by Peter Tonkin
There were several cases of drink on the table – beer, whisky, vodka by the look of things.
And there was a bed.
‘You want to make a game of it?’ Van asked the others. ‘Or just go for broke?’
‘Fuck it,’ said the prizefighter. ‘Let’s just get our wicks dipped. We can maybe play some games later. Before we say goodnight, ladies.’
‘OK,’ agreed Van. He began unbuttoning his bullet-riddled shirt. ‘I’ll take the sleepy bitch on the table. I got some really excellent ways to wake her up.’
Nellie’s new crew took the alcohol over to the desk and began pulling out bottles, twisting them open and sucking it down, watching proceedings with every sign of enjoyment. Van lifted the dopey, disorientated Celine on to the table, laid the faintly protesting woman on her back. Pulled her knees apart. He leaned forward between her splayed thighs, tore open her blouse and reached back to lift her skirt.
Ado gave a whimper as one of the three men from the lead truck pulled her towards the bed.
The physical absence of her two companions washed over Anastasia like a douche of iced water. But it didn’t chill her as much as the overwhelming need to do something. To do anything. To somehow take control of the situation and give her friends a breathing space. Buy them some time if nothing else . . .
There were only ten of them, she thought suddenly. Ten men. She had pulled a train of ten the night Simian Artillery’s lead singer Boris had done a Kurt Cobain and blown his brains out in the toilet at the Petrovka Hotel after that last, disastrous concert in Red Square. But Simian Artillery were no Nirvana – and nobody but Anastasia had noticed that his brains were all over the washroom ceiling. She had pulled a train of ten that night and lived to tell the tale.
‘What are you,’ she suddenly heard herself demanding. ‘Country and Western fans? Choirboys? Haven’t you ever had a real rock chick?’
She tore her bra free as they turned, wide-eyed to watch her. Undid her belt and pulled down her jeans and panties to her knees in one brutal motion, then straightened as they fell to her ankles, flaunting the leopard tattoo at them.
‘You haven’t lived until you’ve pulled a train with a heavy metal maiden!’ she snarled.
As she challenged them, she stood on the heels of her trainers one at a time, squeezing them off her feet while the man simply gaped. She stepped out of the left leg. Kicked the left shoe at the prizefighter. Working on reflex, he dropped his Smith & Wesson on the bed and caught it. Stepped out of the right one. Kicked that with the last of her clothing at the man who called himself Van. The bundle sailed past his naked shoulder and hit Nellie’s new captain as he came in through the office door.
‘Fuck!’ said Van, and swept Celine off the table into a bundle on the floor. ‘You want it? Let’s go for it!’
‘All right,’ shouted Anastasia. ‘There’s plenty for all of you. Just form an orderly queue . . .’
Van reached for her. Caught her under her arms. Lifted her off her feet. Slammed her down on the table and . . .
‘Wait!’ called the captain. ‘Wait just a goddamn minute!’
Van swung round with a snarl that belonged in a zoo. ‘What the fuck . . .’
As the jeans had wrapped themselves round the captain’s face, so the oysters had fallen out of the pocket. He came past Van now and looked down at her, his eyes ablaze with something beyond simple lust. He brandished the oysters in her face so wildly that the huge black pearl fell out and rolled across the table like an eyeball.
‘Where did you get these?’ snarled the captain. ‘Tell me where you got these!’
Events were going too fast for Anastasia now. She blinked up at the two faces hovering like a pair of moons above her. She opened her mouth to ask ‘What?’ But she never said the word.
Van’s naked torso exploded, spraying her bare body with boiling blood. He toppled sideways. A brutal hammering sound filled the room, beating on her ears as though someone were driving spikes into her skull. The captain span away into a sudden cloud of grey smoke. His face appeared to have fallen off. Anastasia rolled sideways, dropped on to the floor beside Celine. Clutched the shaking woman’s head and shoulders to her like a mother protecting her baby. Looked up, her eyes wide with horror and wonder. The noise stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
Esan stood in the doorway. The AK was smoking in one hand, its butt in his armpit. The M16 was in the other, also steadied under his arm. His lips were moving but Anastasia couldn’t hear what he was saying. A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped, screaming with shock. The sound of her own distress seemed to unblock her ears, unfreeze her mind. She looked up. It was Ado.
‘The boat,’ said Ado, decisively. ‘Run for the boat.’
TWELVE
Kingfisher
‘This is a waste of my time,’ said Robin quietly to Richard. ‘I don’t even know why I’m here.’
‘In the room or in the country?’ he breathed back with a wry, lopsided grin.
‘Take your pick,’ she mouthed, failing to see the funny side.
The pair of them looked around the table, with Minister Ngama at the head. They were in one of the conference rooms beside his breathtaking office in the new complex of buildings that stood where the shanty town had stood, three years earlier, on the south-east outskirts of the city.
The tall window behind Ngama showed the delta and the sea beyond it outlined against a hard blue early-morning sky. Shipping came and went busily across the bay. Only Caleb Maina’s ex-command was immobile, tethered to the dockside, waiting to be towed into dry dock for repair, sitting oddly just behind the shoulder of the man who sacked its commander. Its slim grey bows like the point of a dagger waiting to stab him in the back.
In the room, the ministers’ team of lawyers, geologists, oil men, shipping experts and civil servants sat down the long table to their right. Max, Richard, Robin and their teams of geologists, oil experts, lawyers and shipping men sat down the other. On the glassy mahogany board in front of them lay the contracts they were negotiating for the extraction and shipping of the Benin Light crude oil which was one of the country’s greatest assets. In another room, no doubt – or in this room at another time – the men on the Heritage Mariner/Bashnev-Sevmash side would be replaced by teams from Shell, BP, Total, Texas Oil, Exxon or Chevron Conoco to name but a few.
But Robin’s point held good. Richard and the others from Heritage Mariner understood the negotiations as well as she did. Richard’s signature as CEO carried as much weight as hers did. She did not need to countersign anything. She did not need to add anything. She did not need to be here at all.
She was beginning to wonder why Julius Chaka had included her in his invitation in the first place. For he was not a man given to pointless courtesies or empty gestures. He knew the Mariners well enough to realize she did not have to be included – like Irina Lavrov – as a necessary extra to keep Richard happy. And yet he had specifically invited her.
Why?
‘Excuse me, Minister,’ she said. She stood up, smiled winningly as he nodded and smiled back. Then she walked out.
By the time she reached the main door of the building she was feeling listless and bored. She had moved on impulse, as though she could just drive up to the president’s office and ask the man himself. But the instant the door to the conference room closed behind her, she saw the impossibility of such a course of action. What she had managed to achieve was to get herself smartly to a loose end. She was not used to having nothing to do, and she wondered briefly whether she should turn round. Even a tedious meeting where she was merely an observer was preferable to being at a loose end.
But the feeling was only fleeting. She changed mental gear, brought out her feminine side, and began to plan a day of relaxation, with a little sightseeing, perhaps. And shopping. But she was dressed for business, not pleasure, so when her car arrived, summoned by the security man at the door, she asked to be taken back to her hotel first.
Changed
from her formal two-piece suit into a light dress and re-accessorized from head to toe, Robin was standing in the reception of the Granville Royal Lodge an hour later when Bonnie Holliday appeared. If anything, the doctor of African Studies looked more lovely than ever. Her cinnamon skin was positively glowing. Her eyes were sparkling. She seemed to be dancing rather than walking as she swept across towards the security gate and the huge glass doors that led outside. When she saw Robin, she hesitated, then crossed towards her. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Just off somewhere? I thought you were stuck in meetings all day with Richard.’
‘I walked out,’ said Robin. ‘They don’t need me. I thought I’d try some retail therapy. Sightseeing maybe.’
‘I’m off on an adventure,’ Bonnie whispered as though sharing a wicked secret. ‘Want to come along for the ride?’
‘An adventure, huh?’ Robin was amused. Intrigued.
‘Surely. Captain Caleb is going to give me a ride in his command. There’ll be a car here in a moment. I guess he wouldn’t mind if you came too.’
‘I thought Caleb’s command was tied up waiting to go in for repair,’ said Robin, surprised.
‘His other command. Not his corvette, his Kingfisher,’ said Bonnie, as though this explained everything.
‘What’s that?’ Robin’s eyebrows rose.
‘It’s a fast patrol vessel. Folks have been calling it Shaldag?’ Bonnie raised her intonation as though asking a question. ‘But it’s also called a Kingfisher which I reckon is prettier. I don’t know if that’s a translation or just another designation. But it’s the floating equivalent of an American Corvette. The General Motors Stingray roadster Corvette. And I for one would kill for a ride in one of those!’
Robin laughed and gave in. How could she resist? She looked across at the reception desk but it was empty. She fleetingly wondered whether she should leave a message telling Richard where she was off to, but Bonnie’s ride pulled up outside and she stopped hesitating. The two girls left arm in arm, chatting excitedly, bound for the riverside docking facility where Caleb kept his other command.
Ten minutes after their car pulled away from outside the big glass double doors, another smart staff car pulled up and Colonel Laurent Kebila climbed out of it. He came in through the doors, setting off the security alarm without raising an eyebrow. Andre Wanago, the hotel manager, answered his peremptory ring on the service bell in person.
‘Captain Robin Mariner,’ the Colonel rapped impatiently. ‘I understand she is here. Please inform her that I want her at once. I have orders to take her directly to the president himself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Andre. ‘She’s just gone out with Dr Holliday. I saw them leave on the security monitor but I have no idea where they were heading.’
Colonel Kebila slapped his hand on to the desk top with a sound like a pistol shot, turned on his heel and set off the security alarm once more as he strode angrily out to his car.
Bonnie’s Kingfisher fast patrol boat, known to the others as the Shaldag, was considerably larger than a Corvette Stingray sports car – to begin with it was nearly thirty metres long – but it was just as sleek and pretty to look at. Maybe five metres in the beam – slim-hipped and racy. Caleb Maina did not raise an eyebrow when not one woman but two climbed out of the limo he had sent for Bonnie. His main purpose was to show off his baby, and as far as he was concerned, the bigger the audience the better. Furthermore, he thought with a secret smile, having two such lovely guests aboard would go a long way towards restoring his reputation in the place that mattered most to him – in the eyes of his crew. He met Bonnie and Robin at the head of the gangplank, therefore, and showed them up to the flying bridge at once.
Robin, a little disorientated, found herself back to within a hundred yards of the place she had left less than ninety minutes earlier. But what a difference the passage of time and the slight change in location made! The wind came fragrantly off the bay, waves chuckled and tumbled. Lines tapped in the gathering breeze. In the distance ships hooted, their motors grumbling. The sun beat down like molten copper. She stood, drinking it all in, with her back to the little helm and engine telegraph, looking up at the tall window behind which Richard was poring over the contract. In which, weirdly, was reflected the very point of the crippled corvette Otobo’s forecastle head. She stepped back, looking across the restless water to the real thing. There was a bustle of activity all over the crippled vessel. ‘Shouldn’t you be aboard her when they tow her into dry dock?’ she asked without thinking.
‘Apparently not,’ answered Caleb shortly. ‘Minister Ngama has more competent officers available . . .’
‘His nephew, for instance,’ chimed in Bonnie, her knowledge unexpectedly far-reaching; her tone tinged with contempt.
‘Besides,’ added Caleb easily. ‘Mr Asov is expediting matters, supplying spares and experts – and footing the bill into the bargain. His people will almost certainly be aboard when she gets under way. And in any case, Lieutenant Jonah Ngama is quite competent, Bonnie . . . I told you . . .’ Caleb’s voice sank to an intimate whisper. Robin turned in time to see a look pass between them that suddenly made her feel, in the telling French phrase, de trop. De trop and then some, in fact. But only for a moment. For this was a bridge, not a bedroom. Lieutenant Sanda stuck his head up from the command bridge below. ‘All in order, Captain.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sanda. Cast off fore and aft. I’ll take her out. Warn the men that we’ll be going to full speed as soon as we’re clear.’
A moment later, Captain Caleb was steering the sleek, powerful vessel out of her berth and into the broad, brown outflow of the river. ‘Hold on tight, ladies,’ he ordered, and opened the throttles full.
Robin had never come across acceleration like it in a vessel this size. Richard kept a blood-red cigarette go-faster launch called Marilyn down in the HM experimental shipyard near Southampton, along with the Katapult multihulls with which they regularly won the Fastnet yacht race – and Marilyn could go from idle to full ahead in a matter of minutes. But the Kingfisher simply flew. From slow ahead to fifty knots in fifty seconds, she calculated wonderingly. It was astonishing – she was glad she had taken Caleb at his word and got a firm hold of the guard rail.
Caleb took the patrol boat racing in a wide arc across the mouth of the river. ‘We’ll follow a normal patrol pattern,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t want to be accused of joyriding . . .’ Within ten minutes she was skimming beside the southern swell of the delta, then he took her on down towards the oil platforms and out towards the ocean proper, before swinging back and racing in towards the river mouth once again. The wind battered them, counteracting the fierceness of the noonday sun, but other than that it was a smooth ride. And surprisingly free of spray. The Kingfisher sat high and steady. She seemed to slide through both the outwash of the river and the waves it generated as it battled the incoming tide. Not to mention the bigger surfs that came in off the Atlantic to the south of the river, where the continental shelf placed a wall in front of the deep-ocean swells and drove them to heights that might have flattered Hawaii. The hull sat so high in the water that Caleb was also able to disregard the shallows that had proved fatal to Otobo yesterday, and skim across the waters that the Zubr had floated above.
Something about these thoughts made Robin turn and look back. She squinted to see more clearly as the Kingfisher flashed up into the mouth of the river. It was hard to be sure at this distance, but she was suddenly certain. In the hour or so of the voyage so far, Caleb’s old command Otobo had started moving. That’s quick, she thought, even for Max and his people. As she watched, Otobo limped forward and began to swing unhandily out into the bay. As the corvette’s long, slim hull came round it was possible to see a couple of tugs working her head with long tow-ropes to her forecastle, and a hump of dirty white water at her stern which showed where her one propeller was churning, trying to hold her stern steady. ‘Hey, Captain,’ she called without thinking. ‘Your Otobo’s under way . . .’
‘Interested,’ he said. ‘And this way I can get a look at what’s happening.’
The Kingfisher ran back across the bay at the better part of a mile a minute. Robin walked forward to stand at Caleb’s right shoulder – Bonnie had already appropriated his left. The three of them watched through the low windshield as Otobo continued to swing out from the dockside. Caleb spoke into a microphone stalk above the basic slave monitors beside the helm. ‘You see that, Sanda?’ he asked in English.
‘I see it, Captain,’ the lieutenant answered in the same language. ‘Whoever’s in command is swinging her out far too tight and fast. The tide’s making pretty powerfully now and it’ll be pushing her back like nobody’s business. They’d have been far better to leave her safe and snug in her berth. She certainly won’t have liked that tight a turn from a standing start even with both shafts functioning. And God knows what the captain of that starboard tug thinks he’s doing.’
‘You’d think the chief engineer would have something to say . . .’ mused Caleb, frowning. ‘He must have pushed the engines right up into the red. Look at that mountain of foam at her stern.’
He was talking to himself, but Sanda still answered, ‘Not if Ngama’s boy Jonah’s on the bridge. No one’ll say a word. Not after what happened to us.’
‘I agree. But even so . . .’
If Caleb had a further point to make, thought Robin, he never stated it. For just at that moment, disaster overtook the corvette. The starboard towline parted, allowing the tug to jump free. The bow swung left at once, threatening to collide with the tug on that side – perhaps even crush it between the corvette and the dock – it was hard to be certain from this angle. Whoever was on the bridge must have panicked, Robin reckoned, and pushed the engines further still into the red, trying to power his way out of disaster, while in the terrible grip of the inrushing tide. And it wasn’t the shaft that gave way this time. It was the engines themselves. A jet of black smoke billowed out of the rear exhaust system, making it look for a terrible instant as though the whole of the aft section had simply blown open. Robin shouted with shock. A flat detonation like a distant bomb blast echoed across the water. Caleb spat something in Matadi. A curse of some kind. The wind snatched the smoke away, revealing that the hull was still intact – but showing a range of figures simply leaping overboard. More smoke billowed.
