Forever (82 page)

- and with a gasp, she took a reeling step
backwards.

Who -

'I told you I'd be back.' The voice was
Colonel Valerio's.

But what is he wearing? And why is his face
streaked like that? Where does he think he is? On a . . .

' . . .battlefield?'she whispered aloud.

She instinctively drew back as he unlocked
the cell door. He had changed into his grey-and-black Trebarks and
his face was a distorted mask of camouflage grease. Instead of the
mirrored aviator shades, he had on green ones, and beneath them,
one cheekbone stood out like a shiny grey welt while the other
receded like a concave black hollow, robbing his face of symmetry
and all human form. Greyish-green field binoculars hung from around
his neck, and he wore a web belt with a canteen, and had a quiver
with arrows strapped to his right thigh.

And slung over one shoulder was a futuristic
cross-bow the like of which she had never seen.

The cell door slammed open. At the noise,
she flinched involuntarily and backed against the wall. Her body
was taut and quivering, her face pale and drawn. She felt her
defiance shrivelling, reducing her to a crumbling husk. She eyed
him warily.

'Are . . . you going hunting?' she asked in
a raw whisper as he approached. She swallowed to lubricate her dry
throat.

'Yep,' he said, and in two steps he was
beside her, gripping her arm and yanking her out of the cell, it's
a great day for a hunt.'

Her flesh was rising in goosebumps as he
half carried her along beside him. 'But ... I didn't think there
were any animals here on Ilha da Borboleta! Only butterflies.'

He stopped walking and turned to her and
grinned. And that was when Stephanie knew. I'm the prey.

TWENTY-THREE

Ilha da Borboleta, Brazil

It was all Stephanie could do to keep up
with Colonel Valerio. Her right arm ached where his fingers were
digging in, and her feet tripped on the stair risers, her left
elbow banging the rough concrete wall and scraping open.

Then they were outside at the back of the
security building. Stephanie blinked in the sudden daylight,
abruptly slid on the moist dewy grass, and almost lost her
balance.

She caught her breath. Under the overcast
morning sky, a cloud of thousands upon thousands of silvery-blue,
black, and white butterflies swirled all around them.

'LysandrasV she breathed softly, turning her
head in amazement and remembering her suite aboard the
Chrysalis
. Is this an omen? she wondered. And as the
Lysandras fluttered past, she saw, in the distance, kaleidoscope
clouds of other butterflies: turquoise, electric blue,
tiger-dotted, brilliant orange, lime green, ochre, cobalt, marbled
white, rosy pink. Every colour imaginable.

Stephanie looked around, cautiously, her
eyes taking in the military obstacle course equipment and the
firing range. Her elbow seared where she'd scraped it on the wall.
Twisting her arm around, she could see a bloody gash. She slid a
glance at Colonel Valerio. He had unshouldered his bow and was
staring at her. At least, she thought he was staring at her. With
his green glasses on, it was hard to tell.

'First,' he said almost laconically, 'you
gotta know the rules of

the game. From your previous visit, you may
be under the mistaken impression that this is Fantasy Island.
Believe me, it's not. What this is, is my private hunting reserve.
I'm the hunter.' He paused and turned towards her. 'And you're the
prey.'

Stephanie stared at him. This can't be
happening, she thought. Dear God, please let me wake up -

'The rules,' he continued, barking as he got
caught up in his monologue, 'are so simple an idiot couldn't fail
to understand them. Is. . . that. . . un . . . der. . . stoodT

She cringed and nearly tumbled backwards,
resisting the urge to wipe his spittle off her face with the back
of her hand. Bass drums were pounding in her ears and chest.

His nose was stuck right up to hers, and she
could see twin wide-eyed reflections of herself in the lenses of
his glasses. 'When I tell you to, you are going to double-time down
to the far end of the firing range, where you will stop.'

My God\ she was thinking. He thinks this is
some twisted sort of jungle boot camp! He's certifiable!

Sweat trickled down his grey-and-black
streaked face, making the camouflage grease shine. 'And the reason
you will stop, is for a demonstration. This is just so you don't
get the wrong ideal If you will look carefully, you will notice we
are not alone. Have you noticed that? Have you?'

Not alone . . .?

Her expression was confused and she found it
difficult to think clearly. She could hear herself gasp and wheeze.
It was as if all her energies were consumed merely trying to
breathe. Someone has put a vice around my chest and is crushing my
ribcage into my lungs. Trying to make certain I don't get enough
air.

'WELL! HAVE YOU?'

She stood there, swaying, forced herself to
look down the length of the firing range. The target at the end of
the range blurred, almost focused, blurred again. And then she saw.
Oh-dear-sweet-Jesus, she saw!

She felt her cheeks draw in, her heart go
cold.

Johnny . . .?

She stifled a sob. What was he doing down
there? Why didn't he move? She breathed raggedly. The drum pounding
in her ears was splitting her skull now. Why is he down there? Why
is he just standing there? Fear suddenly consumed her, threatened
to overwhelm her; she shuddered violently. Colonel Valerio's drill
sergeant voice snarled and barked, intruding upon the bass drum
beating, beating, beating faster and faster inside her head. Oh,
Johnny, she thought in bleak agony. Oh God, Johnny . . .

'You will double-time there and stand beside
him! You will wait until I have launched one arrow. This is to
demonstrate the power of my bow. Then, you will have precisely one
half-hour's head start. One half-hour. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?' He was
yelling at the top of his lungs. Then, very quietly, enunciating
every word very precisely, he said, 'After that half-hour, I am
coming after you. When I catch up with you - not "if', whenl - I
will shoot to kill! The remaining length of your life is up to you
- do you understand? Am I making myself clear? Now get moving.
Double-timer

But she was frozen to the spot, her heart
beating wildly. She knew she must move, must force her buckling
legs to carry her down the length of the firing range.

He was selecting a broadhead, stringing it
into his bow.

Johnny \ she thought suddenly.

'No!' she cried, and then her legs moved and
she was running as fast as she had ever run in her life, skidding
on the wet grass - running towards Johnny - Johnny who would never
just stand there! The monster must have tied him there. It was up
to her to get him loose!

'Johnny!' she bellowed, 'JohnnyV She slipped
then, lost her balance, went sprawling.

JohnnyJohnnyJohnny!

She clawed her way to her feet and found her
legs again and dashed the last fifty feet towards him.

'Oh, Johnny,' she rasped. 'Oh, Johnny.' He
was tied to a stake, around the arms and chest, belly and legs and
ankles. 'I'll get you loose!' she wheezed, tearing furiously at the
rope. She looked back over her shoulder, saw Colonel Valerio in the
distance, standing sideways, aiming.

'Johnny, Johnny -'

'Shhh!' he said, and smiled at her.

'These damn ropes won't give! The knots
-'

'Stephanie/'

His sharp tone stopped her. She stared into
his eyes. 'Just want to tell you -' he began.

It came then, out of nowhere. She felt it
rather than saw it. Silent as the wind, streaking past her,
slamming into Johnny's shoulder. The impact jolted him; he
screamed, and went limp.

The slim carbon shaft quivered like a riding
crop, the razor-sharp broadhead buried deep in his right
shoulder.

'JohnnyV she screamed.

He lifted his lolling head. 'Just want to
tell you I love you,' he whispered. Then he slumped forward, held
tight by the ropes.

Tears blurred her vision. 'Oh, Johnny ..
.'

'Run!' he whispered. 'Run, Steph! Get. . .
away . . . from . . . him . . .'

She stood there, indecisive. Hesitant to
leave him. 'Run ... 'he whispered more weakly. 'For me, Steph. Run
. . .'

She reached out, her fingertips brushing his
face. 'I love you, too, Johnny,' she sobbed. The tears were pouring
down her face. 'Run . . .' he repeated.

She kissed the top of his lolling head. Then
she ran for her life.

TWENTY-FOUR

At Sea • Ilha da Borboleta • Rio de Janeiro
• Sitto da Veiga

In his office aboard the
Chrysalis
,
Ernesto started the workday by punching his personal code into the
computer. First, he called up the previous day's mining extraction
figures of de Veiga Metdlicos. Next, he had a look at the closing
prices of various metal commodity futures. Gold was +2.10, silver
+3.1, and copper +4.6 on the Commodity Exchange, New York. Silver
was +11.0 on the Chicago Board of Trade. And palladium was -.20,
and platinum +6.70 on the New York Mercantile Exchange. All in all,
not bad. No, not bad at all.

But in spite of the positive economic
forecast, he waited to call up the foreign currency figures. He was
more anxious to know what was happening on Ilha da Borboleta, and
whether the terrorists had attempted to breach the island's
defences. Quite possibly it could merely have been a rumour. He
dialled Colonel Valerio's number on the island, but got no answer.
Then he tried the main security number, and finally the
quinta
. There was no answer anywhere. Perhaps Colonel
Valerio and his men are battling the terrorists at this very
moment? The thought caused Ernesto to shudder. Quickly he
reimmersed himself in the safer world of global high finance.

Unknown to him, there were no
terrorists.

Also unknown to him, the mere act of having
punched his personal code into the computer had disarmed the virus
in the programme for another twenty-four hours.

The virus he didn't even know existed.

*

On the
Chrysalis
, Lili went into the
enormous climate-controlled walk-in closet adjoining her suite - a
fifty-foot-long supermarket of the world's finest haute couture.
Here, double tiers of electronically controlled dry-cleaner's racks
were overloaded with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of hand-made
outfits she had never once worn. All were carefully segregated by
category, and further subcategorised by colour.

Lili had custom-made mannequins of her body
at the ateliers of all the world's greatest couturiers. And
standing orders that they each whip up two $35,000 or $75,000
little somethings and air- express them to her each and every
week.

Now she pressed the button and activated the
electronic racks, and stopped at formal wear.

Oh, there were hundreds of immodest gowns,
each vying to outglitter the other! Which should she wear? Whom
should she wear? St Laurent . . . Feraud . . . Kimijima . . .
Valentino . . .?

Then it caught her eye. The short strapless
evening dress from Vera Wang, a silver-and-gold brocade fantasy
with a wraparound infanta overskirt. And the workmanship! The
bodice and hems of both the short skirt and the cutaway overskirt
were richly encrusted with crystal and cut-glass jewels and
thousands of tiny seed pearls. With metallic stockings and
front-ruffled high-heeled slingbacks of gold silk, and her hair
pulled tightly back into a chignon and diamond butterfly earrings,
she would look ready for a photo session with Skrebneski.

Now that she'd decided upon what to wear,
she softly sang to herself - the opening lines from 'Im chambre
separee' from Der Opernball. She would float through the rest of
the morning doing her exercises, getting a massage, lazing in the
Jacuzzi, and leave herself at least an hour - no, an hour and a
half! - to get dressed and put on her makeup.

She sang happily, gloriously, all for her
own benefit:

'Geh 'n wir in's chambre separee Ach, zu dem
siissen tete a tete . . .'

Miraculously, now that she had her vanity to
feed, she had completely forgotten about the threat of
terrorists.

On the Ilha da Borboleta, Johnny wasn't
moving. Still tied to the

stake, his head hung forward with his chin
against his chest. His face was ashen from shock, and his
sweatshirt blotched with blood from the shoulder wound. The brown
graphite arrow with its streamlined orange tail still protruded,
but no longer quivered.

With an effort, Johnny opened his eyes and
then shut them again. His body felt exhausted from the impact of
the blade, and the pain was excruciating when he made the slightest
move. He had no choice: I have to keep still if I don't want to
pass out.

He tried to lift his head to look up the
range to see if the Colonel was still there, but everything swam
before his eyes. His entire body felt as if it were on fire.

Run, Steph! he willed her silently. You've
got the brains to stop him.

'And I'm just useless,' he whispered and
then mercifully passed out.

In her bedroom adjoining the Cabinet de la
Meridienne, Zaza dismissed the maid who had helped her dress. Then
she rode to the full-length mirror to study herself. She nodded
with satisfaction. The dove-grey dinner suit she'd finally decided
upon, with shoes to match and a white silk blouse, was appropriate
and tasteful for the occasion. So was the fact that she wore
absolutely no jewellery, except for her slim gold watch.

She lifted her wrist and looked at it now.
/still have two hours to wait, she thought.

In Rio de Janeiro, The Ghost had decided
upon the modus operandi. It was simple to the point of ingenious.
It would not even require a weapon. All there was left to do now
was to wait for Ms Williams to return from her trip. She would be
welcomed back with a beautiful red rose. Red, the colour of
blood.