WILBUR SMITH.
THOSE IN PERIL.
MACMILLAN.
This book is for MOKHINISO.
Queen of my Heart without whose love and encouragement it might never have been written
Eternal Father, strong to save,whose arm has bound the restless wave,who bidd'st the mighty ocean deepits own appointed limits keep,O hear us when we cry to theefor those in peril on the sea.
THE KHAMSEEN had been blowing for five days now. The dust clouds rolled towards them across the brooding expanse of the desert. Hector Cross wore a striped keffiyeh wrapped around his neck and desert goggles over his eyes. His short dark beard protected most of his face, but the areas of exposed skin felt as though they had been scoured raw by the stinging grains of sand. Even above the growl of the wind he picked out the throbbing beat of the approaching helicopter. He was aware without looking at them that none of the men around him had heard it as yet. He would have been mortified if he had not been the first. Though he was ten years older than most of them, as their leader he had to be the sharpest and the quickest. Then Uthmann Waddah stirred slightly and glanced at him. Hector's nod of acknowledgement was barely perceptible. Uthmann was one of his most trusted operatives. Their friendship went back many years, to the day Uthmann had pulled Hector out of a burning vehicle under sniper fire in a Baghdad street. Even then Hector had been suspicious of the fact that he was a Sunni Muslim, but in time Uthmann had proved himself worthy. Now he was indispensable. Among his other virtues he had coached Hector until his spoken Arabic was almost perfect. It would take a skilled interrogator to discern that Hector was not a native-born speaker.
By some trick of the sunlight high above, the monstrously distorted shadow of the helicopter was thrown against the cloud banks like a magic lantern show, so that when the big Russian MIL-26 painted in the crimson and white colours of Bannock Oil broke through into the clear it seemed insignificant in comparison. It wasn't until it was three hundred feet above the landing pad that it was visible. In view of the importance of the single passenger, Hector had radioed the pilot while he was still on the ground at Sidi el Razig, the company base on the coast where the oil pipeline terminated, and ordered him not to fly in these conditions. The woman had countermanded his order, and Hector was not accustomed to being gainsaid.
Although they had not yet met, the relationship between Hector and the woman was a delicate one. Strictly speaking he was not her employee. He was the sole owner of 'Cross Bow Security Limited'. However, the company was contracted to Bannock Oil to guard its installations and its personnel. Old Henry Bannock had hand-picked Hector from amongst the many security firms eager to provide him with their services.
The helicopter settled delicately on the landing pad, and as the door in the fuselage slid open, Hector strode forward to meet the woman for the first time. She appeared in the doorway, and paused there looking about her. Hector was reminded of a leopard balancing on the high bough of a Marula tree surveying its prey before it sprang. Though he thought that he knew her well enough by repute, in the flesh she was charged with such power and grace that it took him by surprise. As part of his research he had studied hundreds of photographs of her, read reams of script and watched hours of video footage. The earlier images of her were on the Centre Court of Wimbledon being beaten in a hard-fought quarterfinal match by Navratilova, or three years later accepting the trophy for the women's singles at the Australian Open in Sydney. Then a year later came her marriage to Henry Bannock, the head of Bannock Oil, a flamboyant billionaire tycoon thirty-one years her senior. After that came images of her and her husband chatting and laughing with heads of state, or with film stars and other show-business personalities, shooting pheasant at Sandringham as the guests of Her Majesty and Prince Philip or holidaying in the Caribbean on their yacht the Amorous Dolphin Amorous Dolphin. Then there were clips of her sitting beside her husband on the podium at the annual general meeting of the company; other clips of her fencing skilfully with Larry King on his talk show. Much later she was wearing widow's weeds and holding the hand of her lovely young daughter as they watched Henry Bannock's sarcophagus being installed in the mausoleum on his ranch in the Colorado mountains.
After that her battle with the shareholders and banks and her particularly venomous stepson was gleefully chronicled by business media around the world. When at last she succeeded in wresting the rights that she had inherited from Henry out of the grasping fingers of her stepson and she took her husband's place at the head of the board of Bannock Oil, the price of Bannock shares plummeted steeply. The investors evaporated, the bank loans dried up. Nobody wanted to bet on a sometime tennis player cum society glamour girl turned oil baroness. But they had not taken into account her innate business acumen or the years of her tutelage under Henry Bannock which were worth a hundred MBA degrees. Like the crowds at the Roman circus her detractors and critics waited in grisly anticipation for her to be devoured by the lions. Then to the chagrin of all she brought in the Zara Number Eight.
Forbes magazine blazoned the image of Hazel in white tennis kit, holding a racquet in her right hand, on its front cover. The headline read: 'Hazel Bannock aces the opposition. The richest oil strike for the last sixty years. She takes on the mantle of her husband, Henry the Great.' The main article began: magazine blazoned the image of Hazel in white tennis kit, holding a racquet in her right hand, on its front cover. The headline read: 'Hazel Bannock aces the opposition. The richest oil strike for the last sixty years. She takes on the mantle of her husband, Henry the Great.' The main article began: In the bleak hinterland of a godforsaken and impoverished little Emirate named Abu Zara lies an oil concession once owned by Shell. The field had been pumped dry and abandoned in the period directly after WWII. For almost sixty years it had lain forgotten. That was until Mrs Hazel Bannock came on the scene. She picked up the concession for a few paltry millions of dollars and the pundits nudged each other and smirked. Ignoring the protests of her advisors she spent many millions more in sinking a rotary cone drill into a tiny subterranean anomaly at the northern extremity of the field; an anomaly which, with the primitive exploration techniques of sixty years previously, had been reckoned to be an ancillary of the main reservoir. The geologists of that time had agreed that any oil contained in this area had long ago drained into the main reservoir and been pumped to the surface leaving the entire field dry and worthless.However when Mrs Bannock's drill pierced the impervious salt dome of the diapir, a vast subterranean chamber in which the oil deposits had been trapped, the gas overpressure roared up through the drill hole with such force that it ejected almost 8 kilometres of steel drill string like toothpaste from the tube, and the hole blew out. High-grade crude oil spurted hundreds of feet into the air. At last it became evident that the old Zara Nos. 1 to 7 fields which had been abandoned by Shell were only a fraction of the total reserves. The new reservoir lay at a depth of 21,866 feet and held estimated reserves of 5 billion barrels of sweet and light crude.
As the helicopter touched down the flight engineer dropped the landing ladder and dismounted, then reached up to his illustrious passenger. She ignored his proffered hand and jumped the four feet to the ground, landing as lightly as the leopard that she so much resembled. She wore a sleekly tailored khaki safari suit with suede desert boots and a bright Hermes scarf at her throat. The thick golden hair, which was her trademark, was unfettered and it rippled in the Khamseen. How old was she? Hector wondered. Nobody seemed to know for sure. She looked thirtyish, but she had to be forty at the very least. Briefly she took the hand that Hector proffered, her grip honed by hundreds of hours on the tennis court.
'Welcome to your Zara No. 8, ma'am,' he said. She spared him only a glance. Her eyes were a shade of blue that reminded him of sunlight radiating through the walls of an ice cave in a high mountain crevasse. She was far more comely than he had been led to believe by her photographs.
'Major Cross.' She acknowledged him coolly. Once again she surprised him by the fact that she knew his name, then he recalled that she had the reputation of leaving nothing to chance. She must have researched every one of the dozens of her senior employees that she was likely to meet on this first visit to her new oilfield.
If that's the case, she should have known that I don't use my military rank any longer, he thought, then it occurred to him that she probably did know and she was deliberately riling him. He suppressed the grim smile that rose to his lips.
For some reason she doesn't like me and she makes no effort to hide the fact, he thought. This lady is built like one of her oil drills, all steel and diamonds. This lady is built like one of her oil drills, all steel and diamonds. But she had already turned away from him to meet the three men who tumbled out of the big sand-coloured Hummvee that braked to a halt beside her and formed an obsequious welcoming line, grinning and wriggling like puppies. She shook hands with Bert Simpson, her general manager. But she had already turned away from him to meet the three men who tumbled out of the big sand-coloured Hummvee that braked to a halt beside her and formed an obsequious welcoming line, grinning and wriggling like puppies. She shook hands with Bert Simpson, her general manager.
'I am sorry it took me so long to visit you, Mr Simpson, however I have been rather tied up at the office.' She gave him a quick, brilliant smile, but did not wait for his reply. She moved on and in rapid succession greeted her chief engineer and senior geologist.
'Thank you, gentlemen. Now let us get out of this nasty wind. We will have time to become better acquainted later.' Her voice was soft, almost lilting, but the inflexion was sharp and clearly Southern African. Hector knew that she had been born in Cape Town and had only taken up US citizenship after she married Henry Bannock. Bert Simpson opened the passenger door of the Hummvee and she slipped into the seat. By the time Bert had taken his place at the wheel, Hector was in an escort position in the second Hummvee close behind him. A third Hummvee was in the lead. All the vehicles had the logo of a medieval crossbow painted on the doors. Uthmann was in the first, and he led the little convoy out onto the service track which ran alongside the great silver python of the pipeline that carried the precious muck a hundred miles down to the waiting tankers. As they drove on the oil rigs appeared out of the yellow haze on each side, rank upon rank like the skeletons of a lost legion of warriors. Before they reached the dried-out wadi Uthmann turned off the track and they climbed a ridge of gaunt rock, sooty black as though scorched by fire. The main building complex was perched on the highest point.
Two Cross Bow sentries in battle fatigues swung the gates open and the three Hummvees raced through. Immediately the vehicle carrying Hazel Bannock peeled off from the formation and crossed the interior compound to stop before the heavy doors that led into the air-conditioned luxury of the executive suites. Hazel was whisked through them by Bert Simpson and half a dozen uniformed servants. The doors closed ponderously. It seemed to Hector that something was lacking once she had gone - even the Khamseen wind howled with less fury - and as he paused at the doorway to Cross Bow headquarters and looked up at the sky he saw that the dust clouds were indeed breaking up and subsiding on themselves.
In his private quarters he removed the goggles and unwound the keffiyeh from his throat. Then he washed the grime from his face and hands, squirted soothing drops into his bloodshot eyes and examined his face in the wall mirror. The short stubble of dark beard gave him a piratical air. The skin above it was darkly tanned by the desert sun, except for the silver scar above his right eye where years ago a bayonet thrust had exposed the bone of his skull. His nose was large and imperial. His eyes were a cool and steady green. His teeth were very white like those of predator.
'It is the only face you are ever going to get, Hector my lad. But that doesn't mean you have to love it,' he murmured, then he answered himself, 'But, thank the Lord for all those ladies of less fastidious tastes out there.' He laughed softly and went through into the situation room. The hum of the men's conversation died away as he entered. Hector stood on the dais and looked them over. These ten were his squad leaders. Each of them commanded a stick of ten men, and he felt a small prickle of pride. They were the tried and true, hardened warriors who had learned their trade in the Congo and Afghanistan, in Pakistan and Iraq and in other bloody fields around the wicked old world. It had taken a long time for him to assemble them, and they were a totally reprehensible bunch of reprobates and hardened killers, and he loved them like his brothers.
'Where are the scratches and teeth bites, boss? Don't tell us you got away from her scot free,' one of them called. Hector smiled tolerantly and gave them a minute to deliver their heavy humour and to settle down. Then he held up his hand.
'Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, gentlemen, we have in our care a lady who will attract the ardent attention of every thug from Kinshasa to Baghdad, from Kabul to Mogadishu. If anything nasty befalls her I will personally cut the balls off the man who let it happen. I give you my solemn oath on that.' They knew this was not an idle threat. The laughter subsided and they dropped their eyes as he stared at them expressionlessly for a few seconds after silence had fallen. At last he picked up the pointer from the desk in front of him and turned to the huge aerial blow-up of the concession on the wall behind him and began his final briefing. He delegated their duties to them and reinforced his previous orders. He did not want any carelessness on this job. Half an hour later he turned back to face them.
'Questions?' There were none and he dismissed them with the curt order, 'When in doubt shoot first and make damned sure you don't miss.' He took the helicopter and had Hans Lategan, the pilot, fly him along the pipeline as far as the terminal on the shore of the Gulf. They flew at very low level. Hector was in the front seat beside Hans, searching the track for any sign of unexplained activity; alien human footprints or wheel tracks made by any vehicle other than his own GM patrol trucks or the engineering teams servicing the pipeline. All his Cross Bow operatives wore boots with a distinctive arrowhead tread on the soles, so even from this height Hector could tell friendly tracks from those of a potential thug.
During Hector's tenure as head of security there had already been three vicious sabotage attempts on the Bannock Oil installations in Abu Zara. No terrorist group had as yet claimed responsibility for these acts, probably because none of the attacks had succeeded.
The Emir of Abu Zara, Prince Farid al Mazra, was a staunch ally of Bannock Oil. The oil royalties that accrued to him from the company amounted to hundreds of millions of dollars a year. Hector had forged a strong alliance with the head of the Abu Zara police force, Prince Mohammed, who was a brother-in-law of the Emir. Prince Mohammed's intelligence was strong and three years previously he had alerted Hector to an impending seaborne attack. Hector and Ronnie Wells, his area commander at the terminal, had been able to intercept the raiders at sea with the Bannock patrol boat, which was an ex-Israeli motor torpedo boat, with a good turn of speed and twin .50-calibre Browning machine guns mounted in the bows. There were eight terrorists on board the attacking dhow, together with several hundred pounds of Semtex plastic explosive. Ronnie Wells was a former Royal Marine sergeant-major, a seaman of vast experience and an expert handler of small attack craft. He came out of the darkness astern of the dhow, and took the crew by complete surprise. When Hector called on them to surrender over the loud-hailer they replied with a fusillade of automatic fire. The first burst from the Brownings touched off the cargo of Semtex in the hold of the dhow. All eight terrorists on board had simultaneously departed for the Gardens of Paradise, leaving behind them very little trace of their previous existence on this earth. The Emir and Prince Mohammed had been delighted with the outcome. They ensured that the international media were given not even a sniff of the incident. Abu Zara was proud of its reputation as a stable, progressive and peace-loving country.
Hector landed at the terminal at Sidi el Razig and spent a few hours with Ronnie Wells. As always Ronnie had everything shipshape, renewing Hector's faith in him. After their meeting they walked out together to where Hans was waiting in the helicopter. Ronnie glanced obliquely at him, and Hector knew exactly what was worrying him. In three months' time Ronnie would be sixty-five. His children had long ago lost interest in him and he had no home outside Cross Bow, except possibly the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, if they would accept him as a pensioner. His contract with Cross Bow would come up for renewal a few weeks before his birthday.
'Oh, by the way, Ronnie,' Hector said, 'I have got your new contract on my desk. I should have brought it with me for you to sign.'
'Thanks, Hector.' Ronnie grinned, his bald head glowing. 'But you do know I will be sixty-five in October?'
'You old bastard!' Hector grinned back at him. 'Here I have been thinking you were twenty-five for the last ten years.' He swung up into the helicopter and they flew back just above the sandy surface of the track alongside the pipeline. The Khamseen wind had swept the surface like an industrious housemaid so that even the tracks of the desert bustards and oryx were clearly printed on it. Twice they landed for Hector to examine any sign that was less self-evident and might have been made by unwelcome strangers. These proved innocuous. They had been made by wandering Bedouin probably searching for lost camels.
They landed again for the last time at the site where three years previously an ambush had been laid by six persons unknown who had infiltrated the concession from the south. They had covered sixty miles on foot through the desert to reach the pipeline. When they arrived the intruders made the unfortunate choice of attacking the patrol truck in which Hector was riding in the front seat. Hector spotted something suspicious halfway up the dune that ran beside the track as they drove along it.
'Stop!' he yelled at his driver, and he scrambled onto the roof of the truck. He stared up at the object that had caught his attention. It moved again, a tiny slithering movement like a crawling red snake. That movement was what had first caught his attention. But there were no red snakes in this desert. One end of the snake protruded from the sand and the other end disappeared under the scrawny hanging branches of a thornbush. He studied it carefully. The bush was sufficiently dense to hide a man lying behind it. The red object was like nothing in nature that he knew of. Then it twitched again and he made up his mind. He mounted his assault rifle to his shoulder and fired a three-shot burst into the thornbush. The man who had been lying behind it leaped to his feet. He was turbaned and cloaked with his AK-47 slung over his shoulder and a small black box in his hands, from which dangled the thin red insulated cable.
'Bomb!' Hector screamed. 'Heads down!' The man on the dune detonated the bomb, and with a thunderous explosion the track 150 metres ahead of the truck erupted in a towering column of dust and fire. The shock wave almost knocked Hector off the roof of the truck, but he braced himself and kept his balance.
The bomber was almost at the top of the dune, running like a desert gazelle. Hector was still unsighted by the blast, and his first burst churned up the sand around the Arab's feet, but he kept running. Hector caught his breath and steadied himself. He saw his next burst catch the Arab across his back, dust flying from his robe as the bullets struck. The man pirouetted like a ballet dancer and went down. Then Hector saw his five companions leap up out of cover amongst the scrub. They crossed the skyline and disappeared before he could take them under fire.
Hector swept a glance along the face of the dune. It extended for three or four miles both forward and aft of their present position. Along its whole length it was too steep and soft for the truck to climb. It would have to be a foot chase, he decided.
'Phase Two!' Hector shouted at his men, 'Hot pursuit! Go! Go! Go!' He leapt from the truck and led the four of them up the dune face at a run. When they reached the top the five insurgents were still in a loose group running across the flat salt-pan almost half a mile away. They had established that lead while Hector and his stick were forced to struggle up the face of the dune. Looking after them, Hector smiled grimly.
'Big mistake, my beauties! You should have bomb-shelled, each of you should have taken a different direction! Now we have you nicely grouped.' Hector knew with absolute certainty that in a straight chase there was no Arab born who could run away from these men of his.
'Come along, boys. Don't dawdle. We have to bag these bastards before sundown.' It took four hours; 'these bastards' were just a wee bit tougher than Hector had reckoned. But then they made their final mistake. They stood to fight it out. They picked a likely depression, a natural strong point with a clear field of fire in all directions, and went to ground. Hector looked up at the sun. It was twenty degrees above the horizon. They had to finish this thing quickly. While his men kept the terrorists' heads down, Hector wriggled forward to where he could have a better view of the field of play. Immediately he saw that they could not take the Arab position head-on. He would lose most if not all of his men. For ten minutes more he studied the terrain, and then with a soldier's eye he picked out the weak spot. Running past the rear of the Arab position was a very shallow fold of ground; too shallow to deserve the name of wadi or donga but it might conceal a man crawling on his belly. He squinted his eyes against the low sun and judged that the fold crossed forty paces behind the enemy's redoubt. He nodded with satisfaction and wriggled back to where his men lay.
'I am going to get around behind them and toss in a grenade. Charge as soon as it blows.' Hector had to take a wide detour around the enemy to keep out of their sight, and once he was into the donga he could only move very slowly so as not to raise the dust and warn them of his approach. His men made the Arabs keep their heads well down, shooting at any movement above the rim of the depression. However, by the time Hector reached the nearest point to the depression there was probably only another ten minutes of shooting light before the sun went down below the horizon. He rolled onto his knees and with his teeth pulled the pin on the grenade he was holding in his right hand. Then he sprang upright and judged the distance. It was at extreme range. Forty or maybe fifty metres to lob the heavy fragmentation grenade. He put his shoulder and all his strength behind the throw and sent it up on a high looping trajectory. Though it was a good throw, one of his very best, it struck the rim of the redoubt and for an instant seemed as if it would stick there. But then it rolled forward and dropped in amongst the crouching Arabs. Hector heard the screams as they realized what it was. He leapt to his feet and drew his pistol as he raced forward. The grenade exploded just before he reached the redoubt. He paused on the edge and looked down on the carnage. Four of the thugs had been torn into bloody rags. The last one had been partially shielded by the bodies of his comrades. Nonetheless shrapnel had ripped through his chest into his lungs.
He was coughing up gouts of frothing blood and struggling to catch his last breath as Hector stood over him. He looked up and to Hector's astonishment recognized him. The man spoke through bubbling blood and his voice was faint and slurred, but Hector understood what he was saying.
'My name is Anwar. Remember it, Cross, you pig of the great pig. The debt has not been settled. The Blood Feud continues. Others will come.'
Now, three years later Hector stood on the same spot, and once again puzzled over those words. He could still make no sense of them. Who was the dying man? How had he known Hector? At last he shook his head, then turned and walked back to where the helicopter stood with its rotors turning idly. He climbed aboard and they flew on. The day melted away swiftly in the desert heat and when they got back to the compound at No. 8 there was only an hour before sunset. Hector took advantage of what remained of the light to go out to the range and fire a hundred rounds each from both his Beretta M9 9mm pistol and his SC 70/90 automatic assault rifle. All his men were expected to fire at least 500 rounds a week and turn in their targets to the armourer. Hector regularly checked all of them. His men were all deadly shots, but he did not want any complacency or sloppiness to creep in. They were good but they had to stay that way.
When he got back to the compound from the range the sun had gone and in the brief desert twilight the night came swiftly. He went to the well-equipped gym and ran for an hour on a treadmill and finished with half an hour of weights. He took a steaming hot shower in his private quarters and changed his dusty camouflage fatigues for a freshly washed and ironed pair, and at last went down to the mess. Bert Simpson and the other senior executives were at the private bar. They all looked tired and drawn.
'Join us for a drink?' Bert offered.
'Decent of you,' Hector told him and he nodded to the barman who poured him a double tot of the Oban eighteen-year-old single malt. Hector saluted Bert with the glass and they both drank.
'So, how is our lady boss?' Hector asked.
Bert rolled his eyes. 'You don't want to know.'
'Try me.'
'She is not human.'
'She looked more than just a touch human to me,' Hector commented.
'It's an illusion, old boy. Done with bloody mirrors or something. I will say no more. You can find out for yourself.'
'What does that mean?' Hector demanded.
'You are taking her for a run, matey.'
'When?'
'First thing in the morning, day after tomorrow. Meet 0530 hours sharp at the main gates. Ten miles, she stipulated. I would hazard a guess that the pace she sets will be somewhat faster than a stroll. Don't let her lose you.'
For Hazel Bannock too it had been a long and demanding day, but nothing that she couldn't wash away in a hot bubble bath. Afterwards she shampooed her hair and used the electric dryer to style the blonde wave above her right eye. Then she put on a blue satin robe that matched her eyes. All her luggage had been sent on ahead of her days before. Her matched set of croc-skin cases had been unpacked by the servants and her clothes were freshly pressed and hanging in the commodious cupboards of her dressing room. Her toiletries and cosmetics were arranged in neat ranks on the glass shelves above the wash basins in her bathroom. She dabbed Chanel perfume behind her ears, then she went through into her sitting room. The drinks cabinet contained every item that her personal assistant, Agatha, had stipulated in the email she had sent Bert Simpson. Hazel filled a long glass with crushed ice and freshly squeezed lime juice and added a very small amount of Dovgan vodka. She carried it next door into her private communications centre. There were six large plasma screens on the facing wall so she was able to watch simultaneously the stock prices and commodity prices on all the major bourses; the other screens displayed the news channels and the sports results. At the moment she was particularly interested in the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe at Longchamps in which she had a horse running. She grimaced with disgust when she saw that it had run a disappointing third. This confirmed her decision to fire her trainer, and take on the young Irishman. She switched her attention to the tennis. She liked to follow the efforts of the young Russian and Eastern European girls. They reminded her of those days when she was eighteen and hungry as a she-wolf. She sat at her computer and sipped the vodka which tasted like a fairy potion while she opened her emails. Agatha in Houston had screened them for her so there were fewer than fifty for her personal attention. She went through them rapidly. Although it was 0300 hours in Houston Agatha slept with the telephone on her bedside table always ready for her call. Hazel raised her on the Skype connection. Agatha's image appeared on the screen. She wore a nightgown with embroidered roses around the collar and her grey hair was in curlers and sleep filled her eyes. Hazel dictated to her the replies to the mail. Finally she asked, 'How is your cold, Agatha? You don't sound as croaky as you were yesterday.'
'It's so much better, Mrs Bannock. And thank you ever so much for asking.' That was why her employees loved her, their caring employer, until they slipped up and then she fired them into orbit. She cut the connection to Agatha and checked her wristwatch against the digital clock on the wall. It would be the same time aboard the Amorous Dolphin Amorous Dolphin. Hazel disliked the name that Henry had christened the yacht and always referred to it as simply the Dolphin Dolphin. Out of respect to the memory of her husband she could not bring herself to change it, besides which Henry had assured her that it was the worst possible luck to do so. The name was the only thing Hazel disliked about the vessel, which was 125 metres of pure Sybaritic luxury, with twelve double guest cabins and a palatial owner's stateroom. Her dining salon and other spacious entertainment areas were decorated with colourful murals by sought-after modern artists. Her four powerful diesel engines could drive her across the Atlantic Ocean in under six days. She was equipped with state-of-the-art navigation and communications electronics, and she could deploy all her expensive toys and gadgets for the amusement of even the most spoilt and sophisticated guests on board. Hazel dialled up the contact number of the Dolphin Dolphin's bridge and it was answered before it rang twice.
'Amorous Dolphin. Bridge.' She recognized the Californian accent.
'Mr Jetson?' He was the first officer, and the tone of his voice became awed as he realized who was calling.
'Good evening, Mrs Bannock.'
'Is Captain Franklin available?'
'Of course, Mrs Bannock. He is here beside me. I will hand you over to him.'
Jack Franklin greeted her and Hazel asked at once, 'Is all well, Captain?'
'Very well indeed, Mrs Bannock,' he assured her.
'What is your present position?'
Franklin reeled off the coordinates from the satnav screen, then quickly translated them into more intelligible form. 'We are 146 nautical miles south-east of Madagascar on course for Mahe Island in the Seychelles. Our ETA at Mahe is noon Thursday.'
'You have indeed made good progress, Captain Franklin,' Hazel told him. 'Is my daughter on the bridge with you?'
'I am afraid not, Mrs Bannock. I understand that Miss Bannock has retired early and has ordered her dinner served in your stateroom. I beg your pardon, I meant in her her stateroom.' stateroom.'
The daughter was allowed to occupy the owner's stateroom when Mrs Bannock was not aboard. Franklin had always thought that the Gauguin and Monet oils, and the Lalique chandelier were rather wasted on an unbridled teenager who considered herself every bit as important as her illustrious parent. However, he knew better than to even hint at the child's defects to the mother. This pretty but unpleasant little bitch was Hazel Bannock's only blind spot.
'Please put me through to her there,' said Hazel Bannock.
'Certainly, Mrs Bannock.' She heard him speak to the radio operator. The line clicked dead and then came to life again with the ringing tone. She waited for twelve rings and she was becoming restless before the receiver was lifted. Then she recognized her daughter's voice.
'Who is that? I left orders that I was not to be disturbed.'
'Cayla baby!'
'Oh, Mummy, so lovely to hear your voice. I have been waiting for you to call all day. I was beginning to think you didn't love me any more.' Her delight was evident, and Hazel's heart swelled with maternal joy to hear it.
'I have been awfully busy, darling. So much is happening here.' Cayla, the pure one: the name she had chosen for her daughter was so appropriate. The image of the girl's face appeared in her mind's eye. Cayla's skin always seemed to Hazel to be fashioned from translucent jade beneath which the young blood pulsed and glowed. Her eyes were a lighter, more ethereal blue than Hazel's own. Purity of mind and spirit seemed to shine from them. At nineteen years of age she was a woman trembling on the brink, but still untouched, virginal, perfect. Hazel felt tears shimmer in her eyes as the strength of her love overwhelmed her. This child was the most important element in her life, this was what all the sacrifice and striving was for.
'That's my darling mummy. Only one speed. Full throttle!' Cayla laughed sweetly, and slowly rolled off the masculine figure on the bed beneath her. Their naked bellies were stuck together with their sweat and they came apart with sucking reluctance. She felt his penis slither out of her followed by a warm gush of her own vaginal fluid. She felt empty without him deep inside her.
'Tell me what you have been doing today,' Hazel demanded. 'Have you been studying?' This was the reason why she had left the child on the Dolphin Dolphin. Cayla's term results had been abysmal. Her professor had threatened that without considerable improvement she would be sent down at the end of the year. Up to now only her mother's large donations to the university coffers had saved Cayla from that fate.
'I have to admit that I have been terribly lazy today, Mummy darling. I did not get out of bed until almost 9.30,' and she smiled with a wicked slant of those innocent blue eyes and thought to herself, and not until Rogier had given me two monumental orgasms and not until Rogier had given me two monumental orgasms. She sat up on the white sheets and wriggled closer to his beautifully sleek and muscled body. His skin was glossy with sweat like melting chocolate. They were still touching and she drew her knees up to her chin and turned slightly so he could have an uninterrupted view of the nest of fine blonde hair nestling between the backs of her thighs. He reached out and parted her thighs gently and she shuddered as he spread the swollen lips of her vulva and his forefinger sought out the pink rosebud between them. She held the telephone receiver to her ear with her left hand and with the right reached down to his penis. He was still fully tumescent. Cayla had come to think of this organ as a separate entity with a life force of its very own. She even had a pet name for it. Blaise, the master of Merlin the magician. Blaise had bewitched her. He was stretched to his full majestic length, hard and glistening with her own sweet essence with which she had anointed him. She encircled his girth with her thumb and forefinger and began to milk him with slow voluptuous strokes.
'Oh baby, you promised you would apply yourself to your studies. You are a clever girl, and with only a little effort I know you can do so much better.'
'Today was an exception, Mummy. I have been working very hard all the other days. Today I started my monthly thing. I have had a terrible tummy ache.'
'Oh, poor Cayla. I hope you are feeling better now?'
'Yes, Mummy. I am much better. I will be fine again tomorrow.'
'I wish I was there to look after you. It's only a week since I left you in Cape Town,' Hazel said, 'but it seems an eternity. I miss you so, baby.'
'I miss you too, Mummy,' Cayla assured her. Then she had no further need to reply as now her mother went on talking about the running of her grotty old oilfields and the problems she had with the coarse unwashed oafs who ran them for her. At intervals Cayla made small noises of agreement, but she was studying Blaise with a little frown of concentration. He was circumcised. The others she had known before him had all had that untidy hood of skin dangling from the tip. Only after meeting Rogier had she come to realize how ugly they were in comparison to this beautiful shaft of flesh she now held reverently between finger and thumb. Blaise was dark blue-black, smooth and glossy as a rifle barrel. A clear droplet oozed slowly from the slit in his head. It trembled there like a drop of dew. It was so exciting to watch that it made her shiver with delight and goose bumps rose on the unblemished skin of her forearms. Quickly she dipped her head over him. She took the droplet on the tip of her tongue. She savoured the taste of him. She wanted more, much more. She began to milk him more urgently, her long delicate fingers flying up and down his shaft like a shuttle in a loom. He thrust his hips forward to meet her. She saw the muscles in his belly contracting. She could feel Blaise swelling, hard and thick as a tennis racquet handle in her grip. Rogier's features contorted. He threw back his marvellous dark head and his mouth opened. She saw that he was about to groan or cry out. Quickly she released his penis and clapped her hand over his mouth to silence him, but at the same time she leaned forward and took as much of Blaise's length as she could into her own mouth. She could engulf less than half of him and the tip of his swollen head pressed against the back of her throat starting her gagging reflex. But she had learned to control that. She risked taking her hand away from over his mouth. She wanted to feel the building up of his seed deep inside him. She slipped her hand down between his thighs and grasped the root of his scrotum. Still sucking and bobbing her head up and down she felt his ejaculation begin, pulsing and pumping in her hand, and his testicles were drawn up tightly against the base of his belly.
Even though she was prepared for it, the force and volume took her by surprise every time. She gasped and swallowed as rapidly as she could but she could not take it all and the excess overflowed and drooled down her chin. She wanted to suck every last drop out of him. She went on drinking it down and now despite herself she was moaning softly. Her mother's voice roused her from her daze of ecstasy.
'Cayla! What's happening? Are you all right? What is happening? Speak to me!' Cayla had dropped the telephone receiver and it lay squawking on the bed beside her. She snatched it up, and gathered her wits.
'Oh! I spilled the coffee all over myself and the bed. It was hot and it gave me a start.' She laughed breathlessly.
'You didn't scald yourself, did you?'
'Oh, no! But the duvet is a mess,' she said and ran her fingertips through the slippery outpourings that were splattered over the silk coverlet. It was still warm from his body. She wiped her fingers on his chest and he grinned up at her. She thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes upon. Her mother changed the subject and began to reminisce about their recent visit to Cape Town where the Dolphin Dolphin had stopped over for two weeks. Cayla's grandmother lived in a magnificent old Herbert Baker-designed mansion amongst the vineyards just outside the city. Hazel had purchased the wine estate with the idea of retiring there one day in the far distant future. In the meantime it made a perfect home for her beloved mother, who had scrimped and saved every penny to enable her daughter to follow her quest to the great tennis tournaments of the world. Now the old lady had a magnificent home, filled with servants, and a uniformed chauffeur to drive her to the village in the Mercedes Maybach every Saturday, to do her shopping and to drink tea with her cronies. had stopped over for two weeks. Cayla's grandmother lived in a magnificent old Herbert Baker-designed mansion amongst the vineyards just outside the city. Hazel had purchased the wine estate with the idea of retiring there one day in the far distant future. In the meantime it made a perfect home for her beloved mother, who had scrimped and saved every penny to enable her daughter to follow her quest to the great tennis tournaments of the world. Now the old lady had a magnificent home, filled with servants, and a uniformed chauffeur to drive her to the village in the Mercedes Maybach every Saturday, to do her shopping and to drink tea with her cronies.
Rogier stood up from the bed and made a sign to Cayla. Then he sauntered naked to the bathroom. His muscled buttocks oscillated tantalizingly. Cayla jumped up from the bed and followed him, with the telephone receiver still held to her ear. Rogier stood at the urinal and she leaned against the bulkhead beside him and watched with complete fascination.
She had met Rogier in Paris where she was studying the art of the French Impressionists at the Universite des Beaux-Arts. She knew that her mother would never approve of her relationship with him. Her mother was only a lip-service liberal. She had probably never been brought to bed by any man with darker skin pigmentation than orange skin pith. However, on first sight Cayla had been enthralled by Rogier's exoticism: the glossy iron blue patina of his skin, his fine nilotic features, his tall willowy body and his intriguing accent. She had also been titillated by the accounts of the girlfriends of her own age, those with more experience than her, when they described in prurient detail how men of colour were so much more abundantly endowed with masculine apparatus than those of any other race. She recalled vividly that when she had first seen Blaise in his full imperial tumescence she had been terrified. It seemed impossible that she would be able to accommodate all of him inside herself. The task had not proved as difficult as she had at first imagined. She giggled at the memory.
'What are you laughing at, baby?' her mother asked.
'I was just remembering Grandma's story about the wild baboon that got into her kitchen.'