Ark Storm (29 page)

The wave carried Gwen to the cliff. She felt the impact. Pain seared down the entire length of one side of her body. Miraculously, her head had not hit the rock, but she must have bitten her tongue for she tasted blood in her mouth. She was aware of arms grabbing Mandy, of the other woman being hauled up. Arms free, Gwen scrabbled at the rock, found a foothold, propelled herself up, felt Randy Seieber grabbing her, hauling her to safety.

“Fuck!” breathed Gwen.

“Fuck,” agreed Sieber.

“You OK?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Gwen. “Let’s get the hell off this platform before we all get swept in.”

She grabbed her bag, silently grateful that it hadn’t been washed away.

“Here, let me take that,” offered Sieber, reaching for it.

“Not your style,” retorted Gwen, gripping it tightly.

*   *   *

Up on the lawn, high above the Restless Sea, everyone gathered.

Gwen walked up to Mandy, who was sprawled on the grass.

“You OK?” she asked.

Mandy rubbed her head, and glowered at Gwen. “I got a sore head. Why the hell’d you hit me?” she demanded.

Gwen blew out a breath, contemplated hitting her again.

“To save your life, and to preserve mine,” she answered.

“She did what she had to do, Mandy,” said Sieber. “You would have drowned the both of you! Should have listened to her and stopped panicking!”

In response, Mandy vomited all over his shoes.

Sieber threw his hands up in despair. “This just gets better and better.”

Gwen burst out laughing.

“Thank God the journalists have gone,” muttered Mel.

Messenger exchanged a look of mild horror with her, then he turned back to Gwen. “We need to get you seen to.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding. You need treatment.”

Gwen followed his glance. Her arm was pouring blood.

“You’re lucky the sharks didn’t come after you, bleeding like that,” said Barclay.

“Thanks for that cheery thought,” replied Gwen, wishing Mandy had thrown up on his Tods, not on poor Randy Sieber.

She turned back to Messenger. “I’m fine. I’ll just wrap it in something.”

“It’s a big cut.”

“Not really. Jeez, stop making a fuss.”

“You need stitches or you’ll get another scar.”

“Look, I’m covered with scars from the sea, from my fin hitting me or me hitting coral or whatever. It’s no big deal. What I really need is a change of clothes.” She shivered as she said this, the first sign that she had been affected.

Messenger took her arm. “Come with me and I’ll get you one.”

She walked with him across the grass. Barbieri was helping Mandy to her feet. Everyone else stood round, waiters and guests, each uncertain of their roles.

“Listen Gwen,” said Messenger firmly. “Say what you want about your scar collection, that cut needs treatment. It could get infected.”

“Look, I’m not going to a hospital to be stitched up. More likely to pick up an infection than prevent one.”

“What kind of hospitals do you frequent?”

Gwen laughed despite herself. “Ones in dodgy out-of-the-way places in the back of beyond.”

“My case rests.”

“I don’t like your fancy hospitals here any better. In fact, I hate them.” She sounded about seven, she realized.

“You don’t need to go to a hospital. I can stitch you up right here if you like.”

“You?”

Messenger gave a forbearing smile, like a parent to a trying child. Gwen realized she had never thought of him as a father until confronted with the evidence. Was he a good father or did he forever torment his children with metrics?

“Yes, me. I
am
a doctor. Not a plastic surgeon, admittedly, but I’ve always had good stitch work, or so I’m told.”

“Oh God, go on then. Do what you must.”

They walked into the house. She’d wanted access.…

72

Gwen felt a wave of tiredness begin to wash over her. She recognized it as the aftermath of adrenaline. Now that danger had passed, her body and her mind just wanted to switch off. She glanced around as Messenger led her through his home. Polished wooden floors. Persian rugs. A huge, stone fireplace dominated a room with a soaring roof and floor-to-ceiling windows. Modern art decorated white walls. Not her style, but striking. Gwen bet it was Messenger rather than some tony art adviser who picked the pieces.

He led her upstairs into what looked like a guest bedroom, on into the en suite bathroom.

“I’ll just get my bag. And a chair. And some dry clothes.”

He came back carrying a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and sweatshirt. “These should fit. My wife, my ex-wife,” he corrected himself, “she was near enough your size.”

“Thanks,” said Gwen, as Messenger strode out.

She pulled off her wet and bloodstained dress, dropped it in the bath, pulled on Messenger’s ex-wife’s clothes. The jeans were tight, Gwen’s thigh muscles were not designed for skinny jeans, but they were dry and they were warm. Tee and sweatshirt were fine. Gwen looked in the mirror. The eyes that looked back at her were not as cocky as she’d have liked.
Silly Mandy,
she thought.
Nearly fucked us both up big time.

A knock at the door made her jump. Messenger stood there carrying an armchair and a traditional doctor’s bag. Gwen looked at it curiously.

“I thought they only existed in old movies.”

“A present from my ex,” he explained. “It’s quite useful, actually. Sit.”

Gwen suppressed a smile. There was just one thing more dictatorial and God-like than a private equity guru and that was a doctor. She sat.

Gabriel Messenger extracted a somewhat disturbing collection of instruments and set them on a plastic sheet he took from his bag. He then took out a bottle of what must have been a sterilizer and washed his hands, then his instruments.

“Do you want a local anaesthetic?” he asked, brandishing a needle. “Most people I would simply stick and not ask, but I wouldn’t dare do that with you.”

Gwen chuckled. “Why not?”

“You’d bite my head off and tell me you didn’t need it, that all your limbs have been torn off and reattached without it.”

Gwen grinned. “Well, now that you mention it … But thanks for asking, and no jab. I’ll anesthetize myself at home later.”

“It’ll hurt, you know that.”

“Get on with it. Please.”

Messenger sat on the edge of the bath, bent over her arm, face wrinkled with concentration. Occasionally, he would glance up, look into her eyes, check that she was fine. It was oddly, discomfortingly intimate. The healer, the murderer … Involuntarily, Gwen shuddered.

“You OK?” Messenger asked, concern etching his brows.

“Mm. Sorry.”

“Delayed shock, maybe.”

“No. Just cold still.”

Five minutes later, Gwen’s wound was swabbed, cleaned, stitched, and bandaged.

“Get your own doctor to check it and rebandage in a few days. You know the drill; any undue pain, any fever … straight to A and E.”

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you, Doctor.”

“My pleasure.” Messenger stuck out his hand, took Gwen’s, and pulled her to her feet.

“Thank you for saving Mandy. She was too drunk to appreciate the risk she was in, the risk she put you in.”

Gwen gave a rueful look. “Maybe you should have a bowling party next year. In Utah.”

Messenger barked out a laugh. “Maybe I will. But right now I need to go back out and salvage what I can of my party.”

Gwen nodded, felt like a heel again. “Mind if I lie down for a few minutes. Just want to gather myself.”

Messenger gestured to the bed. “Please do. Take as long as you need. You took one heck of a bang.”

Gwen nodded, watched him go, closed the door behind him. She lay down on the bed, ruffled the cover a bit, then got up and edged over to the window. A few moments later she saw Messenger striding from his house, down the steps, onto the emerald grass.

Quickly, she got up, grabbed her bag, and tiptoed out into the hall. Where was his study likely to be? Upstairs with a killer view, or downstairs with a great one? She trotted down the stairs, tried a few doors, found his study on her third attempt. Her heart was pounding. She pulled the door closed behind her. A desk, a computer, a six-screen Bloomberg Terminal. A huge window, covered with drawn blinds to frustrate prying eyes, no doubt. Gwen imagined the party outside, perhaps just yards away. The glass window was too thick to allow any sounds of normal volume to penetrate. No sounds issued from the hall.

On the desk there was also a phone and four silver picture frames: ex-wife and three sons, all fine looking. Healer, murderer, husband, and father.

Gwen searched the room. Desk light, hollow base of, Dan had suggested, or the underside of a desk, far enough in to avoid knocking anyone’s knees. The desk was a single sheet of cherrywood, thin, attached to metal stanchions. The bug, small as it was, would stand out a mile if anyone looked. She checked the Anglepoise on Messenger’s desk. Flat base. Strike two.

She looked around. There was an antique filing cabinet in one corner. She hurried up to it. There was a lip on three sides that protruded an inch and a half, leaving a gap between it and one wall. She inserted her fingers, probed the gap. Enough space, if she were dextrous enough to stick it there. She got out the GSM, held it in place, hand trembling. Perfect fit. She smiled, felt the adrenaline pump.

Quickly, she took out the dental paste, the palette knife, the chopstick, her bottled water, and the saucer, which she unwrapped from the hand towel. Mercifully it was unbroken. She shook out some dental paste in powder form, added water, stirred with the chopstick. It thickened quickly. She took the palette knife, smeared it with paste and quickly smoothed the paste under the lip and as far back as her fingers were able to reach. She smeared some more dental paste onto the device, then pushed it against the filing cabinet, holding it in place.

She counted to sixty. Each second seemed to have been elongated. She could feel the blood pounding in her head. No way to explain this away if Messenger walked in. She counted to sixty again then gingerly released her fingers. The device stayed put. She blew out a breath. Now for the store-and-forward device, which was bigger, harder to hide.

She checked the Anglepoise lamp again. The base comprised a large plastic disk, attached by screws. She dug out the screwdrivers. The second one worked. Quickly she unscrewed all five screws. There was a gap, several inches high. Plenty of room for the device. Again she mixed up dental paste, stirred in water, smeared it on the top of the hollow space and on the device, held them together till the device adhered, then quickly, fingers still trembling, she reattached the base and replaced the screws. She put the lamp back, stashed away all her tools, turned three-sixty, made sure she had left nothing she hadn’t intended to leave. Then she stood by the door, ear cocked to the hall, listening. No sound, but she had an irrational fear that someone was there.

She held her breath, cracked open the door, peered out. The hallway was empty. She edged round the door, slipped out, softly closed it behind her. She was sweating. She drew her hand across her face. A new wave of tiredness hit her. Now she genuinely needed to lie down. She hurried back upstairs into the guestroom, dragged back the covers, lay down, her bag beside her. She yanked the covers over her, felt her body subside in relief. Just five minutes was all she needed, then she’d get the hell out, go home. In less than a minute she was fast asleep.

73

She awoke in darkness, a knock at the door echoing in her consciousness. She sat up, fumbled for a light, found the switch, flooded the room with a soft glow.

“Come in.” She swung her feet over the side of the bed.

Messenger pushed open the door and stood in the doorway with a cup of what looked like milky tea in his hand.

“Like one?”

“Love one.”

He crossed the room and handed it to her. She sipped gratefully.

“Doctor’s remedy: hot sweet tea.”

“It’s working. Thank you. Can’t believe I fell asleep.”

“Shock, exhaustion.”

Gwen shook her head. “I’ve been through worse and—”

Messenger smiled. “I’m sure you have. But you’re human, not superhuman, Gwen. However much you try to convince yourself you’re the tough surfer girl, your body knows when it comes close to death. Sleep is what it needs to recover.”

“You exaggerate. I wasn’t that close to death.”

Messenger looked thoughtful. “If you insist.”

He walked over to a curved window seat, sat down, leaned toward her, arms braced on his legs, eyes earnest.

“Have you ever wondered how many times we come close to death and don’t even realize?” he asked

Gwen stood up, felt the undercurrents swirling. Shit, he hadn’t discovered the bug, had he? Was this a veiled threat?

“What do you mean?” she asked, tilting her head to one side in a show of casual inquiry.

“A truck careers out of control just after you’ve passed by on the highway. A loose brick falls from a building just after you’ve walked by. A maniac walks the path you’ve just jogged down. And today, in your case and in Mandy’s, you got close. As you well know. When a wave breaks on top of you, you are hit by hundreds of tons of water. If that water meets resistance, say, a rock, and you are between it and the rock—” Messenger scissored his hands together.

“Enough!” said Gwen. “You make life sound like a constant hazard.”

“I don’t mean to. Just that death is not so far away as we think. It’s all around, could come and get us at any unguarded moment, so better to make our accommodation with it.”

If this were a coded message, she had one of her own. She walked up to him, drained her tea, handed him back the cup and saucer.

“Have you ever read Dylan Thomas?” she asked, all casual surfer drawl.

Messenger frowned. “A little. Why?”

“How about ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’?”

Messenger shook his head.

“‘
Do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage against the dying of the light’”
she recited. “Well that’s me. I shall not go gentle. I shall kick and scream and fight to stay alive. I shall take down anyone who tries to take me down,” she added softly, with just the hint of a smile. She glanced at her watch.