Read Online The Rybinsk Deception by Colin D. Peel - Free Book Online

in spite of the tide being in their favour, in places the estuary was so shallow that, even with Hari’s local knowledge, it took them another twenty minutes to reach the flotilla of boats that were anchored along the river-bank and tied up at the village jetty.
    For most of their journey down the estuary, Heather had been content to listen to Hari’s travelogue, occasionally wanting to know the names of birds and animals they saw, but in the main keeping her thoughts to herself.
    But no sooner had she disembarked and accompanied Coburn to the hut that had been reserved for them than she’d started asking him question after question.
    ‘Hey.’ He put up his hand. ‘Slow down. If you hang on a second I’ll give you a guided tour.’
    ‘Is it all right for me to leave my bag here?’
    ‘This isn’t Fauzdarhat. You could leave hundred-dollar bills lying around, and they’d still be here when you got back. Where do you want to go first?’
    ‘I don’t mind.’ She glanced around the hut. ‘I didn’t expect anything like this. Why didn’t you tell me?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Bug screens, sliding windows, mosquito nets, curtains, polished wooden floors, nice furniture. Are all the huts the same?’
    ‘Most of them are a bit bigger than this one. Half the guys Hari has working for him have brought their families here. Come on, there’s a place you need to see where you’ll feel right at home.’
    Outside the hut they were met by a group of neatly dressed children who had seen Heather arrive. There were ten or eleven of them; mostly girls who were as fascinated by the colour of her hair as she was by their clear bright eyes, their sparkling teeth and by the earphones and iPods several of them had dangling round their necks.
    She stooped to allow a little girl to reach out and shyly touch her ponytail. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she said. ‘Freshly scrubbed children in clean clothes – and with iPods?’
    ‘Shows what a good social welfare programme can do. There’s nothing third world about this place. No one goes hungry, and anybody who needs medical attention gets taken straight to Singapore. Hari doesn’t mess around.’
    Followed by the gaggle of children, Coburn set off along one of the pathways that led to the twenty foot-high pile of timber standing on the village’s southern boundary.
    The village itself occupied nearly fifteen acres of cleared and reclaimed swamp. Triangular in shape, and flanked on two sides by marshland and on the other by the green water of the estuary, the clearing was drained by a network of deep ditches and, at some time in the past, the ground had been stabilized and reinforced by layers of hitech geotextiles. The result was a flat, vegetation-free plateau of dry peat on which the huts and pathways had been built.
    But the heart of the village and its acknowledged social centre was nowhere near the centre of the clearing. Instead it lay close to the marsh behind a crude façade of piled up timber and lichen-covered concrete slabs.
    Coburn was about to spring his surprise on her when they disturbed a yellow-throated marten that had been sunning itself on one of the logs. It scrambled up the heap, drawing Heather’s attention to the satellite disk and the forest of radio aerials he’d been hoping she wouldn’t see.
    ‘Go round to the side,’ he said. ‘That’s where the entrance is.’
    Since his last visit, both of the shipping containers had been repainted and a small wooden veranda had been added to one of them.
    He went and opened the door for her. ‘These are a bit more upmarket than yours at the beach,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
    The first of the containers was completely lined, air-conditioned and provided with electric lighting. At the far end, in addition to a pool table, a coffee machine and a well-stocked bar, rows of wooden benches surrounded a flat screen plasma television to form the equivalent of a home theatre, while shelving along the walls was