Sunstroke

by Madge Swindells

  ‘Why don’t you go yourself?’

  ‘I cannot return to Russia right now. I’m a wanted man. That is partly why I need you, quite apart from your amazing supply of dollars. Also I’m well known to this particular dealer. If he were to recognize me, the price would rocket. He would understand how much I long for his icon and how valuable this collection would become if I were to own the complete set.’

  ‘But why me? There must be dozens of people you could send. I’m sorry to sound doubtful, but for starters I don’t speak Russian. Secondly, this is not my field. It’s hardly a money-laundering operation.’

  ‘I disagree. I’m sure that Cassellari is keeping you busy. I don’t suppose he wants to trust the Russians with all his cash. I’m sure he has asked you to be… well, versatile.’

  ‘You must be psychic, Sergei.’

  ‘One of my customers is a director of a rich American art gallery. They will pay a great deal for the complete set, and what could be more useful to you than their cheque? So, please, can we get down to business?’

  ‘What exactly is your connection with Cassellari?’

  ‘It’s confidential. Naomi, listen to me.’ Sergei put his hands on my shoulders and held me at arm’s length, staring intently into my eyes. ‘You’re being too inquisitive. In our line of business one asks only what is strictly necessary.’

  ‘It’s strictly necessary for me to stay alive.’

  ‘Come and sit here beside me.’

  I guessed he would make a pass, but I had not anticipated his sudden attack – or my own reaction. A sharp pull propelled me into his arms. His mouth forced my lips apart while his arm pulled my right leg over his knees. I struggled, but thrilled to the soft stabs of sexual awakening that pierced my stomach. His hand tightened around my back as he pulled down the shoulder strap of my dress, revealing my breast. He was too strong to push away. Holding me back, he pressed his lips on my nipple. For a moment, he tugged like a baby. The sensation let loose poignant memories as well as a hot flood of lust. I struck out at his face angrily. He let go abruptly and sat up.

  ‘How dare you?’ Salvaging my modesty, I hauled up my dress.

  ‘No bra. I like that, and your nipples are large. You have nursed a baby, Naomi. I like that, too. I find you very exciting. I would like to paint you.’

  ‘You’ve made a bad mistake, Sergei. I keep my life tidily in different compartments. I never mix business with sex.’

  ‘So which one shall we choose?’ He was laughing at me.

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll suffer as much as I.’ He took an envelope out of his pocket. ‘Here is your air ticket. The art dealer’s name and address, a hotel voucher and travelling expenses in dollar traveller’s cheques. Take a taxi to the dealer, don’t try to walk around that area, particularly when you are transporting the icon. Our usual arrangement. Is this agreeable to you?’

  I nodded.

  Sergei flipped open the desk drawer and drew out a full-colour drawing of the icon. ‘The missing icon looks something like this. Don’t let the dealer fob you off with the wrong one. D’you want to take this with you, or can you memorize it?’

  ‘If you give me a few minutes. Did you draw it?’ I took it to the light in the corner and studied it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re very good. Are you sure these are the correct colours? You’re not guessing about the subject matter, are you?’

  ‘Yes, to your first question, and no, to the second. Naomi, I’m sorry. I mistook your signals. Am I forgiven yet?’

  I gazed at him, watching his lips curl in a sardonic smile while his eyes gleamed with amusement.

  ‘As long as you remember that there’s no place in my life for that sort of thing.’

  ‘I swear I never heard anything so sad.’ Now he was openly teasing me.

  He drove me to my car in silence. He parked and came round to help me out. His arms encircled my waist. Unexpectedly, his lips brushed mine and came down hard on my neck as he bit me.

  ‘I shall dream of you tonight, Naomi.’

  I pushed him off angrily, feeling absurdly conned and knowing I’d been caught off-balance again.

  Chapter 59

  I leaned back against the lift wall, thankful to be almost home but conscious of a web of pain tightening around my forehead. I stared at my haggard reflection. I’m getting old, I decided.

  The lift doors opened and I hurried to my apartment fumbling for my key. I wanted nothing more than to throw myself on to my bed and shut out the world for at least eight hours, but as I swung open the door I saw that someone else had got there before me. There were clothes on the back of the chair and David’s wiry black hair lay against my pillow. He sat up, instantly wide awake, and stared at me silently. How fierce and remote his brown eyes were. I leaned over him, kissed him on the mouth and smothered him with light kisses. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  He thrust me away and pushed himself up on one elbow. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘For God’s sake, David.’ I straightened up wearily and took off my jewellery, laying it on the dressing-table piece by piece. Then I took off my shoes. ‘How did you find out where I live?’

  ‘You let me walk you back to your car, didn’t you? Anyone can get your address from your car registration number.’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t think.’

  ‘You don’t have a talent for subterfuge, that’s all.’

  David climbed out of bed and caught hold of my arm, twisting me round fast. He was naked. Caught off-guard I swayed and felt myself caught up and pulled tightly against him. Despite my annoyance, lust took over. David tugged at my clothes, looking anguished, wrenching the straps of my dress over my shoulders.

  ‘I knew you were being pawed. I sensed it. Who the hell is he, and what did he do to you?’

  ‘Hey, ease off, David. What’s with this jealous husband act?’

  ‘Why are you flushing?’

  ‘Leave it alone, David. Sergei made a pass. That’s all.’

  ‘Liar!’ He pushed up my chin with his thumb. ‘Look at your neck. And look at your breast. He bit you here. Damn you, Naomi.’

  ‘Sergei was over-confident. Perhaps because he’s a very sexy man. When he realized I was seriously unwilling, he gave up.’

  ‘Why is it that I can’t believe you?’

  David tried to pull my dress down and it tore. I heard the pattering of tiny beads hitting the dressing-table as the fabric ripped.

  ‘Oh, God! What are we doing to each other?’

  I caught his head in my hands and pulled him to me, needing his lips on mine, feeling a surge of love that threatened to drown me, pushing my fingers through his hair. He picked me up and carried me to the bed. Thrusting my arms around his neck and my lips on to his, my libido burst through the bars I’d erected, blotting out reason. I craved all of him, his sex, his body, his mind and his love. I think I told him all of this, perhaps I even said, ‘I love you,’ in the next turgid hour. Or was it two?

  *

  Did David know who I was, I worried later, as I lay on his shoulder. I was sure that he suspected the truth. What would he do if he knew for sure? Perhaps there would be some compensation in being able to be myself again. It had been an incredible strain living a lie, acting the role of the hard-boiled, selfish, grasping Naomi, for whom men were mere stepping stones to her ambitions.

  ‘Darling?’ His voice disturbed my thoughts.

  ‘I thought you were asleep, David.’

  ‘I thought you were, too, until I heard you sigh. I can’t sleep much lately. I never stop worrying about you, night or day. It’s a permanent ache in my guts. I can’t carry on like this.’

  ‘That’s tough.’

  ‘Stop trying to pretend you’re so hard-boiled. You aren’t like that, and you aren’t fooling me.’

  I scanned his face in the cold dawn light, noticing now he had changed. Sadness and caring showed in his eyes and in the tight lines around hi
s mouth. I couldn’t help him. He had fallen for a person who didn’t exist.

  ‘You don’t have to do this. Listen to me. I’m almost there. I’m catching up with your enemy. Another month, perhaps. That’s why I’ve taken leave. I have my old contacts in the Mossad and my computer. I’m only hanging around in Monaco in case you need me. Once and for all, understand that I’m on your side. Work with me. Tell me who you really are. Trust me.’

  ‘You’re coming down hard on the wrong girl, David.’ David looked exasperated. I watched him run his hand over his stubbly hair, frowning until his eyebrows met in a thick black line.

  I felt sad for him, but I knew I could not trust him to put Nicky’s welfare first, even before his desire to bring Wolf Moller to justice.

  ‘I don’t trust anyone,’ I told him, and watched his eyes narrow with anger. He got up and dressed.

  He picked up his car keys, then paused in the doorway.

  ‘I suppose it’s only natural that you’ve become paranoid after what you’ve been through, but I think you ought to know who your friends are. Don’t be such a damn fool, Nina.’

  I felt glad when he had gone. I was wrong to have loved him. I had to keep my mind free from emotional clutter in order to find my child. Nothing else mattered. It took a few minutes before I realized that he had called me Nina.

  Chapter 60

  Just before dusk, I landed at Moscow’s Sheremetevo international airport. The air was cool but not cold, and a shimmering silver twilight lay around the birches and pines of the surrounding woods. It was so calm and peaceful, not even a whisper of a breeze stirring the branches. That great Russian space was all about me, perhaps because the terrain was so flat. No plane took off or landed while I waited in the bare reception hall. The silence gave an impression that I was far from civilization.

  I had long since discovered that Russians never smile or laugh unless something extraordinarily funny occurs, and certainly never for politeness, but I am always depressed by their dour indifference. They stamped my declaration form without glancing at it, and passed my bags without opening them, which cheered me. This was going to be an easy job, I felt sure.

  Moscow, like Johannesburg, I discovered, has magic in its peculiar evening light, which transforms the distant Moscow skyline into a golden city, but the light fled as my taxi drew closer and I felt a pang of disappointment as we passed mile after mile of squat, ugly apartment blocks.

  I had been booked into the National Hotel, which looked vaguely Victorian with the old-fashioned lamp-post right in front of it, although the travel agent had assured me that it had been built at the beginning of this century.

  The driver led me past the reception desk to a special room for foreign tourists. I sat at a desk opposite a shabbily dressed but extraordinarily lovely woman, with auburn hair, the palest skin and gleaming amber eyes under a smooth wide brow. She handed me my keys gravely and explained about the hotel’s rules and routine. At my request, she booked me for the ballet that night, which took her some time for she had to shop around for a ticket. Then she directed me to a dilapidated lift, while the porter followed with my bags.

  My room was vast, and reminded me of Sergei’s house, for the ceiling seemed much higher than any hotel room I had ever been in. Heavy dark velvet drapes hung over lace curtains. Crocheted doilies lay everywhere, even on the overstuffed chair backs, again reminding me of Victorian England. Who cared? I had enough space, a comfortable bed and a small but adequate bathroom. Shortly afterwards I discovered that the food was superb, so I was content to while away the hours until my appointment.

  *

  At eleven a.m. the following morning, I took a taxi to the address Sergei had given me. I was driven past the Museum of the Revolution, the Pushkin Museum, the Operetta, and the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall to reach the Maximov Gurov Gallery, which was situated near the Hotel Metropole.

  My troubles began when Gurov produced icon after icon, none of which resembled Sergei’s drawing.

  After sitting there for an hour, I was feeling distraught.

  ‘It’s not at all what I’m looking for. I have clearly explained to you that the icon must match my decor.’

  Maximov Gurov, the art dealer, sighed. There was a look of the bloodhound about him, with his hanging, bloodshot brown eyes, his soulful expression, his long face and leathery, sagging skin.

  ‘But, Madame, it is both authentic and beautiful. It once belonged to the Tsar’s family…’

  The dealer’s enthusiasm matched that of a tired tour guide as he recited the icon’s history. This was the twenty-fourth icon we had viewed. Each item had been brought from the back, one at a time, unwrapped as lovingly as a newborn child, and reverently placed on a stand.

  ‘Hm! I’m sure it’s rare, but as I told you, I’m no connoisseur of icons.’ I stared disdainfully at a striking image of the Madonna, with a smile like the Mona Lisa’s. I would have loved to be able to buy it.

  ‘I’m looking for something costly to match my decor, bottle green and purple. Those are the colours of my room.’

  Rancour flooded his eyes, but he kept his voice even. ‘Perhaps you need something to lighten such a colour scheme,’ he suggested tactfully.

  ‘On the contrary, I want something to match it.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I have no such item.’

  I could see how much it was costing him to let me walk out with my traveller’s cheques intact in my purse. By now, his eyes looked even more haggard and his fleshy mouth sagged.

  ‘It has to be expensive and exactly what I want, Mr Gurov.’ I was unwilling to fail on my first project. ‘If you find something I’ll be at the National Hotel until noon.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘My goodness, it’s late. I must go back and collect my things. I’m leaving today. Nice meeting you, Mr Gurov.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Miss Hunter. Let me think. Perhaps I can still find a way to match your remarkable decor.’

  I stared hard at him, but his face seemed devoid of irony.

  ‘Valya,’ he called to his assistant, ‘bring coffee for Madame. This will take a while.’ Presumably he’d found the right colour scheme at last. I blessed Sergei for his faithful reproduction.

  *

  Half an hour later, Gurov returned, looking even more nervous and dishevelled.

  ‘Ah, Miss Hunter, come to the back, please.’

  I held my breath and tried to look calm. There was the self-same icon that Sergei had drawn for me, in muted bottle green, on a dark, shadowy, purplish background with delicate touches of gold here and there. Although Sergei had drawn a faithful reproduction of the colours, I was unprepared for the impact of something so beautiful and so meaningful. The Virgin Mary, clutching the infant Jesus, sat huddled over the donkey. Joseph’s body language expressed his fear and haste as they fled. I checked the points Sergei had mentioned: a gold bell hanging from the donkey’s neck, and gold thread on the Madonna’s veil, the evening star and the new moon shining equally brilliantly in a midnight blue sky.

  It was exotic and desirable and I fell in love with it there and then. With a start I pulled myself together. I had probably upped the price considerably with my rapt adoration.

  The deal was quickly concluded in US dollars, a thousand below my ceiling. I felt pleased with myself as the precious icon was wrapped and placed in the centre of my suitcase, well cushioned with sweaters and a pillow, brought for the purpose.

  I drove back to my hotel and deposited the suitcase at reception. I had time for a little shopping, which always saddened me, for there was only my father and me to shop for. Gazing into a toy-shop window I saw a robust, grinning grizzly bear. Nicky would be four in exactly three weeks’ time. Did he still play with teddies? Did he still play? ‘Oh, God, let me find my child.’

  I stood gazing at the toys, tears streaming down my face, overcome with sadness for him and for myself. Would I ever find him? I began to feel so cold. It was the strangest feeling, as if a cold front had wrapped itself around me l
ike a snake and was tightening its grip. I shuddered. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I walked into the shop.

  It was the most remarkable bear, large and sturdy, with bright intelligent eyes and thick coarse hair. Real bear’s hair, I was told. All the more reason not to buy it, but I heard myself say, ‘Please wrap it. It’s a birthday present for my son. I will give it to you one day, Nicky, I promise. Even if you’re much older, one day you will hold this bear in your arms.’

  I was still crying as I paid.

  This was not madness, I told myself, as I hugged Mr Bear and waited for a taxi. This was positive thinking.

  *

  Eight p.m., I had arrived at Sheremetevo airport well in time to get my ticket and find something to eat. A pie and some beer would do me nicely. Better still, two pies. I felt cold and tense as I queued to get my seating card and hand in the suitcase.

  The booking clerk pushed a form towards me. ‘Read this, please.’ She turned her attention to the computer.

  It was a form listing items that were not allowed out of Russia. I pushed it into my pocket, knowing that I was breaking the law. But how else could I gatecrash the mafiya? No doubt this was why Sergei sent me. If Customs took as much care with passengers leaving as they had on my arrival everything would be all right, I reasoned.

  On impulse, I decided to take the bear as hand-luggage. I watched my suitcase trundle off along the conveyor belt with a sense of relief. Now I had nothing to do except wait. I went to buy a paperback and find a restaurant.

  It was almost nine when I passed through Passport Control. I felt drowsy from the beer and the warmth, and happy to be going home. The passport official was taking a long time. I frowned at him.

  ‘Why the delay?’

  He shrugged and looked away.

  A Customs official arrived and took my arm. ‘Please step into this office, Miss Hunter.’

  I could hardly come to grips with reality when he marched me firmly towards an office behind Passport Control. It said, ‘Inquiries’ in five languages.