The Eden Legacy

FORTY-TWO
I

Boris had been diving several times in his life, on holidays in Bali, the Red Sea and the like, but it had been a while and he’d forgotten much of what he’d learned, particularly on equipment set-up and safety. He and Knox were much the same size and build, however, so he removed the man’s flexi-cuffs, had him turn on the compressor to fill a pair of scuba tanks with air, then made him assemble two complete sets of dive-gear. ‘I don’t need any,’ said Knox. ‘Mine’s already on the boat.’

‘What I dive with, you dive with,’ Boris told him. ‘And I’m not saying who’s getting which set until we suit up. So no tricks, eh?’

Knox shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’

The compressor took forever. Boris made Knox carry the dive-gear out to the boat while they waited, keeping the gun on him all the time, half expecting him to try something; but he didn’t. When they returned to the boathouse, the reels of fishing line gave him an idea. He cut off several metres, coiled it up and put it away in his pocket. The second tank was still filling; Boris took Knox to collect his belongings from the lodge, so that he wouldn’t have to return here once this was done. The compressor finally finished. They turned it and the generator off, locked up the boathouse, carried everything out to the boat then motored through the pass and north-west, navigating with GPS and a local chart until Madagascar was just a dark line on the horizon behind them, and Knox finally cut the engine.

‘This is it?’ asked Boris.

‘This is it,’ nodded Knox, deploying the anchor. ‘See what I mean about trying to describe the place?’

It was true enough. The water was too deep here to see the bottom, and they were too far from shore for landmarks. ‘You fuck with me down there, you’re going to regret it.’

‘Then let me go collect some pieces for you.’

‘Sure!’ Climbing into a wetsuit was an awkward and ungainly process, during which Boris knew he’d be at his most vulnerable. He had Knox suit up first, therefore, then tied his wrists behind his back again with another set of flexi-cuffs. He took out the fishing line he’d cut earlier, looped it around Knox’s neck and then knotted it tight enough to cut into his throat a little, whiten his skin.

‘What’s that for?’ asked Knox.

‘You think I’m going to let you swim around loose? What kind of idiot do you take me for?’ He suited himself up, chose a BCD and tank, weight-belt, mask and fins, then he knotted the other end of the fishing line around his left wrist, so that Knox was like a pet dog on a long leash. If he tried to get away now, all Boris would have to do was give the fishing line a good sharp tug and it would choke Knox, bring him within the business range of his knife. He picked up the Heckler amp; Koch again before releasing Knox from his cuffs so that he could finish suiting up. There was no way of cuffing his wrists behind his back again, not with his scuba tank on, so he cuffed them in front instead.

‘Okay,’ he told Knox. ‘In the water.’ He waited until Knox was down, gave a little tug on the fishing line to remind him who was boss. No point taking the Heckler amp; Koch down with him. It was useless underwater, and cumbersome too. On the other hand, he didn’t want just to leave it on board, lest Knox somehow make it back here first and use it against him. He ejected the magazine, therefore, and zipped it away in his wetsuit’s waterproof pouch. He hid the gun itself in a side-pocket of Knox’s dive-bag, on the basis that it was the last place he’d look, then he took his knife in his right hand, climbed down the stern ladder and joined Knox in the water.