Dark Oil (4 page)

“I hope you didn't get into trouble because of me,” Lara said sheepishly after a while.

“No, it's not your fault. I just can't take that guy. Listen, there's an empty seat next to me. Why don't you sit here for a while and I'll brief you?”

“Now?” She thought he might have needed a few moments to himself. Martin seemed to have had quite an effect on him.

“Why wait? Slip in here. I'll get my computer and fire it up.” He jumped up, stepping aside to let her into the seat next to his, then effortlessly slid his computer out of the overhead compartment and sat back down.

“You know it's the poorest country in the world, don't you?”

Lara didn't. All she knew was that it wasn't rich, but she nodded.

“What that means is the water isn't safe to drink or brush your teeth. There are amoebas—sorry, amoebae—that will land you in hospital at the very least. Some water-borne diseases can't be cured. I don't wash my face with tap water, in case some gets into my mouth or nose. A splash of bottled water does the trick. In the shower, I hold a towel on my face if I'm washing my hair.”

“I'm glad you're telling me all this. I'd never have thought of it otherwise.” She was starting to wonder if she would have stepped on that plane at all had she known. It was one thing to go away on business, quite another to do it at the risk of your health.

“So of course you can't have salads. They'll usually have been washed in tap water. And soft drink, be careful there isn't any ice in it, or a bit of water from ice if cans have been kept in a bucket. Same with plates and cutlery. Make sure they're absolutely dry before you use them.”

“What about fruit?” She usually ate lots of it. What would she snack on if she couldn't have it?

“Peel it yourself. With clean, dry hands.”

She nodded. That made perfect sense. “And restaurants? Are they safe?”

He shrugged. “Some are, some aren't. Stick with staff members; they'll know where to go. In fact, I don't think you should go out on your own at all. You'd be the perfect target.”

Now he really had her worried. “Target? As in violence?” Images of thugs snatching her bag, hitting her on the head, or worse, tearing at her clothes, abusing her body, crossed her mind.

“As in terrorists. I would have thought you'd be a most negotiable hostage, what with such a beautiful innocent face.”

As he gazed into her eyes, she felt the already too familiar burning sensation in her cheeks. She turned away to hide she was blushing.

He chuckled. “Something I said again?”

Oh, he was a pain! He knew she was a married woman, knew he'd embarrass her. She shook her head and looked him in the eye, ready to ignore him if he tried to flirt with her again, ready to prove to him his good looks meant nothing to her. “So I'd make a good hostage? You're not kidding, are you?”

This time, though, he was warm but kept a business-like distance and there was humility about him, when he wasn't joking around, that made it impossible to hold a grudge. He shrugged. “I'm afraid not. The press would lap it up. The kidnappers would get more leverage out of it than, say, if they captured good old Martin. Hey, that's an idea. I could pay them to take him away.”

He was making light of the risk, but it didn't help much. The very thought her personal safety was at stake still sent a shiver down her spine. “No one said anything about terrorists. Have there been any attacks? I did a quick search on the net last week about Negala and I didn't see anything about it.”

“No freedom of press over there. Even to put things on the net you're sticking your neck out. We have some inside information about it, though.” He tilted his head, watching her closely as she narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. “You know, the risk is probably less than moderate. It's just there's no sense in putting yourself in any more danger than necessary.”

She suddenly felt sick to the stomach. She knew the blood was draining from her face, as she imagined moments of horror at the hands of extremist groups. She thought of the life her husband Tim would live if she never returned, the pain he'd no doubt feel, the funeral he'd give her. She thought of her broken-hearted mother. How hard it would be for her! She had already lost her husband. And now she might be sick, seriously so. To lose her only child would finish her.

Lara's stomach tightened even more. She couldn't ignore the nausea. It wasn't air sickness. She never got it. No, it was fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. Where on Earth were they sending her?

Jack must have noticed. He touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Lara, I don't want to scare you unnecessarily. I'm just trying to make you aware of the possibilities. These are not things that are likely to happen. There are many countries where you'd be at greater risk. Hey, even going through major airports these days, you're taking a chance.”

She forced herself to laugh. “And we're changing in Singapore, then Paris?”

“OK. Maybe I'll shut up. Seen any photos of Negala?”

She nodded. “I have. In the office. It looks beautiful.” The one she liked best was of an enormous deep yellow full moon rising above softly-shaped sand dunes, as a camel strolled by.

“Those were taken by a professional photographer. They do look good. But these will give you a better feel for the place. There are even some shots of people in dwanas, the traditional dress.” He handed her his laptop.

She gasped as a slide show of barren desert, emaciated goats, dirty children in rags with begging eyes and swollen bellies, left its imprint on her memory. She'd imagined this job would be exciting, glamorous even, but she knew as she took in those images that it had the potential to be much, much more than that.

Life-changing was the word that came to mind.

Lara saw nothing but sand and the glare of the sun as the ageing Boeing 737/800 commenced its descent into Negala. The pressure in her ears was worse than on previous flights and yawning didn't relieve it at all. She quickly unwrapped a boiled sweet and put it into her mouth.

Her legs were stiff and swollen and she was looking forward to stretching them on the ground. If only it were in a country more familiar to her! The excitement of discovering a new place with different customs had certainly been dampened by the no-frills briefing she'd been given, warning her of health hazards and personal safety issues.

Jack looked over, smiling, and she suddenly felt conscious of her appearance. She had dozed off close to Negala and hadn't freshened up since. She rummaged through her handbag and pulled out moisturiser, lip gloss, a comb and mirror, which she promptly put to work.

Jack leaned over. “How do you do it?”

Turning to him, she rubbed her lips together to spread the peppermint-flavoured lip gloss evenly. “Do what?”

“Travel for a day and a half and still be radiant. Most women look terrible first thing in the morning.”

“Seen lots, have you?” The teasing about women was becoming a game. She'd started to enjoy the bantering nearly as much as he did.

He shrugged. “My fair share.”

The seatbelt sign came on with a clunk and the pilot asked the staff to prepare the cabin for landing. Lara shoved her handbag under her seat, tightened her seatbelt and folded the blanket she'd had on her lap most of the trip.

“So what's the plan after we land?” She was longing for a hot shower, a walk around, perhaps even a lie-down. A day off would have been wonderful, but she had the impression she'd be struggling to get a few hours to herself. She wasn't sure what to expect, though. She'd hardly ever travelled before for work, except for seminars, and that was probably nothing like major negotiations in a foreign country.

“Once we're through the airport we'll go to Global Oil's house. You can get your stuff organised, have a shower, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds great.” More than thirty hours in the sky and in airports was a long time. She'd never thought of water and clean clothes as a luxury until now.

She peered through the tiny window again and this time made out houses. From what she could see, they were grey, square and gardenless. “I didn't expect the buildings to look like this. I thought they'd be brown for some reason.”

“They now use concrete a lot here. You do find the odd place that's a bit different, but mostly they're a grey box with a flat roof.”

“Do they use the roof as a terrace?” Images of outdoor eating areas reminiscent of the Arabian Nights tales, decorated with vivid silks, ornate lanterns and lush pots, came to her. Oh and rich carpets. You had to have a magic carpet in the picture. She could almost smell the incense, taste the rose and lemon flavoured Turkish Delights. Or was that only in the Middle East? She realised how little she really knew about Negala.

“Too hot. You'd bake on it and get sand-blasted. At night there are insects.” He laughed. “Giant insects. Besides, most people can barely afford a roof over their head and
there's no money for extravagances. There are some richer people, but they're few and far between.”

“Of course.” She felt like a fool. Her world until then had revolved around work, family, nice restaurants, the theatre. She'd travelled, but only for holidays in upmarket resorts on idyllic islands or in glamorous cities. She'd certainly never set foot in a third world country and now it showed. Leaning towards the window, she pretended to be absorbed by the view, hoping Jack wouldn't notice her burning cheeks.

They were nearly at ground level and the light was blinding. Lara heard the clunk of the wheels as they stretched out like the claws of an eagle ready to dig into a perch. The plane hit the tarmac and the engines roared. Lara slid forward a little, held in place only by her seat belt.

Within seconds, even though the doors were still locked, the passengers were all standing, holding their hand luggage with the eagerness of horses waiting to leave their trailer to gallop in the wind. Lara, too, felt restless. The air-conditioning had been turned off now they'd landed and it was stuffy and stale inside. She simply couldn't wait to get out and breathe the fresh air. Then there was the excitement of discovering a country entirely new to her, even if she was apprehensive.

She opened her overhead compartment to collect her hand luggage, but it had slid to the back and she couldn't quite reach it.

“Let me.” Jack said startling her, so close was his voice to her ear. She turned, a reflex, and found herself facing him, nearly in his arms, and she couldn't control the effect he had on her—the tingling in her arms, the slight shiver despite the warmth, the incredible sense that she wanted to abandon all effort to keep her distance, to be civilised. Raw, animal attraction. It made her want to be the opposite of her rational self. It made her want to be wild.

She balked at the thought and tried to move away but it was a struggle in the sea of people queuing to get off the plane.

“I'm sorry,” said Jack. “It's so packed.”

She nodded, wriggling away, and finally gained a few inches of personal space. Jack handed her the luggage that had put her in such an awkward position. All she could do was offer a brief smile in return and turn her back to him.

Thankfully, the queue moved forward at that moment and Lara came to a set of wobbly steel steps that led down to the tarmac. No gangway into an air-conditioned terminal here.

Hanging onto the handrail, she carefully descended the stairs, squinting in the sun. She was too dizzy to let go and rummage through her bag for her glasses, unsure whether the sudden drunken sensation was due to the lack of sleep or the effect the plane had had on her ears.

The heat hit her with such intensity she thought her skin and eyes were on fire. It was as if she'd stepped into an oven. Australia was hot, but this was. . .Hell. She gasped for air, hoping her body would adapt quickly to what seemed to be an impossible environment. She turned briefly to see whether Jack was behind her out of professional courtesy, not wanting him to think she was so embarrassed she was avoiding him. She couldn't spot him. He must have stayed back in the queue, no doubt letting all the women off before him. It was just as well—she could do with a little distance from Jack.

She took in the landscape, a vast expanse of sand, a shrub here and there and what looked like temporary buildings. Although, from a distance, it seemed there was rust eating
away at them. It was probably an optical illusion, perhaps shadows she couldn't make out. Temporary buildings didn't have the time to rust.

Groups of men in long flowing tunics—she remembered Jack calling them dwanas—strolled lazily around without any apparent purpose, while others loaded a case or two into a cart, then chatted, wiping the sweat off their shiny faces.

“Miss Lara, Miss Lara!” she heard from someone in the crowd. Craning her neck she finally saw a corpulent, African man waving at her. He was in traditional dress too, a bright green dwana with loose sleeves and elaborate embroidery around the neck. Next to him stood Martin, his skin as pasty as a wax dummy, impatiently tapping his fingers on his thigh. It seemed the arrival in Negala had failed to improve his mood.

Whiffs of sweat, spices—cinnamon, chilli and others she found hard to identify—and a certain strange staleness assaulted her nostrils as she made her way through the crowd towards Martin and the man who had called her name. The people near her had no qualms about pushing and shoving. She wrapped her arms around herself as if she could create a shield to hide behind, but to no avail. She was in a sea of strangers.

It was mostly men at the airport, men who stared at her body and the conservative western clothes they probably found revealing. She noticed one woman, beads of sweat on her forehead, struggling under the weight of a baby on her back and a suitcase on her head. Couldn't one of those men help her? Lara shook her head, wishing she were home. Already. Home with Tim, where she belonged. She certainly didn't belong here. If only they didn't have such a big mortgage, she would have been able to refuse the job. That is, if she had realised exactly what it entailed. The man shook her hand a little too enthusiastically when she finally reached him. “Hello, Miss Lara. I'm Ismael.” His voice was deep, his accent colourful. A larger than life grin lit up his whole face, his cheeks forming shiny round balls of joy. He was how she'd imagined Africans: friendly, welcoming, wholesome. She warmed to him immediately.