Four pick-up trucks bounced and bucked down the sandy escarpment, one with a six-barrelled M134 Minigun mounted on the back, a man in a red and white keffiyeh hanging on to it, his finger on the trigger, like an Arabian Rambo. Nadia knew the weapon. A thousand rounds a minute, easy. She and the others would be shredded.
Kamal barked rapid commands to the camels, and each one buckled its legs and dropped to a sitting position near the water’s edge. The four vehicles surrounded them, as men poured out of the encampment – half a dozen smaller tents and a much larger one – like ants out of a nest, armed with Kalashnikovs and swaddled in black robes from head to foot, only their sharp eyes visible. Within seconds Nadia felt the cool ring of a rifle muzzle pressed to the back of her neck. Kamal and Abdel also had AKs pressing their skin. Not Blue Fan. Her headscarf down, she got off her camel and stood by the water’s edge. Nobody moved, the only sound the small waves washing against the rocks, and the hiss of sand as it was blown out to sea.
Footsteps. A man approached from the larger tent, elegantly dressed in a white silk shirt, loose pants, a broad-brimmed Panama hat and round sunglasses. He walked in slow, measured steps. As he drew closer, her heart skipped a beat, because she’d watched this man die two years ago, back in the Scillies, after Lazarus had fatally wounded him. It wasn’t Cheng Yi, she knew that. But the likeness was striking. Not just twins; identical ones.
He strolled up to Blue Fan, took off his hat, revealing a mop of sweat-matted black hair, and stooped to kiss her on each cheek.
‘Hello Michael,’ she said. ‘Long time.’
‘He said you would come.’ Michael spoke the same way his brother had: each word executed precisely, gaps between them, like individual drops of rain. A simple enough ploy, but effective – you paid attention to his words. Michael pointed a finger at Nadia and the others, without gazing in their direction. ‘Live, or die?’
Nadia felt the muzzle nudge harder into her flesh, its owner tensing for the shot. She waited, not breathing.
‘Live,’ Blue Fan said.
Michael uttered some words in Arabic – fluent and faster than his use of English – and the men stood down. Nadia rubbed her neck. Michael hooked arms with his niece and they ambled towards the larger tent that was shaped like a cross, or maybe a church, with a central nave and two offshoots. She wondered what lay inside. But she and the others were promptly bundled off, her arms shoved behind her and bound with coarse ropes. She made tight fists and stretched her arms apart just a little, to make it easier to slip free later, but Michael’s men were well-trained. One of them punched her right kidney, making her gasp and drop to her knees, while another pulled the knot fast. Searching hands slid under her garments methodically, not missing any parts, but not lingering either. Her pistol was removed. Lifted to her feet, she was marched toward the tent into which Michael and Blue Fan had disappeared, but before she got there, the men veered towards a wooden pole with iron rings hanging off it. She, Kamal and Abdel were tied to it. She sat down cross-legged, her back against the pole.
The men departed, all except one, who knelt on the sand between Nadia and the tent. The sun beat down on her head. She could hear nothing from inside the tent, just the occasional rustle of the sand dancing in the breeze. Neither Kamal nor Abdel spoke. She had nothing to say either, because the only words that mattered right now were those going on inside the tent.
***
‘Did you know about the attempt on London, Michael?’ Pleasantries were over. Blue Fan had jasmine tea before her, and some sugary pastries, each mouthful an explosion of honey and spice. One was enough, and besides, Nadia and the others were melting outside. Her team were no use to her sun-stroked.
Family reunions were always taut, because the bonds between them were made of fear. Fear of the head of the family – and each other. Because if her grandfather commanded one to kill another, it would happen. For all she knew, Salamander had already counselled Michael. She surreptitiously felt for her blade pouch. It was still there. She didn’t relax.
‘Not at first,’ he replied.
Not the best answer. She’d had higher hopes for Michael. More than her own father, who had followed Salamander out of loyalty and adulation. Cheng Yi had believed in the plan, had wanted London destroyed, and had paid the price. That distaste at what her father had attempted was one reason she hadn’t killed Nadia. Michael wouldn’t see it that way. Nadia had been instrumental in the death of his twin, and only twins really understood how they felt for each other. The bonds were sometimes too strong. Like a double-noose. If one twin died, the second noose tightened around the other’s neck, as if pulled from beyond the grave.
She wanted to say, ‘you could have tried to stop your father.’ But then Michael would be dead. So, move forward. That’s what the martial art Hsing Yi had taught her. Do not care what is behind, for it will anchor you, and you will not see what is coming right at you.
‘What is he planning?’ she asked.
Michael’s placid, zen-like composure faltered. He frowned, a line of sweat emerging just above his upper lip. His head bowed, and he sighed, his body deflating. ‘I only know half the plan, Maau Zai.’
Despite herself, she smiled. Little kitten. He’d not called her that in a long time. But she understood about only knowing half the plan. It was her grandfather’s style. He only ever told them pieces, none large enough to see the whole. It wasn’t in case one of them was captured. It was just his way, and in the family his way was the only way. He was the brain, they were unquestioning limbs.
‘Then tell me what’s going on here? Why the submarine?’
He took a deep breath, reflating, his eyes lighting up. ‘It is a test,’ he said. ‘Or at least half of a test.’
‘And the other half?’
His face tightened. Was he angry?
‘You weren’t there,’ he said, ‘when he returned from London. Injured, beaten. I’ve never seen him like that. Never. He raged for days. Nobody dared approach him, except me.’
That she could imagine. Her stomach locked up at the very thought of it. She remembered the beatings when she was young, her grandfather’s cellar … she didn’t want to go back there.
‘But by the time he arrived in Hong Kong—’
Michael nodded, smiling like the proud son. ‘He had a new plan.’
‘Which is?’
‘Do you remember the donkey story?’
Of course she did. Her grandfather used to speak in parables, and her father Cheng Yi would repeat them to her. A man buys a donkey. The seller tells him it is a very hard worker. But when the man takes the donkey home, it won’t move, won’t react to any command, just stands there munching hay. The man complains to the seller, who agrees to come to inspect the donkey. The seller observes the reticent beast for a while, then picks up a stick made of heavy wood and whacks the donkey across the nose with it. ‘First,’ the seller says to the buyer, ‘you have to get its attention.’ After that, the donkey works tirelessly.
So, the donkey was clear enough. People. He wanted to wake them up. He was still searching for the paradigm shift that would bring about a revolution of sorts. Governments were autocracies, corrupt, spying on their own people. She knew the lecture. The rich got richer, the poor got sicker. Same old. Her grandfather wanted to change it all. The attack on London, when he’d culled eight world leaders, had been meant to enflame people the world over against politicians who lied as they breathed. But it had backfired, had drawn them together, uniting governments against a common foe. Rather than accepting that he might be wrong, Salamander had evidently decided he needed a bigger stick. The question was, what came after an atomic bomb?
‘What’s the stick?’
Michael shrugged, took out a slim platinum case, opened it, and extracted a cigarette. He lit it from a silver lighter, took a long drag, then blew smoke towards the ceiling. Either he didn’t know, or wouldn’t say. A bad sign either way. His gaze turned towards the closed flaps of the tent entrance, where Nadia and the others baked outside.
‘Is it her?’ he asked.
Blue Fan’s lips tightened. A single word could seal Nadia’s fate. But there was no other way.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She is dying. As is your father. If you want her to suffer until the bitter, painful end, let her live.’
He took another drag. ‘Cheng Yi was my twin, but he was also your father. That girl helped get him killed. She is fighting against our family. Do you no longer value family honour? Why haven’t you cut her throat? You’ve had plenty of opportunity.’
True. She could have killed her, but instead she’d given her a small chance of escape, to test her, to see how good she was, and Nadia had survived. Which meant she might just be the one to take down Salamander. Not something Michael wanted to hear.
‘She may yet prove useful,’ she said.
Michael studied her. Blue Fan knew he was no fool. All of Salamander’s progeny had their survival instincts honed to a razor’s edge. She hoped he would not ask the obvious question – to what end? – because he would know if she lied. Would she kill Michael to save Nadia? No. That would be a step too far, breaking an unspoken oath. She waited. Nadia’s life was in his hands.
Michael stubbed out the cigarette, and stood up. ‘Let us see how useful she is.’
As they walked back out of the tent, she noticed how he stood taller, walked slower, acting the part of the aloof leader. He’d had a short stint as an actor, and he wasn’t bad at it. Which made her wonder. Had he just been acting with her – testing her? She felt that old familiar clamminess seep through her like mushy ice, despite the heat. She had to play this game – his game – in order to survive. She needed to act her part, to pretend a degree of loyalty to Salamander.
Or they were all dead.
***
Nadia watched Michael. He wouldn’t look her in the eye. The Chef had taught her that it meant he was going to kill her, or more likely, have her killed. So, she was a corpse-in-progress. Nothing new there, just moving things up the schedule. But it also meant he felt no anger towards her, wasn’t seeking vengeance, at least not with a passion. The way she’d been searched earlier, the men had kept her clothed rather than stripping her, which would have made it easier. And they hadn’t squeezed or prodded her where they could have, even though Michael wasn’t watching them. His leadership was strong, and it clearly included a modicum of dignity. At the least it meant he was no thug.
Yet every time she looked at him she saw Cheng Yi, his twin, and by association, their father, Salamander. Bad blood. Part of her wanted to believe Michael could be different, but another part warned her to watch her back every step of the way, and save a bullet for him.
Blue Fan was another story. Nadia couldn’t quite work her out, exactly where her loyalties lay. She was another generation, an apple fallen further from the tree than Michael or Cheng Yi. But their brief bonding episode back at the camel stop was apparently over. Maybe Michael had reminded Blue Fan of who she was, what she was. Blue Fan did at least look at Nadia, but the same way she had back in Hong Kong during the Hanbury episode. Poker-faced.
Nadia decided she needed to work on Michael, if only because he was in charge here. She couldn’t count on Blue Fan anymore.
‘I hear you’re a diver,’ he said, staring towards the yellow submarine that looked like a flying saucer.
She’d never seen one like it, but she made a point of not answering someone who refused to make eye contact, so said nothing.
‘Well, today you’re going to go deeper than you ever could have imagined. Prep her,’ he said, and strode towards the jetty. Nadia tried to catch Blue Fan’s eye, but she wouldn’t face her. So, that was how it was. A one-way trip. Nadia stared at the mesmerising Red Sea.
Worse ways to go.
She entered the submarine via the only point of entry as far as she could tell, a sturdy round hatch at the top of a short turret. She climbed down into the hub at the centre of the saucer. It was a tight fit, even for her. Although the sub wasn’t small, most of it was crammed with equipment, and she guessed there were tanks of air and fuel underneath. As she slid into the cushioned leather seat, a harness automatically slipping over her shoulders, banks of computer displays and external camera screens greeted her. She could rotate three-sixty via a small joystick on the right-hand arm of the chair. She took a quick tour. Several cameras pointed to the stone-and-seaweed seabed a few metres below, small, inquisitive fish swimming past, skittish due to bigger fish lurking nearby. Another monitor showed equipment tucked in tight to the underside of the sub. Robot arms and pincers, holding a metal box the size of a briefcase. She tried without success to access the controls to the arms.
She glanced upwards as she heard sloshing footsteps recede from the top of the sub back onto the jetty. Blue Fan was staring down at her.
‘Bye,’ Nadia said.
Blue Fan gave her an inscrutable look, then closed the hatch, sealing Nadia into her steel coffin. Bolts clunked into place, and there was a hiss as additional seals squeezed the hatch water-tight. Cool air blasted Nadia’s head, refreshing after her brief stay attached to the pole. At least Kamal and Abdel had been released.
A straw stuck out from the console. She sniffed it, then pulled it forward and sucked a little water into her mouth. Staring down, she rotated the chair until she found what she assumed would be there – a funnel contraption to piss into. She relaxed. At least she was in first class.
A loud thunk announced the docking release. The saucer dipped, the motors hummed into life, and she was gently pushed back in her seat as the sub motored out to sea. Finding the forward camera, she watched the waves creep over the upper hull, then wash over the camera, and suddenly the entire sub was underwater as it picked up speed. Visibility was good. Switching to a lower camera, she watched the terrain of sea grass morph into coral – bright yellows, oranges, pink and greens, festooned with fish who swept out of her way like leaves scattered by a strong gust of wind. A startled turtle, on its way to the surface for air, darted below her, making her crane her head up uselessly – it was a screen, not a window.
As the sub sank deeper – the digital counter passing forty metres – the brighter colours faded, replaced by giant deep green fans and purple fauna, the fish population thinning out, though those that remained grew larger. Three barracuda headed up the reef, and then she was over a desert of white sand with scattered boulders, each one an oasis for a cluster of whip corals, oyster clams and attendant stripy fish. Four white-tipped reef sharks lay on the sand, able to rest due to the current rippling water over their gills.
And then she spied something she’d given up hope of ever seeing. A swordfish, two metres long before you got to its sword-like snout, its skin silver and metallic blue, its black eyes shiny and sharp, a small sailfin on its back. She half-stood out of her chair, before it swished out of view.
‘Spasiba,’ she said out loud, to no one in particular. But someone answered.
‘What?’ It was Michael. There must be a live mike feed. She hadn’t realised, because he hadn’t mentioned one.
‘I said thank you. I just crossed another item off my diving bucket list.’ In the nick of time.
There was no reply. No problem. The sub was going somewhere, she didn’t know where. There would be a task for her. Or maybe she was there just in case the robot malfunctioned, to rectify something. For now, everything was automated. And on the way back, with a tap on a control, Michael could purge her oxygen within seconds, and she would die thrashing about in her reinforced steel sarcophagus, gasping like a fish tossed onto dry land. He could video it, send it to his father for amusement.
She eased back into the comfy leather seat. It was growing dark. Eighty metres. No more rocky outcrops encrusted with coral and an attendant menagerie of fish. The odd sea creature trawling the bottom. Some pretty large hermit crabs, carrying their homes on their backs. Something loomed up ahead. A ledge. No, not a ledge, a cliff. She braced herself as the sub first faced endless blue, then piked downwards and accelerated head-first into a dark abyss.
Air blasted around her, and she had to pinch her nose and blow to adapt to the increasing internal pressure. She knew the basics of sub theory from one of her uncles who’d been in the Russian navy. Mostly submarines didn’t have to equalise the pressure – their steel walls were built strong enough to withstand it. Which meant she was headed very deep. The forward halogens switched on. The sub skimmed the near-vertical cliff, the digital counter already well into three figures, the first being a ‘2’ which changed within a minute to a ‘3’. She leaned into the harness, and every twenty seconds had to do the nose trick to stop her head imploding. She realised she was leaving it a little too late each time, because there was blood on her fingers, from her sinuses. Sure enough, she got an ice cream headache, like a blade being dragged across the middle of her forehead.
‘Keep equalising,’ Michael said, above the constant hiss of air pressurising her living space.
She did, though not for him. She felt nauseous, closed her eyes, repeated the manoeuvre again and again, until the hissing stopped and the sub levelled off. She opened her eyes. Four figures now on the depth gauge, the first one a ‘3’.
She needed a whole new bucket list.
‘Nadia, are you okay?’ Blue Fan this time, actually sounding like she gave a shit.
‘Yes,’ she said, though it came out slurred.
‘Repeat the first three oaths.’
‘What?’ Then she understood. They were testing her for any depth effects. High Pressure Nervous Syndrome. God knew what mixture she was breathing, Heliox probably. It took her a moment, then her mind cleared and she ran through the first two oaths and the fourth. She skipped the one about keeping your leader alive. She heard Michael’s voice.
‘Is she okay? She missed number three.’
‘She’s fine,’ Blue Fan said, her voice somewhere between pissed off and bemused.
‘Look straight ahead,’ Michael said. ‘Do you see it?’
She did. It looked like a giant piece of mechanical lego, maybe four metres tall. Rusted iron, a vertical cylinder with three protrusions on opposite sides, various pipes and small boxes here and there. She had no idea what it was, or why it was down here. A single red beacon pulsed on its top, suggesting it had arrived recently. Maybe Michael had put it there, given that the sub seemed to know exactly where to go.
‘You don’t need to do anything, unless we hit a snag. Just sit tight.’
The sub hovered towards the object. They’d put her in there for a reason. Snag was her middle name. Various pieces of equipment whirred, thumped, and clunked. She guessed the robot arms were meant to be doing something, but they didn’t budge, jammed in some way. The noise went on for a while, then it stopped. She heard something on the intercom. In any language – this one presumably Cantonese – it surely meant shit. Snag time. She waited.
Finally, a sliver of leverage.
Michael cleared his throat. ‘Nadia, I need you to listen carefully …’