David Holman
Island of Fear
For my girls.
Part 1
The Praying Mantis
Chapter 1
The chambermaid burst through the door, almost sending retired Air Commodore Sir Alistair Higgins tumbling down the stairs. Thankfully, his bulky six-foot frame prevented him from a fall which would have most certainly made him miss the parade. At that moment, he was grateful for his life-long hearty appetite.
He looked angrily at her, staring into her eyes for an apology, watery eyes that seemed to gaze straight through him as if he were just a sheet of glass. Her lips began to quiver as if to say something, but only a low-pitched hiss was forthcoming; instead, she sidestepped, continuing with her hurried descent to the ground floor.
Hearing the door slam shut, Higgins shrugged at the sheer rudeness of the wretched girl. He rubbed at the forming bruise in his left side. It was just below another wound on his rib cage, a five-year-old wound from the bullet of a deadly assassin, resulting in him now having no spleen.
With the assassin safely languishing inside a West German prison, Higgins had not even been his intended target, taking this killer’s bullet for his good friend, Alex Swan of the Services Investigations Department.
Higgins paused, cursing the girl. Why hadn’t she just apologised? Perhaps she had just been chastised by a guest. No wonder, he thought, deciding he too would be reporting her insolent behaviour to the manager.
Outside, Higgins had a car waiting. He was at the hotel to rescue his friend, Squadron Leader Jeremy Danvers. The young, debonair, soon-to-be-appointed Head of RAF Overseas Operations, had met an attractive Spanish art dealer, spending the night with her in room 11.
The driver sat in the black Daimler, listening on the radio to Waterloo, the recent hit which had won Swedish pop group ABBA this year’s Eurovision Song Contest. He recalled Higgins’ last words. ‘I shan’t be long, Charlie. Just popping in to get old Casanova, before the newshounds’ do.’ This would have not only put the RAF officer in an awkward situation, but also create another humiliating scandal for the British Government.
However, Higgins was not unfamiliar with nearly causing a scandal, having himself nearly rocked UK national security. An affair with a young clerical worker at the Ministry of Defence wouldn’t necessarily appear to be damaging, but when she turns out to be a Soviet spy, then the proverbial ‘blind eye’ can no longer be turned to these flings, which have to be taken a lot more seriously. Ironically, it was only the intervention from Alex Swan, then Head of Espionage and Counter-Espionage at MI5, which not only prevented Higgins from facing an embarrassing court-martial, but also helped him to avoid a hostile divorce lawyer.
On the radio, the song had faded out, to be replaced with the voice of the DJ announcing an unexpected move over to the newsroom. Blowing out the smoke from his cigarette into the hot mid-July sunshine, Charlie listened to the urgent newsflash being read out by the announcer, and the more he listened, found the report harder to believe.
In the hotel lobby, the concierge noticed the chambermaid running over towards him at the reception desk. She seemed distressed and he was about to console her, when her legs gave way sending her crashing to the floor. She had fainted; the shock of what happened upstairs, finally taking its toll.
Higgins entered the first-floor corridor, to be confronted by a scattering of white towels. On the brown carpet they were a series of stepping stones set along a muddy stream. As if they were crocodiles lying in wait to snap at his legs, he moved his feet over them. He was suddenly puzzled by these obstacles. Had that wretched chambermaid dropped them? He shrugged again at her incompetence and headed for room 11 to pick up Danvers.
Outside room 8, a fair-haired, middle-aged woman stood in the doorway; her husband was in the bathroom getting himself dressed. She noticed Higgins approaching, and taken aback by his pristine appearance with a row of medals pinned to his suit jacket, addressed him formally with her thick east-coast American enunciation. ‘Excuse me, sir, but did you just hear someone screaming?’
Dumbstruck by the enquiry, Higgins stopped in his tracks. ‘No, I’m afraid not madam. I’ve just this minute come up here,’ he politely replied.
He recalled again, the earlier encounter on the staircase. Could this have been the maid? He smiled at the woman, then continued to room 11, noticing the door was already half open. He had expected it to be closed, with a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the handle, prompting Higgins to have to give an embarrassing knock. He anticipated their expected night of passion would be extended to this morning.
Downstairs, the maid had come round, to a sea of heads looking down at her. She screamed again. One of the heads was that of a guest who also happened to be a doctor. He spoke softly, calming her and crouching to support her head. Having realised her situation, she stammered, attempting to speak.
Outside room 11, Higgins pushed open the door to see the half-dressed figure on the floor. Next to the bed was Squadron Leader Jeremy Danvers, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood. One arm was propped against the wall as if put there deliberately.
Behind Higgins stood the American woman; her curiosity had got the better of her and she had followed him. Peeping over his shoulder, she screamed in horror.
Higgins turned abruptly to usher her back to her room. Her husband was still in the bathroom shaving, transfixed to the same news broadcast as Higgins’ driver. Higgins banged on the door and a white-foamed-faced man pulled it open. He almost dropped his razor when his distraught wife ploughed into his chest.
Higgins then returned to room 11 and closed the door behind him. He looked again at Danvers and shook his head trying to comprehend what he was seeing. He had known this man for ten years, nurturing him to be in the position to take up this new senior post at the Ministry of Defence.
He then saw something else. The initial shock at seeing his old colleague, had caused him not to notice the wall beside the body, where an inscription was written in what could only have been Danvers’ blood. His eyes widened in disbelief as he read the daubed crimson letters. It can’t be, he thought to himself. He dropped down onto the bed, checked his watch and picked up the telephone receiver on the bedside table. The concierge answered instantly and was instructed to call for an ambulance. An ambulance was already on its way. Chambermaid Daisy Barnes, had now informed him of what she had seen while delivering the fresh towels, had instantly alerted the shocked hotel staff into calling for one. The police had also been called.
Upstairs, Higgins then dialled another number. Looking over at the body again, he knew there was only one man he could turn to and, after only three rings, was relieved to hear the voice of his old friend, Alex Swan.
‘Alex — It’s Alistair. I’m in the Portfield Hotel. Can you come over? There’s been a terrible incident. I think I’m going to need your help with this.’
Half an hour later, the police had arrived. Also in that time, the doctor had come up to the room to officially pronounce the man had died from his injuries. The throat of Squadron Leader Danvers had been cut and behind the head were two mysterious blood-stained puncture marks. Then, everyone’s attention turned to the scrawled letters. There were no fingerprint marks in the blood. Whoever had done this, knew exactly what they were doing.
Higgins had recognised these letters the very first moment he had seen them. They were in fact initials, the initials of a terrorist organisation currently highly active, but usually indigenous to the picturesque Mediterranean holiday island of Cyprus.