‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘How do you?’
‘Because of what happened after the yacht left Cape Town. They were in an ambush, but the Amorous Dolphin is a fast boat and the ocean is a big place. Somebody was vectoring them in. But this is guesswork. Can we check if the ship took any crew on board in the Cape?’ She nodded.
‘That should be fairly simple,’ she said. ‘The Dolphin is owned by a private company in Basle, Switzerland. All the administration is done from there.’
‘Including all the hiring and firing?’
‘Including that, yes.’ Hector glanced at the clock on the wall, which showed the time in all the main capitals around the globe.
‘It’s 1400 hours in Zurich. Can you phone your man there?’
She nodded and dialled the number from memory. ‘Please put me through to Herr Ludwig Grubber. This is Mrs Hazel Bannock calling.’ Hector was mildly amused by the alacrity with which Ludwig came on the line. ‘Mr Grubber? Can you please tell me if the Dolphin took on any crew in Cape Town? Yes, I’ll hold.’ She did not have to hold too long before he came back on the line. ‘Yes, you can scan it and send it to my usual email address. Thank you, Mr Grubber. Please give my warmest regards to your father.’ She hung up, and looked across at Hector. ‘The Dolphin took on a temporary third steward in Cape Town.’
‘Of course, he had excellent references, or he would never have been allowed aboard?’ Hector was stating a fact, and she nodded reluctantly and then gathered her courage.
‘Apparently he was a friend of my daughter’s. She vouched for him.’
‘But she never told you about this before you left Cape Town to come here?’ She shook her head and looked away. Hector hated to watch her come to terms with the possibility that her beloved daughter might be less than a vestal virgin.
He’s such an awful know-it-all, she thought angrily, and he is insinuating things about Cayla. Hazel didn’t want to look at him just yet. She remembered what Henry had said of him the only time they had discussed him. ‘Young Heck is a heck of a guy. He flies by the seat of his pants and shoots out of hand but more often than not he hits the bull slap bang on the nose.’
‘What is the friend’s name?’ Hector’s probing was gentle. He knew she was seething. She glanced at the notepad.
‘Rogier Marcel Moreau.’
‘Sounds like a nice young Frenchman. Do we have a copy of his passport?’
‘Basle is scanning it to me.’ Fifteen minutes later the scan came through on Hazel’s laptop. Hector read it off.
‘Date of birth 3 October 1973. His place of birth is Réunion Island in the Indian Ocean. Pretty close to home?’ He took the phone from its cradle.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Just a friend in Paris. He is a Chief Inspector in French Interpol.’ He began to speak in rapid-fire French that Hazel could not follow very well. He was obviously being transferred up the chain of command. At last he seemed to reach his final destination for there were many cries of ‘Allons, mon brave!’ and ‘Courage!’ and ‘Formidable!’ before he hung up and looked across at Hazel. ‘My bosom buddy, Pierre Jacques, has promised a copy of Rogier’s birth certificate within the hour. Sometimes I just love computers and jovial French coppers, don’t you?’ For the first time he smiled at her. It was strange how the shape of his face changed and softened when he did so.
‘Shall we continue our little fantasy?’ he suggested. ‘Now they have their man on board the Dolphin, and he has some kind of electronic transmitter, probably a transponder. Through him they will know the exact position of the yacht. Their ambush boat starts to move into position, but then panic! Mrs Bannock, who is their target, leaves the ship at Cape Town. This is totally unexpected. Then suddenly the panic is over. Miss Cayla Bannock remains on board, and she and Rogier are good friends. She trusts him. This is almost as good as having her mother in their clutches. The plan can go ahead.’ Hazel hugged herself and shivered violently.
‘This is terrible.’
‘It gets better. There is hope,’ he promised her. ‘Now everything goes exactly as planned. The Dolphin sails into the trap. Rogier is able to assist the boarding and get the pirates into the fast-moving ship. Smart lad, our Rogier. The crew is taken into custody. There is only one small bleep on the screen. Cayla Bannock is a bright brave girl. She manages even in these terrifying moments of her capture to get off a text message to her mother.’ Hector paused and glanced at his computer screen. ‘Excuse me. It seems I have mail.’ He tapped the keyboard opening the attachments to the message and then he swore bitterly, but immediately excused himself.
‘Go ahead. I am becoming accustomed to it,’ she said. ‘What have you got?’
‘Our junior ship’s steward was born Adam Abdul Tippoo Tip on Réunion. In 2008 Adam changed his name to Rogier Marcel Moreau by deed poll in Auvergne in the south of France.’ He was silent for a moment as he studied the copy of the birth certificate.
Hazel burst out impatiently, ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing at all,’ he admitted. ‘However, the good news is that your daughter is almost certainly alive.’
‘Where is she then?’ Hazel pleaded.
‘Even money that Cayla is a captive on the Arab ambush vessel. She is priceless goods. They would never harm her.’
‘And the Dolphin?’ She shook her head in bewilderment.
‘Oh, they scuttled her. She was too obvious a target. The US airforce would have picked her up within a few hours of her being reported missing. My guess is they blew the bottom out of her. She is probably lying in a few thousand feet of water at the bottom of the Mascarene Basin off Madagascar. I feel certain you have insurance cover on her, with a piracy clause.’
‘The money is not important,’ she said.
‘In my limited experience the money is always important. How much is she insured for?’
‘One hundred and fifty-two million euros. God, Cross, don’t you have any concern for other people’s feelings?’
‘Very little,’ he admitted. ‘Only one thing concerns me at the moment, and that is finding and rescuing your daughter. But in the meantime the sun is setting.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘I would like to make you a drink. Both our nerves are on edge but we don’t need to fight each other. There are lots of other lovely people out there for us to fight. Vodka and fresh lime juice with ice, is it not?’
‘Yes, and you were right. I did attend Herschel Girls High.’ He knew it was a peace offering. He poured the clear spirit over the crackling ice in the long glass, then filled it with juice. She thanked him with a smile. When he had poured Scotch into his own glass they saluted each other. After they had both sipped and murmured approval, she sat back and studied his face.
‘My husband told me once that you fly by the seat of your pants. Are you right about this one, Cross?’ she asked him. He touched the side of his nose.
‘It smells good to me. It’s better than a hunch. It’s a reasoned scenario that all hangs together.’
‘Then where is my daughter? If this is a hostage taking, why haven’t they come through with a ransom demand? It’s been almost ten days since the Dolphin disappeared.’
‘They are giving themselves time to get well clear. Their vessel is probably a slow and nondescript sailing dhow. They want to be in their own territorial waters where they are safe from the warships of the civilized Western powers before they break cover. Also they want you to soften up and start breaking down with the suspense and the uncertainty.’
‘How much longer?’
‘Say they can make fourteen knots, and they are heading for Yemen or Puntland in Somalia, then they will almost have reached their destination by now,’ he said. ‘Not more than two or three days more.’
‘You have mentioned Puntland before. I’ve never heard of it until now.’
‘It’s in north-eastern Somalia and comprises the Great Horn of Africa. It is an inhospitable semi-desert, rugged and ari
d, three times larger than New Mexico. It is virtually cut off from the rest of Africa by the high mountain range on the west side of the Great Rift Valley. These mountains also block the prevailing westerly winds which drop all their rain on the slopes. The vegetation of Puntland is coarse acacia, thorny shrub bush and sparse rank grass. However, the country is very strategically positioned on the coast of the Gulf of Aden guarding the approaches to the Red Sea. Puntland broke away from the rest of Somalia at the end of the civil war and declared itself autonomous. It named itself after the Land of Punt in ancient Egyptian historical lore. It is believed to be the country to which Queen Hatshepsut sent her famous expedition in 1550 BC. Now it is governed by a loose-knit gang of independent warlords who answer to nobody and keep their own particular brand of law and justice.’
He changed the subject with disconcerting suddenness. ‘Will you take your dinner in your room where you will be able to mope in private? Not recommended. Or will you dine with me in the mess? Chef has some superb Japanese Wagyu rib eye beef. Food, wine and company most highly recommended on page one hundred of the latest edition of the Michelin guide.’ She had sat alone all these last dreadful nights, and at least he was not boring. Infuriating? Yes definitely, but not boring. She smiled and capitulated.
During the meal he kept the conversation away from the subject of her missing daughter and yacht, instead he spoke about the political structure of Abu Zara and the operations of Bannock Oil in the Emirate, then he moved on to the subjects of horses and horse racing which he knew interested her.
‘My father kept a few horses in training on the ranch,’ he explained when she looked askance at his obvious knowledge of the subject. ‘As a skinny kid I was his head groom and jockey. Once a month we attended the race meetings in Nairobi. It was all knock-about and amateur stuff but we took it extremely seriously.’
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.’
Those in Peril Page 8