by Jon Cleary
‘It is heavy,’ said Hassan, taking one of the cases. ‘It must be tiring to be rich.’
‘The world is full of rich men with slipped discs.’ Tim wanted to keep Hassan in a good humour, at least until he had seen Lucas and explained what he had to say to the kidnappers. ‘I’d like to see Mr Beaufort alone. Is that possible?’
‘You don’t want to see the other man? All right. You can be alone with Mr Beaufort, but we shall be listening to what you say to him. It is not that we don’t trust you, Mr Burgess. It is that we don’t trust the old man.’
They went into a house, the largest in the village, that backed on to a cliff that fell sheer to the bottom of the ravine. Tim was led through a sparsely furnished living-room and out on to a small terrace surrounded by a low wall. Geraniums bloomed defiantly despite neglect in two red earthenware pots beside the wall; rose bushes, wild as a barbed-wire entanglement, grew along the back wall of the house. This had once been a home; Tim wondered when the owner had been bought or kicked out. He waited by the wall, looking down at the long drop to the bottom of the ravine, till Lucas was brought out by Hassan. The only escape from the terrace would be by suicide.
‘Mr Beaufort,’ said Hassan, ‘this is your go-between, Mr Burgess. You may have ten minutes together, but we shall be in that room there, listening to your every word. Don’t attempt to whisper.’
He went back into the house and Tim said, ‘Hello, Lucas.’
The walls of the castle reflected the last of the setting sun: the two men stood on the terrace in a fading golden glow, the colour of better memories. Lucas peered at Tim, but there was no recognition in his face.
‘It’s Tim. I’ve changed a bit, but I thought you’d never forget me. I haven’t forgotten you.’
Lucas shut his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. He opened his eyes again, swayed a little, then sat down heavily on the one rough chair on the terrace.
‘Jesus God Almighty.’ His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. ‘Is this some sort of revenge or what?’
‘You’re wrong, Lucas. I’m on your side. I’m here to try and reason with them to let you go. I have the money they’ve asked for. But I don’t know if that will be enough.’ He looked sideways towards the open door of the living-room. There were shadowy figures in the gloom there, but none of them moved. ‘Have they told you what else they’re demanding?’
Lucas nodded, almost absently. ‘Yes, yes. But how did you –? Never mind, I’ll believe you’re on our side. How’s Michael?’
‘He’s well. You’d never recognize him, either.’ He managed a smile, trying to improve the atmosphere between them. I’m still his real enemy, not Hassan and the others. ‘He’s doing all right, Lucas.’
‘Does Nina know –?’
‘No. Nobody knows I’m the go-between. Magnus brought the money to a friend of mine, but my friend didn’t tell him who I was. I’m not sure that I want them to know. It’s been a long time, Lucas. Maybe it’s best that it all remain forgotten.’
‘I’ve never forgotten what you did. Nor has Nina.’
‘Did you ever tell her what you did? Paid me off?’ It was a cruel question, but he couldn’t help it.
Lucas shook his head, looked away across the ravine. The sun rimmed the top of the castle walls for a moment, then was gone; the castle started to fade into the rising tide of dusk. ‘What’s that over there?’
‘Beaufort Castle. You should look up its history when you get back home.’
Lucas looked at him as if he had made some sort of sick joke. ‘You still go in for your goddam whimsy.’
‘The last thing I’m feeling right now, Lucas, is whimsical. Forget the past for a moment, will you? Let’s concentrate on the present. I’ve got to get you out of here.’
Lucas stared at him, then at last nodded. He had become resigned to not leaving the house alive: the thought had saddened him a little but not very much. But he was sad for Roger and for his daughter Prue and his grandchildren: they should not be made to suffer because of him. Because he knew that he was the real pawn in this game. ‘Am I going to go home? Has Washington agreed to what they’re asking?’
Tim spoke to the open door of the living-room. ‘You’d better come out, Hassan. You and your colleagues.’
Hassan came out on to the terrace with three other men, all young like himself. None of them carried guns; there were enough guns on the rooftops all around to protect them. Hassan had changed out of his baggy trousers and torn shirt and like the other three men was dressed in a business suit. These were the negotiators, the ones who did not kill personally but just issued the orders. And Tim had no doubt that Hassan would issue such orders if he did not get his way. These men, members of the small Abu Sadar Revolutionary Front, had ambitions that precluded any mercy towards anyone who would get in their way. He was certain now that, if they had to, they would kill him as well as Lucas and Roger Devon.
He said bluntly, ‘Washington refuses to negotiate with you, Hassan.’
The bluntness seemed to put Hassan and the others off-balance. They were used to circumlocution: Arabs didn’t argue or bargain bluntly. ‘Mr Burgess, let’s talk – ’
‘I’m sorry, Hassan. All I’m allowed to offer you is the five million dollars you asked for.’ He did not say that he could go higher: that could come later, if it was necessary. ‘But there will be no deal on a withdrawal from Abu Sadar. The Sheikh is backing Washington and so are the Saudis.’
‘What about the other oil states?’ Hassan’s expression had not changed, but the other three young men looked angry.
‘Iraq is backing you, and Libya. You could expect their support. The Gulf States are sitting on the fence.’
One of the young men, plump and with a neatly trimmed beard on the upper of his two chins, said angrily, ‘They know we’ll take the money and still kill our two hostages if they don’t agree to our terms?’
Tim glanced at Lucas. The old man was still sitting on the chair, one arm draped over the back of it. He was watching the exchange carefully, but his face gave nothing away. He looked at Tim, then nodded and stood up.
‘I’m sure Washington understands that,’ he said.
‘Do you understand it, Mr Beaufort?’ said Hassan. ‘It does not worry you?’
‘I’m not worried for myself. But you don’t need to kill my son-in-law.’ Then he seemed to realize he had a son-in-law standing beside him, one he had disowned – bought off – years ago, one whose death he would never have regretted. ‘Roger, I mean. Mr Devon. He should be spared. I’m Beaufort Oil, not him.’
Tim watched the four young men, saw the – obduracy? – in their faces. ‘Hassan, what are you going to gain by killing them? Or me – will you kill me, too?’ Hassan said nothing, but the answer was there in the faces of the other three. ‘There’s no way in the world that Washington will ever agree to what you’re asking. Take the money – I’ll arrange for more, if you want it – and let me take Mr Beaufort and Mr Devon back with me. Kill them and perhaps you’ll have the Sheikh’s men come looking for you.’
‘They are looking for us now.’ The plump bearded man had a sort of furious bravado about him. Tim recognized him for what he was, a coward who would do anything to prove he was not. They were a dangerous sort: until you got them alone. But the plump one would always see that he was never alone. ‘They mean nothing to us!’
‘You might have others.’ Tim ignored him, spoke directly to Hassan. ‘This is PLO territory, isn’t it? They mightn’t want outsiders coming in here looking for you.’
‘How would they know where to find us, unless you told them where you were coming?’
‘I didn’t know where you were till I got to Merjayun. But they’d find you.’ He hoped he was not putting the old Greek merchant at risk. ‘Take the money, Hassan, and let them go. Your other demand is hopeless.’
Lucas, in the middle of the most critical bargaining of his life, the bargaining for his life, stayed silent. He realized that Tim�
��s argument carried more weight than his own; Tim knew these Arabs better than he himself did. Lucas for the first time in his life regretted his xenophobia: he had shut himself in, knew too little of what made foreigners tick. Maybe he, or any other American, would never fully understand the Arab thinking; but he could have tried. Tim seemed to have tried and partly succeeded: at least they were listening to him. Lucas became sourly aware of the irony that surrounded him like the dusk: the castle with his name, the son-in-law whom he had banished pleading for his life … Twenty-five years were suddenly like a stone in his chest.
Hassan hesitated, then spoke to the other three Arabs. ‘We can’t make the decision ourselves. There has to be a council meeting – ’
‘No!’ The bearded man clenched his fists, as if he were about to strike someone to get his argument over. ‘They left it to us – we did the kidnapping, we were the ones who took the risks – ’
‘Be quiet, Zaid.’ One of the other young men, thin-faced and with a glaucoma-blinded eye, spoke for the first time. They were speaking in Arabic now; but Tim understood what they were saying. He had spoken English up till now and he could not remember if Hassan knew that he spoke Arabic. ‘It’s too big a decision for us to make. I agree we must go down to meet the council.’
Hassan saw Tim listening to them. All at once he swung round, said to the others, ‘Let’s go inside. Don’t let’s argue in front of them.’
The four Arabs went back into the house and Tim and Lucas were left alone again on the terrace. It Was almost dark now, they were just a shadowy figure to each other: as they had been for so many years.
‘How is Nina?’ Tim hadn’t expected the question to be so difficult to ask.
‘I think she has got over you,’ said Lucas. ‘But not over the loss of Michael.’
‘She never married again. She should have. I thought you’d have persuaded her.’
‘I did my best. I think I’ve at last succeeded. She’s going to marry Magnus McKea.’
Tim was surprised at the jealousy that stabbed him. ‘He’s a good man. Or he was.’
‘He still is.’ They were silent for a while, then Lucas said, ‘Are you ever going to let Michael come back to us?’
‘I’ve thought about it, Christ knows. But I could never come back myself … There’s a letter in a safe deposit box telling him who he is.’
‘Where’s the box?’
‘Ah, Lucas – ’ Tim smiled in the darkness. ‘He’ll be told where it is when the time comes.’
‘Why didn’t you send him back to us? I mean when he turned twenty-one. So that he could make up his own mind about whether he wanted what we could give him.’
‘I think I was afraid of what your money might mean, in terms of risk. One of your American entertainers, Sophie Tucker – ’
‘I saw her years ago at the Reno Club back home. Are you going to quote her bit about, “I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor and, believe me, being rich is better”?’
‘That was it. Yes.’
‘She was right, you know. And I’m trying not to sound smug as I say that.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Tim said slowly. ‘Perhaps being, well, comfortable is better. Being poor is hell. I’ve never been really poor myself, but over the years I’ve seen more poverty than you’ve even read about, Lucas. Germany after the war, Africa, here in the Middle East – ’
‘I don’t know what real poverty is, it would be sheer hypocrisy for me to say that I did. I’ve always had a social conscience about it and I’ve tried to do something about it through the Foundation. But I’ll admit it, I’ve never had the – courage, I suppose you’d call it – to go out and take a long hard look at what poverty really is.’
‘Well, at least you’re honest. But that’s not what I really started to say. I was worried, for Michael’s sake, about the dangers of money. Your sort of money. People like you Beauforts are marked targets. Nina was kidnapped because of your money. I didn’t think much about that aspect of it at the time – the only thing the kidnapping made me think was how much I loved her.’ He was silent for a while in the darkness: old love was there like something tangible. Lucas, sensitive again to his son-in-law, was also silent: he had once loved Edith the same way. Then Tim went on: ‘Now you’ve been kidnapped because of your money – ’
‘Not just because of the money.’
‘No, but your oil interests represent money. There’s five million dollars inside there in the house. What if I lived long enough for another day to come when I’d have to carry another five, ten million dollars to buy back Michael? I don’t think I could face it. Lucas, I’m the opposite of you – I don’t have the moral courage to face up to real riches.’
There was a scraping sound as Lucas moved his chair back to stretch his legs. He looked out towards the castle, now just a dark cliff against the stars. When he reached home, if he reached home, he would read the history of the castle; there might be a lesson or two to be learned there. He realized now, at the end of his life, there was so much he had not learned.
‘I still wish you had sent Michael back to us, to make up his own mind.’
‘That was another thing – I wanted him to grow up to be his own man. Not your man, Lucas. Nor mine, either. He’s made his own way.’ They were silent once again, then Tim said, ‘We made a mistake, Lucas. Both of us.’
Lucas nodded invisibly in the darkness; then realized that his silence might have been mistaken for disagreement. ‘You shouldn’t have done it to Nina. That’s what I found unforgivable.’
‘Do you think I’ve forgiven myself?’
It was another quarter of an hour before Hassan and the other three Arabs came out of the house, bringing the tension of their whispered conflict with them.
‘We’re taking you down to meet our full council, Mr Burgess. All three of you. You can put your argument to us all.’
‘A board of directors?’ said Lucas.
Hassan chuckled. ‘If you like, Mr Beaufort. But more democratic than the board of Beaufort Oil, I’m sure. We’ll get Mr Devon and leave at once.’
Tim and Lucas were led through the house and out to where the Simca still stood by the front door. Then Roger Devon was brought out. He and Tim looked at each other, strangers related by marriage to the tall old man standing between them. But in the darkness all they saw was each other’s shape: they remained faceless strangers to each other.
‘Roger, this is – ’
‘Nigel Burgess,’ said Tim quickly. ‘I used to work for Mr Beaufort down in Abu Sadar years ago.’
Lucas hesitated, said nothing. He had no idea why Tim still wanted to hide his true identity; but he knew that, if they got back safely from this situation, he himself would not lie to Nina. He would have to take the risk of telling her the truth, all of it. He could not continue to carry the burden of it any longer. For the time being, however, he would let Tim play it his way.
Roger shook hands with Tim. ‘What’s happening? Are they releasing us?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Lucas. ‘Not yet. We have to go before their board of directors.’
‘I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ said Roger. ‘That means you haven’t lost hope.’
‘Don’t be too optimistic,’ said Hassan. ‘You ride in the Simca, Mr Devon. We’ll ride in the other car, gentlemen.’
A second car, a battered-looking fin-tailed Chrysler, had pulled out of an alley at the side of the house. The Abu Sadar Revolutionary Front did not ride in style. Tim wondered how much of the five million dollars would be spent on luxury transport; he had seen revolutionaries in Africa who had let sudden wealth go to their heads. Roger was bundled into the Simca. The suitcases full of money were brought out and put into the trunk of the Chrysler. Tim and Lucas were ushered into the back seat, Hassan and Zaid taking their places in the front seat. Hassan took the wheel and Zaid, now carrying a Schmeisser machine-pistol, sat beside him, turned half-round to face the two men in the back. He still looke
d angry, ready to use the gun at the slightest excuse.
‘We’ll have to blindfold you,’ said Hassan and got out of the car and went back into the house.
Zaid cursed him in Arabic, calling after him, ‘You’re getting careless! I’m surprised you remembered a little detail like that.’
Hassan turned back in the doorway of the house, just for a moment losing his control. ‘You forgot it too, I notice.’
‘I was for killing them, remember? That way their eyes would be shut forever.’
Oh Christ, thought Tim, seeing emotion taking over. If Zaid’s mood prevailed when they got to the terrorists’ headquarters, wherever it was, no amount of reasoned argument was going to save them. He began to think of escape; but selfishly, only of his own. He could not hope to rescue Lucas and Roger Devon. He looked out at the shadowy figures who had now come down from the rooftops: even the darkness did not hide the outline of their guns against the dim white walls of the houses.
Hassan came back with two pillow cases, handed them to Tim and Lucas. ‘For your own safety,’ he said; then he called out to someone in the Simca to see that Roger was also blindfolded. He got into the Chrysler, looked back at Tim as the latter was about to pull the pillow case over his head. ‘You speak Arabic don’t you, Mr Burgess? I thought so. Most of our council don’t speak English. You’ll have to put your argument to them in Arabic. It had better be good.’
‘My Arabic is passable,’ said Tim.
‘Your argument isn’t,’ said Zaid. ‘Put that pillowcase over your head. Come on, Hassan, let’s get moving!’
As the Chrysler went back down the narrow track, followed by the Simca, Tim tried to relax, to breathe steadily in the dark stuffiness of the pillow case. They travelled slowly; evidently it was a track Hassan did not know well at night. At last they came out on to a smoother surface that Tim recognized must be the Kefer Tibnit road. They turned left, then after a few minutes turned left again, were once more back on a rough road, though not a track this time, judging by the speed of the car. He gave up trying to work out their route in his mind; he felt quite sure now that they would not be going back over it. The car abruptly slewed to one side, jerking to a halt, and he put out a hand, felt Lucas’s hand within his own. He gripped it, said, ‘I’m sorry, Lucas,’ but wasn’t sure what he was sorry for and didn’t know if Lucas heard him.