Again, I needed no sound to assist in order to know he had offered her a drink. I could even lip-read “Gin and tonic” as Christine’s amazement and anticipation only deepened. Her face said it all. There had been a bottle of gin in the provisions he had brought that morning. Neither I nor Christine had seen it, because it had been inside the bucket he had slipped over his arm.
He made his own, much quicker way to the back balcony and returned, at the hop, of course, carrying two drinks, a large gin and tonic with ice and halved miniature limes afloat for Chris and an unopened small plastic bottle of water for himself, which he had tucked under the same arm that carried the glass. He knew the house so well, of course, that he was able to deliver these undiluted, despite the numerous rivulets falling from the leaking roof. It was only later that I realised he had possibly put himself at some risk, buying gin for Christine, since he was, of course, a Muslim. There is no doubt that the nearby island has plenty for sale. Indeed, given its tax-free status, it is known throughout the region as a source of cheap booze. Expatriates are drawn there in a regular stream to stock up and tank up whenever there’s a day off or a holiday. But Cartwright was no longer just any other foreign employee on a government contract over the water. He was a convert, a well-known member by marriage of a prominent and powerful family, a high profile and easily recognisable public figure with local status to lose.
Whether Christine might have registered any of this I have no idea. I suspect not, since, when it appears, the proximity of a gin and tonic usually obscures, as far as she is concerned, all else, so large does its promise loom in her desires. I could not hear her joy, and increasingly I could not see it either, since the downpour was now so strong that rivulets of water were beginning to cascade like glittering icicles from roof to floor, forming a shimmering slotted screen across the image. But I did notice that it was not until after her third gin that Christine began to relax in the manner that, over the decades, I have come to recognise as characteristic. I could not hear the shouting, nor see the descent into coarseness, but I knew it would be there.
Her casual dress was unfamiliar. She had on her smart blouse, the white one she had worn on that first morning when she fell into Cartwright’s boat. That morning, its tailored, made-to-measure fit accentuated Christine’s slim figure, exaggerated her litheness of body above the white trousers with bottoms so narrow they could easily be labelled ‘drain pipe’. The broad black belt that was designed to punctuate the outfit proved to be a mere encumbrance. The strappy shoes had been a mistake also, in retrospect, too open to keep out the dust, but also too fitted to slide out the sand. Here, on Cartwright’s balcony and in the thundering rain, the same blouse was open at the neck and loose at the waist, but now it was not worn over the formal smart trousers she habitually chose to hide the mechanics of that leg, because she was not even wearing it. That night, though sodden and darkened, she wore a pair of light shorts that were usually only reserved for pottering around the house, their legs long enough to droop below the stump on the left, just below the knee on the right. With rolled up sleeves, and a white lacy bra poking like scaffolding through the drenched fabric, she had the air of the overworked housewife on wash-day that she had never been. Her hair was untidy, tousled in wet strands and now curiously darker, its adopted mousy, salt and pepper grey starting to reappear as the blonde colouring began to leech out. If she had made up that morning - I don’t remember and now can’t be bothered to check - then what she had added was already elsewhere, removed by a combination of rain and repeated wiping with the hand to rid her face of the accumulating droplets of rain or sweat, depending on the weather at the time.
It had already been six days since her last drink which, for Christine, despite the travel, the overseas assignments, the deadlines, was probably a record she had not broken for more than three decades. Though it was arguably demanded by our possibly over-planned approach, it was also probable that her growing irritability and bad temper in that failed second encounter might have stemmed from her depressed blood-alcohol level. I suspected it at the time, but chose not to refer to its likelihood. Now that the genie is out of the bottle, so to speak, I can ignore it no longer.
I watched as the gin level went down and the animation level rose, apparently to compensate. The rain got only harder and, while the performance of the roof did not deteriorate, its faults became simply institutionalised. All three cameras that covered the front balcony blurred, as did all other external angles, as a general stream of water began to wash over them. There was the slightest shape and colour remaining, but by then perhaps the electronics were making that up. At one point, I was convinced I could see the two of them dancing, but it was probably just an effect of the pixellation. I took the opportunity to sleep. In this controlled darkness where I am forced to live, I had lost all concept of time, despite that permanent little clock display, bottom right on my screen.
I have no idea how long their party continued, but I do know how many hours they slept. They slept apart, as we would have of course expected. I can confirm that, because the internal cameras continued working, thus offering me the opportunity of review. Christine retired to her cushioned couch at around three in the morning, their time. Cartwright stayed out on the balcony where, presumably, he slept, wet through.
By morning, the cameras were up and running again, once they had thoroughly dried out in the low sun. Cartwright had already gone out in his boat. As the images settled, he was immediately and clearly visible two hundred metres from the house re-baiting his lines and emptying his pots. He was back on the kitchen balcony at the back of the house by seven thirty, with more crabs and fish, which he prepared immediately, the whole process of gutting the fish and containing the crabs taking only a minute or two. Then, with the crabs in steam, a further three minutes fried the fish. He had put the rice cooker on before he left so, at eight he was able to wake Christine with an abrupt, “Rice and fish sambal for breakfast, so get your skate on!” He smiled as he spoke. So did she. There was a relaxed air.
They ate quickly and both voraciously, which was a surprise, since Christine, the morning after a night before, was apt to pick at a piece of dry toast and little else. But then, in this case, we were counting glasses, not bottles. Nothing had ever for her replaced the morning cigarettes which had been de rigueur until the decision, now more than twelve years ago, to stop. But this morning, she ate the rice, fish and obviously fierce sambal, commented on its eye-opening spiciness, and even sucked all the flesh directly off the bones of the fried fish. Then, while Cartwright cleared things away, she set up her chairs and cameras on the side balcony, which would continue to offer shade for a further couple of hours.
She was ready to start before he was, giving her time to shower, change, and make herself look like she might appear on television. Cartwright had been in his office for almost the full hour that had elapsed. He did not work, but merely seemed to doodle on a few scraps of fresh paper. Christine had worked fast to be ready, and in the end she still had time to pause and look at the morning as she flicked through her notes before Cartwright appeared and announced he was ready to start. As before, he had offered no accommodation to the presence of the cameras. He did not even bother to put on a shirt until Christine suggested he cover up.
“It is very beautiful this morning...” said Christine.
“It’s not unusual,” he replied. “The rain has cleared the air. The mountain was visible earlier on.” He offered a nod to the north. Christine looked, but of course by then it had hidden itself in its usual shroud of cloud. But I was able to see it on the review, of course, and Cartwright was right, its massive bulk had been surprisingly dominant, despite its distance from their island. Even at ten o’clock, however, the clarity of the view remained remarkable. It seemed that the coastline had advanced on their island to reveal a detail it had kept hidden until now.
There was no further pause, not even preamble.
There seemed to be no need. The two of them took their seats and, without a word more, began the take. Christine had her trademark clipboard on her knee. She had dressed formally again and the leg, of course, was both in place and in trousers, and also as usual out of shot, her right crossed over and interlocked to hide it. And you already know that the interview went well. The practised professional was again at work, not that any of us had ever doubted her continued dedication.
Effectively, their exertions wrote off the rest of the day. After a quick check through her recorded material, Christine set to work on streaming it back to the office for editing. She had taken the trouble to do a few more continuity shots, since she had obviously recognised how different the light had been that morning and that the previous material would thus provide only sudden contrast rather than smooth link. She had done shots of herself, of Cartwright, of the two of them together, of the house and balcony and of the general view of the sea and horizon. Cartwright assisted with the close-ups, but the process, though perfunctory, still took time. Then she had to stand by and watch as the streaming progressed, a process that took over three hours. It surely would have run through uninterrupted, but Christine insisted, as has become her habit, on supervising the transfer throughout, even though there was nothing to do after the initial connection had been confirmed.
This always reminds me, if I am to offer interpretive comment on this, of the time she not only lost all her work, but also her laptop as well, when her kit was stolen from a hotel room in South Asia. She lost everything, all the footage for a documentary, her laptop, camera, money, cards and passport. She was away only twenty minutes. We had decided to make use of the five star establishment’s heated pool, but it was an absence long enough for someone to profit and clean us out. Since then, she has never allowed chance even near, until her professional duties are complete.
When she was satisfied that everything had been successfully uploaded, she slept, and slept heavily, without the slightest stir, despite the obvious intense heat of the day, a day unlike the one before, since the air hardly moved. Cartwright retired to work and did a long, uninterrupted stint, thus having no further contact with Christine until after she awoke at seven, well after dark. His approach was quite different this time. He seemed to have discovered new energy, and instead of reviewing old material, which is all he had done thus far, he sat at his desk, cleared enough space to lay down a pad, and began to write, covering a couple of sheets quite quickly.
Unfortunately, this time the angle was impossible. On previous occasions, when he was merely reading and annotating, he leaned back in his chair, after he had pulled slightly back from the desk. And because of his tendency to sit leaning slightly to his right, a purely mechanical habit determined by the support available, he tended to hold papers for reading in his right hand, while his right forearm and elbow took the weight. The angle at which he habitually held his papers, therefore, meant that my fixed camera could see them full face, thereby allowing zoom to reveal detail. But seen obliquely, flat on the desk with his body leaning half across them, all I could get, even with enhancement, was quite useless. Previous material had been legible gibberish, whereas this remained merely illegible.
I could see that his working style had changed, however, and this itself presented a new opportunity. After an hour or two of fairly constant writing, during which time he had covered just two sheets of paper, but each divided into two neat columns, he stalled for about three minutes, then crossed out several lines, rewrote them and then crossed them out again. He was about to get up from the chair after another lengthy pause and then let himself fall back, before creaking the lashed bamboo beneath him with a long body stretch. I could be mistaken. I have watched the sequence many times and believe my interpretation to be correct, but I remain somewhat less than sure, because, obviously, it carries with it some unexpected and unlikely consequences.
His stretch was momentary, too short to be merely relief from being stationary for so long, but clearly intended to provide that relief. He seemed to pull out of the movement early, as if he had momentarily forgotten himself and then suddenly become conscious again of what he was doing. He leaned forward, placed hands on the chair arms and brought his leg straight to stand. But as he transferred his weight, his released hand flipped the top paper over, thus hiding it from my camera’s point of view. I became convinced he knew his office was bugged, and that the surveillance was visual. I have here placed my own opinion on the record, something I do only reluctantly, for obvious reasons. Others can watch the sequence and reach their own conclusions.
He stood to retrieve a file from the shelf to his left, inaccessible from a seated position. It was a simple pocket folder, a file he had not touched before. He opened it and laid it on his desk, just proud of his own papers. It lodged at an angle, its upper edge propped on a garish plastic desk tidy that stored a few pens and pencil stubs, at an angle that made the papers he exposed visible to me. It may seem incongruous and contradictory for me to claim in one breath that he was consciously hiding material, and then record his decision to place an open folder directly in the camera’s view. It all makes perfect sense, of course, if he wanted us to see only what was in the folder.
He spent the next half hour leafing back and forth through the folder, occasionally leaving particular pages visible long enough for me to create a still. These pages were not consecutive, and apparently carefully chosen. While they remained open, he seemed to copy material from them into the body of his new work, but still leaning slightly across his desk and thereby obscuring what was immediately before him on its surface. When he transferred material from the folder to his papers, he seemed to copy, but what he wrote appeared to be just a word or two, no more. He was certainly not copying the lengthy formulae I could see, but not bring into focus.
I sent my stills of the file pages to our specialists for analysis. Here is the verbatim text of their reply.
From: Operations
Subject: ONEONONE4-1.MPG, ONEONONE4-2.MPG, ONEONONE4-3.MPG, ONEONONE4-4.MPG
Message: The images contain recognisable and readable content. Three of the pages each contain several representations of the Black-Scholes equation. This is a partial differential equation used to model financial markets, used to identify an investment strategy based on a mix of ownership of and options on a particular security. The equations visible were a combination of the original model, the Merton modified version, and another that seemed to suggest an Ingersoll modification, but this was inconclusive, since the image was incomplete. A sketched graph could have been an option smile, and others might have represented sections through implied volatility surfaces, some of them sticky. This interpretation is our best guess, best fit, given the context, since there are neither labels nor associated notes on the graphs to indicate any particular meaning. Butterflies had been considered, but the overall impression was that these were in a standard delta hedge, though there was also a hint of vanilla, especially on page three.
In other words, apparently, it was pretty standard stuff. I was disappointed, since this had been the first time I had been able to recover material that looked vaguely useful and, in the event, it turned out to be as useful as a photocopy from an undergraduate textbook. The disappointment did eventually turn to a measure of elation, however, when I later reviewed the whole sequence. It was three days later when things began to fall into place and unlike the specialists, or anyone else for that matter, Christine proved to be the only person involved with sufficient overview to make sense of things.
Cartwright worked on for a while before carefully filing his newly-written sheets alongside, though not attached to the others he had mulled over on previous occasions. I still did not see a clear image of what they contained, but I had no reason to believe they were any different from others previously filed in the same folder, those that the specialists had consistently labelled ‘gibberish’.
S
ince the start of One-On-One, this had been the first time he had used material from this folder. I took careful note of its position and colour, and immediately placed a formal request we contact Christine to ask her to investigate, possibly to photograph its contents the next time Cartwright left her alone in the house. I had no control, of course, over when the message might be sent, or even whether it would be sent at all, given our general paranoia about Cartwright’s ability or otherwise to access different forms of communication. We had ruled out the use of direct emails and phone calls, believing that he had access to communication logs and even message content in what was effectively real time. He would have the message, or so we believed, at the same time as Chris received it. But I was beginning to change my mind, since my error in sending that message directly to Chris seemed to prompt no activity on Cartwright’s own communications channels. There were no new related messages either by email or by telephone, suggesting that I had ‘got away’ with my unencrypted direct message. My own logic argued that this could happen again, and so we should send an immediate personal message to Christine about the file, which could contain the material our mission was seeking. I was overruled. Nothing unusual about that... In any case, I had already copied in Christine’s contact on my request for the specialist report, so the response to that was also in the queue awaiting approval.
While Christine still slept through the late afternoon, Cartwright pottered around in his boat, again tending his baited lines and pots, which produced more seafood for the evening meal, which was again to be rice and fish. This time, however, he would vary the menu by also offering some sliced squash, which he fried with onions before adding a few prawns from the catch and then a cup of tamarind water prepared from pulp. This sauced the rice and so this time there was no sambal.
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