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.
The sultan, General al Hez at his side, would of course deplore the violence and beg that the lives of the other hostages be spared. The next morning when those four bodies were found, al Hez would declare a revolution against the corrupt regime that had rejected his demands for permission to wipe out the wandering tribes of murdering Bedouins and in the name of the people execute the sultan and his family as they try to escape.
We’re all going to die, Henry thought helplessly. There’s no way out of here.
“The girl… the young beauty… a shame to let her die. I could get ten thousand camels for her…” It was the voice of their guide, bin Sayyid.
I wouldn’t put it past him to put his hands on her, Henry thought.
“This place… this Shinona Cavern… will again be enshrined in history…” It was the bus driver’s deep, clipped tone.
Shinona Cavern… Henry thought. Shinona Cavern… Mac brought me here the summer he showed me around Silver Mountain. It was the place where the legend is that an ancient king took refuge against a palace plot. He was followed here but escaped through the secret passageway that goes underground to the temple in Silver Mountain. Mac showed me the way. I’m sure it’s right here in this chamber.
The voices of their captors began to trail off. It was almost midnight. He sensed that soon they’d be checking on them one last time before morning. He lolled his head to the side as though still unconscious, then whispered, “Sunday, demand they throw blankets back here. Tell them you’re afraid Lloyd Cameron will die before ransom can be paid.”
It isn’t in the plan for Cameron to die yet, he thought.
A moment later he heard Sunday’s voice speaking fiercely. “Listen, bin Sayyid, I know you’re still ‘guiding’ us, you creep. Unless you want a dead hostage, you’ll at least give us something to cover Mr. Cameron.”
Good girl, Henry thought, then held his breath.
He heard a short barking spat of laughter, then through slitted eyes watched as, a few minutes later, a rolled blanket was pushed through the opening, followed by another one. Then a third cover of sorts began to come into view to the accompaniment of a spattering of small rocks.
It worked, he thought exultantly. “Sunday, while they’re still watching, pull me back farther,” he whispered, “as much away from their direct view as possible. Then cover me and pass the other blankets around.”
It only took a few minutes before his goal was accomplished. He sensed bin Sayyid was watching as Sunday tucked the blanket around him, then handed out the others.
When she lay down beside him, her back to the opening, shielding him from view, Sayyid snapped, “Sleep well. I don’t want to hear any mere demands. Got that?”
Quickly Henry whispered instructions. Sunday nodded, grabbed the soiled, scratchy blanket, shaped it to resemble a body, and threw her arm over it. The Camerons, grateful for the bit of warmth, were huddled together. They stared when he slid over to them.
“I’m going for help,” Henry whispered. “Hang on. Pretend to stay asleep as long as possible.”
Muffie Andrews had awakened. He put his lips against her ear. “You’ve got to keep that sharshaf and veil on.” He murmured to Pamela Andrews, “If bin Sayyid tries to come near her, say she’s unwell.”
They both understood what he meant. Pamela Andrews’s eyes widened in fear. “At least it isn’t boring,” Muffie tried to joke.