by Wilbur Smith
‘You are no martyr,’ Uthmann shouted at the smoking wreckage and vaporized remains of the driver as he ran past it. ‘You are a Shi’ite murderer!’ Then he saw that his brother Ali’s house was further down the street and that it was intact. Ali’s wife met him at the door. She was weeping and cradling two of the children. ‘Where is Ali?’ he yelled at her.
‘He has gone to work at the hotel,’ she sobbed.
‘Are all the children with you?’ She nodded through her tears.
‘May the name of Allah be praised!’ Uthmann cried and led her back into the house.
Uthmann’s own wife and three children had not been as fortunate as his brother’s family. Three years before Lailah had been in the market place with the boys when a bomb had blown up within thirty paces of them. Now Uthmann picked the little boy out of the arms of his sister-in-law and rocked him until he stopped blubbering. He remembered the feel of his son’s warm little body and tears welled up in his eyes. He turned away so she could not see them.
His brother Ali came back from work an hour later. Because of the bomb the general manager of the hotel had given him permission to leave early. His relief when he saw all his family safe was heartrending for Uthmann to watch. It was only the following day that Uthmann was able to hold a serious discussion with him. To begin with Uthmann broached the subject of the taking of the American yacht and the capture of the young heiress to the Bannock Oil fortune.
‘This is the most exciting news that we have had for years,’ Ali responded at once. ‘All the Muslim world is agog with it since the day the comrades announced it on Al Jazeera. What dedicated planning and duty it took to bring such an operation to its flowering. It is one of our greatest victories since the attacks on New York City. The Americans are reeling. Their prestige has taken another deadly assault.’ Ali was jubilant. In everyday existence he was a floor manager at the Airport Hotel, but in reality his main occupation was as a coordinator for the Sunni Fighters who were pursuing the jihad against the Great Satan. It was clear to both brothers that Ali had been the main target of the Shi’ite bomb that had caused such devastation in the street outside the house in which they sat.
‘I am sure our leaders will demand an enormous ransom for the captured American princess,’ Ali said seriously. ‘Enough to finance the jihad against America for another ten years or more.’
‘So which of our groups were responsible for this achievement?’ Uthmann asked. ‘I have never heard of these “Flowers of Islam” until the name was used on Al Jazeera.’
‘Brother, you know better than to ask me that. Even though you have proved your loyalty a hundred times over I could never answer that question even if I knew the answer, which I do not.’ Ali hesitated, and then went on, ‘But I can tell you that soon you may be one of those with a need to know.’
‘My connection with Bannock Oil?’ Uthmann smiled at him, but Ali waved his hands in denial.
‘Enough, I can say no more.’
‘Then I will leave tomorrow, and return to Abu Zara—’
‘No!’ Ali cut him off. ‘It is the hand of Allah that brought you here today. Stay with me another month at least. Inshallah! I may have something to tell you then.’
Uthmann nodded. ‘Mashallah! I shall stay, brother.’
‘And you are welcome at my board, brother.’
In the palace on the hillside above the Oasis of the Miracle another group of men were drinking coffee from tiny silver cups and talking quietly and seriously. They were seated in a circle around a table that was inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl. The only item on the table was the silver coffee kettle. There were no writing materials anywhere in the room. Nothing was written down. All decisions were announced by Sheikh Khan Tippoo Tip in person, and memorized by his listeners.
‘So this is my decision.’ He was speaking in the deep measured tones in which he conducted all momentous business.
‘My grandson Adam will send the first ransom demand.’ He looked at Adam who, still sitting on the silk cushion, bowed until his forehead touched the tiles.
‘To hear your command is to obey it,’ he murmured.
Sheikh Khan mused, ‘The amount of our demand will be so large that even in the sick and accursed land of the Great Satan there will be none so rich as can pay it.’ When he smiled his eyes disappeared behind the wrinkled lids. ‘No amount of money can settle the blood feud I have with this man Cross. Only blood can pay for blood.’ They sipped from the silver cups in silence, waiting for the Sheikh to continue speaking.
‘This perfidious infidel has killed three of my sons.’ He held up one finger twisted with arthritis. ‘The first was my son and the father of my grandson, Saladin Gamel.’ Adam bowed again, and Sheikh Khan went on, ‘He was a true warrior of Allah. Cross shot him dead on a street in Baghdad seven years ago.’
‘May Allah welcome him into the Gardens of Paradise,’ the other men in the circle murmured.
‘The second blood debt is my son, Gafour. He was sent to honour the blood feud of his elder brother Saladin, but Cross killed him also when he attacked the dhow in which Gafour was sailing to Abu Zara to carry out the task I had set for him.’
‘May Allah welcome him into the Gardens of Paradise,’ the others intoned again.
‘The third of my sons to die at the hands of this Christ-worshipping infidel was Anwar. I sent him also on a mission of honour, but Cross murdered him.’
‘May Allah welcome him into the Gardens of Paradise,’ they chorused for the third time.
‘The blood feud has become a heavy toll on my conscience. The lives of three of my fine sons have been taken by this foul idolater, servant of a false God. It is no longer sufficient for me to take his life. One life cannot repay me for three. I must capture him and hand him over alive to the mothers and wives of the men he has killed. The women are highly skilled in these matters. Under their hands and the sharp blades of their skinning knives he shall endure many days in torment before he passes into the belly of hell and the arms of Satan.’
‘As you command, mighty Khan, so shall it be,’ they murmured agreement.
‘Are you listening to me, my grandson?’ Sheikh Khan demanded. Adam bowed again, deeply, reverently.
‘I am listening, revered grandfather.’
‘I place the debt of the blood feud squarely on your shoulders. You must collect payment for your two uncles and for your own father. May you know no rest or peace until the debt is paid in full.’
‘I hear you, my grandfather. It is a sacred trust.’
‘When you bring this infidel pig of a pig to me alive I will raise you up higher than any man in our tribe. You will take a place in my heart alongside the memory of your murdered father and uncles. When I die you will take my place as leader of our clan.’
‘I acknowledge this as my sacred duty, my grandfather. I shall deliver the man and the woman to face your judgment and wrath, even as you command.’
The waiting is always the hardest part, Hector Cross had told her at the beginning. Gradually she learned just how right he was. Each day she spent many hours on Skype conference calls conducting the business of the company with the senior executives of Bannock Oil around the world. The rest of the time she trained with Hector’s men, running, jumping and shooting until she was as physically fit and mentally focused as she had been when she walked on court at Flinders Park on that day of glory so long ago.
But the nights, those terrible nights, passed in spiritual agony. She slept little but when she did she dreamed of Cayla; Cayla galloping beside her on her palomino through the high meadows of the ranch. Cayla squealing with excitement as she opened the extravagant present that Hazel had given her on her eighteenth birthday. Cayla falling asleep with her head on Hazel’s shoulder as they watched old movies on late-night cable TV together. Then in her dreams there were men, masked men with guns in their hands, and her terror was infinite. Cayla! Cayla! The name rang incessantly in her head, tormenting her and driving her to the
very edge of madness.
Every day she spoke with Chris Bessell and Colonel Roberts in the States, but they had little for her comfort. Every night alone in her room she prayed as she had as a small girl, on her knees and weeping. But the trail had gone cold. Neither all the power of her prayers nor the might of the CIA was able to turn up any trace of Cayla or of the Flowers of Islam. She spent many hours each day with Hector Cross, drawing strength from his companionship.
‘But we’ve heard nothing in almost a month, Cross!’ She said that at least once every day.
‘They play the game of cat and mouse with infinite skill. They have had years of practice at it,’ he replied. ‘They’re in no hurry. We must wait them out. But remember that Cayla is still alive. Hold that thought close to your heart.’
‘But what about Tariq and Uthmann? Surely they must have found out something by now.’
‘It’s a deadly slow game,’ he emphasized. ‘If Tariq and Uthmann make a single slip, they will die an unenviable death. They’re in very deep cover, living, eating and sleeping with the Beast. We cannot hurry them, indeed I cannot even contact them. To try to do so would give the same result as a bullet through the head.’
‘I just wish there was something we could do,’ she lamented.
‘There is one thing you could do, Mrs Bannock.’
‘What is it, Cross?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I will do anything you suggest.’
‘Then I suggest you stop sending mail on Cayla’s mobile phone to the Beast.’
‘How . . . ?’ Her voice trailed off, then she shook her head and admitted, ‘I was only repeating the message you made me send to them before. Just that we are waiting. But how did you . . .’ She broke off again.
‘How did I know what you were up to?’ He finished the question for her. ‘Sometimes you’re not as smart as you think you are, Hazel Bannock.’
‘As for you, Hector Cross, you think you’re just the cleverest Dick in the whole wide bloody world,’ she flared at him.
‘Feels good to let fly like that occasionally, doesn’t it, Hazel?’
‘Don’t you dare call me Hazel, you bloody arrogant bastard!’
‘Good, Mrs Bannock! Your choice of language improves all the time. Soon you will be up to my high standards.’
‘I hate you, Hector Cross! I really do.’
‘No, you really don’t. You are much too astute for that. Save your hatred for where it will do the most good.’ He laughed. It was a gentle infectious laugh, mild and understanding, and despite herself she laughed with him, but her laughter had a hysterical edge.
‘You are incorrigible!’ she said through her laughter.
‘Now that you understand me, you may call me Hector or even Heck, if you so choose.’
‘Thank you.’ She tried to stem her laughter. ‘But I do not so bloody choose, Cross.’
‘What will force them to come and try to free the girl?’ Sheikh Khan stared at his grandson, waiting for him to answer.
Adam thought carefully before he answered. ‘First they must know where we are holding her.’
His grandfather nodded. ‘Then they will call for help from their friends in Washington. We know the mother is a friend of the American President. He will send his crusaders in their multitudes to overwhelm us.’ Sheikh Khan combed his fingers through his beard, watching his grandson’s eyes, waiting for the moment that the boy would see the way ahead as clearly as Sheikh Khan himself saw it. ‘It will take the Americans many weeks or even months to prepare to strike at us. We can move out of this place within hours and be gone into the desert. Hector Cross, the murderer of my sons, will know that. Will he and the mother of the girl be willing to wait for the US Army to move?’
‘Yes!’ said Adam with certainty. ‘Unless . . .’ Sheikh Khan saw the solution dawn in his grandson’s eyes and his heart swelled with pride.
‘Yes, Adam?’ He encouraged his grandson to speak.
‘Unless we can convince them that the girl is in dire danger of death, or of a danger worse than death itself,’ said Adam, and his grandfather smiled until his eyes almost disappeared in the deep creases of his skin. ‘Then they will come for us; without hesitation or fear they will come for us.’
‘Where shall we do it?’ Sheikh Khan whispered gleefully. Adam replied at once.
‘Not here in a stone cell of the fortress. It should be in a place where the beauty of the scenery contrasts with the horror of the deed.’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘The pool of the water lilies, in the Oasis of the Miracle!’
‘Do we show them the danger first, and then allow them to learn where we are? Or should they know the location first and then witness the deed?’ Sheikh Khan pretended to ponder the question, but Adam spoke again.
‘First they must see what the girl is suffering so when at last they learn the location they will rush in without hesitation or pause for thought.’
‘I am proud of you,’ said Sheikh Khan. ‘You will make a great general and a ruthless warrior of Allah.’ Adam bowed to acknowledge the compliment. Then he beckoned to one of the trusted guards who stood at the door with folded arms. The guard came swiftly to his side and went down on one knee to receive his orders.
‘Send word to the photographer,’ Adam said softly. ‘Tell him he must be waiting tomorrow at the main gates of the palace after the morning prayers. He must bring his video camera with him.’
The slave women came to fetch Cayla from the cramped cell in which she had been kept since she had been brought to the Oasis of the Miracle. Again they bathed her from pitchers of water and then dressed her in fresh clothing, a full-length black abaya gown, and wrapped a black shawl modestly around her face and over her hair. Then they led her to the main doors of the palace where four men with automatic rifles were waiting to escort her down the mountainside to the oasis.
After the musty cell of her confinement the desert air was clean and warm. She breathed it with relief. She had long ago lost any interest in what would happen to her next. She had retreated into a state of dull resignation. Halfway down the mountain track she became aware of the crowd that was gathered beside one of the pools in the lush green gardens below her. They appeared to be drawn up in some sort of order, a half-circle. All of them were men. As she came closer she saw that in the open centre of the circle a man sat cross-legged on a spread of woollen rugs. He wore traditional white baggy trousers, black waistcoat and turban, but even though a keffiyeh covered his face she recognized Adam. She felt a lift of her spirits. She had not seen him since the day almost a month ago when she had been photographed while she held up a copy of the International Herald Tribune. She wanted to run to him. In all this cruel and savage mob he was the only one she could trust. She knew he was her protector. He was the light in the darkness of her despair. She began to press forward eagerly but the men on each side restrained her, and they went on down the hill at the same easy pace. Suddenly another man appeared in front of her. He walked backwards with a large black professional video camera focused on her face.
‘Smile please, Missy,’ he entreated her. ‘Watch the birdie please, Missy.’ His English was almost unintelligible.
‘Go away!’ she shouted at him with the last flicker of her once fiery spirit. ‘Leave me alone.’ She made a lunge at him, but he skipped away, keeping just out of her reach. The guards seized her arms and jerked her back. The cameraman kept on filming. They entered the semi-circle of armed and masked men, and Cayla called pathetically to Adam, ‘Please! Oh, please, Adam! Stop them tormenting me.’
Adam gave an order. Her guards hustled her forward and forced her to sit beside him on the brightly coloured and patterned carpet. Now the cameraman came and knelt in front of them. He had screwed his camera onto a tripod. He bent over it to focus on Adam’s face and the camera purred softly. Adam removed the keffiyeh that covered his face and looked directly into the camera lens.
‘Cayla,’ Adam said in his almost perfect English, only lightly tinged by his French
accent, ‘they are taking this footage to send to your mother, to show her that you are being well cared for. You can send her any message you like. Speak into the camera. Tell her that they will soon send her a ransom demand. You must ask her to pay it at once. Once they receive the money all this unpleasantness will be over. You will be released and sent back home to your mother again. Do you understand?’ She nodded dumbly.
‘Remove the veil,’ Adam ordered her gently. ‘Let your mother see your face.’ Slowly, as if in a trance, Cayla lifted the headscarf and let it drop over her shoulders. ‘Now, look into the camera. Good, that’s it. Now, speak to your mother. Tell her what is in your heart.’
Cayla drew a long shaky breath and said, ‘Hello, Mummy. It’s me, Cayla.’ She stopped and shook her head. ‘I am sorry. That’s a stupid thing to say. Of course you know who I am.’ She gathered her wits again. ‘These people are holding me in this horrible place. I am so afraid. I know that something terrible is going to happen to me. They want you to send them some money. They promise they will let me go when you do. Oh, Mummy, please help me. Don’t let them do this to me.’ She began to sob and lowered her face into her cupped hands, her voice muffled by her fingers and the force of her terror and grief. ‘Please, my darling mother. You are the only one in the world who can save me.’ Her sobbing became wilder, and her words lost any form or sense. Adam reached across and stroked her hair tenderly. Then he looked directly into the camera.
‘Mrs Bannock, I want to tell you how sorry I am that this is happening to your daughter. Cayla is a lovely young girl. It is a tragedy that she has been caught up in this. I am truly sorry. I wish there was something I could do. However, I am not responsible for the actions of these men. They are a law unto themselves. You are the only one who can put an end to this horror. Do as Cayla has requested you. Pay the ransom money and your beautiful daughter will immediately be returned to you.’