Ivory (37 page)

‘Where's Penfold?' he asked, forcing himself to be businesslike as he opened the sliding door for her. She walked out onto the observation deck, a glass of mineral water with a wedge of lemon in her hand. She glanced behind herself for the second time since she'd entered the carriage. They sat on the contoured wooden bench seats at the very end of the open-air car, facing each other.

‘He's checking emails. There'll probably be a hundred or more and he's obsessive about clearing them. I probably won't see him again until dinner.'

‘You're not in the same suite?'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is it a concern of yours if I am or not?'

He turned to look at the view disappearing behind them. An African woman with a cheap zippered plastic carry bag balanced on her head picked her way carefully between sleepers, ballast and rails to cross the line.

Jane leaned towards him and laid a hand on the sleeve of his black sports jacket. ‘No, I'm not. And I won't be sleeping with him. That part of our relationship, at least, is over.'

Jane explained to him how she had found a prostitute coming out of George's room after she had left Alex. She also said she'd overheard George talking to his wife on the phone, and there was nothing in his tone of voice or words to suggest the marriage was anything other than harmonious. ‘I feel betrayed.'

‘I can understand why,' he said.

‘He's using me. I can't believe I got involved with him. I feel like a right fool; the way I've let him play with my emotions. He only asked me to marry him to string me along a little longer, probably until this trip and his business here in Africa is over. But why?'

‘He's not sure if you're telling the truth – about having his stuff. And he's right to be uncertain.'

She sipped her mineral water. ‘Are you telling me I'm wrong?'

‘I'm telling you to be careful. You don't know where this is heading, and neither do I.'

‘Part of me just wants to blurt it out,' she said, ‘to tell him his bloody package is on his bloody ship. I feel like I've backed myself into a corner.'

He said nothing, but then her eyes widened, as though a blindingly obvious thought that should have occurred to her had just hit her like a bolt of lightning. ‘Wait.
You
backed me into this corner.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Oh, yes you do, Alex. You're a better charmer than you are a liar. You planted the thought in my head, in Mozambique, that George was up to something criminal. You never asked me directly if MacGregor had given me anything or if I was hiding anything. Why? Because you thought of a way to get me to lead you to it . . . and here we bloody well are!'

She stood and turned to go back inside the observation carriage, but he reached out and took hold of her wrist – firmly, though not enough to hurt her. Nonetheless, she tried to shrug him off, but he held on to her. ‘Do you think he's up to something illegal?'

She paused, biting her lower lip. ‘Yes. I do. But so are you. You're just coming with me to steal whatever it is that George has been trading in.'

‘Hey,' he reminded her, ‘I was on my way back to Mozambique when
you
called
me
. Remember? And here I am, several thousand rand poorer for the cost of a ticket on this train and a new suit and shoes just so I can bloody well dress for dinner.'

He smiled at her and her anger seemed to dissipate, but a moment later she had a determined set to her face again. ‘Yes, yes. All right. But I can't be seen with you again. Not until we get to Cape Town.'

‘We need to talk through some things before then.'

‘OK, where?' she asked.

Alex thought about it for a moment. ‘Does George smoke?'

‘No, he hates it. He's a reformed smoker – they're always the worst.'

‘The smoking lounge is just on the other side of the bar, in this carriage.'

She nodded. ‘I saw it on the way through. That's perfect. He wouldn't even want to walk past that area and there's another lounge car halfway up the train, so he probably wouldn't even bother to walk all the way back here. We're right up the front.'

‘Good. Meet me here after dinner – say nine?'

‘OK. But one more thing, Alex . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘What happened between us in Mozambique, in Gorongosa, that was a mistake on my part. It's not going to happen again, OK?'

He nodded.

 

Jane walked back towards the front of the train. It was a long way, and the trek through the fifteen carriages to hers was slowed by the presence of curious passengers emerging from their suites to check out their surroundings. As she opened her door, George stuck his head out of his. ‘Oh, good. You're back. Where did you go?'

‘Just exploring. I've been right to the back of the train. There's a bar there.'

‘Well, that was a wasted journey, and one I have no intention of making during the next three days.' He ducked back into his suite, then
emerged again and entered hers. He carried a bottle of vintage Moët et Chandon and two crystal flutes.

‘I'm not sure I want a drink right now,' she said.

‘Oh, nonsense. I've got a minibar full of this stuff. We've only got another fifty hours or so to get through it all!'

He sat down on one of her two chairs and she moved her jacket from the other so she could join him. Despite her protest he poured for both of them. ‘Cheers,' he said, and she dutifully raised her glass. She took only a tiny sip.

‘So, got any plans for the afternoon?' He raised an eyebrow theatrically. ‘Dinner's not until seven-thirty.'

She saw the lust in his eyes. She'd been amused by his caddishness at first, but now that she knew it was actually real, and not a charming act, she was repelled by him. ‘I've got some emails to send.'

‘I gave up on mine. Stuff it, I thought. I'm on the most luxurious train this side of the equator with the most beautiful girl in the world and I'm sitting in front of a computer screen. Preposterous.' He leaned closer to her, placing his hand on her knee as he raised his glass to his lips.

She placed her hands in her lap. ‘George, I'm not feeling all that well.'

‘Nonsense. You're just tired.' He raised his right eyebrow comically. ‘Perhaps you need a lie-down.'

She shook her head. She placed a hand on his, but before she could move his off her knee, he put his glass down and laid his right hand over hers. He kissed her. She kept her lips clamped shut.

‘Are you playing hard to get? Like that time in the company flat? You naughty girl, you.'

‘No, George, I –'

He silenced her with another kiss and slid off his chair, dropping to one knee in front of her. He moved a hand to each of her knees now and started pushing outwards, so that the hem of her dress began riding up her thighs.

‘George,
please
. . .'

He leaned his body closer to her, forcing his torso between her legs
and pushing them further apart. He lifted a hand to her breast and ran the backs of his fingers across her nipple. The movement of the lace of her bra against her skin caused an involuntary reaction.

She did not want this.

His other hand was moving up her bare thigh, one finger hooking the elastic of her knickers.

‘No, George.'

‘Oh, yes, baby . . .'

‘No!' Jane stood, forcing him to rock backwards on his knees. He reached up for her, roughly grabbing her by the hips with both hands to halt her.

This was no game. Jane picked up her champagne glass and threw the contents in his face.

‘Fuck!' As George stood he flailed about to maintain his balance, the action made harder by the rocking of the train. He pushed Jane's hips away from him, causing her to slump back into her chair.

He wiped his wet, reddened face with his hand and glared down at her. ‘What the hell do you think you're playing at?'

‘Move away from my chair, George.'

He stood there, staring at her. She saw the rage on his face and she felt genuinely afraid of him. His hands were bunched into fists, held loosely at his sides. He raised one and she flinched.

He stepped back, opened his palm and ran his fingers through his hair. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if trying hard to regain his composure. ‘OK. Bad move.' He opened his eyes. ‘I'm sorry, Jane. I just thought . . .'

‘You thought what, George? That no meant yes? I know we've played a few little games, but I expect you to know the difference between coquettishness and a point-blank
no
.'

George looked as though he was going to say something else, and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He forced a smile. ‘Just as well I was planning on dressing for dinner.' He brushed the front of his shirt, which was spotted with drying champagne. ‘Is everything all right between us?'

She wanted to scream at him, to launch herself at him and scratch his eyes and face, and yell and cry and demand to know everything he was involved in, and what he had meant by seducing her in the workplace while he was still happily married
and
shagging prostitutes. The rage seethed in her but she forced herself to stay silent. She needed to get to Cape Town and to the bottom of this mess she'd been landed in. Right then she wished she'd never set foot in the offices of Penfold Shipping, and never met this man.

‘I'm fine, George. It's just . . . perhaps it's just a culmination of things. Everything's happened so fast. First the pirates, then . . .' She stopped herself from saying anything about Lisa's shooting, ‘then the negotiations with De Witt. It's all happened a bit too quick. I'll be fine after a good night's sleep. See you for dinner?'

He frowned. She could see it was clearly not what he expected, but he straightened his hair and shirt once more and said, ‘Of course, my love.'

 

After Jane left the observation carriage Alex finished his Scotch in the open air. The low afternoon sunlight was filtered gold through Johannesburg's cloud of exhaust fumes as they passed the airport, and Emperors Palace, where Alex had met with Chan. His trip to Cape Town might come to nothing, but there was still much work to be done to prepare for the ivory heist.

He was taken aback when the sliding door leading to the rest of the car opened again. The woman in the green silk dress took a seat on the contoured wooden bench opposite him and crossed her legs. ‘Beautiful, isn't it?'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘We don't get light like this in the concrete jungle.'

Her eyes matched her dress and, like the fabric, caught the light's reflection and shimmered in a more than pleasing way. Her accent was American. The diamonds in her ears looked real, just like the ones on the ring finger of her right hand. Only the faint lines at the corners of
her eyes, and her mouth when she smiled, told him she was probably four or five years older than he.

He saw the way her glance casually moved to his left hand, as had his. ‘Travelling alone?'

Alex's first thought was to lie and say no, thinking that he wouldn't want Jane to get the wrong idea if, by chance, she returned to the carriage. That was odd, he realised. Did he consider himself
with
Jane? But he was single, and Jane had made it quite plain that she did not want any romantic involvement with him. ‘Yes. Though this train seems to be made for couples.'

She sighed theatrically. ‘It sure does. I'm Lesley. Can I buy you a drink?'

He laughed at the joke – all drinks were included in the cost of a ticket on Rovos Rail, but he was pleasantly taken by her forthrightness. ‘It's the twenty-first century and we're both over twenty-one, so why not?'

She called the waiter over and he ordered another Scotch. His mind was not on sex, though Lesley, who explained while they waited for drinks that she was a widow from Manhattan, had an hour-glass figure and breasts that just begged to be seen naked.

‘I'm sorry for your loss.'

‘Morty was eighty-seven, God rest his soul. He had a good life.'

‘I'm sure he did. Are you dining alone this evening, Lesley?'

‘I thought so, up until now.'

 

The shirt had the crisp smell of newness – and scratchy loose threads that pricked his neck. He buttoned it and knotted the dark purple silk tie he'd purchased from the same shop. It had been a while since he'd dressed for dinner, but he looked forward to the day when he'd have to do it every night.

His father had always worn a suit and tie – sometimes a tuxedo – when he'd greeted the guests in the bar or the dining room of the hotel. If a train could bring back formal dining for holidaymakers, then
so could a resort. It might keep some people away, but it might also bring in the right ones. He ran a brush through his long hair, slicking it back from his forehead. He'd showered and shaved for the second time that day, and rubbed some moisturiser into his skin before applying just a little Calvin Klein aftershave. He'd swapped his jeans and loafers for the new dark suit.

He fastened his father's gold cufflinks and pulled on the jacket. He decided to leave his pistol in the suite. He took the Glock out of its holster, cocked it and slid it under the pillow of his bed, which had been made up for him while he was in the observation car.

From the corridor outside he heard the low clang of the dinner gong. Alex slid his door closed and walked through the carriage, moving to one side to let a family of four pass. Lesley had given him the name of her suite, Spioenkop – there was nothing as pedestrian as numbers on this train – and when he found it, he knocked.

‘Coming right out,' she called.

She was still in the green dress, though she'd put her hair up and her slender neck was now adorned with a diamond necklace that would have fetched the same price as his hotel as it stood at the moment.