Will Adams - The Eden Legacy

She removed his other clothes, stacking them carefully so that she’d be able to replace them as she’d found them. Right at the bottom she found a heavy, mottled grey boxfolder. She pulled it out, undid the catch. It was packed so tight that the lid jumped slightly, like a broken jackin-the-box. She flipped through the papers inside: passenger lists, manifests and newspaper reports about the Winterton. She set the box back down. She knew the Winterton well; everyone around here did. The local fishermen still found the occasional piece-of-eight that they’d sell to her father for the going rate. She knew the wreck-site too; she’d sailed there often as a girl. The wood and other organic material had long since rotted away, but there were still several huge cannons, anchors, cannonballs and iron ingots lying just a few metres deep, along with some copper and iron sheets that had been too heavy to move, but which everyone had wondered about, imagining great stashes of silver beneath. A French salvage ship had arrived one day, had blasted through the sheets with dynamite. To everyone’s delight, they’d found nothing. But the rumours had persisted, and every year or so some foreigner would come to find and plunder it, thinking they alone knew the secret. Daniel, it seemed, was just the latest of them.

It galled Rebecca to remember how grateful she’d been when he’d offered to sail the Yvette up from Tulear. She’d thought he’d been trying to help her, but the blunt truth of it was that he’d just wanted a dive-boat for his search.

Boris decided to call it quits for the day while they were still some four miles north of Eden. They heaved the boat up above the tide-line, then found a clearing in the spiny forest in which to make camp. He had Davit bring up their baggage while Claudia went scouting for firewood, then he set up the laptop and IP terminal a little distance away, and called in to Georgia.

‘I have some distressing news,’ said Sandro, when he appeared. ‘About my father.’

‘He’s not…?’

‘No,’ said Sandro. ‘We have that to be thankful for. But he suffered renal failure last night. His medical team have put him into a controlled coma while they work on solutions.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Boris.

‘Thank you,’ said Sandro, who seemed to be dealing with the bad news commendably well. ‘But of course it has implications for our current project. You saw for yourself how eager he is to be part of it. I therefore think it best to put everything on hold until he is better.’

Boris had to fight not to show his dismay: people with terminal cancer didn’t just recover from renal failure. He said: ‘I imagine your father would want us to continue our preparations. After all, we don’t know how long his next remission will last. We should be ready to act swiftly.’

Sandro’s eyelids flickered. ‘That’s true,’ he acknowledged. ‘Yet I can’t see how to arrange things unless we know my father will-’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Boris. ‘That’s what you sent me here for.’

‘I’m not sure that that’s really the best-’

Boris looked around, as though he’d heard a noise. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he whispered. ‘I have to go.’ He cut the connection before Sandro could say anything more, then sat there brooding. He’d come to think of those half-million euros as already his. No way was he going to let Sandro weasel out of it now. No fucking way. He packed up the laptop and IP terminal, headed back to camp. Davit was setting up the tents while Claudia was preparing dinner. In need of a lift, Boris cracked open a bottle of cheap rum, splashed it liberally into a glass, sweetened it with a dash of coke. He knocked it back, poured himself another, then watched Claudia stirring some crushed garlic into a small bowl of oily sauce that she smeared on the silvery skins of three filleted fish and set upon a metal grill that she placed above the open flame to cook.

‘So you and Davit, eh?’ he said. She glanced up, but didn’t answer, except to sprinkle the fish with herbs. ‘I said you and Davit, eh?’ said Boris more loudly. ‘You like each other.’

‘Yes,’ said Claudia. ‘We like each other.’

‘You’re a better person than me,’ he told her. ‘If I had to spend the night with someone who snored like that…’

‘I don’t mind,’ she said.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘If it gets too bad for you, you know where I am.’ She threw him a glare, but said nothing. He glanced around to make sure Davit was out of earshot, still putting up the second tent. ‘A hundred euros,’ he offered. ‘I can’t say fairer than that.’ She wouldn’t even look at him. ‘Fine, you bitch. Two hundred.’

‘Leave us alone,’ she said.

Davit finished the tents, came over to join them, wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘All done,’ he said cheerfully.

‘About time.’

Claudia turned over the fish. The hot grill had blistered black lines on their silver skins, spitting out oily fireballs of yellow and pale-blue. Davit pinched off some flesh, tossed it from palm to palm before popping it in his mouth. ‘God, that’s good,’ he said, giving Claudia a proud kiss upon her cheek. He turned to Boris. ‘Try some, boss. Heaven on a tongue.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

Davit put his hand upon the small of Claudia’s back. She turned and smiled up at him with a warmth that made Boris’s heart twist. ‘Did you ever get to Gori before the Russians came?’ he asked Davit, in Georgian.

Davit frowned. ‘Once or twice. Why?’

‘They’ve got some cracking whores down there. My God! There was this dancer in this nightclub I went to-I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Or my hands.’

Davit’s face went stony. ‘Claudia’s not a whore,’ he said.

‘I never said she was. I’m just telling you about this place down in Gori.’

‘Claudia’s not a whore,’ said Davit, walking around the fire.

‘Of course she’s a fucking whore,’ spat Boris. ‘What do you think? That she’s suddenly just fallen in love with you? Are you really that stupid?’

‘You take that back,’ warned Davit.

‘She’s a whore,’ said Boris. ‘Face it. She just offered to blow me for a hundred euros while you were doing the tents.’

‘That’s it,’ said Davit. ‘That’s fucking it.’ He bunched his fist and came swinging. Boris ducked beneath it, threw a right to his ribs, but it was useless, the man was a ogre, like punching a fucking wall. Davit swung again. Boris jumped backwards to evade him, stumbled over a root. Davit came after him. On hands and knees, Boris scrambled to his bags, pulled out his Heckler amp; Koch, took off the safety and swung it round at Davit. ‘That’s enough,’ he yelled. ‘Now back off.’

‘What the hell’s that?’ asked Davit, blanching and putting up his hands.

‘What the fuck does it look like?’ retorted Boris.

‘Sandro said no guns.’

‘Well, Sandro lied, didn’t he? What do you think this is? Girl scouts?’

‘I don’t do guns. Not after last time.’

‘You do whatever the fuck I tell you to do,’ said Boris. ‘I’m in charge of this operation, and I’m going to do what I’ve been tasked to do, and you’re going to help me.’ He raised the gun at Davit’s face. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Davit. ‘It’s clear.’

‘Good. Good.’ He felt a little foolish as he tucked the Heckler amp; Koch away in his belt. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. But we go back a long way, you and me; I’d hate to see you get hurt.’

‘I’m a grown-up,’ said Davit. ‘I can look after myself.’

‘Fine. Then we’ll say no more about it, okay?’ He put on as bright a smile as he could muster, rubbed his hands together in an effort to lighten the atmosphere, walked over to Claudia. ‘How about serving us up some of this delicious food of yours, eh? I’m starving.’