This Eden

by Ed O’Loughlin

  Beside her, Michael reached to the floor, retrieved a pack of cigarettes. He was smoking now, too, though he said he disliked it.

  He took out two cigarettes, passed one to her, picked up a lighter. His other arm was around her bare shoulders, keeping them warm.

  I want to give Towse the slip, he said.

  Why?

  She did too. But she wanted to hear him say it.

  I still don’t know who he is. And I still don’t know what he wants from me.

  She turned to him, slid a leg over his. Her movement disturbed the carefully nested blankets, letting in cold air. She shivered against him.

  I don’t know why he wants you either.

  Don’t you?

  She slid her leg off him.

  What do you mean by that?

  He sent you to get me, in Palo Alto. I don’t believe his story about promising Alice to take care of me.

  I don’t know any more than you do, Michael.

  You know who you really are. I don’t. You never told me. You said it would be unprofessional.

  She smoked for a while, staring up at the ceiling, at the lights from the passing traffic. She had done this as a girl, in the deep Irish countryside. There, the lights came less often. She had always been alone.

  She tossed the stub of her cigarette at the ashtray. This time, she missed.

  My name is Aoife Caoilfhionn McCoy. I grew up near a small country town in Ireland. Kildare. After college, I joined the police. But not the police in the south, where I come from. The police in Northern Ireland. It’s different up there. They still have terrorists. Not like before, in the Troubles, but plenty of gangsters and wannabes. If you’re police, and they find out who you are, they might come after you where you live. So I kept my job secret from my friends in the south. Even from my parents. They wouldn’t have approved, anyway. They never did . . . I suppose the secrecy was part of the adventure for me. And not long after I joined the police I got headhunted by intelligence. I had a gift, apparently. I thought, this probably isn’t for me, and I’m not even British, but I’ll do a couple of years, have some adventures, see some stuff that most people don’t see, then leave, go back to a normal life.

  Did you?

  What?

  Leave.

  I’m here now, amn’t I?

  How do I know you’re not still working for the British government? One of their agencies?

  I used to. But I promise you, I don’t now.

  I promise you. That’s what Towse always says. How do I know you’re not with me for his sake, to keep me around?

  She pulled away from him, wrapped her own blanket around her.

  You don’t. The same way that I don’t know if you’re thinking of Alice while you’re fucking me.

  I wouldn’t do that.

  And I wouldn’t care.

  Michael said nothing for a while. Finally, he spoke again:

  I’m sorry.

  She didn’t answer. Michael tried to change the subject.

  My guess is he’s taking us to Europe. Irish passports are EU passports. Once you’re in, you can go wherever you like.

  No shit, Michael. That’s really clever of you.

  He tried again.

  If we were in Europe, we wouldn’t need Towse anymore. We could strike out for ourselves.

  That’s right, Michael. We could do that . . . I could go one way, and you could go the other.

  It was his turn to fall silent. After a while, he leaned out of the bed, picked up the pack of cigarettes. He offered her one. She shook her head.

  For someone who doesn’t smoke, she said, you’re smoking a lot.

  He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, lay back on the pillow.

  I don’t like the taste, he said. But if I smoke them myself, I won’t taste them off you.

  She had to flip that around in her head a couple of times before she could see it clearly. Then, carefully, so as not to dislodge the blankets, she slid across the draughty gap between the beds. She arranged herself, prone, along the length of his body, tucked the blanket in around them. When she raised her head, their bodies were pushed even closer together. He was looking up at her. But is it too close for him to focus on my face, she wondered? Could I be someone else?

  She straddled him, sat back, letting the blankets fall away. She didn’t care about the cold. She wanted him to see her clearly.

  Give me a drag on that, she said.

  They were awake, only just, tangled together, when they heard something bang in the stairwell, a curse, feet shuffling, then a knock at the door. Someone tried the handle before either could answer. Checked by the chair wedged underneath, the lever went back to horizontal, then jiggled furiously. The chair, dislodged, tipped backwards on the floor. The door, bursting open, sent it sliding across the tiles.

  You really thought that old trick would keep someone out?

  They didn’t bother to rearrange themselves. Towse seemed to take them for granted, just as they were.

  We didn’t know if you’d knock, said Aoife.

  I did knock. What am I, some kind of savage?

  We also didn’t know if you’d wait for an answer. We do now.

  Yeah? Well, that’s because I’m in a hurry. Get dressed. We’re moving on tonight. I’ve found us a boat.

  He was still in the same old suit. But now it was soaked, stinking of salt water. His shoes were caked in wet sand.

  It’s blowing a storm out there, Towse.

  So no one will see us.

  It’s three in the morning.

  Best time to leave.

  We’re not getting into another stinking barge with you, said Michael. We nearly died last time.

  Here.

  Towse tossed a box on the bed.

  Dramamine. But I don’t think you’re going to need it. I got us a pretty sweet ride, this time. And it’s only a short row offshore.

  Part Five:

  Wine Dark Sea

  Their new boat was a hundred-foot luxury motor yacht, with the name Penelope painted on the stern. The Egyptian flag flew on the ensign-staff, but the crew spoke to Towse, and each other, in Russian, Ukrainian, something Slavic like that. They didn’t talk to Aoife or Michael at all.

  The skipper was the youngest of the three crew men, with bright blond hair and rather more muscle than his job would seem to require. He gave Aoife and Michael a stateroom with a vast double bed. There was also a Jacuzzi – though empty, and covered – and a large en-suite bathroom with gold fittings and taps. Two lines of paintings – expensively abstract – lined either wall, matching the scheme of eggshell and blue. It had a cold look, but was heated, so they took off their wet clothes and got into bed. Towse was right: the boat was well stabilised, and, after some pitching and rolling at the mouth of the harbour, the engine note deepened and the boat levelled out. But by then, too tired to care, Aoife and Michael were already asleep.

  The storm blew itself out the first morning, and from then on they motored westward through bright windy days and cold moonless nights. Towse was always on the bridge, his laptop plugged into the satellite system. He nested in a corner, where a GPS repeater showed their progress across the Mediterranean.

  The skipper and his two crew took turns at the wheel, watching the machine that did the real steering, that laid a white carpet, ruler straight, behind the boat. They passed tanker ships and container vessels, whose bow waves sent them pitching and bobbing, and they saw fishing fleets at night, lights mirrored in black water, but never any land. The sky hung, equidistant, its horizons unbroken. Three days and nights, born in their wake, passed smoothly along the length of the hull before drowning themselves in the west. Cut off from the world for weeks already, deprived of news and everyday lives, Aoife and Michael allowed their timeline to slide.

  The boat h
ad a well-equipped galley with hardly any food in it. The Russians, Ukrainians, whoever they were, had stocked one of the freezers with hamburgers, fish sticks, shrimp and oven chips. A fridge contained two cases of beer, three cases of vodka, and a couple of cucumbers, dissolving to slime. On the second day, Aoife counted the bottles of vodka and decided the crew wouldn’t miss one or two. If they did, she was prepared to stand over her crime. She had run out of cigarettes, and she had to fill the void with other compulsive behaviours, most of them with Michael. It was something to do when not walking the deck.

  On the morning of the fourth day, climbing up to the bridge, Aoife felt the wind move on to her left cheek. The boat wallowed in a cross sea, climbed out, found its footing again. She opened the door to the bridge.

  We’ve just turned north, she said to Towse.

  He pointed at the GPS repeater. Bright contours of land filled the edge of the screen.

  Sardinia, he said. We’ll skirt it today, then on past Corsica.

  So we’re going to France.

  Antibes.

  Isn’t it out of season?

  Our skipper has business there.

  What is his business?

  He’s a smuggler.

  Guns, people or drugs?

  Boats.

  A shadow moved past the window. Michael stood out on the bridge wing, looking out to sea. He might come in at any moment. Aoife decided to press Towse while they were alone. He might still think that Aoife was on his side, not Michael’s.

  What do we do when we get to France?

  What you and Michael were planning to do. We split up.

  You were listening to us. Back in Alexandria.

  No. I saw it coming. It’s an obvious play.

  Is that what you planned, then? You drag us halfway round the planet, just to dump us in Europe?

  I’m not dumping you. I’m giving you a chance to decide for yourselves if you want to stick with me. In Europe, you’ll be fine without me, so you’ll have a choice. Like I said before, I believe in free will.

  You won’t even tell us your plans.

  That thumb drive that we picked up in Jerusalem. It contains a weapon. If money is a virus, then a virus can destroy it. And as it happens, the best place to launch my attack is in Dublin. Which is your old town.

  She thought back to their first meeting in London, the day she’d been tricked into helping to abduct the whistle-blower. How had she not seen this before?

  I don’t know how you did it, she said, stepping closer to him, but it was you who got Irene to hire me. You were already watching me. You dragged me into this on purpose.

  I needed your help. I heard you were good. And you know your way around Ireland.

  I was happy before this, Towse. I had my own life.

  You weren’t and you didn’t.

  Go fuck yourself, Towse. I won’t do anything more for you.

  He gestured at the window.

  What if Michael wants to come with me?

  He’s the one who wanted to give you the slip. He said it before I did.

  Really? . . . Good. He’s learning.

  The door opened. Michael came in.

  We’ve changed course, he said. We’re sailing north.

  To France, Towse told him. And when we get there, we’ll split up.

  Michael looked at Aoife.

  I trusted you. You shouldn’t have told him.

  I didn’t. He guessed.

  We’re going to split up, continued Towse. I have things I need to do on my own for a few days. If you want, you can rejoin me later. In Dublin. Separately or together, that’s up to you. But first, let me buy you dinner in Antibes. I promise you, Michael, it’ll be worth your while.

  They arrived in Antibes late on a blustery evening, berthing under the bastions of the Fort Carré. The Port Vauban marina was, as Aoife had guessed, very out of season. Boats too big to haul out for the winter, which was most of them, were made fast to pontoons, their windows and hatches shrouded in canvas, decks caked in red mud from the last Saharan dust storm. The police and customs, having little else to do at this time of year, boarded their boat as soon as it docked, searched it thoroughly, looked at their passports, then let them ashore. Some of the officials wore medical face masks, which made no sense to Michael or Aoife, unless they were frightened of African dust.

  A taxi drove them to a cafe on the edge of town. It was out by the autoroute, where the Esterel ridge rises over the coast. When the wind dropped, which wasn’t often, they could hear cars and trucks moaning past in the night.

  The cafe, set at the corner of a street of shabby houses, didn’t look much from the outside. From the inside, not much more. The decor was dingy generic Mediterranean – chequered tablecloths, red velour walls, sentimental landscapes. A fishing net, full of champagne corks that had surely not been popped in a cheap joint like this, hung over a bar stocked with sad, dusty bottles. There were no other customers: the place appeared to be closed for the winter.

  Their waiter, a small, brisk man in his sixties, seemed to be the owner as well. He showed them a booth, gave them three tumblers and a red vin de table, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  I thought you were treating us, said Aoife. Why this dump?

  The owner used to be in the French Foreign Legion. They have their own thing.

  The owner came back from the kitchen, balancing three plates. He swept them on to the table with a flourish of contempt.

  Egg, beans, sausage and chips.

  He spoke English with a strong German accent. Aoife and Michael looked at their food.

  Don’t you have anything else? asked Aoife. We’ve been eating crap for a week.

  That’s what all the English ask for: egg, beans, sausage and chips.

  We’re not English, said Michael.

  My passport says I’m French. You’re English tonight.

  The owner cocked his head towards the bar.

  You want more wine, help yourselves.

  He went back into the kitchen. The food wasn’t good, but they ate it all anyway. The bottle was emptied, another one opened. Towse pushed his plate away, took out his cigarettes. A sign on the wall said Défense de Fumer, but none of them had admitted to knowing any French. Besides, cigarillo smoke seeped under the door from the kitchen, where a soccer game played, too loud, on TV.

  Our friend in there, began Towse, is holding some cash for me. I’ll give you a share and then we’ll split up. But before we do – he raised his glass – I have to thank you both for all that you’ve done for me. A toast: until we meet again.

  He held his glass out to them, expectant. Michael sat back, saying nothing. Aoife sipped, put her own glass back down.

  You still want something from us, she said. Why don’t you just tell us what it is?

  Towse studied the chequered tablecloth. It resembled a chessboard, except with red and white squares. He moved his glass carefully into a white square.

  We split up tonight, he repeated. I’m getting a ride to where I have to go next. Tomorrow, you can go your own way. Alone or together, that’s up to you. But I’m going on to Ireland. If you want to help me finish this, meet me in Dublin. You have until Friday next week. March 13th. That’s when I have to do it.

  Why would we want to help you? Michael asked.

  Towse struck a match. Here it comes, thought Aoife.

  Let me tell you a story, Towse said.

  Samvel and Nadia were lying together, naked apart from their lab coats, in his uncle’s apartment in Urmia, north-western Iran, when the men from the ministry came.

  If Nadia had not been there, at that particular time, on that particular afternoon, maybe she would never have been in this story. Left to themselves, she and Samvel would probably have continued their thing a while longer, grown bored with each other, had a row and
moved on. They had, as far as we can tell from the interrogations of their friends, no plans at that point to get married. They were in love, of course, but they were also young. They came from different backgrounds, were different people, going different places. Life is crowded at that age. It’s easy, then, to lose sight of good people. It’s only much later that you start seeing them again, glimpses of faces in other crowds, or on ceilings at night, still the same age as when you were with them.

  So most likely, Nadia and Samvel would have slowly grown apart, then gone different places in search of their lives. Most likely, Michael would not have been born.

  But Nadia happened to be there when the men from the Ministry of Intelligence came. So she was also arrested and taken to a basement cell, where she, like Samvel, in a cell just down the corridor, was beaten and tortured. She, like him, quickly confessed to all the charges laid against her, whatever they might be.

  During this time they were held apart. They were each told how their lover was ratting them out for terrible treasons, and they were each invited to reciprocate, which they both did. But, though they did their best to please their torturers, neither could reveal any useful new information. Their interrogators put this down to their loyalty to the foreign agency they worked for. There was no chance that they were innocent, that they knew nothing at all.

  Nadia didn’t know anything, of course. Neither did Samvel. Their innocence was so complete that it confirmed suspicions. So there was little surprise at the ministry, or the Revolutionary Guard, when, a year after their old lives had ended, an overseas go-between made contact with an offer. An Iranian asset had been caught doing something he shouldn’t in Britain. Perhaps the ministry would like to swap him for a certain pair of jailed American agents? You’ve squeezed everything out of them. We’re finished with your guy. Now that we’re both done, let’s look after our people.

  They didn’t recognise each other at first, in the back of that windowless van, bumping through the valleys of the Zagros Mountains, where Nadia was born, through the poplars and aspens which she couldn’t see now, and would never see again. And even when they each realised the identity of that other prisoner, beaten and starved, they hid at opposite ends of the van, keeping their escorts between them. They weren’t the same careless people who’d made love in white coats on hot afternoons. They’d been driven a long way inside themselves, acquired the instinct to hide. Anything you said would be used, horribly, against you. Better to never talk to anyone again.