III
It was time for Boris to make his first report to Sandro. He watched closely as Davit set up so that he’d be able to do it for himself next time. ‘This is the IP terminal,’ Davit told him, plugging a device the size and shape of a slim black hardback to his laptop. ‘It links to a network of geostationary satellites. The nearest is over Africa; to our north-west.’ He took a compass from the case, set it flat on the table, aimed the terminal until the display told him he’d found the satellite, and then had locked on. He brought up a program on the laptop, waited a few moments, double-clicked the mouse. ‘Okay,’ he said.
‘That’s it?’ asked Boris.
‘That’s it,’ confirmed Davit. ‘You have broadband.’
‘And how do I call Georgia?’
Davit entered the number for him. A switchboard operator answered; they ran through the security protocols. A new box popped up onscreen, Sandro looking irritably to his left before turning to the camera. ‘You got there okay then?’ he said.
Boris turned to Davit. ‘I’ll call you if I need anything.’ He waited until he was gone. ‘It’s him,’ he told Sandro. ‘It’s Knox.’
There was a second or so of delay, then Sandro squinted at the camera. ‘You’re sure? Already?’
‘I was just taking a look at the town. Guess who came walking straight towards me?’
Again that delay. It was only satellite time-lag, Boris knew, yet it was disconcerting nonetheless. ‘How can you be sure it’s him?’ Sandro asked. ‘Did he recognise you?’
‘No. It was just the way he carried himself.’
‘The way he carried himself,’ echoed Sandro. He gave Boris a long, hard look. ‘Listen, I hope you don’t think we’ll pay you for topping some random stranger. We’ll want proof that this is Knox before you do anything.’
‘It’s him. I’m telling you.’
‘Good. Then proof should be easy, shouldn’t it?’
Boris sighed, but he knew better than to argue. ‘Any progress on that gun?’ he asked.
‘Petr’s found some dealer to drive you down a selection. We think he’s okay, but you know how these things are. You might be wise to scout out somewhere neutral for the handover; unless you’re comfortable with him coming to your hotel.’
Boris nodded. ‘I’ll look around in the morning.’
‘Good. Then let’s talk again tomorrow.’ The screen went black. Boris disconnected then dismantled the laptop and terminal, sat there brooding. He’d been Sandro’s head of security for years, had never had his integrity doubted like that before. It rather stung him. But then he wondered if he wasn’t perhaps missing something. Ilya Nergadze had always been quick to anger and hungry for revenge, but Sandro was too pragmatic for such vendettas. As head of security, Boris had often seen Sandro handle his father in such situations. He’d never say no directly. Instead he’d agree enthusiastically that something needed to be done, then work in subtle ways to make sure that nothing happened until Ilya had forgotten about it. Was that what was going on here? Ilya was dying, after all. Taking Knox to the grave with him was all he cared about, consequences be damned. But Sandro wouldn’t be thinking that way, for Knox’s murder was certain to kick off a shit-storm. He’d never openly obstruct his father, not least because Ilya was quite ruthless enough to cut him out of his will. But behind the scenes…
Boris considered alerting Ilya; but only briefly. Sandro would soon be head of the family, and then Boris would be dependent upon his continuing goodwill. He shook his head in frustration. If Sandro wanted proof, Boris would just have to provide it. The only question was how.
THIRTEEN
I
Darkness began to fall around Rebecca. She turned on her headlights. The stars were out by the time they reached the small town of Salary, fires being lit for the evening meals, rice softening in blackened cauldrons as families gathered to trade stories of their day. She stopped in the dusty heart of the village, stepped out. Malagasy music pounded from a cafe on top of a dune, muffled by the low rumble of a generator. A crowd gathered slowly around her, trying to make it look as if they weren’t staring. She recognised one or two from years before, but most were strangers. A man in a glittery blue shirt jogged down a dune, precipitating tiny avalanches of sand. Jean-Luc. He’d always been striking: tall, handsome, confident, better educated and more ambitious than his fellows. He’d put on weight, but it suited him, made him look substantial and prosperous. He took her hands, kissed her on either cheek. ‘Rebecca,’ he said. ‘It’s been too long.’
‘Any news?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No news.’
‘You’ve been looking?’
‘Of course.’ His eyes flickered, however. He tried a smile. ‘You must understand, we have families to feed.’
‘You have families to feed,’ said Rebecca. She put her hands on her hips, looked around from face to face. ‘My father was good to you. He never let you go hungry. Never. My sister was your friend. She nursed you and your children whenever you were sick. But now that they need you, you have families to feed. My father and sister were your family. You think they’d have stayed home if you’d gone missing?’ Heads bowed in shame all around her, a congregation before their brimstone preacher. She dropped the Mitsubishi’s tailboard, dragged out the sack of rice she’d bought in Tulear, let it thump to the earth. Two zebu were tethered to an ancient tree, grazing the meagre grass, flicking their tails and shuddering their muscles to scatter flies. ‘Whose are those?’ she asked Jean-Luc.
‘My father’s. But-’
‘How much?’
‘They’re not for-’
‘How much?’
He sighed. ‘Three million.’
She took out her purse, gave him all her cash. ‘I’ll get you the rest next time I go to town.’ He took it reluctantly, started to say something, then thought better of it. ‘I need a knife,’ she announced. ‘Who has a knife?’
There was scurrying. A young lad with a ragged cleftpalate scar came through the ranks a few moments later holding out a long-bladed knife. She took it from him, tested its point and then its blade with her thumb. Not as sharp as she’d like, nor as clean, but it would have to do. She seized the zebu’s jaw in the vice of her elbow, wrenched its head back and up. It took a couple of faltering steps to adjust its balance, leaned trustingly against her. They were strong creatures, but bred to be docile. She plunged the knife through the tough hide of its throat into the softness of the liquid canals inside, felt the puncture of the larynx, holding it there for just a moment before sawing in a jagged, sideways motion, the radiated heat striking her a moment later, and then a geyser of blood spraying everywhere, people shrieking and jumping back, her legs and hands and stomach sticky, and the zebu grunting and trying to buck away too late, crashing to its knees and then on to its side, life-blood pumping in a slackening flow on to the dry brown earth, one eye looking reproachfully up at her. ‘There,’ she told them. ‘That should feed your families. Let me know when you need more.’
Jean-Luc glared at her, aware he’d lost face. She wiped the knife on her shirt, handed it back to the boy, then climbed on to the Mitsubishi’s flatbed. ‘Three million ariary to whoever finds my father,’ she announced, the blood granting her a certain grotesque authority. ‘Five million if he’s alive. The same for my sister. You hear?’ She looked around their faces. Ten million ariary was a life-changing sum for a Malagasy. And the bush telegraph was a wondrous thing. By tomorrow, word would have spread all along the coast. As for the reward money, she’d just have to cross that bridge when she came to it.
