Contract With God (8 page)

While the jeep travelled the five miles to the ship, Andrea took photos with her Canon 5D. (It wasn’t really
her
Canon 5D but the one that belonged to the paper, which she had forgotten to return.
They deserved it, the pigs
.) She was shocked at the extreme poverty of the land. Dry, brown, covered in stones. You could probably cross the entire capital on foot in two hours. There seemed to be no industry, no agriculture, no infrastructure. The dust from the wheels of their jeep coated the faces of the people who stared at them as they sped by. Faces without hope.

‘The world’s in a bad way if people like Bill Gates and Raymond Kayn earn more in a month than this country’s Gross National Product in a year.’

The driver shrugged in response. They were already at the port, the most modern and well-maintained part of the capital, and virtually its only source of income. Djibouti profited from its favourable location within the Horn of Africa.

The jeep swerved to a sudden stop. When Andrea regained her balance, what she saw made her jaw drop. The
Behemoth
was nothing like the ugly freighter she had expected. It was a sleek modern vessel whose enormous hull was painted red and its superstructure a blinding white, the colours of Kayn Industries. Without waiting for the driver to help her, she grabbed her things and ran up the gangplank, wanting to start her adventure as soon as possible.

Half an hour later the ship had raised anchor and was underway. One hour later Andrea confined herself to her cabin, intent on vomiting in private.

 

After two days, during which the only thing that she could handle was liquids, her inner ear called a truce and she finally felt brave enough to step outside for a little fresh air and to get to know the ship. But first, she decided to toss
Raymond Kayn: The Unauthorised Biography
overboard with all her might.

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

Andrea turned from the railing. Walking towards her on the main deck was an attractive, dark-haired woman of about forty. She was dressed like Andrea, in jeans and a T-shirt, but over them she wore a white jacket.

‘I know. Pollution is a bad thing. But try being locked up for three days with that crappy book and you’ll understand.’

‘It would have been less traumatic if you had opened the door for something other than getting water from the crew. I understand that you were offered my services . . .’

Andrea fixed her eyes on the book that was already floating far behind the moving ship. She felt ashamed. She didn’t like people seeing her when she was sick, and hated feeling vulnerable.

‘I was fine,’ Andrea said.

‘I understand, but I’m sure you would have felt better if you’d taken some Dramamine.’

‘Only if you wanted me dead, Dr . . .’

‘Harel. You’re allergic to dimenhydrinates, Ms Otero?’

‘Among other things. Please call me Andrea.’

Dr Harel smiled and a series of wrinkles softened her features. She had beautiful eyes, the shape and colour of almonds, and her hair was dark and curly. She was two inches taller than Andrea.

‘And you can call me Dr Harel,’ she said, offering her hand.

Andrea looked at the hand without extending hers.

‘I don’t like snobs.’

‘Me neither. I’m not telling you my name because I don’t have one. My friends usually call me Doc.’

The reporter finally reached out her hand. The doctor’s handshake was warm and pleasant.

‘That must break the ice at parties, Doc.’

‘You can’t imagine. It tends to be the first thing people remark on when I meet them. Let’s walk around for a bit and I’ll tell you more.’

They headed towards the bow of the ship. A hot wind was blowing towards them, causing the ship’s American flag to flutter.

‘I was born in Tel Aviv shortly after the end of the Six-Day War,’ Harel went on. ‘Four members of my family died during the conflict. The rabbi interpreted this as a bad omen, so my parents didn’t give me a name, in order to deceive the Angel of Death. They alone knew my name.’

‘And did it work?’

‘For Jews a name is very important. It defines a person and it has power over that person. My father whispered my name in my ear during my
bat mitzvah
while the congregation was singing. I can never tell anyone else.’

‘Or the Angel of Death will find you? No offence, Doc, but that doesn’t make much sense. The Grim Reaper doesn’t look you up in the phone book.’

Harel let out a hearty laugh.

‘I often come across that kind of attitude. I have to tell you I find it refreshing. But my name will remain a secret.’

Andrea smiled. She liked the woman’s easygoing style, and stared at her eyes perhaps a little longer than was necessary or appropriate. Harel looked away, slightly startled by her directness.

‘What’s a doctor without a name doing on board the
Behemoth
?’

‘I’m a substitute, last-minute. They needed a doctor for the expedition. So you’re all in my hands.’

Beautiful hands
, Andrea thought.

They had reached the bow. The sea slid away below them and the afternoon shone majestic and bright. Andrea looked around.

‘When I don’t feel as if my guts are in a blender, I have to admit that it’s a beautiful ship.’

‘
His strength is in his loins, and his force is in the navel of his belly. His bones are as strong pieces of brass; his legs are like bars of iron,’
the doctor recited in a lively voice
.

‘There are poets among the crew?’ Andrea laughed.

‘No, dear. It’s from the Book of Job. It refers to the huge beast called the Behemoth, Leviathan’s brother.’

‘Not a bad name for a ship.’

‘At one point it was a Danish naval frigate in the
Hvidbjornen
class.’ The doctor pointed to a metal plate about ten feet square that had been welded on to the deck. ‘That’s where the only gun used to be. Kayn Industries bought this ship for ten million dollars in an auction four years ago. A bargain.’

‘I wouldn’t have paid more than nine and a half.’

‘Go ahead and laugh if you like, Andrea, but the deck on this beauty is two hundred and sixty feet long; it has its own heliport and it can sail eight thousand miles at fifteen knots. It could travel from Cadiz to New York and back without refuelling.’

At that moment the ship cut through a formidable swell and the vessel lurched slightly. Andrea slipped and almost went over the railing, which at the bow was only a foot and a half high. The doctor grabbed her by the T-shirt.

‘Watch out! If you fell in at this speed you’d either be shredded to pieces by the propellers or drown before we had the chance to rescue you.’

Andrea was about to thank Harel, but then she noticed something in the distance.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

Harel squinted, holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. At first she saw nothing, but five seconds later she could make out a shape.

‘At last we’re all here. It’s the boss.’

‘Who?’

‘Didn’t they tell you? Mr Kayn is going to supervise the whole operation in person.’

Andrea turned around open-mouthed. ‘You are joking?’

Harel shook her head. ‘It’ll be the first time I’ve ever met him,’ she replied.

‘They promised me an interview with him, but I thought that would come at the end of this ridiculous charade.’

‘You don’t believe the expedition will succeed?’

‘Let’s say I have my doubts about its real purpose. When Mr Russell recruited me, he said that we were after a very important relic that had been lost for thousands of years. He wouldn’t go into the details.’

‘We’re all in the dark. Look, it’s getting closer.’

Andrea could now make out what appeared to be some sort of aircraft about two miles off the port bow. It was approaching fast.

‘You’re right Doc, it’s an airplane!’

The reporter had to raise her voice above the roar of the aircraft and the sailors’ cheers as it swooped in a semicircle around the ship.

‘No, it’s not a plane - look.’

They turned to follow it. The plane, or at least what Andrea thought was a plane, was a small aircraft, painted with the colours and logo of Kayn Industries but its two propellers were three times the normal size. Andrea watched, amazed, as the propellers began to turn up on the wing and the plane stopped its circling of the
Behemoth
. Suddenly it was hanging in the air. The propellers had made a ninety-degree rotation and, like a helicopter, were now holding the aircraft still as concentric waves fanned out on the sea below it.

‘That’s the BA-609 TiltRotor. The best in its class. This is its maiden voyage. They say it was one of Mr Kayn’s own ideas.’

‘Everything this man does seems impressive. I’d like to meet him.’

‘No, Andrea, wait!’

The doctor tried to hold Andrea back, but she slipped away into the group of sailors who were leaning over the starboard railing.

Andrea went onto the main deck and down one of the gangways under the superstructure of the ship that connected with the poop deck where the aircraft was now hovering. At the end of the corridor she found her way blocked by a six foot two blond sailor.

‘That’s as far as you go, Miss.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You can have a look at the plane once Mr Kayn is in his cabin.’

‘I see. And what if I want to have a look at Mr Kayn?’

‘My orders are to let no one go astern. Sorry.’

Andrea turned away without a word. She didn’t like being refused, so she now had twice the incentive to fool the guard.

Slipping into one of the hatchways on her right, she entered the main area of the ship. She would have to hurry before they took Kayn below. She could attempt to climb down to the lower deck, but there would surely be another guard posted there. She tried the handles on a few doors, until she found one that was not locked. It was some sort of recreation lounge with a sofa and a dilapidated ping-pong table. At the end was a large open porthole with a view of the stern.

Et voilà
.

Andrea put one of her small feet on the corner of the table and the other on the sofa. She put her arms through the porthole, then her head, and slid her body through to the other side. Less than ten feet away, a sailor wearing an orange vest and protective headphones was signalling to the pilot of the BA-609 as the wheels of the aircraft hit the deck with a squeal. Andrea’s hair blew about in the wind from the rotor blades. She crouched down instinctively, even though she had sworn countless times that if she ever found herself under a helicopter she wouldn’t imitate the characters in films who ducked their heads even though the blades were almost five feet above them.

The door of the BA-609 started to open.

Andrea sensed movement behind her. She was about to turn around when she was thrown to the ground and pinned against the deck. She felt the heat of the metal against her cheek as someone sat on her back. She twisted with all her strength but couldn’t free herself. Although she was finding it difficult to breathe, she managed to peer at the aircraft and saw a tanned, handsome young man wearing sunglasses and a sports jacket exit the plane. Behind him came a bull of a man weighing about 220 pounds, or so it seemed to Andrea from the deck. When the brute looked at her she registered no expression in his brown eyes. An ugly scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheek. Finally there followed a thin, smallish man, dressed completely in white. The pressure on her head increased and she could barely distinguish this last passenger as he crossed her limited field of vision - all she could see were the shadows of the slowing rotor blades on the deck.

‘Let me go, OK? The fucking crazy paranoid is already in his cabin, so get up off my back, damn it.’

‘Mr Kayn is neither crazy nor paranoid. I’m afraid he suffers from agoraphobia,’ her captor replied in Spanish.

His voice was not that of a sailor. Andrea remembered well that educated, serious tone, so measured and aloof, that had always reminded her of Ed Harris. When the pressure on her back eased, she jumped to her feet.

‘You?’

Standing before her was Father Anthony Fowler.

225 SOMERSET AVENUE,
WASHINGTON, DC

 

 

The taller of the two men was also the younger, so he was always the one who fetched the coffee and the food, as a sign of respect. His name was Nazim and he was nineteen years old. He had been in Kharouf’s group for fifteen months and he was happy, for finally his life had found meaning, a path.

Nazim idolised Kharouf. They had met at the mosque in Clive Cove, New Jersey. It was a place full of ‘westerniseds’ as Kharouf called them. Nazim enjoyed playing basketball near the mosque, which was where he had got to know his new friend, who was twenty years older than him. Nazim had been flattered that someone so mature, and a college graduate besides, would speak to him.

Now he opened the car door and struggled into the passenger seat, which is not easy when you are six foot two inches tall.

‘I only found a burger bar. I got salads and hamburgers.’ He gave the bag to Kharouf, who smiled.

‘Thanks, Nazim. But I must tell you something, and I don’t want you to become angry.’

‘What?’

Kharouf took the hamburgers out of their boxes and threw them out of the window.

‘Those burger bars add lecithin to their hamburgers and there’s a chance they could contain pork. That’s not
halal
,’ he said, referring to the Islamic restriction on pork. ‘I’m sorry. But the salads are fine.’