‘Hey, buddy!’
Orville turned around anxiously.
‘You talking to me?’
‘Of course I’m talking to you,’ said one of the firemen. ‘Where do you think you’re going with my coat?’
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 buttoned 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. 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 pass. ‘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
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, nobody’s going to be allowed to leave.’
Damn! 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 fucking haunt the both of you.’
Andrea headed for the middle of passageway 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 bastard, thought Andrea.
The small, bare cabin was almost identical to her own. A narrow bunk made up tightly, army style.
Like my father’s. Fucking militaristic assholes.
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
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.’