Murder For Revenge

In New Jersey, Sims paced the library waiting and hoping for the phone listed in his name to ring. The call he expected was already hours late. His instructions were to open the sealed envelope with the travel itinerary and call the White House if a full twenty-four hours lapsed without phone contact.

Not twenty-four hours yet, Sims comforted himself. I am sure all is well.

The ringing of the phone was a symphony to his ears. With dignified haste he reached for it. “Mr. Potter, good morning.”

He was crushed when he heard the familiar voice of Jack Collins, the head Secret Service agent. Collins did not waste time. “Sims, I’ve got the willies sitting around doing nothing. Has Ranger been checking in on time?”

Sims’s fears crystallised. Something had gone wrong. Collins had sensed it too. “I’m afraid Mr… er, Potter is twelve hours behind schedule.”

“Twelve hours!” Collins exploded. “Open the packet.”

“We are under firm orders to wait a full twenty-four hours before we check the itinerary,” Sims protested.

“I’m on my way,” Collins said. “By the time I get there it’ll be a full sixteen hours. I’ll take responsibility for opening the envelope.”

He had just reached Drumdoe when the regular NBC program was interrupted. “A breaking story,” Tom Brokaw a

Brokaw warned, “The State Department has issued a travel warning urging Americans to stay away from Ahman, since it is obvious their safety ca

Jack Collins and Sims stared at each other.

“Give me the itinerary,” Collins demanded. Ashen, Sims nodded and went to the centre drawer of Henry’s desk.

Collins ripped open the envelope, sca

Desmond Ogilvey sat at his desk, the presidential seal behind him, surrounded by his advisors. It had been an uncommonly pleasant day in late March and he’d been longing to play a fast eighteen holes of golf with the Speaker of the House, whom he’d just scathingly attacked in the media but who also was one of his best friends.

A lean, spare man who epitomised the stereotype of the academic he once had been, Des Ogilvey was a remarkably intelligent, shrewd statesman who never forgot that he’d been plucked from congressional obscurity by his predecessor and best friend, Henry Parker Britland, IV.

Instead of golf, the day had brought a major crisis, a new hot-potato hostage situation.

Hostage. The word sickened him. Lebanon… Iran… hijacked planes. I

This time in Ahman; six Americans vanished on their way to Silver Mountain. The minibus they’d been riding in found one hundred miles to the north of their pla

The kidnapers had chosen their targets well. The wife and daughter of Winston Andrews: he’d already been on the phone three times and was now in his private jet heading for Ahman. Lloyd and Audrey Cameron: they’d been at a state di

And of course there was another couple involved, a former high-school teacher from Massachusetts, some poor schmuck; named Harry Potter and his wife. Probably saved money all their lives to take that upscale cruise.

The private phone rang. Only one person called on this one.

Henry. Just the person he wanted to talk to about this calamity. Henry was a big buddy of the sultan.

Ogilvey answered with his automatic greeting to Henry. “Mr. President,” he said. Then listened. “Oh, my God!” he groaned.

His advisors and aides leapt to their feet. He waved them back, continued to listen to his caller, then finally snapped, “I’ll call you back, Collins.”

Hanging up, he said quietly, “Get me the sultan of Ahman.”

“Right away, sir.” His chief of staff reached for a nearby phone.

Ogilvey considered. “No. Wait. Hold it.” He looked without pleasure at the anxious faces around him. “Get out, all of you. I need to think.”

When he was alone, he folded his hands under his chin. The kidnapers didn’t know who they had, but they’d been daring enough to select other highly visible targets. God knows what they would do if they were aware they were holding a former president of the United States and his congresswoman wife.

Some hostages were released when a ransom was paid. So far, the kidnapers had not made any demands. Maybe money was what they wanted. There’s only one thing I can do right now, Desmond Ogilvey agonised. Keep my mouth shut and trust Henry. He’s gotten out of other tight spots.

Henry had appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness since the guide smashed a rifle butt on the side of his head before they were carried on horseback to this place. First their captors had forced the women to slip a long black sharshaf, the traditional Islamic garment, over their own clothing and veil their faces. Lloyd Cameron and the unconscious Henry had been dressed in long flowing robes, their heads covered with burnooses. To any observer they might have been a band of Bedouins travelling through the mountains. No one would have realised that the horsemen surrounding them had guns trained at their hearts.

The unconscious Henry had been thrown across the saddle of a horse. Sunday had been frantic until they finally arrived at their destination. Henry whispered that he wanted the captors to believe that he was badly injured.

But now she had to talk to him. “I think Lloyd Cameron is going into a full-fledged heart attack,” she murmured as she held her face to his.

It was the second day of captivity. They were being kept in a network of caves in the mountain range behind Silver City.

Their captors had taken them into the shallow but well-hidden warren, finally settling in the next-to-the-last cave, barricading the narrow area between them and this final chamber-like area with rocks and sheets of tin. Only a space as wide as a small window had been left for food to be passed back and an observer to periodically check on them.

Muffie Andrews was asleep on her mother’s shoulder as far to the back as possible. Even though it was cold she had yanked off the sharshaf and veil,

Lloyd Cameron was half lying, half sitting against the wall nearest to the hint of fresh air that came through the open space. His gasping breath was deep and irregular; Audrey Cameron had her arm around him. Even in the near darkness the agony of worry on her face was clearly visible.

Henry’s finger touched her lips and Sunday realised he was trying to overhear what their captors were saying. Henry was a linguist, and she remembered that Arabic was one of the many languages he understood and spoke.

She could feel his body tense. Whatever he was hearing was upsetting him.

Henry strained to hear their captors. As the voices rose and fell, he sickened, realising that they had no intention of seeking ransom. They were discussing that the first two hostages, the insignificant teacher and his wife, would be shot at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and their bodies dumped on the outskirts of the city.