by John Denis
Cooligan smashed another window and repeated the trick until he dropped even lower, but still he was a full ten feet from the ground, and every second he remained visible on the castle wall he was in acute danger. He scanned the terrain beneath him, but could see nothing except, directly below, a tarpaulin shrouding a shape which seemed vaguely familiar.
Cooligan abandoned the rope and used footholds in the rock to make his final descent … and froze as an armed guard wandered out and dragged the covering from the courier’s motorcycle. Had he raised his eyes by even six inches he must have seen the agent, clinging motionless over his head. Bert hardly dared to breathe; he couldn’t believe his luck would hold, and no one else would come.
But the sentry remained a lone voyeur until, shaking his head – for he would never be able to afford such a bike – he wandered off and took up his post at the main gate.
Cooligan dropped the last couple of yards, landing almost on the motor-cycle, and then he heard, coming from the eyrie above, the last sound he wanted to hear: a shout of warning.
He was protected to a degree by the natural bulge of the castle wall and the slight overhang at first floor level, which was why he hadn’t spotted the bike at once. Bert got astride the machine, switched on the ignition and twisted the throttle until the engine roared its defiance at Achmed, who had discovered his absence from the attic room.
The Arab didn’t have a clear sighting, only the noise of the motor-cycle giving him a sense of direction, but he loosed off a volley of bullets from his machine-pistol. They served to alert the guard at the entry arch, but by that time Bert had already passed through the inner courtyard, and was driving hell-bent for freedom.
The guard made the mistake of aiming his rifle at the swerving target and firing two single shots. He realised in time that he had no chance of hitting Cooligan, so he threw down the rifle and started to raise the drawbridge.
Bert could see the handle turning, and the thick slab of oak lurch off the ground on its rusty chains. He could hear, even above the engine noise, the aggrieved squeal of the mechanism, and when he passed the guard the drawbridge was already three feet up. But for Cooligan there could be no stopping.
As the Honda hit the drawbridge the guard let go of the wheel, and the bridge started an even more raucous and protesting descent. The motorcycle shot off the end and bounced perhaps a dozen feet clear at the other side. Bert yelled and gunned the motor as he sped away from the castle under a hail of bullets from Fayeed, still at the smashed slit window, and from two more guards at the bridge. Cooligan swerved and then caught sight of the guard up ahead at the closed steel road barrier.
At the moment he spotted the guard, Bert was swaying to the right, and that was the way he elected to go, taking the air once more as the bike left the road and crashed through a screen of trees and shrubs. The guard at the barrier was still two hundred yards short of him, the bridge sentries the same distance behind him – but everyone had seen the direction he had taken.
He fleetingly considered using the machine as a scramble bike and taking it to the floor of the valley, but twisting to avoid a pair of saplings, he crashed full-pelt into a rotting tree stump.
Bert was catapulted off into a bush, but clawed himself clear and began to run along the side of the hill. He figured that if he could get beyond the barrier he might stand a chance of crossing the road and taking to the higher ground, which could throw off his pursuers.
He made it undetected, and was still running for cover when McCafferty saw him …
Sipping a long Scotch on the rocks, Philpott again scanned the notes he had taken at Sonya’s dictation of Smith’s plans to collect the ransom. He was waiting now for a picture to be wired from Rome to Zagreb, which the Yugoslav minister had promised would be brought straight out to the airport by dispatch rider, but first there was another visitor. The man carried a bulky bag of soft chamois leather and juggled meaningfully with it.
‘I have brought what you want, Mr Philpott,’
said the diamond merchant. He handed the bag to Philpott, who didn’t even check its contents. A member of the Amsterdam Diamond Exchange was entirely trustworthy.
The dispatch rider was admitted with the wire photo, and Philpott studied the Polaroid with a magnifying glass. The picture showed a tiny island – Saucer Island, the caption said – accompanied by a map reference. The island appeared to jut no more than a few feet above sea-level; the map reference identified it as lying off the Dalmatian coast. The rock could have been anything from fifty to five hundred metres wide and looked flat and bare, except for the pole and cross-bar like a hangman’s gibbet someone had constructed at its very tip.
‘Is that a gibbet?’ Philpott asked doubtfully.
The Deputy Minister bent over the picture. ‘It looks like a gibbet, but logic dictates that it cannot possibly be that,’ he said. ‘Why bother to take someone all the way out there to hang him when you can shoot him comfortably in a prisonyard?’
The vertical post with the supported arm protruding out over the water was fastened to the island by a guy-rope attached to a bolt which had been driven firmly into the rock.
‘“Place the diamonds into a canvas sack secured at the top, and bearing at its fastening a steel ring precisely six inches in diameter,”’ Philpott read out Smith’s instructions disbelievingly. ‘“Loop the ring over the projecting arm.”’
‘Is that all?’ the Deputy Minister asked.
‘No,’ Philpott replied. ‘He goes on: “Do not set foot on the island. The operation must be carried out from a boat. Be warned that the island is mined. The ransom must be in position by 2000 hours this evening, or another life will immediately be forfeit. And heed well this injunction: any rescue bid will be met with fire, and the deaths of all, repeat all, captives.”’
‘Curious indeed,’ commented the politician, inquiring what Philpott wished them to do.
‘Do precisely as Smith says,’ Philpott returned. ‘Take a boat to the island, don’t land on it, merely place the diamonds on the projecting arm of the whatever it is, exactly as per instructions. No tricks; no substitute package. I want fifty million dollars’ worth of cut stones in that bag, and I want it to be where Smith expects it to be at the time he cites. I’ll be able to give you further directions later, I trust.’
The Minister bowed. ‘You are, sir, as I believe I have pointed out, in full charge of the operation. So that, should it go wrong …’ he let the possible consequences hang in the air.
‘I take the point,’ Philpott said grimly.
‘How do you think Smith is going to take possession of the diamonds?’ the politician asked, halting Philpott’s exit to the helicopter.
Philpott turned and said, ‘If I knew that I’d know how to stop him. But I don’t.’ He stalked out to the airport’s apron and made his way to the helicopter …
The sun cast a deep shadow on the mountainside, and McCafferty used the camouflage to sneak further along the ledge until he was above Cooligan. He risked a slow, careful descent, wishing neither to alarm Cooligan nor attract the attention of the helicopter pilot. When he was only a few yards short of the agent, he called out in an urgent voice, ‘Bert! It’s me. Mac!’
Cooligan spun round, and did the last thing McCafferty expected: his face darkened with fury, and he launched himself at his would-be rescuer.
Mac could have used the machine-gun to hold off the maddened agent, but he was so taken aback that he allowed Cooligan to close with him.
‘Now, you filthy bastard, now here’s where you get yours like you gave it to Hemmingsway!’ Cooligan gasped, as his hands reached out for McCafferty’s throat. Mac staggered, still unwilling to use either force or his own weapon against his friend.
‘For Christ’s sake, Bert, what the hell are you saying?’ he hissed. ‘And keep the noise down or we’ll both be caught.’
They grappled, and Cooligan fought like a berserk Viking, possessed with fury and hatred. He hit out blindly at Mac’s
face, and caught him a glancing blow on the cheek-bone. Mac stumbled backwards, then his foot caught in a tree root and he toppled to the ground. Cooligan’s eyes blazed as he leapt forward to dash his booted foot into McCafferty’s face. Mac rolled desperately to one side, babbling all the while that Cooligan was making a dreadful mistake, that he was his friend, the old Mac – that the other man was a ringer!
Cooligan missed him with the first onslaught, but spun on his heel and lashed out again with his other foot. Still refusing to unsling his gun, McCafferty caught the flying boot inches from his mouth, and twisted cruelly on it. With a cry of fear, Cooligan pivoted, trying to keep his balance with outflung arms, and failing. He fell awkwardly to land on his front, and the wind driven from his lungs. It was the chance Mac needed: he bunched his muscles and jumped from the ground to fall squarely on Cooligan’s back. He twisted one of the agent’s arms, and held it pressed between his shoulder-blades.
‘Now will you listen! Say nothing – just listen! There are two of us, dummy! Two of us! That’s how Smith managed to pull the trick on board AF One. They used a ringer – and he’s out looking for you now! I got away from them in Bahrain and I’m here under Philpott’s orders. I’m to meet him shortly down the valley! Now will you for Christ’s sake stop fighting me and let me rescue you, asshole!’
All Cooligan’s fury was spent in the struggle to get free. He lay on his face, exhausted, and for the first time heard what McCafferty was saying. ‘Two of you?’ he panted. ‘Then you’re – you’re—’
‘I’m Joe McCafferty, Bert. He’s – I don’t know, someone else. Someone Smith tricked up with plastic surgery to look like me, talk like me, act like me … well enough to fool everyone on board the plane and pull off this hijack. What we have to do now, Bert, is stop him. And I think I’ve an idea how we can make a start.’
He rolled off Cooligan but, to be absolutely safe, held him at gunpoint. Cooligan sat up and eyed the weapon suspiciously. ‘I guess – I guess I have to believe you, Mac,’ he said slowly. ‘There seemed to be something not quite right about you – I mean him – at the hotel and on the aircraft, and I knew all along that, even if you’d sold out, you couldn’t have done what they said you’d done back there.’
He related the details of Hemmingsway’s murder, and McCafferty shook his head in grief; he had known Hemmingsway, and liked him for his unaffectedness and determination. Cooligan asked for the plan of action, and McCafferty inquired if the ringer was still wearing AF One uniform. Bert confirmed that he was.
‘Then change clothes with me,’ Mac urged. ‘I’ll go down the hill as the ringer, and tell them to call off the hunt. That’ll take the heat away and give us time to think.’
They swapped clothing swiftly, and McCafferty, keeping a wary eye open for his double in case the ringer had also joined the search, made contact with the guerillas and ordered them back to the castle. He separated from the taskforce on a hastily contrived pretext, and had just rejoined Cooligan when their attention was distracted by a loud thump from below.
‘That’s the drawbridge,’ Cooligan said, ‘something must be coming out.’
As they watched, the minibus clattered across the wooden bridge and took off down the road, followed by a lorry-load of men and two jeeps. McCafferty clapped the field glasses to his eyes, and counted off the passengers in the bus.
He turned to Cooligan. ‘It’s Smith and the hostages,’ he said, ‘I think they’re all in the bus, except maybe one.’
‘Which one?’ Bert demanded.
Mac hesitated. ‘I don’t know if she was even among them, but she was supposed to join the flight.’
‘Do you mean Sabrina Carver?’ Bert asked.
‘Yes. They were all there but for her.’
‘Then she must still be back at the castle,’ Cooligan said, ‘and Mac – there’s something you don’t know. She’s not just AF One crew: she’s an agent of UNACO, your people. She’ll be in deadly danger.’
‘I do know, Bert,’ McCafferty said, ‘and that’s why I’m going to get her out.’
McCafferty left one of the communicators with Cooligan and instructed him to stay under cover. ‘I’ve got a plan,’ he explained. ‘It’s worked once already, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t come good again. I’ll keep your uniform on for the moment, if you don’t mind.’
He trotted back to the castle, the gun still slung over his shoulder, and was challenged by the guards. McCafferty, who was now in the curious position of playing himself in the mad scenario mapped out by Smith, curtly told the sentries that one of the jeeps escorting the hostages’ bus had broken down. Mac noted that many of the guerillas had already left the castle, and seized the opportunity to get rid of a few more to even up the odds. He ordered three sentries to help with the repairs to the jeep or, if it couldn’t be fixed, to get it off the road.
The remaining two guerillas guarded the main entrance, and Mac left them as he made his way to the attic room where Sabrina was being held, following directions supplied by Bert Cooligan. He mounted the narrow steps and rapped on the door, expecting Sabrina to reply, but it was a man’s voice that he heard, raised in a hoarse and chilling shout of triumph …
Sabrina had first of all feared that Cooligan would be captured or killed before he even reached the ground, so quickly was his escape discovered. It was sheer bad luck that Achmed Fayeed, inflamed by the brutal murder of Hemmingsway, had determined to follow Smith’s suggestion that Sabrina Carver should be made to suffer for her deception aboard Air Force One: and suffer she would.
Achmed had brooded on the beautiful girl in the room at the top of the castle, and eventually reached a decision. He ran up the stairway, intending to isolate Sabrina and make her submit to him. He unlocked the door and threw it open; Sabrina and Feisal were still at the window monitoring Cooligan’s progress. Achmed, who had himself imprisoned the Secret Service agent in the attic, realised immediately what had happened. He called for a guard to join him and ran to the window, smashing the glass with the butt of his machine-pistol and loosing off a volley of shots at the hastily-glimpsed target.
Fayeed cursed when he saw Cooligan shoot the drawbridge on the stolen Honda. He shouted at the guerilla who answered his summons to take Feisal to the trophy room and inform either Smith or Dunkels that the agent had escaped. Sabrina was about to follow Feisal, but Achmed caught her arm and pulled her roughly back into the room. He backhanded her and she fell to the bed, her head ringing from the force of the blow.
The Arab kept his gun on Sabrina as the door closed behind the guerilla and the terrified boy. Achmed said, ‘You have crossed us for the last time. I do not think Mister Smith will care too much what happens to you, and I know he shares my opinion that it would be a pity to waste your obvious talents, by killing you too quickly.
‘You owe me your body, you Yankee bitch, and you’re going to pay up. If you haven’t known an Arab before, I can assure you that we’re experts in our treatment of women. You’ll never have another experience like it.’ He laughed, but it was an ugly sound. ‘You won’t, in any case, but your last love-making might just as well be your best.’
Achmed cradled the machine-pistol in the crook of his arm, leaving his other hand free to loosen the broad leather belt on his battledress trousers. ‘Get your clothes off, slut,’ he commanded, and when she stayed unmoving he drew from a sheath at his belt a long-bladed knife. ‘I said undress, or I’ll cut you naked with this, and I don’t care whether it’s the clothes or your lovely fair skin that comes away.’
Sabrina continued to look at him with utter contempt in her blue eyes. Achmed stole towards her, his belt half-undone, the gun in one hand, the knife in the other. ‘Which is it to be?’ he whispered. ‘Easy – or hard? Pleasure – or pain? I’m going to have you whether you like it or not, whether you’re willing or not, whether you fight me or not. I don’t give a damn what state you’re in when I finally get your legs open. I can use you just as well dead as alive.’
> Sabrina’s flesh crawled with fear and disgust as she saw how unmistakably ready he was for her, even beneath the rough material of his uniform. She had hoped her refusal even to answer him might infuriate him, goad him into hasty action; but he held the knife like a trained fighter, and the pistol pointed unwaveringly at her face.
Still with her lips compressed and her eyes blazing with hatred, she knelt on the bed and shrugged off her AF One blazer. Her fingers flicked through the buttons on her blouse, and unhooked the fastener of her skirt. She rose from her knees to her feet without using her hands for support, and towered over him on the bed. The sounds of vehicles leaving the castle nagged at the edges of her mind, but she ignored them. She slipped out of the blouse and pulled down the zip of the skirt. The garment fell to the counterpane, and she stepped away from it.
As a strip routine, it lacked even a scant suggestion of style or titillation. Hers were the actions of a woman who was about to be raped; her eyes never left his, and her teeth clenched in defiance. She would never, she swore to herself, go willingly to him; and Achmed would swiftly discover that Sabrina Carver had ways of defeating him even in the height of his lust.
Sabrina kicked the blouse and skirt off the bed, and stood looking down at him, her fingers laced before her, resting on her lightly tanned belly. ‘The rest,’ Achmed muttered hoarsely, ‘take off the rest.’
She made no move to obey. ‘Kneel!’ he ordered, and she allowed her body to sag and fold until it slumped before him. ‘The rest,’ he said, gesturing again at her brassiere and briefs with the point of the machine-pistol.
More quickly than his eyes could follow, her hand came up and wrenched at the barrel of the gun, twisting his finger in the trigger-guard until he gave a howl of pain and yanked it out of her grasp. ‘You will pay for that,’ he panted, ‘by God you will pay for that.’