by Wilbur Smith
‘I know my husband had a higher regard for you and your abilities than I do, but then my husband also voted for the Bushes, father and son. Henry Bannock was almost but not entirely perfect.’
‘Of course, you voted for Mr Clinton and Mr Gore?’
She ignored the question, and went on, ‘I note your subtle reference to your contract with Bannock Oil, Cross. I have read that document through, every word of it.’
‘Then you know it will be an expensive one to break.’
‘At this stage no one is talking about breaking any contracts, especially one that was authorized by my husband. But I will have my eye on you. Please try not to cull too many more niggers on my time.’ At the completion of their run she turned away from him with a curt ‘Thank you, Cross,’ and started into the building, glancing at her wristwatch.
‘Mrs Bannock!’ He made her pause and look back. ‘Like me or loathe me, if you ever need me you will need me badly, and I will be here, if for no other reason than that your husband was one of the good guys. They didn’t come any better than Henry Bannock.’
‘Let’s hope I never need your services that badly.’ She dismissed him. In twenty minutes she had a final meeting with Simpson before she helicoptered back to the oil terminal at Sidi el Razig. The jet was waiting for her on the runway there to take her down to Mahe Island in the Seychelles to be with her beloved family. She showered quickly and used a moisturizing sun cream, but no makeup. She went through to her communications room. There was a string of emails from Agatha, but she did not have time to deal with those now. She would run through them once she was on the jet. She started for the door on her way to the meeting with Simpson. At that moment she heard her BlackBerry buzz in the outside pocket of her crocodile skin handbag that stood on her bedside table. She turned back. Very few people had that number. She took the mobile phone from the pocket of her handbag and switched it on. The legend on the screen read, ‘You have 2 missed calls and 1 message. Do you wish to view your messages?’ She pressed ‘Show’.
‘I wonder what my little monkey wants now,’ she said to herself fondly and the text appeared. It was chillingly short and simple:
Terrible things happening. Strange men with guns . . .
It broke off as if Cayla had been interrupted in mid-sentence. Hazel felt a dark shutter flicker over her vision. She swayed on her feet. Then her vision cleared and she stared at the message blankly, deliberately refusing to face up to the enormity of it. Then it dawned upon her and she felt an ice-cold hand clutch her heart and start squeezing the life out of her. With shaking hands and short asthmatic breaths she punched the reply button on her BlackBerry and listened to the endless ringing tone at Cayla’s end of the line. It was interrupted at last by an impersonal voice:
‘The person you have dialled is not available at present. Please leave a message after the tone.’
‘Darling! Darling! I am going mad. Please call me back as soon as you can.’ She spoke into the BlackBerry then darted through to her communications room. She punched the contact number for the Dolphin’s bridge. For the security of the ship and the passengers most of her crew were combat-trained and well armed. Surely they would have defended Cayla, she thought desperately. But the phone rang interminably. Her mouth was dry and her eyes blurred.
‘Please!’ she begged. ‘Please somebody answer me.’ Then the ringing tone switched off, and the ready signal buzzed infuriatingly in her ear. She slammed down the receiver and dialled Agatha. Her heart bounded at the sound of the prim old-maidish voice.
‘Agatha, I have had a terrifying text message from Cayla, something about strange men with guns on board the Dolphin. I cannot contact her. I cannot contact the ship. The last position I have for her was yesterday evening. Write down these coordinates, Agatha.’ From memory she recited the longitude and latitude that Franklin had given her. ‘Now it seems that she has disappeared with Cayla on board. You must phone Chris Bessell at home. Get him out of bed . . .’ Chris was her senior executive vice-president in Houston. ‘He must get everybody he can onto this. He must use all his contacts at the Pentagon and the White House. Request an urgent over-fly of the area from the nearest military satellite. Find out if there is a US warship in the immediate area. Ask them to send it in at its best speed. Ask for a reconnaissance aircraft to fly out of the airforce base on Diego Garcia to widen the search. Keep trying to contact the ship directly. I am flying back home as fast as I can. Try and arrange for me to see the President personally as soon as I arrive in Washington. You and Chris must pull all the strings and press all the buttons.’ She was panting as though she had just run a marathon. ‘Agatha, this is Cayla, my baby! I am relying on you. You cannot let me down.’
‘You know I won’t, Mrs Bannock.’
Hazel broke the connection and rang Simpson’s number on the internal line of the compound. He answered almost immediately.
‘Good morning, Mrs Bannock. We are waiting for you in the boardroom—’
She interrupted him brusquely. ‘Have the helicopter ready for me in five minutes. Radio ahead to have my jet standing on the runway at Sidi el Razig. Order my chief pilot to have her fully refuelled with engines running, ready for immediate takeoff the minute I arrive. Tell my pilot to file a flight plan direct to Farnborough airport in England. We will refuel there before flying on across the Atlantic to Washington DC. We must not waste a single moment.’
She opened her safe and snatched out the satchel which contained her passport, emergency cash and credit cards, then she burst out of her suite and raced down the long passage towards the front doors. Bert Simpson, two of his underlings and Hector were standing there. They had been waiting there since her call to Simpson.
‘What the hell is going on, Bert?’ Hector asked quietly.
‘Damned if I know. But it must be a major catastrophe. She was in a terrible state when I spoke to her—’ He broke off as Hazel Bannock came running down the passage towards them.
She called out urgently, ‘Is the helicopter here?’
‘It has just this moment landed,’ Bert assured her as she strode past him towards the door. Then she saw that Hector Cross was with the other men. He was the only one whose expression was calm. He spoke quietly, holding her attention with that penetrating green gaze.
‘Please remember, Mrs Bannock,’ he said, ‘if you need me, one word will be enough.’
It was then that she realized for the first time that she was weeping openly and that the tears were pouring down her face and dripping from her chin. She dashed them away with the back of her hand, but she wished desperately that Cross had not been there to witness her condition. She had never in all her life experienced such a seething witch’s brew of emotions. She knew she was close to snapping point, and the knowledge frightened her. Hector Cross was the nearest target for her terror and confusion. She rounded on him with the face of a Fury.
‘Don’t you dare mock me, you arrogant bastard, Cross. You know nothing, so what can you do? What can anybody do?’ She turned away and stumbled slightly as she went down the front steps. Hector was gripped by a strange and alien sensation. It was a long, long time since he had last experienced it, so it took him a moment to recognize it. It was compassion. Maybe Hazel Bannock was all too human under that polished veneer. He no longer believed in love. What had remained of that he left on the floor of a divorce court somewhere. Yet this feeling of compassion felt very much like the other thing. It was disturbing.
You are not going to make a total arsehole of yourself again, are you, Cross? he asked himself as he watched her run to the helicopter that waited in the middle of the courtyard with its rotors turning slowly. She scrambled up the ladder and the engine of the big machine roared as it rose into the air and swivelled around to face the coast. It lowered its nose and bore away swiftly.
You haven’t answered the question, Cross, the little voice inside him whispered. He grinned without humour and replied to himself, No! But it will be interesting to find
out if she is human.
Rogier carried the tray containing Mr Jetson’s dinner up to the bridge. On a spotlessly white linen cloth he laid out the dishes and silver on the small table against the stern bulkhead. Then he stood by attentively as Jetson ate quickly, not seating himself to savour the meal but continuing to pace back and forth as he chewed. His eyes continually swept the darkening horizon ahead and then darted to the radar repeater. There was a tiny contact glowing on the screen. The bearing was 268 degrees. The range was showing as 3.8 nautical miles.
‘Helmsman, keep a sharp eye on that vessel.’
‘Very well, Mr Jetson.’
‘What do you make of her, Stevens?’
The helmsman squinted at the horizon. ‘Looks like one of them Arab dhows. Plenty of them in these waters, sir. They do say that they use the trade winds to cross the ocean clean as far as India. Been doing that since the time of Christ, or so they say.’
Rogier had been following the conversation without seeming to do so. He turned his head to gaze out of the window on the port wing of the bridge and he narrowed his eyes and studied the gunmetal-grey, choppy surface of the sea to the east. The setting sun was at their backs, but it still took him a few moments to pick out the tiny grey pyramid of canvas that was surely the sail of his uncle Kamal’s dhow. Even from the height of the bridge it was hull down, and it seemed to be on a parallel course to their own. Then Rogier saw the distant lateen sail spill its wind as the dhow briefly hove to.
Uncle Kamal is launching his attack boats at last, he told himself. Then the sail filled once more and the dhow went on the other tack and pointed down into the south. It began to merge into the dusk until at last it disappeared from their view.
Jetson walked back to the radar screen. ‘They have altered course thirty degrees into the south. I doubt they are making more than fourteen knots and at that speed and heading they are shaping to pass us twenty miles astern.’ Then he glanced at Rogier. ‘Thank you, steward,’ said Jetson. ‘You can clear away the dinner dishes now.’
Rogier stacked the dishes and carried them down to the scullery. When he had finished washing up he called across to the chef, ‘All done, Cookie. Can I knock off now?’ The chef was sitting at his own small table next to his pantry with a crystal wine glass and an open green bottle placed in front of him.
‘What’s the big hurry, Rogier? Come and drink a glass of this excellent Château Neuf with me.’
‘Not tonight, Cookie. I am beat. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’ He left quickly, before the chef could prevail on him further.
In his cabin he made an apology to Allah and the Prophet. ‘You know that there are desperate matters afoot. Please forgive me that I will miss the evening prayer. After I have obeyed your call to jihad I will make full recompense tomorrow evening.’ Then he dressed in his casual dark clothing and went up to the aft deck. He stood at the rail and stared back along the ship’s wake. He could see nothing but the black swells running away into the darkness. The chase boats were designed to sit low in the water. Hidden in the clutter of the wave crests, they would be under the Dolphin’s radar. In any case this was not a warship and the watch was more relaxed. As he had witnessed, all their attention was focused ahead. They did not expect any other vessel would have the speed to come up on their stern. However, Rogier knew the boats were out there. Uncle Kamal had given a contact time on the transponder for 2300 hours. That was when most of the crew would be settling down for the night, and entirely off their guard.
Rogier waited an hour and then another. At intervals he checked the luminous dial of his cheap Japanese wristwatch. The Dolphin was running with all her lights burning. She was lit up as brightly as a fairground. The attack boats would be able to pick her up from twenty kilometres out, but he knew they were already much closer, probably tailing the Dolphin by only a few hundred metres. It was minutes before 2300 and he knew Kamal would be punctual. Rogier stared down the wake and suddenly there was a tiny pinprick of light on the dark sea. It flashed three times far beyond the foam. Rogier aimed his Maglite over the stern and flashed three times in reply. Then he waited impatiently. The long boats were not a great deal faster than the Dolphin, so it was almost ten minutes before he picked out the first sharklike hull emerging from out of the darkness astern. As it came closer he made out the shapes of the crew crouching low under the gunwales. Of course they were all dressed in dark clothing rather than the traditional white dishdashahs, and their faces were swathed in black head cloths. They were being careful not to let their weapons show above the boat’s gunwales. The other two attack boats appeared out of the gloom behind the leader.
A single figure stood up in the bow of the leading boat as it sheered out alongside the Dolphin’s port quarter, and then edged in close alongside.
Despite the head cloth Rogier recognized his uncle Kamal’s tall lean frame. He was leading the raid personally. Rogier flashed the Maglite down to confirm that he was ready to take the line on board. Kamal stooped and picked up something from the deck, then stood again holding a small Lyle gun like a rifle. He raised the butt to his shoulder, and aimed up at where Rogier stood. There was a muted pop of the discharge and a puff of white smoke as he fired. Rogier ducked as the white line snaked upwards and arced over his head. The small grappling iron on the end of the line clattered on the deck behind him and Rogier darted forward to catch the line before it was carried overboard by the drag through the water. He took three quick loops of the line around the mooring stanchion on the deck and tied it off with a bowline knot. He waved down at his uncle and immediately one of the crew, a small wiry man of ape-like strength and agility, swarmed up the rope and landed barefoot on the deck at Rogier’s side. Tied around his waist was a heavier line that could support any number of climbers. The rest of the boarders came up it in quick succession. One of them handed Rogier a holstered Tokarev pistol and he strapped it around his waist under his windcheater. Five of them had already been delegated to secure the bridge. At a single word from Rogier their breech blocks snicked as each man locked and loaded the automatic assault rifle he carried. They followed Rogier on the run.
As Rogier entered the companionway that led to the upper deck he came face to face with the chef coming down the stairs. The chef stared at him and the armed men that followed him in blank incomprehension, then opened his mouth to scream. Rogier smashed the butt of the pistol into his temple and heard the bone of his skull crack. The chef dropped without a sound. Rogier stooped over his limp body and with another three blows crushed in the back of his head, making certain of the kill. Then he jumped over the corpse and raced on upwards. At the entrance to the bridge he paused to let the men that followed him regroup. Then he stepped through onto the bridge. Jetson was standing beside the instrument panel and discussing something with the helmsman. The radio operator was in his shack at the back of the bridge. He was leaning back in his swivel chair with his full attention on the paperback novel he was reading. But if he were alarmed it would take him only an instant to reach out and punch the red alarm button on the bulkhead beside him. That would begin a series of electronic measures which would automatically sound the ship’s alarm bells and broadcast a distress radio call which would be picked up by every marine listening station from Perth to Cape Town, and from Mauritius to Bombay. Rogier held the Tokarev behind his back as he walked into the radio shack.
‘Hi, Tim!’ He smiled at the operator as he looked up from his book.
‘Rogier, what the hell are you doing up here? You know this station is out of bounds.’
Rogier pointed past his shoulder. ‘Why is that red light flashing, Tim?’ he asked and Tim swivelled his chair quickly.
‘What red light?’ he demanded, and Rogier brought the pistol out from behind his back and shot Tim at the point where his top vertebrae joined his skull. The bullet blew out between his eyes in a bright burst of blood and brain matter which splattered over the radio panel. Tim toppled out of the chair and slid to the deck. Rogi
er turned swiftly and found that his men already had their guns on Jetson and the helmsman.
‘By Christ, Moreau. You have murdered that man . . .’ Jetson’s voice shook with shock and outrage. He started towards Rogier. Rogier lifted the pistol and shot him in the centre of his chest. Jetson clasped the wound with both hands and stood swaying slightly.
‘Are you mad?’ he whispered, shaking his head in awed disbelief.
‘You must kill the officers immediately. They are the ones who will organize any resistance,’ Rogier’s grandfather had ordered him, so Rogier shot Jetson twice more in the chest and then watched with professional interest as he staggered backwards into the control panel and collapsed in a huddle.
‘Secure the crew. They can be useful later as bargaining chips,’ his grandfather had ordered. Rogier nodded to his men and they pinioned the helmsman’s arms behind his back and bound his wrists together with a heavy-duty nylon cable tie. Rogier went past him to the control panel of the yacht and moved the engine telegraphs to the ‘Stop’ position. The vibration of the engines through the deck under his feet died away and he felt the subtle change in her motion as the Amorous Dolphin lost her forward way.
‘Sit down.’ Rogier turned to the helmsman. ‘Don’t move until you are told to do so.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Rogier . . .’ the helmsman pleaded, but Rogier shoved the pistol into his ribs and with his arms still pinioned the helmsman dropped hurriedly to the deck and sat in the spreading puddle of Jetson’s blood. It soaked into his breeches.
Rogier left one of his men on guard and led the rest of them to the lower deck. He stopped outside the door to the captain’s suite. In his capacity as a ship’s steward he had his pass key to let himself into any cabin which was not doubled-locked. Rogier had brought Franklin his coffee at 6 a.m. daily, so he knew from experience that the captain never double-locked. The door slid open quietly and Rogier stepped into the sitting room of the suite. He switched on the desk light and saw that the door to the bedroom was open a crack. There was the sound of heavy snoring from the cabin beyond. He crossed the sitting room and looked through into the bedroom. Franklin lay on his back on his bunk, on top of the bedclothes. He wore only a pair of boxer shorts. His paunch was protuberant, pale and covered with grey and straggly hair. His mouth hung open and the regular snores sawed up his throat. Rogier went to him and held the muzzle of the Tokarev half an inch from his ear. He fired a single shot. Franklin gulped noisily and cut off halfway through the next exhalation, but after that he made no further sound or movement. Rogier fired a second shot into his brain. Then he reloaded the magazine of the pistol, and led his men out of the cabin and down to the main salon.