Contract With God Page 6

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘He hasn’t revealed the exact location. But we know the area. Al Mudawwara, Jordan.’

  ‘Great, then there’s nothing to worry about,’ Fowler interrupted. ‘Do you know what’s going to happen if anyone gets even a sniff of this? Nobody on that expedition will live long enough to lift a shovel.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re wrong. We’re going to send an observer with the expedition: you.’

  Fowler shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re aware of the consequences, the ramifications.’

  ‘My answer is still no.’

  ‘You can’t refuse.’

  ‘Try stopping me,’ said the priest, heading for the door.

  ‘Anthony, my boy.’ The words followed him as he walked towards the exit. ‘I’m not saying I’m going to try to stop you. You must be the one who decides to go. Luckily, over the years, I’ve learned how to deal with you. I had to recall the only thing you value more than your freedom, and I found the perfect solution.’

  Fowler stopped, still with his back to them.

  ‘What have you done, Camilo?’

  Cirin took a few steps towards him. If there was anything he disliked more than talking, it was raising his voice.

  ‘In speaking to Mr Kayn, I suggested the best reporter for his expedition. Actually, as a reporter she’s fairly average. And not too pretty, or sharp, or even overly honest. In fact, the only thing that makes her interesting is that once you saved her skin. How do you say it - she owes you her life? So now you won’t be making a dash to hide yourself in the nearest soup kitchen, because you know the risk she’s running.’

  Still Fowler didn’t turn around. With each of Cirin’s words, his hand had begun closing a little more until it was clenched in a fist, his fingernails digging into his palm. But the pain wasn’t enough. He slammed his fist into one of the niches. The impact made the crypt shake. The wooden door of the ancient resting place splintered and a bone from the desecrated vault rolled out onto the floor.

  ‘St Soutiño’s kneecap. Poor man, he limped his entire life,’ said Brother Cesáreo, bending down to pick up the relic.

  Fowler, by now resigned, finally turned to face them.

  10

  EXCERPT FROM RAYMOND KAYN: THE UNAUTHORISED BIOGRAPHY

  BY ROBERT DRISCOLL

  Many readers might ask how a Jew without much of a background, who lived off charity during his childhood, managed to create such a vast financial empire. It is clear from the previous pages that prior to December 1943, Raymond Kayn did not exist. There is no record of his birth certificate, no document that confirms he’s an American citizen.

  The period of his life about which most is known began when he enrolled in MIT and amassed a sizable list of patents. While the United States was embracing the glorious 1960s, Kayn was reinventing the integrated circuit. Within five years he owned his own company; within ten, half of Silicon Valley.

  This period was well documented in Time magazine, along with the misfortunes that destroyed his life as a father and husband . . .

  Perhaps what most troubles the average American is his invisibility, this lack of transparency that transforms someone so powerful into a disturbing enigma. Sooner or later, someone must lift the aura of mystery that surrounds the figure of Raymond Kayn . . .

  11

  ON BOARD THE BEHEMOTH

  THE RED SEA

  Tuesday, 11 July 2006. 4:29 p.m.

  . . . someone must lift the aura of mystery surrounding the figure of Raymond Kayn . . .

  Andrea smiled broadly and set aside the biography of Raymond Kayn. It was a lurid, biased piece of shit and she’d been completely bored by it as she flew over the Sahara desert on her way to Djibouti.

  During the flight Andrea had had time to do something she rarely did: take a good long look at herself. And she decided that she didn’t like what she saw.

  As the youngest of five siblings - all male except for her - Andrea had grown up in an environment in which she felt entirely protected. And which was utterly banal. Her father was a police sergeant, her mother a housewife. They lived in a working-class area and ate macaroni most nights, chicken on Sundays. Madrid is a beautiful city, but for Andrea it served only to highlight her family’s mediocrity. At fourteen she swore that the minute she turned eighteen she’d be out the door and would never come back.

  Of course the arguments with Dad about your sexual orientation sped up your departure, didn’t they, honey?

  It had been a long journey from the time she left home - they threw you out - until her first real job, with the exception of the ones she had had to take in order to pay for her Journalism studies. The day she started at El Globo she felt as if she had won the lottery, but that euphoria didn’t last long. She bounced from one section of the paper to another, each time feeling as if she was falling upwards, losing her sense of perspective as well as control of her personal life. She had ended up in the International section before leaving . . .

  They threw you out.

  And now this impossible adventure.

  My last chance. The way things are going for reporters in the labour market, my next job will be as a supermarket check-out girl. There’s just something about me that doesn’t function. I can’t do anything right. Not even Eva, who was the most patient person in the world, could stand being with me. The day she left . . . What did she call me? ‘Recklessly out of control’, ‘emotionally frigid’ . . . I think ‘immature’ was the nicest thing she said. And she must have meant it, because she didn’t even raise her voice. Fuck! It’s always the same. I’d better not screw up this time.

  Andrea shifted mental gears and turned up the volume on her iPod. The warm voice of Alanis Morissette calmed her spirits. She leaned her seat back, wishing she was already at her destination.

  Luckily, First Class had its advantages. The most important one was being able to get off the plane ahead of everyone else. A young, well-dressed black driver was waiting for her next to a clapped-out jeep at the edge of the runway.

  Well, well. No Customs, right? Mr Russell has arranged everything, Andrea thought as she descended the staircase from the plane.

  ‘Is that it?’ The driver spoke English, pointing to Andrea’s carry-on bag and backpack.

  ‘We’re heading out to the fucking desert, aren’t we? Drive on.’

  She recognised the way the driver was looking at her. She was used to being stereotyped: young, fair, and therefore stupid. Andrea wasn’t sure if her carefree attitude to clothes and money were her way of burying herself still further in this stereotype, or were simply her own concession to banality. Maybe a mixture of both. But for this trip, as a sign that she’d left her old life behind, she’d kept her baggage to a minimum.

  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.

  Of course, it was one thing imagining a situation and another being in it . . .

  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.