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  ‘I dug out your old migraine pills,’ Jamie said, and groped for Sara’s hand. He dropped a small dot into her palm. ‘And, here … I’ve made you a cup of tea.’

  Sara forced herself to simulate gratitude. ‘That’s so sweet,’ she said.

  ‘I hope you weren’t already sleeping.’

  ‘Just drifting.’ She wriggled her shoulders up the headboard, accepted the mug and swallowed the medication she didn’t need. ‘Are you coming to bed?’

  ‘Not if it will disturb you,’ he said. ‘I can sleep on the sofa.’

  Sara smiled appreciatively, and handed him back the tea. ‘I shouldn’t have caffeine right now.’

  ‘Of course. Maybe some chamomile?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  Gently, Jamie kissed her goodnight, and tiptoed out of the room. Sara smiled in spite of herself. He really was considerate; sometimes frustratingly so.

  She squirmed onto her back, wriggled her head into the pillow and tried to find that blank space that led back to South Africa, and Gerrit Vos.

  ‘Your families are starving, is that right?’

  Vos stares unblinkingly at the slight figure of Phetoho Kgatla, a twenty-nine-year-old union representative from Mine Number Two. Kgatla has none of Bakone’s imposing physical presence, but compensates with the scholarly air of a doctoral student. Vos knows this man has the brains to match his demeanour. The two of them sit in a conference room at a spa hotel outside Rustenburg. Management has laid on coffee and a platter of sandwiches, which Vos has thrust aside. He’s annoyed that there’s no wine.

  ‘Things could be worse,’ Kgatla says softly, meeting Vos’s gaze with quiet assurance. ‘Twenty-five per cent of workers in this country are unemployed. When you think about that … well, I suppose we miners can tough it out until we get what we want.’

  Vos snorts. ‘Save the bullshit for your stump speeches. You know it’s not going to end that way.’

  Kgatla tilts his head. ‘And how is it going to end, Mr Vos?’

  ‘The unions will buckle. Sure, they’ll get more than the ten per cent the Industry’s offering, but not much more. Then, pretty soon, a lot of them are going to be sacked.’

  Kgatla moves to hide his surprise, but he’s a fraction too late. ‘For what reason?’ he asks.

  ‘Because platinum mining’s a loser’s bet right now,’ Vos says matter-of-factly. ‘You lot have been at it for decades, and now all the easy ore’s gone. Hell, we might as well be shovelling rand notes into our smelters; our bottom line would look about the same.’ Vos leans back in his chair and stretches. ‘The only way any company’s going to survive is by shifting production to highly mechanised, shallow mines. And that means slashing the number of workers.’

  There’s a tapping on the glass door of the conference room. Vos looks up to see Rootenberg peering in. He rises and opens the door, but not all the way. ‘What?’ he demands.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Rootenberg whispers. ‘I had to park the Jeep in the other lot.’

  Vos shifts to block Rootenberg from Kgatla’s view. ‘Is your friend here?’ he murmurs.

  ‘Not yet,’ replies Rootenberg. ‘I asked him to meet us in the lounge.’

  Vos glances at Kgatla, who studies his fingernails and pretends not to listen. ‘Go there and wait for him,’ Vos says. ‘I’ve got this.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Just buy the guy a drink when he arrives. Tell him I’ll come soon as I can.’

  Before Rootenberg has time to acknowledge, Vos has clicked shut the door and turned back to Kgatla; both men listen to Rootenberg trudge down the carpeted hallway. When his soft scuffing has faded, Kgatla cocks his head. ‘Your security detail told me you wanted to see me specifically,’ he says.

  Vos sits. ‘That’s rather obvious. You’re here.’

  ‘They were insistent that I sneak out of camp in a car with blackened windows.’ Kgatla snorts softly. ‘That seemed a bit odd to me.’

  Vos raises an eyebrow. ‘And yet you came.’

  ‘Now you tell me we must settle for low pay and job cuts.’ Kgatla raps his knuckles on the table. ‘You choose to say this to me. Not to Bakone, not to his deputies, but to me.’

  ‘That I did,’ Vos answers levelly. ‘Because Bakone’s a hothead. Some might even say he’s a demagogue. He’ll be no good for your people; not in the long run.’

  Kgatla clicks his tongue and shakes his head. ‘What do you expect me to do, change his mind? I have no influence over that man.’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ Vos agrees. ‘The two of you hate each other, am I right?’

  Kgatla’s eyes narrow. ‘Is that why I’m here?’

  ‘That, and because you have followers of your own. Truth be told, most miners only kow-tow to Bakone because he scares them shitless. On the other hand, you’re respected, Phetoho. Under different circumstances you’d make a fine leader.’

  Kgatla blinks, then absently picks up his empty coffee mug. Vos lifts it from his hand and refills it. ‘The two unions running this miners’ strike are just like Bakone,’ Vos says. ‘Truculent. Unwilling to see what’s coming.’

  He leans forward, speaks quietly. ‘But what if the workers at Thorndike Platinum broke away? Started their own union? A forward-facing union that understands the needs of the Industry, and is willing to help shape the future rather than resisting it?’

  Kgatla sets down his mug. ‘A union that won’t contest redundancies, you mean?’

  Vos frowns in grudging agreement. ‘Maybe. But also, one that can negotiate a generous severance package for all workers who leave voluntarily. And a union that could end this strike within days – after agreeing a pay rise of, let’s say, twenty-five per cent.’

  He lets this sink in, then repeats the figure. ‘Twenty-five per cent across the board – while every other miner is still on the picket lines, and feeding his family grass.’ Vos shakes his head sadly, as though in sympathy for such short-sightedness. ‘Mark my words, Phetoho, when the other strikers finally do settle, the poor bastards won’t end up with more than twelve per cent. Is that what they’re staying on strike for?’

  In truth, Vos has no mandate to negotiate pay rises; he had plucked the twenty-five per cent figure from the air. Still, he’s certain his boss will be able to sell the settlement to Rhodri Jones. In fact, Vos knows that if he has success out here, no one will question any of his methods.

  ‘I can guarantee,’ he continues, ‘that when redundancies come about, the workers affected will be well taken care of. Think about it! Any union leader who could make all this happen would be a goddamn hero.’ He smiles enticingly. ‘And, naturally, that leader would be very well compensated by Thorndike Platinum.’

  For a moment, Kgatla’s gaze softens as he takes in the mental picture Vos has drawn. But, just as suddenly, his brow furrows and his stare hardens. ‘This is a fantasy!’ he huffs. ‘Bakone would never allow it. I have friends, yes, but would those friends fight for me? Because, I assure you, Bakone’s boys will fight for him – with sticks, and clubs, and knives, and their bare hands.’

  ‘Who specifically would fight?’ Vos asks, and rises to his feet.

  He removes an iPad from his leather satchel, and rests it on the table in front of Kgatla. It shows a surveillance photo of Bakone on the picket line. Vos swipes, and the image is replaced by one of Bakone’s lieutenants. ‘How about this guy? Would he fight?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Kgatla sighs.

  Another swipe, another lieutenant. ‘How about him?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  And another. ‘Him?’

  After several more photos, Kgatla nods softly. ‘That’s all of them,’ he concludes.

  Vos snaps shut the iPad’s cover. ‘Just hypothetically,’ he says, ‘what if these men were no longer a threat to you? Could I count on you then?’

  Kgatla smiles sardonically. ‘These men,’ he says, ‘will be a threat to me until the day they die.’

  Vos folds his arms and sits
back. Now it’s his turn to smile.

  SIX

  Several years ago, Gerrit Vos had entered into a conspiracy with a young union leader, Phetoho Kgatla, to murder that man’s older rival, as well as several of his lieutenants. The murders were arranged by Vos’s flunky, Levi Rootenberg – a Thorndike employee from the South African mines. The crimes themselves were carried out by local men, whom the flunky had hired. After the disappearance of those more-powerful rivals, the union leader accepted a hefty bribe from Thorndike Aerospace. In recompense, he broke a strike, and eased Thorndike’s path to sacking a large number of their South African miners. Gerrit Vos had returned to Britain a corporate hero. It was the making of his career.

  That was what Sara Jones knew when she struggled into consciousness the next morning.

  In last night’s visions, Sara had not witnessed the murders themselves – but she had felt their spectre haunting everything she’d seen. The foreshadowing of death had come as a sensation, a wash of sickly feelings. They had trickled through every vignette – from the Magaliesberg mountains and the old Bekker mines, all the way to the shiny anonymity of that hotel conference room. Sara finally understood the deep reservoir of sadness she had felt in Vos – it was guilt. Guilt for a terrible crime he had arranged, but could no longer reconcile with his own self-image. The funereal air of the scenes she had witnessed haunted Vos’s psyche still. Sara understood the feeling – after what she had seen, she felt them too, like a physical presence in her own stomach.

  As Sara came around and her thoughts cohered, they merged into a single, unanswered question.

  What about Rhodri?

  With her skin pressed against the bed sheet and still sticky with last night’s sweat, Sara thought about her brother. Had Rhodri been aware of the way in which his gaunt minion had solved that particular labour dispute? Despite the multiple horrors of Sara’s past with Rhodri, she could not bring herself to believe it. Rhoddo had been guilty of so many things, but Sara got no sense – psychic or otherwise – that he’d known about Vos’s deadly conspiracy.

  Maybe he hadn’t wanted to know. Rhodri had always maintained a diplomat’s sense of when not to question.

  Sara’s thoughts were disturbed by Jamie, who slipped in quietly from the shower, a damp towel draped over his shoulders and his hair still wet. He scooted around the bed and eased open his top drawer. Sara watched him select a pair of socks and boxers with exaggerated quietness.

  When his gaze finally connected with hers, Jamie grinned wide. ‘Good morning,’ he said heartily. ‘Feeling better?’

  Well, look at him, Sara thought. He’s just over the moon about today’s Big Meeting.

  She smiled as sweetly as she could. ‘One hundred per cent,’ she replied, fighting the nausea that continued to twitch in her stomach. ‘Thanks for the pill last night. It worked wonders.’

  ‘You should order more.’ Jamie tossed the socks onto the bed, slipped into his boxer shorts, and moved to the wardrobe.

  The queasiness lurched upwards, and Sara placed a steadying hand against her bedside dresser. She fought down a pulse of bile, then realised it was a losing battle. Accepting the inevitable, Sara rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet bowl in time.

  Jamie was right behind her. He knelt at her side as she vomited. Placing a hand on the small of her back, he asked, ‘Are you sure that migraine’s gone?’

  Sara retched again. Stomach acid stung her throat. Bending upright, she yanked a few sheets of toilet tissue from the roll. ‘I’m all right,’ she exhaled as she blotted her lips.

  ‘Is it the headache?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  Jamie hesitated. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  She spat. ‘God forbid.’

  Jamie snorted with relief. ‘That’s good,’ he said, adding hastily, ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be a tragedy, but still –’

  He abandoned the uncooperative sentence. ‘You should go back to bed,’ he said.

  Sara shifted sideways and leaned against the bathroom wall. She appreciated the cool of the ceramic tiles. She tossed the balled-up paper into the bowl. Jamie lowered the seat and flushed.

  ‘Jamie,’ Sara said faintly, ‘do you remember I said I didn’t like Gerrit Vos?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ He waited for more.

  ‘I still don’t,’ she continued. ‘I’m sorry, but I do not trust that man.’

  Jamie sat down and bowed his head. ‘I can understand that,’ he said indulgently. ‘But we have to be honest – you don’t know him. Neither do I. That’s what today’s meeting is all about. To see if there is any common ground between us.’

  Sara shook her head. ‘He isn’t trustworthy.’

  ‘You have no way of knowing that.’

  She huffed sardonically. ‘What you don’t know about psychology would fill a library.’

  Jamie tried to wash away her concern with a chuckle. ‘Do you really think you understand Gerrit Vos after one dinner with the guy?’

  Sara grimaced and pressed her arm against the wall. She tried to stand, but wobbled. Jamie rose, clasped her hand, and pulled. When she was standing steadily, he lifted her dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door. Sara slipped it on.

  ‘One dinner’s more than enough,’ she told him. ‘We make predictive inferences about people after seconds. Research has shown this – we’re able to see patterns based on narrow slices of experience.’

  Jamie tried to take Sara’s arm. She waved him away and pushed past, into the hallway.

  ‘What I’m saying is,’ she continued, ‘I think I can trust my feelings.’

  Jamie followed. ‘You’re tired, and suffering because of the migraine,’ he said soothingly. ‘In my opinion, you can’t trust your feelings.’

  Sara snorted and went into the bedroom. She sat on the mattress. Immediately, Jamie perched next to her.

  Sara wanted to scream, I don’t have to trust my feelings – I have seen what Gerrit Vos did!

  Instead, she grasped Jamie’s arm. ‘Jamie, please let me speak to Andy,’ she begged. ‘I’ll ask him to assign you to other clients. You don’t need Thorndike Aerospace!’

  ‘You’ll feel better after I’ve made you some toast,’ he said.

  He patted her leg and rose again. Sara watched him shrug on a T-shirt and leave the room. She blinked, and patterns of light spangled before her eyes.

  I need to know more, she thought. I can’t just leave things like this.

  Once Jamie had left for his ill-judged meeting with Vos, Sara would have some solitude. She knew that she had already decided how to use it – and this realisation made her stomach lurch once more. Sinking back into a trance meant trusting the ebb and flow of its deepest currents. She might set course for a specific sight, but those psychic tides could also sweep her towards a new and turbulent eddy.

  Given a choice of destination, Sara would like to witness Vos’s return from South Africa – and to see it from her brother’s point of view. Those were the coordinates she would aim for. Then she had a chance of understanding how much Rhoddo had actually known about his man-in-Africa’s blood-soaked exploits.

  Of course, she knew, she could just as easily find herself witnessing the murders themselves.

  That’s something I don’t need to see.

  Sara sighed and quietly cursed Eldon Carson for that ominous choice he’d made. The choice to be her friend, to become her mentor. The choice to change her life for the worse.

  Sara blinked again. Further flashes lit up her eyes. Her head felt as though it had just recoiled from a rifle blast. She needed to lie down. She shifted awkwardly, and her foot brushed against something that had tumbled from the folds of the duvet.

  Sara did not notice when, rolling back, she nudged the pendant, which skittered a short distance across the floorboards. Nor did she hear its soft click as it came to a halt, half-hidden, against the leg of her chest of drawers.

  The Thorndike Aerospace campus sat on t
he western edge of Surrey, offering easy access both to London and to those Hampshire towns so important to the British defence industry. Gerrit Vos’s office was on the top floor of Thorndike’s executive building, known as Hollybush House. Vos’s favourite feature of his office was the view from its window: a striking panorama that looked towards the Hog’s Back of the North Downs. Vos had always appreciated views. He’d read once that the physical act of gazing into the distance expanded a person’s inner perception. At this moment, though, Vos was looking down, not out – staring at his computer screen. It displayed a live stream from the security cameras at the guard’s hut. Vos waited to see an old SUV make the straight drive up the private road from the A331.

  What Vos didn’t like were visitors cluttering up his office. He preferred to meet people somewhere less personal. A couple of days ago, he had received Levi Rootenberg at the Thorndike flat in Mayfair, rather than invite him down here. Now, he wished he had asked the same of Jamie Harding – but it was too late to alter arrangements. At least Vos could see the younger man in one of the anonymous meeting rooms that sat side-by-side on a lower level of Hollybush House. He picked up the phone and punched in an extension. ‘Rashid? It’s Gerrit Vos. Mr Harding should be here shortly. Send him to the fourth floor, would you?’

  Vos gazed over his large oak desk. For a man who liked to keep his workspace uncluttered, this surface contained an unusual array of knick-knacks. Still, Vos had ensured that each was arrayed in a precise order. Along the far edge of the desk were pieces of surveillance equipment that Nicole sold on her website: a camera watch, a night vision monocular, a remote listening device. In front of them stood a number of painted metal figurines that Andy Turner had given him, including a 1970s Royal Marine, an infantry officer from the First World War, a French Foreign Legionnaire and an eighteenth-century Welsh Fusilier. The Fusilier was the outlier – colourful, where the others were drab. Andy liked his metal soldiers, and seemed to favour the no-nonsense fighting men to more decorative additions. Vos might have quite liked a Scots Guard piper, or maybe a Beefeater, but these didn’t fit into Andy’s battlefront fantasies.