Hao was presented with a gold Mont Blanc fountain pen with which to sign the necessary documents, with A’zam indicating that it was a small token of the bank’s appreciation. Jian was handed another leather folder with the funds acknowledgement receipts tucked inside, and with that they were led back to their car.
Emerging into the hustle of the city once again, the BMW drove west towards the Beirut Marina Yacht Club, where a long line of dazzling white super yachts lay moored along the quayside. Crew members in matching outfits washed and fussed over each one, despite the fact that these millions of dollars’ worth of ocean-going vessels rarely saw the outside of the harbour walls. Jian and Hao walked up the gangplank and settled down on the plush rear deck of a Princess 78 motor yacht, while a couple of crew members slipped the mooring. The deck crew stayed on the quayside as the yacht slowly glided out of the harbour and past the promenade, just as the sun began to set over Beirut’s concrete skyline.
Jian opened a bottle of champagne, charged their glasses and peeled back the clingfilm from a silver tray of canapés resting on the table.
‘You own this boat as well?’ Hao asked, taking a deep slug of champagne. ‘It’s huge.’
‘I’m chartering it,’ Jian replied, watching him carefully. ‘I
thought
you deserved the appropriate thanks for helping me.’
Hao smiled, raising his glass in a toast. ‘I wasn’t sure that I really did anything. But thank you.’
‘Not at all, you played your part well.’
They watched the lights of the great city slowly recede as the yacht powered further out to sea. They followed the course of several large passenger ferries exiting Beirut’s main port, the yacht bouncing up and down as they passed through the wakes.
Jian kept filling Hao’s glass until he had worked his way through two bottles of champagne and was on to his fifth double vodka and tonic. His face was now flushed, his red nose shining, as he suggested they sing some of their old university songs together. He stood leaning against the stern rail, smiling cheerily, hair blown back into his face by the breeze.
‘University …’ he slurred. ‘Best bloody days of your life. Hope … that’s what’s missing from all this modernity. We need more.…’ He got distracted, and stared down at the dregs in his glass. ‘We need more vodka is what we need!’
Hao’s eyes turned towards Jian, sitting quietly on the lounge deck. They were bloodshot, with tears from the strong breeze blurring the pupils. He hadn’t noticed that Jian had stopped drinking over an hour ago.
‘Can you pour me another drink?’ Hao asked. Jian got up and poured him another huge measure of Smirnoff Black. At 50 per cent proof, it would probably be Hao’s last before passing out. He took a couple of huge gulps, but the strength of the alcohol did not even register against his numb lips.
Jian was watching him now, following every movement. He reached into a small watertight bag that had been on the boat when they first arrived and began running a length of thin plastic cord through his hands. He did it over and over again, watching while Hao’s movements became ever more erratic.
‘What’s that?’ Hao asked. He raised his hand in the vague direction of the plastic cord.
‘It’s very special cord that dissolves in salt water,’ Jian answered flatly. ‘It’s strong but only takes a couple of hours to disintegrate without a trace.’
Hao nodded his head slowly. ‘Nice,’ he mumbled, feeling his vision start to waver. He lurched forward, unsure whether it was him or if they had just passed through another ship’s wake. Grabbing on to the railing with his left arm, he suddenly felt terribly hot. Reaching up, he found his brow damp with sweat, despite the sea breeze, and a wave of nausea washed over him. He shut his eyes, trying to block it out, but the whole boat seemed to roll again. His mouth felt dry despite all that he had drunk.
‘I think I should … lie down for second,’ he whispered, staggering over to the wide sofa. ‘Can one of the crew take me to my bed?’
He staggered forward a few more paces, then stopped. ‘Actually, where the hell are the crew? Haven’t seen anyone since we came on board.’
Jian didn’t answer, just sat watching while Hao slumped down on to the sofa, his head lolling back as he tried to fight the drunkenness. He hiccupped several times before dry
retching
, with his hands over his mouth. He sat there for a minute, his jaw slack as his head gently swayed back and forth. A few minutes later he was curled up in the foetal position, his knees almost touching his chest. He snored loudly, with his cheek pressed into the upholstery and a line of spittle escaping from one corner of his mouth.
Jian got up and stood over him. He slapped Hao hard in the face with the palm of his hand, but Hao simply murmured and turned over in his sleep. He gave a loud snore, his feet curled on top of one other like a child’s.
Jian wound the plastic cord around his ankles, tightening the knot with a sharp jerk. He then pulled Hao’s hands behind his back and did the same again, taking his passport from the breast pocket of his suit jacket along with his wallet. He took the Rolex off his wrist. With hands under his armpits, Jian dragged him to the side rail without Hao even opening his eyes. Then Jian shunted him backwards so that he jack-knifed over the edge and into the black waters below. There was a faint splash and the imprint of his body against the silvery wake before it was quickly lost in the darkness. Jian didn’t bother to look back but simply returned to his seat, wiping the palms of his hands.
The Lebanese skipper was the only other person on board and he had strict instructions to remain at the controls for the entire duration of the cruise. Jian cast his eyes towards the screen doors which led into the interior of the yacht. They were still firmly closed.
Two days later, the body of an unknown Chinese man washed up on Khalde Beach. There was a cursory
examination
by the pathologist, who quickly concluded that he must have fallen off the back of one of the many ferries which came into the harbour. It had happened a few times before with extremely drunk passengers. Without a single mark to identify it, the body was duly incinerated and a day later the file sent down to be archived.
BEAR MAKURU CROUCHED
down in the reed grass by the side of the runway. She squinted past the long line of stationary UN planes, their brilliant white fuselages grey in the moonlight, searching for the low wingtips of her Cessna 206. At last, she caught sight of the outline of the plane against a high mesh of barbed wire. It was parked right against the side of the MONUC compound and at the far end of the runway.
‘You see it?’ whispered Luca, squatting down next to her. Using the sleeve of his black V-neck T-shirt, he wiped his brow clear of sweat. He had a huge rucksack on his back and pressed into the long grass next to him were two oversized metal jerrycans, their caps still wet with Avgas.
‘Yeah. The far corner, behind that old Antonov,’ Bear replied.
‘Shit. Right next to the compound.’
Bear turned as she heard René approaching through the long grass. He had two jerrycans clasped to his barrel-like
chest
, but was swaying with the effort of carrying them. He pulled up, dropping them on the grass in relief before resting his hands on his knees. His whole chest heaved up and down as the air whistled through his lungs, and in the heat of the night a line of sweat ran down from his forehead and beaded off the bridge of his nose.
Bear cast a sideways glance at Luca. ‘Tell the hippo to lower his breathing, or he’ll get us all caught.’
René’s forehead creased in pain.
‘This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind …’ he said, struggling to catch his breath ‘… when we bought two seats on the plane from Fabrice. Kind of thought it might have fuel in it already.’
‘So sue me.’
Bear hoisted another of the forty-kilogram jerrycan on top of her head, widening her stance as the weight pressed down on her neck.
‘When we break cover, keep low and move fast.’ She cast a glance back at René. ‘Or whatever you can manage.’
The edge of the runway was worn through, with faded patches of tarmac broken up by virulent weeds growing almost waistheight. Bear picked her way through, careful not to lose her footing, with Luca following closely behind. They reached the massive tailfins of the UN planes, moving from shadow to shadow as they slowly made their way closer to the impounded Cessna. Bear could hear Luca grunting softly from the effort of carrying a 50-kilogram jerrycan in each hand. His shoulders were hunched over and his thighs crooked at the knee from strain, but the
months
spent carrying loads with the Sherpas had hardened his body.
They reached the undercarriage of an old Antonov cargo plane that had been bulldozed to one side somewhere in the distant past and left to rot. The outside was still charred black and caked in soot, while long vines had grown over the deflated tyres and up into the belly of the plane. Bear stopped, taking a moment to steady her breathing, and stared down the wall of barbed wire, searching for one of the manned lookout posts interspersed along its length. They had been lucky. The nearest was over a couple of hundred metres away.
‘Let’s go,’ she whispered.
The Cessna looked dwarfed by the other planes. Bear swung one foot on to the step by the engine housing and pulled her whole body on to its wing. Twisting off the fuel cap with her left hand, she jammed in the funnel and began draining the Avgas, her arms straining to keep the jerrycan steady. Fuel sloshed into the tank, gurgling with a noise that seemed impossibly loud in the still night air. Scanning the line of barbed wire for the slightest movement, Luca passed up the next can, popping open the lid with a dull metallic clunk. Just as they had finished emptying the second one, René arrived, teeth gritted and nose flaring from the effort of controlling his breathing. He stood still for a moment before looking up at Bear.
‘Get the plane ready. We’ll finish these off.’
Sliding off the wing, she landed delicately on the ground and opened the door of the Cessna. She jumped into the
left-hand
seat, pushing down the master switch and roughly pulling the headset over her neck. The electrics gave a low whine as the flaps gradually lowered to 10 per cent. She jerked the control column sideways, flaring out the ailerons before checking on the rudder. With a soft clank, Luca laid the last of the jerrycans on its side and, piling his rucksack in the back of the plane alongside René, slid into the seat next to her.
‘As soon as I crank this engine, all hell’s going to break loose,’ Bear said, her left hand resting on the key. Luca nodded, his eyes wide in the half-light. She looked across at him and could see pinpricks of sweat across the top of his cheeks.
‘Do it,’ he said.
There was a sudden clamour as the engine parts ground together. The propeller swung full circle then jerked to a standstill. As Bear tried again, turning the engine over and over, they heard sudden shouting in the distance and the long beam of a searchlight powered out across the open tarmac. It moved in long, sweeping arcs, jumping from plane to plane.
‘Again,’ Luca shouted, as Bear turned the key and pumped the throttle. The engine turned over, then again, but the propeller once more shuddered to a halt.
‘Come on, you old bitch,’ Bear shouted, while the beam of the searchlight traced towards them. She kept the key locked over, forcing the engine to turn and grinding the propeller round in a continuous circle. They could already hear the power in the battery starting to fade.
‘Don’t flood. Don’t fucking flood,’ Bear pleaded, jamming the throttle closed again. The propeller spun round once, then
twice
, then suddenly caught, roaring into life. Backwash from it made the open doors flap on their hinges as Bear quickly pulled her feet off the brakes, causing the plane to lurch forward. They were taxiing out towards the runway when the searchlight picked up the movement, swivelling round and hitting them full on. Searing white light filled every inch of the tiny cockpit, blinding them.
‘I can’t see shit,’ Bear shouted, raising her hand to protect her eyes. She instinctively pulled back on the throttle, groping blindly at the controls.
‘Just go!’ Luca shouted. ‘Go!’
Slamming the throttle back in, Bear grabbed hold of the control column to steady herself as the plane began to gather momentum. Then the beam suddenly disappeared, eclipsed by the wide hull of the Antonov, and they turned to see the Cessna’s wingtip pass only a few feet from the undercarriage of one of the other UN planes. Luca saw it first and, before Bear had time to react, he kicked down the left rudder from his side of the plane, making them swerve out towards the main drag of the runway.
There was the sound of a siren, followed by engines. Then the main gates of the compound were thrown open and two military jeeps drove out towards them. They could only see the vehicles in momentary flashes as they passed each gap in the line of parked planes, but the silhouette of a soldier clutching a rear-mounted machine gun was all too clear. As the leading jeep accelerated, the engine dipping with each change of gear, the soldier swivelled the 7.62mm gun around.
Bear checked the air-speed indicator as the needle clawed its way up past 55 knots. She was nearly at rotation speed and heaved back on the control column, lifting the nose of the Cessna clear of the tarmac. The wheel drew up from the ground, then crashed back down again, pitching Luca and René forward in their seats with a brutal shunt. Bear swore, trying to hold the plane level with the rudder pedals as her hand held the throttle in tight.