The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

‘Why?’

  ‘She’s a very good businesswoman. Give an inch and before you know it, you’ve lost the edge. I just wanted to let her know that she could be found, anywhere, at any time. That’s all.’

  ‘Fair enough. But what if Madame Liang had seen you together with this contact?’

  ‘She didn’t. As soon as he knew I’d seen him he made himself scarce. We met at a prearranged rendezvous. Anyway, she’d have no idea who or what he is. He’s kept well away from her and her associates.’

  Holly’s hand slipped under the sheet. ‘There’s just one other thing, Maguire.’

  ‘What?’ He breathed in sharply as her fingers found him.

  ‘This was not supposed to happen.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, his arms tightening around her. ‘But if you stop now I’ll become seriously depressed. Probably never recover.’ He grinned. ‘Total decline. Can you handle the responsibility?’

  She was laughing with him. ‘God no, Maguire. I’d hate that on my conscience.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  NINE

  The flight to Rodrigues left Mauritius at seven thirty in the morning. To reach Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam Airport took a good hour and they had to be there one hour before take-off. Connor and Holly had skipped dinner and, what with one thing leading to another, it was after midnight when he left her. Too tired to pack, Holly asked for a four thirty wake-up call and fell into a deep sleep. It seemed she’d only just closed her eyes when the telephone rang and a cheerful voice – so damned cheerful Holly could have choked the girl – announced that it was half-past four.

  She was packed, tanked up on coffee and checked out by the time Connor arrived. He looked as if he’d enjoyed eight hours’ sleep. Holly felt grouchy and was starving. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said breezily, putting her suitcase into the boot.

  Holly half fell into the car, sank back and closed her eyes. ‘I hope you realise that I dislike you intensely.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘How dare you look so refreshed.’

  He grinned, leaned over and kissed her cheek then started the car. ‘I’ll buy you breakfast at the airport. Will that help?’

  ‘Marginally.’

  ‘You can sleep on the plane. My shoulder is at your service.’

  ‘Thank you.’ A tiny smile touched her lips.

  ‘You’ll feel better when the sun comes up.’

  ‘I doubt it. I’ve never felt more . . . ordinary . . . in my life.’

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  Holly suddenly found she felt absolutely fine. She even took it philosophically when they discovered that the airport cafe was shut.

  From the air, Rodrigues looked surprisingly large for an island only eighteen kilometres long and eight wide. They came in low over a couple of tree-covered atolls, part of the coral reef that enclosed a shimmering, shallow lagoon and over which the gentle surf foamed, an unbroken frame of white, rolling breakers. Holly caught a fleeting impression of steep-sided cliffs further along the coast before they touched down on the runway at Plaine Corail. The Air Mauritius ATR 42 used the entire convex length of the field before turning back towards the airport building. As the third island of the Mascarenes trio, the other two being Mauritius and Réunion, Holly had expected Rodrigues to be geologically similar. It wasn’t. It was uniquely different from anything she had ever seen.

  The small apron lay well away from the terminal, necessitating a leg stretching walk in the warm morning breeze. Although the island belonged to Mauritius and the only way to reach Rodrigues was from the parent island, immigration formalities were mandatory. Also required was confirmation of the return flight. Without that, entry was refused. The delays bordered on frustrating but the friendly service made up for it.

  ‘Are we being met?’ Holly asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what happens from here?’ The airport perched on the south-western tip of the island, and from what little could be seen there was nothing out there but a gently rising windswept terrain, as devoid of people as it was of vegetation.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ Connor replied cheerfully.

  ‘Where are we staying?’

  ‘Other end of the island. Pointe Coton.’

  ‘How do we get there?’

  The look on his face was her answer. He hadn’t a clue about that either.

  ‘Just play it by ear, huh?’

  ‘Relax. You’ve just stepped back a hundred years in time. Something will turn up.’

  Something did. His name was Henri and he drove a white transit van with HENRI TOURS emblazoned on the side. He approached as they emerged from the terminal building. ‘Cotton Bay Hotel?’

  Henri took their bags and threw them, with very little ceremony, onto a lopsided roof rack. Remembering the careless way she had packed, Holly decided that her tape recorder had just been listed as endangered. Three other passengers joined the van and then they were off.

  ‘This could take a while,’ Connor warned.

  Eighteen kilometres didn’t sound like much but when the condition of the narrow, winding road entered the equation, compounded by the state and age of their transport, it was a one-hour trip. The land kept rising, though it fell away sharply on either side. It was as if they were travelling along the island’s spine. For the first fifteen minutes it was barren, open and empty country. A few houses dotted here and there, skinny cattle covered with flies, a couple of tiny communities. Holly’s first impression of habitation was colourfully hand-painted community rubbish bins. Whoever the artist was, he only had one style – multicoloured dots. The few people they passed waved hello. Henri seemed to know everyone.

  Further inland, the undulating country became more dramatic with deeply wooded ravines, terraced cultivation and stunning views away to the sea on both sides of the island. Residential areas, shops and gas bottle depots lined the route. Some houses were surprisingly large, set amid banana plantations, mature mango trees and fields of sugar cane. It had taken them forty-five minutes to reach the village of Mont Lubin. From there the road twisted and turned back to sea level. The last part of the journey wound through rugged farming country with small holdings of onions and chilli peppers. Domestic goats vied for a share of the stunted and overgrazed grass.

  Water had to be a problem, judging by the pipes that seemed to snake everywhere. From what Holly could see, pressure relied on gravity. Most houses had flat concrete roofs surrounded by a low parapet. Some still held puddles lying from the previous night’s rain. Twice she saw women scooping this water into buckets.

  Crouched a mere two floors high above a casaurina-fringed beach and half hidden by gently waving palm fronds, the Cotton Bay Hotel finally came into view. Henri drove over a wooden bridge, past the scrutiny of a security guard, then along a winding paved road that meandered through lush tropical gardens.

  Cotton Bay could not seem to make up its mind. En route, they had passed signs to Pointe de Coton, Pointe Coton, Point Cotton, Coton Baie, Coton Bay and Cotton Bay. But the hotel’s welcome was straightforward and focused – simple yet effective. A pretty young girl with flowers in her hair offered the new arrivals guava juice in sugar-encrusted wineglasses, while a portly man in a brightly coloured shirt smiled a greeting as he played an unfamiliar but catchy tune on his piano accordion. Reception was small, simply decorated and efficient. Through large glass doors surrounded by tropical plants, Holly could see a crystal-clear swimming pool reflecting the midmorning sun, and beyond that, a deep blue Indian Ocean. The air was sweetly perfumed with pollen, the temperature around twenty-four degrees Celsius, the sky clear and unclouded, waves breaking out on the reef glistened white against the open sea – a tropical paradise.

  The accordion player carried their bags, explained about meal times and how to book excursions. Everything was laid-back. The ‘Welcome to Rodrigues’ sign at the airport should have added, ‘stress-free zone’. Despite the relaxed atmosphere in one
of the safest, most unspoilt and friendly places on the planet, the Cotton Bay Hotel maintained standards which were up there with the world’s finest. It was policy, the acting porter explained, to provide first-class service while, at the same time, maintaining the simplicity and lack of sophistication typical of Rodrigues. ‘Our island needs tourists,’ he said, ‘but not so many that our way of life changes.’

  Holly got the impression that if her suitcase were left on the side of the road, not only would it still be there, untouched, a week later, but more than likely, some friendly Rodriguan would be standing guard over it with no expectation of reward.

  They were shown to two rooms on the ground floor. Holly took the first, Connor the second. Hers was large and clean, the furniture a combination of local cane and bamboo. Glass doors opened onto a small patio and well-tended lawn. A stretch of brilliant white sand led to the lagoon, which lay just beyond a low rock wall. Holly opened the doors to admit the sound and smell of the ocean. A slight breeze ruffled the curtains.

  Connor came out of his room and saw her. ‘Will this do?’ he asked, waving an arm to take in the surroundings.

  ‘I can just about bear it.’

  ‘Unpack,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll have a drink and some lunch.’

  Back in her room, Holly had the sudden and startling thought that just over a week ago she’d been in control of her own life. Miserable and abrasive, yes. Fragile and hurting, definitely. But at least making her own decisions. She’d been alone, independent and in Sydney. Now here she was in the middle of nowhere, with a man she fancied something rotten, full of energy, with a purpose back in her life. If that wasn’t enough, he was telling her what to do and she was doing it. Well, most of it anyway. It was just short of a miracle. Nothing had been broken in her bag either. Another miracle. As she sorted out her things it occurred to her that Connor’s enthusiasm for the unusual was catching. And, changing into shorts, it crossed her mind that the serious Holly Jones appeared to be taking a holiday.

  When Connor appeared at the glass doors, she was humming the theme from Out of Africa. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Just about. Come in.’

  He watched as she finished sorting her things. Then he put his arms around her. ‘Last night was rather special.’

  ‘Yes. For me too.’

  ‘But it won’t happen again. Not until this is over.’

  His face was only inches from hers. Feelings crossed his eyes and he took a deep breath. ‘Jesus, Holly. Help me.’

  There was no point in having him this close and not taking advantage.

  By the time they drew apart, neither was breathing steadily.

  ‘There’s no such thing as paradise on earth,’ Connor declared, watching a determined line of ants marching up the leg of their table and spilling out to attack any small dot of moisture or crumb of food.

  They had opted for the bar menu and found the food delicious.

  ‘What happened to the power of positive thinking? It’s only a few ants.’

  ‘A few! Have you seen their reserves?’

  Holly looked down. Ants seemed to be coming from every crack in the paved surface around the pool. ‘How do they know?’

  ‘They live here. The whole of Rodrigues is probably undermined by ants’ nests. These guys aren’t stupid, they know where to set up house. They’re probably the best fed ants on earth. Let’s go for a walk.’

  Taking off their shoes, they strolled along the beach. The sand was squeaky soft and made walking difficult in or out of the water. Tepid and crystal clear, the bay looked positively tempting. Outcrops of coral and volcanic rock were clearly visible under the surface but there were plenty of sandy expanses so swimming would not be a problem. Several hundred metres out, a boisterous surf broke over the coral reef but here in the lagoon the water barely raised a ripple. Connor took Holly’s hand. ‘Australia is over there,’ he said, pointing out to sea.

  ‘Five-and-a-half thousand kilometres over there.’

  ‘Yes. But there’s nothing in between. No authority, no prying eyes, nothing but sea.’

  ‘Is that how the drugs will get there? By sea?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘From here?’

  ‘No. From a point midway between here and Mauritius. A rendezvous has been arranged.’

  ‘How much longer will you be involved? I mean, in Mauritius, not just Rodrigues?’

  ‘I’m nearly done, although Australia needs another month to set up.’

  ‘A month!’

  ‘It’s a big operation. I won’t have to stay here that long. It’s all arranged. The drugs leave here in about two weeks. By the time the yacht reaches Australia, Customs will be ready for them. I’ll . . . sorry . . . we’ll head back to Mauritius on Friday if it’s okay with you. We can go home a few days after that.’

  ‘And the treasure?’

  ‘Let’s wait till Justin Parker finds us.’

  Holly stopped and turned to face him. ‘You’re playing with him, aren’t you?’

  Connor’s eyes turned serious. ‘In a way. I want to see what he does. We know he’s involved with Raoul. To what degree is unclear. I don’t like surprises, Holly, especially when dealing with the likes of Monsieur Dulac. Parker thinks we know more about the treasure than he does. I’m expecting him to follow us. If he does, I can eliminate him from the rest of it.’

  ‘Justin doesn’t seem the conspiracy type.’

  Connor shrugged. ‘He probably isn’t. But the prospect of wealth does strange things to people. Don’t forget the Maguire feud. Oh, and speaking of that, I checked out your information on his mother. She is directly descended from Kavanagh’s side of the family. Even if he is half-English, I don’t think we should underestimate Justin Parker.’

  ‘What about your contact here? When will you see him?’

  ‘This afternoon. I’ve arranged to hire a car. It won’t take more than a couple of hours.’

  ‘So you’re planning to disappear again. Thanks very much.’

  Connor squeezed her hand. ‘Just to let you catch up on some beauty sleep.’

  She stepped back from him. ‘Oh no you don’t, Maguire. I already know the guts of it. The time has come to spill the rest.’

  He raised his eyes. ‘You sometimes have the most unbelievable turn of phrase.’

  Holly kept her stare level, a degree of frost appearing.

  Connor returned it unflinchingly. ‘You have the most beautiful nose.’

  ‘Maguire!’ Self-consciously, she rubbed it. ‘Since you are so hell-bent on making life difficult, let’s try a little feminine logic. The drugs are on Rodrigues. You are here making sure the consignment is all it’s cracked up to be. You’ll verify that it’s securely stored, probably go through arrangements for getting it off the island. A man checking on his investment. It would appear strange to Madame Liang if somebody with your reputation didn’t double-check everything. So what you’re doing here, Maguire, is giving a very good impression of a person who trusts no-one and leaves nothing to chance. How am I doing?’

  No answer.

  ‘And just in case anyone’s looking, you have a pet journalist in tow to cover a soon to be highly publicised search for some ancestor’s long-forgotten treasure, which nicely muddies your real reason for being here.’ The truth, as she saw it, suddenly hit her squarely between the eyes. How blind could she have been? This bastard was not even remotely interested in her – no wonder he kept saying it wouldn’t happen again. She was nothing more than a convenient tool being used to achieve some personal objective. Furious at her gullibility, Holly turned on him. ‘Tell me, Maguire, just how low can you get? How much are you prepared to use others for your own selfish ends? That’s me, isn’t it? A bloody red herring.’

  He still didn’t answer, although his eyes warned her to stop.

  Holly didn’t. ‘There’s a third part to this too. Another bit of the puzzle you’ve conveniently overlooked. It’s got something to do with Raoul Dulac. Why else w
ould you hide the real reason for being here? Madame Liang knows why you’re in Mauritius.’ The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. There had to be another reason why Connor was putting on his treasure sideshow.

  He tried to take her arm. ‘Come on,’ he said tightly. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Holly shook him off. ‘You go. I’ll stay.’

  Without a word, he left her standing at the water’s edge.

  The crashing sound had nothing to do with surf pounding on the reef. It was her new-found world coming down around her ears. Connor had been using her. Jesus! What a fool to think that someone like Connor Maguire would be interested in her. She suited his purpose, simple as that. But for what reason? Who was he trying to deceive?

  That day she first approached him, he’d been dining with the Chinese woman and had been positively hostile at her interruption. She’d assumed that it was because he simply didn’t want publicity. But was it? Could it have been a performance for Liang Song’s benefit in case his planned cover-up caused her to suspect another agenda? If so, why? It didn’t make sense.

  Holly walked slowly along the sand.

  Ahead was a rocky point forming one end of the bay. It looked as good a place as any to sit and puzzle it out. She made her way towards it, climbing to a flat, grassy promontory, on the other side of which lay a long, empty sweep of wind-blown beach. The absence of people caused a feeling of complete isolation, a sudden fear that she was totally alone, both physically and emotionally. Finding a sheltered place to sit, Holly stared morosely out to sea.

  An hour later, she was no closer to working it out.

  Madame Liang Song, an established drug dealer, plans to expand her existing activities into Australia. Some secret syndicate is using that fact to try to destroy her international operations.

  Connor Maguire becomes the link. A well-known businessman, he has money, connections and a legitimate trading network.

  There’s no need for an elaborate cover, not on Madame Liang’s behalf at least.

  Liang Song is Raoul Dulac’s mistress.

  Dulac shafted Maguire in a shipping partnership – something Maguire has not forgotten. The French-Mauritian might, or might not, know of the drug deal. Maguire thinks it unlikely but doesn’t rule out the possibility that Raoul and Liang Song are partners in the European side of the business. Justin Parker and Dulac are connected. And Raoul Dulac is after William Maguire’s treasure.