the polished floor of the house and make it easer for his captor to trace his movements, but his soles still oozed blood. So be it. He moved quickly down the hallway. ‘Robert?’ There was no answer from the first door. He moved past the room where he had been imprisoned and stopped by the next. ‘Robert, it’s Bernard. Are you in there?’ In answer came murmuring from the other side and the noise of metal rattling on metal.
Bernard tried the bathroom door key in the lock and, to his surprise, it worked. This was hardly state-of-the- art security, but the terrorists were also relying on their prisoners being bound and gagged most of the time. Robert lay on his back, dressed only in underpants, on the bare springs of an iron-framed bed, his wrists and ankles handcuffed to the frame. Bernard moved to him and untied the hessian hood, then peeled off the duct tape from the politician’s mouth. His head had been shaved close to bald, the skin of his scalp showing purest white against his tanned face.
‘Thank god,’ Robert Greeves said, working his jaw. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Fire outside. Looks like there’s only one man guarding us.’ Bernard tugged on Greeves’s handcuffs then ran his hand along the bed frame.
Greeves turned his head to follow Bernard’s hands. ‘It’s solid — same as the one I was on when they, when they…’
‘It’s all right. I’ll get you out of here somehow.’
‘How?’
Bernard’s panic was mounting. Greeves was right. He was cuffed to a solidly welded frame. Without a key, or bolt cutters to sever the handcuffs’ chain, Greeves was trapped. They couldn’t even remove the bed’s head and foot as these, too, had been welded to the spring base. ‘Oh, shit.’
‘Bernard, listen to me.’ Bernard ran a hand through his hair in frustration and looked down at Greeves. His eyes took in the man’s injuries. Blue-black bruising about his chest and abdomen, bloodied feet — like his — and dried blood all down his left leg from below the knee. It looked as though they had cut him there. Greeves’s eyes were bright, though. Defiant. ‘Bernard, get out. Now!’
‘No, Robert, I can’t leave you, I — ’
‘Listen to me. This is an order, Bernard. You know you can’t get me out of here and you probably only have a few minutes before the guard comes back. You must get away and find help. If he’s alone he won’t be able to move me until the others come back. Did you hear the vehicle leave earlier?’
Bernard nodded. ‘But, Robert — ’
‘Shut up, man. The quicker you go, the better chance I’ve got.’
‘I’ll overpower him, get his gun and shoot the chain off your cuffs.’ Bernard turned to move.
‘No! Stay here and listen to me, damn it. He’s got an assault rifle. If you botch it, then we’re both dead. The best chance you have is to get away and get help, Bernard. I’m more valuable to them alive than dead. Go now, before it’s too late. With luck you can organise a rescue while this chap’s still on his own.’
Bernard looked back at the door, expecting the guard to return any second. He smelled the smoke, which was stronger now, though he heard the spray of the hose. He took Greeves’s chained right hand in his and squeezed tight. ‘You’re right, damn it. God be with you, Robert.’
‘I’ve got you, haven’t I? That’s all I need.’ He forced a smile, then it vanished from his face. ‘If, well… just tell Janet and the kids I love them. And tell the PM these bastards can go fuck themselves.’ Bernard smiled down at him, feeling the first tears prick the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m sure Helen will massage that into something more palatable and patriotic for the media, but you get the general idea.’
‘I do.’
‘Then go. Hurry. Get help.’
Reluctantly, Bernard replaced the duct tape and hood, and closed and locked the door. If they didn’t know he had been in Robert’s room, perhaps they would go easier on the minister. He paused in the hallway near the covered window and unpicked some tape holding plastic sheeting over the glass. He peered outside and saw the terrorist had nearly extinguished the blazing thatch. He was continually glancing back towards the main building, no doubt worried about what Bernard was getting up to. If he could find a weapon, he thought again, he could kill the bastard, get his gun, and free Robert. The idea of abandoning him cut him to the core. Bernard heard the sound of a motor vehicle’s engine, and the courtyard and garden outside were suddenly bathed in white light from the headlamps.
‘Shit.’ The pick-up had returned. Bernard ran down the hall and tried the door at the far end. It was open. He looked in and saw what must have once been the villa’s lounge room, with a kitchen off to one side. Instead of furniture, though, was the equipment needed for making a video — a camera on a tripod, lights on a frame, a white sheet with green Arabic writing stuck to one wall as a backdrop. There was also a laptop computer on a desk and a satellite phone, with a separate antenna plugged into it.
Bastards. If nothing else, he’d slow down their propaganda effort and cut their communications. He looked around for something heavy and found a stout metal carry case. He put the laptop on the floor and pounded it with a corner of the heavy box. After doing so twice more, the thing looked wrecked. He unplugged the satellite phone and heard raised voices outside. He would have smashed the camera as well but he had to move. The men were arguing, accusations flying.
Clutching the phone, Bernard let himself out the kitchen door, into the warm, black tropical night, taking deep, greedy breaths of sea air as he ran down a sandy track.
There was no moon, which was good for him. Around him was only blackness — no other lights except the glare from the truck’s headlights and the sparks from the nearly extinguished fire being sucked high into the sky. He kept moving away from the house, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the night. He paused and sniffed again, his nose and the wind guiding him to the sea. He turned and ran for it, like a turtle scurrying across the sands to find refuge from its predators. His feet squeaked on fine sand that glowed white despite the absence of natural or artificial light. Bernard’s progress slowed as he climbed a tall dune, his aching feet slipping in the soft sand.
When he reached the summit, which was thickly vegetated on either side of the pathway, he saw the Indian Ocean. The water was calm, telling him that there was a reef out there somewhere, protecting the beach from waves. The tide was high and the waters lapped to within ten metres of the base of the dune he was standing on. He ploughed down the hill, slipping and rolling the last few metres before dragging his aching body upright again. His tracks would easily be visible in the soft sand near the high-water mark, so he sprinted straight to the water. The warm salt water stung the raw wounds on his feet, but he knew it was doing him good. The terrorists would find his tracks to the water, but would not know whether he had turned left to the north, or right to the south. If nothing else this small ruse would split their forces. Water splashed up to his chest as he ran, knees high, legs pistoning as he drew on hidden reserves of strength, fuelled by pure adrenaline. If it came to it, he would swim out to sea, though he didn’t want to lose the satellite phone if he could help it. As he jogged he fiddled with it, eventually finding an on switch.
His mind raced as he tried to remember a phone number — any one — to call. He didn’t know what the local number for emergency services was, or how to dial it from a satellite phone. Although he had an IQ bordering on genius level, Bernard now could not for the life of him recall the switchboard number of Greeves’s office, or of the Houses of Parliament. ‘Bloody stupid,’ he panted. Then he thought of Helen. How could he forget her extension — 6969. It was a running joke throughout Westminster, but one the New Zealander took in good humour. At least he knew how to dial out of a foreign country, remembering the code for England — 44 — and the first few digits of their work telephone number. Would Helen be there at this time of night? He bloody well hoped their predicament was keeping the poor girl at work all hours.
He pushed send and, after some strange pips and beeps, was rewarded with a ring tone.
‘Helen MacDonald.’ She sounded weary.
‘It’s Bernard!’
‘Bernard? My god! Where are you — where’s Robert? Is he…’
Quickly he stilled her questions and explained, still moving through the shallow water at a trot. He could give her no information about his whereabouts other than that he was on a beach and guessed he was in Mozambique. ‘What’s your number?’
‘I have no bloody idea. Give me someone else to call…’
‘Who?’
He tried to focus. He would need someone local, who could relay messages to whomever was coordinating any search and rescue operation. ‘Tom Furey. Give me his cell phone number now and I’ll key it in while we talk.
