by A. D. Winch
Mémé sat down beside Eric and said reassuringly, “We don’t even know who owned the yacht that exploded yet. We are assuming the worst without any reason.”
Eric turned to look at her. His eyes were blank and empty.
In a distant voice, he said quietly, “It’s bad, Madame Benjamin.”
From the other side of the coffee table, Ursula agreed with him.
“We know nothing yet, let’s not jump to any false conclusions,” said Mémé smartly.
“Marie-Thérèse is right again,” added Granddad Benjamin placing a pack of cards on the coffee table. “Rather than sit here moping let’s play a game of something.”
Reluctantly the two children agreed. For almost an hour, they played Rummy but it felt like the longest game in the world. The two adults talked constantly, but Eric and Ursula rarely joined in. Eric, unsurprisingly, offered only one word answers to any question he was asked. For the rest of the time, he was sullen. He looked as if he was concentrating on the game, but his mind was elsewhere.
At six o’clock, Eric stood up, switched on the television and sat back down next to Mémé.
The intro music began, and the camera slowly zoomed in on the news reader, Campbell Williams. Once again he was looking serious while trying to contain his excitement.
“Our top story this hour: The Meyer family are missing, presumed dead. Other news: European Scientists discover signs of possible life on Mars, but NASA dispute these claims and landslides in...
Mémé turned from the television to Eric. He was staring intently at the screen; his eyes glazed over with tears. His body was stiff, and when Mémé put her arm around him, he did not move.
“It has been confirmed that the luxury yacht, ‘Queen of Hearts,' exploded in the Persian Gulf fifty kilometres off Dubai earlier this morning. The ‘Queen of Hearts’ was owned by the Meyer family, one of the richest families in Europe and who are rumoured to be worth just under half a billion Euros. Martin Meyer, his wife Maria and their son Eric are all missing, presumed dead.”
The news reader faded from the screen and was replaced with a black and white image of Eric’s father. A compassionate voice spoke over a series of old photos and some poor quality, eighties television footage of a poker game against a moustached man.
“His chips have been cashed in; the game is over and Martin Meyer, probably the best poker player in the history of the game, has left the green velvet table of life. But for many followers, and players of poker, he died almost twenty years ago.
“In nineteen eighty-four, at the tender age of sixteen, Martin Meyer arrived on the international poker stage and was quickly nicknamed ‘the kid.' For the next seven years, he dominated every tournament he played in, winning over twenty-five million dollars in the process. However in the summer of nineteen ninety-one, after bitter disagreements with the organizers of what would have been the biggest poker game in history, he vanished from the world of poker and out of the spotlight. Thus, he became known as the Bobby Fischer of poker.
“For the rest of his life, he shied away from public performances, remained hidden from the media and, some would say, became a recluse as he dedicated his time to running the Meyer foundation and investing his millions.
“In nineteen ninety-three, he briefly hit the news again when he married the Latin beauty and Miss World, Maria Torre. It is said that her influence changed the face of the Meyer Foundation.
“Initially, the foundation invested money into projects as diverse as cures for the common cold, extra-terrestrial locating, real estate, the European Space Station, vehicle design, robotics, materials, training dolphins, satellites and their biggest earner, computers and the internet. For a brief spell, Martin Meyer had been a consultant at CERN. While at the European Centre for Particle Physics Research, he had met Tim Berners-Lee, the father of the internet. It is reported, though not confirmed, that a large number of dot com businesses began with Meyer money and still earn millions for the foundation each year.
“In nineteen ninety-seven, the Meyer Foundation shocked the world of business and closed down as an investment company. All employees were given lucrative redundancy payments and not one original member of staff remained. It reopened in name alone as a charitable organization, but its staff were, and still are, invisible, its benefactors unknown and its donations kept secret. However, it is believed that millions each year go to worthwhile causes worldwide.
“Since he disappeared from the public eye and up until his untimely death, there were strong rumours that Martin Meyer continued to play poker at secret locations around the world and played regularly online.
“Over the last twenty years, the Meyers have guarded their privacy in the same way that Martin would have guarded a winning hand. Rumours have spoken louder than facts and nothing about them is known for certain.
“For these reasons, Martin Meyer will be remembered as ‘the kid’ poker player who took the card playing world by storm and, during a period of seven years, blew it away. His wife Maria will be remembered as a former Miss World. A woman of such profound beauty and stunning looks that she took people’s breath away. With the death of their son, the Meyers have no surviving relatives.”
Eric stood up like a robot, switched off the television and walked back towards the sofa. He stepped painfully on a chess piece, the Queen from the earlier game, and almost fell. Like a volcano, he suddenly erupted. He kicked the Queen with such force that it shot through the air like a bullet and cracked a pane of glass as it hit the window. Falling onto his knees in front of Mémé, he smashed his fist against the coffee table so hard that it broke in two. His hands dropped by his sides; he suddenly looked unsteady and then he dropped into Mémé’s lap. She put her arms tightly around him, and he burst into tears.
Ursula was shocked and clung hold of Granddad Benjamin. For what seemed like forever no one moved and the only sound was Eric’s sobbing.
Suddenly Andrea entered the room. “We must go now!” she said forcefully. “Pack your bags. We leave in ten minutes.”
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Chapter 17 - Reporting Back
It was dark in the Persian Gulf. The moon was barely a crescent, and the slim strip of light was swallowed up by thick mist. Two large, search lights operating from the deck of the ‘Gulf Steam,' crisscrossed the open water. Apart from the occasional plastic, drinks bottle they found nothing. There were no remains of the yacht, ‘Queen of Hearts’, and no survivors. The crew had been searching without any luck for two hours, and their search had also been conducted in near silence. If they could not see anyone in the water then they hoped they would still be able to hear them. They heard nothing except the waves lapping against the hull of the ship.
The ship’s loudspeaker broke the silence. It seemed far too loud and disrespectful given the circumstances.
“This is Captain Sharma. The Dubai coast guard will be here soon with an international team led by the Americans. We have been thanked for our efforts and asked to continue toward our destination. Please turn off the searchlights and return to your stations. We shall resume our journey in five minutes.”
The crew did as they were asked. With the searchlights off, it was as if a black shroud had suddenly wrapped itself around the ship. Clinks and rattles echoed across the water and with a low roar the ship’s engines started up. Painfully slowly, the ship sailed away from the site of the explosion. Their rescue mission had failed.
Just above the sea level and attached to the hull with magnetic grips, were six large figures dressed in all black wet suits and with blacked out faces. They were almost invisible; white barnacles beside them were easier to spot despite being a fraction of the size.
“This is Team Omega reporting in,” said one of the black figures.
“Please report,” said Agent Hoover, from the comfort of his air-conditioned observation room.
“Target has been destroyed but no sign of the boy. I repeat no sign of the boy.”
/> Agent Hoover picked up the phone and relayed this information to his boss.
Agent Angel was furious, “The boy’s DNA matches our one and only sample. He is a danger to our way of life. This is not acceptable.” Suddenly he exploded and roared, “Search every port, every shipping record, flight reservations, immigration lists, border crossing reports, passport control data! Put out a warrant. Use Interpol. Do what it takes, but FIND THAT BOY!”
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Chapter 18 - Return to Saint-Denis
Outside the chalet was a red Toyota Subaru. The paintwork was scratched; there was a small dent above the left wheel, the French number plates had faded and it was badly in need of a wash. Andrea was loading the bags into the boot when Eric, accompanied by the Benjamins, left the chalet.
His shoulders were drooped, and his head bowed low. Silently, he got into the rear of the car with Mémé and Ursula, while Granddad Benjamin sat down in the front. Andrea checked that the chalet was locked, pressed a button on a security remote control, jumped into the car and wheel spun away.
The Subaru skidded through the trees down towards the lake. All the tourists were inside, out of the cold. This suited Andrea fine as she sped onto the lake road and past a line of parked cars. Every car was empty except a lone American car: a black Chrysler. As she drove out of the village, it pulled out and, with no lights on, followed at a safe distance.
It wasn’t until they reached the motorway that Eric spoke, and he asked mournfully, “Andrea, why aren’t we taking the Range Rover?”
“Because this car is faster.”
“What is this car? I’ve never seen it before.”
“This is a Subaru. It is probably the fastest mass-produced car that can be purchased. Your father keeps a number of different cars.”
“My father kept,” corrected Eric sadly and fell silent again.
Within two hours, they were approaching the Swiss/French border. Signs on the road announced that the border crossing was only five kilometres away, but Andrea took the slip road off of the motorway.
“Where are we going?” asked Granddad Benjamin and pointed back towards the motorway. “The border is that way.”
“I know, Mr Benjamin. At this time, it is inadvisable to present Eric at a major border crossing. According to the news he is dead. The likely of us being stopped is small, but this is an unnecessary risk to take. I do not know how Eric could answer any questions.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Mémé warmly, but Granddad Benjamin did not share her view.
During the journey, he had watched Andrea regularly check the mirror, slow down without any reason and speed up when it wasn’t necessary. He was sure Andrea was being thoughtful, but for different reasons than she had said.
They passed Geneva Airport, and Andrea turned the car down a deserted road that ran parallel to the runway. Frost covered fields ran to the airport fence on one side of the road and large, bare trees hugged the other. Andrea slowed down to a crawl and looked into her mirror.
“The road is icy,” she said to justify the speed but then kept her eyes on the rear-view mirror.
There was no car behind, and she sped up. From the way she was driving, it was as if she had grown up in the area. Without using the Galileo satellite navigation system, she speedily negotiated the car around the maze of country roads until the border was in sight. Once more she slowed down.
The crossing was marked by a small hut in the centre of the road. Signs requested that drivers slow down, but the hut appeared empty. As they drove through, Granddad Benjamin noticed Andrea’s hand did not leave the gearstick, and she checked the rear-view mirror every few seconds. After crossing into France, her hand returned to the steering wheel, and she seemed less concerned with what might be behind her.
The rest of the journey passed without incident, and it was almost two in the morning when they arrived back in Paris. Andrea drove them straight to Saint-Denis. Rain drizzled down from the bleak sky and piles of rapidly melting grey slush lined the sides of the roads. Andrea parked the car beside a wall topped with broken glass, and they all got out, stiff from the journey. Down the road, just out of sight, a black Chrysler parked behind an abandoned Citröen.
Wearily, the Benjamins took their suitcases from the car. They made their way through the broken doors of the block of flats and into the graffiti covered lift. Andrea looked neither tired nor sleepy. She supported Eric, who didn’t know where he was or whether he was awake or asleep.
“It is late. Can we stay the night, please?” asked Andrea before the lift doors closed.
“Of course,” replied Mémé, holding back a yawn, “it may be a squeeze but I’m sure we can manage.”
Eric and Ursula were almost asleep when they entered the small flat. After changing into their pyjamas, they were led into Ursula’s room and were put top-to-tail into her little bed. They were asleep before Mémé and Andrea shut the door.
In the living room, Granddad Benjamin was sitting at the table. His head was in his hands, and he was thinking. Wrinkles caused by old age and his new worries stretched up from his brow to his bald head.
“Thank you for letting us stay,” said Andrea to Mémé. “It is late and Eric is exhausted. He could not have managed a journey across town as well.”
“It’s the least we could do after all the things you have done for us.”
The two women sat down together on the zebra coloured sofa.
“Do you mind sleeping here on the sofa, ma cherie?” asked Mémé, despite the fact that there wasn’t anywhere else for Andrea to sleep.
“This will not be a problem,” replied Andrea.
Granddad Benjamin lifted his head from his hands and twisted round to face them. His brow was still wrinkled, and he looked concerned.
“Before you go to sleep, can I ask you what is going on?”
Mémé almost fell off the sofa and spluttered, “Jerome! You can’t ask such a question.”
“I don’t mean to be rude Marie-Thérèse but something is wrong. If we can, I would like to help. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve helped a lonely child.”
Andrea looked up at him. Her face was impossible to read.
“What do you think is going on?” she asked.
“I think the boy is in danger.”
“You are correct,” answered Andrea.
Beside her, Mémé gasped.
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Chapter 19 - Back from the Dead
Winter sunlight broke through the gap between the thin, yellow curtains. The narrow beam split Ursula’s room neatly in two and, as the sun rose, gradually moved towards the bed. It wasn’t long before the beam covered Eric’s head. He moved out of the glare and opened his eyes. They were tired and bloodshot. Underneath them large, grey sacks made him look as if he had been wearing mascara that had run. He wasn’t sure if he had slept or not during the night. At times, he had felt numb and distanced from himself but he wasn’t sure if he had actually been asleep. All night his thoughts had been dominated by one thought and one thought alone. His parents were dead.
His parents were dead - four simple words that had changed his life forever. With the new day, it didn’t seem possible, just a bad dream or a nightmare. Something that couldn’t be true.
Eric looked around him. If it wasn’t true then what was he doing in this pokey room with its glass-topped desk and wardrobe covered in magazine cuttings. By his feet, he heard a sleepy sigh. Raising his head slightly, he looked down the bed at Ursula, who was fast asleep. Only the top of her head down to her nose was above the duvet, and her long black hair covered her face. Gently, Eric pulled the duvet towards him to reveal the rest of Ursula’s head. Before the duvet had reached her mouth, she grabbed at it, wrapped it around herself and turned onto her front. She didn’t wake up.
The sudden movement pulled the bedcover off Eric’s chest and revealed Ursula’s feet. The skin on her soles was m
uch lighter than on the rest of her body. It looked so thin that Eric feared it would tear if touched. Surrounding this skin was a bright red scar.
Curious, Eric placed his hands next to Ursula’s feet. He looked from his palms to her soles and back again. The thin skin and scarring on his palms were almost the same as on Ursula’s soles. Not wanting to wake her, Eric very lightly touched Ursula’s feet. She did not move. The skin felt the same as on his palms. Beginning at her heel he delicately traced the scar with his finger. As he neared her toes Ursula started to fidget, mumble and then sleepily laugh.
The laughter brightened up the bedroom and helped him to forget his troubles for a few seconds. He continued to playfully tickle her until she shot up in bed. Her eyes were vacant as she stared through Eric, but she still uttered, ‘help me!’ and then fell, literally, back to sleep.
Those two words, ‘help me,’ put memories of his parents, and his mother in particular, back into his mind. Last night when Captain Sharma had said them on the news they had barely registered. However, now they echoed in his head like a ball bouncing around an empty room.
“Amongst a great deal of commotion we just made out the words, ‘help us!’”
How could there have been a great deal of commotion? thought Eric. A commotion means noise, and it implies many people. Yet only two people were supposed to be on the ‘Queen of Hearts,' his mother and his father. Eric doubted that they had invited anyone else onto the yacht. His father liked his privacy, and he was happy as long as his wife or a pack of cards were near.
Another question popped into his head: how did the yacht explode? Yachts don’t suddenly explode! Especially one which was checked and serviced monthly by a dedicated mechanic at its moorings in Monte Carlo.
The more Eric thought about it, the more troubling the events of the previous day became. Before he knew it, his sadness had been replaced by a simmering anger. This explosion had not been an accident. It was something else. Somebody wanted them dead. Somebody had killed his parents. Silently he promised himself that he would avenge their deaths.
