Those in Peril (Unlocked) (12 page)

He was informed and articulate, with a wry and quirky sense of humour which diverted her just a trifle from her worry over Cayla. She relaxed and let herself enjoy listening to him. She had drunk only an inch or so out of the wine glass but he lifted the bottle to top it up. The wine was a lovely ten-year-old Romanée-Conti. It amused her that he had researched her tastes so accurately. It seemed a shame to refuse him so she pushed her glass towards him, but at that moment one of his men hurried into the mess and stooped to whisper urgently in Hector’s ear. Hector slammed down the bottle, splashing red wine on the table cloth. He seized her arm and hauled her to her feet.

‘Come on!’ he almost shouted. He ran with her into the long passageway that led to the situation room.

‘What is it?’ she gasped. ‘What’s happening?’

‘The Beast has broken cover!’ he said and pulled her through the doorway. Four of his men were gathered in front of one of the TV screens. The man who had come to summon him was there. Hector had introduced him to her as Uthmann, one of his senior operatives. He was an Arab and a Muslim but Hector trusted him implicitly.

‘One of the good guys,’ he’d said of him.

‘What channel is it on, Uthmann?’ Hector demanded now.

‘Al Jazeera Arabic TV broadcasting from Doha. They listed it in the headlines at the beginning of their world news. I just caught the tail end of it, but they will repeat it at the end of the bulletin.’

‘Get a chair for Mrs Bannock,’ Hector ordered. They sat tense and silent through coverage of the visit of the King of Jordan to Iran, a suicide bombing in Baghdad and other items of Middle Eastern importance. Then suddenly an image of a sleek white oceangoing yacht appeared on the screen and the TV news presenter spoke in Arabic. Hector simultaneously translated his words for Hazel.

‘A group of fighters calling themselves the Flowers of Islam has claimed responsibility for the capture of a private yacht in the western Indian Ocean. The yacht named
Amorous Dolphin
is a 125-metre luxury pleasure vessel registered in the Cayman Islands but belonging to Mrs Hazel Bannock, president of Bannock Oil Corporation in Houston, Texas. Mrs Bannock is reputedly one of the richest women in the world.’ On the screen appeared the image of Hazel, splendid in a full-length ball gown with the legendary diamond necklace, which had once belonged to Barbara Hutton, at her throat. She was dancing with John McEnroe, a fellow tennis champion, at a Democratic Party fundraiser ball in Los Angeles. The presenter went on speaking, with Hector translating.

‘According to the spokesman for the fighters the yacht has been scuttled at sea as a reprisal for the recent atrocities committed by American troops in Iraq. The passengers and crew have been taken into protective custody. Mrs Bannock was not on board the yacht at the time of its capture. Her daughter, Miss Cayla Bannock, was the only passenger. She is among those in custody.’

There was a photograph of Cayla in a wet swimsuit emerging from a swimming pool. Laughing, she was the popular image of a young, privileged and spoiled Western millionairess. The scanty costume she wore must certainly raise the ire and indignation of devout Muslims around the world.

‘The fighters will demand an apology from the American government for its terrorist actions in Iraq, together with appropriate financial recompense for the release of the crew and of Cayla Bannock.’ The Arabic presenter switched to coverage of a football match in Cairo. Uthmann turned off the TV set.

Hazel’s face was alight with joy. ‘Oh God! She is alive. My baby is alive. You were right, Cross. She is alive.’ Although Uthmann and the other three Cross Bow operatives were not looking in their direction they were all in attitudes of listening. Hector frowned her to silence and stood up.

‘Come with me,’ he said quietly and led her out of the building. The sun had set an hour ago. Neither of them spoke until they reached the beach on which a low surf was slapping lazily. There was an ancient wooden piling half-buried in the sand just above the high tide line. They sat on it side by side. Out in the Gulf two enormous tankers were moored at the offshore terminal taking on their cargoes of oil, their floodlights reflected off the surface of the water. By this light Hazel and Hector were able to see each other’s faces quite clearly.

‘I brought you out here so that we might talk without being overheard,’ he explained, and she looked surprised.

‘They are all your men. Don’t you trust them?’

‘Those four are probably the only people on this earth I do trust. However, no point in placing unnecessary strain on their loyalty. They don’t have to know what you and I are discussing.’

She nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘I wonder if you really do. The people we will be dealing with from now onwards are the most ruthless and devious individuals in existence. They are sucking you into a world of smoke and mirrors, of subterfuge and lies. They call themselves the Flowers of Islam.’ He leaned forward and with his finger drew a design in the sand between his feet. It was the sickle moon of Islam. ‘A more appropriate name might be the Hemlock of Hell.’ He straightened again and scuffed out the drawing under the heel of his boot. ‘All right, enough of that. So let’s try to map the way ahead.’

‘I think I must contact my friends at the White House. Now we know where Cayla is they will be able to secure the terms of her release, either by negotiation or by force,’ Hazel suggested.

‘Wrong on the first count. We don’t know where Cayla is. We know vaguely who has taken her, but we don’t know where they are holding her. And wrong on the second count. Your friends won’t do either of those things you mention,’ he said. ‘Firstly their declared policy is never to negotiate with terrorists. When it comes down to the use of force they have burned their fingers too often already. Remember the seizure of the US Embassy in Tehran, and
Black Hawk Down
, the film about the helicopter attack on the terror base in Mogadishu. They have learned bitter lessons. They won’t negotiate and they cannot and will not use force. You can thank God for that. If the marines go storming in it will be the end of Cayla Bannock.’

‘But they must do something. I am an American citizen; the President himself has promised to help me.’ Despite herself she let out a smothered sob. He looked away from her at the tankers. Her distress was a private thing. He gave her time to steady herself.

‘So what do we do?’ she asked at last.

‘You do what they expect you to do. You try to put pressure on your friends in Washington just as you suggested a moment ago. We string the Beast along. We pretend to negotiate with him, but at the same time you must understand the utter futility of doing so.’

She blinked and shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘There is no offer or promise that you can make that will persuade them to meekly hand Cayla back to you. Give them a dollar and they will demand ten more. Agree to their terms and they will come up with a whole new set of demands.’

‘Then what are we doing it for? Aren’t we just wasting our time?’

‘No, Mrs Bannock, we are buying time, not wasting it. Time to find out where they are holding Cayla.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘I hope so. Indeed, I think so.’

‘If you succeed, then what? What happens when you do find out where she is?’

‘I will go in and fetch her out.’ His lips formed a thin smile which his eyes refuted.

‘A moment ago you said—’

‘I know what I said. But there is a difference between me and the Marine Corps. The marines would storm in like ten thousand butchers wielding meat axes. I will slip in like a heart surgeon with a scalpel.’

‘Can you do it?’ she demanded and he shrugged.

‘It’s one of the things I do. One of the things you pay me for. But as of now we can only wait for the ransom demand. That will give me something to work with.’

‘How much time do we need to buy?’ she asked and he shrugged.

‘A month, six months, a year. As long as it takes.’

‘A year! Are you out of your mind? I can’t do it. Every day that goes by I die a hundred deaths. If it is that bad for me, what must it be like for my baby? No, I just cannot do it.’

‘That outburst is not at all your style, Mrs Bannock. You can do it, and if you really love your daughter you will do it.’

W
hen Kamal’s dhow was still fifty miles offshore he broadcast a brief message on the shortwave radio.

‘The fish are running on the ten-mile reef.’ It was acknowledged at once. They had been listening out for him. Within the hour a thirty-five-foot fast motor launch left its moorings in the bay and raced out to meet the dhow. As the two vessels came together both crews ululated and waved their weapons on high.

‘
Allahu Akbar!
God is great!’ they shrieked, dancing on the narrow decks.

As the gap between the vessels narrowed they leaped across it and embraced wildly, stamping their bare feet on the deck. Cayla crouched in a corner of the deckhouse on the pile of rags which was her bed, listening in terror to the uproar. For eleven days she had not been allowed to bathe or change her clothes. She had been fed on a single bowl of rice and fiery chilli fish stew a day, and the water she had been given was brackish and was redolent of the sewer. She had suffered gut-wrenching diarrhoea and vomiting, a combination of food poisoning and sea sickness. Her latrine was the filthy bucket which stood beside her on the deck. The only time she had been allowed out on the main deck was to empty its contents over the ship’s side. Now the door of the deckhouse was flung open and Kamal was outlined against the brilliant sunlight behind him.

‘Get up! Come!’ he ordered in heavily accented English. Cayla had no resistance left in her. She tried to stand up but she was very weak and she swayed on her feet and clutched at the bulkhead beside her for support. He grabbed her arm and led her through the door and onto the open deck. She tried to shield her eyes from the fierce sunlight with her free hand, but Kamal dashed it away.

‘Let them see your ugly white face!’ He laughed at her. She was pale as a corpse and her eyes were sunken into their deep dark sockets. Her hair was matted with sweat, and her clothing was soiled and stinking with vomit and faeces. The crew of the launch pressed closely about her, shouting religious and political slogans in her face, plucking at her hair and clothing, laughing and jeering, stamping and singing. Cayla’s senses reeled. She would have fallen but the press of men around her kept her on her feet.

‘Please!’ she whispered with the tears streaming down her pale cheeks. ‘Please don’t hurt me any more.’ They did not understand her. They dragged her across to the motor launch, and like a sack of dried fish passed her over the gap between the two vessels, and shoved her into its main cabin. Rogier was waiting for her there. He came to her at once.

‘I am sorry, Cayla. I cannot control them. You must not try to resist. I will do my best to protect you, but you must help me.’

‘Oh, Rogier!’ she sobbed. She had seen him at odd intervals since she had been taken aboard the dhow, but had not been able to speak to him. Now he embraced her. She clung to him. His kindly assurance and the tenderness in his expression overwhelmed her. In her terror and confusion he was the only thing she could believe in. Her mother’s memory and the other safe and comfortable world from which she had been wrenched had faded into unreality. He was all she had left. She was totally dependent on him.

‘Be brave, Cayla. It is nearly over. Very soon we will reach land and you will be safe. Once we are there I will be able to protect you and care for you.’

‘I love you, Rogier. I love you so very much. You are so strong and good to me.’ He led her to the wooden bunk at the rear of the cabin, and laid her upon it. He stroked her filthy hair and at last she fell into an exhausted sleep.

It was two hours before the land came up as a low dark line along the horizon ahead, and almost another hour before the launch ran into the bay. Gandanga Bay was formed by a headland that curved out from the mainland like a lion’s claw to form an enclosed area of deep water, protected from the prevailing trade-winds which relentlessly scoured this coast. The launch rounded the point and the bay opened up ahead of her.