The Music Trilogy

by Kahn, Denise

  “But why should the Israelis do it?” Dickinson asked. “It’s not their battle.”

  “Several reasons,” Walters replied. “First, Ephraim is an old friend of mine and he’s known my daughter and Monique since they were children. Monique is quite a popular singer and she’s known. A diplomat, as well as a diplomat’s daughter have been kidnapped. And, need I remind you, gentlemen, the Israelis are our allies, and they are bitterly sworn against terrorism. Also…” Walters paused. “I once saved Ephraim’s life. He owes me.”

  Duvalier raised an eyebrow. He had not known this.

  “Call him.” Dickinson said simply.

  Ephraim Schmitz and his assistant arrived four hours later.

  “Shalom, old friend, it’s been a long time,” Ephraim said to William Walters.

  “Yes, too long I’m afraid, and regrettably we meet under difficult circumstances.”

  The two men exchanged hearty handshakes. “This is Leo Aaron,” Ephraim said introducing his assistant.

  “Thank you both very much for coming. Let me fill you in with the details of our problem.” Walters proceeded to brief the Israelis as they walked toward the communications room.

  The Israelis knew the kidnappers. “They are a new organization of fanatics,” Ephraim said. They are a group of Muslims. They come from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, and Libya. They are supposedly dedicated to feeding the poor and helping the underprivileged, but they have attached many strings to their benevolent deeds. What started out once as an act of grace now has turned political. They hide behind their original idea, but they are like a Mafia, they will carry out their threats.”

  Margaret brought in coffee and lunch. Walters’ entire demeanor had changed. He looked as if he had aged years in the last few hours. Walters thanked his secretary. “Please call my wife and tell her I’ve left on an emergency trip and I probably won’t be back for a few days,” he told her. “Don’t tell her anything else.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Our first priority is to deposit the first day’s ransom,” said Duvalier as he bit into some Camembert on a slice of baguette.

  Walters loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top shirt button. He looked at Ephraim and knew he need not speak. The Israeli understood.

  The communications center was filled to capacity with extra radios, tape recorders and other sophisticated pieces of equipment, and the staff to run them.

  “Excuse me,” Margaret said, interrupting Walters who was examining a map of the Egyptian desert that now hung on a wall. “The funds are ready to be transferred tomorrow morning at 0900 hours.”

  “Excellent,” Ephraim said.

  At four o’clock that afternoon, the phone rang. Walters, after first making sure that his team was ready, picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Is this William Walters?” a voice on the other end asked. It was the voice of an Arab with an English accent.

  “Yes,” Walters said, a shiver running down his spine.

  “This is the United People for Freedom.”

  “I want to speak to my daughter.”

  “No. You cannot. If you comply with the first day’s demands, you shall speak to her.” The line went dead.

  “Goddamnit,” Dickinson muttered.

  At 0900 hours the following morning, Margaret, who had been awake most of the night with the rest of them, was on the phone to Geneva. “The monies are in the account,” she announced.

  “Good,” Ephraim said. “I think they will be safe a little while longer. The terrorists now believe that we are going along with them.”

  At 1100 hours, the phone rang.

  “This is William Walters.”

  “This is the United People for Freedom,” the same voice said. “You have done well. No one shall be harmed as long as you continue with the negotiations.” The line went dead.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll call back,” Duvalier said.

  “How do you know?” Walters asked.

  “The deposit was made but the money is frozen,” Ephraim said. “Next time they call, tell them that the bank needs your approval to release it. Stall them. Tell them we need more time, tell them you want to speak to your daughter.”

  Walters was sweating, trying not to think what everyone already knew, that the terrorists could kill them or at least one of them. “What if…” he began but did not finish.

  Ephraim put a hand on his shoulder. “William, they are happy that the funds are there and they want the rest. They would not jeopardize the money at this point. We must take this chance, my friend. We must stall them.”

  At 1230 hours, the phone rang again in the communications room.

  “William Walters here,” the American diplomat said.

  “The funds are frozen. Release them immediately!” The agitated voice said.

  “Not until I speak to my daughter,” Walters replied, trying to keep his voice even. “I want to know if everyone is alright. We’re living up to our part of the bargain. You do the same.”

  There was no response, only a dial tone.

  The prisoners had slept uncomfortably without covers in a tent. They had been given only water and warned repeatedly not to try to escape or they would be shot. Davina’s shoulder turned an ugly purple. She thought many times throughout the night that Monique would pass out. She had that look of sudden horrible loss and panic, the same look Davina saw the night Monique’s parents died. It was as if Jacques was holding a porcelain doll, not a woman, and on her face was frozen that awful mask. Alejandro was too agitated to sit or stand still for long. He said very little. He was trying to work it out. There had to be a way. Adam Spencer knew what Alejandro was thinking. It was what he was thinking of—a way out.

  Fayed, the man who wore the red-checkered head shawl, who seemed to be a leader of the kidnappers, entered the prisoners’ tent with a communications radio. Accompanying him was the enormous man with the gold tooth and other armed men who seemed to be enjoying the power they held over the hostages. Fayed approached Davina. “Your father wants to speak with you. You will tell him that you and your friends are fine and nothing else. Our rifles are pointed at them. And you.”

  “I understand,” Davina said quietly. She exchanged a look with Alejandro and Adam Spencer. She tried to read their faces but couldn’t. Daddy will know what to do, she thought. Daddy will come through for us.

  “I warn you,” Fayed said quietly as he handed the receiver to Davina.

  They heard the voice of William Walters. “Walters here. I want to speak with my daughter.”

  It was a one-way radio, much like a walkie-talkie, Davina realized. You had to press a lever on the receiver to be heard on the other end. She pressed the lever and held the radio away from her face, pretending to think about what to say. Fayed shook her shoulder, the one with the contusion, and Davina screamed. She doubled over, purposely keeping the lever down. Fayed grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head up. “You do exactly as I told you.” Three guns were aimed at her head.

  “I understand, I understand,” she said, trying to get her breath. “Who do you think you are, King Tut?” She brought the receiver, now released, to her ear. “Daddy?”

  Again they heard William Walters. “I want to speak to my daughter.”

  “How do you use this thing?” she asked, pretending that she didn’t know.

  “Press the button and talk,” Fayed snarled.

  She did. “Daddy?”

  “Davina! Are you alright?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I am alright.”

  “The others…?”

  “We are all fine. They have been very nice to us. But I miss you, Daddy. I wish I could see you, say like in an hour, that would be nice.” She laughed, an obviously forced laugh.

  Fayed grabbed her hair threateningly and Davina winced. He yanked the receiver from her hand. “That’s enough,” he growled. “Walters! Release the money immediately.”

  “It shall be done. But how do I know the
y won’t be harmed?”

  “Keep depositing the money,” he said, cutting off their communications. He scowled at Davina and then left the tent, followed by his armed entourage.

  The prisoners were alone again. Adam Spencer winked at Davina. “Do you think he heard?” she asked.

  “I’m sure he heard,” Alejandro whispered. “My love, that was very smart of you but also very dangerous.”

  “I don’t think they noticed,” Adam whispered and he explained to Jacques and Monique what Davina had done or what he thought she had done. By holding down the lever on the receiver, she had allowed Walters and whoever else was listening—and there were sure to be others—to hear her scream. Now at least Walters knew that they were not fine.

  “With all the languages we speak among us and we don’t know what they’re saying,” Davina said. “I should’ve learned Arabic.”

  “More than Arabic you need, luv,” their British pilot said quietly. “Urdu, I think.”

  Alejandro spoke quietly into Adam’s ear. “Have you understood anything?”

  “Some. Very little actually. Fayed, the chap with the tablecloth on his head, he said something about killing.”

  “Who?” Davina asked impatiently.

  “Us, I presume.” Adam whispered. “I don’t speak any of these languages, luv. I just pick up snatches.”

  Davina laid her head in Alejandro’s lap. There was nothing to do but to wait for her father to act. She knew he would. She knew he would save them all.

  Adam was not quite ready to tell them what else he thought he heard. He would tell Alejandro and Jacques, and of course Eric, when he got the chance. Even if he did not understand exactly, even if he was wrong. He knew he had to tell them. They said they would take the women first.

  It was Ephraim, the Israeli MOSSAD agent, who understood all of Davina’s hints. They listened to the tape of the conversation between Davina and her father over and over. “Bravo,” Ephraim said quietly.

  William Walters looked up. “What?”

  “Rerun the tape,” Ephraim ordered. “My friend, I see your daughter takes after you. She is very clever.”

  William shut his eyes and opened them quickly as if the light could block out the memory of Davina’s scream. “How do you mean?”

  “She said King Tut. She also said she would like to see you in about an hour. We know they flew out of Cairo. If she is right, and I expect that she is, we know they are in a radius of an hour’s flying time from Cairo. King Tut means they were headed for the Valley of the Kings. That’s where King Tutankhaman’s tomb is. That fits in with what we know about these fanatics and where they hide out.”

  “You think you know where they are?” Walters asked, thinking this was too good to be true.

  “We are pretty sure,” the younger Israeli said, going to the map. “They are most probably here,” he said, pointing at an indistinct spot in the beige desert.

  “Good news finally,” General Dickinson said. “Now what do we do?”

  “We are a little ahead of the game,” Ephraim said. “I need to make a few phone calls myself.”

  At 1900 hours Ephraim presented his plan as he sipped from a large mug of black coffee. “Two dozen men will leave tonight by aircraft. They will parachute here,” he said, pointing to a large X on the map. They will land thirty miles from the location, otherwise the plane will be heard.”

  “How the hell they gonna get to where they need to be?” Dickinson demanded.

  “They will carry hang gliders.”

  “Hang gliders?” Dickinson asked, incredulous. “Where in hell they gonna take off from, Ephraim? There’s nothing out there but fucking sand!”

  “There are dunes in the desert,” Ephraim replied, “some are high enough for a hang glider to take off from. No problem.”

  “Continue, Ephraim, please,” Walters said.

  “They will fly themselves as close to the location as possible, otherwise they would lose time and exhaust themselves walking. At 0230 hours they will have arrived two miles from the camp, far enough so that if there are guards, they can take them out. At 0330 three men will reconnoiter the camp, set plastiques and warn the hostages of this operation. At 0400 hours they will silence the perimeter guards with far-range guns that have infrared telescopes and silencers. We are presuming that there are between one hundred and one hundred and twenty terrorists at that camp. That is a ratio of about one to five. Of course our commandos will have the element of surprise.”

  Ephraim paused and finished his coffee. He looked at Walters. This was their only chance. He knew Walters knew that. Ephraim would not be alive had it not been for William Walters, risking his own life for him. Walters was OSS at the time. He, Ephraim and three others flew out of a RAF base in England. Their mission: to infiltrate Nazi territory. Only two of them, Walters and Ephraim, lived. But that was another war, another place, Ephraim told himself.

  “The operation should take no more than forty-five minutes,” Ephraim continued. “That would make it 0445. Sunrise is at 0449. At that time, two helicopters will be arriving on the scene. One with more troops, the second, manned by a special medical team in case there are wounded. The helicopters will take off shortly after. This, then, gentlemen, will conclude Operation Nightingale.” He again turned to Walters. “The men are on standby and scheduled to leave—I need your approval and your blessing, William.”

  Operation Nightingale. William Walters repeated the words to himself. Yes, the savior and the singing bird. That is a good name. We must get our nightingales and their friends out of there. He nodded to Dickinson and Duvalier.

  “Yeah,” the older general said. “Do it.”

  “Yes,” Duvalier said.

  The DC-3 pilot Adam Spencer thought they could escape under cover of darkness, although it was not a perfect plan. They might be killed but at least some of them might survive such an escape. If they could make it to the hidden airplane, and he knew the chances for this were not good, they would have to remove the camouflage, and that would take time, time they did not have. But even if by some miracle they did manage to do that, he worried that the plane would not start because there must be half the desert in the engines from their landing. But if by chance the plane did start, where was the runway? There wasn’t one. He presumed that they would rebuild it when they needed it again, if ever they did. Adam considered his situation, thinking back to all the tight spots he had been in. Maybe this was the worst, he thought. This wasn’t just he and his buddy B.A. running for their lives through the rice paddies in Vietnam. There were six of them here and only he had been through a war. What would B.A. do? He asked himself. B.A. would know what to do.

  Adam’s co-pilot Eric Shannon had said almost nothing since he first looked into the barrel of the Uzi, probably his first Uzi, Adam thought. But actually, none of them spoke much. They were all very hungry and thirsty. Now they thought about food and water as well as their lives. When two of the armed men guarding their tent came inside their second night in the desert, they thought it was to bring them food or at least water.

  “Who is the singer?” one of them asked, looking from Davina to Monique.

  The women looked at each other and both spoke at once. “I am.”

  The man laughed. Unlike the others, he wore a different kind of head cloth, the kind of the Afghan steppes. “Come,” he said.

  “Now, wait a minute…” Jacques began nervously.

  “Easy boy,” Spencer warned him quietly.

  “What do you want with my wife?” Jacques demanded.

  “Juwaztuk? Your wife?” the other man said. He stared at Monique and grinned obscenely.

  “She’s not going anywhere without me!” Jacques said.

  The man shrugged. “OK. Come.”

  Spencer saw that Alejandro was about to lunge at the guard. “Easy, easy,” Spencer whispered. He put a hand on Alejandro’s shoulder. They watched helplessly as the women and Jacques were escorted out of the tent into the darkness
that they could only wonder at.

  “Maybe they just want to be entertained,” Eric shrugged. “They know she’s a singer.” He was trying to be helpful but even he knew his words rang hollow.

  The women and Jacques were made to enter a tent filled with acrid blue smoke. Fayed and the giant of a man with the gold tooth lounged on cushions, taking turns at the hookah. Fayed’s red checkered head cloth now hung around his neck and his eyes were glassy and dilated.

  “Monique Ravel, the singer, welcome, and you have friends?” Fayed’s words had lost their usual clipped distinction. He was obviously stoned and presumably, the giant was as well. It was more difficult to tell with him. “Please,” Fayed said, swinging out both arms, “please sit down.”

  The three captors sat on cushions. For what seemed like a long time, they listened to only the gurgling water pipe as Fayed and the big man continued to suck at the hookah and blow smoke. Finally Fayed spoke. “The entertainment should prove to be interesting.”

  Davina could not bear the silence any longer. “You expect us to sing?”

  Fayed nodded.

  “We are very thirsty and we are hungry,” Davina said. “When I talk to my father again, I will tell him that you do not have any honor. You’ve broken your word.”

  Fayed slapped Davina hard across her face. “Bitch!” he yelled, straddling her. He yanked her up by the front of her shirt and punched her in the stomach. Davina doubled over on all fours.

  Monique gasped. “That was not necessary,” she said, trying to conceal her fright. “We have done nothing but obey your orders.”

  Fayed grabbed Monique’s blouse and tore it off her body. Jacques lunged, but Ahmed, one of the guards who had brought them to Fayed’s tent, got to him first with the butt of his rifle. They heard cracking of rib bones. Jacques went down hard gasping for air. Ahmed was going to hit him again but Fayed stopped him. “La, la, no, no,” he said, “let him watch.”

  Monique, her breasts exposed, began to shake uncontrollably.