Hostage (5 page)

The colonel shook his head. ‘I
don’t think so.’

‘But I’m still at school. I
can’t be a bodyguard!’

‘Why not? It’s in your
blood.’

Connor gave Colonel Black a baffled look.
Then the colonel said something that completely threw him.

‘You’ll be following in your
father’s footsteps.’

‘What are you talking about?’
shot back Connor, suddenly going on the defensive. ‘My dad’s
dead.’

The colonel nodded solemnly.
‘I’m aware of that. And I was very much grieved when I heard the news. Your
father and I were close friends. We fought together.’

Connor studied the man before him, wondering
if he was telling the truth. ‘But my dad never mentioned you.’

‘That’s understandable. In the
SAS, we try to keep our personal and professional lives separate.’

‘SAS? My dad was in the army, Royal
Signals,’ Connor corrected him.

‘That was his cover job. Your father
was actually in the SAS Special Projects Team, responsible for counter-terrorism and VIP
close protection,’ the colonel revealed. ‘One of the best.’

This new knowledge unsettled Connor, who
thought he’d known his father pretty well. ‘Then why did he never tell me
that?’

‘As a member of Special Projects, your
father had to keep his identity secret. To protect himself, you and the rest of your
family.’

‘I don’t believe you,’
said Connor, gripping the arm of his chair for support. His whole world seemed to be
shifting sideways as the long-held memory of his father was brought into question.

The colonel removed a photo from his breast
pocket and handed it to Connor.

‘Iraq, 2004.’

Five soldiers in combat fatigues and
carrying sub-machine guns stood before a barren patch of desert scrub. In the middle was
a younger Colonel Black, his distinctive scar visible just above the neckline of his
body armour. Next to him was a tall tanned man with dark brown hair and familiar
green-blue eyes – Justin Reeves.

Connor was speechless. Gripping the photograph
with a trembling hand, he fought back the tears at seeing his father’s face so
unexpectedly.

‘You can keep that if you want,’
said the colonel. ‘Now, on to your recruitment into Buddyguard.’

‘What?’ Connor exclaimed, events
moving too fast for him. ‘But I haven’t agreed to anything.’

‘True. But hear me out and you
will.’

Connor tentatively put his father’s
photo down on the desk, reluctant to let it out of his sight.

‘First, your school will be informed
of your transfer to a private school.’

‘
Private
school?’
queried Connor. ‘My family doesn’t have that sort of money.’

‘You’ll be funded by a special
scholarship scheme. Besides, we need an official cover for your relocation to the
Buddyguard training camp. We must maintain the secrecy of our operation. No one can
ever
know.’

‘Relocation?’ challenged Connor.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t leave my mum. You’ll have to find
someone else.’

‘We’re aware of your
situation,’ said the policewoman with a reassuring smile as she placed an envelope
on the table for him. ‘We’ve made all the necessary arrangements to ensure
she’s well looked after. And all the costs are covered.’

Connor stared at the mysterious envelope,
then at Colonel Black. ‘What if I don’t want to become a
bodyguard?’

‘It’s entirely your decision.
You’re free to go home, but I think you’ll regret it.’

A truth suddenly dawned on Connor. ‘So
I’m not under arrest?’

‘Whoever said you were?’ replied
the colonel, arching an eyebrow.

Connor turned to the two police officers,
then realized neither of them had read him his rights or
officially
arrested
him. They’d only asked him to accompany them to the station.

‘I’ll leave you to think about
my offer,’ said Colonel Black, laying a business card on top of the envelope. The
card was black as night with an embossed silver logo of a shield sprouting wings. Below
it was a single telephone number – and nothing else.

The colonel nodded goodbye, then disappeared
out through the door, the two police officers in tow.

Connor was left alone in the room. He stared
at the card, his mind whirling with the events of the past hour. His life had been spun
on its axis – one moment he was being crowned UK Kickboxing Champion, the next he was
being recruited as a bodyguard. He stared at the envelope, both intrigued and a touch
afraid of what it might contain. He decided to leave it for later. He had other matters
to think about first.

Picking up the card, envelope and his
father’s photo, Connor stood and headed for the door. When he opened it, he
thought he’d made a mistake and gone the wrong way. The lights in the foyer were
all off, the reception booth deserted, the building silent as a grave.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’ he
called. But no one answered.

He spotted his kitbag on the counter. Stowing
the envelope and photo next to his trophy and pocketing the colonel’s business
card, he made his way to the main entrance. His footsteps echoed through the empty
foyer. As he passed the noticeboard, he saw the Neighbourhood Watch meeting was for two
years ago and briefly wondered why the announcement was still up. Pushing open the heavy
double doors, he stepped outside into the grey evening light. Relieved to escape the
tomb-like atmosphere of the station, he looked down the street for Colonel Black. But
neither the colonel nor the police officers were in sight. Then, as the double doors
slammed shut behind him, he noticed the terrorism poster had been taken down. An
official blue-and-white sign was now visible:

Connor stared at the sign, stunned. The
whole
operation had been a set-up!

He felt in his pocket and pulled out the one
thing proving the encounter had even occurred – the black business card with the silver
winged shield … and a solitary telephone number.

‘You’re late, Hazim,’
growled the brooding man in Arabic, through a mouthful of green khat leaves. The man,
who boasted a thick bushy beard, a hooked nose and sun-blasted skin the colour of the
deep desert, bared a row of brown-yellowish teeth in displeasure.

‘I’m sorry, Malik, but the plane
was delayed getting in,’ replied Hazim, bowing his head in deference to the man
who sat like a king at the far end of the rectangular whitewashed
mafraj
room.

Malik tutted in irritation, yet nonetheless
waved him over to sit by his side. Hazim, a young man of Yemeni origin with dominant
eyebrows and an angular face, almost handsome if not for his downturned mouth, nervously
took his place among the other members of the Brotherhood.

The room was full of men dressed in
ankle-length
thawb
, their white cotton robes providing relief from the heat of
the day. Some were bareheaded, others wore red-and-white chequered headscarves. They
reclined on large cushions, left leg tucked underneath, right arm upon the right knee,
and the left arm supported by a padded armrest. Before
each was a pile
of green stems from which they picked leaves to chew as they engaged in animated
conversation.

As was tradition in a
mafraj
room
there were two rows of windows, the upper set decorated in stained glass through which
the late-afternoon sun scattered shards of rainbow colours across the thickly carpeted
floor. The lower clear windows were pushed wide open to allow a cool breeze to waft in.
Not accustomed to the country’s intense heat, Hazim turned towards one of the
openings in relief. From the topmost floor of the house, he was able to admire the
magnificent vista of Sana’a, the capital city of Yemen. The flat sun-dried
rooftops of the myriad white and sand-coloured houses stretched into the distance, where
they met the awe-inspiring Sarawat mountain range.

‘So where’s your khat?’
demanded Malik.

Hazim held up his hands in apology.
‘Sorry, I was more worried about the CIA trailing me than shopping in the
souk.’

‘Tsk!’ Malik spat, batting away
his excuse. ‘I won’t tolerate lateness or lack of respect to our traditions.
Understand?’

Hazim nodded, shifting uncomfortably under
the man’s fierce gaze. Then, like quicksilver, Malik’s harsh expression
switched to a genial smile and he clapped Hazim on the back.

‘No matter this time, Hazim. You were
right to be cautious. Kedar, give him some of yours,’ he ordered a man to
Hazim’s left. ‘A true Yemeni should never be without.’

Kedar, a man of Herculean build with a wiry
beard,
offered Hazim a handful of green stems. Chewing khat was the
social norm in Yemen. All men gathered together at the end of the day to sit down, chew
khat and put the world to rights, just as Americans met in Starbucks for coffee and the
English enjoyed a pot of tea – except the intoxicating effect of chewing khat was the
equivalent of several strong espressos in a row.

Nodding gratefully to Kedar, Hazim pulled a
few leaves from a stem and popped them in his mouth. As he bit down, the bitterness of
the khat’s juices hit his taste buds.

‘Do you have a Coke?’ he asked,
trying not to grimace.

Malik threw up his arms in exaggerated
outrage and turned to a man with thinning hair and rounded scholarly glasses.
‘This is what I mean, Bahir! The poison of America seeps into his bones.
There’s fine Yemeni water over there,’ he muttered, indicating a large
ceramic jug on a round wooden table. ‘The only and
proper
way to enjoy
khat.’

Selecting the choicest leaves from his
bundle, Malik stuffed several into his left cheek at once. He chewed slowly, carefully
studying Hazim as the young man poured a glass for himself. ‘He doesn’t even
have a beard!’ he snorted.

Sipping on his water, Hazim self-consciously
put a hand to his shaven face and glanced round at his bearded brethren. The other men
all eyed him guardedly.

‘He looks like a newborn,’
commented Bahir. ‘Hey, everyone, it’s Baby Hazim!’

The group burst into raucous laughter. Hazim
flushed in humiliation and cast his eyes to the floor. But the jesting
was ultimately good-natured, for all in the room knew the truth. Hazim had been
invited into the inner circle of the Brotherhood precisely because he’d shown he
was
able to integrate effortlessly into American life.

Malik patted Hazim reassuringly on the
shoulder. ‘Enough! Now we’re all here, we can begin,’ he
announced.

The laughter of the other men died quickly,
all conversation coming to a halt.

‘My brothers,’ he began, opening
his arms wide. ‘Our organization has hidden in the shadows long enough. The time
is ripe for a nightmare attack against our enemy. The toppling of the Twin Towers struck
at the heart of America. Now I intend we destroy its soul!’

Malik fingered his prize
jambiya
as
he spoke. The curved dagger was thrust into his leather belt, positioned in full view of
everyone. The semi-precious stones adorning the wooden sheath glistened in the
evening’s fading light and, with its handle of rare rhinoceros horn, no man would
question his status as leader. While for most Yemeni men the
jambiya
was purely
a symbol of masculinity and usually blunt, Malik kept his blade sharpened, having used
it to slit many an enemy’s throat.

‘We must hit America where it hurts
the most,’ he continued, his fervour building. ‘A wise man once said,
“Kill a few, hurt many, scare thousands.” But in this attack, we need only
kidnap
one
infidel.’

He paused, relishing the moment of power as
his men leant in, mesmerized by his words.

‘Who’s the target?’
breathed Bahir.

‘The President’s
daughter.’

A round of gasps met this revelation. Not
from disgust, rather from admiration at the audacity of the plan.

But Hazim couldn’t hide his
scepticism. ‘You seriously intend for us to
kidnap
the President’s
daughter? One of the most protected families in the world.’

‘Yes,’ said Malik smugly.
‘The plan may be bold, but it’ll be as devastating and effective as a
thousand bombs. Once we have her, we’ll demand the release of our brothers and
force all infidels to leave our lands.’

The men cheered at this news, pumping their
fists in the air. Hazim tried to get himself heard over the hubbub. ‘The United
States doesn’t negotiate with those they label terrorists. What makes you think
the President will bow to our demands?’

Malik removed his
jambiya
and
inspected the gleaming blade. ‘What father wouldn’t if you held his own
flesh and blood hostage?’