Box 88 : A Novel (2020)

and clever, respectful towards her and not sexist or patronising, which was often the default position of older men when they interacted with her. She found it hard to believe that charming, friendly Ali was an adviser to a regime that meted out the kinds of punishments and restrictions Bijan had described. Kite thought about Abbas in New York, of the rumours linking Eskandarian to the slaughterers of Pan Am 103. He wanted to tell Martha everything, not least because he was still bewildered by the nature of the meeting between Abbas and Bijan and would have liked to get her take on it. But that option simply wasn’t available to him. Strawson’s warning sounded in Kite’s mind: We sure as shit don’t need you with your head up your ass the next two weeks. To be with Martha was to find respite from the constant stress and double-think of his new existence. That morning, in bed with her, it was as though Strawson and Peele and the entire crazy operation had never been conceived. Kite had felt that he might somehow walk out of her room and it would just be a beautiful summer day in France, two people falling in love with nothing to worry about except what book to read, what clothes to wear, what music to listen to. Then he had been pulled back into duplicity, deceiving Martha – deceiving all of them – with his ploys and schemes around José. Kite relished the adrenalising risks of his new existence, but had already recognised that it could not last forever. He would inevitably burn out. Either he would continue to see Martha and stop working for Peele and Strawson, or their relationship would have to end and he would dedicate himself to BOX 88. There was no alternative, no way to juggle his split lives if Martha was not to be compromised.

After half an hour they reached the access road, a mile or so from home. It was almost seven o’clock. A sudden cool wind came in from the south, rattling the leaves on the olive trees. The cicadas were briefly silenced.

‘Mistral,’ said Martha.

‘What’s that?’

‘Means it’s going to rain,’ she said.

They looked up at the darkening sky. There were no clouds, no stars. Just the cool wind and the distant cry of a wood pigeon.

Then, a moped. At first Kite thought it was Xavier coming back from Mougins, but he saw the light of a bike coming down the hill towards them from the north. Martha was taking the lens cap off her camera. Kite had walked a few metres ahead of her. He reached into his back pocket for a cigarette and turned to see what had caught her eye. Martha was crouched down, both hands on the Nikon, pulling focus on something in the distance. The moped was about to pass them.

Kite stepped onto the verge to give it the road. He saw that someone was riding pillion behind the driver. Both were wearing helmets. From the size of the bike and the pitch of the engine, Kite understood that it wasn’t a moped, but something larger, faster. The bike slowed down as it came towards him, as if the driver wanted to stop and say hello. But he went past – Kite was sure it was a man – then slowed almost to a halt beside Martha.

Her camera bag was on the ground. The passenger riding pillion leaned over and scooped it up, like a polo player striking the ball. Before Kite could react, the motorbike had screamed off, throwing up a spume of dust and stones.

‘No!’ Martha shouted.

Kite tried to give chase, but it was pointless. The driver was already fifty metres away, sixty, accelerating into the distance.

‘Jesus Christ, that was all my films, my lenses, everything!’

Kite knew with sickening fury that BOX had carried out the theft.

‘Every photo I’ve taken since I got to France. My other camera. Wankers!’

She shouted into the valley, stunned by what had happened. Kite put his arm around her, but it was no comfort. He knew they had wanted the pictures from lunch, from Cannes, from every moment Martha had been at the villa.

‘We can call the police,’ he said, fighting an urge to go straight to the safe house and to confront Peele face to face.

‘Did you get a number plate?’ she asked.

Kite was embarrassed to admit that he had not even thought to look. ‘We should still go to the police,’ he said.

‘What’s the point? I’ll never get it back.’

‘Maybe they’ll dump the bag when they see there’s no money in there. Nothing of value. Maybe they’ll just take the backup camera.’

Even this was a lie, sowing false hope in Martha that would never come good. She was standing at the edge of the road in a state of dazed rage.

‘Are you insured?’ Kite asked.

‘Fuck no,’ she said contemptuously. ‘Who has travel insurance, Lockie?’ It was the first time she had lost her temper with him. ‘No, it’s done. They’re gone. My whole summer holiday. Fuck.’

There was nothing for it but to walk back to the house and tell the others. Luc was incensed, said it was ‘probably Arabs’, and insisted on calling the police. They told him that Martha would have to come into Mougins to file a report. Martha said that she was resigned to never seeing the bag or the rolls of film again. Kite didn’t bother trying to change her mind. He made a promise to himself to buy her a new camera.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, touching her neck as they sat on the terrace before dinner. ‘It’s such bad luck.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she replied, turning and kissing him on the forehead. ‘It’s not your fault, Lockie. It’s not your fault.’

Kite knew differently. All night he privately raged at Carl and Peele. He wondered if Strawson had come back from wherever he had been and ordered the theft. From an operational perspective, Kite could see why Martha’s photographs might be