Power Games

by Victoria Fox

  Beyond the threesome, Noah spied a second band of people melting into the trees, gone as soon as there.

  Behind, in the shallows, the Russians disembarked.

  ‘Mr Lyle,’ said the captain, ‘are we pleased to see you.’

  Noah saw the watch on Jacob’s wrist, the one the Russians had told him about: the one that had led them to Koloku. Solid gold.

  Jacob saw it too. He blinked, like someone waking from a long, deep sleep.

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ said the captain, ‘but we found you in the end. We keep track of our investments, Jacob—in more ways than one.’

  The Russian put a hand on Noah’s shoulder. ‘And look what we picked up along the way?’

  Noah could feel Angela’s breath on his chest. He had come so close; the outcome could have been so different. He had been on the cusp of oblivion when the Russians had found him, in the storm, against all odds, their boat already on its way to this shore.

  They had brought him back to her.

  Noah didn’t believe in God, but he had to believe in something.

  ‘The others,’ he said. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Tawny’s dead,’ said Jacob. ‘Kevin’s gone.’

  ‘And Eve, what about Eve?’

  Angela moaned, trying to speak. Noah brushed the hair from her face. The movement pulled him back and he saw the unthinkable fact.

  It wasn’t exhaustion; it was poison.

  Trickling onto the sand, blurred with the rain, was a gash of blood. Angela’s arm was punctured by two bites, deep and sharp. The skin around the rupture was clotted and grey. He noticed the rim around her eyes, purple like a bruise, and the sheen of sweat on her forehead.

  ‘Snakebite.’

  ‘Get her on the boat,’ the captain instructed, summoning his crew. ‘We’ll take her back to the mainland.’

  Noah stripped off his shirt. ‘We haven’t got time. It’ll be too late.’ He tore a sleeve and wrapped it round Angela’s elbow. He had no training, didn’t know if what he was doing was right, but he had to act. He couldn’t watch her die—not now, after everything.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ said Jacob. ‘It doesn’t work.’

  ‘Every second on that boat’s going to count.’

  ‘You’ll infect it. You’ll take the venom yourself.’

  ‘I want it out of her.’

  Noah looked to the Russians. There were no other options. They gave him the blade.

  Noah cut into the skin around the twin incisions. Bending his head, he sucked Angela’s wrist. It tasted sour, a tangy steel. Urban myth, the stuff of movies, and maybe Jacob was right and it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. But if there was a chance …

  Angela’s body sagged. He gathered her to his chest.

  ‘You’re safe,’ he soothed. ‘You’ll be all right.’

  ‘We have to move,’ urged the Russians. ‘Fast.’

  Noah lifted her in his arms and carried her aboard.

  From the trees, they heard the sound of a baby crying.

  EPILOGUE

  FOUND! MIRACLE! SURVIVORS!

  IDOLS BACK FROM THE DEAD!

  READ THEIR INCREDIBLE STORY!

  HEAR THEIR AMAZING TALE!

  In the weeks that followed the rescue, no corner of the media escaped. Word trickled out slowly at first, rumours of the return and the walking wounded: a whisper of triumph. But nobody dared label it real.

  Then came the photographs. Friends and family flew to Jakarta to meet the aircraft, managers and press quick in pursuit and then the inevitable wave of pilgrims.

  As brittle stars climbed uncertainly onto the runway, the miracle was confirmed. Yes, it was true; far cries from the VIPs who had boarded here nearly three months ago, but them all the same. In seconds the images were multiplied, stealing every headline, every column, every inch of every paper and every blog and every show, the only thing worth talking about in every shopping mall, every store, around every family table in the land … The world was stunned.

  Fictions abounded in that first stage. Eager to assemble a story, the media invented ever more elaborate fictions. Eventually the account solidified. Noah Lawson had met a group of fishermen, vacationing off an island close to Koloku. On explaining his plight, the men had agreed to help. One night, returning from the search, a storm had blown them off course. They hit Koloku. The rest was history.

  But not all had come back. Yes, there were survivors. Yes, their families rejoiced. But not all had made it. Some were never seen again.

  Had Voldan Cane been capable of the slightest degree of movement, he would have wheeled himself out to Szolsvár’s ornamental lake, tipped his chair forward and laid face down in the sludge until the oxygen was robbed from his lungs.

  As it was, he heard the reports and absorbed them without reaction. Only his right thumb gave him away. His eyes watered. Otherwise, he remained still.

  ‘Oh, Mr Cane …’ wailed Janika. She extinguished the news channels and stood with her hands balled up in her apron. The Great Hall was fat with silence.

  ‘Did you hear that, Janika?’ he bleated mechanically.

  ‘They didn’t all live …’ she ventured, trying to find the positive.

  ‘They know about me.’

  Voldan’s thumb activated the lever and his chair spun round.

  ‘They worked it out. They’re coming for us.’

  ‘We can’t be sure!’

  ‘You must get out of this house.’

  Janika sobbed. She dropped to her knees, burying her mousy head in Voldan’s lap. ‘Mr Cane, I can’t bear it! I can’t bear to see you like this!’

  Voldan wanted to smack her. Get off! he inwardly raged. Get away from me!

  ‘I will pack our belongings,’ said Janika, straightening and wiping her eyes. ‘I must stay strong for us, Mr Cane. I can do it. I will take charge.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Voldan coldly, ‘you pack. But I am going nowhere.’

  Janika stopped in the doorway. ‘What?’

  ‘Leave me. I stay. This house is all I have.’

  The maid’s chin quivered. ‘But what about—?’

  ‘You must do the right thing, Janika. You must finish the job.’

  She shook her head. Not this again. ‘No, Mr Cane, I could never—’

  ‘You can and you will. It is all I want. I keep a gun in the master bureau. You know what to do. I cannot operate it myself—’

  ‘Never, Mr Cane! Never!’

  ‘Do as I say.’

  ‘I won’t! I won’t!’

  The chair lurched forward. Janika backed away. The chair lurched again. Janika stepped back. But the third time Voldan lunged, Janika didn’t move.

  She looked down at him. Her expression shifted, new light falling across it, subtle and gentle, like sand collapsing. She smiled.

  ‘Very well, Mr Cane,’ she said. ‘I will be right back.’

  Minutes later, Janika returned. Voldan faced the gardens, expecting the cool barrel to press against his temple and after that the sweet steal into hell.

  Grigori would be waiting. His wife would be waiting. His family. His home.

  Instead he felt himself being dragged backwards. Janika wheeled him round, towards the vestibule. There was a collection of bags gathered at the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he croaked.

  Janika stroked the back of his head. ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Cane,’ she said. ‘Everything is going to be perfect.’

  ‘Take me back. This instant. What are you doing?’

  ‘We’re taking a trip, Mr Cane. We’ve never been away together before, have we? This is going to be special.’

  ‘Take me back! I will not ask you again!’

  ‘Do you think I’m going to leave you here?’ Janika crooned, as they emerged onto the gravel drive, sunlight scorching him after so long in the gloom. ‘Oh no, Mr Cane, I’m going to look after you. I’m going to look after you for the rest of your life, just like I always have. My sister has
a cabin in the forest. There’s a cot for you to sleep in, and a tin bath for bath-time. We can both look after you! They’ll never find us there.’ She squeaked with delight. ‘My sister will be so pleased. Helga hasn’t been the same since her daughter’s accident. We’ll be like one big family. You’re going to be so very happy …’

  Voldan tried to activate the brakes on his chair, but it was no use. The wheels scraped in the gravel and he released a high-pitched squawk but Janika took no notice. She unlocked the rear doors of her car.

  ‘There you go, Mr Cane,’ she said, tipping him into the back. ‘Or should I call you Voldan now?’ She folded the chair in after him and slammed the door.

  Climbing into the front, Janika clicked on the crackly radio.

  ‘Cheer up,’ she enthused, ‘we’ll soon be there!’

  The engine started and they trundled down the drive.

  Voldan watched his beloved castle recede in the rearview mirror.

  A teardrop coursed down his cheek. His heart stormed and his soul raged and his lungs burned, but all that moved was his thumb.

  Senator Mitch Corrigan was the first to step off the plane.

  He searched the gathered crowd for one face: his wife’s.

  Melinda broke through the security barrier. She tore off her heels and sprinted barefoot onto the runway. She fell into her husband’s arms and wept against his chest.

  Mitch stroked her. He kissed her again and again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘For everything.’

  ‘No,’ she held him, ‘I am. Mitch, I was—’

  ‘Don’t. It’s over now.’

  ‘It is over. I promise you. It’s all over.’

  He looked into the eyes of the woman he had married years ago, and saw their change reflected. Melinda was Melinda. She had never been anyone else.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ he said. ‘Please. I want to.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I want to, too.’

  The kids rushed to their parents’ side. The family embraced and the cameras went wild. Mitch Corrigan, husband and father, was home.

  The following week, Mitch quit politics. He shied from the spotlight, refusing to run interviews despite the call-a-second influx he employed a dedicated team to field. Shortly afterwards, he paid off Oliver and the rest of his people. He sold the mansion and moved to a ranch, where he and Melinda farmed the land, kept horses, and taught the kids to ride. Staying in the city was no longer an option. High rises and crowds overwhelmed him. He suffered panic attacks when he had to brave the streets, or when he heard a phone ring or when a radio was switched on too loud. Actions he had taken for granted became unfeasible. Some days he wore his clothes back to front. He put salt in his coffee instead of sugar. He couldn’t tie a tie. He could no longer drive his car.

  Recovery would take time. That was what the counsellors said. Mitch was encouraged to talk about his experiences—but, like the others, he found he could not put it into words. He didn’t trust anyone sufficiently to confide.

  Instead, he spoke to Melinda. Husband and wife, after years of not speaking, finally rediscovered the meaning of communication.

  Mitch told her everything—and not just about the island of Koloku. He told her about the reasons he had gone in the first place, and everything that meant. He told her about August 4, 2012. He told her about Veroli.

  He told her his suspicions.

  In return, Melinda told him that she already knew.

  One night, sitting on the veranda of their mountain farm, wind chimes tinkling in the evening breeze and a bottle of wine opened between them, she produced the diary she had found in the Washington apartment.

  ‘Is this everything?’ she asked softly.

  Mitch nodded. ‘Yes.’ Above was a galaxy of stars—hard to believe these were the same that had looked down on him all those weeks on Koloku. The same universe: one big neighbourhood. ‘I’m crazy, aren’t I?’

  ‘We’ve both done crazy things.’

  ‘I know now,’ Mitch said, ‘that it isn’t true. I was convinced they were the ones that brought us down.’ In fits and starts he told her about the island cave and the footprints. ‘I went there,’ he said. ‘I welcomed them and they didn’t come. I was so sure I knew the reason, poured all my faith into it, and then we found out about Cane and the sabotage. The crash was rigged here, in the real world, and suddenly the myth exploded. I invented it. There are no UFOs, Melinda. Veroli was a hoax.’

  Melinda squeezed his fingers. ‘What about that night?’

  Mitch shook his head. He searched for explanations for August 4, not yet sure of them but needing to believe.

  ‘I was on the verge of a breakdown. All the things I did back in the day—Melinda, you know I was a mess. All those drugs. All that drink … Some mornings I’d never get out of bed. You saved me.’

  ‘Because I loved you,’ she whispered. ‘And I still do.’

  ‘When we started the presidency bid, it got worse. All the stuff I’d repressed because if I didn’t think about it then I didn’t have to deal—Christ! I should have hauled my ass into therapy sooner. Then 2012 happened and I forgot how to trust you. I thought you were involved. I was scared; I couldn’t face it. Then Koloku—and I had to face myself. I realised I was the hoax.’

  Melinda reached for him.

  ‘I prefer you like this,’ she said, stroking his head. ‘I never liked the wig.’

  ‘I thought you hated me bald.’

  She kissed him. ‘Just one of the things we never said.’

  He drew her close. Their kiss deepened.

  ‘No more lies,’ he smiled, ‘I promise.’

  Taking her hand, Mitch led his wife indoors. He flicked off the light. They climbed the stairs, entwined, exploring each other after so long estranged.

  Outside, the stars shone bright. A tiny light moved across the sky.

  For a while, Jacob Lyle tried his old life on for size. The city still seduced him, she always would—the flashing lights, the dancing colours, the available women. He embraced the media and got swept up in the ride; he returned to business and dated a string of beauties. But all of it left him cold.

  The world was the same as when Jacob had left it—but he wasn’t.

  He burned all his videotapes. He said sorry for every girl he had filmed and remembered the only one he hadn’t: Celeste.

  She hadn’t joined him in the limelight; it wasn’t in her nature. Instead, she had gone back to Italy. He had not heard from her since. In LA they had said their farewells, awkward and rushed, wildly inadequate, but how else to express their feelings in front of the world’s press? Jacob had not said what he meant to. He had been whisked off by his entourage and had left her in his wake.

  At the end of the year, he travelled to Europe. It was his fourth voyage over the Atlantic in as many weeks. Some were surprised that he still flew, but Jacob could not give in. It wasn’t the plane that had let them down, it was a psychopath called Voldan Cane—a villain still at large, number one on the world’s Most Wanted.

  Cane was an evil, dangerous mastermind who deserved to be fried. If only they could find him.

  And if it weren’t for the Russians, Cane’s vile plan could have succeeded. They would all have perished, if not by the island then by the hands of the tribe—that eerie, wordless encounter on the last day, mere seconds before the boats came in. All along, they hadn’t been alone. Jacob shivered when he thought of it.

  He knew how lucky they had been. That was why, despite Leith Friedman’s best efforts, he could not renege on the MoveFriends sale.

  ‘A tracking device?’ Leith had baulked. ‘In your watch?’

  It wasn’t so strange: a gift as collateral.

  The world imagined the intervention to be a stroke of fortune. Fishermen had picked up Noah Lawson, and carried him in on their boat, a happy coincidence.

  Funny what people would believe.

  Jacob had never visited Venice before. Disembarking on the Piazza San
Marco, his trench coat blowing about him, he set off across the famous square.

  He felt for the tell-tale shape in his pocket, that small secret box with the diamond inside, and smiled. It spat with rain, and the air smelled fresh and living. He wondered if she would be in—maybe, maybe not, but if Jacob had to wait for her a month it made no odds. He would wait a year to ask this question.

  Life was magic, and he was not about to waste another second.

  Celeste Cavalieri took a series of backstreets to her Venice apartment, hurrying along rain-slicked alleys and through the hustling throng of tourists.

  Not that people recognised her as much as they did the others, the household names. It was bizarre to see her group returned to their glittering pedestals: people, at the core of it, just people. People she had seen weeping, stranded in the sun, sweating and fighting, screaming for help. People she had shared that with.

  She had no desire to become part of the media parade.

  But while Celeste still hid from the world, she did not hide from herself.

  The first thing she had done was to break it off with Carl. She had not done it for Jacob. She had done it for herself. She had done it for Sylvia, who would never have wanted this life for her friend. She had done it for her parents, who had taught her to be free. She had done it for all the people whose trust she had betrayed, those she had stolen from, because if she was going to learn to do the right thing then she had to start on her own doorstep.

  ‘It’s over, Carl.’

  He had gone to strike her: the only communication he knew. But Celeste wasn’t the weak, battered woman Carl had last seen. She had met the abyss and looked right in its core and she had survived.

  It had made her strong. Stronger than him. Alert to the ambushes of the jungle, she had been quick. Seizing Carl’s fist, she had bent it to the small of his back and applied her knee to his groin. Carl had buckled, wheezing, vowing to finish her off once and for all.

  Not this time.

  When he came for her, she floored him. Celeste had lost weight but every muscle that remained, every sinew and every tendon, was geared towards action.

  ‘If you come near me again I will kill you. I swear it.’

  The following day she collected every stolen item in her apartment, sorted them into parcels and returned them anonymously to every owner she could recall.