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PALM SHADOW, WHISPER OF RAIN - ebook
PALM SHADOW, WHISPER OF RAIN - ebook
She thought she was going to heal a broken heart. Instead, she had to fight for her life. It all begins with an old photograph found in her late grandmother’s apartment: a young woman in the arms of a mysterious man on a paradise beach. What was meant to be a sentimental journey to Thailand quickly turns into a deadly investigation. There, where the palms cast long shadows, she meets Mat — a man who knows that paradise comes with a dark price. Their joint investigation pulls them into the very heart of a story about a love more powerful than fear, and into the world of a syndicate that never forgives. The ghosts of the past do not like to be awakened— especially when at stake is a fortune worth millions, and a truth for which someone is still willing to kill. Will Helena dare to uncover a secret that could destroy her family… and herself?
Ta publikacja spełnia wymagania dostępności zgodnie z dyrektywą EAA.
| Kategoria: | Romance |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| Rozmiar pliku: | 1,8 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
2
_(Elizabeth)_
For Elizabeth, the microscope was a portal to another universe—a world of perfect order, logic, and hidden beauty, so utterly different from the gray, unpredictable reality of communist Poland. Bent over the eyepiece, one hand resting on the focus knob, she felt like an explorer standing at the threshold of a new continent. For the past five months, her continent had been _Pueraria mirifica_, an unassuming tuber Thai women had revered for centuries as a source of youth. Her colleagues back in Kraków shook their heads when she said she intended to study “folk superstitions,” but she felt certain there was something more behind them.
Her slender, well-kept fingers—made for holding a pen or a test tube—moved the glass slide with a surgeon’s precision. Under powerful magnification, the intricate lattice of root cells resembled a stained-glass window in some unknown cathedral. It was here, in these structures invisible to the naked eye, that the secret lay hidden. She spent hours poring over the results of gas chromatography—the graphs that to a layman would seem a chaotic tangle of lines but that, to her, unfolded into a fascinating narrative. It was a narrative of phytoestrogens of such astonishing concentration and structure that they could revolutionize Western medicine. She was on the trail of something monumental, and that thought filled her with a pride and excitement she had not felt in years.
Her work was her refuge, an escape from a city that both fascinated and unsettled her. Bangkok in the 1970s was a beast with two faces, living in a state of schizophrenic division. On one side, it was a city of temples, Buddhist serenity, and gentle smiles. In the mornings, she would see monks in saffron robes walking barefoot through the streets with alms bowls. She passed small household shrines where incense burned, the scent of offering flowers mingling with exhaust fumes. She traveled by boat along the murky _khlongs_—the canals—watching the simple wooden houses on stilts and the daily life that flowed in a rhythm unchanged for centuries.
On the other side, it was a dark, sweltering labyrinth in which every shadow hid a secret. The echoes of the recently ended Vietnam War still reverberated in the alleys of Patpong. The red-light district pulsed with life driven by the money and desire of American soldiers, who still treated Bangkok as their exotic playground. Neon go-go bar signs hissed in the humid air, and from their wide-open interiors spilled deafening music and the sticky promise of forgetting.
In this city, everything was for sale. In hotel bars, over glasses of whiskey, sat people who in Europe would never have shared a table: weary-eyed CIA agents, arms dealers, French planters from Laos who had lost everything, and German businessmen with murky pasts. The air was thick with unspoken things, and whispers of the Golden Triangle—the borderlands of Thailand, Burma, and Laos, the world’s heroin capital—were as common as complaints about the humidity. This was a world in which fortunes rose and vanished overnight, and human life often cost less than a kilo of pure opium.
Elizabeth, a woman of science moving in the ordered realm of facts and evidence, felt like a creature from another planet in the midst of this chaos. She observed it with a mix of academic curiosity and feminine apprehension. And then, at one official reception, she stepped straight into the heart of that world.
He extended his hand—Alexander. He introduced himself as a Swiss silk trader. He was the embodiment of European elegance: a perfectly tailored suit, an expensive watch, impeccable manners. Yet in his dark, almost black eyes burned a fire that did not belong to a dull merchant. There was intelligence there, irony, and beneath it a shadow of weariness and danger. His hands, though well-groomed, were the hands of a man who could fight with them. He smiled charmingly, but his smile never quite reached his eyes.
They spoke about her research. His questions were so incisive and precise that she was taken aback. He quoted passages from scientific papers known only to specialists. And then, with ease, he shifted to lighter subjects—art, music, poetry. He was an erudite, a Renaissance man lost in an age of cynicism. From the first moment, she felt an unbounded fascination with him. And mortal fear. She sensed that this man was like the city itself—beautiful, alluring, and deadly. And despite all her reasons, she found herself wanting nothing more than to throw herself into his arms.3
Elizabeth reverently placed the final sample under the microscope. Light passed through the thin slice of _Pueraria mirifica_ root, revealing its intricate lattice of cells. For the past five months, this plant had been her obsession. She had come to the Institute of Tropical Medicine to investigate its alleged rejuvenating properties, whispered about by local healers. Her research—blending modern pharmacology with traditional knowledge—was yielding revolutionary results. She had succeeded in isolating and identifying a concentration of phytoestrogens so high it could potentially transform hormone therapy in the West.
“Madame Kowalska, your results are… astonishing,” said Dr. Dubois, her supervisor, as he entered the laboratory. An elegant Frenchman, he coordinated the project on behalf of the WHO. “I’ve sent your preliminary report to Geneva. They’re impressed—thrilled, in fact. They want you to prepare an expanded article.”
“Of course, Doctor. I’d be delighted.”
“In fact, given your dedication and these groundbreaking discoveries, you’ve completed the main research phase a full month ahead of schedule.” Dubois smiled warmly. “The Jagiellonian University would be proud. I thought that instead of spending this last month buried in paperwork here in Bangkok, you’ve earned a rest. Consider it a reward. See Thailand. Visit the islands everyone talks about. You can finish the paperwork back in Kraków.”
The proposal floored her. A month. An entire month of freedom before she would have to return to her steady, predictable life—to her husband, to gray Kraków. It was a chance that might never come again.
* * *
That same evening, at a reception at the Swiss Embassy—where Dr. Dubois had all but dragged her—she told Alexander about her supervisor’s proposal, and his eyes lit up.
“A month in paradise,” he said softly, topping up her wine. “It’s fate, Elizabeth. I know a small island in the south, forgotten by the world. It’s called Koh Tao. The last untouched fragment of paradise. Let’s escape there!”
His suggestion was madness. She was a married woman; he was a mysterious silk trader she barely knew. And yet, looking into his dark, passion-filled eyes, she knew she would agree.
Their affair in Bangkok had been a game of hide-and-seek—secret meetings in hidden restaurants where no one from the diplomatic circle could see them; stolen kisses in stifling taxis; his hand seeking hers under the table during official dinners they still had to attend separately. That tension, that secrecy, only heightened their desire.
The night before their departure for Koh Tao, she slipped out of her boarding house and went to his luxurious apartment overlooking the glittering city. They made love with the desperation of people who knew their time was numbered. His touch was both greedy and tender, exploring her body as though he wanted to memorize every inch of it. She responded with a passion she had never suspected herself capable of, releasing all the desire she had suppressed for years. This was not safe, steady love. It was a fire that threatened to consume them both.
The next day, as the ferry carried them toward Koh Tao, she felt a mix of fear and triumph. She had chosen. She had chosen the fire over the safe, cold ash. And even if it lasted only a month, she knew she would never regret it.4
_(Helena)_
Chopin Airport in the depths of winter was a kingdom of haste, anonymity, and sterile chill. Helena stood in the long, winding line for check-in, feeling out of place in her carefully chosen travel outfit. The oversized beige trench coat that, in Warsaw, was the epitome of urban chic seemed here, under the merciless fluorescent glare of the terminal, nothing more than a thin suit of armor. A soft, oatmeal-colored cashmere scarf wrapped her neck, and on her feet were white leather sneakers—the only compromise between style and the demands of a long-haul journey.
Beside her stood her forest-green suitcase, hard-shelled and gleaming among the dozens of black and navy bags. It was a designer piece, a gift she had given herself after her last major project—a quiet symbol of independence. On her shoulder hung a simple leather backpack carrying her whole world: a slim silver MacBook, on whose screen she crafted realities for others; toiletries and a toothbrush; and, most importantly, a small wooden box, carefully wrapped in a sweater so that no one could see its mysterious carvings.
Around her, people were each absorbed in their own stories. A family in matching ski jackets bustled past, their faces alight with excitement at the thought of Alpine slopes. Further on, under the departure board, a businessman in a perfectly tailored suit tapped anxiously at his laptop, his face locked in a mask of concentration. Helena felt a pang of envy at the sight of such simple, understandable purposes. Her own purpose was hazy, uncertain, built on a faded photograph.
“Are you sure you have everything?” Sabina adjusted the collar of Helena’s coat for the third time. She was, as always, the embodiment of elegance—in a graphite wool coat with her hair perfectly styled, she looked as if she had just stepped out of a law office, not from an early morning farewell. Her concern was almost tangible. “Passport copy in your email, insurance, the embassy’s number saved in your phone, and on paper?”
“Yes, Mom,” Helena joked, trying to smile.
“This isn’t funny. A woman traveling alone to the other side of the world because of a forty-year-old photograph—I have the right to panic like a mother.” Sabina hugged her tightly. “Write every day. Even if you have nothing to say, just write ‘I’m alive.’ Otherwise, Maja and I will go insane.”
Maja, who had so far been standing aside in a bright red puffer jacket and a yellow hat with an oversized pom-pom, looking like some cheerful, colorful bird, stepped forward and wrapped them both in a bear hug.
_(Elizabeth)_
For Elizabeth, the microscope was a portal to another universe—a world of perfect order, logic, and hidden beauty, so utterly different from the gray, unpredictable reality of communist Poland. Bent over the eyepiece, one hand resting on the focus knob, she felt like an explorer standing at the threshold of a new continent. For the past five months, her continent had been _Pueraria mirifica_, an unassuming tuber Thai women had revered for centuries as a source of youth. Her colleagues back in Kraków shook their heads when she said she intended to study “folk superstitions,” but she felt certain there was something more behind them.
Her slender, well-kept fingers—made for holding a pen or a test tube—moved the glass slide with a surgeon’s precision. Under powerful magnification, the intricate lattice of root cells resembled a stained-glass window in some unknown cathedral. It was here, in these structures invisible to the naked eye, that the secret lay hidden. She spent hours poring over the results of gas chromatography—the graphs that to a layman would seem a chaotic tangle of lines but that, to her, unfolded into a fascinating narrative. It was a narrative of phytoestrogens of such astonishing concentration and structure that they could revolutionize Western medicine. She was on the trail of something monumental, and that thought filled her with a pride and excitement she had not felt in years.
Her work was her refuge, an escape from a city that both fascinated and unsettled her. Bangkok in the 1970s was a beast with two faces, living in a state of schizophrenic division. On one side, it was a city of temples, Buddhist serenity, and gentle smiles. In the mornings, she would see monks in saffron robes walking barefoot through the streets with alms bowls. She passed small household shrines where incense burned, the scent of offering flowers mingling with exhaust fumes. She traveled by boat along the murky _khlongs_—the canals—watching the simple wooden houses on stilts and the daily life that flowed in a rhythm unchanged for centuries.
On the other side, it was a dark, sweltering labyrinth in which every shadow hid a secret. The echoes of the recently ended Vietnam War still reverberated in the alleys of Patpong. The red-light district pulsed with life driven by the money and desire of American soldiers, who still treated Bangkok as their exotic playground. Neon go-go bar signs hissed in the humid air, and from their wide-open interiors spilled deafening music and the sticky promise of forgetting.
In this city, everything was for sale. In hotel bars, over glasses of whiskey, sat people who in Europe would never have shared a table: weary-eyed CIA agents, arms dealers, French planters from Laos who had lost everything, and German businessmen with murky pasts. The air was thick with unspoken things, and whispers of the Golden Triangle—the borderlands of Thailand, Burma, and Laos, the world’s heroin capital—were as common as complaints about the humidity. This was a world in which fortunes rose and vanished overnight, and human life often cost less than a kilo of pure opium.
Elizabeth, a woman of science moving in the ordered realm of facts and evidence, felt like a creature from another planet in the midst of this chaos. She observed it with a mix of academic curiosity and feminine apprehension. And then, at one official reception, she stepped straight into the heart of that world.
He extended his hand—Alexander. He introduced himself as a Swiss silk trader. He was the embodiment of European elegance: a perfectly tailored suit, an expensive watch, impeccable manners. Yet in his dark, almost black eyes burned a fire that did not belong to a dull merchant. There was intelligence there, irony, and beneath it a shadow of weariness and danger. His hands, though well-groomed, were the hands of a man who could fight with them. He smiled charmingly, but his smile never quite reached his eyes.
They spoke about her research. His questions were so incisive and precise that she was taken aback. He quoted passages from scientific papers known only to specialists. And then, with ease, he shifted to lighter subjects—art, music, poetry. He was an erudite, a Renaissance man lost in an age of cynicism. From the first moment, she felt an unbounded fascination with him. And mortal fear. She sensed that this man was like the city itself—beautiful, alluring, and deadly. And despite all her reasons, she found herself wanting nothing more than to throw herself into his arms.3
Elizabeth reverently placed the final sample under the microscope. Light passed through the thin slice of _Pueraria mirifica_ root, revealing its intricate lattice of cells. For the past five months, this plant had been her obsession. She had come to the Institute of Tropical Medicine to investigate its alleged rejuvenating properties, whispered about by local healers. Her research—blending modern pharmacology with traditional knowledge—was yielding revolutionary results. She had succeeded in isolating and identifying a concentration of phytoestrogens so high it could potentially transform hormone therapy in the West.
“Madame Kowalska, your results are… astonishing,” said Dr. Dubois, her supervisor, as he entered the laboratory. An elegant Frenchman, he coordinated the project on behalf of the WHO. “I’ve sent your preliminary report to Geneva. They’re impressed—thrilled, in fact. They want you to prepare an expanded article.”
“Of course, Doctor. I’d be delighted.”
“In fact, given your dedication and these groundbreaking discoveries, you’ve completed the main research phase a full month ahead of schedule.” Dubois smiled warmly. “The Jagiellonian University would be proud. I thought that instead of spending this last month buried in paperwork here in Bangkok, you’ve earned a rest. Consider it a reward. See Thailand. Visit the islands everyone talks about. You can finish the paperwork back in Kraków.”
The proposal floored her. A month. An entire month of freedom before she would have to return to her steady, predictable life—to her husband, to gray Kraków. It was a chance that might never come again.
* * *
That same evening, at a reception at the Swiss Embassy—where Dr. Dubois had all but dragged her—she told Alexander about her supervisor’s proposal, and his eyes lit up.
“A month in paradise,” he said softly, topping up her wine. “It’s fate, Elizabeth. I know a small island in the south, forgotten by the world. It’s called Koh Tao. The last untouched fragment of paradise. Let’s escape there!”
His suggestion was madness. She was a married woman; he was a mysterious silk trader she barely knew. And yet, looking into his dark, passion-filled eyes, she knew she would agree.
Their affair in Bangkok had been a game of hide-and-seek—secret meetings in hidden restaurants where no one from the diplomatic circle could see them; stolen kisses in stifling taxis; his hand seeking hers under the table during official dinners they still had to attend separately. That tension, that secrecy, only heightened their desire.
The night before their departure for Koh Tao, she slipped out of her boarding house and went to his luxurious apartment overlooking the glittering city. They made love with the desperation of people who knew their time was numbered. His touch was both greedy and tender, exploring her body as though he wanted to memorize every inch of it. She responded with a passion she had never suspected herself capable of, releasing all the desire she had suppressed for years. This was not safe, steady love. It was a fire that threatened to consume them both.
The next day, as the ferry carried them toward Koh Tao, she felt a mix of fear and triumph. She had chosen. She had chosen the fire over the safe, cold ash. And even if it lasted only a month, she knew she would never regret it.4
_(Helena)_
Chopin Airport in the depths of winter was a kingdom of haste, anonymity, and sterile chill. Helena stood in the long, winding line for check-in, feeling out of place in her carefully chosen travel outfit. The oversized beige trench coat that, in Warsaw, was the epitome of urban chic seemed here, under the merciless fluorescent glare of the terminal, nothing more than a thin suit of armor. A soft, oatmeal-colored cashmere scarf wrapped her neck, and on her feet were white leather sneakers—the only compromise between style and the demands of a long-haul journey.
Beside her stood her forest-green suitcase, hard-shelled and gleaming among the dozens of black and navy bags. It was a designer piece, a gift she had given herself after her last major project—a quiet symbol of independence. On her shoulder hung a simple leather backpack carrying her whole world: a slim silver MacBook, on whose screen she crafted realities for others; toiletries and a toothbrush; and, most importantly, a small wooden box, carefully wrapped in a sweater so that no one could see its mysterious carvings.
Around her, people were each absorbed in their own stories. A family in matching ski jackets bustled past, their faces alight with excitement at the thought of Alpine slopes. Further on, under the departure board, a businessman in a perfectly tailored suit tapped anxiously at his laptop, his face locked in a mask of concentration. Helena felt a pang of envy at the sight of such simple, understandable purposes. Her own purpose was hazy, uncertain, built on a faded photograph.
“Are you sure you have everything?” Sabina adjusted the collar of Helena’s coat for the third time. She was, as always, the embodiment of elegance—in a graphite wool coat with her hair perfectly styled, she looked as if she had just stepped out of a law office, not from an early morning farewell. Her concern was almost tangible. “Passport copy in your email, insurance, the embassy’s number saved in your phone, and on paper?”
“Yes, Mom,” Helena joked, trying to smile.
“This isn’t funny. A woman traveling alone to the other side of the world because of a forty-year-old photograph—I have the right to panic like a mother.” Sabina hugged her tightly. “Write every day. Even if you have nothing to say, just write ‘I’m alive.’ Otherwise, Maja and I will go insane.”
Maja, who had so far been standing aside in a bright red puffer jacket and a yellow hat with an oversized pom-pom, looking like some cheerful, colorful bird, stepped forward and wrapped them both in a bear hug.
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