The Cayman Conspiracy. David Ph.D. Shibli
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He refused to look in a mirror unless he had time to choose his most flattering angle, a task that was becoming ever harder. Even though his paunch could no longer be disguised by his expensive clothes, and his balding head could not be covered by the ridiculously long strands that grew out from above his right ear, he was still vain, and try as hard as he could, Father Time could not beat this stubbornness out of him.
On the other hand, Durant had developed an air of elegant maturity with his years. His thin face was creased with fine lines that enhanced a rigid bone-structure. His once jet-black shock of hair had now turned almost all silver and this emphasized the devilish glint in his shifty, blue eyes. He was a charming man to meet for the first time. Armed with his designer knowledge of classical music, fine wines and Renaissance art, he would operate as smoothly as oiled butter and consequently a trail of gullible women wallowed in his wide wake.
It was a wonderfully clear day. Even at this altitude, it was possible to make out the Cuban geography which they were now cruising over. Durant and Telesino guarded their views jealously as if they were original masterpieces recently purchased in a charged auction. They were especially surprised at the vast expanses of sand along which their straining eyes could make out none of the tell-tale signs of ‘civilization’, such as sprawling hotels and straight roads leading to them. Perhaps the Cubans were too busy with useful pursuits to be involved in non-productive, western decadence? Or perhaps they were just plain poor?
As the aircraft continued on its course, the light-blue, shallow water around the Cuban coastline deepened into a darker, colder blue that signified a final stretch of open water before they would reach their destination.
As the three men indulged themselves in their favorite drinks, Kate left her seat for the privacy of the bathroom. Safely locked inside, she took out her compact and pried the mirror out. In the little compartment that was revealed, a small plastic bag of white powder rested snugly. She put the mirror down at the side of the sink and gently emptied the contents of the bag onto the smooth, silvered surface, hoping that no unexpected air turbulence would disrupt the enjoyment of this small pleasure.
Seeing the powder before her lit up her eyes and hastened her preparations, as she removed a razor blade from her sunglasses case and slid it out from its cover. Then she expertly teased the mound of white dust into a straight line along the mirror, being careful to clean the blade before she replaced it. Then she lifted the make-up applicator from the compact and twisted off the head which exposed a hollow path through the stem. She referred to this toy as the ‘successful woman’s fun-kit’, and smiled as she envisaged her patent application being turned down.
She put the tube into her nose and bent down over the drug. She was careful not to look in the bathroom mirror on the way down, sparing herself any self-pity that would have been inspired by her reflection. Quickly, she did her line, the initial dirtiness washed away by waves of euphoria. As she straightened up, she could now face her reflection, if only to remove any evidence that may have become visible.
She flushed her kit with water before packing it away. She was feeling pretty good as she pressed her face up to the glass to look for unlikely imperfections in her make-up. For good measure, she applied some blood-red lipstick to take the play away from her eyes.
Soon they would be landing, so she went back to her seat to enjoy the rest of her high. The guilty look on her face would have given her away to anyone knowing what to look for, but it was a chance she was prepared to take. She took up her seat and, with a scathing look of sexual superiority, averted Telesino’s attention.
The plane started its descent and two illuminated cabin signs caused the fastening of seatbelts and the rapid puffing of burning cigarettes. The amnesty period was judged to be over with the patrolling of two watchful stewardesses.
The jet maneuvered into the headwind that would assist landing and a whirring noise indicated that the undercarriage had been lowered. The silver bird seemed to hang in the air like a seagull on thermals. Some of the first-time visitors to Grand Cayman suppressed rising landing fears by comparing the map of the island in the in-flight magazine to the view from their windows. From a distance, the island looked like a brown footprint in blue paint.
A pinpoint touchdown was followed by the roaring retro-action of the twin tail-turbines. The fuselage screamed bloody torture as the beast began to slow down. Passengers released their pent-up tensions with grins of victory. They had cheated death again. The craft taxied to the front of the new Owen Roberts International Airport. The structure looked clean and efficient, and the immigrants were soon standing in their respective lines. Due to the fact that knowledge of their plans was not yet public, the arriving American committee went through all the normal channels for visitors, keeping a low-key approach.
As soon as they cleared customs, they would be met by a certain Arthur Downing who held office over the tourism industry of the islands.
During the time that elapsed in which Kate had assembled her matching luggage, her associates had already regrouped on the other side of the Customs area. Her coolness had returned and she gave no hints to the officials that would warrant a detailed search of her belongings. Her air of aloofness implying true inconvenience helped her swiftly over this hurdle of bureaucracy. She was good and she knew it.
The foursome huddled for last words of encouragement from the two leaders with Medini’s threatening in contrast to the suave eloquence of Durant. They all pledged resolve to the cause with false smiles through which they breathed the warm, Caymanian air.
“Mr. Medini?” inquired a soft voice.
“Yes, that’s right,” answered Medini spinning into the direction of the voice, “Are you Mr. Downing?”
An affirmative to that resulted in a rash of introductions followed by a hospitable hug from Kate, leaving Durant cringing behind his smile. Arthur arranged for their baggage to be sent on to their hotel and he offered to take them in his BMW.
Kate sat in the front, where she purred at anything that was remotely interesting, especially the alien sensation of driving on the left. Medini interrupted when he judged her to be adequately accepted. She got the message and fell silent.
Arthur drove through the outskirts of Georgetown and showed them some of the new office buildings that would probably cater to the ever-increasing hordes of bankers, insurers and their busy lawyers. The car turned right onto the famous Seven Mile Beach road. With hotels on the seaside and shops and restaurants on the other, they soon realized why this section of the island was referred to as The Gold Coast.
“Can you give me a ball-park figure on the price of this land, Mr. Downing?” asked Durant.
“Call me Arthur, please,” insisted Arthur as he chanced a smile at Kate. She returned it.
“The beach is priced according to water frontage and the quality of the beach. Fine, sandy beach will go for about twelve thousand dollars a foot. All the lots are hotel sized. We re-zoned it about fifteen years ago,” explained Arthur.
“That’s not too bad,” observed Medini. “But why are the hotels so small?”
“Safety. Geologists warned us that the underlying structure of the island would not be able to support skyscrapers so we decided to limit the number of storeys to five,” Arthur stated, relishing his role as tour guide with such attractive company in the adjoining seat.
“Looking at it that way, it is fairly pricey,” said Durant, “Because the higher you build, the more dynamic the return.”
“Providing you can fill the place,” added Arthur, “this is a small country.”
As they passed a vacant ten-acre plot nestled between two hotels, Durant nudged Medini’s attention toward the For Sale sign. They smiled.
The potential status of these guests meant that they were to be accommodated in the diplomatic suite of the Grand Pavilion Hotel, whose regal suite had been graced by Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II during her official state visit of 1983.
Their baggage had already arrived and been distributed accurately throughout their four rooms. Arthur saw them to their suites