Thirty-five hours later
Dominican Republic
The two-storey, clay-coloured finca was just a stone’s throw from the Casa de Campos polo fields, in a cul-de-sac lined with hollies, with a brown shingle roof that jutted out over the entrance like a peaked cap and was supported by two white columns.
It was barely different from any of the other well-maintained holiday homes here that belonged almost exclusively to foreigners, although it was significantly smaller than the villas of the high-profile people who had secured the best spots five minutes from La Romana, directly on the beach or around the golf course.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, the hottest part of the day. Not a cloud in the sky to prevent the sun from driving the muggy air on the ground up to thirty-six degrees.
Martin got out of the small, air-conditioned car that he’d rented at the airport in the morning and started to sweat. He was wearing khaki shorts, a white linen shirt and dark sunglasses. With his white, pasty skin, he looked like a typical tourist on the first week of his holiday. He protected his head, now covered in stubble again, with an old-style baseball cap.
Looking around, he pulled the shirt from his chest. He’d barely been out of the car for twenty seconds and it was already sticking to his body like a rubber glove.
At this time of day there wasn’t anyone in their right mind who’d voluntarily leave their air-conditioned house.
Nobody watched him as he hobbled across the freshly mown lawn (the long-distance flight had caused his foot to swell up again) to get to the rear of the finca, where he saw the obligatory swimming pool, pine needles swimming on its surface.
The garden bordered on an unfinished new development, and so there was nobody here either who could see Martin check the back door for hidden cables and cameras, and jimmy open the lock with a penknife after ensuring that he wouldn’t set off any alarm.
Martin thought it would have taken longer to locate the address, but after just an hour he’d found a taxi driver at the port who’d recognised the photo. And who, in return for two hundred US dollars, had told him where this person regularly went whenever the ship docked in La Romana.
He closed the back door and walked across the sandstone tiles into the large sitting room.
Inside the finca it was only slightly cooler than outside, a sure sign that a European lived here who had misgivings about leaving the air conditioning on during the days and weeks when they were absent.
The décor inside was typically American. An open-plan kitchen, a U-shaped sofa arrangement in front of the family altar on the wall: the gigantic plasma screen directly above a mock fireplace.
Martin switched on the air conditioning, took a beer out of the fridge, removed from his trouser pocket the pistol he’d bought in La Romana, placed it on the coffee table and sat on the sofa. Only now did he remove his cap and sunglasses.
He didn’t know how long his wait would be, but he was prepared for a long one. His duffle bag was in the hire car. This time he’d brought along a few more changes of clothes than for his excursion on the Sultan. Martin would spend the winter here if necessary.
That it wouldn’t be necessary became clear the moment he picked up a truncheon-sized remote control from the coffee table: the television switched on by itself.
The colour of the screen changed from black to turquoise. In the centre the Skype symbol appeared, beneath which it said: Incoming Call.
So it wasn’t an alarm system visible from the outside. The house must be secured by webcams that registered any movement inside the house and called the owner as soon as anything unusual occurred.
Fine by me.
Martin pressed a round button marked OK.
He heard an electronic sound reminiscent of the plop of water in a cave of stalactites, and a computer icon of two hands shaking signalled that the connection had been made.
‘That took a long time,’ he heard a voice say. The matching face didn’t appear on the screen, but Martin was pretty sure that the TV camera was transmitting his picture. ‘I was expecting you earlier.’
Martin put the remote control beside his beer, shrugged and said, ‘How can I put it poetically? Time is the life jacket of truth; it always brings it to the surface. Isn’t that right, Querky? Or would you rather I call you Elena?’