I

Euphoria. Terror. Joy and relief counterbalanced in Rebecca’s heart by the cold fear that if she examined this too closely, she’d find out that it was a hoax. She knew only too well how easily photographs could be manipulated these days. Her own people did it all the time, enhancing the look and sound of footage for her programmes. She limped around and around reception trying not to let her hopes soar too high. Yes. Someone had got hold of an old picture of Adam and Emilia, taken another of some stooge holding the newspaper, overlaid the two and—

She stopped dead, halted by a sudden bout of severe cramps; the birth-pangs of hope. Because she knew, too,how difficult it was to fake photographs convincingly. It took specialist software, experience and expertise. You needed high-quality originals to work with. Light, shadow and perspective had to match exactly, or the result would look phoney; and these didn’t. Tulear wasn’t Seattle in these matters. There were no graphic design shops, no software houses. Most telling of all, though, was her father’s expression as he stared at the camera. He looked trapped. He looked angry.

Oh Jesus Christ, let it be true.

Her mouth opened and a feral sound came out. She felt acid swilling in her stomach, could taste its sharpness in the back of her throat. She rocked backwards and forwards until both had subsided, read the note again. Her eyes were blurred, and when she tried to wipe them, her hand rattled a little against her cheekbones. Five hundred million ariary. She did the maths in her mind: it worked out at fifteen million pounds. The bile rose to her throat and she promptly vomited it out on to the floor. But the evacuation helped her. Her hands steadied and her mind became cold and clear. She’d misplaced the decimal point by a couple of places, that was all. It was actually one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, not fifteen million. The cramps started again, but more gently. There was something almost reassuring about them. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds and she’d have her father back. She’d have Emilia …

One hundred and fifty thousand pounds! Oh, Jesus Christ! How in the name of hell was she supposed to—

Perhaps she should take this straight to the police. Kidnappers would always warn against going to them, after all. And Andriama, that police chief she’d met in Tulear, had struck her both as intelligent and sympathetic. But the Malagasy police were famously incompetent and indiscreet, and if word should somehow get back to the kidnappers and they were to … Rebecca couldn’t even bear to think about it. She had at least to try to raise the cash. She had at least to try. If she failed, she could go to Andriama then. But not before.

So. Five hundred million ariary. She read the ransom note again with a growing sense of unreality. The deadline was 9 a.m. on Monday. It was already Saturday night. She had less than forty hours, and tomorrow was Sunday, which meant that all the banks and moneychangers in Tulear would be closed. There was no way she could raise that much cash by 9 a.m. on Monday morning, even if she’d had it in her account. No bank would hand a foreigner that much cash, whatever ID they produced, however good their credit. It was crazy. The kidnappers weren’t giving her even a fighting chance. Panic welled again. She had to breathe rapidly to soothe herself.

So, then. She needed help. But whose? Her first thought was Daniel, but there was no chance he’d have that much money on him, or even access to it. And nor would anyone around Eden, except just possibly Pierre. Who else? Delpha, her father’s lawyer. You never knew what lawyers had stashed away; and even if he didn’t have the money, he’d certainly have contacts and advice. And Mustafa Habib, that Indian businessman from the police station, had made a fuss about wanting to help; it would serve him right if she went to him. She checked for his card. Yes. And he lived on the way to Tulear too. She could stop by on the way to Delpha.

One thing was for sure: she wouldn’t find the money here. She fetched the Jeep’s keys from behind reception, hobbled outside. The padding of the driver’s seat had long since been torn out and replaced by two short planks and an old pillow. Bare earth was visible through a gaping rusted hole in the floor. The windscreen was opaque with smeared mud and flies. Adam had kept it running with a hammer, string and prayer. But it was all she had. She thought briefly of asking Daniel to drive her, but it would mean having to tell him what had happened, and the note had been explicit. She lowered herself gingerly into the driver’s seat, twisted the keys. The engine sputtered as though the battery were low, but she revved it hard and thankfully it came to life. She switched on the headlights, carving chiaroscuro rifts in the forest walls, drove over to the generator building and siphoned fuel from the pearly container into her tank until it overflowed.

Then she climbed back in the driver’s seat and set off.