SS Glasgow Castle 12 Chapter Twelve

You're an adult, so I won't bother describing how I felt. What I did was wear the toilet seat the way a horse wears its collar for a while; then I changed into something more comfortable. Once I'd gotten my breathing right I made myself a mug of instant coffee, which was a mistake.

After brus.h.i.+ng my teeth again I sat down on the bed, cautiously sipping weak tea, and made the first of many attempts to remember exactly what had gone on the previous night. My morning experiences had reminded me that there was another bottle present at the scene: something fairly toxic that Kross had got from his fridge once we'd run out of scotch. I remembered following him into the flat's tiny kitchen, and seeing the magazine lying on the sideboard - the magazine Kross had been reading when I made my entrance - it was a f.u.c.king gun magazine.

I jumped off the bed as if it had bitten me on the a.s.s and started pacing my cell. It all came quickly now: I remembered Kross telling me how, after five years in the army, he did a stint in the Republic of Ghana teaching members of its armed forces to drive armored cars. He'd even said he'd driven through the area where the treasure was hidden a few times - unaware of its existence! And now, just a year later, he couldn't enter the country for some reason - there was something fishy there - I wasn't able to recall how he'd explained it, but could clearly remember my disbelief. He'd also told me he needed someone to go and pick it up for him in exchange for a share, something in the lower five figures, and I, and I -

"f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k! " I said.
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There were two sharp knocks on my door. I froze in mid-step. Then I slowly sat down on the bed again, trying to make no sound.

The door opened and Kross marched in. He was holding the familiar red mug, and I flinched instinctively.

"You're alive," he said. I smiled weakly.

He marched up to the window and deposited the mug on the sill. Then he unwrapped a piece of silver foil to reveal a large, flat white tablet. He dropped it in the mug - plop, fizz, hiss. He said:

"Drink this up and let's go, partner."

* * *

"But why me?" I said, straining to keep pace with Kross as we hurried down a busy downtown street. "I know you told me. I want to hear it again. Why me, not one of your bosom pals? Surely you know lots of nice people."

"The nice people I know are unavailable."

"Unavailable?"

"Some are dead."

That shut me up for a while. Eventually, I said:

"But you only met me yesterday."

"Doesn't bother me. I'm a good judge of people." I was probably expected to take this as a compliment, and dissolve in smiles and curtsies.

"I'm not," I said.

Kross stopped and looked at me.

"Well if that's so it's lucky I'm around, isn't it?" he said, and pushed open the door to the airline office.

I watched him approach the counter, slap down our pa.s.sports, and enter complicated negotiations. I lingered by the entrance; there was a small table featuring a scattering of colorful brochures. I ran a professional eye over them, wondering why there would always be some moron insisting on using sans-serif font for sensual copy (in this case, drivel that praised tropical delights awaiting the paying hedonist). It calmed me down a little. But generally speaking, I was still very nervous, very fragile in spite of the fizzy miracle Kross had made me drink earlier. He claimed it was some sort of army or navy issue pick-me-up. I felt picked up all right, picked up and tossed into the middle of a stormy ocean, riding the waves bare-a.s.sed on a half-rotten plank.

I am an intelligent person; I like to consider the pros and cons before undertaking action. Kross had left me no time for that. I had spent perhaps a couple of minutes more than necessary looking for my pa.s.sport - that was all, because there already was a cab waiting. When I learned that we were going to the Ivory Coast consulate to get visas, I relaxed a little; I'd heard, at one time or other, that obtaining a visa for an African country required filling out innumerable forms and a long wait - the smaller the country, the more complicated the process.

I was disabused of this notion very quickly. Kross had a magic track to the vice consul, and after a short and pleasant conversation (in French!) with the receptionist he was immediately admitted into some inner diplomatic sanctum, leaving me wriggling on the vinyl cus.h.i.+ons of the reception sofa. I attempted to collect my thoughts there and then, but Kross emerged before five minutes had pa.s.sed, triumphantly bearing pa.s.sports stamped with the visas. And then we hurried straight to the Air France office - Kross insisted on booking our flight through official airline channels.

I had no grounds for objecting, especially not after his impressive performance in the consulate. I did attempt to derail things slightly by informing Kross that I was broke. In my experience, that's a very effective show-stopper. But Kross reminded me that the issue had already been discussed in detail the previous night, and that he was handling the initial investment (that's what he called it).

Kross was at the counter for a long time; at one point, I saw him make what probably was a long-distance call - he read a number from what looked like a business card. I used this time to compose a set of probing questions, fighting a rising panic. Obviously, my new partner was someone who followed thought with action without delay, and he was into guns. And he'd been up to something dirty enough to get him banned from a country! I was enjoying a light fit of paranoia, envisioning myself all b.l.o.o.d.y and handcuffed between two black cops, when Kross materialized at my elbow.

"We're booked for the fourteenth," he said handing me my pa.s.sport together with an airline ticket wallet.

"That's a week from now," I said in the measured tone of a general discussing an amphibious landing, much calmer now that I had my pa.s.sport back.

"Correct. Get vaccinated in the meantime - the sooner the better, you might feel lousy for a couple of days. Make sure you've got the right gear to wear. I strongly recommend desert boots; no runners, basketball hightops, or any of that city sportsman s.h.i.+t. I'll be back by the weekend, so we'll still have time to sort out the details."

"Wait," I said, very alarmed. "What's this - you're going away?" I glanced at the airline counter personnel and saw that it was engaged in typical counter personnel tasks, i.e. a conversation of their own.

"You can hold your liquor," Kross said. "I didn't realize you were that p.i.s.sed. You insisted last night you have to see Greenbottle's book, so I'm going to get it. And Sharon - the girl who's got it - lives on the west coast. Remember now? Anybody there?"

He was going to get Greenbottle's book!

"Can't she just courier it over?" I asked.

"Sharon's a moody chick that appreciates subtlety," he told me. He dug out his keys and slipped one off the ring.

"Look," he said, "Why don't you use my flat while I'm away? I don't want you sitting in that hole and getting depressed. Help yourself to the aguardiente if you feel like it."

So that was the name of the poison that did me in. I stared stupidly at the key Kross was offering me; eventually, I reached out and took it.

"Don't drink too much, and don't forget to get your stake together," Kross said.

"My what?!"

"Christ. Your stake. Five thousand U.S. , three in cash. You're getting around a hundred thousand in return, right? f.u.c.k. You were wiped." Kross's eyes narrowed with suspicion. He said:

"This is the last possible moment for you to change your mind. I'll restate the basics. You're getting a third of whatever we find. In my estimate, that should amount to between a quarter and a half million American dollars. In return you'll take a six-hour drive and spend maybe an hour walking in the bush. You're getting a generous cut - it's my gig and I'm in charge, meaning I have to make sure neither you nor I have any trouble along the way. That includes taking care of customs, and converting whatever we find into cash. Finally, I'm putting up the ten grand American we need for bribe money, and you're putting up five for travelling expenses. Clear now? Good. Are you in or out?"

I stared at and past Kross for a moment. I must have looked distressed, because one of the pedestrians on the other side of the plate gla.s.s - a middle-aged woman in a ratty fur - threw me a worried glance. It was beginning to snow, heavily.

I let my gaze slide sideways preparatory to saying "out" and happened to look at those f.u.c.king brochures again, at a sandy beach decorated with tastefully arranged palm trees, with a glorious chick soaking up the suns.h.i.+ne in the foreground. She had t.i.ts like volcanoes, t.i.ts that cause traffic accidents. Remember this: you can walk down the road of life with a road map in your hand, and regularly exercise your resolve through your torture of choice - dieting, jogging in s.h.i.+tty weather, marrying someone out of pity, whatever - but in the end it's the circ.u.mstances that decide the day. Cunning, hairy circ.u.mstances lurking behind the roadside bushes, waiting for their chance to pounce.

"I'm in," I said, and pocketed the key to Kross's flat.

"Good," he said. "Go easy on the rocket fuel. See you Friday," and he was instantly through the door, half-walking, half-running towards a cab that had just pulled up to disgorge a pa.s.senger. I threw a glance over my shoulder and saw that the counter personnel had finished conversing; three pairs of eyes were watching me with marked interest.

I smiled confidently and gave them a see-you-suckers half-wave.

Then I went home to search Kross's flat.