The Eden Legacy dk-4

by Will Adams

  Rebecca didn’t crack easily; she’d have ridden her blues out in time. But while at her lowest ebb, something else had happened, rooted in an incident from the torrid years after her mother had died, during which Rebecca had sought solace in the beds of the local Malagasy boys. Shortly before her sixteenth birthday, she’d realised she was pregnant. Jean-Luc was the most likely father, but he’d denied it furiously, denied even having slept with her. He’d been sufficiently fearful of her father finding out, however, that he’d taken her to an elderly Sakalava witch east of Tulear. She’d spilled hot wax upon Rebecca’s thigh while examining her with a candle. A candle for Christ’s sake! She’d stirred a white powder in a dirty glass of water. It had tasted so bitter that Rebecca had had to hold her nose as she’d chucked it down, but she’d aborted in agony that same night.

  At the end of her first term in Oxford, Rebecca had picked up an abandoned magazine from a bus seat, just for something to read. She’d chanced upon an article about women who’d had botched abortions and then subsequently been unable to conceive. She’d tried to set it aside, but she hadn’t been able to, she’d had to know the worst. Some of the women in the article seemed blase, as though it didn’t impinge on their life-plans, but Rebecca had always yearned for children. She’d gagged suddenly on the remembered wormwood of that poison, had doubled up with cramps so violent that she’d collapsed to the floor of the bus. A passenger two rows back had pulled the emergency cord. In hospital, with trepidation bordering on despair, she’d revealed enough about her situation to a nurse with huge, empathetic eyes for a gynaecologist to be summoned. When she’d learned the news of her own likely barrenness, it had pushed her into something of a tailspin. It being the Christmas holidays by now, she’d taken to her bed, had barely got up for a fortnight. She’d felt gutted. Such an expressive word. It had left her hollow, and she’d needed something, anything, to fill her up again, to give her the sensation of substance. Her landlady, a kindly Caribbean widow, had provided her with a portable black-and-white TV that she’d kept by her bed. She’d watched it all the time, forever adjusting the wire aerial to improve the reception. It had given her an excuse not to think. And gradually, watching day after day, she’d come to realise something that everyone in England took for granted, but which had been alien to her until then. She’d realised what a wonderful thing celebrity was, the respect it commanded, the doors it opened, the insulation it offered. And just like that, her ambition for a career in television had ‘Salaam, Rebecca!’

  She looked up, startled. A man had appeared at her table, beaming warmly down at her, rocking back on his heels. Without his uniform on, it took her a moment to recognise him: Andriama, Tulear’s chief of police. She stared at him in horror. Mustafa was about to arrive with the money, and the kidnappers should already have contacted her. And if any of them saw her talking with this man, it would wreck her chances of getting Adam and Emilia back alive.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I

  Knox arrived at the foot of the steps to find himself in a large room of much the same size and shape as the boathouse above, tall enough that he could only just touch its ceiling with his fingertips. To his immense relief, there were no horrors waiting for him. In fact, the place looked rather dull. A dehumidifier and an air-conditioning unit stood at the far end. There was metal-rack shelving against the near wall, wooden bookshelves against the far, and a spine of processing tables running down the middle, fitted with power-points for computers and other equipment, buttressed by a three-drawer filing cabinet. The top two drawers were empty, but hanging folders in the bottom contained salvage licences, correspondence and contracts with MGS, and a report Emilia had written about her visit to England in which she noted the promises of secrecy she’d exacted from all MGS project members. Knox couldn’t have asked for a better way to explain himself to Rebecca than by bringing her here and giving her this to read.

  He put it back, glanced at the shelves either side of him. He could see the books he’d given Emilia on the treasure fleets and on underwater archaeology, along with rows of other textbooks and printed out articles. But it was the metal shelving that drew him. Most of the racks were empty, awaiting the start of salvage. But there were a dozen or so white plastic tubs, a few boxes too. The first tub contained several handfuls of silver pieces-of-eight; but that was the only sign of the Winterton he found. Everything else was distinctively Chinese or impossible to attribute. Tubs of shattered ceramics sat next to others of rusted nails, ironwork and Ming coins. Elsewhere, several pieces had somehow survived largely intact. Most were rough-and-ready coarse-ware, but two were of a different order altogether. With great care, Knox picked up a blue-and-white bowl, turned it around in his hands. It was as fine a piece of eggshell porcelain as he’d ever seen, let alone handled. And it was flawless, as far as he could tell, without chip or crack, only the very slightest discolouration in the exquisitely painted pomegranates, grapes and lychees that decorated its exterior. One quite similar had sold for over two million dollars at auction a year or so before. Cheung had kept gloating about it, how rich they were all going to be. And here this was, just sitting on a shelf.

  He set it down, picked up an enamelled flask instead, gorgeously decorated with dragons front and back. He walked a little further on. At the end of the shelf, he found an ornately carved wooden box filled with tissue paper. He pulled it aside to expose a fragment of black ceramic. His heart began to race a little as he reached in and carefully picked it up. It was evidently of a kneeling man, though he was missing his head and his feet and much of the left side of his body. A broken stem protruded a millimetre or so from his back. It wasn’t the piece itself that so shook him, however. It was the style of it. Because it didn’t look Chinese at all.

  It looked Chimu.

  II

  Rebecca glared at Andriama, hoping that hostility might send him on his way; but he didn’t even seem to notice as he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down, raised his hand for a waiter, called out for a hot chocolate and a pastry. ‘You’re here early today,’ he said. ‘You stay last night in Tulear, perhaps?’

  Rebecca had passed a police checkpoint on her way in. They were so common in Madagascar, she hadn’t given it a second thought. Yet something in Andriama’s manner made her suspect that this meeting was no accident. ‘I’ve just come from Eden,’ she told him.

  ‘From Eden?’ He pretended surprise. ‘You must have set off early.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You bring me perhaps the blood information for your father and sister? Perhaps that is why you come so early?’ Rebecca had forgotten about that. She rummaged through her bag for the slip of paper Therese had given her, passed it across. Andriama studied it briefly, then frowned in genuine perplexity.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Rebecca.

  Andriama glanced up at her. ‘We find two blood-types on the boat,’ he said. ‘One blood they tell me is woman blood. Two blood they tell me is man blood. I do not understand how they know this blood is man blood and that blood is woman blood, but they assure me-’

  ‘It’s to do with chromosomes,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Andriama. ‘That is what they assure me.’ He set down the paper she’d given him, tapped it significantly. ‘This woman blood matches your sister.’

  ‘But the male blood doesn’t match my father’s?’

  ‘Exact!’ Andriama beamed like a proud teacher. ‘This is strange. I think for sure this will be your father’s blood. It is AB negative blood. According to my doctors, you do not find this AB negative blood at all among Malagasy men. You do not find much in foreigners, either, but never in Malagasy.’

  ‘It’s rare?’

  ‘Yes! Exact! It is rare. It is rare foreigner’s blood.’ He smiled wolfishly, and she saw his shrewdness suddenly, why he’d become a policeman, how he’d made his way up through the ranks. ‘You tell me maybe who it come from, this rare foreigner’s blood?’

  Rebecca shrugged. ‘Pi
erre?’

  Andriama shook his head. ‘No. We know already the blood of Monsieur Desmoulins. This is not it.’

  ‘You know Pierre’s blood?’

  ‘Oh yes. For sure we know Monsieur Desmoulins and his blood.’ He gave her a mischievous smile. ‘He is sometimes our guest after his nights out in Tulear, you know.’ His order arrived. He clapped his hands with delight, plopped four rough sugar-lumps into his hot chocolate, then took a huge bite from his pastry, leaving his lips glossy with icing.

  ‘How about the South Africans who found the boat?’ asked Rebecca. ‘Maybe the blood came from one of them.’

  ‘No. We ask already. Is not them.’

  ‘Eden often has foreign guests,’ said Rebecca. ‘So does Pierre.’

  ‘You will give me perhaps a list of visitors?’

  ‘Of course. Next time I’m in Tulear. Now if you’ll excuse me-’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘No. Not that I can think of.’

  ‘But you are seen in Tulear yourself with a foreigner two nights ago. A tall man. English, I’m told.’

  ‘Daniel?’ For some reason, even the suggestion made Rebecca freeze a little. ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I just am,’ she told him stiffly. ‘That has nothing to do with him. But why all these questions? I thought you believed it was just an accident.’

  Andriama gestured vaguely. ‘I am a mountain man. These nights in Tulear are too hot for me. I cannot sleep. My brain makes circles; it makes patterns. I tell you, I think, that people are sometimes taken for money near here.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’

  ‘Exact! Yes! Kidnapped.’

  ‘But you also said that hadn’t happened with my father and sister. You gave some very good reasons. I forget exactly-’

  ‘Yes. Three reason.’ He held up his thumb. ‘People know your father not have big money.’ Up came his index finger. ‘Why take your father and sister? Kidnappers need someone back home to raise money for them.’ The middle finger. ‘No one receive a ransom demand.’

  ‘That sounds convincing to me.’

  ‘But!’ Andriama spread all his fingers now. ‘What if these kidnappers never mean for your father to pay?’

  Rebecca swallowed. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘What if they mean for you to pay? You are success. You are rich. Your father is proud man, he tells everyone how big success and rich you are. Perhaps these bad peoples hear of this. Perhaps they think, if they take him, you will come home and they will make you pay.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I have heard from them by now?’

  ‘Yes!’ beamed Andriama. ‘You would.’

  There was silence. Rebecca could hear her heart pounding. ‘What are you suggesting?’ she asked, trying to be imperious, but her mouth was so dry that it came out as a treacherous croak.

  ‘I think it is clear exact what I suggest.’ He leaned forward. ‘We find no bodies yet. In a drowning like this, we expect to find bodies by now.’

  Her outrage was genuine. ‘How dare you say that?’

  ‘I sorry.’ He didn’t look it. He dipped another sugarlump into his hot chocolate until it had soaked brown, then he popped it in his mouth and crunched it with evident pleasure between his stubby molars. ‘You visit my good friend Mustafa Habib two nights ago. You stay with him two hour.’

  ‘You’ve been watching me?’ He shook his head to deny her charge. Rebecca frowned. ‘You’re watching Mustafa.’Andriama shook his head again, but his grin betrayed him. She asked: ‘Why are you watching your good friend Mustafa?’

  ‘Is privilege of being police that we are the ones who ask the questions,’ answered Andriama. ‘What you talk about with Mustafa?’

  ‘That’s private.’

  ‘Mustafa very busy man this weekend. He visit people. He ask for money, big money. My people hear whispers that this money is ransom money.’

  ‘I know nothing about any money Mustafa might be raising,’ said Rebecca. ‘I suggest you ask him, not me.’

  Andriama nodded. ‘We will.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Rebecca. ‘If not, I’ll-’

  ‘Sit! Sit!’ he said. ‘Listen: We not like kidnapping in this country. We make it stop, everyone safer. But very difficult to make stop when people pay. It encourage others. So! We pass new laws. You know these laws?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘These laws say is criminal not just to ask money for kidnap, but also to pay money for kidnap. We put people who pay in jail.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ said Rebecca weakly.

  ‘Oh yes, is true.’ He held up his hand, spread his fingers. ‘Five years.’ He dipped more sugar into his chocolate, watched greedily as it turned brown. ‘You know our jails? We have one in Tulear.’ He turned and pointed down one of the nearby streets. ‘I show you, if you wish. They not like English jails, nice, lots of room, bathroom and shower, one television each, doctor, lawyer, family, friends visit every day. Our jails nasty jails. Men, women all together, wash and make shit together.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘A pretty girl like you, I worry for her.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Me? No. I give information, travel information. And is not just jail you must think about. If we know Mustafa collects money, bad peoples know also. Greedy peoples. They think maybe this their chance to make themselves rich. When Mustafa gives you money, they-’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘-they come for you,’ insisted Andriama. ‘Guns, knives. They cut your throat, here to here, for money like this.’

  Rebecca rose to her feet. ‘How dare you talk to me this way!’

  ‘Because I want to help you,’ said Andriama. ‘Tell me what happen and I do everything I can. What chance have you, alone?’ He leaned forward, tapped the tabletop. ‘Listen-these kidnappers watch what you do. Already they see you talk with me today. They think now for sure we work together.’ He spread his hands to show her the obviousness of what he was saying. ‘You have nothing to lose.’

  ‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Rebecca. She walked unsteadily away, hands on her head. What a mess this was becoming! She consulted her watch. Nine fifty, still no sign of Mustafa or the kidnappers. Andriama was finishing his pastry, watching her closely. She hurried for her Jeep, her nerves jangling. A stone had got into her right shoe and now pressed against her heel. She tried to pick it out but lost balance, had to put her hand against the wall.

  A phone began to ring nearby. Rebecca looked around. Some Madagascans eked out a tenuous living renting out their mobiles. One such man was sitting at a school-desk on the pavement, fanning himself with an old newspaper. He had no chin at all, as though a team of crack surgeons had cut out his jawbone and stitched his Adams apple directly back to his lower lip. Rebecca watched with a sense of premonition as he answered his phone, listened for a few moments, then held it out to her. ‘C’est pour vous,’ he said.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I

  Knox had too much to do to spend the morning in the boathouse basement, but he was still in something of a daze as he went back up the steps, locked the steel door then hid it again behind its plasterboard facade.

  First things first: he was anything but an authority on Chimu ceramics. He certainly couldn’t make a determination of so small and damaged a fragment with any confidence. And even if it was Chimu, it didn’t mean it had come from the same wreck as the Chinese ceramics. It could theoretically have come from some other wreck, or even just have been brought here by a collector, and then been lost.

  But the chances of that…

  Knox had occasionally come across the Chimu while working as an Egyptologist. The Early Chimu-better known as the Moche-had been pyramid builders too, and so once or twice he’d been asked about the possibility of cultural crossover. On such occasions, he’d usually smiled politely and pointed out that the Early Chimu had built their pyramids well over a thousand years after the Egyptians. More to the poi
nt, they’d lived in Peru.

  It was one thing to imagine a Chinese ship sailing west from the Cape to within sight of South America, then turning back. It was another altogether to have them heading south down the east coast and then reaching the Pacific through the Straits of Magellan a hundred years before Magellan did. Yet that was what this fragment implied.

  The Chimu of the black ceramics were a much later people than their pyramid-building forebears. They’d first come to notice in the early tenth century, but it had only been in the fourteenth that they’d become a major regional power. They’d worshipped the moon and the sea, had sacrificed their own children. When Francisco Pizarro and the Spaniards had sailed south from Panama on their voyage of discovery to Peru, it had been off the port city of Tumbez that they’d first anchored; and though the Chimu had themselves recently been absorbed into the Inca Empire, Tumbez had still been in essence a Chimu city.