Leeward

by D. Edward Bradley

  “I managed to get to Antigua last night.”

  “That’s excellent. But unfortunately I have some bad news. The Judge’s home was burnt to the ground on Wednesday. He and his daughter have been moved to a safe house. I’ll ask them to call you. It will take a few minutes, so give me your number and stay by the phone.”

  Jon did so and hung up with a sigh of relief. At least Josie and the Judge weren’t injured. After what seemed like ten minutes, but was actually only two, the phone rang.

  “Jon! Thank God you’re safe!” Josie sounded agitated.

  “And I’ve been worried silly about you,” Jon replied. “What happened?”

  “We went out for a meal, and when we got home the house was blazing and there were fire trucks and police cars blocking the street. It was horrible. The Fire Chief suspected arson because it had taken hold so fast. There was nothing he could do. But what about you? We couldn’t get through to Leeward and still can’t. How come you’re in Antigua?”

  Jon told Josie how the police had taken over Leeward. He explained that Hans helped him escape from the hotel and travel to Antigua. Hans had remained on St. Barbe’s and planned to set up a line of communication with Jon and Anna, who was also in Antigua.

  At this point, the Judge joined in on an extension. “The situation sounds serious, and if Josie wants to join you, I’ll come along too. I’ve been thinking about applying for an extended leave of absence ever since the fire. This has made up my mind. I’m not entirely sure why Marshall Thompson insisted on moving us to this safe house, but of course we’re free to leave when we want.”

  “It would be a tremendous help to have you here. If I’m not around when you’ve booked your flight, leave a message at the reception desk so we can meet you.”

  With a feeling of relief, Jon crossed the small patio to Anna’s door. She opened it to his knock.

  “Josie and the Judge will be flying down shortly,” he said. “But the awful thing is that their house burned down, and they’ve lost everything.”

  “That’s terrible,” Anna replied. “Did they find out the cause?”

  “Probably arson.”

  “That worries me a lot. Look Jon, I’m in desperate need of something to wear, and I imagine you are too. Why don’t we go shopping in St. John’s? It’ll pass the time. Have you got any money?”

  “A little, and a credit card.”

  “Good. Same as me. How about meeting in the lobby in about half an hour? That will give me time to leave a message for Hans with Mr. Grinder, and see if he has any news at the same time. There’s something else we should pick up in St. John’s—a cassette recorder to tape phone conversations. The recordings may not be very clear, but they’ll prevent us forgetting anything important. In this business you have to be certain of every detail when it comes to planning things, otherwise someone could get killed.”

  “I’ll see you in the lobby, then.” Jon turned and headed for his room.

  Anna called the store at Saddles immediately, and learned that Hans was still staying at Joshua Barker’s house, which was only about a mile away on the shore of Leeward Bay. Peter Calluna had made brief contact with him by radio, and arranged a time for a longer transmission later in the day. Hans would relay Peter’s latest news to Anna and Jon after dark. That would be the safest time to go to the store with Joshua.

  For Jon, the hours dragged interminably. They managed to get the cassette recorder they were after, and Anna showed him how to tape both ends of a conversation by holding the little instrument against the body of the telephone receiver. They returned to the hotel in time for lunch by the pool. Jon was restless afterwards and suggested a swim, so they strolled toward the duplex to get changed.

  As they approached Anna’s room, she went ahead and unlocked the door. It swung open and she froze. A black man she didn’t recognize was sitting on her bed. He had a squat pistol in his hand, and it was pointing straight at her.

  “Come in and sit down, Ms. Andersson. We have a few things to discuss.”

  Jon almost collided with Anna when she came to a sudden stop, completely blocking the doorway and any view he might have had of the intruder. But from the way the words were spoken, he guessed the man was armed. Realizing he couldn’t be seen, Jon sidestepped to the left. His sneakers made no sound on the patio. He thought that Anna must be extraordinarily strong-minded to refrain from making an involuntary movement which would betray his presence. Moving carefully past a curtained window, he reached his own room undetected, but the possibility that he too might have an unwelcome visitor flashed through his mind. He therefore turned his back on the duplex, and walked purposefully to the path leading to the reception area of the hotel. Perhaps it wasn’t the best place to gather his wits, but he felt a lot safer with other people around. Trembling, he sat beside a low coffee table and picked up a magazine, pretending to read it. He glanced at his watch. Incredibly, the whole incident couldn’t have taken more than a couple of minutes, if that.

  What was he to do? He tried to calm himself, but it wasn’t easy. The man in the room almost certainly had a gun, but what was his purpose? Even now Anna could be lying dead or bleeding. And perhaps the man knew about him too. His grip tightened on the magazine and he began to crumple it without realizing what he was doing. His racing mind told him to reason it out, to consider the alternatives, but above all, to do something decisive. Looking up, he found himself staring straight at the hotel security office, its door ajar behind the reception desk. He had noticed there were several uniformed personnel patrolling the building and gardens. Maybe they could help. It seemed to be the only hope for saving Anna.

  Jon walked quickly across the lobby to the reception desk.

  “I would like to see the Security Manager,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The desk clerk turned and called through the open door. “Joel! There’s someone to speak to you.”

  The man who emerged was short compared with most Antiguans. He had a small, tidy mustache and wore a spotless, white, open-necked shirt and sharply creased, navy pants with a heavy, black-leather belt and attached walkie-talkie. He leaned over the reception desk.

  “I am Joel Trilby. How can I help you?”

  In his haste, Jon was about to blurt out his story, but there was a small crowd of people making reservations for excursions. There would be pandemonium if they heard there was a gunman on the premises. “Mr. Trilby, would you mind if we talked in your office?”

  “Of course not. If you will step through the wicket at the end of the desk . . .”

  Joel Trilby’s office was only just short of minuscule. It contained a table, two chairs, a CB radio and a small safe. A board of pass keys hung on the wall. The Security Manager sat behind his the table and waved Jon to the other chair.

  “We must hurry. There’s a gunman . . .”

  At first the little man seemed taken aback, almost flustered, but only for a moment. “I will require more details from you later, sir, but first things first. Where is he?”

  Jon gave Trilby Anna’s room number, and the Security Manager spoke quickly into his communicator. The staccato replies were punctuated by sharp hisses as the instrument switched rapidly back and forth from transmit to receive.

  He looked carefully at Jon when he had finished as though sizing him up, but Jon didn’t notice. “I have two security guards on routine duty in the grounds. One will cover the car park just in case, and the other will observe the room from the north end of the garden. You and I will watch from the south. We will have the best view from the main bar. If the man is watching through the window, all he’ll see will be two people having a drink. Come!”

  Trilby took out a bunch of keys and unlocked the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk. Jon felt apprehensive when he saw a small .38, which was quickly pocketed along with a few spare rounds of ammunition. This was the real thing, not some kind of prank. That was a real gun with real bullets and someone could get killed. In less t
han a minute, they had secured a table at the bar with a view of Anna’s doorway.

  “Mr. Moresby, we must decide what to do and be quick about it. You are obviously telling me the truth as you see it, and even if your conclusions turn out to be wrong later, we can’t take any chances right now. It appears there is only one man in the room, but an accomplice cannot be ruled out.”

  Jon immediately felt a little less tense, perhaps because Trilby appeared to be competent and his manner was professional. He wasn’t the first person to experience one of the Security Manager’s major talents—putting people at ease.

  “Aren’t you going to call the police?” Jon asked.

  “Of course. Naturally I shall have to, but the question is when? We shall try to resolve this on our own, and bring the gunman in when we have things under control. The management won’t want one of their rooms stormed by a bunch of trigger-happy cops, but the police will certainly want to know all about it. First we must find out what’s going on.”

  The Security Manager went over to the bar, which at this hour of the afternoon was almost empty. He nodded to the barman. Trilby signaled Jon to follow, then picked up the house phone and dialed the room number. After a short pause, he spoke rapidly. “This is hotel security. If you’re still in danger say, ‘I’m sorry you have the wrong number.’ If there’s more than one man in your room, add sir, then hang up immediately.”

  The barman raised an eyebrow.

  There was another pause then Trilby hung up. “Seems she’s still at the wrong end of a gun, but there’s only one man.”

  “That was very clever,” said Jon. “But what if the man and not Anna had answered?”

  “I would have said I had the wrong room number and apologized for my mistake. Either way I’d get the required information.”

  “What about my room? Shouldn’t we try that as well?”

  “Okay. Here goes, my friend.”

  There was no reply.

  “Now then,” continued Trilby, “we have work to do. But first some background, if you please.”

  Jon explained who Anna was, and told him what had happened on St. Barbe’s.

  “It sounds rather unlikely, but I believe you,” replied Trilby. “I’ve heard talk of this and that, but nothing concrete, nothing you could put your finger on. But what do we do next? That’s the question.”

  As if in answer, his communicator squawked. The two security guards watching the cottage unit and the car park reported “all’s quiet” one after the other. Trilby placed the instrument on the table and leaned back in his chair.

  “Let’s assume the man wants to spirit Ms. Andersson back to good old St. B. If I were he I’d sit around, then slip away under cover of darkness, in which case we should lull him into a false sense of security. That will make him think he hasn’t been discovered. How about giving him half an hour? By then he won’t be quite as alert as he is at the moment. I’ll have the other men sign out weapons and return to their posts.” He gave the necessary instructions with his communicator. “We’ll have a cool drink while I explain the plan of action. You look as though you could use one.”

  Jon started to get up. He certainly did feel hot, and in spite of the tension the thought of a beer was very attractive.

  “Now this is on the house, Mr. Moresby. But keep your eye on Ms. Andersson’s door while I’m at the bar.”

  Trilby returned with a beer for Jon, and for himself an ice cream soda of all things.

  “This is my greatest weakness, apart from women,” he confessed, jabbing his straw up and down to mix the concoction. “Probably due to childhood deprivation. Now listen carefully as you’re to play a part in this caper. My men and I will station ourselves where we can see the door, and you will phone the room. If Ms. Andersson answers, as is likely, tell her we are outside, and ask to speak to the kidnapper. When he answers, tell him he’s surrounded and must surrender. The reason you are phoning and not me, is that I must be behind that frangipani tree over there to have a clear shot at the door. I can’t be in two places at once.”

  “But the man will spot my accent.”

  “That doesn’t matter so long as he feels he’s surrounded.”

  “I still think we should call the police straight away.”

  Trilby shook a finger at Jon. “Now then, Mr. Moresby, I know what I’m doing. It’s my job. Before I came to Antigua, I was in the Trinidad Police for two years, part of it with a special unit dealing with hostage takings. I’m almost certain this man will surrender, so we’ll wait the full half-hour. That should be quite long enough.”

  The time dragged and dragged. They both had another drink, Jon changing to ginger ale. Every few minutes the two security men checked in on their walkie-talkies, until finally the time came to make a move and they were given their orders. The big frangipani tree was only twenty feet from the door of Anna’s room, and its trunk and lower branches afforded good cover.

  Trilby stood and took out his gun. “When I raise my hand, do your stuff. You can use this phone. I told the barman what’s going on while I was getting our drinks, so don’t worry about him.”

  In less than a minute everything was set up. The two guards covered the window of Anna’s room, while Trilby steadied his gun against the trunk of the frangipani, and took aim at the door.

  Jon dialed, and Anna answered.

  “It’s me, Jon,” he said. “The hotel security people have your room covered. Tell the man with the gun I want to talk to him. We are going to try and get him to surrender.”

  “He’s right beside me! He’s already said he’ll kill me if anyone tries anything.”

  A second later Jon was startled by a loud crack over the phone. It wasn’t a shot, but sounded like the receiver had been dropped on a hard surface. Then he heard more noises, possibly furniture being knocked around. Finally there was another crash, this time definitely a shot. After that, silence.

  “Anna! Anna! Are you okay?”

  Nothing.

  Jon dropped the phone, ran over the grass to Trilby, and told him what had happened. “I think he’s shot her!” His voice was shrill.

  Trilby could see that Jon had paled. He was about to speak when the room’s door handle turned. A black man in jeans and a pale blue shirt emerged and looked around. Obviously the kidnapper had thought Jon was acting on his own, and didn’t know the hotel’s security guards had been alerted. Jon could see he was holding a gun inside his shirt.

  Trilby called out to him from the frangipani tree where both he and Jon remained. “Drop your gun and raise your hands! Now!”

  Instead, the man tried to dive round the corner of the cottage, but a shot came from one of the guards and the gunman fell to the ground. Weapon at the ready, Trilby walked over to him, but he lay motionless. Jon ran to the now open door, dreading what he would find. His worst fears were confirmed. Horrified, white, and shaking, he bent over Anna where she lay on the floor, a small pool of blood spreading from an ugly head wound. Jon was sure she was dead.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Friday, September 21, Saddles and Antigua

  Soon after breakfast, Joshua headed off to Mrs. Robinson’s to help in the garden and watch the hotel at the same time. As the noise of his motor cycle’s engine faded, Hans took the groundsheet from his pack and made himself comfortable on the sand in the shade of a palm tree. In a few moments he was asleep.

  It must have been several hours later when the walkie-talkie squawked and woke him up with a start. Hans rolled over and retrieved it from its hiding place under some dead palm fronds. Peter’s report was brief. There were nineteen armed police guarding the hotel, many more than he had expected. Meals were to be served at nine, one and six, and would be cooked by the prisoners since the kitchen staff had been told to stay away. Jon’s escape had been condemned, but luckily there were no reprisals. All Hans could say was that he hoped to hear from Anna later in the evening. Peter replied that he’d try to get back to him by about eight. Hans stretched, went
into Joshua’s house, and jotted down some notes.

  Joshua returned soon after five. The only activity he had seen from Mrs. Robinson’s was the guards changing shifts. A truck carrying the replacements, which included one officer, arrived at four o’clock. The new group joined the old squad in the car park, and spent about a quarter of an hour milling around, apparently just chatting. Meanwhile, the relief officer had a drink with his counterpart. It was hardly a military-style operation. Hans added the information to his notes. Obviously, it would be inadvisable to attempt a rescue at this time of day, with all those extra armed men around.

  Joshua dug up some bread and cheese, which they took to his homemade picnic table on the beach.

  “I can’t see how we can get everyone out,” said Hans. “With so many guards, we wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Someone could easily get shot, even one of the kids.” Joshua was looking depressed. “The only possibility would be to get most of the guards out of the way.”

  “You mean set up some kind of diversion?” Hans suggested.

  “Blow up their fucking trucks maybe.”

  “You may just have the makings of a plan, Joshua, but I need a drink. It might help lubricate the brain cells. I’ll get some rum from Grinder when we go over to phone Anna. I suppose we’ll have to wait until it’s dark.”

  “I think so,” replied Joshua. “No point in taking any risks.”

  Darkness fell around six thirty, and they reached the store in a few minutes. While they were dismounting from the motor bike, the door flew open and Norton Grinder appeared.

  “I was just coming to get you,” he said. “Young Jon phoned and wants to speak to you urgent-like. Seems there’s been a shooting at the hotel in Antigua, and the Swedish girl was hit.”

  “Mein Gott!” Hans involuntarily relapsed into his native German. “Is she badly hurt?”

  “She’s in the hospital.”

  Hans went straight to the phone and dialed. He got through to Jon’s room at the Anchor without delay.