“Do you have any idea,” he began, but his question was cut short because Bain was shaking his head already.
“We have a witness to Helen Walsh’s kidnapping, but unfortunately he can’t be relied on.”
Francesini took a cigar from a leather cigar wallet. He asked the inspector if he could smoke. Bain nodded and Francesini began the task of lighting it. Bain picked up his cup again and drank from it.
“What haven’t you told me?” Bain asked him suddenly, an expression on his face that was a mixture of enquiry and threat.
Francesini nearly choked on his cigar. “I’m sorry?”
Bain put his cup down, his action quite positive. Now he seemed to be getting down to business.
“Please do me the courtesy of not assuming that I am a little policeman on an island that has only to deal with tourists, Mister Francesini.” The expression on his face changed and Francesini could see a hardness there that belied the inspector’s urbane nature. “The CIA does not send one of their top men on a boy’s errand. You must be worried about something that you haven’t told me about. Whatever this threat is to your country, it must be more serious, and closer I would think than you are prepared to admit. And I don’t believe the threat comes from this island.”
He opened a draw in his desk and pulled out a file. Francesini watched, but said nothing. Bain laid the file on the desk in front of him and opened it.
“Does the name Mancini mean anything to you?
Francesini was stunned. He thought he had been controlling the conversation; just feeding the inspector with a little information, just sufficient to make it appear that he was treating the inspector as an equal. But now he knew how wrong he had been; the inspector had been playing him along and allowed him to stumble into a bog of his own making.
“Should it?” he asked, still clinging grimly to a sense of some dignity.
“Mister Francesini, we can either be completely frank with each other, or we can terminate this interview here and now. It’s your choice.” He opened the file and began reading.
“Harry Mancini died a few months ago. He was a retired CIA agent. His widow is a natural Bahamian; that’s why they retired here. Last week, Mancini’s widow brought some files into us that she didn’t understand, but was intuitive enough to know that they could be important.”
He tossed the file across to Francesini who took it and looked through the pages, turning them slowly. Some of it was a technical report on geological survey work, obviously carried out by Greg Walsh that was beyond Francesini’s limited knowledge. But there was a summation at the end that had Walsh’s signature at the bottom of the page. He knew then that this is what he had hoped his men would find when they had searched Marsh’s home and that of Walsh’s widow, Helen.
And he knew that it would be dynamite once it had been broken down into everyday English.
“You know what this is?” Francesini asked him tentatively.
Bain reached over and retrieved the file. “I had somebody I know, not connected with the police department, look over it for me. He told me it was too heavy for us to deal with. He said it was dangerous.”
He laid the flat of his hand on the file and stared at Francesini for a few seconds.
“It has been on my mind for a couple of days now,” he said. “And it has made me think a great deal about whom to pass it on to. I suppose I must have been waiting for a ‘trigger’, you know; for something to happen that would convince me how serious this file was.”
Francesini could understand his dilemma. “And it’s happened, right?”
Bain nodded. “It has, and I’m prepared to let you have the file; but not until we have reached a complete understanding. Do you agree?”
Just then a young officer knocked at the door and came in with a folder which he laid on Bain’s desk.
“We’ve had some luck with the fingerprints, sir.” He glanced at Francesini for a moment and was obviously not impressed with the smoke from Francesini’s cigar.
“They found a palm print and four fingerprints on the door of the pick-up truck. There were no others like it on the car. We checked the witness’s statement and it’s possible the prints belong to one of the kidnappers.
“Do we have a face?” Bain asked.
“Yes sir; Sweeting Maclean.”
Francesini thought he saw a flash of dismay cross the inspector’s face. He tried not to let it bother him. Bain nodded thoughtfully, and then he looked up at the young policeman.
“I want him tailed, but not picked up yet. Keep me informed.”
“Could that be our man?” Francesini asked when the young officer had left.
“There’s every chance,” Bain answered hopefully. “Maclean has a record as long as your arm, but he’s been quiet lately. He was mixed up in a big Obeah scandal a couple of years ago. That’s our local witchcraft,” he explained. “What you might call ‘voodoo’. He nearly went to prison for a very long time, but he got off on a technicality.”
“A good lawyer?” Francesini asked euphemistically.
Bain nodded. “Bent too.”
“What about this Maclean guy, is he a witchdoctor?”
Bain laughed. “Maclean an Obeah man? No, an Obeah man would not have got himself involved in kidnapping; too many other willing hands to do the work.”
“Like Maclean,” Francesini observed.
“Exactly!” Bain replied. “Just like Maclean.”
“So what will you do now?” he asked.
Bain almost shrugged. “We really have to let him show his hand. Perhaps lead us to where he is hiding Mrs. Walsh. If he has her of course: we’ve no proof yet.”
“Will you let me know once you have something positive, Inspector?”
Bain agreed. “Yes, as soon as we know, I’ll let you know.” He picked up Francesini’s business card and put it into a desk drawer.
“As soon as we can.” Then he picked up the folder he had been given by Mancini’s widow and handed it to Francesini.
“Here, you’d better take this.”
Francesini took it from him. “I’ll be in touch,” he promised. He was about to leave when Bain stopped him. “You haven’t finished your tea.”
Francesini smiled a broad smile. “Thanks Inspector, but no thanks; I never touch the stuff.”
Bain laughed out loud and stood up. He reached over the desk and shook Francesini by the hand. For all the presumption of the American, he decided he couldn’t help liking the man. He waited until Francesini had left his office and then opened the file the young policeman had brought in and began reading about Sweeting Maclean.
*
When Helen woke up, her mind held back reality for a brief moment and she could not remember where she was. A grey light filtered into the room and washed over the shapes, distorting them and making it difficult for her to recognise anything. Her side ached abominably where she had lain on the hard, concrete floor and she eased herself up in to a sitting position.
Then slowly, the horror of what had happened to her began drifting into her mind, filling in the edges and supplanting the vagaries of her first conscious thoughts. And as Helen recalled those moments of the previous day and night, so she began to feel the timbre of apprehension and fear.
As a result of lying on the hard floor the aches and pains began to surface as consciousness returned. Her side was numb and elsewhere she could feel stiffness and pain. She moved to one side, turning on to her knees and then stood upright. Then she remembered that something in the room had scared the hell out of her the night before, and the awful smell that seemed to seep into every pore of her body.
She scanned the room with her eyes only, not moving her head or the rest of her body, trying to identify the shapes that were beginning to take on a life as the light brightened, seeping in through the cracks in the door and through two very small, dirty windows. There was a table and a couple of chairs in the room, some cages and small boxes. She turned round, looking behind her and s
aw more cages. Some were hanging precariously from the walls.
She looked round for the door and moved towards it, placing each foot carefully in front of the other, edging towards the door until she could lean her back up against it, and watched the dawn lift the grey curtain and bring light into her strange prison.
It wasn’t long before Helen was able to discern some movement in the cages. There were animals in them but she was unable to see what kind and she continued to watch with a mixture of fascination and fear. Then the truth came to her and she realised she was almost certainly in a place belonging to an Obeah man.
In the normal world outside, Helen had no reason to believe in or fear the witchcraft of the islands, but she understood the mortal dread it could instil into native Bahamians. Helen was Bahamian too, but she was white and considered her European origins to be a sufficient defence against the voodoo magic. But now she was surrounded by it and felt threatened.
The light from outside was brightening through the two small windows which were set high in opposite walls. They were not barred but hanging beneath them were more cages containing rats and lizards. She could hear snuffling noises made by the rats. Helen had thought briefly about pushing the few sticks of furniture up against the wall and trying to get out through the one of the windows. But the thought of those rats and lizards made her flesh crawl.
As the light improved she could see brightly coloured masks hanging from hooks on the walls. Their distorted faces stared at her and seemed to mock her. There were chanting sticks and costumes, vicious looking knobkerries and several animal skins. She could see dead chicken carcasses bloated with maggots and could hear the buzz of flies. One wall was splattered with blood above a wooden butcher’s table and huge cockroaches scurried leisurely over the blood and dead flesh. A meat axe had been driven into the wooden top, its blade stained black with dried blood.
She looked away and saw something scurry along the wall against the floor, its black fur shining wet. She closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears. Her skin began to prickle as if a thousand needles were jabbing at her. The noise of the buzzing flies seemed to grow with an added intensity as they moved over the carcasses and the blood.
Finally the awful smell of decay and animal excreta, violence and death tore into her nostrils until she could stand it no longer. She flung herself at the door, tearing and beating at it, begging to be let out.
Sweeting Maclean could hear Helen’s screams as he ambled across the yard to the hut where he had thrown her the night before. There was no hurry in his leisurely pace; he felt good and he knew he was going to make a lot of money out of this one.
He reached the door, unlocked it and pulled it open. Helen literally fell into his arms screaming and sobbing. She pushed herself away suddenly when she realised whose arms she was in. Maclean smiled and grabbed a handful of Helen’s hair. He twisted it spitefully, bringing her to her knees. Then he back heeled the door shut and brought his face close to Helen’s.
“You be a good girl missy and I won’t hurt you.”
Helen’s face was drawn back in pain. “Oh please, “she cried, “you’re hurting me.”
Maclean pulled her to her feet and loosened his grip on her hair. “We’re going into the house now missy; got to keep you clean and fed.” He pushed her forward, still holding on to her hair and led her over the rough ground to the house.
Sweeting’s place, if indeed it was his, was little more than a single story dwelling, badly in need of a coat of paint and some tender, loving care. But in its location, fairly remote from what Helen could see, it was unlikely to attract more than just a cursory glance from the man who was now propelling her towards it.
Once inside, Helen was allowed to use the bathroom. Maclean told her she had thirty minutes. There was nothing inside the bathroom that Helen could have used to help her escape. As soon as she realised this, she used the time to luxuriate beneath a hot shower and wash the stench and feel of the hut from her body, and tried to forget the pain and torment she had been subjected to.
Maclean gave her breakfast after that. It was cold but Helen was starving and enjoyed every morsel. She noticed that her kidnapper kept looking at her. It troubled Helen because she knew exactly what was going through his mind. She tried, not very successfully to ignore his lustful stares and enjoy the frugal meal he had put before her.
While she ate, she kept wondering in the back of her mind where the other kidnapper was and what they planned to do with her. She decided there was nobody else in the house, so she tried talking to Maclean, but he said very little. What did bother Helen as well was the way in which he kept smiling at her.
When Helen had finished eating, Maclean took her into a bedroom.
“You got a choice missy,” he said, once they were in there. “You be good and you can stay in here. You be bad and you go back there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Helen knew where he meant; he didn’t have to be specific.
“I would prefer to stay here if I have to,” she told him.
Maclean smiled and Helen felt a chill run through her. He placed his hand on the back of her neck and began rubbing it gently.
“We’re gonna be together quite a while missy,” he said softly.
Helen tried to move her head away from him but he tightened his grip. He moved his other hand up to her breast. Helen gasped as he squeezed it.
“Don’t,” she pleaded. “Please don’t.”
“It’s a pretty dress,” he said and pulled her closer to him. “Pretty little titties.” He held her tight and ran his hand down the back of her dress, popping each button until the dress fell open. Helen felt powerless in his frightening embrace. Then he relaxed and pulled the dress from her. Her breasts seemed to erupt from the material and she could see the fire burning in his eyes as he looked at her semi naked body. His mouth opened and the saliva on his tongue moistened his lips as an atavistic urge gripped him.
Helen screamed and slashed her fingernails across his face. It stopped him but only for a few seconds. Then suddenly he picked her up and threw her on the bed. Holding her down with one hand he curled his fingers into the line of her silk briefs. He pulled them from her and Helen was powerless to stop him. She bucked wildly and Maclean seemed to become mesmerised by the sight of her open legs. The dark flash of her groin meant sensual pleasure to him and it drove him into a frenzy. He groped at the buckle of his trouser belt and fumbled madly as he straddled her and reached into the opening of his trousers. Helen fought wildly, but Maclean was too strong for her. She screamed for him to stop when suddenly a voice broke through her cries.
“Maclean!”
He stopped as the voice called a second time. He held that pose for a moment, one hand pushing down on Helen’s chest, the other inside the opening of his trousers. He turned his head away and listened again as the voice came a third time. For a moment Helen thought he was too hyped up to stop and would rape her before going outside to see who was calling him.
But suddenly he relaxed and got off the bed and tidied himself up.
“Get your clothes on,” he ordered Helen, and left the room, locking the door behind him.
Helen crawled from the bed and gathered her clothes up, blinking the tears from her eyes. They ran down her cheeks and on to her naked body. The question she had asked herself earlier about the other man, the other kidnapper was answered; it was almost certainly the person who had called for Maclean.
She finished dressing and sat on the bed, trying to compose herself, but her fingers trembled violently as she tried to calm herself down. Her kidnapper had made his intentions very clear and she knew it was only a matter of time before he returned to finish what he had started. A violent shudder ran through her body and she began to feel quite unclean.
Maclean soon returned and told her to get up. He grabbed her hair again and dragged her out of the house and across the yard to the hut. He opened the door of the vile shack and pushed her in.
“I have to g
o away for a couple of hours missy.” He stood in the doorway like a mountain, his chest still heaving with the tormented desire he had for her. “When I come back I’m gonna finish what I started.”
“You can’t,” Helen shouted at him. “When they release me you’ll be wanted for rape as well.”
Maclean looked at her in an odd way. “Release?” he echoed. “What makes you think we are gonna release you missy? My orders are to keep you here until everything is finished. They don’t want you then; you’re dead meat.” He laughed. “And while you’re here, we’re gonna get to know each other real well. Real well missy.”
He kept laughing and slammed the door shut, leaving Helen staring at the door and wishing she was already dead.
Chapter 10
Francesini was back in his office, his mind fixed on the problems that the death of Greg Walsh had brought to the department and quite possibly the people of America. Or was it probably? He felt he was on the edge of something so big that it was almost unbelievable. And unbelievable seemed to be the key word. Who would believe that something so outrageous and despicable was being planned by terrorists? Who would believe that such organisations were capable of such an atrocity?
The papers that Inspector Bain had passed on to him were now lying open on his desk. A report from one of the C.I.A’s intelligence analysts, sworn to absolute secrecy, naturally, was pinned to the inside cover of the folder. A note from James Starling was attached. It read:
‘Don’t worry about me firing you if this turns out to be an accurate assessment of Walsh’s fears because I won’t have a job either! Get off your backside, Remo and dig deep!!’
It was signed with the admiral’s usual, indecipherable signature.
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