Airport when Knox had delivered him and Davit straight into the hands of the Greek police, despite swearing upon his girlfriend’s life that he’d take them to the golden fleece. His heart clenched a little at the memory. But when he thought about what he’d do to that man in revenge, and that he’d be well paid for it too, it soothed him wonderfully.
The stewardess returned with a balloon glass half-filled with dark red wine. He took a good mouthful. It tasted pleasantly raw and bold. Five hundred thousand euros! he thought. It had better damned well be Knox out there. But then he remembered that Sandro and Ilya had commissioned him to make precisely that determination himself. They’d believe whatever he told them. He laughed out loud and toasted himself in the faint reflection of his window.
Yes. Things were definitely looking up.
SEVEN
I
It was late by the time Knox made it to bed. He was worn out from his day, yet sleep eluded him. He’d been an archaeologist long enough to take his lows with his highs, so while he was disappointed by Holm’s bombshell announcement, he’d get over it just fine. But the longer the evening had gone on, the more he’d realised what a financial and reputational disaster it threatened to be for Miles and his brother Frank, his co-founder of MGS, currently holding the fort back in Hove. The two men had been good to Knox, giving him this job after Gaille died, sticking by him through his first year, though he’d done precious little to warrant such loyalty. He felt bad for their troubles, anxious to help.
Madagascar was barely a blur against the pre-dawn sky when he rose. He brewed coffee and took a cup to the control room, started revising the dive plan along the lines he and Miles had discussed with their divers the night before. He logged on as he worked. Internet access was via a local mobile phone network, and consequently expensive, sporadic and slow, but it was fine for email. His in-box was all routine, except for one message from Braddock at the Landseer Trust. Dear Mr Richardson, Just heard some troubling news and wanted to let you know asap. The Kirkpatricks’ sailboat has been found drifting, and Adam and Emilia are missing. Don’t get too alarmed- they often vanish into the forest for days at a time-but I thought it best to alert you at once as you may want to defer decisions on flights etc. I will, of course, update you when I hear anything more. All best, Braddock Lightman
He remembered Lucia’s remark the afternoon before, how she’d been trying to get hold of the Kirkpatricks, but had failed. No wonder. He tried to put the news aside as he worked on his schedules. He already had plenty to occupy him. But it nagged at him all the same. People vanished into the forest, sure, but not from boats, not unless something terrible had happened. A sudden vivid memory of Emilia Kirkpatrick on the afternoon some fourteen months before when she’d burst so suddenly into his life, jolting him from the malaise he’d been in since Mikhail Nergadze had murdered Gaille while he’d looked helplessly on. He owed her an incalculable debt for that. He couldn’t just ignore it.
Something else troubled him too. Their Eden project was only a few weeks away. Was it possible that the Kirkpatricks’ disappearance was connected to it in some way? It was another five minutes before he gave in. He printed off the email and took it to Miles’s cabin, banged on his door to wake him, then went inside and flipped on his light. ‘Read this,’ he said.
‘Oh, Christ,’ muttered Miles. ‘Those poor people.’ His heart wasn’t in his words, however, partly because he’d never got to know Emilia anything like as well as Knox had, partly because he had enough worries of his own. But then he realised why Knox had woken him, and he sat up abruptly. ‘No, mate,’ he said. ‘I need you here.’
‘Not as badly as she needs me there.’
‘There’ll already be a huge search going on. People who know the area. How much difference will you make?’
‘Maybe quite a lot, if it has something to do with the Winterton.’
‘How could it?’ frowned Miles. ‘No one else knows about that.’
‘Someone must. They got us our licences, remember? So people in the government must know. Anyway, it’s only thirty-odd metres deep. Some fisherman or diver could easily have found it by accident. And if they have, and that’s why Adam and Emilia have vanished, what chance will the police have?’
‘The Kirkpatricks wouldn’t want you telling the police,’ said Miles. ‘Not unless there was no choice. Don’t you remember how adamant Emilia was about secrecy?’
‘But that’s precisely why I need to go down there myself,’ said Knox. ‘If it’s got nothing to do with the Winterton, fine, I’ll come straight back. But if it does…’ He realised this wasn’t enough. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘She’s a friend. I owe her more than you realise. I’ll get the new schedules finished before I leave, and you don’t really need me otherwise, not really, not for a sea-bed search like this. You’ve got plenty of better divers than me.’
Miles shook his head, but in concession rather than disagreement. He looked wryly up at Knox. ‘We were going to fire you, you know,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Knox.
‘It wasn’t just that you weren’t pulling your weight-though you weren’t. You were so damn morose all the time; you were bringing everyone else down.’
‘I know.’
‘Morale matters in small businesses like ours.’
‘Yes, it does,’ acknowledged Knox. ‘Frankly, I could never figure out why you kept me on so long.’
Miles gave a dry laugh. ‘I guess we felt bad for you after… what happened. We figured you just needed time. And then she turned up.’ He squinted at Knox. ‘You never did tell us what happened that weekend.’
‘No,’ agreed Knox.
‘Fine,’ he sighed. ‘Go check into it. Bring her and her father back, if you possibly can. But, whatever you may think, I need you here too. I’ve come to rely on you more than you realise. So I want your word you’ll shift your arse back here as soon as humanly possible.’
‘You’ve got it,’ vowed Knox. ‘And thanks.’
II
Rebecca landed midmorning at Antananarivo’s Ivato Airport, and emerged into the crowded, dingy arrivals hall to find Pierre himself waiting for her. He was easy to spot, standing nearly a head taller than most of the Malagasy thronging around him, and looking like some latter-day pirate, with his bulging goitre of black beard, his vast dark eyes and his gold hoop earring. He saw her at the same time, bulled his way through the crowd to her, took her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks, then reached around her and hugged her, his beard tickling her cheek. She was still holding her luggage, so she had to wriggle her shoulders to make him let go. ‘Any news?’ she asked.
He shook his head as he stepped back, brushed a finger beneath his eye. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘My little Becca.’
‘Please, Pierre. I need to know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing to tell,’ he shrugged. ‘I speak to the police in Tulear earlier; there’s no sign of them.’ And he took her bags from her, led the way towards the terminal doors.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘My car’s outside.’
‘Your car?’
‘If we leave now, we can be in Tulear tonight.’
‘I’m flying,’ she told him. ‘That way I’ll be in Tulear this afternoon. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘I can’t. I have my car.’
