by Claire McNab
Moreen put up a restraining hand. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. When Denise realizes that there’s no point in putting up a front any more, I’m sure she’ll cooperate.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” I leaked a note of panic into my voice. “I haven’t done anything. Let me go! Please!”
The only effect of this was to make Moreen click her tongue in a ladylike way, although her eyes were hard as stone. “Perhaps it will help if you know that your conversation was recorded.” When I looked blank, she went on, “Your conversation with that employee…”
“Jen,” snapped Quint. “She’s got a name. It’s Jen.”
Irrelevantly, I thought how delighted Jen would be if she knew that Quint was keen to have his mother show respect, even in Jen’s absence.
“With that employee,” Moreen repeated, her emphasis on the last word. Her lips tightened. “Quint, if you hadn’t told the young woman sensitive information, this never would have happened. I hold you entirely responsible.”
“Christ!” He swung the shotgun like a huge and deadly pointer, until it was centered on my face. “Don’t blame me. This bitch was the one asking the questions, snooping around.”
“Yes,” said Moreen. She examined me as though I were a loathsome creature that had just crawled out from under a rock. “You’ve caused a great deal of trouble for yourself, my dear. First a contact with the CIA plant, then all those questions of staff members like little Vera, and then your attempts to insinuate yourself into my family. That I cannot forgive.”
“Are you all insane?” I asked, not in anger, but in distress. “Please let me go. I’ll forget it ever happened. Promise.”
It was as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s unforgivable that you should seduce Roanna.”
I was sick of this. “Why?” I said.
“What do you know of Red Wolf?” asked Moreen Aylmer. At that moment I knew for sure that she didn’t intend I get out of this alive. She had used the terrorist’s name, and even Denise Hunter, innocent of any spying, would remember the question and repeat it. With a chill I realized that it didn’t matter to them if I were tortured now, since I would be eliminated after they’d determined I’d told all I had to tell.
And Roanna, what would they do with Roanna? Not kill her, surely. A horrible thought reared up in my mind—Roanna as part of the conspiracy, playing along as fellow victim, waiting to get me alone so I would tell her everything, not suspecting she belonged to the Aylmers first and to me not at all. Perhaps even now she was drinking hot coffee, laughing with Harry about how they’d all fooled me.
If I could just stay alive for ten, twelve hours. Then killing me would be quite unnecessary, would just add another charge to all the others. “Please,” I said, “you think I’m someone else. You’re wrong. I’m just me.”
“Red Wolf,” said Moreen. “That name meant nothing to”—she glared at her son—“to Jen, but it meant something to you.”
I shook my head, as though bemused.
“And straight after you hear the name, you’re desperate to find a phone, so desperate you ask Sebastian Bennett to find you a mobile when you find the others don’t work.”
Seb. I felt a wave of regret. I had thought him a friend. “I wanted to call my mum,” I said. “That’s all.” Looking into Moreen Aylmer’s eyes, I threw up my hands in a gesture of complete despair. “This is a nightmare,” I said, sounding near to tears.
Behind me, Quint laughed softly. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Quint, be quiet.” He subsided. “Now, Denise, be reasonable. Tell us everything you know, and that will be the end of it. I imagine you’ve concealed a message somewhere. We’ll need that. And we need to know everyone you’ve spoken to, of course.” She turned to her son. “Jen is no problem, I trust?”
“No problem,” he said quickly.
“Sebastian can ask around, see if Denise has spread any wild tales. I’m concerned about the bartender, Pete. Check him out closely. They seemed to have been on very good terms, and he spends time with Roanna.”
“Roanna,” said Quint with scorn. “She talks too much to too many people.”
His mother gave him a icy look. “And you don’t?” She swung back to me. “And you spoke with that private detective, Biddy Gallagher. What did you tell her?”
“Gallagher’s a drunk,” said Quint. “No one would listen to anything she said about anything.”
“Maybe so, but she’s been far too interested in Lainie Snead.” To me she said accusingly, “You tried to strike up a conversation with Lainie, too, didn’t you?”
I felt violated. They’d been watching me, listening to me. I’d suspected that I was under surveillance, but somehow it had never seemed quite real. I was sure it had begun when Roanna showed an interest in me. Controlling an almost overwhelming impulse to tell these two bastards what I thought of them, I said meekly, “Seeing Mr. Snead’s widow was so upset, I just said something kind to her. I mean, it was awful what had happened to her husband.”
“Lainie won’t be talking to anyone,” said Quint with confidence. “And I’ve persuaded her that any attempt to sue the resort would inevitably lead to serious accidents to her nearest and dearest.” He laughed lightly. “I was very convincing. Lainie understood perfectly.”
The door opened behind me. I tensed, ready to take advantage of any change in the situation, but Quint didn’t look to see who it was. He kept the shotgun pointed at me.
“The wind’s dropping,” said George Aylmer.
As Denise Hunter would, I turned to him in entreaty. “Mr. Aylmer! Please. Can you help me? There’s been some misunderstanding.”
He ignored me, his attention wholly on his formidable wife. George Aylmer didn’t look evil, or even severe. He was merely a middle-aged, slightly stooped man with the peevish attitude of one inconvenienced by the storm. “Moreen? What do you think about the chances of making the mainland in this weather? I’d like to be rid of our guest as soon as possible.”
For a moment I thought that by guest he meant me, but of course he meant Red Wolf.
Moreen was incisive. “The catamaran can handle very heavy seas. Tell our guest that Quint will be along in five minutes to take him down to the dock.” She consulted her watch, a small gold item worth, no doubt, a great deal of money. “There’s still ample time for the project to be accomplished.”
The project she referred to was almost certainly an attempt to assassinate the President. I had the comforting knowledge that the alert I’d sent about Red Wolf would mean that all presidential plans for sightseeing would be canceled and that Red Wolf’s target was on his way back to the States. That is, if my e-mails had got through. If they hadn’t…
At last George Aylmer appeared to notice I was in the room. “What’ll we do with her?”
“Eddie took Ro along to have a little heart-to-heart with Harry,” said Quint, “but I’m sure Eddie would jump at the chance of spending some time with Denise.” He gave me a lighthearted grin. “He’ll get you talking. You’ll want to tell him everything.”
I remained silent, the very picture, I hoped, of terror and confusion. There was no doubt in my mind that I was to be killed, otherwise nothing about Red Wolf or his plans would have been discussed in front of me. I was to be beaten, or worse, until I told everything useful, and then I’d be eliminated. And what cover story would they use? That I’d been swept out to sea? Battered on the coral until I was almost unrecognizable? Or perhaps my body would never be found.
Anger was giving me strength, revving me up until I knew that I would act at the first opportunity. I wasn’t going to die. I’d have at least one chance, and I’d seize it. If it didn’t work out, at least I’d be quickly dead. That way I’d escape slow torture, followed by the inevitable execution.
Moreen went to the desk and punched a key on the intercom. “Harry? Send Eddie here immediately. Quint is to escort our guest to the mainland. Keep Roanna with you. I’ll speak with
her myself, a little later.” Her tone made it clear this conversation would not be a pleasant one.
George left the room without another glance at me. Quint, jogging from foot to foot, kept me under close scrutiny. “You sure the cat’s safe?” he asked his mother. “It’s bloody rough out there.”
“The captain’s expert. That’s why I hired her.” Quint moved his shoulders, obviously uneasy about the crossing. “I suppose it’s not that far.”
“You’re not landing at the usual place, Quint. That’s poor security, and you should know that.” She sounded disappointed in him, and he responded with a sulky expression. “The captain’s been instructed to go down the coast quite a way, and drop off our passenger at an abandoned wharf, where he’ll be met. That’s where our responsibility ends.”
I felt my shoulders slump. There wasn’t time or people to cover every landing possibility on this section of the Queensland coast. It would be like every other time: Red Wolf would slip away, and his mythical image, that drew so many radicals to support him, would be enhanced.
Jeez, I thought. Not me. I’m not hero material, so no one can expect me to do anything about it. Anyway, what could I do? If I escaped my captors, I planned to hide until the authorities landed on the island and took over.
Identify the enemy, my trainer whispered in my ear. I almost nodded, listening to this advice. If I could see Red Wolf’s face, even for a moment, and estimate his height, his build, even his ethnic background, then I could offer tangible information with which to hunt him down.
Eddie came in, the Smith & Wesson still clutched in his right hand.
“I’ll say good-bye,” said Quint. “We won’t be meeting again.”
Chapter Fourteen
Perhaps Quint had given some hostage-keeping hints to Eddie Trebonus. Whatever the reason, he kept his distance from me, and the wicked barrel of the black automatic stayed trained on my stomach. He’d shed his flapping dark raincoat, to reveal a garish Hawaiian shirt and crumpled brown trousers.
“After you,” he said to me, in a parody of good manners.
I saw Moreen Aylmer frown at the dirt Eddie had tracked in on his wet shoes. “Hurry up,” she said, obviously wanting him off her white carpet.
Out in the courtyard the rain had almost stopped, but the wind still keened. “Where’s Roanna?” I asked. “Shut up,” he said without heat.
I shut up. I was going to get away from Eddie, or die trying, and I couldn’t imagine dying. The blood sang in my veins, and I felt like an athlete about to run a race.
He indicated the way I was to go, out of the courtyard and toward a couple of squat, windowless buildings that were probably used for equipment storage.
Raising my voice above the storm, I asked over my shoulder, “Are you going to hurt me?”
“Sweetheart, I’m going to make you scream your lungs out,” he said.
“I thought you liked me.”
“Oh, I do. And I’m going to show you how much.”
I stopped, turned to face him. There was a cocky tilt to his head, and his loose mouth was stretched in an anticipatory smile. With a jolt of disgust I noticed the bulge in his pants. Violence against a defenseless woman was obviously a turnon for Eddie.
He jiggled the gun in his hand. “Get a move on.” When I looked around, a desperate animal at bay, he chuckled. “Don’t bother,” he crowed. “You aren’t getting away from me.”
I went on a few steps, then stumbled and fell hard, face down. “I’ve hurt my knee.”
Eddie stood above me, just where I wanted him. “Get up,” he said.
I rolled over, wincing, turned until I was supported on my left elbow, my right leg drawn up. “I don’t think I can get up.”
“Bitch,” he said, bringing back one foot to kick me.
I went for his kneecap, the full force of my bent leg, released, hitting like a hammer. I heard the bone break. The wind snatched his scream as he went down, still clutching the gun.
I was up faster than thought, faster than I had ever been in training, totally focused on the gun. Eddie was in agony, but he’d transcended that. He wanted to kill me for doing this to him. In what seemed slow motion, the barrel began to swing my way.
My second kick, delivered with every bit of strength I had, was aimed at his face. I hit him cleanly above his upper lip, the follow-through smashing his nose. I felt the shock of the blow through my wet sneaker and up into by shin. I’d been shown the move many times, but never thought I’d ever use it, because, well-executed, the shards of bone were driven into the brain.
Eddie fell back, groaned, just once. His fingers relaxed, and the automatic slid slowly onto the wet ground.
Having no time for any better attempt at concealment, I dragged his body, with great effort, behind the nearest clump of bushes. Kneeling beside him, I felt for a pulse in his neck. I couldn’t find one. I sat back on my heels, looking at his slack face. Water from the leaves was dripping into his half-open eyes, but of course he didn’t blink. Eddie would never blink again.
I’d never killed anyone before, but I didn’t feel anything at all. The one thought that tumbled through my mind was that Eddie Trebonus had ordered his last cocktail.
* * *
I was Alice in Wonderland’s white rabbit, always in a hurry, always finding I had no time. I ran like that fictional rabbit for the dock where I hoped the catamaran still tugged at her moorings. I had Eddie’s gun clamped in my hand, its lethal weight a reassurance.
Odd splatters were falling, but the rain had eased off, at least for the moment. The wind, however, screamed like banshees wailing for Eddie’s soul. I shuddered. Maybe killing him was going to hit me hard, when I could sit and think about it.
Crouched by Eddie’s body, I’d had a moment’s debate about Oscar Fallon. If I had known where he was, I would have tried to release him, as two of us had a better chance than one. But looking for Fallon would have taken precious minutes, and increased the chance that I would be recaptured. Besides, I didn’t know what condition he was in. Perhaps he was dead. It was better to leave the CIA man and go for the catamaran.
I ran past Roanna’s little house, its lights still glowing a welcome. Inside it would be warm and dry, with the pan full of congealed egg still sitting on the stove. Bizarrely, I tried to remember if Roanna had started making the toast before Eddie came bursting through the door.
Then I was through the security gate and pounding along the private path where Roanna and I had strolled in the sunlight. It seemed weeks, months ago, but it had only been two days before. I slowed when I came to the shore, stopping in the shelter of the little dive shop to get my breath. The waves were ferocious, pounding the sand with heavy blows, and hissing right up and into the greenery edging the beach.
With relief I saw that the catamaran was still there, tethered with double moorings fore and aft, and bucking violently in the high seas. She’d been reversed in, so that she pointed her bows directly into the lines of angry waves. On the dock a single light atop a metal pole trembled with the shock of the heaving water and the power of the wind.
There was no one to see me. I could see the lights of the hotel winking through the thrashing trees. Guests would be snug in their rooms, perhaps sharing with people who had to abandon the little cabanas that now had salt water swirling around them. I had a sudden vision of my bland little beige room with its generic furniture, and wished with all my heart that I was safe there, with nothing to worry about except my next shift at the Tropical Heat.
I’d moved to the beginning of the dock when someone got off the vessel. It was the captain, her slicker whipping around her. Quint Aylmer followed her, gesturing emphatically. She swung around, pointing first at the sea, and then at the sky. The waves were huge, rolling in to pitch the cat violently. I could see why the captain didn’t want to risk it. I had the craven hope that she would, and perhaps fate would take a hand. The catamaran would sink, and Red Wolf would choke his life out in a shallow tropical sea, s
o there’d be no need for me to worry that I’d done nothing to stop him leaving the island.
I ducked under the dock’s wooden supports for cover. Under the walkway the wild water surged, alternately sucking and battering the sand, which seemed to dissolve under me so I had trouble keeping my footing. On the opposite side to the catamaran a lower platform had been built to accommodate small launches. If I could crouch on the steps leading up to the main walkway, I’d be close to the cat and might be able to see something. I rammed the gun tightly in the waistband of the jeans I wore—Roanna’s jeans. I’d checked the magazine: eight rounds and one in the firing chamber. Nine shots in all. I wasn’t going to start an effective war with armament like this.
Earlier I’d been soaked to the skin by rain, and now it was salty ocean. I waded, waist high, the force of the swirling water terrifying in its intensity. I was slammed against a pylon, nearly pulled under, but I struggled, one ponderous step at a time, clutching at every handhold I could find, until I could grab the slippery bottom step of the platform. I crawled up on hands and knees, pathetically grateful to be out of the ravening sea, my eyes screwed up against the stinging spray.
As I came to the top of the steps I folded myself into the smallest package possible, raising my head just high enough to look over the edge. Close by me the captain and Quint were still arguing. I caught a few of her words not snatched by the storm. “…the seas too high. Suicide to…”
Quint, mercifully without shotgun, yelled back at her. “We’re going! You haven’t any choice!”
Then a man, small, insignificant, leapt from the cat and strode toward the two of them. He wore a baseball cap and dark clothes. The captain shrank back, as though he were of figure of menace.
And of course he was. Red Wolf.
I strained to see his face, but the bobbing light above was ineffectual, and the brim of his cap threw a dark shadow across his features. The gun hung heavy at my waist. I was close enough for a clear shot. I began to shake, my teeth chattering. I’d already killed one person tonight. This wasn’t like the movies, where heroes dispatched villains with aplomb. Right now I couldn’t even be sure I could pull the trigger, let alone aim the gun.