Veil by Eliot Peper

Author:Eliot Peper [Peper, Eliot]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-05-19T16:00:00+00:00

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22

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Zia could see movement through the pepper tree, hear footsteps coming up the alley toward her hiding spot, feel the arm lock around her neck.

“The New Malé hit though…” Dembe shook her head. “I was talking to your friend’s security team and—well, it wasn’t squeaky clean.”

“What does that mean?” asked Zia, trying to suppress nausea as she imagined Galang crumpled on the floor of a cum-stained brothel love nest, eyes empty, limbs at odd angles.

“Well, for one thing, if you decide to off someone, why make it obvious?” Dembe shrugged. “Like, if you just want them dead, you invite a lot less suspicion if you make it look like a suicide or an accident. Or you make them disappear altogether.”

Zia shivered. “So if you make murder look like murder, you do it to send a message.”

“Exactly,” said Dembe.

“But what message?” asked Zia. “And to whom?”

“That’s above my pay grade,” said Dembe.

They parted ways at the edge of the tarmac, Dembe to report to security headquarters and Zia to climb the hill to Santiago’s redoubt.

“Hey, thanks,” said Zia.

“No problem,” said Dembe. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

Zia started up the pedestrian path, crossing a threshold from the industrial sprawl of the airfield into the embrace of encroaching jungle. Insects buzzed. Light dappled the flagstones. Sweat dripped down Zia’s spine as she ascended the winding steps.

Maybe one of the corrupt Maldivian officials was trying to intimidate anyone who might blow the whistle on the ring. Maybe the people behind Zia’s kidnapping were escalating to assassination to prove their seriousness. Maybe a powerbroker from the long list Galang had disgraced was exacting revenge.

Her friend was dead. They would never talk again, never trade gossip, never tease each other about their love lives, never question what they had been put here to do. A familiar void opened inside Zia. Death didn’t destroy the past, it stole the future. It snatched away all the could-have-beens, all the we-should-definitelys, all the next-times. It made you realize all the things you wanted to say to someone, wanted to thank them for, and then gagged you.

It was too late.

It was already too late.

It was always too late.

Zia climbed faster, relished the acid burn in her muscles, the ache of her swollen throat. When her mother had passed, Galang had been there for Zia. He had helped her obsessively excavate her mother’s files like a deranged archeologist who studied fossils in a secret attempt to resurrect them. He never pressed Zia to talk about her grief, never asked why she wasn’t talking to her father, never encouraged her to see a therapist. Instead, he was just there for her. Side by side, they’d compiled Miranda’s interviews and field observations, reconstructed her shorthand, and posthumously published the annotated rough draft of her manuscript. By immersing herself in Miranda’s world and helping to share her story, Zia had felt closer to her mother than she ever had in life. When the book finally hit shelves, earned critical acclaim, and leapt to the top of bestseller lists, it felt like losing her all over again.

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