Hostage Tower by John Denis

of the château and the training grounds. May I caution you once more that you are not in any way to seek to communicate with, shall we say, the outside world. The telephones here are not for your use. Members of the staff will not carry messages for you. Even an attempt to make contact with anyone, no matter whom, will be construed as treachery. And you know the penalty for treachery.’
    Their rooms at the château were self-contained suites, named after people, places or periods of French history, and decorated appropriately. Sabrina felt specially honoured to be Le Roi Soleil, while Pei and Tote, who insisted on sharingThermidor, were entirely ignorant of the French Revolutionary Calendar, but liked the working models of guillotines. Louis Seize was over-stylized for C.W., while Graham found Napoleon stark, but militarily compulsive.
    As soon as she could, Sabrina slipped along to Louis Seize, and found C.W. in the king-sized bath, decently camouflaged with foam. She perched on the toilet seat, as C.W. groaned and slid even further down into the water. ‘I know I’m madly attractive,’ he said, ‘but couldn’t you even wait for me to scrub off?’
    â€˜It’s not your body I want, C.W.’ she grinned. ‘Not this time, anyway. It’s Mike Graham.’
    â€˜Well why don’t you go and sit on his can, then?’ C.W. complained, not unreasonably.
    Sabrina laughed, and said, ‘This is serious. Can you stand a drop more water?’ He nodded. She turned both taps on, and pulled the toilet flush. Above the noise, she said, ‘Graham used to be a top man in the CIA. Now he’s a defector. He taught me on a weapons course once. He’s bound to have recognized me. We could be sunk, finished.’
    C.W. said, ‘Oh. Jeeze, I see what you mean.’ He sat up in the rapidly overflowing tub, and told her he had previously checked the bathroom for bugs, and found none. ‘So kill the plumbing, will you? Apart from anything else, you’ve diluted my sarong.’ Sabrina looked down into the water and said, ‘So I have. Hey – cute.’
    She turned off the taps, and asked. ‘What do we do?’
    C.W. made a circular motion with his hand, and she obediently averted her gaze. ‘OK,’ he ordered. She looked back. He was in a white terry-cloth robe, patting dry his glowing black skin.
    â€˜Has Graham given any sign, anything, that he knows you?’ Sabrina shook her head. ‘But I don’t see how he can have failed to recognize me,’ she insisted.
    â€˜OK,’ C.W. said. ‘You’re probably right. But there’s nothing else we can do except play it by ear. If he drops the word to Smith, publicly or privately, we’ll know about it soon enough when somebody takes us out to the stables and uses us for target practice. If he doesn’t tell Smith, then either you’re wrong, and he hasn’t spotted you, or he’s up to some devious little game of his own. In which case we keep cool until we find out what it is. Check?’
    â€˜Check. If it’s target practice, though, I don’t intend to go quietly.’
    â€˜You’re on,’ C.W. said approvingly. ‘If I have to go, I’ll take Smith with me.’
    The castle library was a sumptuous room, panelled in rosewood, with marvellously embossed cornices and a delicately tinted ceiling. An enormous Indian carpet covered the central well, and there were steps leading to the bookshelves, with trolley-ladders to reach to the highest. Reading-desks lit by anglepoise lamps stood in the well, and around them a seriesof delicate little occasional tables, veneered in rosewood and overlaid with marquetry, sat expectantly before long, cushioned sofas in maroon leather. Drinks and savouries were laid out, and the new arrivals waited with Leah and Claude for the Seigneur of Château Clérignault.
    As always when Smith was due to appear, Claude