“You should be lying down, to be sure,” said the nurse, lighting a cigarette. “We should be taking you off to Miss Ruthie’s.”
“She must be interviewed first by the police,” said Popayan’s one policeman grandly.
Olivia was dimly aware of the talk and theories gathering force around her: Drew had still been out of it on coke from the previous night; he’d gone down without a buddy; he’d been raving about teaching Feramo’s lot a lesson. He could have made a mistake, cut himself and attracted the shark, or he could have taken on one of Feramo’s people and got himself injured. Their voices lowered as they started talking about the figure in the tunnel. One of the boys touched her nervously on her shoulder, right on the fire-coral burn. She let out a slight moan.
“Rachel,” the boy whispered, “sorry to ask, but are you sure it wasn’t Drew in the tunnel? Maybe it was the shark pulling him back.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. The guy was wearing a full body suit and head mask. I don’t think it was Drew. I think if it had been, he would have let me know somehow. Sharks don’t swim down tunnels, do they? And there was no hood on the h—” her voice broke—“. . . the head.”
* * *
Miss Ruthie was baking when she returned. Trays of buns and cakes were laid out on the stove and the yellow-painted dresser, and the smell was of cinnamon and spices. Tears started to prick Olivia’s eyelids. Childhood images of comfort washed over her: Big-Ears’s cottage, the Woodentops’ house, her mother baking when she got back from school.
“Oh bejaysus, sit yourself down.”
Miss Ruthie hurried over to a drawer and fetched a neatly ironed handkerchief with a flower and the initial R embroidered in the corner.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she said, taking a sticky-looking loaf out of a tin. “There we go. Now let’s make us both a nice cup of tea.” She cut Olivia a large slice of the loaf, as if the only response to a disembodied-head sighting was a sticky cake and a cup of tea. Which, Olivia thought, taking a bite of the most delicious, moist banana loaf, was quite possibly true.
“Is there a flight out today?” she said quietly to Miss Ruthie.
“To be sure. It goes in the afternoon most days.”
“How do I book it?”
“Just leave your bag out on the step, like, and Pedro will knock on the door when he passes with the red truck.”
“How will he know to stop? How will he know I want to get the plane? What if it’s full?”
Once again, Miss Ruthie just looked at her as though she was stupid.
* * *
The knock came just after three. The red truck was empty. Olivia watched as her beloved tan and olive carry-on was loaded into the back, then climbed up in front, gripping her hatpin in the palm of her hand, running her thumb over the back of the spy ring, her pepper-spray pen tucked into the pocket of her shorts. The day was perfect: blue sky, butterflies and hummingbirds hovering above the wildflowers. The sweetness was unearthly, unsettling. She saw the Robinson Crusoe sign and the little bridge leading to the airstrip and started gathering her things together, but the truck turned off to the right.
“This isn’t the airport,” she said nervously, staying firmly in her seat as they ground to a halt on a patch of scrub by the sea.
“Qué?” he said, opening the door. “No hablo inglés.”
“No es el aeropuerto. Quiero tomar el avión para La Ceiba.”
“Yes, yes,” he said in Spanish, lifting the bags to the ground. “The flight leaves from Roatán on Tuesdays. You have to wait for the boat.” He nodded towards the empty horizon. The engine was still running. He waited impatiently for her to step out.
“But there’s no boat.”
“It will be here in five minutes.”
Olivia got out suspiciously. “Wait just a few minutes,” he said and started to climb back into the cab.
“But where are you going?”
“To the village. It’s okay. The boat will be here in a few minutes.”
He put the truck into gear. She watched as it rattled off, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, too weary to do anything. The sound of the engine gradually faded into silence. It was very hot. There was no sign of any boat. She dragged her case over to a casuarina and sat in the shade, swatting away flies. After twenty minutes she heard a faint whining sound. She jumped to her feet, scanning the horizon with the spyglass. It was a boat, heading towards her fast. She felt wild with relief, desperate to get away. As the boat drew closer, she saw that it was a flashy-looking white speedboat. She hadn’t seen anything like it in Popayan, but then Roatán was much more of an international tourist hub. Maybe Roatán airport had its own private launch.
The boatman waved, cutting the engine and bringing the boat to the jetty in a perfect arc. It was beautiful, big, with white-leather seats and polished wooden doors leading to a cabin belowdeck. “Para el aeropuerto Roatán?” she said nervously.
“Sí, señorita, suba abordo,” the boatman said, tying the boat up, swinging her bag aboard and holding out his hand to help her up. He pulled the rope loose, put the engine on full throttle and pulled out towards the open sea.
Olivia sat uneasily on the edge of a white-leather seat, glancing back as the coastline of Popayan faded into insignificance, then looking anxiously at the empty horizon ahead. The door to the cabin opened and she saw a dark head, slightly balding, covered in short, tightly curled black hair, emerging from the hold. He looked up and an oily, ingratiating smile spread across his features.
34
Olivia sat at the front of the boat in the white-leather passenger seat, fighting back surges of seasickness, her head bouncing up and down like a rag doll’s as every few seconds she was slapped in the face by a wave. Meanwhile, Alfonso, also soaking wet, stood at the wheel, dressed in a ridiculous outfit of white shirt, white shorts, white three-quarter-length socks and a captain’s hat. He was steering the boat inexpertly and much too fast into the prevailing wind so that it reared up and smacked into every wave head-on. He was gesticulating, oblivious, at the shoreline ahead and, completely inaudible above the roar of the engine, shouting things at her.
How, she thought grimly, could I be such a bloody idiot? Miss Ruthie is working for Alfonso. Miss Ruthie probably poisoned the banana cake and cut Drew’s head off. She’s like the evil red-raincoated dwarf in Don’t Look Now. She’s going to reappear from the cabin in a Little Red Riding Hood outfit and cut my throat. What can I do? The answer, she realized, was nothing. She still had the hatpin in her hand. The pepper-spray pen was in her pocket, but her chances of overpowering two burly men with a pen and a hatpin were, realistically, not very high.
“Where are we going?” she yelled. “I want to go to the airport.”
“It is a surprise,” Alfonso said gaily. “It is a surprise from Meester Feramo.”
“Stop, stop!” she said. “Slow down!”
He ignored her, letting out a gurgling laugh and smacking the boat into another wave.
“I’m going to be sick!” she yelled, leaning towards the spotless white outfit and feigning a quasi-vomit. He jumped back in alarm and immediately cut the engine.
“Over the side,” he said, waving his hand at her. “Over there. Pedro. Agua. Quick.”
She did a convincing dry heave over the side—not much acting required—and leaned back, hand to her head. “Where are we going?”
“To Meester Feramo’s hotel. It is a surprise.”
“Why didn’t someone ask me? This is a kidnapping.”
Alfonso started the boat up again, looking at her with his oily smile. “It is a beautiful surprise!”
She willed the vomit to rise again. Next time I’ll do it for real, she said to herself. Right onto his little shorts.
As they rounded the headland, an idyllic holiday scene spread before them: white sand and turquoise sea, bathers frolicking and laughing in the shallows. Olivia wanted to rush ashore and slap everyone, yelling, “It’s evil, evil! This is all
built on killing and death!”
The boatman approached the wheel, offering to take over, but Alfonso brushed him away impatiently, roaring towards the jetty as if in an advert for after-dinner mints, shower gel or tooth whitener. In the nick of time he realized he had misjudged it. He veered off to the left, scattering snorkelers and narrowly missing a jet ski, made a messy circle, churning up the sea, then cut the engine just a little bit too late so that he crashed into the jetty anyway, letting out a curse.
“Masterfully done,” said Olivia.
“Thank you.” He smirked, oblivious. “Welcome to La Isla Bonita.”
Olivia sighed heavily.
* * *
Once she was on the stable surface of the jetty, feeling the sun drying her drenched clothes and the seasickness subsiding, things didn’t seem quite so bad. A charming young man in white knee-length shorts took her bag and offered to show her to her room. Charming young bellboys seemed to be becoming a leitmotif of the trip. She thought back to the one at the Standard with the unnaturally bright blue eyes, large muscles, sideburns and goatee beard, whose face looked like one on a child’s magnetic sketch pad, and made a mental note to check the room for bugs. And then suddenly it came to her: colored contact lenses. Morton with his bleached, cropped hair and gray, clever eyes; the hooded diver with the calm, steady eyes behind the mask; the Standard bellboy with the packed body, the bright blue eyes which didn’t fit with his facial hair. They were the same person.
Trying to keep her composure whilst eyeing the current bellboy suspiciously, she followed him along a series of wooden walkways with ropes as handrails. The resort was fabulously eco, a barefoot paradise—pathways paved only with bark fragments, solar panels, signs carved in wood labeling the plants. She wondered whether there were neatly labeled castor-bean plants, and made a mental note to go for a nature walk in the morning and check for dead goats.
Her room—or, rather, ocean-view junior suite—was set back from the beach, standing on stilts on the edge of the jungle. She was disappointed not to be in one of the huts out over the sea, but even Olivia realized that in these circumstances it might not be appropriate to ask about a room change. The building was constructed entirely of wood and thatch, the linens and mosquito nets in soft whites and beiges. There were frangipani blossoms on her pillows. The walls were slatted to allow the sea breezes to join forces with the ceiling fan. The bathroom had modern chrome fittings, a deep porcelain bath with jacuzzi jets and a separate shower. It was all very stylish. The toilet paper, however, was not folded down to a neat little point. In fact, there was no fold in it whatsoever. It was simply left hanging against the roll.
“Mr. Feramo has asked you to join him for dinner at seven,” said the boy with a sly smile.
He’s going to poison me, she thought. Feramo’s going to poison me with ricin in the salt. Or he’s going to serve me O’Reilly’s poisoned goat. Or release an oxygen-acetylene bubble and set fire to me.
“How lovely. Where?” she said smoothly.
“In his suite,” said the boy with a wink. She tried not to shudder. She hated people who winked.
“Thank you,” she said weakly. She wasn’t sure if tipping was in order, but, deciding to err on the side of generosity, she handed him a five-dollar bill.
“Oh no, no,” he said with a smile. “We don’t believe in money here.”
Yeah, right.
* * *
It was excellent to have a proper shower: an up-to-the-minute rainwater-style power shower with side jets and a chrome head the size of a dinner plate. She took her time, washing her hair in the high-end products, soaping herself, rinsing and moisturizing, then wrapped herself in the exquisite cream-colored Frette robe and padded across the wooden floor to the balcony, where she sprayed mosquito repellent onto her wrists and ankles, hoping it would work for diver-murdering Islamic kidnappers as well.
It was dark now and the jungle was loud with the sounds of frogs and cicadas. Flaming torches lit the pathways down to the sea, the swimming pool glowed turquoise through the palms and the air was sweet with jasmine and frangipani. Enticing cooking smells drifted up from the restaurant area, along with the murmur of contented voices. It was the seductive face of evil, she told herself, marching determinedly back into the room to find the bug detector slash calculator she’d bought from the Spy Shop on Sunset Boulevard.
She took it out of her case with some excitement, then stared at it, frowning. She couldn’t remember what you were supposed to do. She had decided to throw away the packaging of all her spy equipment in order to protect the various disguises, overlooking the obvious flaw in the plan, which was that she would no longer have the instructions. She vaguely remembered that you were supposed to press in a preagreed code. She always used 3637, which was the ages of her parents when they were killed. She punched it in: nothing. Maybe you were supposed to turn it on first? She tried pressing ON and then entered 3637, then waved it around the room: nothing. Either there was no bug, or the bloody thing was broken.
She snapped. One little thing too many had been added to the cumulative stresses of the day, and she found herself hurling the little calculator passionately across the room as if it were responsible for everything: Drew’s head, Morton C., Miss Ruthie, the subaquatic hooded rapist, the strange slime on the hill, the kidnapping, everything. She shut herself in the wardrobe with her back to the door and curled up into a ball.
Suddenly, she heard a tiny beeping noise. Raising her head, she opened the closet door and crawled across towards the calculator. It was working. The little screen had lit up. She was overcome with a rush of affection for the tiny gadget. It wasn’t the bug detector slash calculator’s fault. It was doing its best. She dialed in the code again. It started to vibrate very slightly. Excited, she got to her feet and started to walk around the room, holding the calculator out as if it were a metal detector. She couldn’t remember how you knew when it found the bug. It beeped again, as if it was trying to help. That was it! It would beep if it detected something and start to vibrate increasingly when it got closer to the bug. She tried waving it at the power outlets: nothing. There were no telephone jacks. She tried the lamps: nothing. Then she felt the vibration change. It led her to a wooden coffee table with a stone flowerpot embedded in the center, from which emerged a stubby cactus plant. The calculator started practically jumping out of her hand, completely overexcited with itself. She tried to look under the table, but it was a heavy, boxlike thing. Should she disembowel the cactus with her knife? It would certainly be satisfying. She hated cacti. Spiky plants were bad feng shui. But then it was wrong to destroy life. What was it going to overhear anyway? Who was she going to talk to? She stared at the stubby little plant. Maybe it was a camera as well? She opened her case, took out a thin black sweater, pretended to put it on, then changed her mind and chucked it casually at the table, covering the cactus.
* * *
It was twenty minutes to seven. She decided she might as well try to look her best. A girl in a scrape had to use whatever resources were at her disposal. She dried her hair and then swung it around in the mirror in an imitation of the annoying Suraya, murmuring provocatively, “Leaves my hair shinier and more manageable!” The combination of seawater, sun and the remains of the red dye had turned it a lovely streaky blond. Her skin had caught some sun glow too, in spite of the lashings of sunblock. She didn’t need much makeup, just a bit of concealer to tone down the red nose. She put on a flimsy black dress, sandals and jewelry and surveyed herself in the mirror. The whole effect was quite good, she decided, at least for the end of a shit day like this one.
“Okay, Olivia, you’re on,” she said sternly, then shot her hand over her mouth, worrying that the cactus had picked it up. Tonight she had to put on a performance. She had to present Feramo with the woman he wanted her to be. She had to pretend to herself that she had kissed no blond, gray-eyed, double-crossing youths, seen no disembodied heads, understood nothing about the links between al-Qaeda b
ombs and acetylene, and had never heard the word “ricin.” Could she pull it off? It was going to be like “Don’t mention the war” when dining with a German. “Would you pass the ricin please?” “It’s very rice in the Bay Islands, isn’t it?”
She started giggling. Oh dear, was it possible she was hysterical? What was she doing? She was about to have dinner with a poisoner. Her mind raced wildly, trying to summon antipoisoning strategies gleaned from movies: switching glasses, eating only from the same pot as the host. But what if the dishes arrived already on the plates? She stood still for a moment then lay down on the floor, repeating the mantra, “My intuitions are my guide; I still my hysteria and overactive imagination.” She was just starting to calm down when there was a thunderous knock at the door. They’re taking me away to be stoned, she thought, scrambling to her feet, hopping into her strappy sandals and reaching the door just as the maniacal knock came again.
A small plump lady in a white apron was standing outside. “You want turndown?” she said with a motherly smile.
As the lady bustled into the room, the bellboy appeared in the doorway behind her.
“Mr. Feramo is ready to receive you,” he said.
35
Pierre Feramo was reclining on a low sofa, his hands resting on his lap with an air of controlled power. He was wearing loose clothes in navy linen. His beautiful, liquid eyes stared at her impassively beneath the finely arched brows.
“Thank you,” he said, dismissing the boy with a wave of his hand.
Olivia heard the door close, stiffening as the key turned in the lock.
Feramo’s suite was sumptuous, exotic, lit entirely by candlelight. There were Oriental rugs on the floors, ornate tapestries on the wall and a smell of burning incense which instantly took her back to her time in the Sudan. Feramo continued to stare at her scarily. Instinct told her to take control of the mood.