'I love you, Rogier. I love you so very much. You are so strong and good to me.' He led her to the wooden bunk at the rear of the cabin, and laid her upon it. He stroked her filthy hair and at last she fell into an exhausted sleep.
It was two hours before the land came up as a low dark line along the horizon ahead, and almost another hour before the launch ran into the bay. Gandanga Bay was formed by a headland that curved out from the mainland like a lion's claw to form an enclosed area of deep water, protected from the prevailing trade-winds which relentlessly scoured this coast. The launch rounded the point and the bay opened up ahead of her.
Cayla was awakened by the commotion on the deck and she sat up to find Rogier gone. She peered out through the forward windows of the cabin. She was taken aback by the extent of the bay ahead and the mass of shipping that was crowded into it. There were ships of many shapes and sizes anchored in the protective arms of the bay. Closest to the beach were clusters of fishing dhows, while further out in the deeper water were assembled the vessels of more modern design. The nearest of these was a medium-sized oil tanker, her sides streaked with red-brown rust. The name on her stern was illegible but her port of registry was Monrovia. A dozen Arab guards looked down from the rail as the launch ran past. They waved and fired a fusillade of shots in the air. Cayla could not know that this bay was the main pirate lair and the tanker had been anchored there for the past three years since her capture. She was in ballast, her tanks filled with seawater rather than the precious oil. The owners had been unable or unwilling to pay the ransom money demanded by Rogier's grandfather.
Anchored beyond the tanker were two container ships. They had been there less than six months. The steel containers stacked high on their decks were filled with a vast assortment of goods valued at tens of millions of dollars. The insurance companies would soon pay for their release. Lying between these container ships were numerous other craft which had been seized on the high seas. They varied from small sailing yachts to larger long-line fishing boats and a refrigerated ship with a cargo of frozen mutton from Australia rotting in her holds. The guards on all of these craft gave the launch a tumultuous welcome as it passed. Already they had heard the rumour of the priceless treasure she carried: an American princess whose family was the richest in that hated infidel country. The ransom that would be coerced from the grieving relatives for the return of the woman would be vast, and there would be a share for each one of them.
On the shore the town lined the water's edge, a jumbled conglomeration of shacks and hovels with thatched or corrugated-iron roofs and walls built of sun-dried clay bricks. They were painted in a motley array of colours, with paints that had been looted from the stores of the captured ships. When the launch ran aground on the sandy foreshore the crew leaped overboard and with their robes tucked up around their waists dragged her higher up the beach. Rogier waded ashore with Cayla in his arms. The beach swarmed with armed men, but their ranks parted to let Rogier carry Cayla through to where a column of battered and dusty Land Rovers and Toyotas was parked above the high-water mark. Rogier seated her in the rear of the leading vehicle and four of his men squashed in beside her, two on each side. They smelled of wood smoke, rancid mutton fat and hashish. Their sweating bodies pressed against her lewdly, and their heavy weapons dug into her body. One of them grinned at her, his face a few inches from hers. His teeth were black and rotten and his mouth smelled like a pit latrine.
Rogier climbed into the driver's seat and the gears clashed. They roared off along the unsurfaced road. The other Land Rovers followed in their dust. Cayla turned her face away from the man beside her and shielded her nose and mouth with her hand.
'Where are you taking me, Rogier?' she called above the racket of the engine. He turned his face to her and the Land Rover swerved wildly across the narrow track.
'You are now in my world. You must never call me that false name again. My true name is Adam.'
'Him Adam Tippoo Tip!' said her guard, 'Hot damn!' They crashed through a deep pothole and all of them were thrown upwards with such force that their heads cracked against the steel roof. Cayla was the only one of them who showed any distress.
'Where are you taking me, Rogier?' she begged him.
'That is not my name.'
'Please forgive me. Where are you taking me, Adam?'
'To my grandfather's house.'
'How far is it?'
'Three, maybe four hours,' he shouted back. 'Now stop asking questions.'
They halted only once. They were on a hot treeless plain. The ground was strewn with red agate pebbles, and the twin ruts of the track were the only feature in all that monotonous waste. Adam let her drink a few mouthfuls of warm water from an old wine bottle. The men carelessly relieved themselves in the open, but when Cayla went around the back of the Land Rover to do the same her guards followed her and, still pointing their rifles at her, formed an interested and appreciative audience. Cayla was past caring. They all mounted up again and went on. Eventually out of the shimmering heat mirage a range of blue hills rose up before them. As they drew closer Cayla saw that tucked away amongst the rugged foothills lay a startling green garden. There were groves of palms and orange trees. Beds of melons and maize were irrigated from furrows of running water. They drove past strings of camels which were hauling up leather buckets of water from the deep wells of the oasis and spilling it into the furrows.
'How lovely it is here. What is the name of this place?' Cayla asked, the first time she had spoken in an hour.
'We call it the Oasis of the Miracle,' Adam replied. 'The brother of the Prophet, may he be praised through eternity, slept here on his journey through the wilderness, and in the morning when he awoke the sweet water bubbled from the earth on which he had lain.'
'Is this the home of your grandfather?'
'Up there.' He pointed through the open window of the vehicle. She craned her head and looked up the steep hillside. She saw there were many stone buildings along the cliff face. Atop the largest of these was the distinctive cupola and minaret of a mosque, and adjoining this was a large shapeless building which sprawled down the slope, seemingly without design or purpose. Adam pointed it out to her. 'That is my grandfather's palace. Our family has lived there for three hundred years.'
'It seems to me to be more a fortress than a palace.'
'It is both,' he replied and parked the Land Rover halfway up the hillside. A party of servants in white robes ran down to meet them. They offered baskets of cool damp cloths for the travellers to refresh themselves, and pitchers of orange juice sherbet. Adam poured a glass for Cayla which she gulped down gratefully, spluttering and choking in her haste. As soon as she had finished the delicious drink, Adam took her arm and led her up the slope that was too steep and rocky even for the Land Rover. Twice Cayla had to slump to the ground to rest. But at Adam's urging she struggled back onto her feet and toiled on upwards. She felt no resentment of his dominance over her. She was numb with despair, and the only thing that mattered to her any longer was to please him and to avoid his anger. But every part of her body ached and the rocky path sent thrills of pain shooting up her legs into the base of her spine. She tried to think about her mother, but the image was unclear in her mind and soon faded completely. When she crumpled to the ground for a third time, Adam ordered two of the servants to carry her the last hundred metres, until they came to an ornately carved door in the side wall of the palace. Here they handed her over to four female slaves who were veiled and clad in full-length black Islamic habits.
The women led her into a warren of passages and dark rooms until they entered what was clearly the harem area. A crowd of women and young children materialized out of the gloom and pressed around her, laughing and exclaiming and tugging at her clothing or reaching out to touch her bedraggled blonde hair. Most of them had never seen hair of that colour before, and it fascinated them. They followed her into a tiny courtyard that was open to the sky.
The slave women stood her in the centre and, despite her protests, stripped off her filthy clothing. The women and children crowded closer to prod her white flesh. One of them tried to pluck a hair from the blonde bush at the base of her belly as a trophy, but Cayla lashed out at her with her fists and she squealed and recoiled, to the hilarious delight of the others.
From clay pitchers the slave women poured cool well water over Cayla's head and shoulders. One of them handed her a bar of blue mottled carbolic soap and she scrubbed herself from the top of her head down to the soles of her feet. The harsh suds streamed down from her hair and stung her eyes, but she hardly noticed it in the joy of at last being clean again. When she had dried herself, the slaves helped her don a shapeless black robe like those they were wearing. The wide sleeves covered her arms down to her wrists and the skirts swept the floor. Chattering amongst themselves, they demonstrated to her how to wear the long black headscarf, so that it covered her hair and face, leaving only her eyes exposed. They placed a pair of goatskin sandals on her feet.
The alien attire gave her a strange sense of privacy, the first she had experienced since the taking of the Dolphin Dolphin, and she held the scarf closer to her face and mouth, hiding from them and from the nameless terrors and dangers that she knew surrounded her. They would not let her rest and led her back through the maze of the building. As they went on the rooms they passed through became progressively more spacious and richly furnished with colourful rugs and piles of cushions on the floors and painted tiles on the walls. The tiles were decorated with texts from the Koran in swirling Arabic script.
Finally they came to the end of a passage that was closed off by a pair of sturdy doors. These were guarded by two men armed with AK-47 rifles. The slave women left her there, and once they were gone the guards swung the heavy doors open and signed for Cayla to go through into the large room beyond. She paused at the entrance and looked around quickly. She realized that this was part of the mosque. There was a row of robed men seated on cushions on the tiled floor. They were facing the pulpit at the far end of the hall. Adam was in the middle of the row. He turned to look back at her and beckoned her to come to him. She scurried to do his bidding, dropping to her knees beside him.
'Adam!' she started to speak but he silenced her.
'Be quiet, woman. Go forward five paces and kneel facing the pulpit. Wait there in silence. When my grandfather comes through the door behind the pulpit you will place your forehead on the tiles and keep silent. You will speak only when you are spoken to. You will not look into his face at any time. He is a mighty lord and a descendant of the Prophet. You will show him total respect. Go now! Do as I have told you!' She went forward and sank to her knees. She waited and she could hear the small sounds of the men behind her; one of them coughed and another shifted his position. Then she heard the door in front of her begin to open and she looked up, but Adam's sharp command stopped her. 'Down!'
She pressed her forehead to the floor and so saw nothing of what was happening around her. The door opened fully and a portly but stately figure strode through. He did not shuffle like an old man despite his snowy beard, the tips of which were dyed with henna in tribute to the Prophet whose beard had been red. His face was deeply wrinkled and his eyebrows were white and bushy. On his head was an ornately wrapped turban, and he wore a gold-coloured gown whose skirts swept the tiles. Over that was a waistcoat that came down to his knees. It was thickly encrusted with gold and silver filigree. His sandals had exaggeratedly pointed toes and were also embroidered with designs in delicate gold wire and polished semi-precious stones. As a symbol of his power he carried in his right hand a long hippo-hide whip with a handle of beaten gold. He looked over the row of prostrate figures and singled out Adam.
'Come greet your grandfather, son of my son!' he ordered. Adam sprang up and went to him with head bowed and eyes averted. He went down on his knees again before the old man and lifted his right foot, and placed the sole of his grandfather's bejewelled sandal on his own head.
'Stand before me, my grandson. Let me see your face. Let me embrace you.' He lifted Adam to his feet, and stared into his eyes. 'Through me and my son the blood of the Prophet runs in your veins. What I see in you is good and growing stronger with each day that passes.' Adam was awed by the words, for his grandfather was Hadji Sheikh Mohammed Khan Tippoo Tip, one of the great warriors of Allah. The titles Hadji Hadji and and Sheikh Sheikh were honorifics acknowledging the facts that he had made the pilgrimage to Mecca and that he was the leader of a great clan. For five generations the eldest son of the family had borne the name Tippoo Tip. All of them had been legendary warriors, fearsome man-takers and relentless hunters of the elephant. Legend related that between them they had gathered up over a million souls from the interior of Africa and marched them down to their slave-trading stations on the coast. The number of elephant that they had killed was beyond counting, more numerous than the swarms of locusts that darkened the African sky in the time of the rains. Down the centuries fleets of Tippoo Tip dhows had plied the oceans carrying the ivory and slaves from Africa to Arabia and India, and beyond to China. were honorifics acknowledging the facts that he had made the pilgrimage to Mecca and that he was the leader of a great clan. For five generations the eldest son of the family had borne the name Tippoo Tip. All of them had been legendary warriors, fearsome man-takers and relentless hunters of the elephant. Legend related that between them they had gathered up over a million souls from the interior of Africa and marched them down to their slave-trading stations on the coast. The number of elephant that they had killed was beyond counting, more numerous than the swarms of locusts that darkened the African sky in the time of the rains. Down the centuries fleets of Tippoo Tip dhows had plied the oceans carrying the ivory and slaves from Africa to Arabia and India, and beyond to China.
Allah curse the devil-worshipping infidels, the English and the Americans, who have outlawed the taking of men and the killing of the elephant and driven my great family into decline and obscurity, Adam thought. But the wheel has turned. Just as the sun goes through the night to emerge again at dawn in its full power and glory, my family will regain its power. Men will learn to fear us once more as we gather up the ships and citizens of the infidel with impunity. But the wheel has turned. Just as the sun goes through the night to emerge again at dawn in its full power and glory, my family will regain its power. Men will learn to fear us once more as we gather up the ships and citizens of the infidel with impunity. At this very moment scores of captured ships lay in Gandanga Bay, and hundreds of prisoners filled the slave compounds awaiting ransom. Now he had brought his venerated grandfather a diamond beyond price, the richest prize the family had ever taken. With this deed Adam had become a fearsome man-taker like his ancestors. Adam and his grandfather embraced, and then Sheikh Khan turned to look down at the woman who still knelt in obeisance before him. At this very moment scores of captured ships lay in Gandanga Bay, and hundreds of prisoners filled the slave compounds awaiting ransom. Now he had brought his venerated grandfather a diamond beyond price, the richest prize the family had ever taken. With this deed Adam had become a fearsome man-taker like his ancestors. Adam and his grandfather embraced, and then Sheikh Khan turned to look down at the woman who still knelt in obeisance before him.
'Tell this female to rise,' he commanded and Adam spoke quietly to Cayla.
'Stand up! My grandfather wants to look at you.' Cayla rose to her feet and stood with her head hanging submissively.
'Tell her to remove the veil. I wish to see her face,' Sheikh Khan ordered. Adam passed on the command and Cayla drew the head shawl off her hair and face. She stood quietly until the old man seized her chin and lifted her head to stare into her face. At a loss for how to behave, Cayla looked directly into his eyes and smiled. It was an uncertain but winning smile that must have charmed any other male. Sheikh Khan stepped back and slashed her across the face with the hippo-hide whip. Cayla shrieked with the agony of the stroke.
'Infidel whore!' he shouted at her. 'How dare you gaze upon my countenance with your devil's eyes? I am proof to your evil spells.' Cayla covered with both hands the raised crimson weal which the whip had left across her face, and she sobbed out an apology.
'I am sorry. Please forgive me. I did not mean to give offence.' But Sheikh Khan had turned away to command Adam.
'Bring her through to my sanctuary.' He strode back through the doorway, and Adam seized Cayla's arm and pulled her after him.
'You fool,' he hissed at her, 'I warned you.'
In the room beyond the doorway a grim tableau had been laid out. The far wall was draped with a large flag. The central emblem was the black silhouette of an AK-47 automatic rifle on a green field. Above this was written in Arabic script: 'The Flowers of Islam. Death to the infidel. Death to all the enemies of Allah. God is great.'
A wooden stool had been placed in front of the flag. On each side of the stool was a uniformed warrior in camouflage battledress. Their faces were hidden behind black headscarves. Only their eyes were visible. The men were armed with assault rifles and their masks gave them an ominous satanic appearance.
Adam led Cayla to the stool and made her sit facing the photographer who had been waiting for them. His camera was mounted on a tripod and he focused it on the scene. One of his assistants brought Adam a rolled sheet of heavy white paper, which Adam unrolled and took to Cayla.
'Hold this so we can read the date on it,' he told her.
'What is it?'
'It's the front page of today's International Herald Tribune International Herald Tribune newspaper, downloaded from the internet. It is merely to establish the date on which your portrait was taken.' He stepped back and gave a curt order to the men on each side of the stool. They raised their clenched fists in a warlike gesture. Adam nodded to the cameraman. The photographic flash lit the scene briefly. It caught Cayla staring into the camera lens with an expression of utter despair. newspaper, downloaded from the internet. It is merely to establish the date on which your portrait was taken.' He stepped back and gave a curt order to the men on each side of the stool. They raised their clenched fists in a warlike gesture. Adam nodded to the cameraman. The photographic flash lit the scene briefly. It caught Cayla staring into the camera lens with an expression of utter despair.
Hector and four of his senior field operatives were gathered around the central desk in the situation room of the Sidi el Razig terminal. They were in deep discussion. Hazel Bannock sat to one side. She was trying to follow their discourse but a great deal of it was in Arabic. She gave up and occupied herself with studying the men Hector had chosen to work for him. These were some of those who would attempt to rescue Cayla for her. She prided herself on being a good judge of character and ability and she had discussed each of them with Hector, and finally admitted that he had chosen well.
Two of his men were of European extraction. The first of these was David Imbiss. He was young, fresh-faced and gave the illusion of plumpness. However, this was not fat but muscle. Hector had introduced him to her as an ex-captain of US infantry who had done his time in Afghanistan as a liaison officer seconded to the brigade that Hector commanded. At the end of his tour he left the army with a Bronze Star and a few scars. Hector had told Hazel that when David returned home to California he found that his wife had taken the baby and gone off with an orange grower she had known at college. David's boyish and ingenuous countenance was deceptive, for behind it he was tough, bright and savvy. With his training in the military he was a computer and electronics expert, a skill that Hector valued highly.
Leaning over the desk on Hector's righthand side was Paddy O'Quinn. He was much younger than Hector, and had served under him in the SAS. He was tall, lean and muscled with a quick temper and even quicker mind. He had been a career soldier until he had made one small error of judgement. On the battlefield he had struck a junior officer with sufficient force to break his jaw.
'The man was a prick,' was how he had explained this lapse of judgement to Hector. 'He had just had half his platoon mown down thanks to his stupidity, and then he started to argue with me.' Paddy would probably have been a senior officer by now, without that single mistimed punch. The army's loss was Hector's and Cross Bow's gain. The other two men facing Hector across the desk were both Arabs. This had at first surprised Hazel; after all, Hector Cross was a renowned racist, was he not?
'I would rather have one of those gentlemen covering my backside in a hard fight than most other men I know,' Hector had told her when she remarked on his choice. 'Like most of their race they are hard warriors and cunning as hell. Of course, they are able to think like thugs, talk like thugs and pass as thugs. Set a fox to catch a fox, as someone once said. Together we make a good team; when things get really tough I can pray to Jesus Christ while they can pray to Allah. That way we have all our bets covered.'
Tariq Hakam had been attached to Hector's unit in Iraq as his interpreter and local guide. He and Hector had taken to each other from the first day when they ran into an ambush and had to fight their way out. He had been at Hector's side on the dreadful day of the roadside bomb. When Hector had opened up on the three Arab insurgents who had laid the bomb and seemed to be about to deploy a suicide device, Tariq had backed Hector's fire and taken down one of the enemy. When Hector had resigned his commission Tariq had come to him and said, 'You are my father. Where you go I will go also.'
'Can't argue with that,' Hector had agreed. 'Not sure where I'm headed, but pack your kit and come along.'
The other Arab facing Hector across the desk was Uthmann Waddah. 'Uthmann is Uthmann,' Hector had told Hazel. 'No one can replace him. I trust him as I trust myself.'
Hazel smiled at the memory of Hector's simple explanations of his relationship with the four men. She had taken much of it as gross hyperbole at the time, but watching them now as they debated their options around the situation room desk she was revising that opinion.
We few, we happy few! she thought and in a strange way she felt envious of Hector. It must be wonderful to belong to such a tight-knit band; to spend your days in the company of brothers with whom you could trust your life. Never to know loneliness. Henry had been gone many years now. Even in the midst of the throng loneliness was her austere and constant companion. she thought and in a strange way she felt envious of Hector. It must be wonderful to belong to such a tight-knit band; to spend your days in the company of brothers with whom you could trust your life. Never to know loneliness. Henry had been gone many years now. Even in the midst of the throng loneliness was her austere and constant companion.
Her laptop beeped, alerting her to an incoming message. It would be Agatha. Hazel quickly turned to it. She stared at the screen in disbelief, and then let out a choking cry.
'Oh, my dear God! This cannot be happening!'
'What is it?' Hector demanded.
'Cayla has sent me a message!'
'Don't open it! It's not Cayla,' Hector shouted, but he was on the opposite side of the desk and couldn't reach her in time to stop her. Her fingers flew over the keys. There was an alert that there was an attachment. She pressed the 'Download' button and then stared at the screen. The blood drained from her face. She opened her mouth as if to speak but the sound that burst past her lips was a high keening cry of mourning. Hector thought she might fall for she reeled in her chair. He caught her shoulders and shook her.
'What is it? Pull yourself together! For God's sake, woman. What is it?' She closed her mouth and stared at him as if she had never seen him before. Then she straightened in the chair and drew a deep breath, fighting for control of her emotions. She still could not speak, but handed him the laptop. He looked down at the image on the screen. It was of a pretty young white girl in Muslim dress, but with her face and hair exposed. Her expression was haunted and forlorn. She held a copy of a newspaper so he could read the date under the headline. On each side of the girl stood armed and masked men. On the wall behind her was a banner with messages of militant and radical religious cant printed over it in black Arabic script.
'Is it her?' he asked, and when she could not reply he shook her gently. 'Is this Cayla?'
She gasped to catch her breath and then she whispered, 'Yes, it's Cayla. It's my baby.' She shivered. 'But why should she send me this terrifying picture of herself?'
'She did not send that,' Hector said harshly. 'It was sent by her captors. They are opening a line of contact with us. The picture was just to intimidate you, but they are ready to negotiate at last.'
'But it's from Cayla's mobile phone.'
'They have taken it from her, or at least they have taken the Sim card out of her phone.' He turned her to face him. 'Listen to me. This is to the good. We know now with certainty that Cayla was alive three days ago. That is the date on the newspaper she is holding.' Hazel nodded. 'Now we have a direct line to her captors. We can negotiate with them. We might even be able to trace the origin of the message by the network that sent it.' He handed the laptop across the desk to David Imbiss. 'You're the geek, Dave. Tell us what you can about this transmission. Can we tell which country it was sent from?'
'Sure, Heck.' Imbiss examined the laptop. 'Might take time, but with a court order the company which is the server might be forced to tell us which of their networks sent it.' He handed the computer back to Hector. 'But it would be a sweet waste of time.'
'How's that, Dave?'
'The photograph was taken three days ago. Suppose it was taken in Cairo. There was plenty of time to courier the Sim card to an accomplice in, say, Rome. He or she transmits the message to us and then returns the Sim card to the main man by the same route that it came.'
'Shit!' Hector said.
'Shit indeed,' Dave agreed. 'If we are going to have ongoing correspondence with these people you can be certain every message from them will be sent from a different country. Today Italy, next week Venezuela.' Hector thought about this and then turned back to Hazel.
'What is the balance on Cayla's BlackBerry account, do you have any idea? The Beast will not top up the account if it goes dry, it would be too dangerous for them. We don't want the trail to break off for lack of a few dollars.'
'I put two thousand dollars into Cayla's account while we were in Cape Town.'
'You could talk for a year on that,' Hector opined. With this lady nothing is ever done by halves With this lady nothing is ever done by halves, he thought and smiled inwardly.
'I didn't want her to have any excuse not to call me,' said Hazel, justifying herself.
'Excellent! So we want to make sure that they keep on using this number.' He told her, 'What you must do right away is reply to them. Make sure that they know we will be listening in for them. Do it now, please, Mrs Bannock.' She nodded and then typed in a message on the keyboard. When she had finished she turned it towards him to read.
Gentlemen, I will be waiting to receiveyour further messages. In the meantimeplease do not hurt her.
'No!' Hector said sharply. 'Leave out the salutation. Gentlemen they are not, and it serves no purpose. Then cut out the appeal not to hurt her. Just leave the bare bones. I am waiting. I am waiting. That's all.' She nodded, made the amendment and showed Hector the result. That's all.' She nodded, made the amendment and showed Hector the result.
'Good. Send it!' he said. Then he looked up at his men. 'Everyone out, please. From now on it's "need to know" only.' They understood. If one of them were to be captured and tortured they could not divulge information they did not have. They began to file out of the room.
'Tariq. Uthmann. Stay behind, please.' The two Arabs turned back to their chairs at the table. Hazel could contain herself no longer.
'Cross,' she blurted, 'is there nothing more we can do? Oh God, how do we find where they are holding her?'
'That's what we have been discussing for the past hour,' Hector reminded her. 'If there is one weakness the Beast has it is that it loves to talk, it loves to boast of its victories.'
Hazel shook her head. 'I don't understand.'
'If you know where to listen you may be able to pick up the echoes of its gloating.'
'Do you know where to listen?' she asked.
'No, but Uthmann and Tariq do,' he replied. 'I'm sending them into deep cover. I'm putting them into the countries in which they were born and where their links to the local populace will be strongest. Tariq will go to Puntland and Uthmann to Iraq. They will sniff around until they pick up the scent. Even if they are holding Cayla somewhere else, these two will find out where she is.'
'That will be terribly dangerous for them, won't it? They'll be on their own entirely and you won't be able to protect them.'
'You are greatly understating the case, Mrs Bannock. They will be at deadly risk. But they are hard to kill. They have survived so far against all odds.' Hazel looked across at the two Arabs.
'I can never thank you enough. You are risking your life for my daughter. You are very, very brave men.'
'Not too much praise!' Hector protested. 'They already have highly inflated opinions of their own worth. Next thing they will be asking me for a raise, or something equally ridiculous.' Everyone, except Hazel, laughed and it eased the tension a little.
'Until they come up with a definite lead we will keep the ball in play here. At the same time we will make every possible preparation for the moment when we are certain where they are holding Cayla, and we can go in to bring her out.'
There was a daily flight on Zara Airlines' Fokker F-27 Friendship twin turbojet passenger plane from the airstrip at Sidi el Razig to Ash-Alman, the capital of Abu Zara. The next morning Tariq and Uthmann quietly joined the crowd of oil rig workers and labourers in the small airline check-in area. Dressed in traditional garb, with their faces half-covered by their shumag, they blended into the crowd. Once they reached the capital they separated. Tariq boarded the aircraft to Mogadishu in Somalia and an hour later Uthmann took the flight to Baghdad. They had vanished amongst the faceless Arab multitudes.
The next morning Hector sought out Hazel and found her at breakfast in the tiny company mess. As he stood over her he glanced down at the bowl of cereal and the cup of black coffee on the table in front of her. No wonder she is in this kind of shape, he thought.
'Good morning, Mrs Bannock. I hope you slept well.'