Those in Peril

  ‘Bomb!’ Hector screamed. ‘Heads down!’ The man on the dune detonated the bomb, and with a thunderous explosion the track 150 metres ahead of the truck erupted in a towering column of dust and fire. The shock wave almost knocked Hector off the roof of the truck, but he braced himself and kept his balance.

  The bomber was almost at the top of the dune, running like a desert gazelle. Hector was still unsighted by the blast, and his first burst churned up the sand around the Arab’s feet, but he kept running. Hector caught his breath and steadied himself. He saw his next burst catch the Arab across his back, dust flying from his robe as the bullets struck. The man pirouetted like a ballet dancer and went down. Then Hector saw his five companions leap up out of cover amongst the scrub. They crossed the skyline and disappeared before he could take them under fire.

  Hector swept a glance along the face of the dune. It extended for three or four miles both forward and aft of their present position. Along its whole length it was too steep and soft for the truck to climb. It would have to be a foot chase, he decided.

  ‘Phase Two!’ Hector shouted at his men, ‘Hot pursuit! Go! Go! Go!’ He leapt from the truck and led the four of them up the dune face at a run. When they reached the top the five insurgents were still in a loose group running across the flat salt-pan almost half a mile away. They had established that lead while Hector and his stick were forced to struggle up the face of the dune. Looking after them, Hector smiled grimly.

  ‘Big mistake, my beauties! You should have bomb-shelled, each of you should have taken a different direction! Now we have you nicely grouped.’ Hector knew with absolute certainty that in a straight chase there was no Arab born who could run away from these men of his.

  ‘Come along, boys. Don’t dawdle. We have to bag these bastards before sundown.’ It took four hours; ‘these bastards’ were just a wee bit tougher than Hector had reckoned. But then they made their final mistake. They stood to fight it out. They picked a likely depression, a natural strong point with a clear field of fire in all directions, and went to ground. Hector looked up at the sun. It was twenty degrees above the horizon. They had to finish this thing quickly. While his men kept the terrorists’ heads down, Hector wriggled forward to where he could have a better view of the field of play. Immediately he saw that they could not take the Arab position head-on. He would lose most if not all of his men. For ten minutes more he studied the terrain, and then with a soldier’s eye he picked out the weak spot. Running past the rear of the Arab position was a very shallow fold of ground; too shallow to deserve the name of wadi or donga but it might conceal a man crawling on his belly. He squinted his eyes against the low sun and judged that the fold crossed forty paces behind the enemy’s redoubt. He nodded with satisfaction and wriggled back to where his men lay.

  ‘I am going to get around behind them and toss in a grenade. Charge as soon as it blows.’ Hector had to take a wide detour around the enemy to keep out of their sight, and once he was into the donga he could only move very slowly so as not to raise the dust and warn them of his approach. His men made the Arabs keep their heads well down, shooting at any movement above the rim of the depression. However, by the time Hector reached the nearest point to the depression there was probably only another ten minutes of shooting light before the sun went down below the horizon. He rolled onto his knees and with his teeth pulled the pin on the grenade he was holding in his right hand. Then he sprang upright and judged the distance. It was at extreme range. Forty or maybe fifty metres to lob the heavy fragmentation grenade. He put his shoulder and all his strength behind the throw and sent it up on a high looping trajectory. Though it was a good throw, one of his very best, it struck the rim of the redoubt and for an instant seemed as if it would stick there. But then it rolled forward and dropped in amongst the crouching Arabs. Hector heard the screams as they realized what it was. He leapt to his feet and drew his pistol as he raced forward. The grenade exploded just before he reached the redoubt. He paused on the edge and looked down on the carnage. Four of the thugs had been torn into bloody rags. The last one had been partially shielded by the bodies of his comrades. Nonetheless shrapnel had ripped through his chest into his lungs.

  He was coughing up gouts of frothing blood and struggling to catch his last breath as Hector stood over him. He looked up and to Hector’s astonishment recognized him. The man spoke through bubbling blood and his voice was faint and slurred, but Hector understood what he was saying.

  ‘My name is Anwar. Remember it, Cross, you pig of the great pig. The debt has not been settled. The Blood Feud continues. Others will come.’

  Now, three years later Hector stood on the same spot, and once again puzzled over those words. He could still make no sense of them. Who was the dying man? How had he known Hector? At last he shook his head, then turned and walked back to where the helicopter stood with its rotors turning idly. He climbed aboard and they flew on. The day melted away swiftly in the desert heat and when they got back to the compound at No. 8 there was only an hour before sunset. Hector took advantage of what remained of the light to go out to the range and fire a hundred rounds each from both his Beretta M9 9mm pistol and his SC 70/90 automatic assault rifle. All his men were expected to fire at least 500 rounds a week and turn in their targets to the armourer. Hector regularly checked all of them. His men were all deadly shots, but he did not want any complacency or sloppiness to creep in. They were good but they had to stay that way.

  When he got back to the compound from the range the sun had gone and in the brief desert twilight the night came swiftly. He went to the well-equipped gym and ran for an hour on a treadmill and finished with half an hour of weights. He took a steaming hot shower in his private quarters and changed his dusty camouflage fatigues for a freshly washed and ironed pair, and at last went down to the mess. Bert Simpson and the other senior executives were at the private bar. They all looked tired and drawn.

  ‘Join us for a drink?’ Bert offered.

  ‘Decent of you,’ Hector told him and he nodded to the barman who poured him a double tot of the Oban eighteen-year-old single malt. Hector saluted Bert with the glass and they both drank.

  ‘So, how is our lady boss?’ Hector asked.

  Bert rolled his eyes. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘She is not human.’

  ‘She looked more than just a touch human to me,’ Hector commented.

  ‘It’s an illusion, old boy. Done with bloody mirrors or something. I will say no more. You can find out for yourself.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Hector demanded.

  ‘You are taking her for a run, matey.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘First thing in the morning, day after tomorrow. Meet 0530 hours sharp at the main gates. Ten miles, she stipulated. I would hazard a guess that the pace she sets will be somewhat faster than a stroll. Don’t let her lose you.’

  For Hazel Bannock too it had been a long and demanding day, but nothing that she couldn’t wash away in a hot bubble bath. Afterwards she shampooed her hair and used the electric dryer to style the blonde wave above her right eye. Then she put on a blue satin robe that matched her eyes. All her luggage had been sent on ahead of her days before. Her matched set of croc-skin cases had been unpacked by the servants and her clothes were freshly pressed and hanging in the commodious cupboards of her dressing room. Her toiletries and cosmetics were arranged in neat ranks on the glass shelves above the wash basins in her bathroom. She dabbed Chanel perfume behind her ears, then she went through into her sitting room. The drinks cabinet contained every item that her personal assistant, Agatha, had stipulated in the email she had sent Bert Simpson. Hazel filled a long glass with crushed ice and freshly squeezed lime juice and added a very small amount of Dovgan vodka. She carried it next door into her private communications centre. There were six large plasma screens on the facing wall so she was able to watch simultaneously the stock prices and commodity prices on all the major bou
rses; the other screens displayed the news channels and the sports results. At the moment she was particularly interested in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamps in which she had a horse running. She grimaced with disgust when she saw that it had run a disappointing third. This confirmed her decision to fire her trainer, and take on the young Irishman. She switched her attention to the tennis. She liked to follow the efforts of the young Russian and Eastern European girls. They reminded her of those days when she was eighteen and hungry as a she-wolf. She sat at her computer and sipped the vodka which tasted like a fairy potion while she opened her emails. Agatha in Houston had screened them for her so there were fewer than fifty for her personal attention. She went through them rapidly. Although it was 0300 hours in Houston Agatha slept with the telephone on her bedside table always ready for her call. Hazel raised her on the Skype connection. Agatha’s image appeared on the screen. She wore a nightgown with embroidered roses around the collar and her grey hair was in curlers and sleep filled her eyes. Hazel dictated to her the replies to the mail. Finally she asked,

  ‘How is your cold, Agatha? You don’t sound as croaky as you were yesterday.’

  ‘It’s so much better, Mrs Bannock. And thank you ever so much for asking.’ That was why her employees loved her, their caring employer, until they slipped up and then she fired them into orbit. She cut the connection to Agatha and checked her wristwatch against the digital clock on the wall. It would be the same time aboard the Amorous Dolphin. Hazel disliked the name that Henry had christened the yacht and always referred to it as simply the Dolphin. Out of respect to the memory of her husband she could not bring herself to change it, besides which Henry had assured her that it was the worst possible luck to do so. The name was the only thing Hazel disliked about the vessel, which was 125 metres of pure Sybaritic luxury, with twelve double guest cabins and a palatial owner’s stateroom. Her dining salon and other spacious entertainment areas were decorated with colourful murals by sought-after modern artists. Her four powerful diesel engines could drive her across the Atlantic Ocean in under six days. She was equipped with state-of-the-art navigation and communications electronics, and she could deploy all her expensive toys and gadgets for the amusement of even the most spoilt and sophisticated guests on board. Hazel dialled up the contact number of the Dolphin’s bridge and it was answered before it rang twice.

  ‘Amorous Dolphin. Bridge.’ She recognized the Californian accent.

  ‘Mr Jetson?’ He was the first officer, and the tone of his voice became awed as he realized who was calling.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Bannock.’

  ‘Is Captain Franklin available?’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Bannock. He is here beside me. I will hand you over to him.’

  Jack Franklin greeted her and Hazel asked at once, ‘Is all well, Captain?’

  ‘Very well indeed, Mrs Bannock,’ he assured her.

  ‘What is your present position?’

  Franklin reeled off the coordinates from the satnav screen, then quickly translated them into more intelligible form. ‘We are 146 nautical miles south-east of Madagascar on course for Mahe Island in the Seychelles. Our ETA at Mahe is noon Thursday.’

  ‘You have indeed made good progress, Captain Franklin,’ Hazel told him. ‘Is my daughter on the bridge with you?’

  ‘I am afraid not, Mrs Bannock. I understand that Miss Bannock has retired early and has ordered her dinner served in your stateroom. I beg your pardon, I meant in her stateroom.’

  The daughter was allowed to occupy the owner’s stateroom when Mrs Bannock was not aboard. Franklin had always thought that the Gauguin and Monet oils, and the Lalique chandelier were rather wasted on an unbridled teenager who considered herself every bit as important as her illustrious parent. However, he knew better than to even hint at the child’s defects to the mother. This pretty but unpleasant little bitch was Hazel Bannock’s only blind spot.

  ‘Please put me through to her there,’ said Hazel Bannock.

  ‘Certainly, Mrs Bannock.’ She heard him speak to the radio operator. The line clicked dead and then came to life again with the ringing tone. She waited for twelve rings and she was becoming restless before the receiver was lifted. Then she recognized her daughter’s voice.

  ‘Who is that? I left orders that I was not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Cayla baby!’

  ‘Oh, Mummy, so lovely to hear your voice. I have been waiting for you to call all day. I was beginning to think you didn’t love me any more.’ Her delight was evident, and Hazel’s heart swelled with maternal joy to hear it.

  ‘I have been awfully busy, darling. So much is happening here.’ Cayla, the pure one: the name she had chosen for her daughter was so appropriate. The image of the girl’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. Cayla’s skin always seemed to Hazel to be fashioned from translucent jade beneath which the young blood pulsed and glowed. Her eyes were a lighter, more ethereal blue than Hazel’s own. Purity of mind and spirit seemed to shine from them. At nineteen years of age she was a woman trembling on the brink, but still untouched, virginal, perfect. Hazel felt tears shimmer in her eyes as the strength of her love overwhelmed her. This child was the most important element in her life, this was what all the sacrifice and striving was for.

  ‘That’s my darling mummy. Only one speed. Full throttle!’ Cayla laughed sweetly, and slowly rolled off the masculine figure on the bed beneath her. Their naked bellies were stuck together with their sweat and they came apart with sucking reluctance. She felt his penis slither out of her followed by a warm gush of her own vaginal fluid. She felt empty without him deep inside her.

  ‘Tell me what you have been doing today,’ Hazel demanded. ‘Have you been studying?’ This was the reason why she had left the child on the Dolphin. Cayla’s term results had been abysmal. Her professor had threatened that without considerable improvement she would be sent down at the end of the year. Up to now only her mother’s large donations to the university coffers had saved Cayla from that fate.

  ‘I have to admit that I have been terribly lazy today, Mummy darling. I did not get out of bed until almost 9.30,’ and she smiled with a wicked slant of those innocent blue eyes and thought to herself, and not until Rogier had given me two monumental orgasms. She sat up on the white sheets and wriggled closer to his beautifully sleek and muscled body. His skin was glossy with sweat like melting chocolate. They were still touching and she drew her knees up to her chin and turned slightly so he could have an uninterrupted view of the nest of fine blonde hair nestling between the backs of her thighs. He reached out and parted her thighs gently and she shuddered as he spread the swollen lips of her vulva and his forefinger sought out the pink rosebud between them. She held the telephone receiver to her ear with her left hand and with the right reached down to his penis. He was still fully tumescent. Cayla had come to think of this organ as a separate entity with a life force of its very own. She even had a pet name for it. Blaise, the master of Merlin the magician. Blaise had bewitched her. He was stretched to his full majestic length, hard and glistening with her own sweet essence with which she had anointed him. She encircled his girth with her thumb and forefinger and began to milk him with slow voluptuous strokes.

  ‘Oh baby, you promised you would apply yourself to your studies. You are a clever girl, and with only a little effort I know you can do so much better.’

  ‘Today was an exception, Mummy. I have been working very hard all the other days. Today I started my monthly thing. I have had a terrible tummy ache.’

  ‘Oh, poor Cayla. I hope you are feeling better now?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy. I am much better. I will be fine again tomorrow.’

  ‘I wish I was there to look after you. It’s only a week since I left you in Cape Town,’ Hazel said, ‘but it seems an eternity. I miss you so, baby.’

  ‘I miss you too, Mummy,’ Cayla assured her. Then she had no further need to reply as now her mother went on talking about the running of her grotty old oilfield
s and the problems she had with the coarse unwashed oafs who ran them for her. At intervals Cayla made small noises of agreement, but she was studying Blaise with a little frown of concentration. He was circumcised. The others she had known before him had all had that untidy hood of skin dangling from the tip. Only after meeting Rogier had she come to realize how ugly they were in comparison to this beautiful shaft of flesh she now held reverently between finger and thumb. Blaise was dark blue-black, smooth and glossy as a rifle barrel. A clear droplet oozed slowly from the slit in his head. It trembled there like a drop of dew. It was so exciting to watch that it made her shiver with delight and goose bumps rose on the unblemished skin of her forearms. Quickly she dipped her head over him. She took the droplet on the tip of her tongue. She savoured the taste of him. She wanted more, much more. She began to milk him more urgently, her long delicate fingers flying up and down his shaft like a shuttle in a loom. He thrust his hips forward to meet her. She saw the muscles in his belly contracting. She could feel Blaise swelling, hard and thick as a tennis racquet handle in her grip. Rogier’s features contorted. He threw back his marvellous dark head and his mouth opened. She saw that he was about to groan or cry out. Quickly she released his penis and clapped her hand over his mouth to silence him, but at the same time she leaned forward and took as much of Blaise’s length as she could into her own mouth. She could engulf less than half of him and the tip of his swollen head pressed against the back of her throat starting her gagging reflex. But she had learned to control that. She risked taking her hand away from over his mouth. She wanted to feel the building up of his seed deep inside him. She slipped her hand down between his thighs and grasped the root of his scrotum. Still sucking and bobbing her head up and down she felt his ejaculation begin, pulsing and pumping in her hand, and his testicles were drawn up tightly against the base of his belly.