by Wilbur Smith
Each packing case had been made to the exact size of a particular painting. Rogier had downloaded the dimensions from an arts catalogue on the internet. He packed the Gauguin into its case, and with relief found that his grandfather’s carpenters had done a good job, for it fitted precisely. The other two paintings were equally snug in their own containers. He closed all three and ordered his men to take them up to the main deck. By the time Rogier got back up there Kamal was acutely agitated.
‘What took you so long, Adam? The timer on the detonator cannot be cancelled or reset. We must hurry!’ They swung down into the dhow and as Kamal gave the order to cast off, Rogier supervised the stowage of the three cases in the forward hold. Kamal put the dhow on an easterly heading and bore away at her best speed. Rogier stood with his uncle beside the massive wooden tiller and stared back over the stern.
‘It is a great pity that we could not have taken the vessel as well as the girl. Its value is enormous,’ Rogier mused.
‘What is the value of fifty years in an American prison?’ Kamal asked. ‘That’s all the payment you would get if you were stupid enough to try to keep it.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Another seven minutes,’ he said. When it came it was a single tremendous blast, the night sky lit as though by the sunrise. Seconds later the shock wave from the explosion swept over the dhow, flapping the canvas of her sail and pressing in against Rogier’s eardrums for a painful instant. Then the glow faded away and the darkness descended once again.
‘Let the infidel try to find her now,’ Kamal said with satisfaction.
‘How many days’ sailing to Ras el Mandeb?’ Rogier asked. ‘Six, is it?’
‘Longer,’ said Kamal. ‘We cannot set a direct course. We must get well inshore of the Kenyan coast, and merge with the other small shipping.’
Deep snow on the Farnborough runway in England had delayed her for thirty-six hours, so it had taken Hazel almost four days to return from Abu Zara to the States, but even then she had not headed for her principal home in Houston. She had come directly to Washington DC.
Henry Bannock had always maintained a large, old-fashioned apartment on East Capitol Street overlooking Lincoln Park. It was not the most salubrious section of the city but Henry had liked to be close to the seat of power whenever the Senate was in session. For the same reason Hazel had kept the apartment after his death, but she had renovated it entirely. It was an ideal position from which she could launch an assault on the Administration. Ever since her arrival she had bullied and pestered Senator Reynolds from Texas and the staff at the White House. She had already been granted a short meeting with the President, who had promised her that he would take a personal interest in the search for the Dolphin and her daughter. Bannock Oil had been a major contributor to his campaign funds. Despite her left-wing leanings Hazel always believed in two-way bets, so she made large contributions to both Republicans and Democrats for just such an eventuality, and now Hazel was calling in all her markers.
An Airforce Colonel Peter Roberts from the Presidential staff was unofficially assigned to be her liaison officer during the crisis, and even Hazel had to admit that he had performed sterling service in difficult circumstances.
Already a US military observation satellite had been diverted to make two reconnaissances, overflying the area of the Dolphin’s last contact at heights of 47.5 kilometres and 39.8 kilometres at orbital velocities of almost 7,000 mph. Unfortunately, it had not been able to record a significant contact. There were three very large container ships and numerous much smaller vessels in the area, but nothing that could possibly be the Dolphin.
In addition the USS Manila Bay, a guided missile destroyer, had been diverted southwards by Presidential orders from its patrol station in the Gulf of Aden off the Yemeni coast. However, it had over 1,200 miles to sail and it had not yet reached the area.
Colonel Roberts had urgently contacted all the American embassies in the Middle East and African mainland. Using the President’s authorization, he had initiated delicate enquiries with all the governments, both friendly and antagonistic. None had offered any encouragement. Apart from Cayla’s truncated text message there had been no other trace of her or the Dolphin. The days were wasting away and Hazel Bannock was nearing her wits’ end. The telephone on her desk in the East Capitol Street apartment rang. She had been hovering over it and she pounced on it before it could ring a second time.
‘Bannock,’ she said. ‘Who is this?’
‘Peter Roberts, Mrs Bannock.’ She did not let him continue, but cut in brusquely,
‘Good morning, Colonel. Do you have any news for me?’
‘Yes, I have some news.’ The tone of his voice made her take a sharp breath. It was not encouraging.
‘Have they found the Dolphin?’ she demanded, but he avoided the question.
‘I would prefer not to talk on this line. I would like to come to see you immediately, Mrs Bannock.’
‘How long will it take you to get here?’ she demanded.
‘The traffic is terrible this morning, but I should be with you in twenty minutes or less.’ She hung up and then phoned the concierge in the lobby.
‘I am expecting Colonel Roberts to call. You know him. He has been here often over the last few days. Send him right up when he comes.’ It took Roberts twenty-three minutes, and she opened the door on his first ring.
‘Come in, Colonel.’ She was studying his face, trying to read what he had in store for her before he spoke. He gave his coat to the Mexican maid and followed Hazel through into the sitting room, where she rounded on him, no longer able to contain herself.
‘What do you have for me?’
‘You know that the US Navy sent a destroyer to the last known position of the Dolphin. It reached there a few hours ago.’
She caught his sleeve. ‘Please don’t keep me in suspense, Colonel. What have they found?’ He made an embarrassed gesture of running his hands over his thick iron-grey hair.
‘Only an area of floating wreckage.’
She stared at him. Her expression was blank.
‘So?’ she said at last. ‘What does that tell us? How do we know this has anything to do with my yacht, or my daughter?’
‘There was a lifejacket in the wreckage. It was from your yacht. The name was painted on the jacket.’
‘That proves nothing,’ she said and then saw his expression of pity.
‘The Manila Bay has been ordered to return to its patrol station,’ he said.
‘No!’ she exclaimed, her voice rising sharply. ‘No! I won’t believe it. They are not calling off the search.’
‘Mrs Bannock, they’ve searched the area by ship, plane and satellite. The Dolphin is a large vessel. It could not possibly have been overlooked, if it was on the surface.’
‘You think she’s been sunk,’ she demanded, ‘and that my daughter has gone with her? My Cayla dead? Is that what you’re saying? Then how do you explain Cayla’s text message to me that there were strange men on the ship?’
‘With all due respect, Mrs Bannock, you’re the only one who has seen this message. And we have the evidence of the floating wreckage,’ he said gently. ‘I think we will now have to make an announcement to the press that the Dolphin has disappeared—’
‘No!’ she cut him off. ‘That would be an acceptance of the fact that Cayla is dead.’ She went to the window and looked down over the park, struggling to regain her composure. Then she turned back to him. ‘My daughter is still alive,’ she said firmly. ‘I know this with a mother’s instinct. My baby is alive!’
‘We all hope that is the case, but with every day that passes that hope fades a little.’
‘I am not giving up!’ she shouted at him. ‘Nor should they.’
‘No, of course not. However, we have to think of other possibilities.’
‘Such as what?’ She was very angry and very frightened.
‘That part of the Indian Ocean is an area of intense seismic activity on the seabed. A number o
f tsunami have been recorded recently—’
She cut him off again. ‘Tidal wave. You think the Dolphin was sunk by a tidal wave? You think my daughter has been drowned?’
‘Believe me, Mrs Bannock, we all sympathize with you . . .’
She jerked her arm away. ‘I don’t want your bloody sympathy. I want you to find my daughter.’
Hazel sat alone in her beautiful bedroom in her beautiful apartment looking out over the most powerful city on the globe, and she was truly alone as she had never been in her life before. The desolation swept over her in regular waves. Every time it took her longer to rise to the surface again. She was being drowned by her loneliness. Even the most powerful man in the world was unable to help her. There was nobody. She paused at the thought.
Perhaps there is one last resort. She sensed a tiny spark of hope in the suffocating darkness. She remembered his voice, the last thing he had said to her: ‘If you need me, one word will be enough.’ Her pride rose up her throat and almost choked her. She had called him an arrogant bastard, and of course that was what he was. A tough, callous, overbearing bastard.
Exactly the kind of man I need now, she told herself. She forced back her pride and reached for the telephone. She rang Agatha in Houston.
‘Have we heard anything, Mrs Bannock?’ Agatha loved Cayla almost as much as she did.
‘Yes, they have found traces of the Dolphin.’
‘And Cayla, have we any news of Cayla?’
‘Not yet, but soon,’ she promised, and then went on quickly to forestall the next question. ‘Do we have an emergency number for Hector Cross at Cross Bow Security?’
‘One moment, Mrs Bannock,’ Agatha said and came back to her almost at once. ‘It’s his satphone. Twenty-four-hour contact . . .’ She reeled off the number, then went on, ‘We have to be brave, Mrs Bannock. We have to be strong for Cayla’s sake.’
‘I love you, Agatha,’ Hazel said and left her gasping with shock and delight. Nobody had said that to Agatha Reynolds in a very long time.
Hazel knew it was well after midnight in Abu Zara, but Hector answered the call on the third ring and his tone was sharp as a rapier.
‘Hector Cross.’
‘I need you badly, Cross,’ she said. ‘Just as you said I would.’
‘Tell me what it is,’ Hector demanded.
‘My yacht has disappeared at sea with my daughter on board. But she sent me a text to say there were men with guns on board the yacht. The people here in Washington seem to be ignoring this. Unfortunately I was so distressed that I deleted the message from my phone by mistake, so I can’t prove it to them. Perhaps they think I am fantasizing. That it is just my wishful thinking.’ She tried to keep her voice from wavering. ‘They have found wreckage. That’s what they are fixed on. They are trying to tell me that she is dead.’
I knew it was bad, Hector thought, but not as bad as this. He kept his tone totally non-committal.
‘Where?’ he asked and she repeated the position that Roberts had given her. Should she be angry at his lack of sympathy? Shouldn’t he at least have acknowledged her loss with a kind word? No, he was a tough, callous, overbearing bastard, she reminded herself.
‘When?’ he asked and she told him. He was silent, and she waited until she could bear it no more.
‘Hello. Are you still there?’
‘I’m thinking,’ he said.
‘The brass here believe the Dolphin was sunk by a tidal wave.’ She could not remain silent.
‘Bullshit!’ he drawled and her heart danced with joy at the coarse expression. That was exactly what she wanted to hear. It was just what Henry Bannock would have said.
‘Why do you think that?’ she asked, longing for more reassurance.
‘No tidal waves in deep water. Only when it hits the land does the tsunami rear up.’ He went quiet again for nearly a minute. Then he asked, ‘No ransom demand yet?’
‘No. Nothing. They want to send out an appeal to anybody who knows—’ she started, but he cut her off.
‘For God’s sake, we can’t let them do that.’ She rejoiced to hear him say ‘we’. He was firmly on her team now. He went silent again, and she bore it with difficulty.
‘Okay. I’m starting to pick up a faint scent.’
‘Tell me!’ She felt hope surge in her chest, but he answered obliquely.
‘How long will it take you to get back to the Zara No. 8?’
‘Forty hours max.’
‘This is where it’s all going to happen. Come!’ he ordered. ‘I want you here when it breaks cover.’
‘Who? What will break cover?’ she demanded.
‘The Beast,’ he said.
Thirty-five hours later he was waiting at Sidi el Razig airport when the jet touched down. ‘You made good time,’ he said as he met her at the foot of the steps of the G5 Gulfstream.
‘We only stopped over for forty minutes at Farnborough to refuel and we had a fifty-knot following wind across most of Europe and the Med.’ They shook hands. ‘Have you made any progress?’ The first thing she noticed was that he had recently shaved. The second thing she noticed was that in an ugly sort of way it made him look quite attractive. Immediately she was struck by guilt that she should notice his looks at a time like this. It was a betrayal of her lovely daughter.
Down, Hazel girl! He’s not your style at all, she told herself sternly. He is just a service man and in slightly different circumstances could be cleaning your swimming pool.
‘Come!’ He took her arm above the elbow, and she was surprised that she did not pull away. ‘I have moved our base of operations from Number Eight to the terminal here. Much closer to the epicentre.’ When they reached the administration building he told her, ‘I have had them prepare a room for you. It’s pretty utilitarian but at least it has air conditioning and its own bathroom. I have brought down all the luggage that you left at Number Eight.’ He led her to the room from which the flow of oil through the pipelines was controlled. It was large, well equipped with electronics. The station manager’s office was raised above the main floor and was sealed off by a wall of sound-proofed glass. He led her to this private and secure area. At a word the overseer stood up, excused himself and left. Hector indicated the chair he had vacated and Hazel slumped down on it. She was on the edge of exhaustion. Hector called the mess and almost immediately a steward carried through a tray covered by a fine muslin cloth. He placed it on the desk in front of her, and suddenly she realized that she had eaten almost nothing since leaving Washington.
‘I brought the chef down from Number Eight,’ Hector said as he dismissed the steward. On the Wedgwood platter was laid out a cold collation of fillets of red Gulf snapper and salads.
‘I know that you don’t take wine before sunset,’ he said as he screwed the top off a bottle of San Pellegrino, and poured the sparkling water into her glass. The fish was delicious. She tried not to gobble it down in front of him, but he had tactfully turned his attention to the computer screen. He let her finish and then swivelled his chair to face her.
‘Very well. This will be our situation room for the duration of this operation. We will try not to discuss any vital information outside of it. Now, tell me everything you know!’ he ordered her. ‘Try not to leave out any detail, no matter how insignificant you think it may be.’ She spoke quietly but lucidly. By the end of the recitation her hands were shaking and she was deathly pale.
‘Pace yourself, Mrs Bannock. This might take a long time. Eat and rest to conserve your strength.’ He saw her impatience and suppressed his smile. ‘Okay. No more lectures from me. You’re a big girl now.’
‘I have told you all I know. What have you got to tell me?’
‘Nothing concrete yet, but now with what I have heard from you I have a much better idea of what we’re up against.’ He turned to the map projection on the large screen on the wall opposite their desks. From the keyboard of his computer he was able to move the electronic pointer around the map.
‘Let’s look at the location. Is it entirely blind chance that the Dolphin disappeared on the front doorsteps of all the most important Al-Qaeda strongholds west of Pakistan?’ Hector moved the marker from the northern end of the Indian Ocean to the eastern coast of the Gulf of Aden.
‘Yemen! The number-one terror capital of the world.’ Then he moved the marker a short distance across the Strait of Bab el Mandeb to the African mainland. ‘The cosy neighbours of Yemen just across the Red Sea or the Gulf of Aden are Puntland in Somalia, Eritrea and Ethiopia. Here we have Satan’s Circle,’ he said. ‘A seething nest of fanatical Islamic killers.’ He moved the marker down the map to a position a relatively short distance to the south. ‘Here is where your Dolphin was, sailing right into their jaws.’ He stood up from his desk, crossed to the window and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring across the blue waters of the Gulf. Then he wheeled around and thrust out his jaw at her. ‘And they knew she was coming.’
‘How did they know that?’ she asked sharply.
‘Because you sail exactly the same route every year at the same time, don’t you?’ She inclined her head to acknowledge that the point was well taken.
‘But how did you know that?’
‘Mrs Bannock, you are my boss. I make it my business to know as much as I can about you. I even know what school you went to.’
‘Do you just!’ she challenged him.
‘Herschel Girls High in Cape Town.’ He didn’t wait for her confirmation but went on, ‘Every year the Dolphin stops over in Cape Town to enable you to visit your mother who lives on your wine estate there. I know that and they know that.’
‘Very obvious of me.’ She looked abashed.
‘They probably put somebody on board the Dolphin in the Cape.’ She arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. Those bloody marvellous eyes, he thought, how I hate them. He looked up at the map on the wall. ‘How do I know that?’ He asked the question for her.
