by Wilbur Smith
Hassan did indeed accept the truth of this proposition.
“To you and I, this boat may be a magnificent machine, but to His Royal Highness it is a mere trifle. Now, the reason why he has bestowed the boat upon me now is that I am engaged upon a mission, one that will lead to the death of a wicked man, who is my enemy, and thus His Royal Highness’s enemy too. As part of this mission, two very brave women have been called upon to risk their lives, so that this evil man may be defeated. I treasure the lives of these woman, and thus His Royal Highness treasures them too.”
“Of course, of course,” said Hassan, with something close to eagerness.
“Thus, any man who helps with this mission and contributes to its success will gain great glory and receive my thanks, and that of His Royal Highness. He can be assured of rewards and blessings. But . . . ” Cross let the word hang in the air, “Should any man hinder the mission, and should it fail because of his unwillingness to be of assistance, he can be sure of His Royal Highness’s wrath, for he will have dishonored his Emir as well as himself, and betrayed his Emir’s friend and then he will have made two enemies who can make his life a very short, and miserable, and uncomfortable existence, so that he is crushed, like a scorpion beneath a boot, and ground into the dirt like a scrap of camel dung, and his family must live forever with the shame of his disgrace.”
There was total silence on the other end of the line. Then Cross heard the distant sound of a string of plaintive, heartfelt apologies, then profound assurances of immediate assistance.
Imbiss came on the line. “Great work, Heck,” he said. “It’s going to take a while to put this baby onto a pallet and get it in the hold. Then we’ve got to stow all the other kit. So I can’t promise to be in the air much before seven-hundred hours, our time. But the Vosloos have promised to put the pedal to the metal. Call it ten hours flying time, maybe a shade more. That makes our ETA between fourteen and fifteen hundred your time, with the boat in the water an hour after that.”
“Damn, that’s cutting it fine,” Cross said. He could hear a door slamming then footsteps: Imbiss and Hassan must be on their way. “The girls are being picked up from their hotel at eight this morning. From that point on, we have to assume that they’re in the hands of the enemy.”
A thought suddenly struck Cross: something so obvious he could not imagine how he’d missed it before: “Will you be able to track them while you’re in the air?”
“I think so, sure. Seems like Bernie and Nella have been doing all right for themselves lately. They’ve given the plane a total overhaul. You wouldn’t recognize it, Heck. I mean it actually looks like it might fly.”
“That’s a change!
“Totally. Hang on a second . . .” A car door opened, there was a brief pause, then a car engine starting, then Imbiss again: “What was I saying? Oh yeah, the Vosloos have dragged the communications systems into the twenty-first century. They’ve got satellite connectivity for phone and internet. Should be fine. Nastiya and Zhenia are in Accra, Ghana now, right?”
“Yes, which means the Faucon d’Or has to be in the Gulf of Guinea. That makes our lives a lot easier trying to find it. Da Cunha and Congo can’t sail north or east because they’ll run into Africa. They won’t go west unless they’ve suddenly decided to cross the Atlantic. And Cabinda’s to the south. So pound-to-a-penny, that’s the course they’ll take.”
“Which’ll lead them straight toward Libreville,” Imbiss said.
“Exactly. I’ve told the skipper of the Glenallen not to stop here but keep heading north, to close the distance as much as possible between him and the Faucon. We can catch up with him in the Interceptor.”
“Still, there’s got to be seven hundred miles of ocean between Accra and Libreville. Hell of a distance.”
“Don’t remind me. But we’ll find the Faucon d’Or and we’ll get to it in time.”
“Damn right we will!” Imbiss replied.
They both spoke in tones of absolute certainty. But as Cross ended the call, and laid back in his bed he knew that for all their shows of confidence, the odds were still against them.
After breakfast the next morning the Voronovas’ taxi driver was again waiting for them downstairs in the hotel lobby. “Where are you taking us today?” Zhenia demanded of him.
He laughed delightedly and answered, “Yes! Da! Jawohl! Today. Me taking us.” This turned out to be the limit of his vocabulary, and the end of the conversation.
“I guess we’ll know when we get there,” Nastiya consoled her little sister.
The taxi crept at a walking pace through the incredibly crowded streets of the city. Their driver began sounding his horn as soon as he engaged the clutch and did not lift his hand from the button until they reached their destination, almost an hour later.
This turned out to be a small creek on the outskirts of the city. It was surrounded by a grove of coconut palms, under which native fishing boats were drawn up on the beach, with their nets spread out to dry. The taxi drove down to the edge of the water and parked alongside a floating jetty against which were moored three floatplanes, one of them an amphibious Twin Otter.
The taxi driver climbed out and yelled something in the local language and after a while a head appeared behind the windscreen of the Otter. The pilot had obviously been asleep in the cockpit. He opened the door and climbed down on to the jetty.
“Are you the passengers for the Faucon d’Or?” he shouted in a South African accent. Once assured that they were, he and the taxi driver carried the girls’ luggage down the jetty and loaded it into the plane. The pilot paid the driver and they took their seats in the back of the floatplane, which taxied out through the mouth of the creek and lined up into the breeze and the chop of the water.
As soon as the pilot had taken off and settled into flight Nastiya leaned over the back of his seat and asked him, “What are you doing in such a godforsaken part of the world?”
He grinned. “I work for a company who services the oil-exploration ships. Mostly we fly pretty girls and other goodies out to them.”
“I am sure my husband would love to hear you describe me as a goodie,” she told him primly.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “You look much too happy to be married.”
Nastiya kept a straight face and they flew on in silence across the blue waters of the Gulf of Guinea. Zhenia was slumped in her seat, fast asleep. Good, she needs her rest, thought Nastiya, and then, My God, I’m turning into her mother!
It was almost midday now and the pilot was flying into the sun, so they were heading south, toward Libreville. Toward Hector and Paddy! But how far had they come? Trying to sound as casual as possible, Nastiya asked, “How fast have we been flying?”
“Ach, just the regular cruise speed. Call it two-eighty kph, about a hundred and seventy miles an hour. Our journey’s roughly five hundred miles.”
“Will you fly straight back to Accra?”
“Not unless I want to run out of fuel and die! No, I’m heading on to Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Got some other clients waiting for me there.”
An hour in the air stretched into two, then three. Finally the pilot pointed ahead through the windscreen.
“There she is: the Faucon d’Or. Nice little dinghy, isn’t she?” He began to bleed off altitude and banked steeply over the yacht, which lay at anchor a few hundred meters off a narrow beach with dense jungle further inland. “That’s Nigeria you can see beyond her.”
Peering down at the yacht Nastiya was astonished by the size and pristine condition of the vessel. Zhenia had woken and was looking down at it too. “That looks good enough for Roman Abramovich,” she said.
“No way!” the pilot laughs. “That’s just a dinghy next to one of his!”
There was barely any wind and the plane landed on the flat calm water with barely a bump. As the pilot taxied toward the ship a motor launch detached itself from the bottom of the gangway and came to meet them. Nastiya and Zhenia climbed down on to one of the flo
ats and hopped across to the launch. As soon as the crew had transferred the girls’ luggage into the launch it headed back toward the yacht. Behind them the pilot of the Twin Otter took off and headed back for the Ghanaian shore.
As the launch approached the Faucon d’Or a tall and elegant figure appeared on the aft deck and looked down at them.
“Who is that?” Zhenia demanded with sudden interest.
“That is Mateus da Cunha,” Nastiya told her.
“If you are sure you don’t want him, then I don’t mind taking him off your hands as a favor, my darling sister.”
“I thought you were in love with Hector Cross?”
“I am, but it’s not an exclusive relationship.” Zhenia kept a straight face but when she winked at Nastiya they both burst out laughing.
“Now I know beyond any shadow of doubt who your father is,” Nastiya told her.
Nastiya climbed the gangway to the deck of the Faucon d’Or ahead of her sister as befitted her status. A bodyguard, dressed in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie, as if completely indifferent to the fact that he was on a yacht off West Africa, rather than a street in New York or Paris, helped her aboard. He looked her up and down, examining every inch of her, mentally undressing her. Nastiya knew that the guard’s interest was anything but sexual. He was deciding whether she was carrying a concealed weapom. Evidently satisfied that the perfect cut of Nastiya’s white, knee length dress left no room for an excess ounce of flesh, let alone a knife or gun, the guard gave a little nod of the head. Then da Cunha stepped forward to greet her and kissed the back of the hand that she offered him.
“Welcome on board the Faucon d’Or, Mademoiselle Denisova. I hope your journey from Moscow was not too onerous?” he asked solicitously. “I must apologize for not meeting you personally at Accra, but I’m sure you appreciate that these are critical times and I am concerned to keep you out of general view until our objects have been achieved.”
“We Russians are accustomed to hardships. I am certain our journey will be very much worthwhile in the end, and this small inconvenience will soon be forgotten.”
“Let us hope that is the case,” Mateus observed, and then turned to greet Zhenia as she stepped off the gangway. Watching him without seeming to do so, Nastiya saw the pupils of his eyes dilate slightly, and his expression soften as he realized how lovely she was, with the bloom of youth still fresh upon her. She felt a stab of concern as she wondered if she might have led her younger sister into a dangerous situation. She was just too beautiful for her own good, and their hosts were ruthless killers and criminals. A stab of anxiety struck her. I just hope Hector gets here soon. That text last night was really worrying.
Nastiya forced any negative thoughts from her mind and smiled easily at Mateus.
“This is my assistant, Polina Salko. She graduated from Moscow University with a first class honors degree and she has been employed by me for three full years. I can vouch for her discretion and her acuity.”
“You are both more than welcome.” Mateus lingered over the slim white hand just a little longer than was necessary. Then he stood back. “There are suites prepared for both of you, which I hope will live up to your expectations. The stewards will take you to them. Your luggage will follow momentarily. Take as long as you need to freshen yourselves. Then when you are ready, please ring for your cabin steward who will escort you to the salon. I will then take the opportunity to introduce you to our other important guest, His Majesty King John Kikuu Tembo.”
Nastiya felt a quick frisson of excitement to hear him use Congo’s alias. The huntress in her sensed that they were nearing the climax of the chase. The quarry was gathered on the killing ground. All that remained was for the hunters to assemble.
“There is one minor matter with which I must trouble you. I’m sure you appreciate that His Majesty’s personal security is of paramount importance. So if I could ask you to disable the location finder on your phones that would be very much appreciated.”
“Of course,” Nastiya said. She and Zhenia went through the procedure while da Cunha looked on.
“Thank you so much,” he said when they were done and Nastiya was suddenly struck by the strange artificiality of the situation. A woman with a false identity complying with the security requirements of a freedom fighter who was really a thief on a giant scale, and a king who was a convicted murderer. Their situation was as absurd as a farce, and yet as deadly as the bloodiest tragedy.
The stewards ushered the two women to the lift in the entrance lobby and they descended to the lower passenger deck. The suites which awaited them were luxurious but compact in accordance with the limited space available in the vessel. They were situated at opposite ends of the central passageway that ran fore and aft, but Nastiya thought this fact was of little significance.
Before she and Zhenia parted she said, “I will be ready in half an hour, Polina. Come to my room then and be sure to have your iPad with you. I’m sure we’ll be taking notes.”
As soon as Nastiya reached her own suite she closed and locked the door, then while she brushed her hair she scanned the deck above her and the hull and bulkhead surrounding her for any indication of a CCTV camera hidden in them. She was suddenly aware of the sound of engines and a gentle vibration through the hull. They were getting underway. At the end of the agreed thirty minutes, there was a tap on the door.
“Thank you, Polina,” said Nastiya. “And now, I think, it is time to greet His Majesty.”
As they entered Mateus stood up from his easy chair, but his companion remained seated and fixed the two girls with dark and brooding eyes. Nastiya paused on the threshold and returned his scrutiny with an equally noncommittal expression, but inwardly she felt deeply disturbed.
She knew who this was. She had seen photographs and video images of him. She had even seen him in the flesh as he was carried on board the aircraft at the Kazundu airfield after his capture by Hector and Paddy. But then he had been unconscious from the massive doses of sedatives that they had injected into him, and trussed up in a rope cargo net that would have immobilized a silverback gorilla.
She had never seen Congo as he was now: fully conscious and focused, a massive, menacing figure. He seemed twice the size of a normal man. He was dressed in black linen trousers and a black silk shirt, with most of its buttons open to reveal a heavy gold necklace on his chest. The aura of restless, menacing evil that emanated from him was so intense that it took a massive effort of will for her to remain still and hold her ground, rather than to recoil from him.
“Your Majesty, may I present Mademoiselle Maria Denisova?” da Cunha introduced her. Nastiya held her breath while Johnny Congo examined her; but he showed no sign of recognition. His only reaction was to incline his head slightly to acknowledge her existence, but in return Nastiya swept him a deep curtsey. When she rose to her full height once more she moved aside to give Zhenia space to step up beside her, but she addressed Johnny Congo:
“Your Majesty, may I present my assistant Miss Polina Salko.”
Zhenia was clearly as overawed as her elder sister had been, but she did not hide it as effectively. She attempted what was probably the first curtsey of her life. It was not a success and Nastiya recognized it as a nervous reaction to fear. It’s not a problem. She’s meant to be a secretary. Of course she’s over-awed in the presence of royalty.
Da Cunha indicated that they should take the couch opposite the King and he returned to his easy chair; while Congo listened da Cunha immediately plunged into the business in hand, asking Nastiya to give him details of the men who were prepared to risk their wealth on backing his venture to wrest Cabinda from greater Angola, and then questioning her shrewdly. In doing so da Cunha displayed his crisp intelligence and full command of his subject, but Nastiya had prepared for this with Hector and Paddy so she was able to keep pace with him, occasionally referring queries to Polina to be followed up after the meeting was concluded.
Congo sat with his h
ands thrust deeply into his pockets and his knees slightly apart. He said little, and when he did speak his accent was American and his speech patterns were hardly those of an African monarch. Even so, Nastiya could not help but notice that his observations were sharp and his questions cut straight to the point. He seemed particularly interested in the money that was being invested, the terms on which it was being given and the precise means by which the procceds, when they came, would be divided.
“Your Majesty has a remarkable grasp of finance,” she said, and the compliment was one of the few completely sincere things she’d said since she’d boarded the yacht. “Might I ask where you acquired it?”
“The street, the yard and the school of hard knocks,” he said, flatly. When he looked at Nastiya his pupils were speckled like agate and cruel as those of a predator; but the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and smoky.
“Well,” said Mateus da Cunha, “shall we have lunch? We eat under an awning on the rear deck. The breeze is very cooling there and the chef has prepared a superb buffet for us.” He spoke as if they were all decent people, engaged in reputable business in the finest possible surroundings. But the pretence of civility was like a fragile paper screen, behind which a monstrous danger lurked, pacing up and down in the darkness, gathering its strength, waiting to be unleashed.
Libreville airport was just a stone’s throw from a long expanse of golden beach, but the Interceptor had to be fuelled and that meant taking it a few kilometers down the highway to Port Mole. A massive construction operation was underway there, transforming an industrial dock into a massive complex involving a marina, hotels and beaches for tourists, and tens of thousands of affordable homes for the locals.
“Damn, that’s impressive,” said Imbiss as they sped past the vast building sites.
