‘So you and Davit, eh?’ he said. She glanced up, but didn’t answer, except to sprinkle the fish with herbs. ‘I said you and Davit, eh?’ said Boris more loudly. ‘You like each other.’
‘Yes,’ said Claudia. ‘We like each other.’
‘You’re a better person than me,’ he told her. ‘If I had to spend the night with someone who snored like that…’
‘I don’t mind,’ she said.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘If it gets too bad for you, you know where I am.’ She threw him a glare, but said nothing. He glanced around to make sure Davit was out of earshot, still putting up the second tent. ‘A hundred euros,’ he offered. ‘I can’t say fairer than that.’ She wouldn’t even look at him. ‘Fine, you bitch. Two hundred.’
‘Leave us alone,’ she said.
Davit finished the tents, came over to join them, wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘All done,’ he said cheerfully.
‘About time.’
Claudia turned over the fish. The hot grill had blistered black lines on their silver skins, spitting out oily fireballs of yellow and pale-blue. Davit pinched off some flesh, tossed it from palm to palm before popping it in his mouth. ‘God, that’s good,’ he said, giving Claudia a proud kiss upon her cheek. He turned to Boris. ‘Try some, boss. Heaven on a tongue.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Davit put his hand upon the small of Claudia’s back. She turned and smiled up at him with a warmth that made Boris’s heart twist. ‘Did you ever get to Gori before the Russians came?’ he asked Davit, in Georgian.
Davit frowned. ‘Once or twice. Why?’
‘They’ve got some cracking whores down there. My God! There was this dancer in this nightclub I went to-I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Or my hands.’
Davit’s face went stony. ‘Claudia’s not a whore,’ he said.
‘I never said she was. I’m just telling you about this place down in Gori.’
‘Claudia’s not a whore,’ said Davit, walking around the fire.
‘Of course she’s a fucking whore,’ spat Boris. ‘What do you think? That she’s suddenly just fallen in love with you? Are you really that stupid?’
‘You take that back,’ warned Davit.
‘She’s a whore,’ said Boris. ‘Face it. She just offered to blow me for a hundred euros while you were doing the tents.’
‘That’s it,’ said Davit. ‘That’s fucking it.’ He bunched his fist and came swinging. Boris ducked beneath it, threw a right to his ribs, but it was useless, the man was a ogre, like punching a fucking wall. Davit swung again. Boris jumped backwards to evade him, stumbled over a root. Davit came after him. On hands and knees, Boris scrambled to his bags, pulled out his Heckler amp; Koch, took off the safety and swung it round at Davit. ‘That’s enough,’ he yelled. ‘Now back off.’
‘What the hell’s that?’ asked Davit, blanching and putting up his hands.
‘What the fuck does it look like?’ retorted Boris.
‘Sandro said no guns.’
‘Well, Sandro lied, didn’t he? What do you think this is? Girl scouts?’
‘I don’t do guns. Not after last time.’
‘You do whatever the fuck I tell you to do,’ said Boris. ‘I’m in charge of this operation, and I’m going to do what I’ve been tasked to do, and you’re going to help me.’ He raised the gun at Davit’s face. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Davit. ‘It’s clear.’
‘Good. Good.’ He felt a little foolish as he tucked the Heckler amp; Koch away in his belt. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. But we go back a long way, you and me; I’d hate to see you get hurt.’
‘I’m a grown-up,’ said Davit. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘Fine. Then we’ll say no more about it, okay?’ He put on as bright a smile as he could muster, rubbed his hands together in an effort to lighten the atmosphere, walked over to Claudia. ‘How about serving us up some of this delicious food of yours, eh? I’m starving.’
II
Knox was in a good mood as he moored the Yvette and headed up the track to Eden. It would be a weight off his back to tell Rebecca what he was doing here and why he’d kept it secret until now. But he sensed trouble when Rebecca, sitting at her father’s desk, didn’t even look up at him. Then he noticed his overnight bag up on his camp-bed, papers spilling out of his box-file on the Winterton.
He turned to Rebecca, spread his hands, put on his most contrite face. But it was pretty obvious that she was in no mood for his contrition, partly from her stony expression but mostly because she chose that moment to pick her father’s shotgun up from behind the desk and aim it vaguely his way. ‘A freelance journalist, eh?’ she asked.
There was no point lying. ‘No,’ he confessed. ‘I’m a marine archaeologist.’
‘A marine archaeologist!’ she snorted. ‘A treasure hunter, you mean. Just another fucking treasure hunter come looking to plunder the Winterton.’
‘It’s not how you think,’ he said. ‘I was going to tell you everything.’
‘Sure!’
‘I swear. Let me tell you now. Just put that gun down.’
‘So I can listen to more of your bullshit?’ Her eyes glittered. ‘I trusted you. My father and my sister went missing and I needed help and I told you everything. I thought you were on my side. How could you betray me like that?’
‘I had no choice. I gave my word to-’
‘I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear another word.’ She stood and motioned him towards the door. ‘Just get out. Go on. Get out. I can’t bear to look at you any longer.’
‘Rebecca, please.’
‘Get out.’
He backed on to the veranda; she slammed the door in his face. He could hear her shooting bolts and then the diminishing sound of footsteps. Christ, what a mess. He considered shouting out his story so that she’d hear him through the walls, but she was still too angry. Better to give her a night to calm down, come back first thing tomorrow with apologies and the truth. But where to sleep? Rebecca was too sore for him to risk taking one of the cabins. He could trudge down to Pierre’s place… but there was a bed on the Yvette, and Rebecca was unlikely to come looking for him out there.
He waded out, climbed aboard, sat on deck as it grew dark around him, watching the shore, lulled by soothing sounds, the creak of wood, the soft splash of distant breakers. Away to the south, someone lit a beach bonfire, perhaps Pierre’s women cooking dinner. Confrontation and guilt had robbed him of his own appetite; he dined on biscuits and beer. His thoughts kept drifting to Rebecca, though he tried to stop them. Her anger had upset him more than he’d have imagined possible, not least because it was justified. Gaille would never have erupted like that, however; she’d have given him at least a chance to explain himself. But Gaille had been a conciliator by nature, always wanting to think the best of people. Rebecca, on the other hand… he gave a rueful laugh. Yet there were similarities between the two women too. Their vitality, their intelligence, the way they both came alive when talking about their passions. One of his most treasured memories of Gaille was an evening in Alexandria when she’d shown him photographs of an ancient mural she’d coaxed back to life. The way her skin had glowed had been one of the things that had first enchanted him about her. Rebecca lit up in the exact same way whenever she talked about animal behaviour. And they were both resourceful too, as well as scientifically minded, loyal and courageous, prepared to risk everything for the people they loved. And they both looked so damned good, too.
It troubled him to be thinking about Gaille and Rebecca this way. Comparing them like this. Gaille had been the love of Knox’s life, and her death had been his fault. Not entirely or even mostly his fault, sure. That credit belonged to Mikhail Nergadze, who’d shot her through the forehead from about two feet away, while she’d been utterly unable to defend herself. But if Knox had been braver, faster or smarter, Mikhail might never have had either the desire or the opportunity to murder her. So she deserved better from him than this. She deserved the kind of loyalty that she’d have shown him, not the kind that would let him fall for Rebecca like this, or the kind that would let Emilia Kirkpatrick sweep him into bed that weekend in Hove, just because he’d been feeling sorry for himself.