The Samui Conspiracy Page 4

  On one of those stifling July days, when the air remains trapped at ground level, unable to escape the vertiginous heights of the skyscrapers, Lily had come in the office, inexplicably agitated, unable to put her finger on what it was that irritated her so. She skimmed her agenda once again, afraid that she might have somehow missed an important meeting. On a hunch, she nonetheless cancelled her lunch appointment, aware that she was not in the sort of mood that would help her pitch brilliantly to a potential new client. She had always expected no less than perfection for herself. There were always too many sharks in the water, and she could not afford a mistake with so many people watching her every move, ready to pounce if there was ever an opportunity. Indeed, to date, she had served her boss and mentor with great diligence, an allegiance which had owed her as many admirers as enemies. She would also have preferred postponing the early morning meeting, under the pretext of too much work on another project, rather than give a less than stellar performance but was not given the chance and sat through the meeting, her mind elsewhere. For lunch, she had ordered a sesame bagel with smoked salmon and cream cheese from the ambulatory sandwich wagon which appeared daily on her floor at the same time, happy she did not have to go anywhere to eat her fare. After pouring herself a glass of Perrier from the mini-bar, she finally sat on her couch: she felt slightly nauseous but still could not explain why. She had barely taken off her shoes and switched on CNN when a call was put through.

  “Anna,” she said in a tone which expected no discussion, “please, not now. Give me a break. Take a message. I’ll ring back whoever it is in half hour.”

  “It’s your mother,” Anna insisted. “It’s urgent, she said. How was I supposed to tell her to get lost?”

  Anna shook her head and rolled her eyes; sometimes Lily’s moods were hard to fathom.

  Lily smiled in spite of herself: her mother wasn’t the type of woman one could easily stall or dismiss. Sighing deeply, ready for the one-hour conversation the inopportune phone call was inevitably going to take, she hastily took a bite of her sandwich, washed it down with a gulp of her Perrier and lit a cigarette. Then she picked up the blinking line.

  “A bit early for you, isn’t it, Maman?” she stated, annoyed at having her lunch interrupted. “I was planning to call you when I got home tonight. I’m walking into a meeting in less than five minutes,” she warned. “Can’t this wait?”

  In her annoyance at being disturbed, she spoke quickly, with a hint of belligerence in her voice and thus failed to notice the abnormal fact that her mother had not yet said a word.

  “Sorry, ma cherie,” replied her mother coolly. “I know you’re busy but we have just heard from your brother.”

  Something in her tone made Lily pay attention and her voice softened.

  “How is he?” she enquired, her heart beating faster: when it came to her brother, the news was more often bad than good.

  “Well, that is what I’m calling about. I don’t know how to say it. I’m sorry to tell you that your brother died of a heart attack. A young woman with whom Louis was travelling called here about half an hour ago to share the news. We didn’t catch her name.”

  Her voice finally broke and all Lily could hear were the soft sobs on the other end. Gripping the handset so tightly as to turn her knuckles white, she replied in a barely audible voice.

  “Maman! You can’t be serious! Are you sure? Surely there is a mistake. Louis is not yet 30! You just don’t go and die of a heart attack in your twenties! You just don’t,” said Lily vehemently, dumbfounded by the unfathomable news.

  “There is no room for doubt, darling. Her phone call was followed by that of the French Ambassador in Bangkok. A charming man it seems, affiliated by marriage to the Maintenon you know; well, he called personally, which was very kind, to let us know, that your brother was pronounced dead this afternoon, local time. He confirmed the heart attack. He is still waiting though for the final autopsy report and then will call us back.”

  “Maman, Maman,” interrupted Lily. “I believe there is a direct American Airlines flight this afternoon. I’ll be on it. I’ll rent a car at the airport. Don’t worry. I will be there as soon as possible. I just can’t believe this,” she choked. “Can I speak to Papa?”

  “Your father is on the other line, speaking with Sophie. Stephanie is due to arrive any minute now. I’m so sorry, darling,” she added, having lost all composure, sobbing into the handset.

  “Maman,” cried Lily through her tears. “Hang on. We’ll handle this together. I’ll be there before you know it. I love you. Give my best to Papa too.”

  The line went dead.

  She was still staring at it dumbfounded when her secretary popped her head in. Her repeated knocks had gone unanswered and she had feared something might be terribly wrong. It took her only a few seconds to take in her employer’s suddenly ravaged face to realise that the earlier overseas call had been the bearer of bad news.

  “What can I do?” she asked with the efficiency that was her trademark.

  Lily stared at her uncomprehending yet automatically replied in a toneless voice, “My brother just died. I need to go home. I can’t believe it. This is not happening.”

  Then, lighting another cigarette, she took another sip, very slowly, her hand shaking so badly she thought she might spill it all on the papers which were littering her desk, she added, “Can you book me the next flight to Paris? I don’t know about a return ticket date. Make it 10 days later and changeable at the last minute. My usual window seat. Business class. Oh, jeez,” she moaned. “I need to give you the keys to my flat so that you can feed my cat and water my plants during my absence. You don’t mind, do you? Also cancel all my appointments and reschedule them for later this month. Tell everyone it’s a family emergency. I’m taking bereavement leave as of now. I’ll have my PC with me, anyway. I can send Harry an email to brief him on the Diesel account. I’m sorry to dump all this on you. I have to leave now. Can you meet me at my flat in a couple of hours with my ticket? And a backup USB key for all my files?”

  After murmuring her condolences, Anna quickly took her leave and Lily looked around her office, her mind a complete blank. Her head pounded, just like her heart. A sharp knock at the door brought her back to reality. Harry, the agency’s director and personal mentor, a man in his late fifties with a kind face, large pale blue eyes, and a manner that belied his Ivy League School upbringing and his generous heart, stood there with an unmistakable look of concern.

  “Anna just told me what happened,” he said without preambles, walking over and catching her in a soothing embrace.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve requisitioned the company jet. You’ll be home for dinner. Go back to your flat and gather your things. I’ll have a limo waiting downstairs your building in a little over one hour. I’ve some business to attend to in London anyway. Paris is a small detour. You can brief me en route about the Diesel account. If you feel up to it, that is.”

  Lily was so grateful for his generous offer that she remained speechless for once, nodding shyly, and eyes brimming with tears. She picked up her handbag and Harry closed the door softly behind her. Anna hugged her on the way out and told her not to worry about a thing. Lily knew she could count on her and that her competent PA would keep things under control during her absence.

  Lily did not remember how she got home with every gesture on automatic pilot. She scrawled down instructions for Anna and left them on the kitchen counter. She filled up the cat bowl and began packing her suitcase. Black. She needed black. Who in hell had the kind of black summer clothes that would be appropriate for a funeral? All she owned were light-coloured linen pants, mostly white business shirts and fashionable but understated jackets, her usual uniform for the NY summer. She recalled her mother telling her a couple of days earlier that Paris was stifling, in the grips of an unprecedented heat wave. She looked at her watch and began throwing items of clothing frantically in her bag. The car will be there any minute now. Where was Anna?
The intercom rang.

  “It’s Anna. I’m downstairs. Will you let me up?”

  Lily buzzed her in. Anna handed her the laptop and pointed to the neatly typed notes in the front pocket of the attaché-case. She asked Lily for her passport and placed it in her handbag. She latched the suitcase and read quickly through the note left on the counter.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Now go; the company town car is waiting for you.”

  They closed the door and rode down the elevator in complete silence. Harry was downstairs, as promised, and after leaving her suitcase in the trunk, they took the expressway to Newark airport where the company’s 10-seat Learjet would be idling, ready for take-off. She looked out the window, unable to make small talk. Harry seemed non-plussed and read the New York Financial Times. As the car picked its way through the post lunch traffic, Lily let her mind wander.

  Neither Louis’s parents nor his sisters had spoken to him for the best part of a year. Periodically, postcards came posted from places with unpronounceable names. The writing in Louis’s unmistakable cursive hand had always been brief and upbeat. He had even sent a couple of photographs showing him riding an elephant with ears and forehead tattooed in the same elaborate, highly colourful and traditional designs as the Thai brocaded silks which were sometimes found in Paris bazaars and another where he swam in a pool of the palest jade with cascading falls as a backdrop. In the first one, he had looked happy and tanned, dressed only in a sarong, and donning a small round hat on his head, a camera in his hand. Had the viewer been able to zoom on his face though, the deeply haunted look would have been a warning sign of things to come. As it was, they only appeared as the typical type of snaps one took on exotic holidays, shown proudly to family and friends to reassure them that all was fine.

  When the initial six months’ trip had turned into an interminable nine months, they had chosen to believe that things had gone better than planned, the film sponsors simply requesting additional footage. No one had questioned it and no one had known that Jacques had been back in Paris for the last three months. Now the trip which had been designed to open new doors had mysteriously come to a screeching halt. What did really happen? How could anyone be sure that it was Louis who had died? She was shocked that her parents seemed to have taken at face value the word of someone they had never met. Over the phone no less. She would certainly need more proofs than that to believe anyone, but perhaps a decade living in NY had turned her into a cynic.

  When the limousine pulled up to the airport gates, Lily, with a faraway look, snapped out of her reverie, the light gone from her eyes. Harry, sorry for what had befallen her, looked at her compassionately, and took care of the customs formalities for them both. Lily stepped onto the plane as if she had always belonged there, still in too much shock to appreciate the swivelling soft caramel leather seats, the discreet lighting and the thick golden carpeting matching the amber-coloured walls. She was sufficiently out of sorts that she only noticed the spaciousness of the on-board bathroom, sporting a full-sized shower only a short time before landing. Wordlessly, she took her assigned seat and fastened her seat belt. Dutifully, she opened her notebook intent on briefing Harry on the latest campaign. Yet the latter appeared unhurried; according to him they had both skipped lunch and thus proposed they first share a light meal right after take-off. They would get down to work right after that. Lily vaguely recalled the untouched bagel sitting on her coffee table and her stomach growled in protest. She gratefully agreed to the plan. During lunch Harry entertained her with tales of his coming trip to London. Lily relaxed and was surprised afterwards to see that she could run through the presentation without thinking twice about what awaited her in Paris. Once the exposé finished, Harry suggested that she rest but she asked whether it were possible to make a phone call and speak to her younger sister first. Harry indicated the seat at the rear of the plane that afforded the best privacy and Lily dialled the number with a beating heart.

  The phone unfortunately rang out and the answering machine picked up after the 6th ring.

  “You have reached Stephanie. I can’t take your call right now but leave a message and I promise to call you back.”

  “Steph, Lily here. I’m sure you spoke to Mum already but I wanted to touch base with you first. You can’t call me back though as I’m calling you from a plane. Let Mum and Dad know that I’ll be home for dinner tonight. The company has given me a ride on their Learjet so I didn’t have to depend on the schedule of commercial airlines. I’ll see you soon,” her voice trailed. “Bye, love you,” she added as an afterthought.

  She hung up, knowing that there was nothing else to do than bide her time. Sleep seemed impossible but she decided to follow Harry’s advice regardless and closed her eyes just for a minute, since she felt all of a sudden incredibly tired. She would have been ashamed to see how fast she fell asleep, especially under the circumstances.

  The Thalis, which had left Amsterdam Central at 2 pm was due to arrive at Paris Nord train station at 6pm. After some debate, Stephanie had decided that driving home would just take too long; moreover, in her emotional state she did not think she would have been fit to drive. In her opinion, she needed the 4 hours ride to think things through regardless. Although she found particularly ill-mannered those who held phone conversations in public places acting as if they were alone in the world, she nonetheless kept her phone on her lap, just in case her parents called through with the latest news. The phone call, one hour earlier, had left her badly shaken. She had been meeting with a client and her staff had disappeared on their lunch break when the answering machine had picked up.

  “Cherie,” her mother’s voice had said, “We just got a call. From Bangkok. It was about your brother. Louis apparently suffered a fatal heart attack. We’re waiting for the embassy to call back with more details. The autopsy report identified him. You know how much I had hated his tattoos, but it seems I was wrong, as they helped with the identification of the body. Don’t call me back. We need to keep the lines clear. How soon can you get here? I’ll check the train schedule online and call you back. See you soon.”

  Stephanie had overheard the message and had stood still, too shocked to move. She gave leave to her client and murmured something about rescheduling soon but he had unwittingly heard the message as well, and was in a hurry to leave her alone. Stephanie had then waited for her manager to return from lunch and no sooner had he shown up that she had rushed home to pack a black skirt, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a jacket of the same colour along with a nightgown. For good measure, she also threw in a few T-shirts and a pair of jeans. She had no idea how long she would be gone or what she would need for the next few days. In any case if she forgot anything, she could purchase it anywhere in the myriad of stores which dotted the left bank. Her mother had called back to confirm the train schedule and she barely made the 2 pm train. She was completely out of breath when she sat down in her assigned seat. Immediately, she plugged-in her iPod, perched her very dark Ray Bans on top of her nose and pushed down her black straw hat as far as it could get, in a body language, which was designed to clearly discourage any conversation.

  Drifting to the music, her thoughts naturally turned to Louis. She remembered how dejected she had been when he had broken his promise, forgetting to call her right away, after his arrival in Bangkok. Her sense of abandonment had only deepened when, a month later, he still had not bothered picking up the phone. In fact she had not received any direct news from him except those filtered through her parents. They had assured her, every time she had inquired after his wellbeing that her brother sounded rather cheerful and that the filming was progressing on schedule. Like everyone else she had received a postcard here and there, the tone upbeat and the paragraphs short since Louis had never been much of a letter writer. Last Christmas, each of them had received a gift as well, and they were all the same. The doll-sized replica of a wooden coffin, with its silver filigree inlays and a miniature lock, had left them baf
fled. They had all agreed that it was indeed a most unusual gift, yet a very pretty one and that it was just like him to choose something rather unexpected. Yet when she had opened hers, she had tried to suppress the brief chill running down her back; the hand-carved object seemed like a premonition. There was almost something spiritual in its symbolism and they each secretly wondered whether it stood as a very bad omen or a great breakthrough. They never noticed that a different Roman numeral number had been carved at the bottom of each miniature coffin. Louis, in his single-page Christmas letter, addressed to all of them as a family, had curiously insisted they opened their gifts in a particular order, a wish they had indulged. However, when they realised that the gifts were all the same, they questioned at first the eccentricity of such precise instructions but when they could not come up with a viable answer, they then dropped the subject all together. They had received a couple of photographs in the week following New Year accompanied by a short letter stating he was staying a few more weeks, and that had been all. She had not seen him in over nine months. What pained her the most was knowing that her closest sibling would now never see her dreams come to life when she had considered him instrumental in helping her put her vision into action. MAGIK had opened its doors just three months before and she had looked forward showing him the results. Now, she could no longer thank him for believing in her.

  When Stephanie’s godfather had died a couple years before, POP AM had stood as the benchmark gallery for Contemporary Art. A world-class art collector, renowned for his keen eye, Koi van Kamp had specialised, in the late fifties, in the collecting and ad-hoc sponsoring of many of the so-called American Pop Artists and their European counterparts, the Nouveaux Realistes. Trips to the Pacific Rim soon saw him collecting indigenous art from the Torres Straights, and aboriginal art from both Western Australia and the Northern territories. The only son of a Chinese immigrant, who had been adopted late in life by his mother’s lover, Johan Van Kamp, Koi had made an absolute fortune when he had opened POP AM in the early ’70s. Orphaned early, without brothers or sisters, gay by inclination, he was the epitome of the eccentric self-made man. When he had died tragically on the Autobahn coming back from Berlin in his brand new Porsche, doing well over 210 km per hour, he had gifted Stephanie, his only godchild and only living relative, his three-storey Amsterdam terrace, a 400-square-meter gallery just on the edge of town, along with one major artwork from each one of the artists he had collected since he was twenty years old. The balance of the collection he had donated to various museums. The only caveat in his will is that she moved to the city that had been so good to him and put the money towards realising her dreams. Stephanie, who had just turned 28 at the time, had been awed by Koi’s generosity and had seized the opportunity with both hands. Barely three months after the reading of the will had she moved to Amsterdam to start plans on MAGIK.