“Neater that way. No questions asked.”
“But they didn’t know anything.”
“They knew De Bourbon. That was already too much.”
“What is this all about? PetroSaud?”
“Who?What’s that, man?” Shaka stood, his knees cracking. “You’re asking the wrong end of the stick. Me, I’m the sharp end.”
“Should I ask Luca?”
Shaka raised a hand at Simon. “Him, you don’t say his name. You’re not good enough. You’re like the rest, looking at the world with your eyes shut. You don’t see what’s happening right in front of you. He’s the one with vision.”
“Vision?”
“He knows what needs to be done.” Shaka looked at the heavens, frustrated. “You want to know what this is about, Simon Riske? It’s about purity. Preservation. Even piety, in a way.”
Simon was confused. What did any of those lofty concepts have to do with ripping off a sovereign wealth fund? Once again, he was brought back to his suspicions. Who was “them”?
“Tell me, then. What needs to be done?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Everyone will. Then again, maybe you won’t.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No threats. Just action. I believe I’m a case in point. We do what’s required.”
“And that is?”
“Wait a week and you’ll know. I’m sorry, there I go again.”
“Colonel Tan told me that Luca was in charge,” he said.
“Tan had a high opinion of himself. He didn’t understand the chain of command. Only one person gives orders.” Shaka kneeled on his haunches. “You want to know who’s in charge? I am, Riske. See anybody else here?”
“And Malloy?”
“I told you. No loose ends. My job is to make certain done is done. No more questions asked. Now or later.”
Shaka stared at Simon a little longer, then gave a last shake of his head. He’d had enough. He hauled Simon up off the ground and threw him over a shoulder, no differently than if he was picking up a Persian carpet. He walked down to the river’s edge, wading into the water up to his knees. Simon could see where he was more clearly now. In the mountains, a steep hillside climbing from the opposite side of the river. Trees growing in abundance, vines falling from their branches to the ground. A rain forest or something like it.
A hundred yards downstream, two pale towers rose from the center of the river, red hazard lights blinking atop each, the water agitated, waves rising and falling, as it approached them. He guessed he was looking at some type of dam, which meant a hydroelectric power plant. Water passed through the dam, spinning giant turbines that in turn generated electricity, before being spewed out the other side, often hundreds of feet below. Not an ideal spot for an evening swim.
“Don’t yell,” said Shaka. “You’ll just end up getting a mouthful of water, not that there’s anyone around to hear you. If I were you, I’d try and get as much air as possible. You’ll be under a long time.”
He took another step and, with a grunt, lifted Simon with both arms and threw him toward the center of the river.
Simon landed facedown, the water colder than he’d expected. He struggled not to gasp. He felt himself moving, gathering speed, and worked to turn himself over. It was remarkably difficult. He rolled his shoulders back and forth, tried to kick his feet. Nothing. Already his air was going, his lungs constricting. A large and heavy object brushed against him, and he turned onto his back. He sucked down the warm air gratefully. A moment later, something washed across his face, cool and slimy, part of it catching in his mouth. He spat it out, shaking the rest free from his face. All the while, he fought to free himself, grinding his hands and feet back and forth, hoping the water might provide some lubricant. Quickly, he realized he was mistaken. The ropes, absorbing the water, were growing tighter as they expanded.
The current swung his feet around so he was traveling headfirst downstream. A piece of wood struck his head, something sharp poking below his eye. Reflexively, he rolled to avert it and swallowed a mouthful of water. The current grew stronger, jostling him. He felt himself rise and fall, entirely at the mercy of the river. He caught sight of the towers, closer now. Each was shaped like a gently rounded horn, a wide band of glass enclosing the control rooms. He shouted, but his voice was no match for the river. Water filled his mouth. He choked, spat it out, unable to keep from swallowing much of it.
He spun again, feet leading now, water spilling over his face, a battle to keep his mouth clear, to take a breath without gagging. For the first time he heard the turbines, a steady, low-pitched thrum. He continued working his wrists, mashing them together in a circular motion. He felt a little play, just a little,but maybe…
A log struck his shoulder, as hard as a body blow, turning him over, then staying with him, preventing him from rolling back. He opened his eyes, saw only black. He shifted his shoulder, thrashed. The log fell away. He turned onto his back. Air. Precious air.
And then he was angling downward, speeding faster, feeling as if he were sliding down a slope, the towers at his side, white ghosts there and gone. Steeper now. He felt himself drop and drop again, as if passing over speedbumps. A final breath. No time for a prayer. He went under.
And stopped.
