The Hostage s-1

by Duncan Falconer

‘Had enough. Getting a bit bored. I have time enough for another career.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ he said and stood up. ‘I have to go.’ She looked up at him, confused. ‘Oh?’

  ‘To the loo to sort out my bloody underpants. I’ve been sitting on my balls since I got here.’

  She laughed and covered her mouth. His eyes lingered on her, enjoying her, then he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. She allowed him to.

  ‘That’s just my hello kiss you owe me.You’re a beautiful girl, and do you know what I wish from you?’

  She looked into his eyes, afraid he might say something that would spoil the evening.

  ‘I hope to God you’ll tell me your real name soon because I can’t stand Aggy.’

  She grinned as she watched him walk away towards the toilets, shifting a lump in the back of his pants. Her smile remained even after he was out of sight.

  Chapter 15

  Kathryn sat on the couch in her living room staring into space. She couldn’t remember ever having been this bored. The room was as sparse and unwelcoming as the day they had moved in, as was the rest of the house. The plain walls and mantelpiece were empty and not a picture or ornament to be seen. She had brought over some framed family photos but they were in a box in the garage. Kathryn had done nothing to make the place look lived in and couldn’t find the motivation to make a start. Hank would be angry when he got home this time. He had been patient so far but they were into their third week. He would soon want to host his own barbeque and invite colleagues over. She tried to make a start that morning and paced the room several times, thinking of colour schemes and furnishing but it only fuelled her anxiety. She thought about asking Hank if they could find a different place but it was only a smokescreen for not having done anything to this one and he would see through it.

  She checked her watch again. In another three hours she could pick up the girls from school. They would keep her occupied until she put them to bed then it would be back to gloom and boredom before it was her turn to climb the stairs and end yet another day. Hank was going to have to make some kind of a compromise with her. She thought about negotiating her stay to a year. It wouldn’t do his career any harm. They could always say her mother was ill. A year apart might even do them some good. She would talk to him about it as soon as he got back. She needed something to look forward to, something less than seven hundred and fifteen days to go.

  She glanced at the phone, debating whether or not to plug it in and call one of her friends in Virginia. Most of them would be up and about and getting their kids ready for school. She had spoken to most of them several times each in the past week, racking up hours of long-distance charges. Without that contact she felt she would go nuts a lot sooner. She still deliberately left the phone unplugged in case one of the wives called. Joan had telephoned three times and two other wives once each the first week, inviting her to tea and offering to show her around the shops in Bournemouth. After some hastily contrived excuses that must have sounded lame she had decided to avoid contact altogether. There was the risk that shutting off the phone might prompt one of them to call around. In fact someone had the evening before but she didn’t answer the door. After a minute she heard them walk back to a car and drive away. But having the phone turned off also meant Hank couldn’t call. The truth was she didn’t much care to talk to him either. All he talked about was the damned job; how the SBS do this and we do it just as well and maybe better but we could learn this off them and so on and so on.

  It did worry her, the way she was feeling about Hank these days, or the lack of feeling. Most times she didn’t care if he came home at night or not. She put it down to the frustration of being stuck in England. It wasn’t this bad back home. The only thing stopping her from packing up and taking the kids back to Virginia was the certainty that it would cause a serious turn in their relationship and she wasn’t ready to face that. Not yet anyhow. She sighed heavily and got up and plugged the phone into the wall socket.

  She sat back down on the couch, reached for the receiver, and then paused to decide who to call first and what to talk about. Her friends had heard in great detail every complaint she had to offer about her current life in England and she was concerned her constant negativity might be turning them off. She would not mention it unless specifically asked and keep the conversation about their own daily lives. As she reached for the phone it rang.

  She snatched her hand back and watched it. It rang for a long time, far too long to be polite. It had to be Hank. They had not spoken for several days. He normally called every day when he was away if he could, which meant he had not been able to. He knew how much she hated answering the phone. The longer it rang the more certain she became that it was him. As she reached for it, it stopped. She immediately regretted not picking it up and felt guilty. It wasn’t Hank’s fault she was unhappy. This wasn’t about him. He was just doing his job and did not deserve her petulant moods. The phone rang again. She picked it up but then said nothing, just in case.

  ‘Hello,’ a man’s voice said. It wasn’t Hank’s and she did not recognise it. ‘Hello,’ he said again.

  ‘Who is this?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Is that Mrs Munro?’ the man asked. He had an American accent.

  ‘Yes,’ Kathryn said.

  ‘This is Commander Phelps, spec ops. I’m calling from Washington DC.’

  The name meant nothing to her and she relaxed knowing it was for Hank. ‘My husband’s not here,’ she said. ‘He’s at work - at the base.’

  There was no reply but she could hear his muffled voice, talking to someone in the background, as if he had his hand over the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said, but he did not reply right away. She was miffed by his rudeness. ‘Hello,’ she said again.

  ‘Mrs Munro. I’m sorry . . . em. No one’s called you . . . the Brits . . . from the base?’ he asked. There was a hint of trepidation in his voice. Kathryn could detect it. He sounded unsure of what to say or how to say it. As a result a mild flutter of alarm kindled in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Called me? About what?’ she asked. Again he did not answer right away reinforcing her fear.

  ‘I’m sorry that we’re having this conversation on the phone,’ he said. ‘Someone should have come to see you by now.’

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Kathryn asked, suddenly sure that something bad had happened to Hank.

  ‘Can I first stress that we believe your husband is okay.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.‘What’s happened? Where is he?’

  ‘Mrs Munro. I can’t really talk about it over the phone.’

  ‘What can’t you talk about? I don’t understand?’

  She heard him say something to the other person in the background again. It sounded like ‘Shit,’ and then, ‘What do I tell her?’

  ‘Hello,’ she said, panic beginning to mingle with the fear.

  ‘Mrs Munro,’ the voice came back. ‘Someone’s going to come around and see you right away.’

  ‘If something has happened to my husband please tell me,’ she demanded.

  ‘Mrs Munro,’ he said, pausing a moment to compose an answer. ‘Your husband is missing.’

  ‘What do you mean, missing? How could he be missing?’

  ‘I’m very angry that no one has contacted you,’ he said. ‘This is damned absurd.’

  ‘Will you please tell me what’s happened!’

  ‘I can’t. Not over the phone. I must stress that we believe he is all right, that he’s alive. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now. I’m sorry you had to hear about it this way. You should have been told.’

  His words echoed through her head, suggesting horror but making no sense. ‘Told what?’ she said. ‘Told what?’ Kathryn was growing angry.

  ‘Mrs Munro. I want you to remain calm and stay where you are. Everything is going to be just fine. I’m going to have someone come around and see you immediately. Do you unders
tand, Mrs Munro?’

  ‘Are you or are you not going to tell me what has happened to my husband?’ she said with finality.

  ‘I can’t. Not over the—’

  Kathryn slammed the phone into its cradle and held it firmly while her mind raced. Something terrible had happened to Hank. She was flushed. Her heart was racing. Her soul felt like it had been stabbed.A thousand horrible thoughts flooded her mind. She processed a myriad questions in seconds. Was he dead? What would she do if he were? She wouldn’t have to stay in England. No, it’s not right to think like that. Images flashed across her mind: Hank laughing, playing with the children, saying something sweet, like forgotten photos in the attic. She took hold of herself. She couldn’t stay and wait for someone to come to her. If they couldn’t tell her anything over the phone then she would go to them.

  The phone started to ring again but she ignored it, grabbed her car keys and a coat, and hurried out of the room.

  Kathryn slammed the front door and hurried to the car. She climbed in, nearly bent the key trying to push it into the steering column, and started the engine revving it wildly as she crunched it into gear. The car screeched down the steep drive, the sump thumped into the sidewalk, she turned sharply on to the road and accelerated down it.

  Kathryn’s mind was racing as hard as the engine. Her subconscious had taken over the driving and navigating while she dealt with the situation.

  The fifteen-minute journey to the camp seemed to take an age. It was as if every slow driver in Dorset had been waiting to pull out in front of her. She honked her horn and cursed everyone who impeded her progress. It was not until she turned the corner at the bottom of the hill leading up to the camp that the road cleared of traffic and she could put her foot down. She took the final corner to the camp entrance much too fast, her screeching tyres drawing the attention of the main gate sentry. He stepped from his cubicle in his camouflage fatigues and green beret, his SA80 assault rifle cradled comfortably in his leather-gloved hands, and watched her speed towards him. She jerked to a stop at the barrier a few yards before him and wound down her window.The sentry casually walked to her without any haste.

  ‘I need to see the commander of the SBS,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s urgent.’

  The sentry appeared not to have heard her and peered into the car, checking the front and rear seats.

  Kathryn exhaled tiredly.‘Did you hear me?’ she said.‘This is an emergency.’

  ‘Do you have a pass?’ he asked casually.

  She started to search automatically then stopped, realising she had nothing. ‘My name is Kathryn Munro. My husband is Chief Petty Officer Munro, US Navy SEALs.’

  ‘Do you have a pass?’ the sentry repeated like a robot.

  ‘What kind of pass?’

  ‘One that gets you into the camp, miss.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about a pass.’

  ‘I can’t let you drive into the camp without a pass.’

  Kathryn gritted her teeth, snapped open the glove compartment, and searched it. She found nothing that looked like a pass amongst the logbook and bits of paper. She flipped open the compartment between the front seats and rummaged through that. ‘I don’t have a pass . . . My husband must have it. Look. This is an emergency. I need to see the commander of the SBS immediately.’

  ‘You see that lay-by over there,’ he said, pointing to the other side of the road before the barrier.‘Park your car there, then pop into the guard room just there and see the guard commander, all right?’

  Kathryn searched over her shoulder to identify the lay-by. She turned back to the sentry but he was already walking back to his cubicle. She mumbled a curse as she crunched the gears into reverse, looked over her shoulder, screeched back a few yards, found first gear and turned sharply into the lay-by, her front wheel mounting the kerb. She stopped sharply, ripped up the handbrake, stalled the engine and climbed out of the car slamming the door shut. She walked smartly past the barrier and up a couple of steps to the single-storey guardroom not much bigger than a volleyball court. There was a small alcove with a ticket-style window and she peered in to see a soldier seated at a desk the far end of the narrow room reading a newspaper. She rapped on the window. ‘Hello?’ she said.

  He looked up at her, casually put down the paper, got to his feet, straightened out his combat jacket as he crossed the room, and slid open the small window. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘I need to see the commander of the SBS.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asked, with a little more feeling than the sentry, but not much.

  ‘My husband is Chief Petty Officer Munro, US Navy SEALs. He’s posted here. I have to talk to the commander of the SBS. It’s very urgent.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘I doubt it but I promise you he’ll see me. Can you get someone to take me to him.’

  ‘Do you have a pass or ID?’

  ‘I’ve been through that with your guy over there. I haven’t got a pass.’

  ‘You can’t get into the camp without a pass, miss.’

  ‘So it would seem. But I need to see the SBS commander. It’s urgent. I have a right to.Will you please take me to him. I’m not a terrorist, okay. I don’t have any bombs or guns on me, I promise.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, miss. I’ll call the headquarters building and let them know you’re here. What’s the name again?’ he asked as he took a pencil and licked the end.

  ‘Chief Petty Officer Hank Munro . . . ’

  ‘Your name, miss,’ he said.

  ‘Kathryn Munro. Look, I received a call, and, well, I know they’ll want to see me—’

  ‘I can’t let you into the camp, simple as that,’ he interrupted and walked over to his desk and picked up a phone.

  She reined in her frustration and held herself in check while she watched him talk into the phone. A minute later he walked back to the window.

  ‘Someone will be up to see you shortly.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘They’ll probably be coming from HQ block.’

  ‘So how long will that take?’ she repeated irritably.

  ‘It’s on the other side of the camp. If he walks, about ten minutes, if he drives, a couple.’

  She sighed deeply and held herself as if she were cold.

  ‘You can wait inside if you want to,’ he said.

  ‘No . . . ’ then changing her mind. ‘Yes. I’ll wait inside.’ He walked to the back of his office, through a door into the hallway, and to a door the other side of the alcove and opened it. She stepped inside. He led her to a room where half-a-dozen Marines sat in chairs and on bunks watching a television. Rifles were stacked in a rack near the door and fighting orders hung on hooks along a wall. The Marines, all dressed in combats as if ready to leave at a moment’s notice, glanced at her for a few seconds before going back to the television.

  ‘Is this the only place I can wait?’ she asked the guard commander.

  ‘You can wait in there if you want,’ he said, pointing to a small room across the hall. She walked to the room and stood in the doorway. It was a cell. There was a simple cot in one corner, a blanket folded neatly at one end of its stained mattress, with a clean pillow squared away on top of it. A sink was fixed to the wall in another corner and bars covered the tiny window near the ceiling. She looked back but the guard commander was already heading down the hall into his office.

  She walked in to the immaculate cell, sat on the edge of the bed and put her face in her hands, holding it there as if trying to shut everything out for a moment. Hank remained at the forefront of her thoughts. She could not begin to imagine what might have happened to him. The night he left he had mentioned going on an exercise but she had paid no attention. She remembered him saying he didn’t know much.

  The sound of the main door opening made her look up. A man was standing in the hallway looking at her, a Royal Marine officer in lovat trousers, woolly-pully and green beret. He was wearing the express
ion of someone who was uncomfortable with what they were about to do. She stood up as he approached.

  ‘Mrs Munro,’ he said with a sincere, warm smile as he stepped into the cell. ‘I’m Lieutenant Jardene.’ He held out his hand to her. There was something pleasant about the man. He was strong and forthright in manner. She offered her hand and he shook it.

  ‘I’m sorry we haven’t met before now. My wife tried to call you last week to invite you to a get-together but you must’ve been out. She called several times in fact. I’ve been trying to phone you myself. I drove to your house yesterday evening but I missed you again . . . I’m Hank’s team commander.’

  ‘Are you the commander of the SBS?’

  ‘No. I’m in charge of training. Hank is in one of the training teams.’

  ‘I want to see the commander.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s in London at the moment.’

  ‘What’s happened to my husband?’

  Jardene looked back into the office where the duty corporal was looking up at them from his desk. Jardene closed the cell door, not completely, and stood opposite Kathryn in the confined space. ‘Mrs Munro. Your husband is missing. ’

  ‘So I’ve been told,’ she said, starting to raise her voice. ‘Where is he?’

  Jardene raised his hand in a calming fashion. ‘I’ll tell you everything I can. Before I do you must understand one thing. What has happened is of a very sensitive nature. It is highly classified.’ He took a moment to consider his approach. ‘Your husband was involved in an operation.’

  ‘Operation? What operation?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss those details right now.’

  ‘Hank didn’t come here to get involved in any operations. He never said anything to me.’

  ‘Hank wasn’t meant to be on the operation. He was there as an observer.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I can only tell you what I’m allowed. Unfortunately something went wrong.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me where?’

  ‘Because I can’t, Mrs Munro. Please try and understand. Everything will be revealed in good time.’