One Way or Another by Elizabeth Adler
PROLOGUE
ANGIE
Fethiye, Turkey
The sea is aquamarine. Azure, now, as I sink deeper into it, the color and texture of bridesmaid’s velvet. Translucent, though. Even with my water-pressed eyes I can see the two of them up on deck, champagne bottle held aggressively in the woman’s hand, which a moment ago she’d swung at me, striking my temple where my hair grows in a soft coppery-red wave. Now bloody.
I’m surprised no one noticed my fall. I’m also surprised how little sound a body makes hitting the ocean. I slid in silently, with scarcely a bubble to mark my entrance. I did not even leave a wake behind the boat as it sped on.
A watery grave was never my intention; somehow, I always felt I should pass gently in the night, safe in my own soft bed, to some other warm and welcoming place not too different from the one I already inhabited, where everything went on much as before, only more smoothly.
It seems I was wrong. I was going down again, for the last time, I knew it now. Swept along by a swift current, my lungs filled with water, the salt taste filled my mouth, stung my still-open eyes that I seemed unable to shut.
I didn’t see anyone, though I did hear the faint shrug of the boat.
Heard an unknown male voice say, “She is dead.” Then, “No, she may live.”
I hoped he was right.
*
The woman who had wielded the deadly champagne bottle, and who stood in the stern of a fast-departing black yacht watching as Angie disappeared into the sea, was known only as Mehitabel. No need for a last name in her way of life where most people knew each other only by their first; some invented, as was her own, some real, as was Ahmet Ghulbian’s, the billionaire owner of the fast yacht who saw no reason to falsify a name so world renowned, like Onassis, for its success story and his wealth.
Mehitabel was not Ahmet’s mistress, not even a sometime lover; she was his long-term cohort, keeper of his secrets, of which there were many, and carry-outer of his commands, whatever they might be.
Mehitabel never refused to do anything Ahmet asked of her. Their deal was unspoken, noncontractual, but perfectly understood by both for the simple reason that they were essentially alike: both were immoral to the nth degree; both driven by needs unknown to most people; and both incapable of deep emotion.
Mehitabel cared for no one other than herself; she would never have given her life for Ahmet, but she would take other people’s lives for him. That was what he liked about her and he compensated her well for her services. Personally, Ahmet was not a man who liked to get his hands “dirty.” There were people like Mehitabel for that.
Watching the red-haired girl struggle in the wake of the fast-moving boat, Mehitabel did not so much as crack a smile. A shrug was the most she could summon in response, as she walked away, barefoot, since Ahmet allowed no shoes on his immaculate teak deck, her black dress blending into the blackness of the boat, of her surroundings.
All she was thinking was, So, another one bites the dust, or this time, “swallows up the sea.” She almost allowed herself to enjoy the thought.
1
Fethiye, Turkey
Marco Polo Mahoney sprawled happily in a listing sun-lounger whose webbing straps would certainly not last much longer. Still, it was a comfortable spot to rest and sip every now and again from a bottle of arak, a bit acrid but it gave him a peaceful buzz. Pleasant for the time of the evening. Sixish? It had to be sixish, didn’t it? A man certainly could not be found drinking earlier; people might think badly of him.
He reached out to stroke his dog’s ears. What the hell, he was on holiday and he liked a drink or two. Maybe more. Sometimes. But drinking alone was not supposed to be good for you; he should stir himself, go out and find some company in the village. He got to his feet and stood surveying his own small part of the southern Turkish coast: a strip of white beach, a turquoise sea turning azure where it met the deeper blue of the sky now darkening with storm clouds, all set against a green, foresty background.
Marco was a well-known portrait artist. He was thirty-five, attractively craggy, currently bearded because he never shaved on holiday; brown hair brushed straight back and salty-stiff from swimming in the sea; dark blue eyes narrowed against the sun, eyes which seemed to see everything. At least that’s what his sitters said, and it was true. He saw all their flaws, something they also said made them uncomfortable. But of course he was worth it.
Marco was in good shape though he never worked out. He’d played basketball in his youth; tennis too, but more often he was the one on the sidelines, charcoal in hand, sketching the action. The girls had been flattered, the boys called him a wuss. He’d laughed, but that passion was what made him who he was today, sought out by the rich, the famous; a man who knew how to play the social game but, when on his own, wore old shorts and went barefoot, like now. He was also a man who enjoyed solitude.
He was taking a short vacation, alone but for his dog, renting a cabin and sailing a small wooden boat known as a gulet out of the Turkish port of Fethiye. He was sun-brown and naked but for his bathing shorts—surfers’ shorts, baggy-legged, hanging low on his lean hips—a scuffed pair of ancient flip-flops dangling from his toes.
He lifted his face to catch the last of the sun, welcoming its warm caress. He knew he should have remembered about the sunblock; had his girlfriend been with him it would not have been forgotten. The daughter of an English lord, the Honorable Martha Patron was consistent, persistent, and insistent. You knew exactly what you were getting with Martha; slightly severe beauty of the straight nose, high cheekbones, tightly pulled-back blond hair variety. It would have been worn in a ponytail on vacation, but in what Martha would surely have termed “real life” she would have worn it in a neat bun sitting low on her long neck. In bed though, it hung loose and soft over her shoulders.