‘It’s difficult to explain,’ he admitted.
‘Oh …’ she said, a knowing tone entering her voice. ‘You mean, a girl?’
Connor shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and felt a flush fire his cheeks at his mum’s line of questioning. ‘No, nothing like that,’ he protested.
‘Listen, you can’t let girls distract you from your work,’ said his mum, ignoring his protest and thinking she knew better. ‘They’ll cause you enough trouble when you’re older.’
Connor could think of two girls – Emily and Chloe – who might cause him trouble a lot sooner than that.
‘Can we talk about something else?’ he urged. ‘Like you. How are you doing, Mum?’
‘Oh, really well, thanks,’ she replied cheerily. ‘Improving day by day with Sally’s help.’
Connor listened as his mum told him how her live-in carer had encouraged her to take vitamin D and do some light yoga exercises. This, along with a recent course of acupuncture, had really helped to ease her symptoms. However, all the while his mum talked, Connor could tell from the strain in her voice that she was putting on a brave front. As a sufferer of multiple sclerosis, his mum had difficulty with coordination and balance, was easily fatigued, and was often struck with numbness or grinding pain.
Her condition, along with his ageing gran’s needs, had been the primary reason for Connor agreeing to join Buddyguard. In return for his service, Colonel Black had offered a complete care package for his mum and gran. Such health support was way beyond the financial reach of an unemployed army widow like his mother. And, at the time of the offer, his family was already struggling with basic day-to-day living costs. The colonel’s deal was a virtual godsend. But as part of the deal Connor couldn’t reveal to her his true role. The highly secretive Buddyguard organization relied on the fact that few people knew of its existence, allowing teenagers like Connor to act as invisible defence shields for vulnerable and high-profile targets. Besides, his mother would probably be furious if she discovered he was following in his father’s footsteps – a path that might easily lead him to an early grave too. He didn’t like deceiving her about it one bit, but he did like seeing her cared for properly. It was a trade-off and one worth making.
‘I’m really glad to hear things are improving,’ said Connor, despite his deeper concerns for her. ‘Listen, I’m calling to let you know that I’ll be away on a sailing trip next month, so I might be out of contact for a bit.’
During term time, Connor religiously rang home every week to check on his mum and gran, and he knew they both eagerly awaited his calls.
‘A sailing trip! You certainly lead an exciting life at this new school of yours,’ remarked his mum. Connor heard her relay the news to his gran and Sally before returning to the phone. ‘One thing, son, please take extra care. I don’t want you injuring yourself like last time.’
‘I will,’ said Connor, hoping the same himself. His mum had been led to believe that he’d hurt his leg falling off a mountain bike, the pretence necessary to keep his involvement in Buddyguard confidential.
‘Hold on, love, Sally’s calling me, but your gran wants a word. Speak again when you get back.’
There was a clatter as the phone changed hands. ‘How’s my big man?’
‘Fine, Gran. And you?’
‘As fit as a fiddle and as right as rain,’ she replied brightly.
Connor laughed; that was what she always said.
His gran lowered her voice. ‘I know she won’t have told you, but your mum may have to go into a wheelchair soon.’
‘What?’ said Connor, stunned. ‘She said she was getting better.’
‘In some respects she is, and she doesn’t want to worry you. Sally has just recommended that your mum uses one when she goes out. She’s not as steady on her feet as she was.’
‘But Mum was fine when I saw you both last month.’
His gran sighed. ‘She had a relapse last weekend.’
Connor fell silent. This cruel disease was slowly stripping his mum of her quality of life. Every time he called or visited, it seemed like another little piece of her had been taken away. And there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do about it. He balled his hand into a fist and screwed his eyes shut, holding back the tears that threatened to come.
‘As you would expect, she’s not particularly happy about the idea,’ continued his gran, ‘but Sally says your “scholarship scheme” will cover the cost of the chair.’
Connor managed a sad smile. He might not be able to stop his mother’s deterioration, but at least he could provide the necessary care for her – as well as for his gran. His work as a buddyguard meant they would be in safe hands, even if he was putting himself in harm’s way and spending a lot less time with them both. He now understood his father’s dilemma when he’d been alive.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ asked his gran gently.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, wiping a sleeve across his reddened eyes.
‘I hear you’re going on a sailing trip,’ she asked, switching topics. ‘Anywhere nice?’
Connor realized her question was loaded. ‘The Seychelles.’
‘Ooh, lovely,’ she cooed. ‘Anything else you can tell me about your “trip”?’
‘Not really …’ replied Connor, aware that he was breaking security protocol just by telling her his destination.
Charley appeared round the corner and gave him the nod.
‘Sorry, Gran, I have to go,’ said Connor. ‘Give Mum my love and I’ll see you both soon.’
‘Is that a promise?’
Connor momentarily hesitated. His gran’s question was no mere platitude but a wish for a binding agreement. ‘Of course, Gran.’
‘Good. Then stay safe, my dear … stay safe.’
Connor could hear the anxious crack in his gran’s voice as she ended the call.
He hated putting his gran through such worry and often wondered whether he should ever have told her about Buddyguard in the first place. But his gran would have seen through his half-truths like a priest in a confessional. She was too sharp and had lived too long to be fooled by anyone, let alone her grandson. Besides, Connor trusted her and needed her. She was his rock and, when life got tough, the one person he could always turn to for advice.
‘Everything OK at home?’ asked Charley.
Connor looked up, suddenly aware he’d been staring off into space. ‘Yeah … my gran’s fine. But my mum may have to go into a wheelchair. She isn’t looking forward to it.’
‘I know the feeling,’ said Charley, patting the armrest of her chair. ‘If your mum ever needs someone to talk to, then I’d be happy to give her a call.’
Connor smiled warmly at Charley’s kindness. ‘Thanks, I’ll let her know.’
‘Come on,’ said Charley, pivoting on the spot. ‘The car’s waiting to take you to the airport.’
Connor followed Charley out to the black Range Rover parked on the long sweeping drive of Buddyguard Headquarters. The rest of Alpha team had assembled on the steps to see him and Ling off. Jody was in the driver’s seat, checking the satnav for traffic, while Ling sat in the back, seat belt on, ready to go.
‘Hurry up, partner!’ she shouted, slapping the seat next to her. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
As Connor flung his bags into the boot, Amir shouted, ‘Careful! That’s my Go-bag you’re chucking about.’
‘It’s mine now,’ replied Connor with a grin. ‘But I promise to look after it.’
‘You’d better,’ warned Amir, shaking his head in despair at the mishandling of his precious equipment.
‘Good luck,’ called Marc, waving. Beside him, Richie offered a mock salute.
‘Don’t let Connor take all the glory, Ling,’ said Jason as Connor clambered in beside her.
Ling blew him a kiss. ‘Don’t worry. He’s carrying my bags!’
With a final thumbs up to his teammates, Connor went to close the door, but Charley reached in and
touched his arm.
‘Try not to catch any bullets this time,’ she said.
Connor gave her a quizzical look. ‘Surely that’s the point of a bodyguard?’
Charley locked eyes with him. ‘Only if all else fails.’
‘Wake up, you lazy fish-eaters!’
The stern order in Somali barely roused the loose band of pirates who lay sprawled, like dozing lions, beneath the shade of the courtyard’s single acacia tree. The blazing sun had baked the earth bone-dry and the glaring white walls reflected the heat like mirrors. It was too hot even for the flies that buzzed listlessly in the still air.
‘I said, GET UP! Oracle wants to see us,’ growled the towering man who strode over from the main building of the walled compound. With broad shoulders and rippling muscles, forged from a hard and brutal life, the man moved through the shimmering heat like a charging black rhino. Over his shoulder was slung a battle-worn AK47.
‘Hey, Spearhead, relax, man,’ said one of the pirates, chewing languidly on some khat leaves.
Spearhead ground his ivory white teeth into a snarl and kicked the man in the ribs.
‘Oww!’ yelled the pirate, rolling away from the abuse.
‘When I say move, Big Mouth, MOVE!’
The other men quickly got to their feet. Picking up their rifles, they begrudgingly followed Spearhead across the blistering hot yard towards the main house. As they entered a dim wide hallway, the harsh sun was left behind and the air became cool and welcoming. Leaving their weapons by the door, the pirate gang trudged barefoot into a spacious living room. An ornate crimson rug took centre stage, framed by a slender beige divan. Thick maroon drapes blocked the persistent sunlight that tried to force its way through the barred windows behind. Each man instinctively salivated as their nostrils filled with the mouthwatering aroma of stewed goat’s meat.
Oracle reclined on the rug against a gold-tasselled bolster, a wooden bowl of spiced ribs in one hand. In the other, he held a thin bone, which he gnawed at for the last vestiges of meat. Dressed in an olive shirt, with a red shawl slung over his right shoulder, and a black diamond-pattern ma’awis around his hips, Oracle cut a princely figure compared to the unkempt appearance of his pirates. A pair of silver-mirrored aviator sunglasses were perched high on his closely shaved head. Behind him on the divan, within arm’s reach, lay a loaded Browning semi-automatic pistol.
‘Sit,’ said Oracle, picking with a fingernail at a bit of meat stuck between his teeth.
The pirates each found their spot on the luxurious rug and, squatting, waited mutely for their boss to finish his meal.
Eventually putting aside his empty bowl, Oracle licked his fingers then wiped them on a square of white cotton cloth. ‘You’ll be going to sea again within the week,’ he announced.
The pirates all looked at one another with a mix of excitement and trepidation.
‘You’ve had another vision?’ asked a rake-thin man with jug ears.
Oracle smiled enigmatically. ‘Well, let’s say … I foresaw fortune headed our way.’ He patted the blue sports bag cradled at his side. ‘We have a new investor.’
‘So what’s happening with the cargo ship we’ve already got?’ asked Spearhead.
‘That’ll take a few more months of negotiation,’ replied Oracle. ‘Red Claw and his men can handle the babysitting. I need you for the serious work.’
‘But what about boats?’ asked Big Mouth. ‘We lost two skiffs in the last hijack.’
‘It’s all in hand,’ reassured Oracle. ‘Four brand-new twin three-fifty horsepower outboards are on their way from Dubai.’
‘Can I pilot one?’ beamed a skinny buck-toothed young pirate.
‘When you can grow a beard you can!’ laughed Spearhead.
As other pirates joined in the laughter, a mobile phone chirped loudly.
‘It’s not mine,’ said Big Mouth quickly, knowing how much their boss frowned on having his meetings interrupted.
The ring persisted and now every pirate checked his phone, each one praying it wasn’t his. Gradually all eyes turned to the innocuous sports bag.
Oracle’s brow furrowed slightly. Then he nodded to Spearhead to investigate. The great man bent down, unzipped the bag and removed a brown envelope. Its contents rang and vibrated. Ripping the envelope open, he pulled out a slim mobile phone.
Oracle indicated with a jut of his chin for Spearhead to answer.
‘Iska warran?’ Spearhead listened for a moment, then said, ‘It’s for you, boss,’ offering the handset.
Oracle warily studied the intruding phone, then put it to his ear.
‘Haa … Yes, I speak English …’ he said, switching languages fluidly. ‘Not at all, I was just having lunch … It’s always a pleasure to hear from an investor.’ However, his cordial words did not match his stony expression. ‘Yes, I’ve received the full amount …’
The other pirates looked on, bemused by the foreign conversation. Only Spearhead among the pirate gang had a working command of English, and he listened with growing curiosity.
‘Your request is highly unusual … What do you mean it isn’t a request?’ Oracle’s expression darkened at the caller’s unheard response. ‘I answer to no one!’ he snapped. ‘No … I have not yet looked in the envelope.’
Oracle waved an impatient hand at Spearhead to pass it over. Turning out the contents, several typed sheets of paper and a large photo print of a yacht landed on the carpet. ‘Yes, I can see the target you propose. But why would you want that when I could get you an oil tanker?’
Oracle listened to his investor’s reply and his eyes took on a diamond-like sheen. ‘How much did you say?’
As the figure was reconfirmed, a greasy smile slid across Oracle’s lips. ‘Then we are in my business, my friend. I’ll let you know as soon as my men are ready.’
Oracle flipped shut the mobile and laid it beside his handgun.
‘Get Mr WiFi,’ he ordered.
Spearhead jerked his bald head at Big Mouth, who left the room and returned a moment later accompanied by a bespectacled young man. With a neatly trimmed goatee, Bermuda shorts and a blue New York Yankees T-shirt, Mr WiFi looked more like a university student than a hardened pirate. Under his arm he carried a battered laptop.
‘We have a hijacking to plan,’ announced Oracle.
‘About time,’ smiled Mr WiFi, opening his laptop and angling the screen so Oracle could see the live satellite image of the Gulf of Aden. ‘I’m tracking several high-value vessels as we speak.’
‘Forget about them,’ Oracle said, causing Mr WiFi’s smile to vanish in dismay. He handed him the photo along with one of the info sheets. ‘This is our target.’
Perching on the edge of the divan, Mr WiFi hunched over his whirring laptop. The pirates ostrich-necked to try and see what he was doing as his fingers rapidly danced across the keyboard. In the search window of a hacked Marine Intelligence Unit website, Mr WiFi typed: motor yacht Orchid …
Maddox Sterling’s office was a glass wonder. A capsule of 360-degree views, its four walls were constructed from electro-chromatic smart windows. The special glass, stretching from the floor to ceiling, automatically altered its transparency according to the sun’s strength and position in the sky. Being mid-morning, the eastern wall had darkened amber-brown against the golden light streaming over Sydney’s Central Business District.
Maddox Sterling, his back to the shaded sun, stood as Colonel Black, Ling and Connor were ushered in by his PA. Entering the office was almost disconcerting. For Connor, it felt as if he could step right off the edge of the towering skyscraper and plummet fifty floors to the pavement below.
The office’s interior design was as minimalist as the walls themselves. There was no furniture beyond a slim glass desk and four chrome and black leather chairs. For a man in charge of a billion-dollar corporation, the see-through desk was strangely uncluttered. No paperwork, no computer monitor, no ornaments, not even a picture of his daughters – just an ultra-thin al
uminium laptop and a cordless phone.
‘Welcome to Sydney,’ said Maddox Sterling, greeting each of them with a firm handshake and a slick smile, then gesturing for them to take a seat.
‘Thank you, Mr Sterling,’ said Colonel Black, settling into one of the designer chairs, Ling and Connor taking their places either side of him.
From behind his desk, Maddox Sterling swivelled towards an unbroken view of one of Sydney’s most iconic landmarks. With a broad sweep of his hand as if he owned it, he declared, ‘Without doubt, the finest natural harbour in the world, made even more magnificent by our stunning opera house and the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Truly a sight to behold.’
Connor stared out of the window – first, at the sparkling waters of the harbour, then at the overlapping shell roof of the opera house, and finally at the dramatic latticework of arching girders that spanned the waterway. It certainly was an impressive sight.
‘They call the bridge the Coathanger because of its arch-based design,’ Mr Sterling explained, a hint of disapproval noticeable in his tone. ‘But that does it a great disservice. Up close, it’s truly majestic. The arch soars so high a ten-storey building could pass beneath. And the weight of the bridge is monstrous. Over three hundred and fifty thousand tons of steel and six million rivets went into its construction.’
He glanced sideways at Connor and Ling, checking to see they were suitably impressed.
‘The bridge has a surface area larger than sixty football pitches, which means it needs a fifty-man team working three hundred and sixty-five days of the year just to clean and repaint it. Obviously such maintenance is incredibly dangerous work. That’s why they’ve recently employed two autonomous robots for the more hazardous sections. An appropriate reduction of risk.’
Mr Sterling pivoted back to face them. His cobalt-blue eyes fixed first on Ling, then on Connor, with an intensity that seemed to cut right through them both.
‘Similarly, I’ve employed you two to reduce the risk in my family’s life.’
Connor wasn’t sure how he felt about being compared to a mindless robot, but Mr Sterling didn’t seem to consider this an insult and carried on regardless.
Bodyguard: Ransom (Book 2) Page 7