. .they kept showing the second plane hitting the south tower. Over and over again. The explosion, the burning buildings.”