The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,72
and land temperatures rising, there’s another threat. The sex of turtle hatchlings is determined by incubation temperature. Above twenty-nine Celsius, you get females. Below, males. Over a normal cycle of years it evens out. But now the population has started to skew heavily towards females.’ Hope glanced up at Clay. ‘It takes one of each, you know.’
‘So it seems.’
Hope continued. ‘We’re down to the last few hundred nesting females. That’s from hundreds of thousands a century ago. In the last two years, the population has gone into free-fall. And I don’t know why. It’s way off trend. There’s some new factor at work, but we can’t figure out what it is. If something isn’t done soon, it’s the end for the green turtle in the Med.’ Her eyes glinted in starlight reflected from the sea, her face shrouded in darkness now. ‘And the really sad thing is, no one seems to give a damn.’
‘Not no one, Hope.’
Hope frowned. ‘No. You’re right. Not no one. Did you see the paper yesterday?’
‘I haven’t had much time for reading.’
‘The UN and the EU have announced that they are setting up a commission to investigate coastal development in Cyprus. The official enquiry starts next week. Cyprus is desperate for EU membership, and compliance with European environmental directives is a big deal. Given the country’s dependence on European tourists, being seen as negligent in protecting such an iconic species and its habitat would be a huge blow. Overall, it’s a major step in the right direction. And we have Rania to thank.’
‘A big reason to want her silence,’ said Clay.
‘Or her cooperation,’ said Hope. ‘Erkan and Chrisostomedes will be among the first to be interviewed by the commission. I’ve made sure of that.’
‘You’ll be involved?’
‘I’m chairing the enquiry.’ Hope drew her knees up to her body, crossed her arms over her shins. ‘What Rania has done is fantastic, Clay. Truly. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for her.’ Hope fell silent.
Clay held the wheel, felt the water flowing over Flame’s rudder, the lights of Ayia Napa now small in the distance.
After a while he said: ‘She told me, Hope. About you.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘How do you feel about it?’
Clay eased off the jib, let Flame fall off a couple of degrees, tightened down the wheel. ‘Wrong question,’ he said.
They sailed on through the night, making good progress in favourable but light winds. Hope slept below deck, curled under a blanket. Clay watched the stars turning in a moonless sky, felt the cold currents streaming deep and sure. After a while he opened the port cockpit locker, found the key he’d hung on a hook under the bench, went below and sat at the nav table. Clay opened his daypack, took out Rania’s Koran and unrolled the chart, using Allah’s words delivered to the prophet Mohamed to anchor one corner. Then he plotted a dead reckoning position using a sighting on the border post at the deserted no-man’s-land town of Famagusta. Hope stirred, mumbled something in her sleep, settled. Clay took the key, reached down below the nav table, found the hidden latch for the priest hole and opened it up. The duffel bag was still there. Inside, the G21, the MP5 and the driver’s H&K were all as he’d left them in Santander, clean and oiled. He figured about 180 rounds of ammunition all up, .45 and 9mm. He placed the Koran in the bag with the weapons and shoved the bag back into the priest hole, locked it up tight.
Just after dawn, the wind died and Flame lay becalmed on a flat, cold, November sea. Clay doused the canvas and fired up the diesel. The engine chugged to life. He opened the throttle and set course for the panhandle as the sun rose over Syria.
Not long after, Hope stirred under her blanket and sat up. Clay watched her from the wheel, looking down into the sunlit cabin as she worked her fingers through her hair, separated three long strands and started braiding. She did it absentmindedly, her eyes moving as she looked about the cabin, examining the brass instruments on the bulkhead, searching the spines of the books lining the opposite shelf. She tied the end of the braid with an elastic band and glanced up. Their eyes locked. She smiled. Clay held her gaze a moment, then looked away.
A while later, Hope climbed into the cockpit carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. She sat beside him, handed him a mug. Clay drank.