by Tony Park
‘What happened?’
‘A cyclone. That’s what happened. It’s no accident that all the remaining resort hotels along the coast look like concrete bunkers. Nothing less can withstand the force of nature. I was arrogant and I took a gamble. I’ve learned since then. We were only open a few weeks before the storm hit and I lost everything. I wasted a fortune.’
‘So what do you do for money now?’
He shrugged. ‘We run diving trips and fishing charters from the mainland. It’s slowly-slowly now and we don’t turn much of a profit. None, in fact. I put all the money back into the hotel. You can’t rush Africa.’
He started the Land Rover again and they deviated inland from the coastline. He shifted into low-range four-wheel drive to climb a steep hill. Sand gave way to a rough rocky road carved into the hill. Jane held tight to the dashboard as the Land Rover eased its way to the top. At times it felt like they were climbing steps. It wasn’t a high peak, but from the top they could just make out the haze of the mainland, and the next island to the south of them.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Jane said. ‘It’s not every day you meet a man who has his own island.’
‘I just hope I can hang onto it,’ he said.
They walked from one side of the clearing on top of the hill to the other and Jane shielded her eyes to take in the view.
‘The pirates,’ he said casually, looking out over the ocean, not making eye contact with her, ‘what do you think they were looking for on board the Penfold Son?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said quickly. ‘Perhaps they were just attracted to her because of her size.’
‘I doubt someone would go to the expense of a helicopter assault on spec,’ he said.
She turned and looked at him, staring straight into his eyes. ‘I think I killed a man, Alex.’
He said nothing.
‘Have you – killed, I mean?’
He nodded.
‘I think he would have killed me, if I hadn’t shot him first. I don’t know what happened to the gun I had. At the time, it was instinctive – the only thing I could have done. I can still see his eyes, through this weird rubber mask he was wearing.’
‘What colour were they?’ Alex asked.
She didn’t blink. ‘Green. He wasn’t a Somali, or a black Mozambican. He was a white man, Alex. You tell me, what do you think they were after?’
He shrugged and walked back to the Land Rover.
8
George Penfold smashed his fist into the two-hundred-year-old oak desk and swore.
Reynolds, his head of security, had just left the office. George had ordered Harvey to get Van Zyl on the line, wherever he was. He was looking straight down the barrel of a class-A disaster.
Harvey Reynolds was the only other person in the London office who knew about the exchange. He was the fixer, the man who usually acted as the go-between in the various smuggling deals which resulted in a profit that made the handsome wage George drew from his family’s company look like chickenfeed.
There were two George Penfolds.
His family, his employees and the people he did business with saw the youthful, fit, astute businessman steering the company from one successful strategic venture to another. Other men might be sated by this kind of power, but it wasn’t nearly enough for George.
From an early age he’d tasted the basest, most intoxicating, most exhilarating pleasures the liveliest sea ports around the world had to offer. Outside his home and his office the other George indulged his favourite, expensive passions – gambling and women. When he gambled, he won and lost fortunes. When he was ready for pleasure the things he wanted – needed – and the women who offered them did not come cheap.
Some might say his tastes ran to the bizarre, but George knew that when it came to sex, the more he got, the more he wanted. Each new experience had to better the last, and that usually involved spending more money. His wife, Elizabeth, was conservative in her tastes, but that didn’t bother him. The deceit – either with a callgirl or a pretty staff member – was half the fun.
He’d started smuggling as a cadet on board the first ship he’d sailed on, in order to supplement his income and pay for his growing menu of vices. He’d worked out early on in his career how many places there were to hide contraband on board a freighter. He didn’t use drugs – any more – but in his youth had trafficked not only grass, but also cocaine, heroin, amphetamines and ecstasy.
He wouldn’t have needed the illegal money at that age if he’d stayed in the UK and got a job working in head office, as his father had wished. By turning his back on a place in the family company he’d also cut himself off from his generous allowance. He wanted freedom from his family, but he needed money.
And there was the thrill. Evading the amateurish third-world customs officials, even paying the odd bribe, was more exciting, more intoxicating than the highs of any drug. As well as living a carefree life at sea he had cash in his pocket in every port he visited. He might have been a lowly cadet on board, but ashore he ate in the best restaurants, gambled in the high-roller rooms of the best casinos, and bedded the most expensive whores in a score of foreign ports.
When he’d tired of penny-ante drug trafficking and returned to take his rightful place in the company as scion of the Penfold clan, his tastes, his needs and his greed had grown in proportion to his promotion.
In front of him was the news that Iain MacGregor, the first Penfold Line captain he’d sailed under, and one of the few others who knew the secret George, was dead. George felt little remorse for the old Scot, who had bullied him mercilessly during his time at sea. When he’d caught MacGregor smuggling gold out of Malaysia the captain had been terrified George would turn him in to his father. George had laughed. The bullying had stopped and George began to learn a few more tricks of the smuggler’s trade, from a master. But MacGregor was dead and the package was gone. Failure was unforgivable.
George hadn’t expected a double-cross from Chan, or his man on the high seas, Captain Wu, and he still didn’t know exactly what had happened on board the Penfold Son. All Harvey had reported, from the South African Police Service, was what was already appearing on the internet. The ship had entered Durban harbour, skippered by the first mate, with a dead captain on board and significant damage from an attack by pirates armed with machine-guns and hand grenades.
Gillian had fielded and stonewalled calls from a dozen reporters in Africa and the UK already, and he expected more to come during the day. The IMB was badgering him for a report. He’d told Gillian to contact their public relations firm – a slimy bunch of charlatans who almost made him feel honest whenever he got their bills. However, the spin doctors would earn their money today.
And Jane was missing.
He knew he should call her parents, but news of her disappearance had not yet appeared in the media. George had already spoken to Igor Putin, the engineering officer who had been the bagman for the exchange. He’d been below when the helicopter had arrived and had taken cover when the gunfire started. Penfold couldn’t blame him. The tabloid media were reporting it as World War III on board the Penfold Son.
‘The package was missing from the safe when I got to the wheel-house,’ Putin had told him.
He’d told the Russian to make sure none of the crew spoke to any journalists. However, Harvey had told him that the South African police were already asking questions about passengers.
Sooner or later he would have to call them, but he wanted to hear from Van Zyl first. He’d have the man’s guts on his tennis racquet.
‘Call for you, sir,’ Gillian said when he picked up the ringing phone. ‘Mister Van Zyl from South Africa.’
George was ready to give the man both barrels, but the South African spoke without even a greeting. ‘I think the Humphries woman has your property.’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’
‘Drop the facade, Mister Penfold,’ Van Zyl said coolly. ‘It would have been nice of
you to tell us we were riding shotgun over that pick-up from the Chinese freighter. You should have briefed us fully.’
George was silent for a few seconds. Where had the information come from? Putin? MacGregor? Both men would have known that George had the contacts and the money to have them killed, wherever they were in the world, if they’d blabbed or tried to double-cross him. It must have been MacGregor. If the pirates had forced the location of the package out of the Scot, then how would Van Zyl have found out? A more likely scenario unfolded in George’s mind while he listened to the hum of the international line in his ear.
‘Did the pirates kill MacGregor, or did you, Van Zyl?’
‘They did of course, but I would have thought you’d be more interested in finding the girl. She was with MacGregor when the pirates attacked.’
‘I told you to look after her. Is she dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ Van Zyl admitted. ‘When she left the bridge the safe was open and she was in a hurry, heading for a lifeboat. She was still in the boat when they escaped. One of my men was shot and nearly killed trying to stop them. I gave the woman my pistol. She hit one of the pirates, but they took him on board before we could get to him.’
‘Good for her.’ George didn’t care a fig about Van Zyl’s hired gun. The bottom line was that the men had failed to protect Jane, and had missed an opportunity to destroy the very gang they were supposed to be looking for. ‘So, despite being armed to the teeth, you and your mercenaries didn’t manage to kill a single one of the criminals – although Jane may have. And you let a valuable cargo go missing and failed to protect the master of my flagship. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t terminate your contract right now, Van Zyl.’
‘I’ll give you two. I’m going to find the girl and, when I do, I’m going to kill each and every man in that gang, as well as their spouses, their children and their pets.’
George snorted out a laugh, then calmed himself. Despite all that had happened, he liked the South African’s style. ‘You do that. Bring me the girl back – intact – and the cargo. You’ll get a healthy reward.’
‘Half the value.’
‘Preposterous. Ten per cent, not a penny more.’
‘Forty per cent.’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Goodbye, Mister Penfold.’
‘No, goodbye and good riddance to you, Mister Van Zyl. You cocked up and you know it. Ten per cent of the cash value of the cargo, and that’s my final offer. There are plenty of other soldiers of fortune out there for hire.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Van Zyl said, ‘Deal.’
‘I’ll be in Johannesburg in two days’ time. Have news for me.’ George hung up before Van Zyl could reply and smiled to himself. No one outnegotiated him in business. He was concerned about Jane and he fantasised briefly about what he might do to the men who had kidnapped her, had they brutalised her. He wondered what privations she might be going through now.
He felt wired, pumped with adrenaline from his conversation with Van Zyl. He took his BlackBerry off his desk and scrolled through the contact numbers until he found the one he wanted – needed.
‘Black Pearl, how can we satisfy you?’ a female voice asked on the end of the line.
Jane followed the scent of melted butter and frying garlic and onions to the beachside bar. A pyramid of burning driftwood on the beach sent a galaxy of glowing embers into the sky, which shone a deep, dark blue from the dying light of the sun.
She rubbed the goose bumps that had risen on her bare arms despite the warmth of the evening. She couldn’t believe there was no means of contacting the mainland from this island. Mobile phones, she’d read, could be charged from solar panels, and other electrical gear could be run from car batteries charged by the sun. She’d seen the glint of reflected light from the top of the hotel when they’d stood together on the hill, and the hot water in Alex’s shower was scalding. He had solar power, all right. He was lying to her.
True, the generator hadn’t run all afternoon, and the lights festooned around the beach bar were paraffin lanterns, but she still didn’t believe him. Which was a shame, because he was so very charming.
She’d changed into another woman’s swimsuit after the drive. It was odd to be wearing someone else’s clothes – something she’d never do at home. She and Alex had plunged into the still waters in front of the hotel. He’d brought a mask, snorkel and fins and taken her a little way out, to where she could see bright coloured fish darting away from her outstretched hands.
When they’d emerged from the water his maid was waiting with a tray of tea and sandwiches, which they’d eaten in the shade of a palm tree. It would have been all so perfect if he wasn’t lying to her.
It made her spine tingle, and caused the downy hairs on her arms to stand up.
She was ravenous, so she put her suspicions and fears to one side. She’d already consoled herself with the thought that he could have killed or tortured her by now if he was, in fact, the pirate rather than the rescuer he claimed to be. Alex waved to her and she looked at the other faces around the bar. Some of the men wore painted smiles, but others barely contained their wariness of her.
‘Jane, welcome. What would you like to drink?’
Music was playing – batteries she guessed, for her sake – and Jose the one-legged chemist and barman was working a cocktail shaker vigorously.
‘Mojito?’ Jose asked, raising an eyebrow.
She watched him pour and took a sip. ‘What about limes? I can’t see any in there.’
‘Maria found a bottle of lime juice in the pantry.’
She grimaced. ‘Just like the real thing.’
‘How’d you pull up?’ asked a man with an Australian accent.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Feeling all right after your ordeal? I’m Kevin, by the way.’
She said she was fine and shook hands with him.
‘Evening,’ said the grimmest-looking man in the bunch. His drawl was American. He looked up from his drink – a double measure of straight whiskey and ice.
When Jane saw his eyes she swallowed involuntarily as the scene replayed itself in her mind. The violent, unexpected kick of the hand gun; the bright light and deafening bang of the explosion.
Alex introduced her to the rest of the men who worked for him and she learned they all had military backgrounds. She recalled reading the International Maritime Bureau’s piracy update, which pointed to the organised nature of the gang that had hijacked the car carrier off the coast of South Africa.
‘Don’t mind Mitch, the American,’ Alex said as he led her away from the bar to a row of four barbecues made from two-hundred litre fuel drums cut crossways and topped with welded metal grills. She felt the heat of the glowing coals radiating onto her bare thighs as she got closer. Alex took an enamel bowl and a brush and basted a line of cut lobsters with melted butter. Each crayfish was as long as his arm, from tentacle tip to tail. ‘He’s actually as grim as he seems, but he means you no harm.’
‘I wish I could believe you,’ she let slip.
‘What do you mean? You’re perfectly safe here, Jane.’
And she felt that way, for the time being, around Alex. Mitch’s green eyes frightened her. She heard giggling behind her and a loud shriek and looked back to see two African women, one on either side of Mitch. He had his arms around them, but when he turned to look into the darkness between the bar and the fire, she felt him searching for her. ‘I know,’ she said to Alex, ‘but you can’t blame me for being out of sorts.’
‘I understand, and I know how keen you are to get back to the mainland. I’ll get you there.’
She nodded her thanks. A young Mozambican girl, perhaps in her early teens, walked over, smiling.
‘Cerveja, Alexandre?’ she said.
‘Ola Isabella. Vinho verde, por favor.’
The girl turned and skipped back across the sand towards the bar. ‘Child labour or does she just have a crush on
you?’
Alex laughed. ‘Bit of both, I suppose.’
‘You’re quite the lord of the manor around here, aren’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘I love it here. The people – even those misfits at the bar – the island, the crumbling hotel. It really is the closest thing I’ve got to a home.’
‘So you’re all one big happy family?’
‘Mostly, yes.’
She watched him chat with the girl in a mix of Xitswa and Portuguese, saying something that made her laugh hysterically, then run off to join her friends. More islanders were arriving at the braai, as Alex called the barbecue, and the beat and the volume of the music from the bar seemed to increase by the minute. Even sombre Mitch was now dancing with his two women.
She wondered if she was right, if they really were the pirates. Alex’s face was warmed by the light of the fire and when he smiled and winked at her, over the heads of two young boys playing with a football made of rags and tape in the sand, she could see he was a charmer, like his father, and probably a heart breaker too.
They all sat together, under the stars on the beach, villagers, ex-soldiers, the young and the old at a long rickety trestle table laid with starched white linen and colonial-era silver that gleamed with the fire’s reflection. Alex brought the lobsters on platters and took his place at the head of the table. Jane was on his right, and he toasted her arrival and her good fortune before they began eating. She blushed and thanked them all for rescuing her.
And the fantasy was almost a reality as she laughed at something Kevin said about a drunken brawl in Manila, her bare toes digging into the cooling sand under her feet, and the cold, crisp vinho verde cutting through the devilishly delicious lobster tail that was almost too good to swallow.
‘I hope it hasn’t been too traumatic for you today,’ Alex said to her quietly, below the hum of conversation and occasional outburst of raucous laughter.
She was about to say that no, she had had a lovely day, all things considered, but she felt the chill again. She glanced along the table: three places down on the opposite side, Mitch was staring at her with those green eyes.
