The Gardener

by Tony Masero

  “Understood. Is this inside an urbanized zone?”

  “From our reading, ground around the construction area has been cleared. It’s a large area. Lot of rubble, construction vehicles. Looks like a major development. Some buildings in the vicinity. Few side roads. Unsure of occupancy. That’s all we have right now.”

  “Okay. Obliged, Eagle. Tartan out.”

  Chayne picks up speed. The Forth Road Bridge ahead. Got you, you bastards. I’m coming.

  The traffic slows for the crossing. Thank God there’s no toll this side. Impatiently, he hustles slower vehicles aside with his main beam flashing. The great span of metal flicks by overhead. Weaves between traffic. Hits the outside lane. Foot down. Passing supports beating a rhythm of echoed speed. That’s when he hears the siren. Checks the clock. Ninety-five mph. Oh, shit!

  They pull him off on the hard shoulder at the bridge exit. Traffic police in a checkered car. Two of them. One gets out. Cap on. Slots a riot stick in his belt and comes back to him. The other one is checking on the radio.

  He drops the window.

  “Is this your car, sir?” Clear blue eyes. Red hair. Freckled skin white as milk. Rolling Scots accent.

  “My employer’s. I have permission to use it.” Chayne doesn’t have time for this.

  “Do you know the speed limit crossing the bridge, sir?” Bland and by rote.

  “I do.”

  “Do you realize our monitors registered you driving at over ninety miles per hour? That was some dangerous driving back there.”

  “Sorry about that. I have an emergency.”

  “And what might that be, sir?”

  “Just had word my wife’s about to deliver. I need to get her to hospital.”

  His lapel radio squawks. Turns away. Mumbles. Police talk.

  “I’d like you to get out of the vehicle now, please, sir.” His tone is a little harder. Backs away. Cautious. What is this? His partner is coming back as well. Striding. Purposeful. “Hands on the bonnet. I’d like to give you the once over.”

  Lucky, he left the weapons in the boot. Hands around the collar. Underarm. Pockets. Inside leg. Swift. Neat. “That’s fine, sir. We’d like you to come down to the station with us if you don’t mind. Just a few questions.”

  His partner circles the Cherokee. “Open the boot for us, will you?” he says. Big fellow. Older. Boss man.

  The curious are slowing down alongside them. Most race past oblivious, heading for the city but the slower ones on the nearside are the watchers. Heavy goods trucks wheeze as they are forced to brake. It doesn’t distract the two policemen.

  “You want to tell me what this is about?” asks Chayne.

  “Just open the boot, sir.” Stone faced. Watchful.

  “Okay. No problem.” Reaches for the keys in the ignition. Comes out over the car door, elbow raised. Hard back. Hits the young policeman heavily in the face. Feels the nose flatten.

  “Oh, fuck!” Face in hands, the cop doubles over.

  Chayne is already moving. He is heading for the older man, whose eyes are still checking over the vehicle.

  The man reacts quickly. Riot stick out. Moves to meet him. That is what he wants. Left arm blocks the stick. Steps inside, hand under the bulky chin. Uses his forward movement. Curves him over backwards off balance. Reaping right leg. The policeman goes down hard. Hits the ground like a bag of cement. Chayne is on him. Wired. All steel now.

  “You’re lucky, pal.” Hits him hard. Palm on the forehead. Bounces the skull off the tarmac. Eyes roll. He is gone.

  The redhead is on his way. Mace gun at the ready. His eyes are streaming, though. Hard to see. Blood pouring from his broken nose. Chayne rolls sideways. Collects the fallen riot stick as he goes. He is up in one movement. Swings. There is a resounding thwack as the loaded stick connects. The boy bounces off the side of the Cherokee and drops. Chayne reaches down and drags him clear of the wheels.

  Into the Cherokee. Sparks the ignition. No room to pull out. The curious are blocking the road. Wide eyes and open mouths. He takes off along the hard shoulder. Ahead lies the parked police car. Blocking his way. Rams the rear. The Cherokee growls, bull-bars shunting the car aside. He is back on the motorway with the sound of sirens whining in the distance.

  Fast lane. Foot down. They’ll be blocking him ahead.

  Side road. Swerves across lanes creating a honking squeal of brakes behind. Down twisting roads. Through narrow, tree laden village streets beneath the bulk of the great bridge rising above. Antique shops. Newsagents. The quiet reserve of a tourist town. The road widens. Parking area. Trips around the island. Ice-cream stall. He slots the Cherokee in beside an overblown caravan with German number plates.

  Casual now. Take the holdall from the boot. Act like a tourist. Lean on the handrail, look at the choppy gray spread of the Firth of Forth. Dross floating on the water. Oil ships bound for the refinery docks upriver. Fat seagulls shitting. Yeah, nice.

  He needs a car. There are plenty here. Rows of them. The owners taking a drink in the waterside pubs. Nothing too ostentatious. Something that will do the job. Sees the VW Polo parked alone, to one side in the shadow of a tree. Black. Small. Insignificant.

  Chayne knows what to do. They trained him well. Opens the holdall. Surreptitiously takes out the knife. Uses the blade. He is in. Behind the wheel. Breaks open the steering well. Ignition. And away.

  He drives deeper into the outskirts of the city. Gray stone walls and overhanging oaks shedding the last of their leaves. Finds a quiet suburban street and parks. He breathes long and slow. Calming himself. Now what the hell was that all about?

  Taps in Clem’s mobile number.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh, hello, Mary. Not a good time, I’m afraid.”

  “You got company?”

  “Yes. The police are here. We’re having some trouble. Hold on, I’ll just go outside, you’re breaking up a bit.” He waits. Door closes. Feet shuffle. She is back. “Are you all right, Chayne? It’s bad. Oh, Chayne. So bad.” He hears her voice cracking.

  “What’s happened?”

  “They sent Robert’s finger. They cut off his finger and sent it to Charles.” She breaks off with a sob.

  “Clem, don’t worry, I’m on to them. Keep it together. Now tell me. Why are the police after me? I was just pulled over and threatened with a hike down to the station.”

  “They seem to think you’re involved in the kidnapping. I’ve tried to convince them otherwise, but they’re treating me like some kind of irrational mother with hysterics. Mind you, I suppose I am right now. I’m probably not making a very good job of things.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just so long as I know.”

  “But where are you? Do you know where Robert is?”

  “I’m close. Very close.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell the police? Let them take over?”

  “Clem, I can do this. I can do it quicker and with intent. They’ll be buggering around with armed response teams and a lot of hostage negotiation nonsense. They’re bound by the law, Clem. I’m not. Trust me; it’s what I’m trained for.”

  He hears the change in her voice. A toughening. “I do trust you, Chayne. Just bring him back to me safe.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He’s still on his way to try and make a deal with the terrorists. He thinks he can buy Robert back from the Africans with the cargo.”

  Chayne thinks there is nil chance of that happening. He says nothing.

  “I miss you,” she murmurs. He can hear the vulnerability in her voice.

  “Stay tight, Clem. I’ve got to go now. I’ll let you know when I have him back.”

  He hears her tears before he breaks the connection.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  He is flapping a wide brimmed panama against the heat.

  Florid man. Badly shaven. Leaning indolently against a large Royal Air Maroc sign announcing its welcome to Agadir. White shirt, cream ja
cket. Baggy. Loose looking. The fat gives him an avuncular air, but the eyes say different.

  “Mr. McBraith? I’m Daniel Caine. So pleased to meet you.” A tight, fay voice. Strongly flavored with a Belfast accent. Offers a limp hand.

  McBraith takes it disdainfully. Feels the dampness. “This is my secretary, Anne Longridge.”

  “Well, such a delight, my dear.”

  Anne slips on sunglasses and inspects him as if a specimen under glass. “I’m sure.”

  Caine ignores her acidity, brightens, and throws off his languor. “Now then, people. Your London office told me all about it. Every little detail. So don’t worry about a thing. Everything’s in hand. We have transport waiting outside and we’re ready to go.”

  They follow him out of Arrivals and Morocco hits them in the face. Hot wind gusting. Eighty degrees of chergui blowing down from out of the east. Exhaust fumes. The squabbling babble of jellabah-clad hordes. Older women in black. Only their eyes showing. Red taxis, yellow signs written above in Arabic stack bumper to bumper. Beggars and touts. Whining and shouting their wares in a variety of languages. Drawn to the sight of fresh white skin.

  Caine shouts at them harshly in guttural Moroccan Arabic and they dissolve, acknowledging his awareness of their game.

  “It should be cooler this time of year,” fusses Caine apologetically, rubbing his face with a handkerchief. “Bit unseasonal, I’m afraid. But the temperature will drop by the coast. Will you go straight there, or to the hotel first? Freshen up?” He casts a sympathetic glance at Anne. “Must be sticky, um?”

  “No,” says McBraith. “We’ll go straight there.”

  Caine flounces a little. “Well, all right then, as you will. This way. Your carriage awaits.” He directs them to a battered Mercedes parked outside a self-service Alimentation Générale. “This is called a grand-taxi, people. It’s the way we get from town to town. Your driver is Hassan. Come on, sweet boy, open the door for these dears. They’ve come a long way.” The young man is pretty, clean-shaven and sipping a can of 7-Up. A flash of white teeth and he is quickly by their side, taking Anne’s overnight bag in a single, smooth movement. He looks at her winningly. “You very pretty madam,” he murmurs. She slides the shades down her nose with a forefinger and eyes him up and down over the rim. She smiles. He has made a hit.

  “Now, Hassan. Behave yourself.” Caine admonishes with mock severity. “He’s such a lad, you know. You have to watch them every minute, dear. Be in your knickers quicker than a rat up a drainpipe.” He giggles.

  Anne raises disbelieving eyes skyward at the analogy.

  McBraith snarls. “Come on, let’s get on with it.” He slides into the backseat next to Anne.

  Soon, they are speeding down the coast road. Hassan driving casually. One hand on the steering wheel. Radio playing a backwash of chabbi music. Cool boy. Trying to impress Anne. Rosary beads swing from the cracked rear view mirror. They head south, past the tail of the mountains. Through arid lands. An all-encompassing brownness. Deserted except for the odd string of camels and their minder. Heavy trucks hauling phosphates up the road towards Agadir raise trailing clouds of dust behind them.

  “Where is the ship now?” asks McBraith, swiping at the dust coming in through the open window with his hand. He can taste the grit between his teeth.

  Caine turns from his seat next to Hassan. Pushes his sweaty face nearer. “It’s parked off the coast at a place called Tarfaya. There is a shore-to-ship radio phone arranged for you, so you’ll be able to talk directly to the fellows on board.”

  “Good. You’ve arranged accommodation down there, I hope?”

  “Not to worry, it shall be done, dear boy.”

  The air is blowing cooler now. The sun arcing lower on the horizon. Nightfall. McBraith feels the gnawing in his stomach. It’s not hunger. His mind tosses the possibilities. Can he do it? Robert sticks in his mind. Overriding the calculations. Robert. My son.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Adula lies sated.

  The young herdsman has given her much pleasure. They lie naked together on rumpled silk sheets. Only the moonlight shows her the outline of his sleeping body. Spread like an ink stain on white paper in the raw light. Her hand reaches out and strokes the smooth skin of his back. There is ridged muscle there beneath the surface. She traces a line, remembering.

  He stirs. She stops momentarily. What a man he was.

  She slides off the bed and slips on a robe. Moves quietly into the living room. Picks up a pack of cigarettes and goes out into the garden. She sits on a lounger, crooks a leg and lights a long filter tip. Oh, but she is sore from him. But what a pleasant ache.

  There is a troubled thought in the back of her mind now. Maybe he is right. Maybe the dream is true. How can a man be so passionate unless there is some special purpose in it? He has touched her heart with his desire and confidence.

  But he is a cow handler. A peasant from a hut. How can she introduce him to her European friends? But then she remembers and warms at the thought of his touch. There, for once, she can forget the restrictions of status. In his strong arms, he carries her and not she him. It fills her with a great sense of release. Her heart is full.

  Already, she realizes, she is thinking long term. How stupid. This is one night. Might it all pall after a few weeks or months? Can she be falling in love to think this way? Impossible. It would be such a nice revenge on her father, though. His daughter with a farmhand. That would be most agreeable.

  There is a girlish delight in her now. Her mind rambles on, dreaming. Planning. A wedding. A feast. Dresses. Dancing. Such a show.

  Adula falls asleep on the lounger in a cloud of almost adolescent fantasy.

  Ndomo dreams again. The dark one. He is alive in the red light. It is running down his body. Beating in his brain. He feels his eyes bursting like eggs in his head. The curse haunts him. Shadows him. He runs but gets nowhere. Where has she gone? He is awake with a start. Confused. Where am I? What is this place? Remembers. Adula. Where is she? He feels the bed sheets. Hands searching for a sign of her. Some warmth to show she was really with him. But the sheets are cold. His heart shrinks. He knows in a moment. The sad truth. She will be taken from him.

  Restlessly, he tumbles into sleep again. In the background, the sound of parakeets squabbling in the garden.

  Dawn light. Ndomo wakes groggy with disturbed sleep. There is a weight upon him. He looks up. It is Adula astride him. Her head back, eyes barely open in inverted crescents of white. He feels her rhythm. She bends. Kisses him slowly. One lingering, intense look. Her lips are like soft cushions. Strings of her braided hair brush his face. Ndomo marvels at her body. He adores its voluptuous softness. Even the faint white stretch marks that scar her ample buttocks. She is a magnificent woman. So big, so queenly. A broad chest and heavy breasts that sway before him now, tipped darkly by hardened nipples the size of walnuts.

  Ndomo hears her breathing. Feels the breath from her nostrils. It comes from deep inside, part exhalation, and part grunt. He recognizes the sound. It is an old sound. A village sound. It is the voice of women at dance. The Virgin Dance. That shuffling, shunting rhythm that young girls complete in a great circle on the eve of a wedding. It excites him. He joins the beat, rising to meet her in time with her motion.

  The beat quickens. They move in unison to the drum of their blood. She cries out. Loud, gasping cries that fill the room. Adula collapses, slides off him breathlessly. Ndomo has not finished. He is on her. Incensed. She lies there dreamily as he bucks like a rabbit upon her.

  “Adula! What is this?” The voice is sharp. It is her mother, standing at the foot of the bed. “Get off her, you black monkey!”

  Ndomo turns in shock. Falls aside, scurries over the edge of the bed to hide himself. Calmly, Adula sits up, draws her legs under her and pulls pillows across her nakedness.

  “What are you doing with this boy, daughter? What is he, a house servant? An errant boy? Are you full of madness?” Her mother is angry. Brow
s stitched. Eyes wide and red rimmed.

  “This is Ndomo Boma, mother. The man who has dreamed. He is a herdsman and farmer.”

  Mother raises eyes skyward. “I don’t believe this. You are in bed with a boy because of a dream? You are wasting yourself with a farm boy. Are you stupid, girl?”

  She shrugs and lays her trump card. “It was the wish of my father and Kamami Utu that we should meet.”

  Ndomo sees that her mother is confused.

  “This is the first I have heard of such a thing. I am told nothing anymore.” Her frown deepens at the slight. “Anyway, your father is coming. Dress yourself, he wishes to speak with you.” She claps her hand and a young maid appears. “Help my daughter prepare. She must be made ready for His Excellency.” Turns crossly to Ndomo, shivering beside the bed. “You, boy! Cover yourself. You are not on the farm now.”

  Ndomo hurries to obey. Awed by the woman’s towering anger.

  Omaluli Mtubu enters in a rush. His bodyguards spread silently along the corridor outside the apartment. The warlord’s presence seems to fill the room. Wild eyes traverse, taking all in. There is a feverish urgency about him. Adula looks across at him calmly, the maid still wrapping her turban. Mother and daughter bow. “You are up early, father,” observes Adula coolly.

  “I will speak with you, daughter.” He turns to the others. “Leave us.” Spots Ndomo, trying to remain insignificant in a corner as he struggles into his trousers. “What are you?” asks Omaluli imperiously.

  Mother draws herself up primly. The font of all knowledge. “He is the boy you commanded our daughter to meet. He has dreams apparently.”

  “I ordered this?” Omaluli remembers nothing. “What are you talking about?”

  Adula, smiling broadly. “He is the man I am to marry, father. Do you not remember? It was discussed with Chancellor Utu.”

  Omaluli shrugs. There have been many other things on his mind. He waves a dismissive hand. “Go with the rest of them,” he tells Ndomo. “Adula, come sit. I will speak with you.”