The Delta (63 page)

Martin didn't kiss her again, although she wanted him to. At one point, as he lay beside her, he lifted himself on one elbow and leaned over and brushed a strand of wet hair from her eyes. He smiled down at her and she grinned back at him. ‘I don't want to rush things, Emma. You're a mature young woman, but …'

‘But you want to wait until I'm eighteen. I know. But Martin, I am old enough to make up my own mind, you know, and I'm past the age of consent.'

He nodded, but didn't rise to her bait. ‘We need to get back to the house and get changed. I've got a surprise for you.'

‘Naughty.'

‘Not that.'

‘What is it?'

‘It won't be a surprise if I tell you.'

She showered and changed back into the dress he'd bought her. This was so unlike school it wasn't funny. She stared at herself in the mirror, dabbing some extra foundation on an annoying spot that had chosen this moment, of all moments, to appear. She wondered what he saw in her, but she knew, then, that she was happy that he was interested in her, and that she had agreed to come away with him. Her mother would be furious, of course, but Martin was right. She was a woman. She
slipped on her new sandals, took a breath and opened the bedroom door.

Martin was in the open living area wearing white linen trousers and a matching shirt, with the top three buttons open, but he was barefoot.

‘You won't need shoes where we're going.' Beside him was a large picnic hamper, which he picked up. ‘Come on.' He held his hand out to her and she took it.

They walked out of the house and back onto the beach. It was late afternoon, nearly five, and the breeze had picked up. Two people were out kitesurfing, scudding across the ocean's surface. One lofted high up into the air, did a loop, and then came back down and stayed upright.

Ahead of them, where the water lapped the sand, was an inflatable rubber boat. Martin led her to it and placed the hamper on board, then held out his hand to help her get in. A true gentleman. ‘Is this your idea of a romantic boat trip?'

He laughed. ‘This is just the entrée. The main course is out there. See her? It's the dhow, out there in the deeper water.'

Emma shielded her eyes and saw the ancient-looking wooden boat. She'd seen others sailing slowly past during the afternoon, with their exotic triangular sails and dark-skinned crews.

Emma sat in the back of the boat as Martin rolled up his trousers and pushed them out into the water. He got in and she shifted awkwardly to the middle as he edged past her and started the outboard. Soon they were speeding across the choppy water. Emma's hair streamed in the breeze and she couldn't stop grinning. She watched the kitesurfers zoom past them. This, she thought, was living.

There was a man on board the dhow, who waved as Martin approached. When they pulled alongside she recognised him as one of the security men from the house. He forced a smile, but
didn't look particularly happy. Emma hoped he wasn't going to be hanging around during dinner. Emma wanted to tell Martin that she found it a bit weird having servants waiting on her, but she also didn't want to offend him. Martin and the man exchanged some words and the guard reached out a hand to help her on board. ‘I'm fine, thanks,' she said, grasping the gunwale and hauling herself up. She didn't want him touching her.

‘Well done,' said Martin. ‘We'll make a sailor of you yet.'

When Martin was on board the African man climbed over the edge and into the rubber boat. He started the engine and headed back to shore.

‘Are we alone?' Emma asked.

‘Yes. Is that all right?'

She nodded.

‘Right,' Martin said, ‘I'll get dinner on.' There was a low table in the middle of the deck, laid with glasses, plates and cutlery set on a white tablecloth. Instead of seats there were large cushions. Towards the rear of the deck was a box of sand surrounded by walls of corrugated tin. A charcoal fire glowed in the centre and an old-fashioned black teapot sat on a metal stand. Beyond the brazier was another nest of pillows.

There was a pop, which made Emma start, as the cork sailed out of a bottle of champagne. Martin poured two glasses and began laying out dinner from the picnic basket: cold chicken, salad and a plate of peeled cooked prawns.

Martin stood beside her and held up his glass. ‘What shall we drink to?'

She shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. ‘The future?'

‘An oldie but a goodie.' He clinked his glass against hers. ‘My turn, next. To you, the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on.'

*

The African driver in the loud shirt had been waiting for them at the airport and once they were inside the black Korean four-by-four he passed a padded envelope to Sonja, who was sitting in the front passenger seat. She undid the staples and slid out the nine-millimetre Sig Sauer, two magazines full of bullets and a screw-on silencer.

Sonja loaded the pistol and racked it. ‘What should I do with it when I'm done?'

The driver honked and swerved to miss a man on a motorcycle with a pillion passenger in a burqa. ‘There is plenty of water around here.'

‘Maybe we should go to the police,' Sam said from the back seat.

‘Too complicated,' Sonja said.

Sam rolled his eyes. He was in love with a mercenary, and he knew there was no turning back now. Sonja told the driver the address, at Nyali Beach, and the man nodded. Sam was too nervous to pay much attention to the crowds in downtown Mombasa.

‘The house is around the next corner,' said the driver. He slowed the vehicle along a treed street lined with security walls. ‘Maybe I should leave you here?'

‘Yes,' Sonja said.

‘Thank you,' Sam said as the driver pulled over. Sonja was already out of the car and striding down the street. Sam had to jog to catch up with her. She was in hunting mode, he reckoned; totally focused. ‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Stay here, or get a cab back to Mombasa. Find a nice hotel for us to stay in.'

‘Very funny,' he said. ‘I'm not a handbag, Sonja. I'm here to help.'

She stopped and looked at him. ‘I don't think you're a handbag, Sam. However, this is a job that's best done by one person.'

‘No way. I'm not leaving you. Just tell me what you want me to do.'

Sonja thought for a few seconds. ‘OK. If Martin's got security, which I'm sure he has, they may have been briefed to watch out for me. He won't know yet whether I'm dead or alive, but the dam blast has been all over the news, so he'll be worried. I doubt he'd be expecting you to tag along, so you're going to be my diversion.' She outlined her plan to him and he nodded. It was simple, and crazy.

Sonja melted into the lengthening shadows, down a laneway roofed with overgrowing bougainvillea. The alley ran between two grand old colonial homes and looked like it led to the beach. It was getting close to dusk.

Sam walked up to the steel security gate and pressed the button on the intercom.

‘
Jambo
,' said a tinny voice through the tiny speaker.

‘Er,
Jambo
,' Sam said. ‘I'd like to speak to Mr Steele please. I'm a friend from the United States.'

‘
The
bwana
he is not at home now
,' said the voice.

Phew, Sam thought. If Steele was in, his plan was to disappear. Sonja had insisted on it. She would be waiting at the end of the alleyway, and if Steele was in, Sam would hurry to her and they would reassess the situation. If he wasn't in, then Sam was to distract the guards for as long as possible.

Sam pressed the button again. ‘I need you to take a message, then. Please come to the gate.'

‘
What is your name?
' the voice asked.

‘It's Bates. Jim Bates,' Sam said. Jim Bates, apparently, was a CIA agent based in Africa. Sonja had told Sam that she and Martin had met Bates a couple of times over the years, in Iraq and Afghanistan. If the guard wanted to check with Martin by phone, then Steele would be surprised, but hopefully not too concerned to hear the American had tracked him down.

‘
You can come back tomorrow
,' said the voice.

‘No,' Sam said. ‘Mr Steele will want to see me and if he finds out you delayed the message I have from reaching him then you'll be in for an ass-kicking, my friend.'

‘
A what?
'

‘You will be in big trouble. Come to the gate and I'll give you the message. That's all I want.' Sam checked his watch. The five minutes was up. There was no further conversation and he stood there, nervously tapping his foot. He heard a rumbling and grating and the gate began to slide open. It stopped when it was wide enough for a man to walk through.

An African man in a green shirt and trousers filled the gap. ‘What is the message?'

Sam held his nerve. The man was as tall as he was, and solidly built. He noticed the bulge under his overhanging shirt and presumed it was a pistol. ‘I need a piece of paper and pen.'

The man shook his head. ‘Tell me.'

‘No, it's private. Go and get me a piece of paper and a pen. Please.'

The guard sighed and turned. Sam started to follow the man as he walked across the gravel, but the guard stopped and put up his hand to stop him. His other hand hovered in front of his waist. ‘You cannot come in here, without Mr Steele's permission. Please, you must wait at the gate.'

Sam raised his hands. ‘That's cool. Don't want to upset anyone. Say, you couldn't get me a glass of water, too, could you? It's awful hot out here.'

‘I am not a waiter. Stay at the gate, and I will—'

The sound of something crashing to the ground inside made the guard turn back towards the house and reach for the gun at his belt. Sam lowered his head and shoulder-charged him, knocking him to the ground. The man fell, sprawling in the sharp white gravel, but rolled onto his side with frightening speed and got
himself on top of Sam. He raised a fist and slammed it into the side of Sam's face. He grabbed Sam's throat in one huge hand while the other reached again for the pistol in its holster. ‘Who are you?'

‘I'm Jim Bates, CIA station chief here in Mombasa, and if you kill me, you're going to bring a world of hurt down on your ass.'

The man laughed as he slid his gun out, then suddenly pitched forward as Sam heard a thud like someone hitting a punching bag with a baseball bat. Sam wriggled out from underneath his attacker and saw Sonja standing over him with a security guard's wooden truncheon in one hand and her pistol in the other.

‘Here,' Sonja said, reaching out a hand. Sam took it and she lifted him to his feet, almost effortlessly. Sam stared down at the unconscious man. Neither Sam nor the guard had seen or heard her approach. ‘House is empty, except for one more of these.' Sonja produced a curly telephone cord that she had presumably ripped from a handset inside the house, and knelt by the motionless guard. She used the phone's cord to tie his hands behind him.

‘No sign of Emma?'

Sonja shook her head. ‘The other guard told me Steele took her out to his boat.'

Sam followed Sonja inside. Looking out over the lawn he saw that the gate leading to the beach was open. He wondered if she had shot the lock off. She'd evidently entered unnoticed, as the second security man lay on the tiled floor, which was spattered with blood. He had a rag stuffed in his mouth, and his face was beaded with perspiration. Sonja had tied a tourniquet around his leg, below the knee and above the bullet wound in his calf. The man's eyes widened and he shrunk away from her. ‘He needed some persuading,' she said.

Sam made a mental note to try very hard never to do anything to upset his new girlfriend. ‘Is he going to be all right?'

‘Yes he is, but at this moment, Sam, I don't particularly care.'
She walked through the open-plan living area and Sam followed her. Across the beach they saw a rubber boat speeding towards shore. It beached and a man got out and dragged the craft up the sand. ‘Quick! Get out of sight, Sam!'

‘What?' Sam was too slow to react and just as he saw the man Sonja had pointed at, the man saw him. He started pushing the boat back into the water.

‘Shit,' Sonja said. She ran across the sand, with Sam in her wake. This part of Nyali Beach was quiet as twilight approached. The man splashed into the sea, jumped aboard the inflatable boat and yanked on the starter cord. The engine roared to life at first pull. ‘Stop, or I'll shoot!'

The man must have recognised Sonja. He lowered himself between the bulbous sides of the boat and gunned the outboard. Sonja spread her feet, lifted her pistol hand and wrapped her left around her right. She fired a double tap, and then another two shots. The man dropped out of sight completely and the boat began circling back towards shore in a wide turn. The inflatable slowed and, as Sonja waded out into the water, it started to sink. ‘Bloody hell. I must have holed both watertight compartments.'

Sam stood at the edge of the Indian Ocean. He realised the man must be dead, part of his body somehow pressing on the outboard tiller to make the boat turn. ‘Let's call the police, Sonja. You can get Steele for abduction, if nothing else.'

She turned and glared at him, the pistol hanging loose in her right hand. ‘There's no time, Sam. Martin could be up to anything out there. I'm not wasting time waiting for the police to arrive.' She kicked off her shoes, stuffed the pistol in her shorts and started jogging up the beach, towards a young man who was folding a beach umbrella, under which a sandwich board said
Kitesurfing lessons
.

*

Emma felt light-headed and guessed it was a combination of sun, fresh air and alcohol. The sun was setting and the water looked as though someone had covered it in a floating blanket of gold foil, like the chocolate-money wrappings she remembered from childhood Christmases.