by Wilbur Smith
‘Master! Come swiftly!’ The dhow’s captain came over with long strides. The deck was lit with kerosene lanterns hanging from the boom of the mast. In their light the captain was a tall lean figure dressed in a checked red and white shumag head cloth and a long white dishdashah robe. His full beard was still dark although he was past fifty years of age. He ducked into the radio shack and replied to the operator expectantly,
‘Yes?’
‘By the grace of Allah and his Prophet may they be praised eternally.’ The operator affirmed the contact and moved aside in the cramped shack to allow the captain a clear view of the radio and the steady red light glowing on the front panel. Wordlessly the captain squatted in front of the equipment and began to interrogate the transponder. First he asked it for its present position and speed over the ground. It replied at once. The captain repeated these details of longitude and latitude to the operator and he scribbled them on his pad. They knew these were accurate to within a few metres.
Despite the dhow’s biblical rigging and archaic appearance the satellite navigation with which it was equipped was the most modern commercially available. When the captain had ascertained from the transponder the Dolphin’s heading and speed, he spread the chart of the Indian Ocean on the deck and pored over it. The dhow’s present position was marked with a discreet red cross. He determined the position of the infidel yacht and marked that on the chart also. Then he began a calculation of the course and time for interception. He did not want to waste time and fuel by reaching the point too far ahead of the yacht, but more important he must not let the other vessel get ahead of him. While towing the long boats the dhow had a top speed of only fourteen knots and in a stern chase would be left floundering far behind. Once the captain was satisfied with his calculations he went out onto the open deck.
Thirty-nine men were crowded there, squatting silently and expectantly. The modern automatic weapons they all carried seemed incongruous in this setting. There were eleven men to crew each of the long boats and the others were the crew of the dhow itself. The captain moved with stately tread to his place at the tiller, from where he addressed them.
‘The gazelle is in the jaws of the cheetah.’ His first words brought forth a fierce hum of comment from the men. The captain raised a hand and they were immediately silent, concentrating all their attention upon him.
‘The infidel is still far to the south-east but moving swiftly towards us. Tomorrow morning before it is light we will weigh anchor. It will take seven hours of sailing for us to reach the ambush position. I expect the infidel ship to pass us tomorrow afternoon two hours before sunset at a range of two miles to the east; too great a distance to make out more than our sail. She will take us for a harmless island trader . . .’ Speaking slowly but emphatically he went over the attack plan once again. These were simple men, most of them illiterate and not overly intelligent, but when they smelt blood in the water they were as fearsome as barracuda. When he had finished he reminded them, ‘We will sail before first light tomorrow morning and may Allah and his Prophet smile upon our enterprise.’
When she saw the door handle of her stateroom turn stealthily Cayla was ready for it. She had been waiting for him nearly an hour and her anticipation was feverish. She had rehearsed every biting and insulting word in her mind, and then the manner in which she would force him to submit to her in cringing apology. Now she leapt from the bed and raced silently to the door on bare feet. She placed her lips close to the panel and spoke just loudly enough for her voice to carry to him on the far side,
‘Go away! I never want to see you again. I hate you. Do you hear me, I hate you.’ She waited for his reply, but there was silence for half a minute, which seemed to her much longer. She wanted to call out again, just to make certain that he was still there. Then he spoke and his voice was level and cold.
‘Yes, I hear you. I am leaving immediately as you request.’ She heard his footsteps retreat along the passageway. This was not going as she had envisaged it. He was supposed to beg her forgiveness. Quickly she shot back the bolt and jerked the door open.
‘How dare you insult and defy me. Come back here at once. I want you to know how much I hate you!’ He turned back to face her and he smiled, that smile of his that thrilled and infuriated her. She stamped her foot, and she could hardly believe that she had made such a childish gesture.
‘Come back here immediately. Don’t stand there with that stupid grin on your face. Come here.’
He shrugged and sauntered back to where she was holding the door half-open. She gathered the most scathing insults she could think of, but before she could deliver one of them he had reached the door. He was still smiling, but his next action took her completely by surprise. He put his shoulder to the door and forced it fully open. She recoiled in astonishment.
‘You bastard!’ she said shakily. ‘How dare you, you uncouth peasant!’ He closed the door behind him and shot the deadlock. Then he advanced on her unhurriedly and she was forced to retreat.
‘Get away from me. Don’t you dare touch me. Vous êtes une merde noire.’ She sprang at him with a clenched fist and launched a savage round-arm blow at his head. He caught her wrist and slowly forced her to her knees in front of him.
‘You can’t do this to me! I will tell my mother.’
‘So, now Cayla is not a big fierce girl any more. She is a spoilt little baby crying for her mummy.’
‘Don’t you talk to me like that. I’ll kill you . . .’ She broke off in astonishment as she realized that he was unzipping his trouser fly and bringing out his penis only inches from her face. Blaise was already in full erection. She realized that her violence had aroused him.
‘You can’t do this to me,’ she whispered. ‘You’re hurting me.’ He had twisted up her arm painfully but he was still smiling. Despite the pain she was suddenly as aroused as he was. She could feel her vaginal lubricant seeping through her silk panties. His penis was touching her lips.
‘Open your mouth!’ he ordered her. Slowly she parted her lips and he forced the head deep inside. Now she abandoned any show of reluctance and her head nodded in rhythm to his thrusts. Suddenly she froze with horror, and then jerked her head back coughing and spitting.
‘You bastard!’ she sobbed with disgust. ‘You pissed in my mouth. Vous êtes un cochon dégoûtant!’ He let go of her wrist, but immediately grabbed a handful of her blonde hair and twisted her face up towards his.
‘Never, never call me a pig again,’ he said with deadly calm. ‘And this is just to remind you.’ Open-handed he struck her across the face, knocking her head to one side. She looked up at him with astonishment and awe, tears of pain from her stinging cheek flooding her eyes, but she could not speak from the shock rather than the pain.
‘Now, open your mouth again,’ he ordered, but she mumbled an incoherent refusal, and tried to turn her head away. He tightened his grip on the handful of her hair, until it felt to her as if he was going to rip it off her scalp. She lifted her face towards him, her cheek glowing pinkly where the blow had landed.
‘Please, Rogier, don’t hurt me again. I did not mean what I said. I love you so much. You will never know how much. Forgive me, please.’
‘Prove it to me,’ he said. ‘Open your mouth again.’ She had never felt so overpowered and helpless. It was as though she knelt not at the feet of a human being, but of a god. She longed for him to possess her completely, to subjugate her, to violate and demean her. Slowly she opened her mouth as he had ordered her and he thrust so hard into her that the hinges of her jaws ached. As the pungent warm flood spurted into her mouth again it swamped her senses. She knew then that she belonged to him, to him alone and to no other, not even to herself.
Two hours later he left her lying exhausted on the rumpled sheets. Her lips were swollen and inflamed with his rough kisses and the stubble of his new beard, her mascara had run leaving her eyes like those of a tragic clown, her alabaster skin was deathly pale except for the one vivid pink cheek
where he had slapped her. Her hair was tousled and darkened with her sweat. She struggled up on one elbow as she heard him at the door. But she could not find the words to plead with him to stay with her. Then it was too late and he had gone. Broken and ravaged, she was too tired to weep. She lowered her head to the pillow and within minutes she was asleep.
Rogier went up on deck after evening prayers and leaned on the rail as was his established habit. Once he was sure that he was unobserved he slipped into the locker and one glance at the transponder in its hiding place assured him that it had been interrogated by another station. A second bulb had lit up above the first. He typed in the squawk code and the tiny screen came alive. It gave him the date and time of the last contact. This had taken place only a few hours previously. He felt a lift of excitement. Everything was going exactly as it had been planned many months before. There had been so much that could have gone wrong, and had almost done so.
Originally his grandfather’s plan had been to make the Bannock woman herself the target. But it soon became apparent that this was not feasible. Even the most elementary research had made it clear that the woman was much too worldly-wise and canny to be lured into such an obvious honey trap. Although it seemed she had dallied once or twice since her husband’s death, it had always been on her own terms with mature and powerful men of similar status to her own. She would certainly be proof against Rogier’s more obvious and boyish charms and wiles. However, her daughter was an innocent lamb; alone in Paris and eager to experience life and all its excitements. Rogier’s grandfather had sent him to Paris, and the meeting with and ensnarement of the girl had been pathetically simple.
All that was required now was for the mother to make her annual Christmas visit to the Seychelles on board her yacht and of course take her daughter with her, but this seemed to be beyond reasonable doubt. The unexpected twist had been when the mother had left the yacht in Cape Town, leaving her daughter on board to sail to the island accompanied only by the crew, of which Rogier was now a member. His grandfather had been pleased with this unexpected turn of events. Rogier had telephoned him from a dockside call box at the Cape Town waterfront and the old man had chuckled when he heard the news.
‘Allah has been magnanimous, exalted be his name. I could not have arranged it better myself. The girl will be more vulnerable and malleable without her mother to protect her, and once she is in our power the mother will be helpless to resist us. Take the cub and the lioness must follow.’
Rogier was about to leave the locker when the transponder beeped softly. The tiny green screen had come alive and Rogier scanned the Arabic text message on it. It was from his uncle Kamal, his grandfather’s youngest son, who was the commodore of the fleet of pirate craft with which Tippoo Tip ravaged the Indian Ocean shipping. For this important operation Kamal had personally taken command of the dhow. He was giving Rogier the estimated time the following day when he expected that his vessel would be within visual range of the Dolphin.
At precisely 0530 hours the doors to the executive suite opened and Hazel Bannock stepped into the dark courtyard. She wore a black leotard which seemed moulded to her long athletic torso and legs. Over it she wore a pair of wide-legged silk shorts that were meant to modestly conceal the shape of her buttocks. They had the opposite effect of enhancing their perfection. On her feet was a pair of white running shoes. The famous golden hair was gathered back severely by a black band behind her head.
‘Good morning, Major. Are you happy to run in your full warlike paraphernalia?’ Her tone was mildly mocking. He wore combat boots and a webbing belt over his camouflage fatigues. There was a pistol in a holster on his hip.
‘I do everything in this gear, Ma’am.’ Though his expression was deadpan they were both aware of the double entendre. And she frowned with quick annoyance at the liberty.
‘Then let’s run,’ she said curtly. ‘Lead the way, Major.’ They left the compound, and he took her up the path that climbed to the highest point of the ridge. He set a moderate pace for the first mile until he could judge her capability. He could hear her close behind him on the path and when they crested the slope she spoke in an easy tone with no hint of exertion.
‘When you have finished admiring the view, Major, we might try at least a jog trot.’ Hector grinned. The sun was still just below the horizon but its spreading rays were perfectly traced across the heavens by the fine dust of the Khamseen. The sky was ablaze with a flaming glory.
‘You must admit, Ma’am, that it’s worth more than a passing glance,’ he said, but she did not reply and he lengthened his stride. They traversed the ridge, and finally he reckoned they were five miles out from the compound. The sun was up now and the heat was mounting swiftly. Far below them the oil rigs emerged from the dense shadow cast by the ridge, and he could make out the shining silver pipeline running across the dreary desert wastes down towards the coast.
‘There is a narrow path down the ridge just ahead. The footing is treacherous, but if we take it we can meet the patrol road along the pipeline for the home run, Mrs Bannock. It would be another five miles from there to the compound. Do you want me to take that route?’
‘Go ahead, Major.’ When they reached the patrol road she moved up easily and took over the lead. She ran lightly, gracefully, but very fast. He had to stretch out to just below his own top speed to hold her. Now he could see that at last she was perspiring through her leotard in a darker line down her spine, and the golden hair at the nape of her neck was damp. Under the baggy silk shorts he could make out the shape of her buttocks bouncing with each stride. He stared at them.
Tennis balls? he asked himself, and felt a sharp stab of lust in his groin. Son of a gun, she can give me a hard-on even at this speed. Not half bad! he thought, and grunted with suppressed laughter.
‘Share the joke, Major,’ she invited him, still speaking in conversational levels, showing no signs of tiring.
Bloody woman, he thought, she is just too bloody good to be true. I wonder what her weakness is.
‘Schoolboy humour. You would not find it entertaining, Ma’am.’
‘Come up alongside, Major. We can talk.’ He moved up and ran at her shoulder, but she was quiet, forcing him to speak first.
‘With all due respect, Ma’am, I am no longer a Major. I would much prefer it if you simply called me Cross.’
‘With the utmost respect, Cross,’ she replied, ‘I am not the Queen of England. You can drop the ma’am business.’
‘Certainly, Mrs Bannock.’
‘I am fully aware why you eschew the military rank, Cross. It reminds you of the reason why you were thrown out of your regiment. You shot three helpless prisoners of war, did you not?’
‘If I may correct you, I was not thrown out of the regiment. I was found not guilty by the court martial. Subsequently I requested and was granted an honourable discharge.’
‘But your prisoners were still very dead after you had finished with them, were they not?’
‘They had just blown up six of my comrades with a roadside bomb. Though they had their hands in the air at the time of their departure from this mortal coil they were still active hostiles. When one of them reached for what I thought was a suicide belt under his robe I had no time to be selective. I had a squad of my men within range of any blast. We were all in peril. I had no option but to cull all three of them.’
‘When the corpses were examined none of them were found to be wearing a belt. That was the evidence at your court martial. Was it incorrect?’
‘I was not afforded the luxury of making a prior body search of the prisoners. I had about one hundredth of a second to make the decision.’
‘Cull is a euphemism that usually applies to the killing of animals.’ She changed tack.
‘In the military it has another usage.’
‘Culling niggers?’ she suggested. ‘Slotting rag-heads?’
‘The choice of words is yours, Mrs Bannock, not mine.’ They ran on in silence for anothe
r ten minutes. Then she said,
‘Since entering the service of Bannock Oil there have been a number of further fatal incidents in which you were involved.’
‘Three to be exact, Mrs Bannock.’
‘During these three incidents another two dozen men were killed by you and your men. All the victims were Arabs?’
‘Nineteen of them to be exact, Mrs Bannock.’
‘I was close enough,’ she said.
‘Before we continue may I point out, Mrs Bannock, that those nineteen insurgents were all intent on blowing the hell out of Bannock Oil installations.’
‘It did not occur to you to arrest them and hold them for questioning to make certain they were truly terrorists?’ she asked.
‘The idea did cross my mind, Mrs Bannock, but at the time they were all shooting at me and they did not seem amenable to polite conversation,’ Hector said and this time he let a small sneer twist his lips. He had learned enough about her to know that would infuriate her. She ran on in silence for a while as she regrouped her attack. Then she went on,
‘Tell me truly, Cross. How do you feel about people of a darker complexion than your own lily white?’
‘Truly, Mrs Bannock, I don’t give a good stuff. I am as strongly antagonistic to bad-arsed lily-whites as I am to bad-arsed coal blacks. But I hold for both good lily-whites and good blacks alike a deep and abiding affection.’
‘Please moderate your language, Cross.’
‘Okay, Mrs Bannock, just as soon as you cut out the clever innuendo.’
‘Very well, Cross. I will come straight out with it. I think you are a blood-thirsty racist, and I don’t particularly like you for it.’
‘Mr Bannock did not think the same thing about me when he signed my contract with Bannock Oil.’