“Billy. It’s Sam. I’m sorry for calling so late, but I have to be in Edinburgh by morning, and I just got your e-mail that you have been delayed," he told the sleepy man on the other side of the line.
"I am so sorry, Sam. I have been having trouble… this is deeply embarrassing… to obtain enough funds to get my visas and plane ticket in order on time," Billy admitted. It was true. He had suffered dwindling class attendance, and his salary was just not enough anymore to sustain the lifestyle of an active academic and historical explorer. He thought he would have the means to make it to Scotland to meet with Sam and his contacts for funding to discuss a contract for the salvage, but he found that he was running short on cash.
“Listen, we cannot discuss this via e-mail or over the phone. You have to meet with us in person,” Sam told Billy. “But I understand your predicament. How certain are you that this project is viable?”
“I am one hundred percent certain, Sam. I have seen the wreck, but for now, it is a very tight secret. I have identified it. It is lying undetected on the ocean floor just off the coast of Bluewater Bay, but I am afraid it lies within the 12 nautical miles of the territorial waters of South Africa. They might not allow us to claim it,” Malgas told Sam from the comfort of his bed. Mieke had gone home for the night, but she had vowed to meet up with him in two days to fill him in on all the details of the so-called discovery.
In fact, Billy Malgas was having serious second thoughts about the whole hoax idea. He hated leading Sam Cleave on like this, let alone the people the journalist had already gotten involved. But the very fact that he had had to admit that he lacked the money to even make it to their meeting said it all.
He had to. He had to pull through, no matter the consequences. If all else failed, he could only claim that he was mistaken. It was not a matter of life and death for him to prove that it was indeed the enigma of the Second World War maritime history scholars in his country had been discussing for decades including the very professors who educated him; his own mentors who were now dead and gone.
“I tell you what, Sam. If you can secure a contract with your people, I would be happy to sign an agreement for the salvage if it is within reason, you know?” Malgas said, chugging back copious amounts of rum to still his concerns about the whole ruse. “That way you will know that my intentions are valid, no matter how it turns out.”
“Okay, Billy. I’ll go to Edinburgh without you then, and I will see how far we can take this project before confirming with you. If my associate agrees and decides to fund your operation, I’ll let you know,” Sam assured him.
“Thank you, Sam,” Billy Malgas sighed, lifting the glass with the dark liquid to his mouth. “I really appreciate your help, and thank you for understanding my predicament.”
“No problem. I’ll contact you soon,” Sam said, and ended the call, leaving Billy in the miserable silence of his empty house.
Once he had been a flourishing academic, publishing papers and serving as a guest speaker all over the world. He had had tenure at one of the biggest institutions in Cape Town and a house full of lavish amenities. Now his belongings merely comprised a bed and a desk in his bedroom, his spare room used as storage space, his living room furnished with only a couch and an armchair, a television in a cabinet and a potted palm that was always teetering on the edge of demise. Had it not been his only company he may have neglected to water it at all.
Malgas felt the effects of the cheap rum coursing through him, gradually urging him to drink more and care less. His body felt as numb as his feelings. In Billy's mind, his reputation was one brush away from non-existent anyway, and if his little hoax was exposed it would do little to destroy what was left of his professional career. Even if the plan were a success, he would still be in debt, and his house would still be empty because he knew full well that there was not real treasure or actual historical significance he could profit from.
As a matter of fact, the only upside to the entire charade was that interest in his classes might be restored. Big deal. A knock on the door jerked Billy Malgas out of his self-pity bubble and forced him to compose himself over the alcohol and the listlessness of his current mood.
‘Good going! Listen to that knock, he thought to himself as he stumbled to his feet. That’s a knock… because you had to take down the fancy intercom when you lost your consultant position at Heyward’s.’
He made his way to the door on his socks, shirt unbuttoned with the shirt tails hanging out of his pants.
“Relax! I’m on my way,” he yelled in his half drunken state as the knock grew more urgent. Just short of the front door he took up his 9mm from the antique bookshelf. He lived near the university, on the southern side of Summerstrand, a neighborhood right on the edge of the city bordering on the scenic ocean route and the local nature reserve. Its slightly secluded location made it dangerous, and it was not the kind of area where one would just open a front door when someone knocked.
“Who is it?” he grunted.
From the other side of the door, he heard a very familiar, sweet voice he had thought he would never hear again. It jolted him into sub-sobriety and for the first time in a while Billy felt pure joy.
“Dr. Malgas, I have come to say hello!” she said cheerfully, feigning it well.
"No way," he said to himself, and then he replied out loud, "I cannot believe it! Cheryl? Is that you?" He opened the door, and there she stood, still in her formal clothing Zain had made her wear, fresh from following Malgas and his assistant from the auditorium.
“You guessed it!” she smiled genuinely. It was wonderful to see Dr. Malgas, so Cheryl’s cheerfulness was not just based on her need to sell her deception. She was genuinely happy to see Dr. Malgas. Being in his presence took her back to the good times when she still had a future when both he and she still reveled in the delight of the past and the fantastic wealth of artifacts that it had left behind.
"I cannot believe my eyes!" he exclaimed, almost completely sober at least in disposition and he flung his arms around her. They had embraced each other for a long while before he invited her in.
“Please excuse the state of my home. I had no idea that I would be getting company,” he said, clearing his throat.
"Oh come on, have you forgotten that I don't care about such trivial things, Dr. Malgas?" she chuckled, addressing him formally in jest. As he ushered her inside, she cast one last glance back to the corner of the street where Zain's car stood like a heavy shadow. It leered at her, as heavy and hard as her conscience. In the car, she could see the two silhouettes watching intently. Now that they knew where Dr. Malgas lived, she could do even less to escape them. Otherwise, they would target him, and that was something she would never allow.
“Have a seat. I’ll make you some coffee,” he smiled, still mildly dizzy from his inebriation. “I haven’t seen you in months… probably, what, a year?”
“Just about that long, yes,” she answered, surveying his house as she spoke to memorize its layout. “But I looked you up to share the good news with you.”
“Oh?” he exclaimed. “Do tell! You have no idea how I need good news today.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do,” she said under her breath. Then she recited her carefully fabricated cover story in a strong voice to sound ever more healthy and energetic. These were the attributes she felt he needed most at the moment and simply had to appeal to him.
“I have been clean and sober for over eight months now! Got my act together and now work as freelance consultant in… the…” she had to think quickly of an institution he would not be familiar with, “…field of Maritime History, for a museum in Namibia.”