SS Glasgow Castle 24 Chapter Twenty Four

Life has a way of lowering expectations, and as you know I'm a middle-aged specimen of the human race. I wasn't hoping our arrival at the hotel would feature a celebration involving red carpets, a smiling hotel manager, and a choir of cute chambermaids singing For They're Jolly Good Fellows. However, given Kross's remarks about special deals and connections in high places I did antic.i.p.ate being stroked here and there - a bit of special service, maybe complimentary champagne as favored by Tad, or maybe a suite for the price of a room.

It didn't happen. As the cab turned into the flower-bedded, fountained driveway leading to the front entrance, Kross slapped my palm with his pa.s.sport and said:

"Take this and get our keys. The reservation's in your name. We'll meet up by the rooms."

So: no suites. I said:

"The reservation's in my name, eh? What are the room numbers?"

"You'll find out," said Kross.

The cab stopped, and I was ejected into the colonnaded entrance. There were two admirals in full dress uniform flanking the huge automatic sliding doors. One of them saluted me as I went by.

The lobby was awe-inspiring, bigger than the main squares of many towns. The marble walls run up to a gla.s.s dome resembling a cathedral's. There were at least two fountains that added trickly sparkle to the multilingual noise of a hundred conversations. The air was spiced with the scent of a hundred exotic, expensive perfumes. I had some difficulty zeroing in on the marble battlements of the reception counter; although it was the size of a small castle, it was dwarfed by the five-story high storefronts, the fountains, a hundred loud neon signs.

I crossed over to the reception, swimming through the sea of voices. Most likely the vast majority of those exotic, important-sounding conversations ran along where-the-f.u.c.k-have-you-been-I-been-here-for-an-hour lines.

The room numbers were 1011 and 1012. While I waited for the elevator, I noticed most people in the hotel atrium were white. Black and shades of brown came next, and maybe ten per cent were of diverse different hues. One specimen in angry pink stood out in particular, and I reminded myself to stay out of the sun as much as possible. During the flight Kross had told me a couple of stories about fresh arrivals having their brains boiled within a few hours of venturing outside.

He was waiting by the rooms, as promised, leaning against the wall next to the luggage and talking to a cell phone. I hadn't seen him use a cell phone before, and I had the feeling I wasn't intended to see it, because he terminated the conversation very quickly and pocketed the phone with a suggestion of haste. I handed him his key.

"Ten eleven all right?" I said.

"No, I want ten twelve." We exchanged keys silently, and he put his into the lock. He said:

"I'll give you a shout in an hour or so."

"What for?"

"Dinner."

* * *

I let my knife and fork clank down next to the gristly remains of my steak. I gave Kross the heavy, belligerent eye. Then I said:

"Now look here, I've got something to tell you. You must admit I've been pretty good about everything, patiently going along with everything you say and all that bulls.h.i.t. And I understand you're the security expert. But maybe there's something you don't fully realize. I haven't spent all my life in c.r.a.ppy rooming houses. I've been in charge of up to twenty other people on ventures that cost ten thousand dollars a minute. I'm not a f.u.c.king snot-faced kid. So while I appreciate the need for discretion, this whole need-to-know business, I also feel I need to know more in order to be comfortable. I want to know exactly how you're setting things up. I want to know how many hotel rooms around the world are reserved in my name."

He was smoking a cigarette and he blew smoke in my face. He said:

"Is that what you want to know - names?"

"No, no names," I said. "I don't need names. I need to know exactly how things will work. Stop f.u.c.king around with smokescreens."

He considered this for a while. He looked round the half-empty, half-dark hotel restaurant (the cheapest of the three - I'd insisted on it). Then he put out his cigarette and said:

"Do I need to tell you what will happen if you talk about this to anyone else?"

"You don't need to."

"Fine." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "Tomorrow, there's nothing for you to do but relax. We'll start early the day after. I want us out of the hotel by eight. We collect the car, which - note this - is reserved in your name. It's a white Peugeot 504, because that's the most common car around here. Manual gear shift, but you told me it's not a problem. We have to hit the border between ten and noon at the latest. That's when my guy will be expecting us."

"Your guy?"

"The guy in charge of the Ivory Coast customs. We've done business before. And he in turn knows the guy in charge on the other, Ghanaian side. They've done business before too. It's that simple."

"And I just get waved through?"

"And you just get waved through. They'll stamp your pa.s.sport. That's all."

"And you'll be waiting there the whole time?" He shrugged.

"It shouldn't take you more than six hours. It cannot take you more than six hours. You have to get back before our guys go off duty."

"What if it takes me longer?"

"It won't take you longer. It's going to take under four hours. An hour's drive max each way, an hour on the spot. That's it, and you're done."

I let out a long exhalation and waited while the red-jacketed waiter collected our plates. Kross ordered two more beers. We were drinking a local brand called Flag. It was good.

"That's the part I have difficulty with," I said. "If this stuff is so easy to get at, how come it's still around after all those years? Two f.u.c.king centuries! And how do you know it's still around, anyway? You haven't checked lately, have you? There's only one way this stuff could be still around, just one way: it's hidden very well. And if it's hidden very well, then it's not easy to find, directions notwithstanding."

"It's easy to find," he said patiently.

"The f.u.c.k it is. Jesus Christ. What do I have to do to make you tell me where it's hidden? You'll have to tell me anyway. Does finding it involve a shovel and a bucket? Climbing a tree? Breaking in somewhere? Is it big and heavy? What do I carry it in - oh, for f.u.c.k's sake."

"Can't it wait till tomorrow?"

"No, it definitely can't wait till tomorrow." He thought about that for a while. Then he said:

"Okay. It's - "

"Kross!" exclaimed a female voice maybe an elbow's length from my left ear. Kross looked up and switched on a big grin. He said:

"Mireille!" He actually got up from his seat, the model of chivalry. And they started jabbering in French.

I got up too and half turned and a bim-bam-bong went off in my head and chest. I actually felt the old dog between my legs squirm and start sniffing - the first time it had shown any interest in ages.

She had dark shoulder-length hair with bangs and absolutely beautiful, slightly slanted black eyes, and she had a small nose and lips I wanted to kiss. She was wearing a grey, unflattering canvas dress, and still looked better than a model in a sparkling gown. When she looked at me and smiled I felt myself beginning to blush. I lifted the back of my hand to my mouth and coughed and glanced at Kross.

"Oh I'm sorry," said the model of chivalry, switching to English. "This is a friend of mine. Oscar."

"h.e.l.lo Oscar," said Mireille. We shook hands and it was like touching G.o.d, or at any rate one of his favorite angels.

"Nice to meet you," I said and had to sit down quickly.

"I'll get another chair," said the efficient Kross. "Here." He swung his chair around to the side of the table.

Mireille sat down. For a while I couldn't think of anything to say. Then I had a brainwave and was just about to ask her if she wanted a drink when Kross returned with an extra chair, followed by a grinning waiter. I understood her French enough to know that she'd ordered a Pernod. Things were improving. There was a slim ray of hope I might be able to think of something interesting to say to her. I wanted to think of something like that because I wanted her to look at me.

In the meantime she was looking at Kross, and he looked back at her. It definitely was a reunion-of-old-pals type of scene. Probably they were busy counting wrinkles.

"You haven't changed," she said - most likely, lied - in English.

"Neither have you," lied he.

"How gallant." Then she looked at me, even though I still hadn't thought of anything to say.

"You two are here together or have you just met, too?" she asked.

It was an odd question and I had difficulty answering right away. Kross said something short and slightly excited in French. She frowned and began rooting through her handbag, a big flat shoulder-strapped pouch made from the pinkish brown, scaly skin of an unidentified reptile. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. It was one of those dark-tobacco French brands that smell like cigarillos dipped in sauerkraut juice. However, she smoked with such style it made up for the stink.

She began with an action that I applauded with all my heart - she took a deep drag and blew it out right into Kross's eyes.

"Don't screw around with me, Kross," she said. "Are you two together, and what are you doing here?" Kross held up his palms and grinned and I watched with a new interest: it was the first time I saw him look guilty.

"Oscar and I are here on a holiday," he said. "A week. It's his first time in Africa."

"So you two are together," she said. "On a vacation."
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"That's right," I said easily. I could handle this, I thought. "We're going to the Komoe national park."

"The Komoe? You want to see if there are any elephants left, waiting to be photographed?" She turned to face Kross. "Is that the idea?"

"h.e.l.l yes," he said. "We already have a car rented." She snorted and said:

"An ordinary car? Or something with armor plating, and a couple of machine guns? No," she raised her hand to silence Kross, who became somewhat agitated. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know. Just promise me one thing: that you're not here to cause mischief."

"We're not here to cause any mischief whatsoever," said Kross in a ringing, clear tone. "And our car is a very ordinary Peugeot 504."

"You're going to the Komoe in a 504? You of all people know very well you need a four-wheel drive up there."

"We're going up to the Komoe," I said very firmly. She bent her head to look at me.

"If that's so you can visit me," she said. "I live nearby."

I was speechless. Kross cut in:

"Where are you based? Not in Abidjan?"

"Boundoukou. Right on the way into Komoe. I work at the UN hospital there. You can stop on your way in and on your way out. Check in, check out. That way," she said to Kross, "That way I'll know for sure."

"Hey," he said. "Of course. It will be our pleasure. Won't it, Oscar?"

I quickly swallowed some Flag.

"Sure," I said. "Sure. What do you do at the hospital, Mireille?"

She looked me in the eye and said:

"I cut people open, and saw them up again."