by Steve Reeder
“Of course,” I agreed, as I took the third stool. He did look vaguely familiar, but I can’t say I remembered seeing him in any movies. He had that Errol Flynn look about him that almost made him a natural leading man. But a lack of talent probably meant that he would spend his acting career as someone else’s sidekick. See what you learn living with a woman who reads gossip magazines by the truck-load?
Julian nodded a greeting and in between mouthfuls of scrabbled egg he commented, “You are very lucky to be alive, my friend.”
I agreed wholeheartedly and told him so.
“And very lucky to escape these kidnappers. You don’t think they followed you here, do you?”
I shook my head and stuffed half a slice of toast into my mouth to obviate any need to reply.
Last night I had told the severely edited version of events four times as more members of the crew had heard of my arrival and come to see the sunburnt freak from the desert. It had been past ten before the director had chased them away and Ricky had suggested that I get some sleep, and mentioned the Brazilian actress’s bed.
“John is flying to Algiers first thing tomorrow morning and has offered to give Simon a lift,” the director informed Julian. “But, do you have your passport with you?” he asked, directing the question at me.
I shook my head. “No, but perhaps I can use someone’s mobile – or a satellite phone? – and I’ll call a mate of mine who lives down the road from my cottage. He can get it to me somehow. Courier perhaps.”
“Satellite phone, yes. I have one myself.” I knew he would have. “I will ask Beth to get it for you before we leave for the first shoot.”
I ate slowly, watched the early morning eaters depart in an air-conditioned bus for a dune some distance away, watched the Brazilian babe go with them and then went to use her perfumed shower. Three of the sunburn blisters had broken open by the time I had dried myself.
Beth, when I found her, turned out to be the director’s personal assistant, naturally, and didn’t look anything like the owner of the shower. But she readily handed over the satellite phone and showed me how to dial England.
“Bloody hell, do you have any idea what time it is?” Mumbled the irritated voice of Andrew Shaw, motoring magazine journalist, old friend and the laziest man I knew.
“Ten past seven,” I replied. “A.M.”
There came the rustling of sheets and an unexplained thump.
“No, it’s bloody not, you uncivilised cad, it’s six o’clock in the morning.” Shaw coughed and groaned. “Who the hell is this anyway?”
“Andrew, it’s Simon. Sorry. I forgot about the time difference.”
“Time difference? Where the hell are you?”
“Er, Algeria, actually. And I need - ”
“Algeria! What are you up to, you mad thing?”
“I’ll tell you about it someday, Andrew, but in the meantime I need a favour from you.”
“Waking me up at midnight is no way to go about it, then.”
“It’s not midnight, it’s sev … six A.M. Quarter past, in fact.”
“Bloody hell. I’ve not been awake this early since I left Oxford.” More rustling of sheets. “What can I do for you, Simon? And this better be a good story when I hear it.”
“Right, er, I need you to go down to my place and fetch my passport, it’s in the top draw of my desk, the one with the computer, and courier it to me.”
“And how do I get into your cottage? The key under the flower pot or under the mat?” Sarcasm was his strong point.
“No, it’s under the back leg of the table on the porch, the left-hand leg.” I thought for a moment. “Listen, Andrew, I’ll call you back at noon your time and confirm that you have it. By then I should have details on where you send it to - oh, and can you buy me a ticket from Algiers back to London? I’ll pay you for it soon as I arrive.”
I rang off and tried the Rodber home number. It rang eight times before I switched the phone off. I wondered where they were. The house-keeper at least should be there.
At five past one local time I called Andrew again. He had some bad news; the passport was gone and someone had ransacked the cottage looking for something. It was an easy guess as to who the culprits had been. I was going to have to pay the British embassy a visit. Then again, perhaps I always had.
I tried the Rodber house again with the same lack of result. I began to worry.
The day dragged, as it does when you have nothing to do and nowhere to go. The trellis table was loaded with a late breakfast for those not involved in the trip out to the sand dunes and then again for lunch; not that there were many around to eat it. I helped myself and ate alone, wondering what I was going to tell the embassy staff. Twilight came and the bus returned with tired, sweaty-looking crew members and irritated actors; apparently the day’s filming had not gone well and much of it would be repeated tomorrow. Travolta, I was pleased to hear, was still planning on flying to the Algerian capital in the morning. By eight the alcohol was flowing and the Brazilian had disappeared with the stuntman to his trailer. By ten I was again asleep in her bed.
I sat in the right-hand seat of the small airplane as Mr Hollywood superstar ran through the pre-flight checks, ran up the motor and released the brakes. The craft shook its’ way across the desert sands before escaping to its’ natural element. The ride proved to be smooth and not as noisy as I had expected it to be. Travolta talked about flying and airplanes that he owned for ten minutes until he realised that I had no interest in either subject; The remainder of the flight was made in silence.
We shared a taxi into the city.
“The British embassy?” The taxi driver asked for the fourth time.
I relayed the street address to him for the fourth time and he nodded again. When we finally stopped outside an old French colonial building, I started to debus from the taxi but Travolta put a restraining hand on my arm.
“This is me. The embassy is still half a mile away.” He handed the driver a fist full of local currency and turned back to me. “He’ll drop you off there. I’ve already paid him, but if you want to, you can tip him something. Don’t make it too big, you don’t want to ruin the local economy,” he said with a grin. “Good luck.”
Chapter 20
“If you’ll take a seat sir, I’ll get someone to attend to you.” The embassy staffer told me, showing me into a small room containing a table and three chairs. I sat, feeling a lot more nervous than I thought I had any reason to be.
I looked around the room, it didn’t take long: white walls with a picture of the Queen on one of them, white ceiling with brown tiled floor. There was just the table and three chairs: two on one side and one on the other facing them. I assumed a bored expression and tried not to look guilty of anything. Killing people tended to make you feel guilty though.
It was thirty-six minutes by my stolen watch before there was a polite knock at the door, which I took to be a good sign. The door opened and a man and a woman entered, the male standing back and allowing his younger female colleague to precede him into the room.
He introduced himself, “Barney Townsend,” and “Susan Blair”, indicating the woman. He was tall and pale with thinning brown hair and reminded me of a schoolteacher. The wedding ring on his finger gave a clue to the family man that he undoubtedly was. Susan Blair was quite the opposite. Of West Indian descent she was short and hard looking, out to prove she could hack it in a male dominated world. There were no rings on her fingers. She would be trouble for me, I thought.
Barney smiled and sat down. Susan directed a hard glare at me just in case I was guilty of something. She was going to love the story I was about to tell them.
An hour and a half later they were staring at me sceptically. I couldn’t blame them; I would not have believed a story like mine either, and I hadn’t even mentioned dead people. Barney looked at Susan and cocked an eyebrow at her. She looked confused and then glared at me as if it was my fault, which I suppose it was.
/> “You will understand that we have to check some aspects of what you have told us, Mr Roberts?” I shrugged. I’d be surprised if they didn’t. Hopefully they would call Inspector Hammil first. He at least could shed some official light on the problem. Susan said she would contact him, “If Hammil even existed,” she added.
I knew she was going to be trouble.
“Can I have something to drink? And food perhaps, Mr Townsend?” I asked.
Barney smiled sympathetically and said sure, he would arrange it. I was left alone again with a request not to wander off. I was pretty sure there were some large uniforms outside the door to discourage such activity.
A pot of tea arrived from the staff canteen along with a Wimpy cheeseburger and chips. After an hour I put my head out the door and asked if I could use the rest room. One of the uniforms said he would be happy to show me the way. We could both see the “Gents” sign from where we were, but I thought it diplomatic not to mention that: he would probably have had to insist, and we were still being polite.
Two o’clock had come and gone before Barney and Susan returned. They did not look happy. Barney’s sympathetic smile had vanished.
“Mr Roberts”, he said, “can we just go through the events that brought you to Algeria again?”
“I’m not going through it all again. We went through everything earlier and I can’t add anything to that. Did you get hold of Inspector Hammil?”
The two of them stared at me, giving off disbelieving vibes by the bucket-load.
“I’ve told you what happened and Inspector Hammil can verify what I’ve told you. Up to the time I was kidnapped anyway. Have you spoken to him?”
The two of them looked at each other. Townsend cleared his throat and said, “Look, Mr Roberts, I’ve spoken to Special Branch and they have never heard of any Inspector Hammil or any investigation into anything with regards to a Josh Rodber, Ali Hussein or the Islamic Kingdom of Saudi. In fact I’ve checked with the foreign office Mr Roberts, and there is no such country.”
“There is no Frank Brown with either Special Branch or MI5 either,” Miss Blair said triumphantly.
I was left alone again, now feeling confused as well as nervous. Who the hell were these people that had been calling themselves Brown and Hammil, not to mention the so-called Sheik?
Forty-five minutes of solitary brain-storming had got me no closer to working it out when the door opened again. The man who walked in was big; easily six foot five and surely weighed two-twenty or more. He didn’t introduce himself, but sat opposite me, brushed an errant strand of dark-blond hair off his forehead and cleared his throat.
“I’ve been reading through the transcripts of your chat with Townsend and Blair,” he stated.
“We were being taped?”
“Everything that goes on in this room is taped, Mr Roberts.”
I nodded, unsure what to make of that.
“There are several reasons that I’m sitting here with you.” He paused, got no reaction from me, and continued, “Allow me to outline my problem. Firstly, I am getting reports of a rumour concerning a number of dead men down south in the desert and of a lone Englishman who had something to do with that. The rumour came from sources within the federal police.” Again he paused, and again got no reaction. “Now here you are with a story of being kidnapped, taken into the same area, but managing to escape, although you don’t mention how. The people who you talk about don’t seem to exist, and the same with this kingdom.” He looked up from the sheets of paper in front of him. “Now, I know you - not personally, but I know who you are. In fact my youngest son has a race programme from Silverstone with your autograph on it - and I don’t want you to fall into the hands of the local law enforcement chaps, and believe me when I say that you don’t want that either. Not that I’m doing this just for you. The idea of a British subject being thrown in prison here, with all the diplomatic trouble that it will cause not only to His Excellency the ambassador but to my people as well, is not a pleasant thought.”
“Your people being who?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Mr Roberts.”
“Spooks?”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that term used outside of television, but for the want of another term, yes. You see, Mr Roberts, things are very delicate in the Middle East since the Twin Towers came down, and I don’t need anything to upset or get in the way of what my people are doing here.”
“I’m sorry to have upset things, but it wasn’t my choice.”
“Granted. So, this is what is going to happen. My people will have a passport, a real one in your name, with entry stamp and visa, at the British Airways desk tomorrow. You can collect it at the same time as you pick up that ticket your friend has booked for you.” I didn’t ask him how he knew that. “For the moment, this is what is going to happen.” He turned, swivelling in the chair and called out, “Miles?” The door opened and a small, nondescript man stepped through the doorway. “Ah, there you are, Miles.” He turned back to me. “Miles is going to look after you. There is a room booked at a cheap tourist hotel not far from here. It was booked by a local, so no need to hand over a passport, but of course you can not be seen going into, or leaving the hotel.” He gestured to Miles again. “So, Miles here will take you to the hotel at nine this evening. You will find that the side emergency exit door will be unlocked. You will find room seventeen immediately on your right. You go in - here is the key -” he fished a hotel key with number seventeen tag on it out of his top pocket and pushed it across the table “– and stay there, out of sight until the morning. And by that I mean that you don’t go out, you don’t phone anyone, you don’t answer the door to anyone - ”
“I get the picture.”
“ – until five-thirty tomorrow morning. At which time you will leave the room – better leave the key in the room – and go straight out the same door. Miles will be waiting there for you.” Miles nodded confirmation.
The big man stood up.
“I’m very grateful, naturally, but what do I do between now and nine o’clock?” I asked, not being keen to spend them sitting here.
The big man looked thoughtfully at Miles and grinned.
“Perhaps Miles will take you out to dinner?” Miles frowned at the thought. “Which I’m sure you will be willing to pay for, Mr Roberts?” The frown disappeared.
I considered the stolen dollars in the pocket of the jeans that Ricky had donated to me and shrugged. Why not, it wasn’t my money anyway.
Andrew Shaw was waiting for me at international arrivals dressed in his standard ensemble; blue-jeans, Reebok trainers and a golf shirt that one of his girlfriends had no doubt ironed for him.
“You look well-tanned, Simon,” he said with a sardonic shake of his head.
“Very funny. Give me your mobile, will you, I need to make a call.”
“And hello to you too, Andrew, and thanks for all that you’ve done, Andrew.”
“Hello, Andrew, thanks for buying me the ticket and meeting me. I’ll transfer the cost of the ticket to your account tomorrow, if that’s all right?”
“Sure, no problem. Always happy to help. Try not to let it happen at ungodly hours though.”
I dialled the Rodber number and let it ring. There was no answer.
“Any chance of a lift down to Rodber’s place?” I asked.
“I’ve never been to the home of our newest team. Where is it?”
“Down the road from Brands Hatch.”
“Ah, can’t do, I’m afraid. I’m late for a meeting up in Banbury.”
We stood looking at each other for a moment.
“Come on, Simon, let’s get a drink upstairs. My treat.”
“This should be worth it just to see you pay for your own drink.”
“Cold, Simon, very cold. And cruel.”
“But not untrue. I thought you were late for a meeting?”
Shaw shrugged and let the way to a bank of lifts. We rode the car up wit
hout saying anything as a French couple joined us and started their holiday with a screaming match.
“And people wonder why I never marry,” Shaw muttered as the couple bolted out of the car onto the first floor. We followed at a more sedate pace and soon found ourselves in a lounge with Scandinavian beers on the table in front of us.
“Mind if I try again?” I pointed to Andrew’s mobile phone. He slid it across the table and waved his hand at the waitress, indicating for another two beers, his seemed to be empty already. The phone rang fifteen times before it went to an electronic voice that informed me that the answering service was unavailable.
Andrew watched me act out my despair as I placed the phone back on the table beside my beer.
“So, while you have time on your hands, I believe you promised to tell me what happened,” he said, finally.
I thought about it for a moment and then, because I felt the need to tell someone, I related the whole messy tale to him.
“Well, I’m not sure what to make of all that.” He looked at me in amazement. “And now there is no one answering the phone at the Rodber house?” I shook my head. “And you don’t know any of their mobile numbers?”
“Who remembers them when they are stored on your phone?”
“Where is your mobile, anyway?” He frowned.
I shrugged. Who knew? It might be lying on the table at the house, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
“You know,” Andrew announced suddenly, “I have been thinking about writing a book. Been thinking about it for months now, and I think this would make a really good book.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“Or perhaps I should write your biography?”
“Andrew - ”
“No, wait a minute. Think about your life so far; the time in the South African army, that Special Forces stuff you told me about, the quest for a world superbike championship, the years in the British championship and then this. Come on, Simon, this is practically Hollywood stuff,” he exclaimed excitedly.
“Yeah, right,” I replied dismissively. “I vote Brad Pitt plays me then.”