by Steve Reeder
Nor would his superiors let him, and I had no doubt there were those above Hammil would have given consent for the Great Plan. Hammil seemed too much of a career man to risk his livelihood for someone like Josh Rodber without backing from a higher power.
With a start I noticed that silence had descended over the Kent countryside. Both riders were in the pits and the Ducatis were standing idle. I strode quickly back to the garages to find everyone sucking on cokes and munching ham and cheese sandwiches. I hadn’t realized the morning had passed so quickly.
I wasn’t the only one to notice that my mind was not where it should be. Geoff handed me a coke and filled me in on the results of the testing that I had been missing. He looked at me questioningly and asked, “What’s the news from the inspector about Josh?”
I thought about what I should tell for a moment. Not because I didn’t trust Geoff. He was one of those men you instinctively trusted. He was a man you wanted to have with you in a tight corner, when the wolves were closing in, so to speak. Like a lot of men from the northern regions of England, he had a mental toughness and determination. Bud was another example. I needed to talk to Bud, and soon too.
“Geoff, I can’t say too much at the moment, and please don’t say anything to anyone else, but we think we know where Josh is being held, and we expect to have him back within a day or two.”
Geoff nodded to himself while he thought that statement through and said, ”You said ‘we’ twice there. How has the good inspector got you involved then?”
“Josh is being held on foreign territory, sort of. I’m going to get him back.” I felt a little melodramatic saying that. A bit silly too. Geoff raised his eyebrows at me, but said nothing, so to save myself feeling any more foolish, I told him the full story, rescue plan and all.
I left the team at the track with Geoff in charge; he was better suited to running a testing session than I was anyway. It’s mainly a technical thing.
Dashing back to Rodber Racing headquarters, I got Tracy started on sourcing supplies the team needed. Geoff had compiled a list, and then I left immediately for the hospital.
With Bud’s background in the British Special Forces I desperately needed his advice. I had tried contacting both Mike and Billy to ask them if they could act as back-up for me when I went into the embassy. It was hopeless. Mike, although he lived in the UK these days, was out of the country for three weeks’ holiday with his wife, and Billy could not be tracked at all. Billy had been the one I really wanted; he had stayed in shape and operated a hi-tech security operation in the States. More importantly, he specialized in hostage negotiation and return as well as supplying bodyguards for VIPs. He would have been just what I needed.
Now I was counting on Bud’s contacts, which meant working with strangers who were therefore an unknown factor for me. Not always a desirable situation.
And would they work with me? In their shoes I’m not sure I would. Think about it; here is a guy who had been in the business, but years ago, and now raced motor bikes. When was the last time he sat in an observation post for days on end without being detected? When last had he faced an armed adversary and had to decide the best options: fight or flee? When last had he entered a building unobserved and left again having achieved his objective without the enemy even being aware he had been there? Best option here was a little judicial bullshit from me, I decided.
Bud was still in traction, and would be for another ten days he told me, but was nevertheless his ever-cheerful self. I arrived just after lunch had been served, and he had actually been enjoying the hospital food.
“They took the strapping off my ribs this morning, so I can breathe again,” he grunted as I enquired how he was.
I sat myself down in the barely padded chair by his bedside and waited till he had shovelled the last of the mushy peas into his mouth.
“You really should have had a word with the medical staff about cosmetic surgery while you’re here, Bud.” I said lightly.
“Fuck off, pretty boy,” he shot back. “I may not look like Brad Pitt but I still get more action than you bike jockey types.”
“Really? Bud I’m surprised. Tracy told me that she had to cure you of your virginity.” Bud and I laughed at each other.
“Let’s just leave Tracy out of this, Simon. I’m going to marry that girl.” I looked at him with some surprise. “Bloody hell, Bud. You? After your last divorce you swore to be the most dedicated bachelor the world has ever produced.” Bud nodded seriously. “Does Tracy know this yet?” I asked.
“Soon, Simon, soon.” He had the good grace to blush. I shook my head in wonder, then remembered the reason I was here, apart from checking up on the health of my old friend, of course.
Bud stared at me with a look that had me wondering if I had suddenly grown two heads, both with three eyes.
“You’re going to do what?” he said, rather too loudly. I’d told him the whole story from the moment he had departed in the ambulance, including the somewhat dodgy plan Hammil and I had cooked up.
“Look, Bud, someone has to do something, and the coppers seem to have their hands tied by the politicians and, well, I think we can do it.” Bud knew about my army experience, it was something we had in common, but he too thought it was too long ago to be of much help now. Especially in the centre of London.
“Well bugger me, Simon. Are you sure about this? You’re not just getting all hot and excited for the sake of pulling it off? I mean this is not kids’ play you know?”
I nodded. “I admit it, Bud, there is a part of me that wants to do it for the same reason some idiots climb mountains: because they’re there. But it does need doing, and I need help. I am very much hoping you know one or two likely lads who might be of use?”
“I’ll think on it,” he replied, slumping back on the bed, having practically climbed out of it looking like he wanted to knock some sense into me.
“You say you have the kit needed? For how many blokes?” he asked.
“Three. Including me.”
“What have you got?”
“The blueprints of the building, night vision goggles and two of those electric zapper things you disable people with.” It didn’t sound much said like that. “Oh, and a couple of fancy rigs to help us get over the wall. Over the anti-intruder spikes that is.”
“All right, I’ll have to think on it. Give me till tomorrow and I’ll make a few calls,” he said thoughtfully.
I grunted my thanks and left him sipping on the coke I had brought him. There was a crooked grin on his face; I’d doctored it with more than a just little good Jamaican rum.
Chapter 10
Russell Yates roared down the pit lane past the Software Factory Suzuki team and braked sharply, lifting the back wheel in the air and coming to a stop in front of me. I dislike such show-off behaviour but let it go with a brief scowl in his direction. He ignored the scowl and removing his AGV helmet he smiled broadly.
“Bloody hell, Simon, these new front forks work well,” he said, referring to the new suspension the crew had fitted to the bikes. “What do my times look like?” he asked. I had fitted the timing units this morning and the girls were also taking times with stopwatches at the pit lane wall.
“Pretty good, Russell. I got you at one point two one seconds quicker than the last tests. How did the front end feel?” Russell had been critical of front wheel chatter during the last session.
“It’s not completely gone but it’s a damn sight better than before,” he replied.
“All right, that’s good. Go over the printout with Greg and get a sandwich down your neck. If we can, I’d like to get one more ten-minute session in before we pack up.”
Russell handed over the Ducati to one of the pit crew and went in search of Greg, who was our data analysis boffin. Greg would download all the data from the bike’s on-board computer and they would analyse what the engine, gearbox, suspension and tyres were doing during the twenty-lap session. Based on that they would make what a
djustments the race engineer deemed necessary to shave more time off Russell’s lap time.
What worried me was Brett. He wasn’t reacting as well to the new suspension as his older team mate had done. Thinking it would be a good idea to have a look at his printout too, I called out to Julia to hang out the “IN” sign to Brett. As it happens he was flashing past down the pit straight but obviously noticed the “IN” board. He returned to the pits next time around and stopped next to Julia.
In the end I didn’t get to see the printout because Dave appeared with Michele in tow. He had taken the van back to the farmhouse to pick up Michele who was going to meet her parents at Gatwick airport.
“I don’t want to keep Mom and Dad waiting,” she said. Instinctively I glanced at my wrist where my watch should have been if I had not left it behind that morning.
Bob and Carol were stopping over for three hours before a connecting flight whisked them onwards back to Cape Town. Michele insisted I go with her to see them. Understandably, I was not so keen. Who knew how Bob would react to me now that I was looking after his daughter somewhat more closely than he had first envisaged.
“Er - OK,” I said.
I looked around for Greg and seeing him coming out the pit I waved him over. “Greg, I’ve just called Brett in. Have a look at his printout for me and come up with some suggestions. He’s slower than he was the other day. He doesn’t look like a happy chap out there, so get together with Brett and Geoff and see what you can come up with. OK?” Greg nodded and angled off towards Brett.
Michele tugged at my sleeve. “One moment, honey,” I said. “Geoff, I’m off to see Michele’s parents at Gatwick so I’ll leave you lads to finish off. Don’t let the guys out again today. We’ll pick this up day after tomorrow. OK?”
With several versions of “yes” ringing in my ears we retreated to the borrowed Ford Granada and left for Gatwick.
I walked with Michele down to the Gatwick train station. She was taking the underground into London. Carol had pointed out that Michele’s visa would expire soon and if she intended to stay with me then it would need extending.
Carol had seemed surprised at Michele’s decision not to return to South Africa as planned. Her daughter’s relationship with a man twelve years older had caused unhappy scowls from Bob, but Carol took the news well. I had to assure them both of my honourable intentions, and somewhere along the line our relationship seemed to solidify into something vaguely permanent. I examined my own feelings about that and found myself not unhappy.
I retrieved the car from the overcrowded parking lot and headed for St. Vincent’s Hospital. It was time to check back with Bud.
It was already past six by the time I arrived at the hospital and the nurse on duty muttered something about visiting hours and then ignored me. So I went up anyway.
Bud was talking to Tracy as I opened the door. They were holding hands and Tracy had a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Sorry. Am I interrupting something?” I said. “I’ll come back later if you like?” Tracy waved me over to the bed shaking her head.
“Don’t be silly, Simon. Visiting hours are up and I’m just leaving. Don’t stay too long, will you? He’s supposed to be resting.”
Bud patted her on the rump and laughed. “Don’t fuss now, darling. I’m not dying. Give us a kiss then off you scoot. Me and Simon got things to talk about.”
Tracy obediently kissed him, scowled briefly at me and left, closing the door behind her. I sat on the hard chair Tracy had just vacated.
“How’re you feeling?” I enquired.
“Bloody quacks,” Bud growled, “They say I have to spend two or maybe even three more weeks here.”
“Oh,” I said. “Why, exactly?”
“The head quack was talking about the risk of something called an embolism,” he moaned.
“OK. I’ll bite. What’s an embolism?”
Bud winced. “Gives me the bloody shivers to think about it,” he said. “It’s, and here I quote, ‘the sudden obstruction of a blood vessel by an embolus’.”
“Ah,” I replied. “Doesn’t really help, mate. What’s an embolus?”
“Yes, well that’s the tricky part. I don’t know and I’m scared to ask.” I made a mental note to ask one of the doctors on my way out.
“On the brighter side,” Bud continued, “I’ve got a likely lad for you. Name of Jethro Jones. You can call him Jethro or Jonesy. He doesn’t really mind which.”
I helped myself to a peach that Tracy had brought Bud.
“What’s he like, this Jethro? And what have you told him about our little problem?” I asked.
Bud grinned at me. “Just take my word for it, Simon. Jethro’s the man for the job. I’d stake my life on it.”
“I’m quite happy to stake your life on it, Bud. It’s my life that I’m worried about.”
“Jethro knows what he’s doing, don’t you worry. In fact he’s far better qualified for this caper of yours than you are.”
I shrugged. “OK. I’ll have to accept that. How do I contact him?”
Bud reached awkwardly into the cabinet by the bed and handed me a slip of paper with a mobile phone number on it. “He doesn’t exactly advertise his phone number, so don’t let this out of your sticky paws, will you?”
“Is he free at the moment?” I asked, shoving the paper in my pocket. “By that I mean is he working at the moment?”
Bud burst into laughter. “Yeah. I guess you could say he’s free. The French police are trying to extradite him on suspicion of robbing a French army payroll, but they’re not getting too far.”
I looked at Bud for a second. “And? Did he?”
“Let’s just say that I’d be somewhat surprised if it wasn’t him.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I let it go.
The drive back from hospital was not particularly pleasant, as it had started to rain. That slow, English drizzle that seems to fall in movies just to show you it is England. It wasn’t really hard enough to necessitate turning the wiper blades on fully, thus causing me to continually switch them on and off. Usually English weather doesn’t bother me, but for some reason today it annoyed me no end.
If I was honest with myself, and there are times when I can be, I would admit to being more than a little apprehensive about trying to rescue Josh from a secured building in London. There were just too many things that could go wrong. This uneasy feeling was not helped at all by what I found back at the Rodber Racing HQ.
As I turned the old Ford into the paved driveway, I almost drove into a burgundy coloured Rover 75 parked where it shouldn’t be. Alongside it stood a new Aston Martin DB9 in British Racing Green. Very nice! Dave, who seemed to be the only member of the team home, accosted me as soon as I opened the car door.
“I’m sorry, Simon, I tried to phone you but your mobile is turned off.” He threw a disgusted glance over his shoulder at a shortish, well-dressed man with more than a little of an Arabic look about him. “He’s been here for well over an hour now and I just can’t get rid of him.”
I closed the car door, and giving Dave a nod of encouragement, I strode purposefully towards the Arab.
He stood five foot six if he was lucky and yet there was an aura of power about the man, as if absolute command of others came naturally to him. His only concern seemed be the growing bald patch in the centre of his scalp. He continually and unconsciously brushed his dark hair across it.
Two larger gentlemen, just as obviously Middle Eastern, stepped in my path. I halted, and waited for something to happen. The boss man said something I didn’t understand and the two minders backed off. I gathered from the reply that he was the big boss, the Sultan himself. He came forward and stopped before me.
“Mr Roberts,” he said with no trace of a foreign accent, “it seems we need to talk.”
I said nothing, waiting for him to continue. We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he dismissed the muscle-bound ones with a wave of h
is hand, and gestured towards the main house.
“Perhaps,” he said, “we can talk inside like civilised people.”
I laughed at him. “I’m not sure I can consider you civilised,” I said. “If I’m to believe what the police tell me, you, and possibly these two lumps of meat, have been engaged in kidnappings and industrial spying.”
His sense of urbane sophistication slipped just a little, and he glared at me with hostile eyes.
“Things are not always as they seem, Mr Roberts; perhaps it is well that we talk. Over a cup of tea, as civilised people should?”
I stood my ground for a moment longer, just to show him I could, but I knew as well as he did that with the muscle he had on hand, we were going to sit and have tea whether I liked it or not.
I jerked my head towards the house and indicated he should follow me, just to pretend I still had some options. The two minders plus a third I hadn’t seen blocked Dave from following, and took up positions at the kitchen door.
He sat quietly at the kitchen table while I made a pot of tea. It was a bit like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, and I wondered how I had gone from minding my own business on a motorcycle tour of the States to this.
I used the time it took the boil the kettle for some quick thinking, but came up with nothing of any use. Finally, I decided the only thing to do was hear why he had come. I put a large mug of tea in front of him and taking a second mug I sat down facing him.
I took a quick mouthful of tea, foolishly forgetting how hot it was. I swallowed hard and tried to stop the tears forming in my eyes, without succeeding, and waved a hand at him.
“So, what shall we talk about?” I asked.
“How much do you know about Josh Rodber?” he demanded to know.
Taking a somewhat slower and more careful sip of tea, I sat marshalling my thoughts. If I told him that I knew practically nothing I might lose the chance of getting any information from him. On the other hand, if he thought I knew too much, the three thugs waiting outside could just as easily be used by the Sultan to invite me to join Rodber. He waited patiently while I swallowed my tea.
