One Way or Another: A Novel (37 page)

67

A few days later, Ahmet was sitting in his favorite captain’s chair, on the deck of the
Lady Marina,
the one used for his portrait, waiting for Marco. He had called Marco, asked the favor of his company, said he had something important to tell him. He’d also said that Marco was the only one he wanted to know about this, and that he trusted his discretion completely.

“I like you,” he’d said, and then, in his usual less than tactful way, “Better than I like your portrait of me.”

“Well, that should take care of that, then, sir” was Marco’s response. “It’s my version of you. You must look at it that way, or else you paint your own picture. One way or another.”

“I’ll take it this way. I’m no artist, and whatever I think I know, one day it’ll hang in the National Gallery next to the Rembrandts and Picassos.”

Marco smiled. “Well, perhaps not next to the Rembrandts.” Still he had accepted Ahmet’s invitation, a command really, more out of curiosity than anything. He wanted to know what the bastard was up to this time.

Lucy was out of the picture, safe with Martha. Marshmallows was gone and would never rise from its ashes. Angie was safe in a rehab facility found and paid for by Marco. Mehitabel was no longer around, which caused Marco to think the worst, but even then he couldn’t believe Ahmet would simply have gotten rid of her. Not in that way, anyhow. He’d probably simply fired her, sent her out into the real world to fend for herself. It was the kind of thing the man would do. “Cruel” was too soft a word to describe Ahmet.

The MV
Lady Marina
was moored in the Aegean Sea, just off the Turkish coast. The lights of the port of Fethiye glimmered in the distance and the air was so clear that through the darkness Ahmet could see his small plane, bearing Marco, coming in to land.

He sighed, as he raised a hand to summon a servant, a man in the
Lady Marina
uniform of white shirt, white shorts, and white deck shoes. There would be no scratches on his boat from idiots wearing loafers and heels; you came here barefoot, or in boat shoes, that was it. His signal alerted the two men standing behind him, awaiting his wishes.

“Tequila.” He gave the order in a loud, clear voice.

They obeyed instantly, and in minutes were back with a galleried silver tray holding two bottles of tequila from which to choose: Patron Silver, or a pure agave. Ahmet indicated the Patron, accepted the highball glass they filled halfway, topped off with ice and a twist of lime.

He settled back in his chair and took a long drink, savoring it while at the same time keeping an eye on the plane, which had now landed. The jolly little golf cart with the red-tasseled canopy was waiting as Marco stepped out and stood, looking around.

Picking up his binoculars, Ahmet kept Marco in his sights as he got into the golf cart with the two bodyguards and drove rapidly to the water’s edge where the Riva awaited. Ahmet put away the binoculars and took the Beretta from his belt. It would be so easy simply to take care of Marco right now. One clean shot and he would be gone. A nuisance no more. No more prying, poking his nose into affairs that did not concern him. Minding other people’s business was, Ahmet knew from experience, not a good thing.

He wondered exactly how much Marco did know about his business. Quite a lot, he suspected; perhaps he was even onto his money laundering activities, global in scale, with connections from here practically to eternity. By now, he’d probably have guessed about the drug running, though he would certainly have no way to prove that. And of course he knew about his play for Lucy. Marco had removed Lucy from his clutches. And Angie.

Ahmet understood Lucy was with Martha. But where was Angie? Gone to the dark side of the moon. With all Ahmet’s contacts, his friends in wrong places, he had failed to find her, and Angie was the one person who could destroy him. She knew everything, her story would be sensational. Angie Morse could still ruin him.

He sipped his tequila, watching the Riva get closer, the wake spraying behind. The Beretta was in the right pocket of his white linen jacket. He knew how to use it. The only question was would he.

The Riva pulled up alongside. He drained his glass, then got to his feet, and strode to where the steps had been lowered into the water.

Marco caught his eye as he clambered from the boat, until finally they stood on deck, face to face.

“Well, Ahmet, here I am,” Marco said. “It had better be worth it.”

“Unlike your portrait, this time it will be.”

Marco smiled. Ahmet was the eternal rich kid, never satisfied with what he’d got.

“Come, let’s sit over here.” Ahmet waved him to the stern where cushioned banquettes in a blue-green that matched the color of the sea awaited, next to small tables, candlelit of course, with one of the white-jacketed waiters, ready to serve.

“Tequila all right with you?” Ahmet lifted his glass to show Marco. “It’s what I’m drinking.”

Marco refused; he thought he’d better keep his head. He had no idea why he’d been invited here. Martha had not wanted him to go. Ahmet was unpredictable, he was a dangerous man who had lost what he had been searching for all his life.
Acceptance.
He had also lost his home. And he had lost Lucy, who, in fact, he’d never had. He had even lost Angie, the girl he’d lusted after, and God only knew what had happened to Mehitabel, who had simply disappeared. As, Marco was sure, had many others who’d had the misfortune to have dealings with Ahmet Ghulbian, who he realized had lost everything, except his money. He understood now why he was here; he needed to know the truth.

He took a seat on the blue-green cushions and asked for a bottle of Heineken, though he would not drink it.

“So, sir,” he said, looking into Ahmet’s eyes, still covered by the goddamn dark glasses.

Of course Ahmet noticed. He took them off. “That’s better, now we can see each other clearly. See what each is thinking, even.” He laughed. “I always find that useful, but tonight it will be more useful for you. First, I want to tell you about my project.”

With a flick of a finger, he summoned the servant, who was there in an instant, refilling his glass, adding fresh ice. The night was very dark, no moon, only the distant lights of Fethiye twinkling along the coast, then suddenly there was the slap of water against the hull as the big yacht began to move smoothly through the sea. Marco had not expected this, he looked with alarm at Ahmet, who smiled back, as though enjoying a joke.

“No need to worry, it’s simply a whim of mine, I so enjoy being on the water at night. I thought, a trip around the harbor and back, that’s the way the pleasure boats describe it at seaside resorts. That’s all, Marco. I can assure you, no harm will come to you.” He kept his hand on the Beretta in his pocket while he smiled.

“I have a question,” Marco said. “What did the red-haired girl mean to you? What was so important about her?”

“Important? Angie? Well, yes, in a way I suppose you are right, she was important, simply because I could not break her. No matter what I did, no matter what happened, that girl came through. Water, marshes, fire, imprisonment … she came out of it all. Now, you have to admire a girl like that, right, Marco?”

Marco remained silent.

“And then there was Mehitabel, who I did manage to take care of in a slightly more permanent way. It’s not good business to have a woman that close to you, knowing your every move, wanting what you’ve got. Envy is one of the great sins, Marco, as I’m sure you also know. And by the way, do not bother about a second portrait of me, I’m leaving this one to the National Gallery, where I’m sure it will be treasured for years.”

“You’re not leaving anything to anyone yet,” Marco said.

Ahmet sighed as he took another swig of the tequila, motioned again for a refill.

“What would you say if I told you that I’ve never had an emotional relationship?”

Marco thought the question did not demand an answer. He took a sip of the beer. It was ice cold. His hand was freezing just from holding it.

“Because of that,” Ahmet went on, “I have decided to leave my fortune, such as it is, to my newly created project. It’s called the New Souls Foundation and every penny will go to support it. Its work will be to help young people, especially young men, the lost souls we see on the streets of the world, to attain a better, more meaningful life.”

Marco did not believe what he was saying and was wondering what exactly he was up to; what he wanted to gain from it. Again, he said nothing.

“So, there you have it.” Ahmet got to his feet. He stood over Marco, staring down at him. “You have no idea how I envy you,” he said.

He put the glass of tequila he had been clutching on the small table, turned and looked up at the sky, moonless, cloudless, an infinity of sky.

Marco watched as he walked to the stern, stood staring down into the blue-black sea that seemed to be part of the night, and the cool froth of the white wake, at the endless sameness of it all. And then Ahmet stepped off the deck into the water.

“My God!” Marco yelled out.

The guards came running, the yacht slowed down, swung around, returned to the spot where he had jumped. They circled for hours, joined by the coast guard helicopters, uniformed men in powerful boats, a diving crew. Nothing.

It was as though Ahmet had never lived. He had certainly never belonged.

68

Six months later, Lucy was sitting on an uncomfortable little faux-wicker chair in a corner café in Paris’s St. Germain, sipping, not so delicately because after all she was still Lucy, a large café crème piled with whipped cream while at the same time devouring a pretty pastel-colored macaron that tasted of raspberries.

Martha sat opposite, with a more sedate espresso into which, unable to resist temptation, she dipped a macaron. Em slumped under the table, having already devoured her own macaron, “for being a good dog,” Lucy, who had given it to her, explained. Truth to tell, Martha could not quite believe all this was real. They had almost lost Lucy, had gone through the hell of fire and devastation, and, before he died, the attacks of the expensive lawyers sent by Ahmet Ghulbian, denying any connection to the events of that night at Marshmallows, or anything else that might have been said to have taken place.

There was, after all, no evidence linking him with Angie Morse. And Mehitabel, the woman who might have been able to tell the truth of the matter, had disappeared, without, as the police said, a trace. It was assumed she had perished in the flames as Marshmallows burned, though no remains were ever found.

Looking at her sister, sitting opposite, so fair, so young, so … unwounded by all that had happened, Martha thanked heaven Lucy was so basically strong, and thanked the parents who had made her that way.

She and Marco were living together in Paris now, and Lucy had come to stay before beginning a chef’s course. Miraculously, considering all that had happened and Lucy’s talent for escaping responsibility, she had suddenly found a way in life. It was what she needed, and “chef” loomed as a possibility on the horizon. The Tunisian had become a friend who also gave her lessons on the side while he was working.

Marco had a new Paris studio. He had moved on from portraits into what he called his own heart, a new direction of creativity. A freedom, he called it.

And Martha was working on a house in the south of France, near Villefranche-sur-Mer, an old farm she had been commissioned to refurbish. She was in love with it, and in love with life, and grateful for everything because she had come so close to having it all taken away from her. But life had moved on. They were free now, and always would be.

69

ANGIE

Sometimes, though not as often now as time passes and the memories recede, I ask myself, Why me? Why was I picked out to be Ahmet’s victim? I am sure there were others, though nothing has been said, formally, and no investigations made, because of course a “disappearance” does not constitute a crime; you need a body for that and fortunately I did not become “a body” as I’d feared when I was pushed off that yacht into the deep cobalt and azure Aegean Sea. It’s then I wonder what happened to Mehitabel, what Ahmet did to her, how he got rid of her. Her shoes were found, of course, by the side of the tidal river, and it was thought she might have been trapped.

I’m changing my thoughts now, my behavior, my life. I’m on my way to becoming that person my mother wanted me to be. In a coffee shop, I still haven’t gone up in the world, yet, anyway, working sometimes ’til midnight, but this time it is to earn money for college, which hopefully looms in my future.

I thank God I have a future. I even have an apartment on a nice quiet street in Greenwich Village, owned by a friend of Marco’s, but which I have permanent designs on for myself.

Once I finish college, of course, and eventually become a teacher. Not little kids, it’s the big ones I want, the tough teens in the tough neighborhoods. I reckon I can teach them a thing or two, with my experience.

I ask myself how can a woman like me have such aspirations? No background, no money, but now I have a sense of myself I never had before.

Am I wounded by it? Of course I am. Can I put it in the past? Sometimes. Do I think about it often? Not as much anymore. After all, it’s not the kind of memory you want to keep for those long nights alone in bed with only your thoughts for company.

Maybe that will change too, soon. There is someone on my horizon, a teacher, a few years older, a whole lot wiser.

And now I have my friends: Marco, my savior; Martha, my angel in disguise; Lucy, who is so silly sometimes and so lovable, and under it all far cleverer than we suspect, who comes over to practice her cooking on me whenever she is in town.

I envied Marco his dog, so much I even got one of my own. Small, whippet thin, skinny little legs, russet color, alert eyes, and an underbite that exposes his bottom teeth in a permanent smile. A joke of a dog.