Tomb Raider: The Ten Thousand Immortals Page 12

  Frink disconnected his phone from the laptop and put a call through to his boss, Mr. Fife. Five minutes later he was back on the quay with his partner.

  “We wait, Mr. Peasley,” said Mr. Frink, pushing his sunglasses up his nose.

  “Christian Fife’s a movie star, man. He doesn’t like to wait,” said Mr. Peasley.

  “Christian Fife’s a movie star who employed us to do a job,” said Mr. Frink. “If I say we wait, we wait. We take her when she’s alone. No fuss, no muss, no athletic white boy to get in the way.”

  “Where do we wait?” asked Mr. Peasley.

  “Wherever we need to wait,” said Mr. Frink putting one hand in his trouser pocket, and taking a few casual steps along the quay.

  They waited on the quay, watching girls in bikinis, and drinking cherry cola.

  They also watched Alecto. They watched the stationary trawler for several hours as divers got on and off the boat at intervals. They saw the girl several times moving around on the deck. They never saw her without the athlete.

  “What’s she doing?” asked Mr. Peasley, twice.

  The first time he asked, Mr. Frink said, “How should I know?” The second time, Mr. Frink lowered his sunglasses down his nose to expose his piercing blue eyes, the pupils pinprick small in the bright sunlight, looked at Mr. Peasley, and then pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. Mr. Peasley did not ask the question a third time.

  As the afternoon wore on and there began to be movement on the beaches as the tourists gathered up their towels to make their way back to their hotels, Mr. Peasley turned to Mr. Frink once more.

  “Is she ever coming back?” he asked.

  “Look,” said Mr. Frink.

  Mr. Peasley looked out into the harbour. He could see Kennard handing Lara down into the dinghy.

  “OK,” said Mr. Peasley, crushing his cherry cola can in his fist without thinking. “What do we do?”

  “We wait,” said Mr. Frink.

  Lara stepped onto the quay and said good-bye to Kennard. She glanced around at the milling people. There were plenty of them. She didn’t see anyone she recognised. She looked up the slopes of the mountainous island at the cluster of white buildings on its crest, gleaming in the afternoon sun. It really was a beautiful place.

  Mr. Peasley and Mr. Frink were still watching from the deep shadows of an arched porch. Lara passed within yards of them.

  “She’s on her own,” said Peasley.

  “So, now we take her,” said Frink.

  Lara was more relaxed than she’d felt for a long time. She hadn’t had a panic attack in days. She felt calmer now that she had a purpose. She felt exhilarated when she thought about how she had survived in Paris and how she had escaped Ares’s clutches. She felt confident.

  She also felt safe on Anafi. The sun was shining, the place was spectacularly beautiful, and she was surrounded by good archaeology. She felt closer to her quest than she had in Oxford or Paris. There was Kennard, too. He seemed dependable. She knew that he liked her more than she liked him. She knew that he was interested in her. It didn’t matter to her. He was friendly, and they had an interest in common. Besides, he’d given her the lead to Menelaou, and he’d given her some hope of finding the gold from the fleece. Maybe, just maybe, she was on the right path.

  She was thinking about all these things when suddenly there was a man next to her. Then, his hand was on the top of her head, pressing down, and he was saying something.

  “Lara Croft, get in the car,” said the tall white man in the linen suit. He was bigger than her, a lot bigger, and his actions were so firm and deliberate that she couldn’t resist him. He was calm, too, determined, commanding. It was like being spoken to by a soldier or a policeman. Worse than that, it was like being spoken to by an automaton.

  Lara simply didn’t have the time or presence of mind to protest.

  She found herself sitting next to the black man from the dig site. He was still wearing his sunglasses. She was conscious of the huge, hard presence of two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle in close proximity to her. Both men were clearly very dangerous.

  “What is this?” she asked. “Where are you taking me?” She reached for the door handle and pulled on it, but it wouldn’t open. The white man had already got into the driving seat and was starting the car.

  “Buckle up,” he said.

  Lara did as she was told, expecting the car to rev up and burst away from the quay at high speed. It didn’t. It pulled away as if it was any ordinary car on any regular journey. It was utterly unnerving.

  “I want to get out,” said Lara. “You can’t just kidnap me.”

  “We’re not kidnapping you, are we, Mr. Peasley?” said the driver.

  “Aren’t we, Mr. Frink?”

  “We’re agents of Mr. Christian Fife,” said the tall white man that Lara now knew to be called Mr. Frink. “You might have heard of him.”

  “The only Christian Fife I’ve ever heard of is a hotshot Hollywood movie star,” said Lara.

  “That’s him,” said Mr. Peasley. “That’s our boss.”

  “He wants to meet you,” said Mr. Frink. “He sent us to pick you up.”

  “You couldn’t just have asked, like a normal person?” asked Lara.

  “We weren’t sure you’d accept,” said Mr. Frink.

  “We aren’t normal people,” said Mr. Peasley. “Mr. Fife isn’t normal people.”

  There was silence in the car as it drove up the narrow road, skirting the town, and then wove its way up through the slopes of the mountain. It was minutes before Frink spoke again.

  “Shut up, Mr. Peasley,” he said, “or I’ll ask Mr. Fife if I can kill you.”

  Mr. Peasley said nothing more for the rest of the journey.

  Chapter 18

  The villa was high in the slopes. There was very little vegetation, and Lara had a panoramic view as she stepped out of the car. Although the spot was isolated, she could see other villas dotted around further down the slopes, and in the distance, the town of Chora and the harbor, and miles of sea all around the island.

  It was quiet, too quiet. Lara thought about running, but there was nowhere to run to, and nowhere to hide. Besides, even though Mr. Peasley had gone into the villa as soon as the car had stopped, there was still the terrifying Mr. Frink. She shouldered her rucksack, grateful that she had stowed the Book and Menelaou’s tin box in her hotel room, and allowed herself to be escorted into the house.

  The villa was simple but beautiful, with whitewashed walls and tiled floors. The furniture was wood and leather, obviously good quality, handmade by craftsmen. Lara had plenty of time to look around as she waited. Everything was elegant and functional.

  For several minutes she simply stood under Mr. Frink’s gaze, casting her eyes around the room. This wasn’t a permanent home. This was a place where people came to get away from things, from their lives. There was nothing personal about it. The art was good, but neutral. Nothing in the place betrayed a personality. Lara imagined it was a very expensive holiday rental. Eventually, she dared to take a few steps around the room in an attempt to ease the tension that was building in her body from trying to remain still under such scrutiny. Mr. Frink continued to stand at the door, watching her. It was ten minutes before Christian Fife entered.

  “Leave us,” he said to Frink as he walked in. “I need to eat.”

  Lara turned towards Fife as she heard him enter, his footfalls heavy and irregular on the hard tiles of the floor. He had a strange gait, a limp perhaps.

  She could not help letting out a gasp as she came face-to-face with one of the most famous lead actors in the world.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I don’t need your pity.”

  His left knee seemed to buckle as his right shoulder and then his arm spasmed and jerked.

  And
he was angry. He was very angry.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fife,” said Lara. She was sorry.

  “You know who I am,” said Christian Fife.

  “I’ve seen your films,” said Lara.

  “Not recently,” spat Fife.

  “What happened to you?” asked Lara.

  “Shit happened to me,” said Christian Fife. “Shit that you’re going to put right.” His arm twitched again, and his face malformed into an odd sneer.

  “You have Huntington’s disease,” said Lara, suddenly realising what had taken hold of Fife’s body. It could also explain his rage.

  “What do you know about it?” asked Fife, his face flushing with another burst of anger.

  “Nothing,” said Lara, “only what I can see.”

  “You didn’t read it?” asked Fife. “It isn’t in the press? Bastards! I’ll be ruined!”

  “What does it matter?” asked Lara. “You’re terribly ill.”

  “It matters!” spat Fife. “You’re going to find the cure. You’re going to save me.”

  “You must have known this could happen,” said Lara. “Your family… Didn’t you get tested?”

  “I haven’t got a family,” said Fife. “I was adopted. I didn’t know.”

  His foot came down hard on the floor tiles, making a harsh sound. Lara thought he was stamping, like a petulant child, until she realised it was another involuntary muscle spasm.

  “How are you coping since your diagnosis?” she asked. It wasn’t just sympathy. Lara knew that Huntington’s was a complicated condition. She knew that for some sufferers, anger was a serious symptom. She needed to know whether Fife’s anger was a symptom or whether it was his character. He was a movie star, maybe it was just ego. She wanted to see if she could have an effect on it.

  “I’m not,” he said. “My career is over. I’m ugly. I can’t even remember lines properly anymore.”

  “And you’re angry,” said Lara.

  “You bet I’m angry,” said Fife, flaring up again, as if to prove it. “I’m dead in this business if I don’t get back on screen soon. I’m literally dead if you don’t save me.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” said Lara, gently. “And you know there is no cure for Huntington’s disease.”

  Christian Fife flew across the room at Lara. He was on top of her before she knew what he was doing. He grabbed her by the throat and was trying to throttle her, but much of his strength and all of his dexterity was gone. She was able to escape his grasp and flip him onto his back on the couch. She stood over him, straightening her shirt as Mr. Frink entered the room.

  Lara was sure that Christian Fife’s anger was an altered mental state caused by the Huntington’s disease. That could mean that the actor’s henchmen compensated for it, either that or he had employed men whose violence reflected his anger. She could test the theory one way or the other.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Fife?” asked Mr. Frink.

  “You don’t want to ask me that question?” asked Lara. “Your boss just attacked me.”

  “You seem fine to me, Miss Croft,” said Mr. Frink, striding over to Fife.

  Fife had pushed himself up to a sitting position and was doing his best to straighten his hair, despite the palsy in his hand.

  “Leave me alone,” he said to Frink. “Get out!”

  “I’d rather he stayed,” said Lara. “I’d rather you didn’t try that again.”

  “I won’t stop him if he does try it again,” said Mr. Frink. “And anything he can’t do himself I’ll gladly do for him.”

  “Then, it makes no difference to me whether you stay or go,” said Lara.

  Mr. Frink looked at his boss.

  “Go!” said Fife.

  Lara had her answer. Frink and Peasley would follow Fife’s orders, whatever they were, however violent his demands.

  “I’d appreciate it if one of your men could drive me back into Anafi,” said Lara.

  “You work for me now,” said Fife.

  “I don’t work for anyone,” said Lara. “I’m a student.”

  “I know who you are, Lara Croft. Mr. Frink took your photograph at the dig site, and I’ve scoured the Internet for information about you. I know who your father was, and I know who you are. I know about Yamatai. You must have come here because of the Golden Fleece. It’s the only reason! A woman like you! An archaeologist like you! You know the legends. You know Jason came here! What do you know about the Golden Fleece that I don’t know? How close are you to uncovering its secrets? How close are you to finding it?”

  By the time he had finished, Christian Fife was in a frenzy. He was shouting at her, desperate.

  “You work for me now, Lara Croft. You’ll find the Golden Fleece, and I’ll be healed. I’ll be rid of this damned disease! You’ll save me, or I’ll set my dogs on you!”

  The door opened again, and Frink strode back in.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked again.

  Fife was breathing hard. His face was flushed, and his left leg was trembling. His right arm flew up over his head and spasmed at his elbow.

  “Tell her, Frink,” he said. “Tell her what a dog you are.”

  Frink simply cast his implacable blue-eyed stare on Lara, and said nothing.

  It was chilling.

  After several seconds, during which Lara looked as steadily as she could back at Frink, the big man turned his attention back to Fife.

  “Mr. Peasley has prepared dinner. Would you like to eat in the kitchen or on the veranda? And would you like Miss Croft to join you?” he asked.

  Of all the situations Lara had been in, including the nightmare on Yamatai, she couldn’t remember anything quite as strange as this. Frink and Peasley were hired thugs, utterly cold-blooded. Peasley had calmly cooked a meal while Fife had ranted, and Frink had not flinched when Lara had been attacked, nor when Fife had referred to the henchmen as his dogs. She’d never met men like it before. If they were henchmen, they were more like something out of a Bond movie than off the streets of Chicago or New York. They were two-dimensional creatures with no redeeming qualities.

  Perhaps that’s why Fife hired them, she thought, because they remind him of the movies.

  “I’d prefer to eat alone,” said Lara. “I’d prefer to eat at my hotel, alone.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” said Fife. “She’ll eat with us.”

  Mr. Frink held his ground, waiting for the answer to the other half of his question. He waited for longer than might have been expected. Finally, he coughed.

  Fife looked at Frink. Frink tilted his head slightly and opened his eyes a little wider, asking the question again with a gesture.

  “We’ll eat on the veranda. Thank you, Frink,” said Fife.

  Frink gestured to Lara. She looked at him until he gestured again. She had never seen anyone look so long at anything or anyone without blinking.

  Lara thought about what she had seen outside the house. She thought about the distance to the nearest villa and to Chora on the slopes below. She thought about her hotel room and about Kennard. She thought about the lack of vegetation. There were no trees, no hiding places, only open land and a huge, blue sky outside. She had no choice but to stay… for now.

  Lara broke the eye contact, dropped her head slightly, and walked in the direction of Frink’s gesture.

  If he wants it to be like the movies, I can make it like the movies, she thought. If I can play along, if I can make Fife believe I’m on his side, if I can cut some kind of a deal, maybe he’ll start to trust me. He gives the orders around here. If I can get him to trust me, then I can make my move.

  The four sat down to a simple but good meal of fish and salad with local bread. Lara watched as Peasley helped Christian Fife tuck his napkin into the collar of his shirt. The Hollywood star insisted on feeding
himself, but he was clumsy and his napkin was soon covered in food. Lara ignored it. She would be the perfect guest.

  She engaged with Fife. She soothed him by talking about the lectures in Oxford and a little about Kennard Montez. She soon realised that he became agitated by the name, so she talked about Colchis instead, and about the gold mining methods used in the region. She told him that as long as she could share the outcome with Sam, she would help him in any way that she could.

  Lara leaned over and put a hand on top of one of Fife’s.

  “If I find the Golden Fleece, and if it can restore your health, of course I’ll help you,” she said. “Huntington’s disease is a terrible thing. You’re a wonderful actor, a great star. If there’s a way to get you back on the big screen, I’ll do it.”

  I hope I’m not overplaying my hand, she thought.

  Christian Fife was a desperate man, and desperate men do desperate things. Once he was placated, once he felt that Lara was on his side, his demeanour changed. His outbursts were no longer directed at her. He got angry with himself, with his disability. He got angry when he spilled a glass of wine, and when his napkin fell to his lap and he got a stain on his shirt, but he did not get angry with Lara again. Lara made sure of it.

  Lara remained wary of Frink and Peasley. Neither of the men spoke directly to her, but Peasley was attentive to Fife’s every need. Frink ate fast without appearing to pay attention to what he was doing. He was like an automaton in all things. Food was fuel to him, not a pleasure or relaxation.

  When it came time for Christian Fife to retire, Lara was shown to a luxurious bedroom on the ground floor with doors out onto the veranda and its own bathroom. She said a cheerful good night and closed the door. She did everything she would normally do if she were simply going to bed. She did not want to raise any suspicions.

  An hour later, Lara ventured out of her room in an oversized T-shirt from her backpack and her underwear. She wanted to check the security of the villa. She was crossing the sitting room when Frink appeared from a corridor to her left.