Chaos Theory Read Free

fried bread and black pudding, too.’
    ‘You have to be joking. All I want is a large Bloody Mary – Stolichnaya, with extra Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce.’
     
    They took a taxi back to the O’Callaghan’s Elliot Hotel on Governor’s Parade, where the whole crew and cast of Dead Reckoning were staying, and went up to the Rooftop Restaurant for breakfast. Through the panoramic windows they could see the Straits of Gibraltar, Southern Spain and Morocco, although the hazy sky made the view appear strangely ghostly.
    ‘You amaze me,’ said Noah, as he watched Silja cutting up a fat British-style sausage.
    ‘I have a very efficient metabolism,’ she said, smiling at him. Without her dark Rayleigh Martin wig, she didn’t look so anaemic. Her own hair was so blonde that it was almost white, and cut into a feathery, elf-like style. She had high cheekbones and blue eyes that were pale like a winter’s sky. But Noah still found her physical strength to be the most attractive thing about her . . . the thought that he probably couldn’t beat her in unarmed combat.
    Richard Bullman came over to their table, wearing a dishevelled green linen suit, John-the-Baptist sandals and yellow socks. He had a pouchy, sallow face like Deputy Dawg. His wiry black hair was uncombed and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved for three days.
    ‘Just thought you’d like to know that Kevin’s had the Arri checked over. The bloody electronics are toast but the footage looks OK, no bloody thanks to you.’
    ‘Will we have to shoot that scene over?’ Noah asked him.
    Richard Bullman wobbled his jowls. ‘No, thank God. I almost hate to say it, but I looked through the rushes last night and they’re bloody terrific. Not exactly what I had in mind, but the way Silja goes hurtling across that bloody deck – human bloody cannonballs aren’t in it.’
    ‘That’s a bloody relief.’
    ‘For you it is.’
    He caught sight of Jean Bottaro, one of the movie’s producers, sitting on the other side of the restaurant, and raised his arm to her. ‘Jean. I must have a word with bloody Jean . . .’
    Once he had gone, Noah lifted the binocular case on to the table. He picked up a butter knife and started to chisel at the catch.
    Silja said, ‘You don’t seriously think there are any binoculars in there?’
    He shook the case hard. ‘No. But there’s something .’
    A waiter stood close by, frowning disapprovingly as Noah scraped black fragments of rust on to the tablecloth. Eventually, he managed to force the tip of the knife in between the catch and the canvas, and pry the lid open. First he took out a red-and-gold tobacco box, spotted with corrosion, and then he shook out a large black medallion, about seven centimetres in diameter and half a centimetre thick, attached to a heavy black chain.
    He picked up the medallion and examined it closely. On one side it was engraved with an arrangement of parallel lines that looked like primitive drawings of arrows. On the other, he could make out a crescent moon shape, an arrangement of raised circles, and the letters P R C H A L.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Silja. She took out her rimless half-glasses and peered at it across the table.
    ‘I don’t have any idea. It looks pretty old though, doesn’t it?’
    ‘What is P R C H A L? Maybe initials for something . . .’
    ‘Who knows? Let’s see what’s inside this box.’
    The box was enamelled, with a picture of a scarlet devil on the lid, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. It was embossed with the words Tabak Cert .
    Noah slowly forced it open. Inside there was a small quantity of coarse black tobacco and six or seven pieces of blotchy-looking newsprint, carefully torn into rectangles.
    ‘Looks like somebody was running low on cigarette papers,’ he commented. He picked up one of the pieces of newsprint and tried to read it. ‘Can’t understand a word. What do you think it is? Hungarian, something like that?’
    Silja took the piece of paper