shame to refuse him so she pushed her glass towards him, but at that moment one of his men hurried into the mess and stooped to whisper urgently in Hector’s ear. Hector slammed down the bottle, splashing red wine on the table cloth. He seized her arm and hauled her to her feet.
‘Come on!’ he almost shouted. He ran with her into the long passageway that led to the situation room.
‘What is it?’ she gasped. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The Beast has broken cover!’ he said and pulled her through the doorway. Four of his men were gathered in front of one of the TV screens. The man who had come to summon him was there. Hector had introduced him to her as Uthmann, one of his senior operatives. He was an Arab and a Muslim but Hector trusted him implicitly.
‘One of the good guys,’ he’d said of him.
‘What channel is it on, Uthmann?’ Hector demanded now.
‘Al Jazeera Arabic TV broadcasting from Doha. They listed it in the headlines at the beginning of their world news. I just caught the tail end of it, but they will repeat it at the end of the bulletin.’
‘Get a chair for Mrs Bannock,’ Hector ordered. They sat tense and silent through coverage of the visit of the King of Jordan to Iran, a suicide bombing in Baghdad and other items of Middle Eastern importance. Then suddenly an image of a sleek white oceangoing yacht appeared on the screen and the TV news presenter spoke in Arabic. Hector simultaneously translated his words for Hazel.
‘A group of fighters calling themselves the Flowers of Islam has claimed responsibility for the capture of a private yacht in the western Indian Ocean. The yacht named Amorous Dolphin is a 125-metre luxury pleasure vessel registered in the Cayman Islands but belonging to Mrs Hazel Bannock, president of Bannock Oil Corporation in Houston, Texas. Mrs Bannock is reputedly one of the richest women in the world.’ On the screen appeared the image of Hazel, splendid in a full-length ball gown with the legendary diamond necklace, which had once belonged to Barbara Hutton, at her throat. She was dancing with John McEnroe, a fellow tennis champion, at a Democratic Party fundraiser ball in Los Angeles. The presenter went on speaking, with Hector translating.
‘According to the spokesman for the fighters the yacht has been scuttled at sea as a reprisal for the recent atrocities committed by American troops in Iraq. The passengers and crew have been taken into protective custody. Mrs Bannock was not on board the yacht at the time of its capture. Her daughter, Miss Cayla Bannock, was the only passenger. She is among those in custody.’
There was a photograph of Cayla in a wet swimsuit emerging from a swimming pool. Laughing, she was the popular image of a young, privileged and spoiled Western millionairess. The scanty costume she wore must certainly raise the ire and indignation of devout Muslims around the world.
‘The fighters will demand an apology from the American government for its terrorist actions in Iraq, together with appropriate financial recompense for the release of the crew and of Cayla Bannock.’ The Arabic presenter switched to coverage of a football match in Cairo. Uthmann turned off the TV set.
Hazel’s face was alight with joy. ‘Oh God! She is alive. My baby is alive. You were right, Cross. She is alive.’ Although Uthmann and the other three Cross Bow operatives were not looking in their direction they were all in attitudes of listening. Hector frowned her to silence and stood up.
‘Come with me,’ he said quietly and led her out of the building. The sun had set an hour ago. Neither of them spoke until they reached the beach on which a low surf was slapping lazily. There was an ancient wooden piling half-buried in the sand just above the high tide line. They sat on it side by side. Out in the Gulf two enormous tankers were moored at the offshore terminal taking on their cargoes of oil, their floodlights reflected off the surface of the water. By
‘Come on!’ he almost shouted. He ran with her into the long passageway that led to the situation room.
‘What is it?’ she gasped. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The Beast has broken cover!’ he said and pulled her through the doorway. Four of his men were gathered in front of one of the TV screens. The man who had come to summon him was there. Hector had introduced him to her as Uthmann, one of his senior operatives. He was an Arab and a Muslim but Hector trusted him implicitly.
‘One of the good guys,’ he’d said of him.
‘What channel is it on, Uthmann?’ Hector demanded now.
‘Al Jazeera Arabic TV broadcasting from Doha. They listed it in the headlines at the beginning of their world news. I just caught the tail end of it, but they will repeat it at the end of the bulletin.’
‘Get a chair for Mrs Bannock,’ Hector ordered. They sat tense and silent through coverage of the visit of the King of Jordan to Iran, a suicide bombing in Baghdad and other items of Middle Eastern importance. Then suddenly an image of a sleek white oceangoing yacht appeared on the screen and the TV news presenter spoke in Arabic. Hector simultaneously translated his words for Hazel.
‘A group of fighters calling themselves the Flowers of Islam has claimed responsibility for the capture of a private yacht in the western Indian Ocean. The yacht named Amorous Dolphin is a 125-metre luxury pleasure vessel registered in the Cayman Islands but belonging to Mrs Hazel Bannock, president of Bannock Oil Corporation in Houston, Texas. Mrs Bannock is reputedly one of the richest women in the world.’ On the screen appeared the image of Hazel, splendid in a full-length ball gown with the legendary diamond necklace, which had once belonged to Barbara Hutton, at her throat. She was dancing with John McEnroe, a fellow tennis champion, at a Democratic Party fundraiser ball in Los Angeles. The presenter went on speaking, with Hector translating.
‘According to the spokesman for the fighters the yacht has been scuttled at sea as a reprisal for the recent atrocities committed by American troops in Iraq. The passengers and crew have been taken into protective custody. Mrs Bannock was not on board the yacht at the time of its capture. Her daughter, Miss Cayla Bannock, was the only passenger. She is among those in custody.’
There was a photograph of Cayla in a wet swimsuit emerging from a swimming pool. Laughing, she was the popular image of a young, privileged and spoiled Western millionairess. The scanty costume she wore must certainly raise the ire and indignation of devout Muslims around the world.
‘The fighters will demand an apology from the American government for its terrorist actions in Iraq, together with appropriate financial recompense for the release of the crew and of Cayla Bannock.’ The Arabic presenter switched to coverage of a football match in Cairo. Uthmann turned off the TV set.
Hazel’s face was alight with joy. ‘Oh God! She is alive. My baby is alive. You were right, Cross. She is alive.’ Although Uthmann and the other three Cross Bow operatives were not looking in their direction they were all in attitudes of listening. Hector frowned her to silence and stood up.
‘Come with me,’ he said quietly and led her out of the building. The sun had set an hour ago. Neither of them spoke until they reached the beach on which a low surf was slapping lazily. There was an ancient wooden piling half-buried in the sand just above the high tide line. They sat on it side by side. Out in the Gulf two enormous tankers were moored at the offshore terminal taking on their cargoes of oil, their floodlights reflected off the surface of the water. By
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