“Yes, I was.”
“May I ask what you did?”
“What, after she was stung you mean?” He nodded. “She was already in a state of shock when I reached her and I think she’d lost consciousness. I … I checked her airway, gave her mouth-to-mouth and tried to keep her heart going. I’m not sure any of it was necessary.”
The doctor’s eyes opened wider. “They would have been necessary Mr Bly. Did you treat her legs where they had been stung?” There was a slight smile on his lips.
“Erm, well yes.” I was becoming a little concerned in case I had done something that may have made matters worse. “I wiped as much of the jelly from her legs as I could with a towel, but then I used ice … I put ice on what seemed to be the most badly stung areas when I was driving here.” I closed my eyes, praying that I wasn’t going to be told that Sophie was on the point of dying or had had already died. “And … and red wine, I poured some red wine on the welts before using the ice.”
The smile stayed on the doctor’s lips. “Mr Bly, I think Mrs Mackintosh owes you her life.” When I didn’t react he carried on. “I will not go into a lot of detail but Mrs Mackintosh should be dead. She was stung badly and you were right to tell the nurse that it was a box jellyfish. The effect of having the sizeable area of her legs stung was potentially fatal. She could have died from heart or respiratory failure. The rapid first aid you gave her almost certainly saved her life. I would not recommend you use red wine again, Mr Bly, alcohol is not good for such stings, but the acid in the wine helped and then the ice definitely a good decision.”
I sat back in the chair. “Thank God! And thank you, Doctor.”
“Fortunately we do have anti-venom here. Although the stings are rare, they do happen and all the year round. Mrs Mackintosh is on a drip and there may be some reaction to the anti-venom, but I can say that she is out of danger.”
“May I see her?”
“She has been sedated, Mr Bly. Maybe you can see her in a couple of hours.” The doctor looked round as three men and a woman literally burst through the doors. They made a beeline for us. The doctor and I stood up together.
The men were all European, as was the woman. Two of the men looked to be in their late twenties, early thirties, tall and well built. The third man was a good deal older and shorter. The woman could have been anything from twenty-five to thirty-five, stocky, short hair and black-framed glasses. They were all casually dressed.
They ignored the doctor. “Are you Richard Blythe?” asked one of the younger men.
“Yes.”
“Would you come with us, please?” The man who had asked the question moved to one side of me and the other, rather rudely elbowed the doctor out of the way, he then stood close to me on my other side. They both gripped my arms.
“Gentlemen,” the doctor said, “May I ask what is happening?”
The older European stood in front of me but turned his attention to the doctor. “We will be taking Mr Blythe with us. Are the doctor looking after Mrs Mackintosh?” Doctor Momin simply nodded, somewhat overawed by what was happening. “This lady will be staying,” the man said. The female stepped forward, took hold of the doctor’s arm, and guided him away from the group.
He went obediently.
The older man turned back to me. “You will now come with us.”
The grips on my arms tightened and I felt myself propelled forwards. I resisted.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, whoever you are, but I would prefer to be asked and then I will make up my own mind whether I go with you or not.”
The older man who had started to move ahead of us stopped and turned round. “Mr Blythe, I think you are in enough trouble without generating any more for yourself.”
I frowned. “Trouble? What trouble?”
“Mr Blythe, we don’t want a scene here. You will come with us.”
The woman and Doctor Momin had moved through the doors. The two nurses behind the reception desk were doing nothing other than staring in our direction, as was everyone else in the area, their eyes wide open with disbelief.
“A scene is what you’ll have unless you tell me who you are and what you want.” The goons – that’s all they appeared to be – on either side of me exerted more pressure and I could feel myself being lifted.
“I am from the security section of the British High Commission and as you are a British citizen I am authorised to place you under arrest, Mr Blythe. I am therefore arresting you and you will now come with us.”
“Arresting me for wha …”
A pad covered my nose and mouth and my arms were locked to my sides. The immediate sensation was one of smell – it took me back to my early childhood when my mother used to use a little glass bottle of what she called Dab-it-off.
The smell was extremely strong.
My head began to spin.
My feet dragged along the ground as I was propelled forward. I tried to resist but then …
Chapter Eighteen
I didn’t seem to have any control over my eyelids but the brightness of the light coming from somewhere made them translucent. It was the strangest of sensations, I felt as though I was floating and yet my body was as heavy as lead. My head thumped, my mouth was dry and I was nauseous.
But I wasn’t alone.
Not being able to open my eyes made me agitated but … maybe it would be better not to try. By feigning continued unconsciousness, I might learn a little more than I already knew … which was next to nothing. I didn’t know who else was in the room with me but I certainly wasn’t alone.
Lying perfectly still, I waited.
Whatever drug they used had knocked me out almost immediately, the smell of cleaning fluid was still in my nostrils. My brain was trying to tell me what the drug could have been … chloroform? It must have been chloroform. There was no way of knowing how long I had been unconscious. My legs and arms felt cold … I guessed I was still wearing the same clothes I had worn to the beach with Sophie.
I wondered how she was … and now … what she was.
Abby had implied there was more to Mrs Sophie Mackintosh than she wanted others – including me – to know about. One minute I am told that I probably saved her life, the next I’m abducted by three men from the British High Commission. Well, they said that’s where they were from although they hadn’t actually provided any identification. I hadn’t asked for any either. They looked respectable enough but that didn’t tell me anything – looks can easily deceive.
My nose began to itch and instinctively I moved my hand to scratch it, but I discovered my wrists were tied to something by what felt like some sort of soft material.
I heard a door open.
“How is he?” a gruff male voice asked.
“Coming round I think,” a female replied. “His right hand twitched and his fingers moved. How much did you give him? He’s been out for hours.”
“Enough,” the man replied. “I had better get Mr Bailey. It was good of you to sit with him. Will you be all right for a couple more minutes?”
“He can’t do much, can he? Anyway, he doesn’t look the violent type,” the woman said.
“They never do,” the man said before I heard the door close.
Other than the fact that I had actually been unconscious for hours, I learnt little from the exchange. I had no idea how long it would take for this Mr Bailey to appear and, as the woman appeared to think I was harmless, I tried to open my eyes … I wasn’t going to learn anything else with them closed.
It seemed to take ages and was quite painful, but eventually I succeeded. The woman I had heard speaking a few minutes earlier was sitting in a straight-backed chair by the door. She was leafing slowly through a magazine, unaware that I was watching her. There was a suggestion of recognition; something about her made me think I had seen her before.
Sensing my scrutiny, she lifted her head.
Recognition was immediate.
Her hair was still short but her roots no
longer needing treating. It was the woman who had masqueraded as a German police officer and who had questioned me in Cochem.
“You …” My mouth was still dry and my throat tickled. The nausea had receded a little. I coughed. “You … you get around a bit, Frau Schwartz. One minute you are pretending to be a police officer in Cochem and now here you are in Brunei. What are you doing here?”
She continued to stare at me.
“Do you have any water?” I asked. “And why am I trussed up like a chicken?”
The woman allowed a weak smile to play across her lips. She stood up and crossed the room to a small sink. After filling a plastic cup with water, she held my head off the bed while I drank rather awkwardly. Some of the water dribbled down my chin but she didn’t seem to notice … or perhaps care.
“Are these really necessary?” I tried again to lift up my hand.
She ignored me and went back to her chair. Placing the cup on the table next to her, she watched me with the same knowing smile on her lips. She was wearing a plain green cotton dress and sandals. Her face seemed free of make-up and she wasn’t wearing any jewellery.
“Not allowed to talk to me, is that it?” This time she simply raised her eyebrows. “Look, can’t you even tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” I lifted my head off the bed as best I could but it was still thumping. “You were allowed to question me in Cochem. You were allowed to use false identities, but now you can’t talk to me.”
I shook my head and the thumping increased.
“Others will be here in a moment,” she suddenly said in a soft voice
“And what’s Mr Bailey going to do?” A frown joined her smile as I let slip that I had been conscious for a little longer than she realised. “Apologise? Tell me it’s all been a horrible mistake, and then tell me exactly why I’m restrained after being drugged and kidnapped?” I tried to smile. “I don’t think so, Frau Schwartz, or whatever your real name is.”
She remained silent, the amused expression still on her face, the frown gone.
“At least you can tell me one thing, is Sophie Mackintosh still all right? Just before The High Commission snatch squad arrived, the doctor was telling me she wasn’t going to die.”
The smile disappeared from her face. “I’ve been told that she will recover.”
I closed my eyes as a feeling of relief and sudden tiredness wafted over me.
“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said, closing my eyes.
A matter of minutes later the door opened again. One of two men who entered the room I had last seen in the RIPAS hospital. I assumed the other one was Mr Bailey. They nodded at the woman, who stood up, looked at me and then left the room. The two men went either side of the bed and undid my restraints.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I immediately felt the room begin to rotate. The men stood to one side watching me. Waiting for my head to clear, I rubbed some life back into my wrists. The two men seemed unperturbed that I was now free, but on the other hand, they had no reason to be wary. I wasn’t considering any form of violence and, even if I were, they looked quite capable of taking care of themselves … and me.
“Can you stand?” the younger man asked.
“I think so,” I said, and stood up. Although a little unsteady I didn’t feel too bad.
Without another word, they led me slowly down a poorly lit corridor. Although I was wobbly on my feet, they didn’t offer any help. Wherever we were, the air-conditioning was efficient. I obediently followed the men through another door and into a room that could have been mistaken for a large study in an English manor house. The walls were book-lined, the carpets soft under foot, the curtains at two large windows were velvet, and behind a large ornate writing desk sat a man smoking what looked like a Havana cigar.
Another man stood behind him, slightly to his left.
The men looked to be in their fifties. They were clean-shaven, both had greying hair, and rather incongruously, or so I thought, they were wearing dinner jackets.
The man behind the desk, who was overweight, indicated a chair in front of it. “Sit down, Mr Blythe,” he ordered in a superior manner.
I thought about telling him where he could shove his chair but decided that if I was going to learn anything I thought it best not to upset him, and especially not in the presence of the other two men who were still standing behind me. Sitting down, I felt, for some inexplicable reason, particularly under-dressed in my shorts and sports shirt. Strangely, and perhaps again inexplicably, I didn’t feel threatened. The method used to get me to the Commission was unorthodox but I didn’t feel in any kind of danger.
I hadn’t done anything wrong so my naivety and gullibility were probably my biggest enemies. Seeing the Schwartz woman had completely thrown me – Cochem and now Brunei. I really didn’t see the connection … perhaps I was about to told one.
After putting his cigar in the ashtray, the man behind the desk steepled his fingers, leant forward and stared at me for a few seconds.
“Mr Blythe,” he said, “my name is Robert Cruickshank and I am Her Majesty’s High Commissioner here in Brunei. I apologise for the way in which you were brought here but under the circumstances I am sure you will appreciate the need.” I was going to interrupt and ask what these supposed circumstances were, but he carried on without a pause. At least he had apologised. “No doubt you are a little curious to know why you are here and why various things have happened to you over recent past, but maybe you have already put two and two together.” I was going to interrupt again but this time he took one hand from the steeple and held it up to stop me. “Then again, Mr Blythe, perhaps I too am a little curious about what is going on and why you are here. Where do you suggest we start?” he said, steepling his fingers again.
“Why not with your explanation as to why I’m here?” I said.
“My question was rhetorical, Mr Blythe,” he said pompously. “On this occasion I and Mr Bailey here,” he continued, indicating the man behind him – I was wrong, he wasn’t one of the men who came to collect me –“can’t spend too long with you, we have to be somewhere else shortly. However, despite the methods used to bring you here, I thought it would be rather rude if we didn’t meet and exchange some initial information, which would mean the next time we meet we can move on a little.”
Without taking his eyes off me, he picked up his cigar, rolled it between his fingers, lit it again and exhaled a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. His greying hair was wavy and neatly cut. The dim light threw a shadow across his face but his features were angular and for some reason the shape of his nose suggested to me that he was from an aristocratic background – a strange observation. He commanded respect and, being the High Commissioner in Brunei, I was more than willing to give it to him, but I did object to the circumstances under which we were meeting.
He had given me the opportunity to respond. I had to try to put him off balance.
“Mr Cruickshank,” I said, “your name is not new to me. Sophie Mackintosh has mentioned you once or twice.”
There wasn’t any response to what could be regarded under other circumstances as my impertinence. Cruickshank simply took another puff of his cigar before slowly replacing it in the ashtray, his eyes never leaving me.
“The methods used to bring me here do warrant an explanation … and an apology. I agree, certain things bordering on the unusual have happened to me over the last few weeks and now I’m beginning to make connections. Having Frau Schwartz as my guard” – the two men looked at each other and frowned – “when I regained consciousness, and being drugged was certainly a surprise, but in retrospect probably it shouldn’t have been unexpected.”
Once again, Cruickshank’s expression didn’t change although I did detect a slight uneasiness from the man behind him.
“Mr Blythe, why are you in Brunei?” Cruickshank asked.
I looked from Cruickshank to Bailey before I spoke. I had nothing to hide … the truth, as is often the case, was probably the
better option.
“I was invited by a friend,” I said.
“And this friend is Dato Haji Abdullah bin Basrah Ibrahim, the Brunei Minister of Development?” His steepled fingers tapping together emphasised each exaggerated syllable. He had large pale and particularly hairy hands.
“There doesn’t appear to be a need for me to answer, but I can’t see why being friendly with a Brunei minister should cause … what it has.”
Bailey appeared uneasy again. He looked the sort who might prefer slightly more grisly methods of extracting information. The enormity of what had happened wasn’t suddenly lost on me, but I was still feeling quite light-headed and I wondered whether the drug they had used had some form of secondary effect. My thought processes added credence to this conclusion.
Cruickshank waved his hand and the two men who had been standing guard over me left the room.
“Mr Blythe, may I suggest we start being honest with each other?” he said.
“I couldn’t agree more but I think you ought to be aware that I have been nothing but honest with you. I was invited over here by Abdullah and as far as I knew it, for purely social reasons.” I adjusted my position in the chair. I was feeling thirsty but at least the light-headedness seemed to be stabilising. Although I was now closer to the Foreign Office than I’d ever been, I was not going to complicate matters this early on by repeating what Abby had told me, not yet, because I didn’t know what I was dealing with.
Bailey came round the corner of the desk and spoke for the first time. “You went out with the minister on his launch yesterday. Why?” I had expected Bailey’s voice to be as clipped and refined as Cruickshank’s, I was surprised when he spoke in an educated Geordie accent.
Bailey rested against Cruickshank’s desk. He was tall and slim whereas the High Commissioner appeared to be average height and overweight.
“Why does anybody go out in a boat?” I said. “Abdullah and I have known each other for years and he was doing no more than showing off his latest acquisition. What harm is there in that? We are probably going to have a round of golf together. Would you find that suspicious too?”
Pooh Bridge: conscience stricken Page 21
