'At this stage no one is talking about breaking any contracts, especially one that was authorized by my husband. But I will have my eye on you. Please try not to cull too many more niggers on my time.' At the completion of their run she turned away from him with a curt 'Thank you, Cross,' and started into the building, glancing at her wristwatch.
'Mrs Bannock!' He made her pause and look back. 'Like me or loathe me, if you ever need me you will need me badly, and I will be here, if for no other reason than that your husband was one of the good guys. They didn't come any better than Henry Bannock.'
'Let's hope I never need your services that badly.' She dismissed him. In twenty minutes she had a final meeting with Simpson before she helicoptered back to the oil terminal at Sidi el Razig. The jet was waiting for her on the runway there to take her down to Mahe Island in the Seychelles to be with her beloved family. She showered quickly and used a moisturizing sun cream, but no makeup. She went through to her communications room. There was a string of emails from Agatha, but she did not have time to deal with those now. She would run through them once she was on the jet. She started for the door on her way to the meeting with Simpson. At that moment she heard her BlackBerry buzz in the outside pocket of her crocodile skin handbag that stood on her bedside table. She turned back. Very few people had that number. She took the mobile phone from the pocket of her handbag and switched it on. The legend on the screen read, 'You have 2 missed calls and 1 message. Do you wish to view your messages?' She pressed 'Show'.
'I wonder what my little monkey wants now,' she said to herself fondly and the text appeared. It was chillingly short and simple: Terrible things happening. Strange men with guns ...
It broke off as if Cayla had been interrupted in mid-sentence. Hazel felt a dark shutter flicker over her vision. She swayed on her feet. Then her vision cleared and she stared at the message blankly, deliberately refusing to face up to the enormity of it. Then it dawned upon her and she felt an ice-cold hand clutch her heart and start squeezing the life out of her. With shaking hands and short asthmatic breaths she punched the reply button on her BlackBerry and listened to the endless ringing tone at Cayla's end of the line. It was interrupted at last by an impersonal voice: 'The person you have dialled is not available at present. Please leave a message after the tone.'
'Darling! Darling! I am going mad. Please call me back as soon as you can.' She spoke into the BlackBerry then darted through to her communications room. She punched the contact number for the Dolphin Dolphin's bridge. For the security of the ship and the passengers most of her crew were combat-trained and well armed. Surely they would have defended Cayla Surely they would have defended Cayla, she thought desperately. But the phone rang interminably. Her mouth was dry and her eyes blurred.
'Please!' she begged. 'Please somebody answer me.' Then the ringing tone switched off, and the ready signal buzzed infuriatingly in her ear. She slammed down the receiver and dialled Agatha. Her heart bounded at the sound of the prim old-maidish voice.
'Agatha, I have had a terrifying text message from Cayla, something about strange men with guns on board the Dolphin Dolphin. I cannot contact her. I cannot contact the ship. The last position I have for her was yesterday evening. Write down these coordinates, Agatha.' From memory she recited the longitude and latitude that Franklin had given her. 'Now it seems that she has disappeared with Cayla on board. You must phone Chris Bessell at home. Get him out of bed ...' Chris was her senior executive vice-president in Houston. 'He must get everybody he can onto this. He must use all his contacts at the Pentagon and the White House. Request an urgent over-fly of the area from the nearest military satellite. Find out if there is a US warship in the immediate area. Ask them to send it in at its best speed. Ask for a reconnaissance aircraft to fly out of the airforce base on Diego Garcia to widen the search. Keep trying to contact the ship directly. I am flying back home as fast as I can. Try and arrange for me to see the President personally as soon as I arrive in Washington. You and Chris must pull all the strings and press all the buttons.' She was panting as though she had just run a marathon. 'Agatha, this is Cayla, my baby! I am relying on you. You cannot let me down.'
'You know I won't, Mrs Bannock.'
Hazel broke the connection and rang Simpson's number on the internal line of the compound. He answered almost immediately.
'Good morning, Mrs Bannock. We are waiting for you in the boardroom-'
She interrupted him brusquely. 'Have the helicopter ready for me in five minutes. Radio ahead to have my jet standing on the runway at Sidi el Razig. Order my chief pilot to have her fully refuelled with engines running, ready for immediate takeoff the minute I arrive. Tell my pilot to file a flight plan direct to Farnborough airport in England. We will refuel there before flying on across the Atlantic to Washington DC. We must not waste a single moment.'
She opened her safe and snatched out the satchel which contained her passport, emergency cash and credit cards, then she burst out of her suite and raced down the long passage towards the front doors. Bert Simpson, two of his underlings and Hector were standing there. They had been waiting there since her call to Simpson.
'What the hell is going on, Bert?' Hector asked quietly.
'Damned if I know. But it must be a major catastrophe. She was in a terrible state when I spoke to her-' He broke off as Hazel Bannock came running down the passage towards them.
She called out urgently, 'Is the helicopter here?'
'It has just this moment landed,' Bert assured her as she strode past him towards the door. Then she saw that Hector Cross was with the other men. He was the only one whose expression was calm. He spoke quietly, holding her attention with that penetrating green gaze.
'Please remember, Mrs Bannock,' he said, 'if you need me, one word will be enough.'
It was then that she realized for the first time that she was weeping openly and that the tears were pouring down her face and dripping from her chin. She dashed them away with the back of her hand, but she wished desperately that Cross had not been there to witness her condition. She had never in all her life experienced such a seething witch's brew of emotions. She knew she was close to snapping point, and the knowledge frightened her. Hector Cross was the nearest target for her terror and confusion. She rounded on him with the face of a Fury.
'Don't you dare mock me, you arrogant bastard, Cross. You know nothing, so what can you do? What can anybody do?' She turned away and stumbled slightly as she went down the front steps. Hector was gripped by a strange and alien sensation. It was a long, long time since he had last experienced it, so it took him a moment to recognize it. It was compassion. Maybe Hazel Bannock was all too human under that polished veneer. He no longer believed in love. What had remained of that he left on the floor of a divorce court somewhere. Yet this feeling of compassion felt very much like the other thing. It was disturbing.
You are not going to make a total arsehole of yourself again, are you, Cross? he asked himself as he watched her run to the helicopter that waited in the middle of the courtyard with its rotors turning slowly. She scrambled up the ladder and the engine of the big machine roared as it rose into the air and swivelled around to face the coast. It lowered its nose and bore away swiftly. he asked himself as he watched her run to the helicopter that waited in the middle of the courtyard with its rotors turning slowly. She scrambled up the ladder and the engine of the big machine roared as it rose into the air and swivelled around to face the coast. It lowered its nose and bore away swiftly.
You haven't answered the question, Cross, the little voice inside him whispered. He grinned without humour and replied to himself, No! But it will be interesting to find out if she is human. No! But it will be interesting to find out if she is human.
Rogier carried the tray containing Mr Jetson's dinner up to the bridge. On a spotlessly white linen cloth he laid out the dishes and silver on the small table against the stern bulkhead. Then he stood by attentively as Jetson ate quickly, not seating himself to savour the meal but continuing to pace back and forth as he chewed. His eyes continually swept the darkening horizon ahead and then darted to the radar repeater. There was a tiny contact glowing on the screen. The bearing was 268 degrees. The range was showing as 3.8 nautical miles.
'Helmsman, keep a sharp eye on that vessel.'
'Very well, Mr Jetson.'
'What do you make of her, Stevens?'
The helmsman squinted at the horizon. 'Looks like one of them Arab dhows. Plenty of them in these waters, sir. They do say that they use the trade winds to cross the ocean clean as far as India. Been doing that since the time of Christ, or so they say.'
Rogier had been following the conversation without seeming to do so. He turned his head to gaze out of the window on the port wing of the bridge and he narrowed his eyes and studied the gunmetal-grey, choppy surface of the sea to the east. The setting sun was at their backs, but it still took him a few moments to pick out the tiny grey pyramid of canvas that was surely the sail of his uncle Kamal's dhow. Even from the height of the bridge it was hull down, and it seemed to be on a parallel course to their own. Then Rogier saw the distant lateen sail spill its wind as the dhow briefly hove to.
Uncle Kamal is launching his attack boats at last, he told himself. Then the sail filled once more and the dhow went on the other tack and pointed down into the south. It began to merge into the dusk until at last it disappeared from their view.
Jetson walked back to the radar screen. 'They have altered course thirty degrees into the south. I doubt they are making more than fourteen knots and at that speed and heading they are shaping to pass us twenty miles astern.' Then he glanced at Rogier. 'Thank you, steward,' said Jetson. 'You can clear away the dinner dishes now.'
Rogier stacked the dishes and carried them down to the scullery. When he had finished washing up he called across to the chef, 'All done, Cookie. Can I knock off now?' The chef was sitting at his own small table next to his pantry with a crystal wine glass and an open green bottle placed in front of him.
'What's the big hurry, Rogier? Come and drink a glass of this excellent Chateau Neuf with me.'
'Not tonight, Cookie. I am beat. I can hardly keep my eyes open.' He left quickly, before the chef could prevail on him further.
In his cabin he made an apology to Allah and the Prophet. 'You know that there are desperate matters afoot. Please forgive me that I will miss the evening prayer. After I have obeyed your call to jihad I will make full recompense tomorrow evening.' Then he dressed in his casual dark clothing and went up to the aft deck. He stood at the rail and stared back along the ship's wake. He could see nothing but the black swells running away into the darkness. The chase boats were designed to sit low in the water. Hidden in the clutter of the wave crests, they would be under the Dolphin Dolphin's radar. In any case this was not a warship and the watch was more relaxed. As he had witnessed, all their attention was focused ahead. They did not expect any other vessel would have the speed to come up on their stern. However, Rogier knew the boats were out there. Uncle Kamal had given a contact time on the transponder for 2300 hours. That was when most of the crew would be settling down for the night, and entirely off their guard.
Rogier waited an hour and then another. At intervals he checked the luminous dial of his cheap Japanese wristwatch. The Dolphin Dolphin was running with all her lights burning. She was lit up as brightly as a fairground. The attack boats would be able to pick her up from twenty kilometres out, but he knew they were already much closer, probably tailing the was running with all her lights burning. She was lit up as brightly as a fairground. The attack boats would be able to pick her up from twenty kilometres out, but he knew they were already much closer, probably tailing the Dolphin Dolphin by only a few hundred metres. It was minutes before 2300 and he knew Kamal would be punctual. Rogier stared down the wake and suddenly there was a tiny pinprick of light on the dark sea. It flashed three times far beyond the foam. Rogier aimed his Maglite over the stern and flashed three times in reply. Then he waited impatiently. The long boats were not a great deal faster than the by only a few hundred metres. It was minutes before 2300 and he knew Kamal would be punctual. Rogier stared down the wake and suddenly there was a tiny pinprick of light on the dark sea. It flashed three times far beyond the foam. Rogier aimed his Maglite over the stern and flashed three times in reply. Then he waited impatiently. The long boats were not a great deal faster than the Dolphin Dolphin, so it was almost ten minutes before he picked out the first sharklike hull emerging from out of the darkness astern. As it came closer he made out the shapes of the crew crouching low under the gunwales. Of course they were all dressed in dark clothing rather than the traditional white dishdashahs, and their faces were swathed in black head cloths. They were being careful not to let their weapons show above the boat's gunwales. The other two attack boats appeared out of the gloom behind the leader.
A single figure stood up in the bow of the leading boat as it sheered out alongside the Dolphin Dolphin's port quarter, and then edged in close alongside.
Despite the head cloth Rogier recognized his uncle Kamal's tall lean frame. He was leading the raid personally. Rogier flashed the Maglite down to confirm that he was ready to take the line on board. Kamal stooped and picked up something from the deck, then stood again holding a small Lyle gun like a rifle. He raised the butt to his shoulder, and aimed up at where Rogier stood. There was a muted pop of the discharge and a puff of white smoke as he fired. Rogier ducked as the white line snaked upwards and arced over his head. The small grappling iron on the end of the line clattered on the deck behind him and Rogier darted forward to catch the line before it was carried overboard by the drag through the water. He took three quick loops of the line around the mooring stanchion on the deck and tied it off with a bowline knot. He waved down at his uncle and immediately one of the crew, a small wiry man of ape-like strength and agility, swarmed up the rope and landed barefoot on the deck at Rogier's side. Tied around his waist was a heavier line that could support any number of climbers. The rest of the boarders came up it in quick succession. One of them handed Rogier a holstered Tokarev pistol and he strapped it around his waist under his windcheater. Five of them had already been delegated to secure the bridge. At a single word from Rogier their breech blocks snicked as each man locked and loaded the automatic assault rifle he carried. They followed Rogier on the run.
As Rogier entered the companionway that led to the upper deck he came face to face with the chef coming down the stairs. The chef stared at him and the armed men that followed him in blank incomprehension, then opened his mouth to scream. Rogier smashed the butt of the pistol into his temple and heard the bone of his skull crack. The chef dropped without a sound. Rogier stooped over his limp body and with another three blows crushed in the back of his head, making certain of the kill. Then he jumped over the corpse and raced on upwards. At the entrance to the bridge he paused to let the men that followed him regroup. Then he stepped through onto the bridge. Jetson was standing beside the instrument panel and discussing something with the helmsman. The radio operator was in his shack at the back of the bridge. He was leaning back in his swivel chair with his full attention on the paperback novel he was reading. But if he were alarmed it would take him only an instant to reach out and punch the red alarm button on the bulkhead beside him. That would begin a series of electronic measures which would automatically sound the ship's alarm bells and broadcast a distress radio call which would be picked up by every marine listening station from Perth to Cape Town, and from Mauritius to Bombay. Rogier held the Tokarev behind his back as he walked into the radio shack.
'Hi, Tim!' He smiled at the operator as he looked up from his book.
'Rogier, what the hell are you doing up here? You know this station is out of bounds.'
Rogier pointed past his shoulder. 'Why is that red light flashing, Tim?' he asked and Tim swivelled his chair quickly.
'What red light?' he demanded, and Rogier brought the pistol out from behind his back and shot Tim at the point where his top vertebrae joined his skull. The bullet blew out between his eyes in a bright burst of blood and brain matter which splattered over the radio panel. Tim toppled out of the chair and slid to the deck. Rogier turned swiftly and found that his men already had their guns on Jetson and the helmsman.
'By Christ, Moreau. You have murdered that man ...' Jetson's voice shook with shock and outrage. He started towards Rogier. Rogier lifted the pistol and shot him in the centre of his chest. Jetson clasped the wound with both hands and stood swaying slightly.
'Are you mad?' he whispered, shaking his head in awed disbelief.
'You must kill the officers immediately. They are the ones who will organize any resistance,' Rogier's grandfather had ordered him, so Rogier shot Jetson twice more in the chest and then watched with professional interest as he staggered backwards into the control panel and collapsed in a huddle.
'Secure the crew. They can be useful later as bargaining chips,' his grandfather had ordered. Rogier nodded to his men and they pinioned the helmsman's arms behind his back and bound his wrists together with a heavy-duty nylon cable tie. Rogier went past him to the control panel of the yacht and moved the engine telegraphs to the 'Stop' position. The vibration of the engines through the deck under his feet died away and he felt the subtle change in her motion as the Amorous Dolphin Amorous Dolphin lost her forward way. lost her forward way.
'Sit down.' Rogier turned to the helmsman. 'Don't move until you are told to do so.'
'For Christ's sake, Rogier ...' the helmsman pleaded, but Rogier shoved the pistol into his ribs and with his arms still pinioned the helmsman dropped hurriedly to the deck and sat in the spreading puddle of Jetson's blood. It soaked into his breeches.
Rogier left one of his men on guard and led the rest of them to the lower deck. He stopped outside the door to the captain's suite. In his capacity as a ship's steward he had his pass key to let himself into any cabin which was not doubled-locked. Rogier had brought Franklin his coffee at 6 a.m. daily, so he knew from experience that the captain never double-locked. The door slid open quietly and Rogier stepped into the sitting room of the suite. He switched on the desk light and saw that the door to the bedroom was open a crack. There was the sound of heavy snoring from the cabin beyond. He crossed the sitting room and looked through into the bedroom. Franklin lay on his back on his bunk, on top of the bedclothes. He wore only a pair of boxer shorts. His paunch was protuberant, pale and covered with grey and straggly hair. His mouth hung open and the regular snores sawed up his throat. Rogier went to him and held the muzzle of the Tokarev half an inch from his ear. He fired a single shot. Franklin gulped noisily and cut off halfway through the next exhalation, but after that he made no further sound or movement. Rogier fired a second shot into his brain. Then he reloaded the magazine of the pistol, and led his men out of the cabin and down to the main salon.
Uncle Kamal came to embrace him as soon as he entered. 'May Allah hold you to his bosom. You have done God's work this day, Adam.' He made a gesture to indicate the row of other prisoners squatting on the deck with their hands pinioned behind their backs. 'Are these all of them? Is anyone missing?'
Rogier counted the heads of the squatting crew members swiftly. 'Yes, they are all here. The captain, the first officer, the cook and the radio operator are in the cruel clutches of Iblis, the Devil, where they belong. The other missing crewman is the helmsman who is under guard on the bridge.' He pointed out Georgie Porgie, the purser. 'Keep that one here,' he ordered, 'I will deal with him later.' Then he singled out the two junior officers and the chief engineer. 'Those are officers. Take them to the stern and shoot them. Throw the bodies overboard.' He was speaking in Arabic so his victims were unaware of their fate as they were hoisted to their feet and led away.
Rogier waited for the sound of gunfire before he went on. 'That accounts for every infidel aboard except the girl. She will still be asleep in her cabin.' He smiled bleakly as he recalled the exhausted state in which he had left Cayla, utterly worn out by his copulatory expertise. 'I will go down and fetch her now. Meanwhile, Uncle Kamal, you must go up to the bridge and get the ship under way again.'
Cayla was not certain what had awakened her. She thought she must have heard something. She sat up sleepily on the rumpled bed and listened with her head on one side. The sound was not repeated but something else had changed. Sleep slowed her mind so it took another few seconds for her to realize that the ship's engines had stopped, and she was rolling ponderously to the scend of the sea.
'That's strange.' She was unconcerned. 'We cannot possibly have reached port yet.' Then she realized that her bladder was uncomfortably full. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She braced herself to the unusual motion of the yacht and then staggered to the bathroom. She perched on the toilet and sighed with relief as she emptied her bladder. She stood up and started back towards the bed. Moonlight was pouring in through the porthole that looked out over the owner's private deck and swimming pool. She was awake now and she paused at the porthole to look out at the starry sky and the dark sea. There was no wake pouring back behind the stern and she realized that her first impression was correct. The Dolphin Dolphin had stopped. She thought that she would telephone the bridge and find out from the officer of the watch what was happening, but at that moment a shadow passed the porthole, and she realized that there was somebody out there on the private deck. Immediately she was angry. That area was strictly out of bounds to the crew. She and her mother used it for nude sunbathing and swimming. Now she would certainly call the bridge and have the trespasser castigated. But before she turned away another figure came into her line of sight. He was dressed in dark clothing and had a black Arab shawl wound around his head to cover his face, leaving only his eyes showing. They glinted as he turned towards her. He paused in front of the porthole and peered in. She shrank back in alarm. The man put his face against the glass and raised one hand to shade his eyes, and she realized that the moonlight was insufficient to enable him to see into the darkened cabin. His demeanour was furtive but at the same time menacing. She held her breath and stood frozen with terror. He seemed to be staring into her eyes, but after a few seconds he stepped back from the porthole. With another pang of fear she saw that he had an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. He vanished from her view but immediately three more dark figures filed swiftly and silently past the porthole. All of them carried automatic weapons. had stopped. She thought that she would telephone the bridge and find out from the officer of the watch what was happening, but at that moment a shadow passed the porthole, and she realized that there was somebody out there on the private deck. Immediately she was angry. That area was strictly out of bounds to the crew. She and her mother used it for nude sunbathing and swimming. Now she would certainly call the bridge and have the trespasser castigated. But before she turned away another figure came into her line of sight. He was dressed in dark clothing and had a black Arab shawl wound around his head to cover his face, leaving only his eyes showing. They glinted as he turned towards her. He paused in front of the porthole and peered in. She shrank back in alarm. The man put his face against the glass and raised one hand to shade his eyes, and she realized that the moonlight was insufficient to enable him to see into the darkened cabin. His demeanour was furtive but at the same time menacing. She held her breath and stood frozen with terror. He seemed to be staring into her eyes, but after a few seconds he stepped back from the porthole. With another pang of fear she saw that he had an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. He vanished from her view but immediately three more dark figures filed swiftly and silently past the porthole. All of them carried automatic weapons.
Now she realized that it must have been the sound of rifle fire that had woken her. She had to get help. She was terrified and shaking. She ran back into her cabin and snatched the satellite telephone from the bedside table. Frantically she dialled the bridge. There was no reply but she let it ring while she tried to think what to do next. There was only one other person she could appeal to. She dialled her mother's private line. Hazel's recorded voice instructed her to leave a message. She rang off and immediately dialled again with the same result.
'Oh, Mummy! Mummy! Please help me.' She whimpered and began to compose a text message on her mobile phone, her thumbs flying over the keys as she typed.
Terrible things happening. Strange men with guns ...
She stopped in mid-sentence. There was somebody at the door of her cabin. Somebody was opening the lock with a pass key. She punched the send button on her mobile phone and threw the device into the drawer of her beside table and slammed it shut. In almost the same movement she sprang from the bed. She rushed to the door and threw her weight against it as it began to open.
'Go away. Get away from me, whoever you are,' she screamed hysterically. 'Leave me alone!'
'Cayla! It's me, Rogier. Let me in, Cayla. It's all right. Everything is going to be all right.'
'Rogier! Oh, thank the sweet Lord. Is it really you?' She jerked the door open and for a moment stared at him in disbelief, pale-faced and wide-eyed, and then she sobbed with relief. 'Rogier! Oh, Rogier.' She flung herself against his chest and clung to him with desperate strength. He held her with one arm and stroked her hair with the other hand.
'Don't be afraid. It's all going to be just fine.'
She shook her head wildly and blurted, 'No! You don't understand. There were men here. One of them looked into the cabin. There were others with him! Men! Horrible men. They all had guns. And I heard shooting ...'
'Listen to me, my darling. It's all going to be all right. I will explain to you later. But nobody is going to hurt you. You must be brave. I want you to get dressed. We have to leave here. Dress warmly, Cayla. Wear your waterproof coat. It will be cold outside.' He reached over her shoulder and switched on the main cabin lights. 'You must hurry, Cayla.'
'Where are we going, Rogier?' She pulled back and stared into his face. Then her eyes went down to his chest. 'You are bleeding, Rogier. There is blood all over you.'
'Just do as I tell you, damn it. We haven't got much time. Get dressed.' He took her arm and led her forcibly towards her spacious walk-in cupboard. He shoved her through the door. The shelves on both sides were crammed with clothing, and more dresses and trousers were strewn carelessly over the couches and chairs and even the deck in untidy profusion. On her makeup table stood dozens of pots and jars and bottles of creams and unguents and perfumes, many of them without their tops screwed back.
'You're hurting me,' she protested. 'Let go of my arm.' He ignored the plea, picking up a pair of strawberry-pink corduroy jeans from a chair and thrusting them at her.
'Here, put those on. Hurry!' But she stood frozen and staring at the pistol in the holster at his side.
'That's a gun! Where did you get it from, Rogier? I don't understand. You're all splashed with blood, but it's not yours, is it? And you have got a gun.' She started to back away from him. 'Who are you? What are you, tell me that.'
'I do not want to hurt you, Cayla, but you must do exactly as I tell you.'
She shook her head wildly. 'No! Leave me alone. You can't do this to me.'
He caught her wrist and twisted her arm up behind her back. Then he began to lift her slowly by the wrist alone. Her cries of defiance became squeals of agony, but he kept on lifting her until she was standing on the tips of her toes. Her squeals became louder and sharper, until she capitulated.
'Stop, please stop, Rogier,' she blubbered. 'I will do anything you want, only don't hurt me any more.' He was pleased with how little it took to break her resolve. There had been others who had died still resisting him. This way he was spared so much time and effort. She dressed herself without looking at his face again, her head hanging and an occasional sob bursting past her lips. When she had finished he took her by the elbow and led her into the bedroom.
'Where is your mobile phone, Cayla?' he demanded. She shook her head sullenly, but could not prevent herself glancing at the drawer of the bedside table.
'Thank you.'
He yanked the drawer open and took out the phone. He opened the 'Sent Messages' list and read aloud the words she had sent to her mother only minutes before: '"Terrible things happening. Strange men with guns" ... I wish you had not done that, Cayla. You have only made it more difficult for yourself,' he said in a mild tone, and then struck her another vicious open-handed blow across the face that snapped her head to one side and sent her sprawling to the deck. 'No more tricks like that, please. I don't enjoy punishing you, but I will if you force me to it.'
He opened the back cover of the device and took the Sim card from its slot, slipped it into the side pocket of his windcheater and zipped it closed. Then he tossed the phone aside. He stooped and grabbed her elbow again and hauled her to her feet. Gripping her arm he marched her out of the cabin and down the companionway to the main salon. She gasped with shock and pulled back against Rogier's grip when she saw the crew squatting on the deck with bound arms and the masked men standing over them with levelled rifles.
He shook her arm roughly. 'No more of that nonsense now!' He led her to the far end of the salon and forced her to sit. Then he beckoned one of the masked men to come to him. Cayla looked up in astonishment when he spoke to the man in Arabic.
'I do not want any harm to come to this woman. She is more valuable than your own miserable life. Do you understand what I am saying to you?'
'I understand, Lord.' The man touched his own breast in a gesture of respect.
'Why are you speaking in that language, Rogier? Who are you? Who are these people? Where is Captain Franklin? I want to speak to him,' Cayla pleaded.
'That will be difficult to arrange. The captain has two bullets in his brain.' He tapped the pistol at his side. 'That is enough questions from you. You just wait there quietly. I will return later. I think you are beginning to learn that I must have your complete obedience.'
When Rogier entered the bridge he found his uncle had the helm. Kamal was a skilled seaman who had spent his life on the oceans on everything from tiny dhows to giant oil tankers. Rogier glanced at the compass heading and saw that the Dolphin Dolphin was on the reciprocal course to the one that Franklin had set. They were heading back the way they had come. He went to the wing of the bridge and looked back. The three attack boats were being towed along in their wake, which explained the reduced speed. Kamal was being careful not to swamp them with the was on the reciprocal course to the one that Franklin had set. They were heading back the way they had come. He went to the wing of the bridge and looked back. The three attack boats were being towed along in their wake, which explained the reduced speed. Kamal was being careful not to swamp them with the Dolphin Dolphin's wake. Rogier went to stand beside his uncle.
'Have you made contact with the dhow yet?'
Kamal slitted his eyes against the smoke from the hand-rolled Turkish tobacco cigarette between his lips as it spiralled upwards.
'Not yet, but soon!' he said.
'The girl managed to send a message to her mother. The entire American navy and airforce will be searching for us as soon as it is light. The girl's mother is very powerful.'
'Everything will be taken care of before sunrise,' Kamal assured him, and then he smiled and pointed over the bows. On the horizon dead ahead a red distress flare burst suddenly into flame, its ruddy reflection dancing along the crests of the swells. 'There she is,' he said with satisfaction.
The two ships came together swiftly, and when they were only a few hundred metres apart Kamal throttled back and laid the Dolphin Dolphin across the wind and the sea, forming a breakwater for the dhow. The ancient vessel came alongside in the across the wind and the sea, forming a breakwater for the dhow. The ancient vessel came alongside in the Dolphin Dolphin's lee and mooring ropes were thrown down to the men on the deck. Once she was moored securely the prisoners were transferred into her, and hustled down into the forward hold. Only Cayla was dragged struggling and weeping to Kamal's quarters in the dhow's deckhouse and locked in with a guard at the door.
Working swiftly a party of Arab seamen knocked open the hatch on the dhow's stern hold. From the hold they winched up to the Dolphin Dolphin's deck five cargo pallets. Once they were on board the yacht the heavy canvas covers were pulled back to reveal a stack of a dozen large packages on each pallet. These were wrapped in bright yellow plastic sheeting and painted with black Chinese characters. It took three men to manhandle each crate below decks. The handlers worked gingerly, treating them with elaborate respect. The contents of each crate were thirty kilograms of Semtex H plastic explosive.
'Hurry it up there!' Rogier bellowed at them. 'The detonators have not been primed. It's quite safe to handle.' He and Kamal followed the working party below deck, down to the Dolphin Dolphin's bilges, and supervised the yellow crates being packed along the length of the keel under the engine room. Rogier left Kamal to set the charges and arm the delay device, and went up to the purser's office. Georgie Porgie was sitting on the deck with the guard standing over him.
'Untie him!' Rogier ordered the guard, who obediently forced the point of the bayonet on his rifle between Georgie's wrists and cut away the nylon cable tie. The blade nicked his chubby arm.
'The brute has cut me,' Georgie whimpered. 'Look! I am bleeding!'
'Open the safe!' Rogier ignored his complaints, and Georgie Porgie began to protest more vehemently. Rogier drew the pistol from its holster, and shot him in the leg. The bullet shattered his knee cap. The purser squealed shrilly. 'Open the safe,' Rogier repeated, and pointed the Tokarev at his other leg.
'Don't shoot me again,' Georgie whined and dragged himself to the steel safe set into the bulkhead behind the desk. His wounded leg dragged behind him, leaving a trail of wet blood across the planking. Moaning with the pain, Georgie fiddled with the combination lock, spinning the dial back and forth. There was a click and he turned the locking handle. The safe door swung open.
'Thank you!' said Rogier and shot him in the head. Georgie Porgie was knocked forward onto his face and his good leg drummed spasmodically on the deck. At Rogier's nod the guard grabbed the leg before it stopped kicking and dragged Georgie Porgie's corpse aside. Rogier knelt in front of the open safe and sifted swiftly through the contents.
He discarded the ship's working documents, amongst them her bills of lading and Grand Cayman registration certificate. But he selected the thick wad of the crew's passports. His grandfather would have good use for the genuine green US and maroon EU booklets. Under the desk there was a canvas briefcase which he had noted every time he had previously been in the purser's office. Rogier stuffed the passports into this. There were also about fifty thousand US dollars in bills of various denominations; without counting them he placed them with the passports. On the steel shelf below the cash were five blue jewellery boxes. The lid of the first one he picked up was lettered in gold: 'Graff. London'. He snapped open the lid. The diamonds that made up the heavy necklace nestling on the white satin lining were as big as quail's eggs and bright as sunlight on a mountain stream. Rogier knew they had once belonged to the American heiress to the Wool-worths fortune. These were what had really interested him.