“If you prefer to take our pilot…”
Keith shook his head. “No, no. I have flown before, many times. Just not recently. I’m sure it’ll come flooding back to me.”
Keith had decided the balloon ride would be a perfect father-son bonding opportunity. He wanted Max to see him doing something he was good at. Other than surgery, Keith Webster had few talents, and he could hardly have his son sit in on a rhinoplasty. He’d learned how to balloon in college, in a rare moment of daredeviltry, and enjoyed it for a year or so, before the novelty wore off.
Perhaps this would help Max to see him in a new, more heroic light? It wasn’t easy to look heroic standing next to Katele.
“You’ll be in radio contact all the time.” Katele smiled reassuringly. “If you run into trouble, just let us know.”
“Don’t worry,” said Keith. “We’ll be fine.”
They took off at sunset. It was a perfect evening to fly.
“Little bit of low cloud cover to the east, but the winds are in your favor.” Kurt, the technician, checked the propane tanks and the pyrometer, which measured the heat at the top of the balloon, one final time. A gnarled Afrikaner in his early sixties with the sort of grisly gray beard usually associated with fairy-tale villains, Kurt Bleeker was in fact a kind, gentle man. “Winds have been averaging five miles an hour, so you shouldn’t go farther than a few miles. As it’s your first solo flight in a while, try to stick to forty minutes, but don’t panic if you go over. You’ve got fuel for twice that. Any problems”-Kurt tapped his walkie-talkie-“get on the blower, yah?”
Keith Webster smiled. “Will do.”
Now that it was actually happening, his nervousness had completely evaporated.
It’ll be a blast. Drifting over the Karoo with my son, like sultans of our own private kingdom. If only Eve was here to see how well we’re getting along.
Soon they were airborne, sailing serenely over the koppies, small rocky outcrops that rose up from the arid open plain like boils on an old man’s skin. Looking out of the left side of the gondola, the balloon’s basket, everything seemed barren and dead. But a glance to the right revealed a magical water world, shimmering like a mirage in the early-evening heat. The Orange and Caledon rivers had carved a winding path through the dusty earth, creating myriad little bays, islands and peninsulas. Far below, Keith Webster could see people sailing and windsurfing close to the jagged shoreline. Close by, a herd of wildebeest had gathered to drink, making the most of the cooler, wetter winter weather. But the views below paled next to the beauty of the sky around them. It was as if an LSD-crazed God had grabbed a paintbrush and daubed a psychedelic canvas of orange and pink across the twilight.
“What do you think, Max? Incredible, isn’t it?”
“Hmm.”
Max was clasping the aluminum frame of the gondola. He barely seemed to notice the stunning scenery below them. His eyes were glued to the instrument panel. Every time the altimeter or variometer needle flickered, he visibly tensed.
Nervous, thought Keith. That’s normal for your first balloon flight. He’ll relax once he gets used to it.
Max was nervous. This was going to be more complicated than he’d thought. He had to wait until they’d floated far enough that they could no longer be seen from the base camp. But if he waited too long, Keith would be busy with the descent and not interested in taking photographs.
“Look down there, Dad.”
Max pointed to a small herd of zebra galloping across the plain. Dust plumed behind them like the exhaust fumes from a racecar.
“I want to take a picture.”
Keith turned around and screamed. His son had somehow climbed onto the ropes above them. He was perched precariously on the edge of the wicker basket, gripping the ropes one-handed while he leaned out of the gondola with a camera in his other hand.
“Christ, Max. Get down! Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Still holding the camera, Max jumped back down. He gave Keith a disdainful look. “What? I was only taking a photograph.”
“You must never climb up like that, buddy. It’s incredibly dangerous.”
“No, it’s not.” Max pouted. Under his breath he added, “Katele does it all the time. He’s not afraid.”
Keith stiffened. Great. Just great. I go to all this trouble to have Max look up to me, and he’s still harping about Katele.
“If you really want a picture, buddy, ask me. Once we’re cruising, I’ll take it for you.”
“Really?” Max’s eyes lit up. “Okay, Dad, thanks! That would be terrific.”
Twenty minutes later, they’d finally drifted far enough for Max to make his move. They were almost seven hundred feet up now, hovering over the Gariep Dam. The vast concrete structure looked comically small beneath them, like a piece from Max’s LEGO set.
“That waterfall’s awesome. Can we take a picture of that?”
“Sure.”
There was no need to climb up onto the edge of the gondola. You could get a great shot of the dam from inside the basket. But Max had thrown down the gauntlet with his Katele comment.
He wants courage? I’ll show him courage.
Looping Max’s camera around his neck, Keith got a tentative foothold on the aluminum framing.
“Now remember, son, you must never try this yourself. It’s dangerous, and it’s only for adults. Okay?”
“Sure, Dad.”
Another step. Keith reached for the rope above his head, but it was hard to get a grip. His palm was slick and clammy with sweat. Jesus Christ, we’re high up. The wind blew through his thin hair and he felt the bile beginning to rise in his throat. He pulled himself up till he was perched on the edge, the way that Max had been, except that Keith had both feet on the gondola and both hands wrapped for dear life around the ropes. Physical terror coursed through his body. He felt dizzy and began to sway. I must be out of my mind.
“That’s perfect, Dad! Now get the picture!”
To take the photograph, Keith would have to let go of one of the ropes. He began to uncurl his fingers, and immediately felt his balance slipping. Oh God.
“Come on, Dad! What are you waiting for?”
“I…just give me a second, buddy, okay?”
Max’s mind was racing. He estimated that Keith weighed about a hundred and sixty pounds. Roughly a hundred pounds more than he, Max, weighed. If he didn’t let go of one of those ropes, would Max have the strength to push him over the edge? What if he tried and failed?
“We’re moving faster, Dad. Soon we’ll be past it. You’re gonna miss your chance.”
Keith tried to remember when he’d last felt so frightened. The day that Eve had threatened to leave him, to run off with that actor she’d been seeing. Rory. Back then he’d screwed his courage to the sticking point. He’d done what had to be done.
Just do it! Take the damn picture and you can get down.
Keith let go of the second rope. Suddenly the wind seemed to be blowing violently, pushing them along at a frightening speed. He fumbled for the camera, but his hand was shaking so much he could barely locate the viewfinder.
Silently, Max started climbing up behind him.
Keith leaned forward. He thought the dam was in the frame but he couldn’t be sure. Everything was beginning to blur.
“Ground control to Webster balloon. Dr. Webster, do you copy?”
The crackle of the radio startled Keith so much he dropped the camera. He watched in horror as it spiraled silently into the abyss.
“Dr. Webster.” There was an urgency to Kurt’s voice. “Do you copy? Over. The wind speed is picking up. We need to get you boys down.”
Thank God, thought Keith.
Max barely managed to scramble back down into the gondola before his father turned around.
“Answer them. Tell them we copy, I’ll bring her down now.”
That night, in their tent, Keith tried to cheer Max up.
“Don’t look so crestfallen. I’ll b
uy you another camera.”
I don’t want another camera, you son of a bitch. I want your head on a plate to bring home to my mother.
Katele said: “Your son is an excellent shot, Dr. Webster. Are you sure he’s had no training?”
“Quite sure.”
Eve promised Keith that Max had never used his treasured gun. Keith had no reason to disbelieve her. But he had to agree with Katele. His son’s accuracy on their first hunting trip was quite extraordinary.
“Here, Dad. You try.”
Max handed Keith the pistol. They were lying in the long grass with Katele, stalking a young gazelle.
Keith demurred.
“Me? Oh, well, I…I’m not much of a shot.”
“Go on. It’s easy.” Max’s small boy’s fingers encased his father’s adult surgeon’s hands. “Hold it steady. That’s right. Now line up that groove at the top with the white marking between the eyes. See?”
Keith nodded nervously.
“Good. Now squeeze.”
Keith pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang. The young gazelle kicked up its hind legs and darted for the safety of some nearby trees.
“Bad luck,” said Katele. “It’s harder than it looks, isn’t it?”
“Apparently so.”
Max gave his father a withering look.
“Next time, try keeping your eyes open.”
They hunted almost every day. But Katele insisted on going with them.
“Can’t we go on our own?” Max pleaded with Keith. “It’s so much more fun when it’s just the two of us.”
Keith was overjoyed. He’d been starting to feel a little jealous of Katele. Max seemed to idolize him, and it wasn’t hard to see why. To a young boy’s eyes, the native must have appeared like a god. The fact that Keith Webster was a world-renowned surgeon and highly regarded, self-made man, and that Katele was one step above a savage, living hand to mouth on an African nature reserve, meant nothing to a ten-year-old. Katele could shoot arrows, fly planes, skin rabbits and make fire with pieces of flint. He was a hero.
“I’m glad you feel that way, sport. I do, too. But this is Africa, Max. It’s not safe to go into the bush alone, without a guide.”
Keith watched his son’s face fall.
“Don’t worry.” He laughed. “When we get to Cape Town, it’ll be just the two of us.”
But Max was worried.
There would be no hunting in Cape Town. No chance to carry out his mother’s plan.
I have to do it. I promised Mommy. I have to find a way.
The hotel was pleasant. A simple, whitewashed farmhouse on the edge of Camps Bay, it was not the kind of five-star accommodation that Max was used to. But after eighteen days of camping, sleeping in a bed felt like the last word in luxury. The hot showers, in particular, were bliss.
At breakfast, Keith asked: “What would you like to do today?”
I hate you. I detest you. Why are you still alive?
“We could drive up the coast, along the wine route? Or take a picnic to the beach? Or, you know what, we could go shopping. Get you a new camera? Whaddaya think?”
Max didn’t miss a beat. “I’d like to go up Table Mountain. There’s a hiking route, the landlady told me. It’s supposed to be the best view in all South Africa.”
Keith beamed. “Sold. Table Mountain it is.”
“I mean it, Max. Get away from there.”
The wind whipped away Keith’s words, turning his shout into a whisper. Max was dancing on one of the small boulders close to the edge of the cliff. Long tendrils of jet-black hair blew against his face, and his slender olive limbs waved rhythmically to some inner music. He was a beautiful child. Almost as beautiful as his mother.
There’s nothing of me in there. Nothing except my love.
“Max!”
Reluctantly, Keith Webster began walking toward his son. Below them was a drop of well over three thousand feet. His little stunt in the hot-air balloon had frightened Keith more than he’d realized. Every night since the incident, he’d woken with nightmares. He imagined himself falling, like the camera, spinning around and around in the emptiness, waking just seconds before his body would have slammed into the earth. He could imagine the pain, his bones shattering inside his body like broken glass, his skull caving in like a rotten grapefruit, brains oozing out into the dust.
If anything should happen to Max…
Christ. Where is he?
Max was gone. But he couldn’t be gone. He’d been right there, pirouetting on the rock, and then…Keith felt his stomach lurch and his knees start to give way.
“MAX!” It was half scream, half sob. “MAX!”
Keith was running, sprinting toward the cliff edge, propelled by something bigger than himself, some irresistible force. Love. Scrambling up onto the stone, all fear for himself gone, he leaned out, straining his entire body into the emptiness.
“Max! Can you hear me? MAX!”
Below him the clouds lay as thick as butter icing, obscuring everything. A child’s picture of heaven.
“I can hear you, Keith.”
Keith looked down. On the underside of the rock was a tiny tuft of grass, stuck like a limpet to the side of the mountain. It was so small it could never have borne an adult’s weight. But Max, crouched like a leprechaun, could support himself comfortably. Reaching up, he wrapped a hand around Keith’s ankle.
“Max, thank God! I thought I’d lost you.”
“Lost me?” Max laughed: an awful, maniacal strangled sound that made Keith’s blood run cold. “You never had me in the first place. Loser.”
Keith felt a tug at his feet. Instinctively, he reached out his arms, grasping for support, but there was nothing. Another tug, harder this time. Keith looked down. Max was staring up at him, a twisted smile dancing across his face.
He smiles like Eve.
Keith looked into his son’s eyes and saw the deep well of hatred there. The last emotion Keith Webster felt was not fear or even sadness. It was surprise.
I don’t understand it. We were getting along so well…
The clouds rushed up to embrace him, soft, white, welcoming.
Then nothing.
It was the night after Keith Webster’s funeral. Max lay in his mother’s bed in their New York apartment with Eve’s arms wrapped around him. The bedroom window was open a crack, allowing the familiar noises of Manhattan to float in from outside: honking traffic, music, shouts, laughter.
Africa had been beautiful. But this was home.
“You were wonderful, darling,” Eve whispered in Max’s ear. “No one suspected a thing. I’m so proud of you, my big, grown-up boy.”
Eve had been going out of her mind with worry, waiting at home for news of an “accident.” She’d rehearsed everything with Max so thoroughly, so endlessly. She really believed he was ready. But as the days turned into weeks and still nothing happened, she began to fear that the boy had lost his nerve. Or what if it was worse than that? What if Max had tried and failed? What if Keith now knew everything and was on his way home to exact his revenge?
But Max had not lost his nerve. He had pulled it off in the eleventh hour, staging a fall so natural that there hadn’t even been an inquest. Tourists fell from Table Mountain almost every year, idiots fooling around too near the edge. Keith was just another statistic. A number. A nobody.
“You realize that you’re the man of the house now?” Eve cooed. “You’ll never have to share me again.”
Max closed his eyes. He felt the warm silk of Eve’s negligee caress his bare back. “Can I sleep in your bed tonight, Mommy?”
Eve sighed sleepily. “All right, darling. Just this once.”
Tomorrow morning it would be back to work, for both of them. With Keith gone, it was time to begin the second part of Eve’s plan: winning back control of Kruger-Brent. Max would be the linchpin of that strategy, too. But for tonight at least, he’d earned his reward.
Max waited till his mother was deeply as
leep. Then he lay awake, smiling, remembering the look of surprise on his father’s face as he fell.
You’re the man of the house now.
You’ll never have to share me again.
FOURTEEN
PAOLO COZMICI BARKED IRRITABLY AT HIS BOYFRIEND: “SO? Are you going to tell me what it says?”
The world-famous conductor was having breakfast at his usual table at Le Vaudeville on Rue Vivienne in Paris. An Art Deco hangout popular with locals and tourists alike, Le Vaudeville was Paolo Cozmici’s home away from home, a place he came to relax. Henri, the maître d’, knew where Paolo Cozmici liked to sit. He knew that Paolo liked the milk for his café au lait warm, not hot, that Paolo’s pain chocolat should always be light on the pain, heavy on the chocolat; and that Paolo did not expect to have to move to a table near the window in order to chain-smoke his beloved Gauloise cigarettes.
Everybody who knew Paolo Cozmici knew that his Sunday-morning ritual was sacrosanct and unchanging. His boyfriend knew it best of all. And yet the unfathomable boy had arrived for breakfast late, distracted, still dressed in his jogging pants (Paolo deplored jogging pants), and bleating on about some ridiculous letter he’d received from his kid sister back home.
I suppose it serves me right for falling in love with an American, thought Paolo philosophically. Barbarians, all of them, from sea to stinking sea.
“She wants me to come to her sixteenth birthday party next month. Apparently my father’s throwing her a big bash at Cedar Hill House.”
Paolo blew a disdainful smoke ring in his lover’s direction. “Où?”
“It’s kind of like a family compound. It’s in Maine on a little island called Dark Harbor. You won’t have heard of it, but it’s a magical place. I haven’t been there since my mom was alive.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of going?” Paolo Cozmici sounded incredulous. “Robert, my sweet, you ’ave concerts booked every weekend in July. Paris, Munich, London. You can’t just pull out.”
“Come with me?”
Mistress of the Game Page 12
