True (11 page)

He knew of experienced scuba divers who used compressed air to dive to great depths in order to experience the early euphoric effects of nitrogen narcosis, ensuring that they headed for the surface before the 'rapture of the deep' made them remove their mouthpieces and drown. Max distrusted narcotics and preferred the purity of free diving. Ever since his mother died, however, he had been addicted to the light-headed hypoxia and emotional release he experienced when diving at depth. Free diving to the euphoric brink of death had become his drug of choice.

On land he felt*no emotion for his father, or from him. He had no need of it. It was irrelevant. But this was his mother's realm and he could vent the feelings he supressed on land. It was better than any trip to a psychiatrist: it was as though, for a few fleeting moments, he had returned to the womb. This was where he could connect with his mother, admit his love for her and acknowledge her love for him.

He noticed the time on his wrist. He would have to kick for the surface now or risk drowning. The upward ascent against gravity and under pressure required eighty per cent of a diver's effort and was therefore most dangerous. He checked the illuminated pressure gauge beside his watch. He had descended almost two hundred feet. It seemed that he was increasingly forced to go deeper to achieve his secret pleasure. For a moment he thought he saw his mother again and felt such joy that he was tempted to continue his descent.

Then an image of his father's face cut in, reminding him of his duty and his place in the world. Suddenly he felt cold and weary. Holding on to the buoy's anchor rope, he kicked his fins and headed for the surface.

THE DIVER HAD BEEN SUBMERGED FOR SEVEN MINUTES BEFORE Isabella saw him surface and gasp for air. When he headed for the shore, with long, powerful strokes, she walked down the jetty after him, but he swam so fast she had to run to keep up.

When he reached the shallows and stood to his full height his size made her stop and stare. His broad back was turned to her as he pulled off his mask, then removed the neoprene balaclava that covered his head to reveal a mop of white-blond hair. When he faced her, her heart began to pound and her palms felt damp. He was too far away for her to see his features clearly but she knew he was her saviour from last night.

She found herself walking towards him, pace quickening with each step. He had seen her now and was slowly approaching. She had never felt like this before: mouth dry, chest so tight she could barely breathe, heart thudding so hard that she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Even before his face came into focus she could see him perfecdy, every feature etched into her consciousness, as familiar as her own.

Her entire body tingled, on full alert, as though electricity ran through her veins. Isabella exerted all her self-control to stop herself running to him.

THE MORNING SUN WAS BEHIND HER, OBSCURING HIS VISION AS SHE walked towards him, but Max recognized her immediately. His chest felt tight as his pulse accelerated to sixty beats per minute, almost the average resting rate for a normal human heart, but the novel sensation was both disorienting and exhilarating. Then she was closer, and in the sunlight he saw every detail of her face. It was as though until this moment he had lived his entire life in muted black and white: suddenly it was in blinding Technicolor. His senses fizzed. Despite the neoprene suit he felt naked and raw, as though every nerve ending was exposed.

How could he not have noticed just how perfect her face was? He had seen her last night -- but he hadn't really seen her. Not like he was seeing her now. As he stared at her, a host of intense, unfamiliar emotions swirled in his breast. She was now only inches away, as mesmerized by him as he was by her. She touched his cheek and the sensation was almost too much to bear. Panic welled in his chest, nausea churned in his belly. He was falling over a cliff, losing all control. He closed his eyes, reached out and stroked the contours of her face with his fingertips.

He lost track of how long they stood there on the deserted beach, eyes closed, lost in themselves, tracing each other's features.

'What's your name?'

He opened his eyes. 'Max.'

'I'm Isabella.' She smiled and took his hand. 'Last night you wouldn't let me buy you a drink. Perhaps I can tempt you with breakfast?'

'Good idea. I'm starving.'

As they walked back to the hotel, neither saw the man crouching at the far end of the beach, one eye peering into the monitor of a digital video camera, the other covered with a black patch.

ZOOM IN, STEIN. HELMUT KAPPEL GAZED AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN on his desk at Kappel Privatbank in Zurich. He had never regretted recruiting the man almost three decades ago. When Stein had first come to Zurich he had been a young agent working for the Stasi, escorting a corrupt senior Communist Party official who was in Switzerland to open a secret account with Kappel Privatbank; Kappel had been impressed with the young Stein's loyalty and discretion. Later the official fell foul of the political machine and was executed, but Stein escaped to the West. Since then he had handled all of Helmut's and Kappel Privatbank's security needs with unquestioning loyalty. And with the fall of the Berlin wall Stein had recruited more highly trained and grateful ex-Stasi.

'Closer. Stop. Hold it.'

The mobile phone link between Stein's digital video camera in Antibes and the computer screen on Helmut Kappel's desk in Zurich was sharp enough for Helmut to see the expression on Max's face. It was a revelation to watch him caress Isabella's cheek.

'Follow them. I want you to be my eyes, Stein. But don't let Max or the girl see you.'

Max and Isabella held hands and walked across the sand to the hotel. It was too early to judge Bacci's drug, but the expression on Max's face sent a surge of fire through Helmut's veins. If the drug could turn his son, a man inured to emotion, into a lovesick fool, it was powerful indeed. He reached for the silver cigarette box on his desk, then changed his mind and took a cigar from the wooden box beside it. He extracted a razor-sharp curved knife from a sheath strapped to his right ankle and cut off the tip. An Arab assassin had presented the mother-of-pearl-handled knife to his great-great-grandfather as a mark of respect. Helmut carried it with him always.

He puffed at the cigar and watched the computer screen avidly. There was a lull while his son changed out of his diving gear. Then he saw Max join Isabella on the hotel terrace for breakfast. The way she glanced adoringly at him made Helmut almost envious.

He regarded the picture on his desk of his third wife, Eva. She was in her thirties -- three decades his junior -- and blonde. He had once thought her beautiful, but she had never looked at him as Isabella was now looking at Max. Eva had married him for money and status, and Helmut understood that: emotions only complicated matters. Since the trouble with Max's mother, he had avoided becoming involved with his second and third wives, insisting on cast-iron prenuptial agreements and forbidding them any contact with the family business.

However, as he watched Isabella and Max, Helmut remembered how Max's mother had once looked at him, and the way he had felt about her. He turned to the mirror on the wall by his desk and frowned at his reflection. He despised love. He recalled the bitter impotence of rejection he had felt when Max's mother had taken Max and fled. But although he had tried to eradicate love from his world, part of him yearned occasionally for its giddy, poisonous rush. He associated it with the recklessness of youth and he wanted to be young again. He thought of Bacci's drug. If he couldn't eradicate love, perhaps he could control its debilitating influence. A smile curved his lips. If he could tame the power of love, could he not tame the world?

When Isabella's friends arrived for breakfast, Helmut watched her introduce Max with pride and delight. But as Stein's camera focused on the tall, strangely familiar blonde kissing Isabella, Helmut leaned forward. He had always appreciated beautiful things, and the blonde was exquisite. He glanced again at the photograph of his wife. Eva looked plain, even ugly, beside the ethereal creature on the screen. He remembered the momentary excitement when he had bought his most precious Ferrari, the last car ever produced by the late, great Enzo himself. A similar flutter occurred in his belly now as he watched the tall woman introduce herself to Max as Phoebe.

The phone light blinked. He ignored it, engrossed in the images on the screen. Then it rang. He scowled, muted the computer link to Stein and picked up the handset. 'Elke, I told you, I don't want to be disturbed. I know Marco Trapani's been calling and I'll get back to him when I'm ready.'

'It's not Don Marco, Herr Kappel. It's Professor Carlo Bacci. He says he needs to speak with you.'

Helmut raised his eyebrows. 'Put him through.' There was a click. 'Professor Bacci, what can I do for you? You realize that the forty-eight hours aren't up yet? Our children are still in Antibes.'

He heard Bacci sigh. 'No, it's not about that, Herr Kappel.' A pause. 'You know you said I shouldn't tell anyone about my project? Well, I may have told my cousin Marco Trapani more than I ought.'

'What did you say to him?'

'Nothing specific, but he pressed me about our meeting and I was excited. I let slip about the drug, its nature-identical properties. I can't remember exactly what I said, but I may have mentioned some of its benefits. I didn't tell him any technical details, of course, but I thought you should know.'

So that was why Trapani had been trying to contact him. 'Don't worry, Professor. He's your cousin, after all. But, I "suggest you tell him nothing else. When we apply for patent protection it's important that no one, except you and your professional advisers, knows about your technology, or the legal standing of your patent might be compromised.'

'I understand.'

"Thank you for telling me. I'll call you when my son returns from Antibes.'

He put down the phone, and as he watched the silent screen he decided what needed to be done. He restored the audio link to the video. 'Stein, continue recording and making notes of my son's movements until tomorrow noon. Then I want you back in Zurich. Something has come up that requires your attention.'

He fingered the assassin's blade and picked up the phone again. 'Elke, get me Marco Trapani.'

THIRTY-SIX HOURS LATER: 30 AUGUST

THE NIGHT SKY ABOVE THE AL FRESCO CINEMA WAS AGLOW WITH STARS, images flickered on the wide, makeshift screen hanging from the north side of the old market square, and giant speakers wafted sound through the warm night air. Isabella barely looked at the screen: she had eyes only for Max.

The last two days in Antibes had been a dream. She and Max had been inseparable since they had met on the beach yesterday morning, sunbathing and swimming. When she had introduced Max to Phoebe, Kathryn and Claire, she could tell that they were impressed. Over lunch yesterday Phoebe had taken her aside to say, 'With that physique and colouring he should be modelling for Odin, not me. Where the hell did you find him?'

'I didn't.' She had sighed happily. 'He found me.' When she explained how Max had saved her life, Phoebe had laughed with amazement and hugged her.

What she found most intoxicating about Max was that even when he was sitting at a table with Phoebe, one of the most celebrated and desirable women on the planet, he had eyes only for her. She loved sharing him with her friends and basking in their approval, but when Max was out of her sight for more than a few seconds she was consumed by an overwhelming anxiety. It was only when she saw his face again that the churning excitement in her belly was stilled. It was as if she was a teenager again, only worse. She had never felt like this before -- not even with Leo.

Last night, they had dined on the seafront with the others, then gone dancing. Afterwards, she had said a hurried goodnight to Max and almost run to her room, fighting her desire to be with him. She had hardly slept.

Tonight they had dined alone. Then Max had led her quietly to the old town, where a late-night open-air cinema was showing Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire. 'You said you liked classic movies, Isabella.'

She had seen the film many times but was happy to sit in the flickering dark, holding his hand. It was as if nothing and no one else existed. Again she glanced at his face.

Usually he met her eyes but now he stared at the screen. It was the moment in the film when the immortal, invulnerable angel yearns to be human and falls to earth: the black and white picture turns to colour, and the angel sees, for the first time, all the vivid hues absent from his world, including the red of his own blood. Max seemed momentarily transfixed by it, but Isabella didn't mind. She was happy just to be looking at him.

The film ended after midnight and they walked back to the hotel together.

'You enjoyed the movie?'

He nodded but said nothing.

'I remember watching it when it first came out. It was a week or so before my mother died.' Isabella paused. She felt as if she had known him for ever. 'I was just seventeen. She had a brain aneurysm. One minute she was there, and the next she wasn't. She knew I loved her but I never said goodbye.'

Max's face darkened. 'My mother died suddenly, too, when I was young. We spoke before the end, though.' He started to say more, then stopped himself. He shook his head, as if to dislodge an unwanted thought, and flashed a self-conscious smile. 'I could do with a drink. Fancy a nightcap?'

She hardly touched her Amaretto as they stood on the balcony of her hotel room, overlooking the sea. She was too conscious of his warm body touching hers. When he bent down and kissed her, his lips seemed to fuse with hers, and when he led her to the bed she did not resist. The rational part of her wanted to slow down -- it was too soon -- but another part wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything.