by Steve Reeder
As I lay in bed beside the slightly intoxicated Michele, I began to worry what reaction we could expect from Hammil and his superiors. I’m sure they would not be overjoyed at the Sultan going missing. And they knew who was to blame.
Chapter 14
Michele and I slept late, preferring to stay in our room and ignore the outside world and its problems for as long as possible. The sun shone cheerful rays through the window, creeping slowly across the duvet and lighting Michele’s hair like golden silk. I couldn’t remember ever being so content. Yesterday’s troubles belonged to tomorrow so long as I could blank them from my mind today.
The team had the day off to prepare for the trip to Donnington Park tomorrow and the workshops were deserted. Brett and Russell were planning to drive up north after lunch, and only Julia would spend the day with us waiting for Jethro to phone. It was a calm and relaxed start to a mad crazy day.
The world outside encroached uninvited at nine thirty. Brett knocked hesitantly at the door and called out, “Simon?”
Michele sighed, kissed my chest and said, “I’ll be in the bathroom.” The bathroom was en suite fortunately. She closed the door behind her and I called out to Brett.
“Come on in.”
He came in, glancing nervously at the bathroom door, unsure how he should be reacting to his sister sleeping with me.
“Sorry, Simon, but Inspector Hammil is here and a guy by the name of Frank Brown has called three times already. He sounded like an unhappy dude.”
“All right, Brett. Thanks, I’ll be down in five.”
Hammil was waiting for me in the main office. The computer worshipping staff had moved the department to Rodber Design offices in Colchester, Essex, leaving desks and chairs abandoned across the office.
Hammil looked grave. “Do you have any idea what kind of hornets’ nest you’ve stirred up?” he demanded angrily.
“Er …. yes, look, Inspector, it just got a little out of hand and - ”
“Out of hand? Out of fucking hand!” I had never heard Hammil use foul language before. I took it as an ominous sign. He found an office chair and sank heavily into it, scratching his fingers through his hair. It was the first time I had seen him looking anything but immaculate: his suit was crumpled and the shirt was looking grimy. It occurred to me that he had yet to get home after last night.
“Tell me what happened,” he demanded.
I took him through the night from the time Dave had dropped us by the park gate until we dropped Jethro off, neglecting to tell him where we had left him.
“Jethro will call as soon as he has news of Rodber’s location, so I guess we can do nothing but wait,” I told him.
“Scotland Yard, including Special Branch, are mobilising a task force to find the Sultan, MI5 too, for all I know.” He looked at me grimly. “We are talking about the head of a foreign state here. Piss-ant patch of sand or not.”
We stared at each other for a time.
“Have you thought what will happen if your over-eager friend harms, or worse, kills the Sultan?”
“Oh, come on, Inspector, Jethro won’t do that.” I didn’t sound overconfident even to myself. “Besides, the idea was yours to start with,” I said, wishing immediately that I hadn’t - it sounded childish. Hammil glared.
The phone buzzed indicating an internal call. It was Julia calling from the main house.
“Simon, there’s a call for you, a Frank somebody. Can I put it through?” she asked.
“No, Julia don’t do that. I’ll be right there. Tell him to hang on.”
Hammil gave me a questioning look. I shook my head. “Not Jethro, just business. I’ll be back in a moment.”
I ran the thirty yards to the kitchen door hoping Hammil wouldn’t decide to follow me. I grabbed the handset from Julia. “Roberts speaking,” I announced.
“Mr Roberts, I think we should meet as a matter of some urgency, don’t you?” Brown said, sounding quiet and menacing.
“Now is not a good time, Frank,” I replied.
“On the contrary, Roberts, I think now would be a very good time. I’m calling from the parking lot at the King’s Head. You know where that is, don’t you?”
I did of course; it was just a mile or two up the road. Not my favourite place and now even less so. I hadn’t yet replied so he continued.
“Shall we say ten minutes?”
“Are you alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll be there soon.”
“Ten minutes, Roberts.”
I didn’t bother to reply. Putting the phone down, I said to Julia, “Keep Inspector Hammil busy for me, will you? I’ll be back in a short while.”
Julia looked a little flustered but nodded just the same.
Brown was seated at a table in the beer garden under an old oak tree, a pint of ale untouched in front of him. A waitress saw me coming and caught me halfway so I ordered a lager and sat down across the wooden table from him.
“You’ve been playing silly buggers when I expressly told you not to,” he said.
“I had nothing to do with whatever you’re talking about, Brown. That’s my story and I don’t believe there is anything you can do to prove otherwise.”
Brown studied me coolly for a moment. “Just so we understand each other, Mr Roberts, I know what happened even if I’m not sure how it happened. I know who, more or less, made it happen and I and my people don’t need to prove anything.”
“Why is MI5 involved in this, I mean what does it matter to you?” He didn’t answer. “I can understand the Foreign Office proper getting involved to help Rodber but I just don’t understand your determination to side with this Arab bloke against your own citizen. Who, by the way, we all know was kidnapped and held against his will.”
Brown looked away, consulting some inner command structure. Into this silence came the waitress with my drink. I indicated that Brown would pay. She smiled at him and waited politely. He glanced crossly at me but paid her anyway. I sipped slowly at the beer trying not to think about those ten-mile runs I wasn’t taking. Brown stared morosely into the distance, obviously busy with some inner consultation. Finally he sighed, stood up and switched on his mobile.
“Excuse me,” he said, turning away so I could only catch snatches of what he was saying. I heard my name mentioned along with Sultan Ali Hussein and then more worryingly, Jethro Jones.
By now Brown had walked off too far for me to overhear anymore and I sat mentally chewing my fingernails. What else did these guys know, and how could he possibly know about Jethro? Apart from Bud and a select few at Rodber’s the only people who had even heard Jethro’s name mentioned was Hammil.
Brown came back but didn’t sit. He handed me a slip of paper. On it was written a London phone number.
“You have forty-eight hours. If Sultan Ali Hussein is not safely back at his Kingdom’s Embassy, uninjured, then I will no longer be able to protect you and your friends from the forces of the law. In fact I will do my best to see that they get all they need to know to arrest you. Call me when it’s done.” He nodded as if confirming his demands. “Do we understand each other, Mr Roberts?”
I nodded. There was not much else I could do. Brown began to walk away, and then turned back.
“Please tell me forty-eight hours will be enough.” And for once he looked almost human.
“If I tell you it’s not, will you give me more?”
Brown looked at me sadly. “No, Mr Roberts, I will not. Don’t test my masters on this. Forty-eight hours, no longer.”
I arrived back at the farmhouse to find Julia, Michele and Brett talking excitedly in the kitchen. Smiles were clearly in evidence.
“Simon!” Julia shrieked, throwing her arms around me. “Jethro just called. He’s got Dad and is on his way back here now.”
“That’s great,” I replied, and then noticed that Hammil was seated at the table too. I gave Julia a dark look and glanced meaningfully at the inspector. They both
ignored me.
“They’ll be back within the hour, Jethro says,” Michele informed me.
“Look, that’s great, girls. Umm, Inspector, can I have a word with you, outside?” He levered himself off the chair and handed Michele an empty teacup. He nodded his thanks and followed me out the door.
“Well, that’s half your problem solved,” Hammil said, strolling, hands in pockets, towards the workshops. “What about the Sultan?”
“Well, er, did the girls say anything about him?”
“No. I get the impression you haven’t told your friends the whole story about last night.”
“Yes, well it’s better that way, but I have a question for you,” I said, stopping him outside the workshop doors. “I asked you once if you knew a Frank Brown, who, I think, is with MI5?”
“And I said that I did not.”
“Yes, but there I think you made a mistake, Inspector. Your response this time should surely be, MI5? Or maybe, ‘why should you think Brown is with MI5?’ But you didn’t react to MI5 at all. You must be tired. I think you’re lying to me.”
Hammil did look tired and annoyed with himself. He sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“All right then,” he said, finally coming to a decision of some sort. “I’m going to tell you something, but I want your word that you’ll never repeat this to anyone. All right?”
“It would be nice to have somebody tell me something,” I told him.
“I want your word, Simon.” He looked serious and I found myself nodding somewhat uncertainly
“OK, you have it,” I told him.
Hammil gave me a searching stare. Deciding I was sincere, he leaned closer as if afraid of being overheard and said, “Rodber, you, me, Brown and even the hierarchy at Special Branch - ” He stopped, groping for the words to continue.
“Yeah?” I asked encouragingly.
“At the end of the day we’re all being moved around like so many pawns on a chess board by people in Whitehall.”
“To what purpose?”
“I’m not sure,” he confessed.
“Well, that’s no bloody help, buddy. What people are you alluding to?”
Hammil looked uncomfortable. “Foreign Office versus the Home Office, I would suppose, but since both Special Branch and MI5 report to the Home Secretary, I’m at a loss to work it out.” This didn’t sound like the Inspector Hammil we knew and loved at all. I began to think he might be lying to me again. I just couldn’t think why.
Hammil had the good sense to leave before Jethro returned with Josh Rodber. The last thing he wanted was to have to report on his reappearance and explain all manner of things in official reports.
I finally got around to having a shower, which was great, even though Michele declined to join me, and when I came downstairs again Josh Rodber was back. Jethro Jones had dropped him at the gate and vanished again, which was annoying because I really wanted a word with him - about a number of things ranging from ‘Where is the Sultan, to ‘How long have you worked for MI5 or perhaps MI6?’ I tried his mobile number but it had been disconnected, or whatever they do to cellular phones. Bastard. He was definitely not what he seemed.
Josh was looking his age for the first time since I had met him. The days of confinement had obviously taken their toll and he retreated upstairs with his womenfolk in tow, to rest. I never had a chance to question him at all. So I decided to take Michele out to lunch. Brett declined to join us, stating his intention to drive north to Donnington Park with Russell as planned. In fact Russell drove into the yard to collect Brett as we were leaving. That left things pretty much as I preferred; me alone with Michele. I suggested a return to the bedroom but was overruled by her desire for lunch instead of me.
During lunch I tried Jethro’s phone twice more to no avail, then called Brown.
“Rodber is back,” I said when he answered.
“Yes,” he replied. “We know.”
“Oh. Good,” I said. “How? How do you know?”
“I think you can throw away this phone number now, Mr Roberts.”
“Wait a minute, Frank. Is the Sultan Ali back safe and sound?”
There was a pause while Brown consulted himself again.
“Yes, or rather he was. Now he’s disappeared again. But I’m sure you weren’t involved this time, were you, Mr Roberts?”
“Er, no, so you and I are done with each other, right?”
“Hopefully, Mr Roberts. Hopefully,” he said and put down the phone.
“Is everything all right now, Simon?” Michele asked, while sliding her foot up my leg under my trousers.
“Absolutely, honey. Let’s get married and go live in Tahiti.”
“OK.”
“Do you mean it?” I asked hopefully.
“No.” She laughed. “Did you?”
“Yes. I love you, babe. Let’s do it.”
“Oh, Simon, don’t be silly. We hardly know each other.”
“ So what? I love you and, quite honestly, the thought of spending the rest of my life without you is just too depressing.”
Michele’s foot retreated and she looked away. Too soon, you idiot, I thought; now you’ve lost her. I sat and held my breath, wondering what to say. She fiddled with her salad for a moment then looked up.
“Simon, I love you too, I do really. But it’s just too soon,” she said, almost whispering. “And don’t pressure me,” she continued more angrily. I just felt confused. I mean, weird reaction. What’s wrong with ‘Not right now but thank you for asking’?
We drove back in silence, the mood somewhat subdued. I had become overconfident with the way things had been going with Michele and that had been a mistake I would not make again. The next time I proposed to her, I would be sure she would say yes, first.
The Rodber clan was still absent from both the kitchen and the seldom-used living room. Someone was busy in the offices though. One of the race-engineers was getting ready for the trip north tomorrow, I thought. Michele was still not taking any notice of me.
Leaving her to make coffee, I went out to the office to see if I could help. It was a decision I would regret.
I opened the office door expecting to find either Geoff or Greg busy downloading technical data from the team’s computer but the office was deserted. Rodber’s private office door was standing ajar though. Surprised, I pushed the door open and stepped in. Sultan Ali Hussein sat behind Josh Rodber’s desk looking through a pile of papers. He looked up and smiled at me. It wasn’t a nice smile. Then something slammed into the back of my head and I remember no more.
Chapter 15
The cell door swung all the way open and crashed into the wall. Dirty stepped in holding the pistol, and seeing me sitting on the floor against the far wall, he motioned the fat one to come in. The pistol covered me the entire time. Fatty put the tray on the floor in the middle of the room and backed out. The door closed with a thud and I heard the bolt scrape home.
So began my second day of captivity. The lump on the back of my head was slowly going down but from what my captors had said yesterday, I could expect some more lumps and bruises today. His Excellency the Sultan was keen to take revenge.
He was not here yet, but Fatty assured me that he would be arriving soon. In the meantime he and his friends would be happy to soften me up. There were four of them; the dirty one, the fat one, the mean one and a fourth I had not been introduced to yet.
I reached out a foot and edged the tray closer. I drank half the small pitcher of water before even looking at the unappetising rubbish they’d left for me to eat. The water was a priority because it was the first I had been given. The best I could do with the food was close my eyes and shovel it down, trying not to taste it. I had a feeling I would need all my energy for the coming hours. Perhaps days.
I had regained consciousness yesterday in a helicopter; the same one that had deposited me here. Where ‘here’ was I was not too sure, except that it wasn’t England in the springtime. From
the heat of the day and the smell of the dry dusty wind, I concluded we were in a desert somewhere. Since these guys were Arabs, I figured it was probably North Africa. Perhaps even the Islamic Kingdom of Saudi itself, although that was supposed to be in Arabia not Africa.
The cell was perhaps fifteen feet square with a small barred window set in the side wall. It was too high to look out of without something to stand on and there was no furniture at all. Needless to say, it had been a uncomfortable night. The roof, I noted, was tin. By midday this room was going to be very warm indeed.
Judging by the sun shining in the window it was getting on for ten thirty or eleven o’clock when they came back. They used the same routine, one would come in with the gun and the others would follow once they were sure I was no threat to them.
The mean one dragged a heavy, old straight-back wooden chair with him. The type granddad had in his kitchen fifty years ago. Dirty had the gun in his hand again. I quickly swallowed the rest of the water in case they took it away. The mean one smiled an evil smile. He had a coil of nylon rope in his hand.
“Sit,” Dirty demanded.
“I am sitting,” I replied.
Meany lashed out with a foot, catching me painfully on the shoulder. I decided that I had shown enough resistance to make myself feel better. It would now be wise to climb onto the chair. Childish non-co-operation would just get me killed. I smiled at Fatty who seemed the least hostile.
My arms were tied behind me and round to the back of the chair. The wood cut painfully into my armpits and within seconds my biceps were feeling the strain. Fatty had an old Timex on his right wrist. I noticed the time; it was just past eleven a.m.
Fatty left the cell and returned carrying two wooden batons, which he handed to Dirty. This was beginning to look serious. Fatty left again and Dirty handed the second baton to Meany. They were both smiling.