Penzler, Otto Ed v2

  Instead of golf, the day had brought a major crisis, a new hot-potato hostage situation.

  Hostage. The word sickened him. Lebanon... Iran... hijacked planes. Innocent victims, cries for retribution at home, fractured political alliances abroad, sounding board for revolutionists.

  This time in Ahman; six Americans vanished on their way to Silver Mountain. The minibus they’d been riding in found one hundred miles to the north of their planned destination.

  The kidnapers had chosen their targets well. The wife and daughter of Winston Andrews: he’d already been on the phone three times and was now in his private jet heading for Ahman. Lloyd and Audrey Cameron: they’d been at a state dinner only a month ago. If those people were not returned unscathed, all hell would break loose. Somebody in Ahman would be hung out to dry, and in this case Des was sure it would be the sultan. Mac, westernised, smart, our friend in the volatile Middle East, was vulnerable. His absolute monarchy had been a source of criticism no matter how many reforms he had instigated.

  And of course there was another couple involved, a former high-school teacher from Massachusetts, some poor schmuck; named Harry Potter and his wife. Probably saved money all their lives to take that upscale cruise.

  The private phone rang. Only one person called on this one.

  Henry. Just the person he wanted to talk to about this calamity. Henry was a big buddy of the sultan.

  Ogilvey answered with his automatic greeting to Henry. “Mr. President,” he said. Then listened. “Oh, my God!” he groaned.

  His advisors and aides leapt to their feet. He waved them back, continued to listen to his caller, then finally snapped, “I’ll call you back, Collins.”

  Hanging up, he said quietly, “Get me the sultan of Ahman.”

  “Right away, sir.” His chief of staff reached for a nearby phone.

  Ogilvey considered. “No. Wait. Hold it.” He looked without pleasure at the anxious faces around him. “Get out, all of you. I need to think.”

  When he was alone, he folded his hands under his chin. The kidnapers didn’t know who they had, but they’d been daring enough to select other highly visible targets. God knows what they would do if they were aware they were holding a former president of the United States and his congresswoman wife.

  Some hostages were released when a ransom was paid. So far, the kidnapers had not made any demands. Maybe money was what they wanted. There’s only one thing I can do right now, Desmond Ogilvey agonised. Keep my mouth shut and trust Henry. He’s gotten out of other tight spots.

  Henry had appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness since the guide smashed a rifle butt on the side of his head before they were carried on horseback to this place. First their captors had forced the women to slip a long black sharshaf, the traditional Islamic garment, over their own clothing and veil their faces. Lloyd Cameron and the unconscious Henry had been dressed in long flowing robes, their heads covered with burnooses. To any observer they might have been a band of Bedouins travelling through the mountains. No one would have realised that the horsemen surrounding them had guns trained at their hearts.

  The unconscious Henry had been thrown across the saddle of a horse. Sunday had been frantic until they finally arrived at their destination. Henry whispered that he wanted the captors to believe that he was badly injured.

  But now she had to talk to him. “I think Lloyd Cameron is going into a full-fledged heart attack,” she murmured as she held her face to his.

  It was the second day of captivity. They were being kept in a network of caves in the mountain range behind Silver City.

  Their captors had taken them into the shallow but well-hidden warren, finally settling in the next-to-the-last cave, barricading the narrow area between them and this final chamber-like area with rocks and sheets of tin. Only a space as wide as a small window had been left for food to be passed back and an observer to periodically check on them.

  Muffie Andrews was asleep on her mother’s shoulder as far to the back as possible. Even though it was cold she had yanked off the sharshaf and veil,

  Lloyd Cameron was half lying, half sitting against the wall nearest to the hint of fresh air that came through the open space. His gasping breath was deep and irregular; Audrey Cameron had her arm around him. Even in the near darkness the agony of worry on her face was clearly visible.

  Henry’s finger touched her lips and Sunday realised he was trying to overhear what their captors were saying. Henry was a linguist, and she remembered that Arabic was one of the many languages he understood and spoke.

  She could feel his body tense. Whatever he was hearing was upsetting him.

  Henry strained to hear their captors. As the voices rose and fell, he sickened, realising that they had no intention of seeking ransom. They were discussing that the first two hostages, the insignificant teacher and his wife, would be shot at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and their bodies dumped on the outskirts of the city.

  The sultan, General al Hez at his side, would of course deplore the violence and beg that the lives of the other hostages be spared. The next morning when those four bodies were found, al Hez would declare a revolution against the corrupt regime that had rejected his demands for permission to wipe out the wandering tribes of murdering Bedouins and in the name of the people execute the sultan and his family as they try to escape.

  We’re all going to die, Henry thought helplessly. There’s no way out of here.

  “The girl... the young beauty... a shame to let her die. I could get ten thousand camels for her...” It was the voice of their guide, bin Sayyid.

  I wouldn’t put it past him to put his hands on her, Henry thought.

  “This place... this Shinona Cavern... will again be enshrined in history...” It was the bus driver’s deep, clipped tone.

  Shinona Cavern... Henry thought. Shinona Cavern... Mac brought me here the summer he showed me around Silver Mountain. It was the place where the legend is that an ancient king took refuge against a palace plot. He was followed here but escaped through the secret passageway that goes underground to the temple in Silver Mountain. Mac showed me the way. I’m sure it’s right here in this chamber.

  The voices of their captors began to trail off. It was almost midnight. He sensed that soon they’d be checking on them one last time before morning. He lolled his head to the side as though still unconscious, then whispered, “Sunday, demand they throw blankets back here. Tell them you’re afraid Lloyd Cameron will die before ransom can be paid.”

  It isn’t in the plan for Cameron to die yet, he thought.

  A moment later he heard Sunday’s voice speaking fiercely. “Listen, bin Sayyid, I know you’re still ‘guiding’ us, you creep. Unless you want a dead hostage, you’ll at least give us something to cover Mr. Cameron.”

  Good girl, Henry thought, then held his breath.

  He heard a short barking spat of laughter, then through slitted eyes watched as, a few minutes later, a rolled blanket was pushed through the opening, followed by another one. Then a third cover of sorts began to come into view to the accompaniment of a spattering of small rocks.

  It worked, he thought exultantly. “Sunday, while they’re still watching, pull me back farther,” he whispered, “as much away from their direct view as possible. Then cover me and pass the other blankets around.”

  It only took a few minutes before his goal was accomplished. He sensed bin Sayyid was watching as Sunday tucked the blanket around him, then handed out the others.

  When she lay down beside him, her back to the opening, shielding him from view, Sayyid snapped, “Sleep well. I don’t want to hear any mere demands. Got that?”

  Quickly Henry whispered instructions. Sunday nodded, grabbed the soiled, scratchy blanket, shaped it to resemble a body, and threw her arm over it. The Camerons, grateful for the bit of warmth, were huddled together. They stared when he slid over to them.

  “I’m going for help,” Henry whispered. “Hang on. Pretend to stay aslee
p as long as possible.”

  Muffie Andrews had awakened. He put his lips against her ear. “You’ve got to keep that sharshaf and veil on.” He murmured to Pamela Andrews, “If bin Sayyid tries to come near her, say she’s unwell.”

  They both understood what he meant. Pamela Andrews’s eyes widened in fear. “At least it isn’t boring,” Muffie tried to joke.

  Henry patted her shoulder.

  For an instant he touched Sunday’s hand, then began inching on his stomach to the place at the side and back of this chamber where, twenty-five years ago, he and the crown prince of Ahman had lifted the stone that led to a tunnel, hardly wider than a drainpipe, that had saved a sultan’s life twenty-five hundred years ago.

  Three hours later, just outside Silver Mountain, the sleeping fourteen-year-old attendant of the camels used for picture-taking tourists stirred in his sleep. But he did not awaken as one of the camels was led from the enclosure by a man in a long robe and burnoose.

  Henry, his robe torn and filthy, led the camel a safe distance before he ordered it to kneel. An instant later he was galloping to the capital city, a distance of at least four hours. He had to get in touch with Des. It was the only way.

  In the cave, Sunday spent the night praying. Sometimes she heard Audrey Cameron murmuring to her husband. She thought she heard Muffie Andrews weeping. But, as a random touch of daylight started to trickle into the cavern, she thought: If he got through he might be in Acqiom now. Maybe help is already on the way.

  It was nearly seven and the hot desert sun was rising high over the ancient city of Acqiom when Henry abandoned the exhausted camel and set into town on foot. Seven o’clock here, thirteen hours difference. Des would be in the White House. But how to get to him? He’d have to try to steal a tourist’s pocketbook in the market. Get a credit card. Make the call.

  But the market was deserted. In the bay he could see two gleaming ocean liners. They probably had arrived during the night, but the tourists wouldn’t be here until at least nine. He couldn’t wait that long.

  Despairingly he walked through the city in the direction of the palace. Built by Mac when he became monarch, it was a modern building with low, rounded rooftops and a pink-and-cream marble facade that reflected the brilliance of the sunrise. He could see that the palace was surrounded by guards.

  Henry looked up at the windows that he knew were the private apartments of the monarch. He wanted to shout, “Mac!” the way he had when they were students in Cambridge. So near... But that traitor al Hez was in there too. At a hint of danger he’d step up his plan.

  Henry turned. There was only one thing he could do. Would it work? Get to a hotel, get to a phone. He could not waste time. Sunday was going to be executed in less than two hours. When they realised he was missing, they might kill all the hostages.

  The streets were still quiet, the shops still shuttered. In the direction of the bay, Henry could see the tip of a spire. Of course! The spire was part of the lavish new hotel they’d noticed on the minibus. “The sultan wished to promote tourism,” Sayyid had announced, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  There’s sure to be plenty of phones there. He had to get to one. But looking like this, they’d never let him in the door.

  He loitered in the parking lot facing the entrance for fifteen minutes before he found his opportunity. The doorman stepped into the parking valet’s booth to the side of the entrance. He did not see the tall man in a soiled robe and torn burnoose, his pasted Vandyke beard slipping from his chin, stride through the wide luggage door into the lobby, which, to Henry’s dismay, was filled with media people. Pulling the loose end of the burnoose over his chin, Henry drifted through the crowd toward the corridor, where a sign indicated rest rooms and telephones.

  He had almost cleared the lobby when an elevator door opened and Winston Andrews, accompanied by General al Hez, emerged.

  Microphones were thrust at them; cameras popped, as Andrews, his face creased with fury and worry, announced, “I am going by helicopter to again stand by at the point where my wife and daughter disappeared. I am ready to pay any price to get them back. I have been heartened by the support of General al Hez, who has been candid about the problems of roving criminals in this country. He was personally responsible for rescuing a group of German tourists last year.”

  Al Hez stepped forward. “I am ashamed that this has happened in my country. It should not have happened. All our resources are scouring the countryside. I return to the palace to be with the sultan.”

  Why isn’t Mac speaking for himself? Henry thought. That swine al Hez is setting up the revolt. Andrews won’t blame him no matter what happens.

  Accompanied by the general, Andrews strode through the lobby, angrily pushing away mikes that were raised before him. Any thought Henry had fleetingly entertained about trying to communicate with one of his associates disappeared. Sure, Andrews would believe him, but the slightest leak would be disaster. He didn’t doubt that those thugs were in touch with events. They’d kill the captives and get away if they thought something had gone wrong.

  “You look familiar, friend.”

  Henry turned, instinctively reaching to be sure the burnoose was covering the lower half of his face. It was Dan Rather, anchorman of CBS. His cameraman was behind him, the camera trained on Henry.

  Henry frowned. “What do you want?” he barked in Arabic.

  Rather looked uncertain. “Sorry.”

  Henry thought, I can trust Dan, but then became aware of curious eyes on them. No. Not here and now. Ignoring the famous broadcaster, he again headed for the corridor. A phone booth was empty. He picked up the receiver, pressed zero, and asked to be connected to an overseas operator. Finally one came on.

  “A collect call.” He gave the number registered to Sims at Drumdoe.

  There was no answer.

  Ten minutes later he tried again, this time giving the main number.

  Again no answer. They’d given the rest of the household staff a holiday, but where was Sims?

  Of course. He had opened the envelope. He had contacted Des. If Henry knew anything it was that Sims and Collins, with all the Secret Service guys, were on the way here now.

  There was a line for the phone booth. Henry glanced out at a sea of angry faces. There was just one thing he could do. “Another number collect,” he told the operator, then prayed. “Please God let him take the call.”

  It was seven-fifty. Sunday knew that for the last hour their captors had been looking in to see if they were awake. Now she was sure that unless they all began to stir, suspicion would be aroused. Had Henry gotten to Acqiom? Who had he contacted there? What had he overheard last night that so upset him?

  No use thinking about it, she decided.

  Clearly it was going to be a brilliantly sunny day. Light was filtering into this cavern far more than it had yesterday or the day before. The blanket that last night had been a reasonable facsimile of a man’s body now seemed pathetic as a disguise.

  Muffie Andrews seemed to understand the problem. She left her mother’s side, their blanket in hand. “Mrs. Potter, maybe your husband would like our blanket too.”

  Together they threw it over the supposed form of Henry.

  “Such caring,” bin Sayyid’s voice echoed hollowly from the opening. “Surely your husband would enjoy a last meal, Mrs. Potter.”

  Last meal, Sunday thought.

  “And, Muffie,” bin Sayyid continued. “You don’t have to wear the shurshaf or veil now. Why don’t you take them off?” It was not a request.

  Pamela Andrews stood up, thrusting Muffie at Sunday. “My daughter will remain suitably garbed. I must speak to you, Mr. Sayyid.” She began to move forward when the faint sound of a vehicle approaching made Sayyid turn abruptly from the opening.

  Desmond Ogilvey was about to leave his office with Patrick Blair, his chief of staff, to once again face the media, when one of his private phones rang. Probably his mother calling to offer suggestions on what to do
in the crisis. He wasn’t up to it.

  Impatiently, he put his hand on the door of the Oval Office as the ringing continued to permeate the room. There was an urgency about it that was bothering him.

  Reluctantly he nodded to Blair. “Tell my mother I’ll call her back.”

  He watched impatiently as Blair’s brief hello was followed by widened eyes. “Are you kidding?” the chief of staff demanded.

  Some instinct made Ogilvey rush across the room.

  “Sir, it’s got to be a sick joke,” Blair told him. “The operator wants to know if you’ll accept a collect call from a Mr. Potter.”

  At eight-thirty, Henry waited impatiently, watching the side gate of the palace. Every passing second was agony. Had Des been able to get through to Mac or had the call been stopped inside the palace? If he did get through, had Mac believed that he could trust none of his Army brass, that his own life was in danger? And if he did understand, would he be able to get out of the palace unnoticed?

  If Mac didn’t show up... It was one of the few times in his life that Henry felt absolutely helpless. There was no alternate plan that could possibly work.

  Sunday. The other hostages... Please, God... Henry realised he was praying. Time was so short. He needed a miracle.

  And then he saw what he had been desperate to see. A service van stopped at the guard’s station and was permitted to pass. It drove up the street, around the corner, and slowed.

  The driver rolled down the tinted window. He was dressed in a coarse, dark robe, a flowing burnoose, and heavy dark glasses. But when he whipped the glasses off, nothing could conceal the aristocratic features of the sultan of Ahman.

  Three minutes later, aware that time was racing against them, they drove back to the palace. This time the guard waited before opening the door.

  “Insolent...” the sultan muttered.