One Way or Another: A Novel (12 page)

I could bear it no longer. I ran into that marsh, splashed barefoot through the grassy mounds, up the muddy slopes, staggered heedless along the side of a brown river so silent and dark I hardly noticed it until I was ankle deep. It brought me to my knees, slipping on the mud. I got myself up again, started off again, heading only in front of me, not knowing where. I heard a roaring noise and came to a stop, almost falling over my own feet. Something was approaching, fast … could it be the sound of a car’s engine?

Filled with hope, I ran forward. “Please!” I yelled into the darkness. “Help me, please, I’m lost, I’m so lost.”

The darkness seemed to lift a little, a mere iota, just enough for me to make out the surging wall of water coming at me. I stopped dead. I knew what it was. This was a tidal river and the tide was turning with a great swirl into a wall of water whose pressure swept everything in front of it. Into it. And under it.

As it would me.

I could take no more. I flung wide my hands and shouted into the dark night.

“Welcome,” I called. “Thank you. And welcome.”

*   *   *

Watching through binoculars from the safety of the bank, Ahmet had to admire the way Angie awaited her end. She stood, arms flung wide, facing that wall of water, “As though she welcomes it,” he said to Mehitabel, who was by his side, also watching.

“By now, I believe she does,” Mehitabel said. “What’s left for her anyhow?”

Ahmet turned to look at Angie.

“Go get her back,” he told Mehitabel.

He watched again through the binoculars. Mehitabel got there, grabbed Angie’s arms, pinned them behind her, dragged her out of the way.

Just in time, Ahmet thought, satisfied, as Mehitabel hauled the girl back to the house and her imprisonment. He was not done with her yet.

21

It was a few days later and Marco had still had no luck tracing the black yacht he’d seen sailing fast out of Fethiye harbor; in fact, his inquiries were met with shrugs and sardonic smiles. Didn’t he know how many boats sailed this area? Was he a crazy man? Anyway, what was he doing looking for a particular boat? Marco did not tell why but found himself at a dead end.

Literally, he thought, gloomily awaiting his flight from Istanbul to Paris, with Em tucked inside his jacket next to his heart where only she and Martha belonged. He hated leaving his idyllic getaway cottage, hated leaving the glorious countryside strewn with boulders and alive with the sound of bumblebees in the hibiscus and oleander, with the faint ripple of the freshwater stream, silver and brown, trickling its way to meet the sea. His painter’s eye caught it all, kept it in his mind, and also in the many photographs he took for reference which he later plastered on his studio walls so he always had a part of the place with him.

He picked up a tiny cup of coffee from a stall, forgoing the sticky-looking pastries they also sold. Downing the coffee in one gulp, he gritted his teeth at the sandy texture. God, he couldn’t wait for a cup of good French coffee. But he would miss this place, and so would Em. As did Martha. He knew that because she’d called him and told him so. She’d also said she was missing him. She’d also asked if he had finally given up on the ridiculous quest to find a missing girl who nobody else seemed to know about.

She was wrong there. Zacharias knew about her. Artemis had seen her. The girl was no myth of his imagination and neither was the scene where she had fallen into the water and he’d trolled in the orange inflatable searching for her, seeing her coppery hair floating, only to lose sight of her altogether. He decided it was ridiculous even to give the matter any more thought, yet the similarity to his sister’s disappearance kept her in his mind.

Meanwhile, an announcement crackled over the public-address system, in Turkish, then in English: the flight was delayed, engine trouble; there was no guarantee what time it might be fixed and ready to depart. When Marco inquired at the desk along with a flurry of other outraged passengers he was turned away with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders and a what-do-we-know raise of the eyebrows. Shit. He was well and truly stuck.

He repaired to the bar along with most everyone else and ordered a beer. It was not cold enough. Sighing, he took out his phone, wondering who he might call and with what purpose; nobody was going to get him out of here and back to Paris. Not today anyhow.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a young man smartly dressed in a dark suit, in which Marco thought he must surely be sweating. A conservatively striped tie was knotted firmly at the neck of his pristine white shirt. Marco glanced down at his own creased khaki shorts, at his blue T-shirt that even though it was clean was still only an old T-shirt, and at the beat-up suede loafers he’d been wearing for years on trips like this because they were comfortable and he never had to think about them. Though Martha did. She had even offered, with a small concerned frown, to buy him a new pair. With Em’s bright eyes peeking out from under his black Windbreaker, Marco had to smile. He certainly did not present the image of the successful, well-connected first-class passenger, a position to which he had been upgraded by an observant member of the staff who’d recognized his name.

“Sir. Mr. Mahoney…”

The young man stammered in his eagerness, making Marco wonder if he wanted an autograph. “Yes?” He looked expectantly at him.

“Sir. Mr. Ahmet Ghulbian presents his compliments and wonders whether you would do him the honor of joining him in the private lounge. Mr. Ghulbian understands the Paris flight is canceled and he wishes to discuss the situation with you.”

“Does he, now?” Marco knew the name, there would be few who would not. Ghulbian ranked up there with Getty and Onassis, wealth and reputation-wise. As he followed the young man to a private lounge he wondered whether Ahmet wanted his portrait painted. If so, he was not sure he wanted to do it. He’d learned from experience that commissions from men that wealthy and demanding could be a demoralizing experience, and their self-image invariably turned out to be different from that which Marco saw and painted.

Still, when he met him, he thought Ghulbian an arresting figure: compact, impeccably clad in a pale suit, though unlike his minion he wore no tie. What Marco did notice were his shoes, lovingly polished to a discreet low gleam. They reminded him of his grandfather’s.

Ghulbian followed his glance. “Berluti,” he said. “Paris.”

Marco nodded. “They are well cared for.”

“As all fine things should be.” Ghulbian waved an arm for Marco to take a seat. “I heard of the trouble with the flight and since I’m on my way to Paris myself,” he paused to glance at the thin gold Patek Philippe watch worn on his right wrist, “leaving in fact in ten minutes, I’m wondering if I might offer you a lift?”

Marco almost felt his jaw drop; it was as if he had been transported from the simplicity of his village life to outer space. Em poked her head out of his jacket and Ghulbian’s brows rose.

“I’m sorry, but I never travel without my dog,” Marco said. “But thank you for your offer anyway.”

“No. No. Please. The dog is welcome, I’m sure there will be food for it on board, I only hope it does not mind eating from Limoges plates.”

Remembering Costas’s café/bar and the dinosaur bones, Marco laughed. “You know what they say, a change is as good as a rest. And thank you for your offer. It would have been hell trying to find a room here for the night and I’m getting too old to sleep on airport floors.”

Ghulbian smiled, showing his perfect teeth. “As I am myself. Which is not to say it was not something I had to do in my youth, but then most of us have been through that in our time.”

Ten minutes later Marco was shepherded on board a Cessna 520 painted a pleasing silver-blue. The seats were cream leather, wide and comfortable. A pair of young stewards in blue uniforms and wearing ties made sure they were strapped in, and within minutes they were airborne.

Ghulbian took some papers from his briefcase and commenced to study them. Marco stared out the window at the vivid blueness of the sea disappearing under a downy quilt of white cloud. Ghulbian was the kind of man who managed even to have the weather match his color scheme. Feeling the man’s eyes on him, he turned to look.

Ghulbian had taken off his tinted glasses. It was the first time Marco had seen his eyes: dark, heavy-lidded, they seemed to hold a world of secrets. He guessed a man like that, with his money, his power, would certainly be the keeper of many secrets.

Ghulbian said, “Tell me something, Mr. Mahoney. Are you a happy man?”

Marco was astounded by such a personal question. He stalled and said, “Please, it’s only right that you call me Marco. After all, you just saved my life.”

“I did nothing as important as that. Only the situation.”

Marco thought Ghulbian was sharp. And sure of himself.

Ghulbian said, “I have a favor to ask you.”

“Of course, if it’s something I can help with.”

Ghulbian extracted a photograph from the papers on the table in front of him. He did not show it to Marco immediately but held it to his chest.

“I wonder,” he said, speaking quietly, “if you would paint a portrait for me. I know this is not the way you usually work, but this young woman was …
is
very dear to me. I would like … no, I
need
a memento, a living record of her in my home. I’m asking if you would do me the honor of attempting this for me. Naturally, I will pay whatever fee you ask.”

Still looking at Marco, he handed over the picture.

The first thing Marco saw was the cloud of red hair, that great, lovely wavy coppery mass. It was the girl he had seen fall off the yacht.

“She’s a friend of yours?”

“I knew her slightly. Sadly, she is no longer with us. She drowned, Mr. Mahoney.” Seemingly overcome, Ghulbian turned to look out the window, dabbing his eyes beneath the dark glasses with his silk pocket handkerchief.

He said to Marco, “Forgive me, but sometimes memories can be difficult to deal with. But yes, Angie was a friend and I should like to remember her. Immortalize her, you might say, through the beauty of your artistry.”

Marco handed back the photo. He was concerned about the way the red-haired girl had died; he wanted no part of Ghulbian’s emotions. “I’ll have to think about it, sir, I have a lot on at the moment.”

Ghulbian laid a heavy hand on Marco’s arm, as though exerting his authority. “Whenever the time is right, of course. Meanwhile, I would also like you to paint my own portrait, an image I can leave for future generations so they will never forget who Ahmet Ghulbian is.”

“That’ll be who you were,” Marco said. “Since obviously by then you too will be dead.”

Ahmet’s thick brows rose again in surprise. “Trust me, Mr. Mahoney,
Marco,
I will be around for a long time to remind them. Still, I would very much like to have you as my guest at Marshmallows.” He gave a small barking laugh. “‘Marshmallows’ is a pun on the fact that the house stands in the middle of some marshland. Very beautiful, as you shall see.”

Despite his initial antipathy, Marco found himself intrigued, as well as curious. There was something almost
beguiling
in Ghulbian’s self-deprecating demeanor, an eager friendliness, a charm about him which Marco found himself liking. To his surprise he heard himself agreeing to make the visit to Marshmallows. In fact he thought he would enjoy the experience, life with a billionaire in his secluded paradise did not sound half bad, though in fact he doubted Ghulbian would make good on his offer.

22

Back in London the following night, sitting opposite Lucy Patron in the small, intimate Italian restaurant, watching her devour a plate of spaghetti Bolognese as rapidly as any starving animal, Ahmet Ghulbian realized that in fact she probably was starving.

“Is it part of the tradition?” he asked. “That actors must starve for love of their profession?”

He saw Lucy frown and he marveled that she was actually considering what he had said. A sense of humor was definitely absent.

“Only if they have no job,” Lucy explained, twisting more pasta strands around her fork. “No job, no money. That’s the way it goes in my profession.”

In any profession, Ahmet remembered, as his own penniless past suddenly reared in the back of his mind. He had to remind himself that he was now a rich man, that he could buy everyone in this restaurant, buy the whole place in fact without so much as making a dent in his wealth.

Lucy put her knife and fork neatly in the proper five-o’clock position on her still-half-full plate. Obviously, after what Ahmet had said, she had remembered her manners, her upbringing, and that you never finished everything. Her wide blue eyes looked up at him from across the table.

“Thank you very much,” she said primly. “That was delicious.”

“Please,” Ahmet said, suddenly concerned because she was so thin and so obviously hungry. “Please, I’ll order something else. Chicken parmigiana perhaps?” He could practically see her brain ticking over as she contemplated the chicken.

In fact Lucy was wondering how she might be able to taste only a little, then ask for the rest to be boxed so she might take it home for the following night’s supper. She knew she could always ask Martha to help her out financially, and that no doubt her sister would do so immediately, but Martha would also ask questions. Martha would tell Lucy to get a proper job, she couldn’t simply do nothing and starve while hoping for a role on TV. And what’s more, Lucy knew she was right. What she really needed, she thought, attacking the spaghetti hungrily again, was a rich boyfriend.

The last two words clashed together in her mind. She stole another look at the mysterious man sitting opposite, the man in fact paying for her dinner and also right now probably saving her from starving to death. Or at least from running to New York, tail between her legs, hoping for some of her sister’s famous apple crumble, even a potato baked in its jacket, which she’d bet anything if it were Ahmet he would probably serve topped with caviar.