by Chris Thrall
- 55 -
Sitting in Salgadeiras, Penny no longer nursed a coffee – her fourth cup empty bar frothy brown dregs – but a double vodka and Coke. The previous shivers of anticipation had turned to waves of stone-cold dread. It was dark, and Hans and Jessica were four hours overdue.
She had been to the marina office twice to see if Hans had radioed in to report a delay. He had not, only a brief transmission on departure giving an approximate route and anticipated return time, and another providing coordinates as Future swung about and headed for port. It simply wasn’t like him. He and Jessica only took the yacht out for a short trip to test her new fittings, and if there was one man in the world that arrived at a specified time, that man was Hans Larsson.
Penny visited the marina office a third time, demanding they alert the coastguard to initiate a search. Baba, the Senegalese manager, looked relaxed in smart knee-length white chinos and a dark-blue polo shirt with the marina’s tall ships logo on the breast. “Miss Penny” he said softly, placing a gentle brown hand on her arm. “I have spoken to the coastguard, and both he and I have alerted all the vessels in the area. But they will not commence a search unless a Mayday has been broadcast or an EPIRB signal picked up.”
“May I speak with the coastguard . . . please?”
Baba tapped a number into a roamer telephone and, after a brief discussion with a coastguard official, handed it to her, the ensuing conversation only reiterating the futility of her request.
Damn!
Penny hit the “Call End” key, feeling the way concerned family members must do when, completely out of character, a loved one goes missing and the police refuse to take action before forty-eight hours have elapsed.
“Baba, may I use your Internet?”
“Of course, Miss Penny. Take all the time you need.”
He rolled back a chair at an empty desk looking out over the yachts.
Penny flashed up Google and typed “Innes Edridge,” “Goldman Sachs,” and “Boston” into the search bar, the inverted commas refining the results.
Several hundred pages returned, many detailing Edridge’s staff profile, achievements and accolades but none giving a direct telephone number, only one for head office.
Penny opened her purse and pulled out a calling card, wishing she had bought more credit or owned a cell phone, something she previously prided herself on avoiding.
“Miss Penny, you wish to make a call?” Baba asked softly.
“Um.”
“Please, please.” Baba handed her the phone once more. “Just type this account number followed by the hash key first.”
Penny could have hugged this sensitive man but instead dialed the number in Boston.
“Goldman Sachs, Carole speaking. How may I help?”
“My name is Penny Masters. May I speak to Innes Edridge please?”
“I’m sorry, Penny. Innes doesn’t take outside calls. Would you like to leave a message or request he call you back?”
“Please, this is really important. Could you tell him it’s a matter of . . . Concern?”
Seconds passed, and Penny worried if she was doing the right thing. To hell with it!
“Innes Edridge.” The voice sounded courteous and British with a refined Scots burr. “How may I be of assistance?”
Penny hesitated for a second, fixating on the small red diamond in the Lexmark badge on the marina’s gray plastic printer before playing what she hoped was her trump card.
“Muttley, Orion is missing.”
“Oh dear me! Now that’s not good news. Listen, Penny, I’m going to ask you some questions. I need you to answer as accurately as you can – no guessing. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
Penny was impressed. In quick-fire succession Muttley ascertained her personal details, including national insurance, passport and driving license numbers, her possessions and funds and contacts on Cape Verde. He then made a record of places, timings, communications, yacht specifications and onboard equipment, Hans and Jessica’s moods, their last meal and drinks, any medication or drugs they may have consumed, and recent events of interest, such as disagreements with other sailors or unusual financial transactions.
“Listen, my dear Penny, we will be arriving at . . .” Penny could hear Edridge typing while listening to a voice giving instructions via loudspeaker on another line. “0800 hours at São Pedro airport. You can meet us there, or we will come to you.”
“B-b-but, how will you know where I am?”
“My dear Penny, we know who you are and where you are. Don’t worry yourself about that. Go back to Salgadeiras and wait for instructions, and we’ll come and find Orion.”
Back to Salgadeiras?
As Penny thanked Baba, who held out a reserved hand that immediately morphed into a bear hug, she wondered how Muttley knew about the café.
A double vodka and coke awaited her on the bar. “Er . . .” She fumbled in her daypack for her purse.
“It’s okay, Miss Penny.” The barman’s eyes glinted. “It’s taken care of. And a car will pick you up in twenty minutes.”
“A car?”
“Your hotel.”
“Oh.”
- 56 -
Traveling back to the mountain in the rear of the truck, Mohamed kept quiet, knowing better than to bother Ahmed, who stared at his feet, trying to come up with a plan. Instead he leaned against the rear window, attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation inside.
As the city’s urban sprawl gave way to lush green countryside and the Rif’s distant rock faces glowed pink in the sunset, the first police checkpoint came into view, the officers searching for contraband coming from Europe. Used to the police waving them through, the boys were surprised when the Grower pulled over and struck up a conversation with the senior rank. Mohamed saw a fist-sized nugget of hashish change hands, two junior officers running over to place a box of Red Label whiskey in the back of the pickup, along with a crate of beer and five cartons of Marlboro.
Naseem continued a quarter of a mile down the road and stopped the truck again.
“Give.” He jerked his head at the box of whiskey.
Mohamed slid it across the cargo bed. Naseem ripped open the cardboard and retrieved a bottle.
“Boy, he’s in a good mood,” Mohamed muttered, Ahmed still lost in thought.
Halfway up the mountain, the men polished off another bottle and opened a third. Laughter filled the cab as Al Mohzerer blasted around the brutal bends, the boys grimacing and clinging on for dear life. On the final left-hander it was obvious the boss was going too fast. The pickup’s six-liter diesel revved ever higher, the cargo bed shuddering as the tires kicked up gravel.
Misjudging the angle, Al Mohzerer attempted to compensate by throwing the wheel over, which swung the back end out, sending the pickup into a terrifying slide toward the cliff edge. Mohamed screamed and grabbed Ahmed’s arm, both instinctively ducking and bracing for the roll down the mountainside.
At the last second the drunken Naseem wrenched the wheel to the right. For an eternity a tire hung thousands of feet above the valley floor before digging into the shoulder as the pickup straightened and Naseem regained control.
Arriving at the farm, Ahmed and Mohamed clambered down from the truck, both fearing their legs would give way.
“I’m going to be sick.” Mohamed clung to his friend.
Ahmed did not reply. He too had a metallic taste in his mouth.
Never so pleased to see the hut, Ahmed slammed the door behind them, muffling the sound of laughter echoing around the courtyard. Mohamed lay down and was about to say something but drifted off to sleep.
- 57 -
Penny sat in Salgadeiras sipping her drink, peering at the ocean’s darkened horizon as the dulcet tones of Cesária Évora crooned from speakers above the bar. A sleek-lined Mercedes pulled up, the café’s rainbow lighting reflecting off the vehicle’s polished black paintwork. A young and smartly suited mestizo stepped out and
made a beeline for her.
“Good evening, madam. I am Paulo, and your transport is here.”
He led her to the car and ushered her into the backseat.
Lying back against sumptuous leather with the air conditioning sobering her thoughts but leaving them confused, Penny wondered what part the driver played in the global shenanigans.
After a while, “Are you with the Concern?” she tendered.
“Concern, madam?” The driver’s greeny-brown eyes squinted in the rearview mirror. “I’m with the chauffeur company.”
Penny felt stupid and wished she hadn’t asked.
They drove north along the coast road for a quarter of a mile. Penny screwed her hands together, craning over her shoulder every few seconds to scan the blackened seascape.
“Er, are we going far?” She sensed her element of control sapping with every yard and wished she were back at the café bar.
“We are here, madam.” The chauffeur tapped the windshield, pointing out an impressive pastel-cream-stone building jazzed up with stainless steel and glass. Set apart from far less striking contenders by tropical trees and scrub, it was tiered back against the hillside like an Aztec pyramid. “The Grande Verde.”
After turning off the highway, Paulo headed up a palm-lined boulevard, the improvement in road surface immediately apparent as the Mercedes’ tires purred against the smooth tarmac. He pulled up by an impressive floodlit fountain in front of the hotel. A woman wearing a dark-blue dress suit and jade cravat and heels stepped forward and opened the car door, introducing herself as Branca, the concierge. From Branca’s olive complexion and nasal tones, Penny guessed she was of Portuguese descent. A porter approached, but Penny held up her small daypack containing the toiletries she had bought at the marina’s convenience store, and Hans’ sandals and Jessica’s sarong, then smiled and politely waved her hand.
Branca led her under a gold chrome surround and through a smoked-glass revolving door into what had to be the most magnificent lobby she had ever seen – a white marble floor inlaid with black, purple and blue Arabic-pattern mosaics, natural stone walls, an abundance of mahogany, and burnished-leather seating surrounding a gently bubbling pool of brightly colored koi.
Penny’s passport was aboard Future, not an issue as Branca chaperoned her toward a futuristic elevator that spoke better English than she did. As they ascended, Branca engaged her in polite chitchat, letting slip enough information to reassure Penny she knew of the yacht’s disappearance and that moves were in place to set a search in motion.
Penny assumed she would be ushered into a single room with a view out over scrub and rocks. When the elevator’s digital readout climbed through one to twelve and rolled over onto “P,” the electronic female voice announcing “Penthouse suite,” Penny shot Branca a look.
“Penthouse? Am I really in the penthouse?”
“Oh, Miss Mast— Sorry, Penny. Your friends have booked out the penthouse and half of the floor below.”
“Er . . .” Penny struggled to find words. Everything suddenly seemed surreal, and she had to remind herself this was about Hans and Jessica and not some exotic vacation she had won in a competition.
Sensing Penny’s distress, Branca took her hand and, with a sincere smile of her perfectly painted lips, said, “Don’t worry. We look after our special accounts.”
To take Penny’s mind off the situation, Branca gave her a tour of the suite. Palatial would be an understatement. They passed through a vast lounge furnished in chesterfield leather, Persian rugs covering a rich wooden floor, a seventy-inch television and vividly painted abstracts by Figueira hanging on walls papered in Jean-Paul Charles, to enter a kitchen fitted with state-of-the-art equipment, two fully stocked refrigerators and a touch screen for ordering specific items or ingredients.
“So much technology!” Branca joked as she demonstrated how to scroll through the electronic menu.
Beneath a crystal chandelier, the dining room’s French-polished table was large enough to entertain twenty people, and, as if this were not decadence enough, Branca led her past a bar circuited by optics, wines and snacks and into a cinema, complete with reclining chairs and a popcorn machine. Penny’s mind flicked to the opera they’d enjoyed in Plymouth. She shuddered at the thought of watching a movie alone.
“Feeling fit?”
Branca attempted to keep the mood light as she showed Penny a gymnasium packed with fitness apparatus and a virtual running machine. Penny managed a half smile, exercise the last thing on her mind.
A swish office and computer station fronted a conference room with video linkups and interactive presentation board. A poolroom offered additional options of game consoles, roulette, a cards table and darts. Four spacious bedrooms enjoyed spectacular ocean views, one of which accessed a glittering master bathroom tiled in gold-flecked charcoal, with an adjoining wet room and sauna, and a hot tub nestled amongst tropical flora on its veranda.
“Fit for King Midas,” Penny murmured.
“Ah yes.” Branca thought for a moment. “But – how you say? Gilt plate, no?” Stepping back into the bedroom, “Penny, I took the liberty of ordering you some essentials.” Branca nodded to an emperor-size bed on which lay a neatly arranged spread of toiletries, pajamas, flip-flops and a prepaid cell phone. “And if you come down to the boutique in the morning you can pick out some fresh clothes. I’ve asked our on-call doctor to pop up in case you need something to help you sleep. I’ll leave you to settle in, and if there is anything else you require – or even just to chat to someone – dial reception and Michelle, our night manager, will be happy to assist. You’ll like Michelle. I’ve informed her of the situation.”
“B-b-but, I-I . . .” Penny burst into tears and collapsed on the huge mattress.
“Calma, amiga. You’re in good hands and everything’s going to be fine.”
The hug couldn’t have come at a better time.
When Branca left, Penny attempted to pull herself together, once again reminding herself this was about Hans and Jessica and that she needed to be on the ball. First, in a symbolic gesture, she hung Jessica’s sarong up on a hanger in the warehouse-sized wardrobe, placing Hans’ sandals on the rack below. Then, realizing she hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast, she went to the refrigerator, but just the thought of her last meal with Hans and Jessica saw her dissolve into tears once more. Spying shelves packed with smoked meats, caviar, foie gras and other delicacies, she slammed the door and went to the bar. She grabbed an ice-cold bottle of beer, then slid open the doors to the balcony and stepped outside.
The warm air provided a welcome break from the hotel’s sterile air-conditioned atmosphere, and as Penny gazed out over the uninterrupted view of the ocean, she prayed that one of the many lights bobbing upon it belonged to Future. Unbeknown to her, the red, white and green navigation lights soaring out low over the sea were those of the coastguard’s Dornier light aircraft as it raced toward Future’s last known coordinates.
To the far left of the vista, the marina edged into view, and on a whim Penny went back inside with the intention of calling reception to ask if, perchance, they had a set of binoculars. As her hand closed around the receiver, the telephone rang, giving her a start. It was the coastguard’s office informing her they had received permission from a higher authority to initiate a search. A plane was in the air and liaising with the Tatiania – Cape Verde’s patrol ship – as well as a Lynx helicopter from the British warship HMS Fortitude. In Creole tones, the woman on the line added that they had established communications with the United States Africa Command, based in Stuttgart, Germany, and moves were in place to coordinate NATO ships in the area to join in the pattern.
Penny put the phone down, breathed a sigh of relief and then downed the remaining beer. Her mind flicked to the conversation she had with Muttley little over an hour and a half ago.
Boy, these people work fast.
- 58 -
Hans stared at Mickey Mouse’s smiling face. Jessica�
��s souvenir beaker was one of the items that had floated to the surface as the yacht went down. Remembering better days, he bailed out the life raft and used his T-shirt to mop up the remaining brine.
Leaning out of the entrance, Hans screamed across the blue void, “We are a lively society that happens to be on this island!”
Zerbinetta’s line from Strauss’ Ariadne auf Naxos, one of his late wife’s favorite operas, had become something of a family mantra, starting as a joke when they vacationed on Hawaii. Why he was shouting it now, Hans had no idea.
The raft consisted of two inflatable rubber tubes, one on top of the other, with a third narrower tube arching overhead to support the nylon canopy. Glued to the bottom of these was a rubberized groundsheet that undulated with the movement of sea like a seventies-kitsch waterbed. Around the inside of the tubes ran a canvas webbing strap to hold on to in bad weather and a series of nylon-mesh pockets to store equipment.
Hans was glad he had packed lightweight sleeping bags in the ditch kit. They now lay on top of the canopy, drying in the already intense morning rays. He hoped they would not need them again, that a local fishing vessel would pick them up before the morning was out, seeing them sleeping in clean and pressed hotel linen that night.
In reality, with the EPIRB and radio missing, the likelihood of a swift rescue was slim. They were already far from Cape Verde, and the trade winds blew them further out into the Atlantic every passing second. Their best hope lay in reaching the New York-to-South Africa shipping lanes far to the west, where a passing freighter might intercept their drift.
Hans made a mental inventory of their equipment and supplies. Water was a priority – moreover, the means to produce it. The raft came stocked with ten plastic-capped cans, a pint in each, and they had a gas can containing an additional gallon in the ditch kit. This should have been more than enough to last them until rescue had the goalposts not shifted. Now they would have to ration their reserve and rely upon the raft’s solar power still to supplement it. Decanting a quarter of a pint of the precious commodity into the Disney mug, Hans wondered what had become of the hand-cranked desalinator and other items.
