Contract With God Part 13

Answer him, man. Make something up. Something convincing.

'We have to look at the server and the agent said we should take precautions.'

'Your mother never taught you to ask for things before borrowing them?'

'I'm really sorry. Can you lend me your coat?'

The fireman relaxed and smiled.

'Sure, man. Let's see if it's your size,' he said, opening the coat. Orville put his arms through the sleeves. The fireman b.u.t.toned it up and put on the helmet. Orville wrinkled his nose briefly at the mixed smells of sweat and soot.

'Perfect fit. Right, guys?'

'He'd look like a real fireman if it wasn't for the sandals,' said another of the crew pointing at Orville's feet. They all laughed.

'Thank you. Thank you so much. But let me treat you to a round of juice to make up for my bad manners. What do you say?'

They gave him the thumbs-up and nodded as Orville walked away. Behind the barrier they had set up five hundred feet away, Orville saw a couple of dozen onlookers and some TV cameras - only a few - trying to get footage of the scene. From that distance the fire must have looked like nothing more than a boring gas explosion, so he guessed they'd soon be leaving. He doubted that the incident would take up more than a minute on the evening news; not even a half a column in tomorrow's Washington Post Washington Post. Right now he had a more immediate problem: getting out of there.

Everything will be fine as long as you don't run into another CIA agent. So just smile. Smile.

'Hi, Bill,' he said, nodding to the policeman guarding the cordoned-off area as if he had known him all his life.

'I'm going to get some juice for the guys.'

'I'm Mac.'

'Right, sorry. I mixed you up with somebody else.'

'You're with the Fifty-fourth, right?

'No, the Eight. I'm Stewart,' Orville said, pointing to the Velcro name-tag on his chest and praying the policeman wouldn't notice his footwear.

'Go ahead,' the man said, moving the Do Not Cross barrier a little so Orville could pa.s.s. 'Bring me back something to eat, OK, buddy?'

'No problem!' Orville replied. He left behind the smoking ruins of his office and disappeared into the crowd.

23.

ABOARD THE BEHEMOTH BEHEMOTH.

THE PORT AT AQABA, JORDAN.

Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 10:21 a.m.

'I won't do it,' said Andrea. 'It's crazy.'

Fowler shook his head and looked to Harel for support. This was the third time he had tried to convince the reporter.

'Listen to me, dear,' said the doctor, squatting next to Andrea, who was sitting on the floor against the wall, clutching her legs to her body with her left hand and smoking nervously with her right. 'As Father Fowler told you last night, your accident is proof that someone has infiltrated the expedition. Why they attacked you in particular escapes me . . .'

'It may escape you, but it's extremely important to me,' Andrea muttered.

'. . . but what's key for us right now is to get our hands on the same information Russell has. He's not going to share it with us, that's for sure. And that's why we need you to take a look at those files.'

'Why can't I just steal them from Russell?'

'Two reasons. First, because Russell and Kayn sleep in the same cabin, which is under constant surveillance. And second, because even if you managed to get in, their quarters are huge and Russell probably has papers all over the place. He's brought quite a bit of work with him in order to continue managing Kayn's empire.'

'All right, but that monster . . . I've seen the way he looks at me. I don't want to go near him.'

'Mr Dekker can recite the entire works of Schopenhauer from memory. Maybe that will give you something to talk about,' Fowler said in one of his rare attempts at humour.

'Father, you're not helping,' Harel scolded him.

'What's he talking about, Doc?' Andrea asked.

'Dekker cites Schopenhauer whenever he gets worked up. He's famous for it.'

'I thought he was famous for eating barbed wire for breakfast. Can you imagine what he'd do to me if he caught me snooping around in his cabin? I'm out of here.'

'Andrea,' said Harel, grabbing her arm. 'From the very beginning Father Fowler and I have been uneasy about you being on this expedition. We had hoped to convince you to make up some excuse to quit as soon as we docked. Unfortunately, now that they've told us the aim of the expedition, n.o.body's going to be allowed to leave.'

d.a.m.n! Locked up with the exclusive of my life. A life, I hope, that won't be too short.

'You're in this, whether you want it or not, Ms Otero,' Fowler said. 'Neither the doctor nor I can get near Dekker's cabin. They're watching us too closely. But you can. It's a small cabin and he won't have much in it. We're sure that the only files in his cabin are the ones pertaining to the briefing on the mission. They should be black with a gold logo on the cover. Dekker works for a security outfit called DX5.'

Andrea thought for a moment. As much as she feared Mogens Dekker, the fact that there was a killer on board wasn't going to vanish if she simply looked the other way and continued writing her story, hoping for the best. She had to be pragmatic, and teaming up with Harel and Father Fowler wasn't a bad idea.

As long as it suits my purpose and they don't get between my camera and the Ark.

'All right. But I hope that Cro-Magnon doesn't cut me up into tiny pieces, or I'll come back as a ghost and f.u.c.king haunt the both of you.'

Andrea headed for the middle of pa.s.sageway 7. The plan was quite simple: Harel had located Dekker near the bridge and was keeping him busy with questions about vaccinations for his soldiers. Fowler would keep watch on the stairs between the first and second decks - Dekker's cabin was on level two. Unbelievably, his door was unlocked.

Overconfident b.a.s.t.a.r.d, thought Andrea.

The small, bare cabin was almost identical to her own. A narrow bunk made up tightly, army style.

Like my father's. f.u.c.king militaristic a.s.sholes.

A metal cabinet, a small bathroom, and a desk. On it a pile of black folders.

Bingo. That was easy.

She was reaching her hand towards them when a silky voice almost made her spit out her heart.

'Well, well. To what do I owe the honour?'

24.

ON BOARD THE BEHEMOTH BEHEMOTH.

THE PORT OF AQABA PIERS, JORDAN.

Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 11:32 a.m.

Andrea struggled not to scream. Instead she turned around with a smile on her face.

'Hi, Mr Dekker. Or is it Colonel Dekker? I was looking for you.'

The hired hand was so big and stood so close to Andrea that she had to tilt her head backward to avoid speaking to his neck.

'Mr Dekker is fine. Did you need something . . . Andrea?'

Think of an excuse, and make it a good one, Andrea thought, widening her smile.

'I came to apologise for showing up yesterday afternoon while you were escorting Mr Kayn from his plane.'

Dekker limited himself to a grunt. The brute was blocking the small cabin door and was so close that Andrea could see more clearly than she wished the reddish scar across his face, his brown hair, blue eyes, and two days' worth of stubble. The smell of his cologne was overpowering.

I can't believe it, he uses Armani. By the litre.

'Well, say something.'

'You say something, Andrea. Or haven't you come to apologise?'

Andrea suddenly recalled a National Geographic National Geographic cover she had seen of a cobra eyeing a guinea pig. cover she had seen of a cobra eyeing a guinea pig.

'Forgive me.'

'No problem. Luckily your friend Fowler saved the situation. But you should be careful. Almost all of our sorrows spring out of our relations with other people.'

Dekker took a step forward. Andrea backed up.

'That's very deep. Schopenhauer?'

'Ah, you know the cla.s.sics. Or are you getting lessons on the ship?'

'I've always been self-taught.'

'Well, the great teacher said: 'A man's face as a rule says more, and more interesting things, than his mouth.' And your face looks guilty.'

Andrea glanced sideways at the files, although she regretted doing so immediately. She had to avoid suspicion, even if it was too late.

'The great teacher also said: 'Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.' '

Dekker showed his teeth as he smiled in satisfaction.

'Very true. I think you'd better go and get ready - we're going ash.o.r.e in about an hour.'

'Yes, of course. Excuse me,' said Andrea, attempting to go past him.

At first Dekker didn't budge but finally he moved the brick wall of his body, allowing the reporter to slip through the s.p.a.ce between the desk and himself.

Andrea would always remember what happened next as a piece of cunning on her part, an ingenious trick to obtain the information she needed from right under the nose of the South African. The reality was more prosaic.

She tripped.

The young woman's left leg caught on Dekker's left foot, which didn't move an inch. Andrea lost her balance and fell forward, bracing her arms against the desk to avoid slamming her face against the edge. The contents of the files spilled onto the floor.

Andrea looked at the ground in shock and then up at Dekker, who was staring at her, smoke coming out of his nose.

'Oops.'