The Hostage (30 page)

‘Hello,’ a man’s voice said. It wasn’t Hank’s and she did not recognise it. ‘Hello,’ he said again.

‘Who is this?’ Kathryn asked.

‘Is that Mrs Munro?’ the man asked. He had an American accent.

‘Yes,’ Kathryn said.

‘This is Commander Phelps, spec ops. I’m calling from Washington DC.’

The name meant nothing to her and she relaxed knowing it was for Hank. ‘My husband’s not here,’ she said. ‘He’s at work - at the base.’

There was no reply but she could hear his muffled voice, talking to someone in the background, as if he had his hand over the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said, but he did not reply right away. She was miffed by his rudeness. ‘Hello,’ she said again.

‘Mrs Munro. I’m sorry . . . em. No one’s called you . . . the Brits . . . from the base?’ he asked. There was a hint of trepidation in his voice. Kathryn could detect it. He sounded unsure of what to say or how to say it. As a result a mild flutter of alarm kindled in the pit of her stomach.

‘Called me? About what?’ she asked. Again he did not answer right away reinforcing her fear.

‘I’m sorry that we’re having this conversation on the phone,’ he said. ‘Someone should have come to see you by now.’

‘Is there something wrong?’ Kathryn asked, suddenly sure that something bad had happened to Hank.

‘Can I first stress that we believe your husband is okay.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.‘What’s happened? Where is he?’

‘Mrs Munro. I can’t really talk about it over the phone.’

‘What can’t you talk about? I don’t understand?’

She heard him say something to the other person in the background again. It sounded like ‘Shit,’ and then, ‘What do I tell her?’

‘Hello,’ she said, panic beginning to mingle with the fear.

‘Mrs Munro,’ the voice came back. ‘Someone’s going to come around and see you right away.’

‘If something has happened to my husband please tell me,’ she demanded.

‘Mrs Munro,’ he said, pausing a moment to compose an answer. ‘Your husband is missing.’

‘What do you mean, missing? How could he be missing?’

‘I’m very angry that no one has contacted you,’ he said. ‘This is damned absurd.’

‘Will you please tell me what’s happened!’

‘I can’t. Not over the phone. I must stress that we believe he is all right, that he’s alive. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now. I’m sorry you had to hear about it this way. You should have been told.’

His words echoed through her head, suggesting horror but making no sense. ‘Told what?’ she said. ‘Told what?’ Kathryn was growing angry.

‘Mrs Munro. I want you to remain calm and stay where you are. Everything is going to be just fine. I’m going to have someone come around and see you immediately. Do you understand, Mrs Munro?’

‘Are you or are you not going to tell me what has happened to my husband?’ she said with finality.

‘I can’t. Not over the—’

Kathryn slammed the phone into its cradle and held it firmly while her mind raced. Something terrible had happened to Hank. She was flushed. Her heart was racing. Her soul felt like it had been stabbed.A thousand horrible thoughts flooded her mind. She processed a myriad questions in seconds. Was he dead? What would she do if he were? She wouldn’t have to stay in England. No, it’s not right to think like that. Images flashed across her mind: Hank laughing, playing with the children, saying something sweet, like forgotten photos in the attic. She took hold of herself. She couldn’t stay and wait for someone to come to her. If they couldn’t tell her anything over the phone then she would go to them.

The phone started to ring again but she ignored it, grabbed her car keys and a coat, and hurried out of the room.

Kathryn slammed the front door and hurried to the car. She climbed in, nearly bent the key trying to push it into the steering column, and started the engine revving it wildly as she crunched it into gear. The car screeched down the steep drive, the sump thumped into the sidewalk, she turned sharply on to the road and accelerated down it.

Kathryn’s mind was racing as hard as the engine. Her subconscious had taken over the driving and navigating while she dealt with the situation.

The fifteen-minute journey to the camp seemed to take an age. It was as if every slow driver in Dorset had been waiting to pull out in front of her. She honked her horn and cursed everyone who impeded her progress. It was not until she turned the corner at the bottom of the hill leading up to the camp that the road cleared of traffic and she could put her foot down. She took the final corner to the camp entrance much too fast, her screeching tyres drawing the attention of the main gate sentry. He stepped from his cubicle in his camouflage fatigues and green beret, his SA80 assault rifle cradled comfortably in his leather-gloved hands, and watched her speed towards him. She jerked to a stop at the barrier a few yards before him and wound down her window.The sentry casually walked to her without any haste.

‘I need to see the commander of the SBS,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s urgent.’

The sentry appeared not to have heard her and peered into the car, checking the front and rear seats.

Kathryn exhaled tiredly.‘Did you hear me?’ she said.‘This is an emergency.’

‘Do you have a pass?’ he asked casually.

She started to search automatically then stopped, realising she had nothing. ‘My name is Kathryn Munro. My husband is Chief Petty Officer Munro, US Navy SEALs.’

‘Do you have a pass?’ the sentry repeated like a robot.

‘What kind of pass?’

‘One that gets you into the camp, miss.’

‘I don’t know anything about a pass.’

‘I can’t let you drive into the camp without a pass.’

Kathryn gritted her teeth, snapped open the glove compartment, and searched it. She found nothing that looked like a pass amongst the logbook and bits of paper. She flipped open the compartment between the front seats and rummaged through that. ‘I don’t have a pass . . . My husband must have it. Look. This is an emergency. I need to see the commander of the SBS immediately.’

‘You see that lay-by over there,’ he said, pointing to the other side of the road before the barrier.‘Park your car there, then pop into the guard room just there and see the guard commander, all right?’

Kathryn searched over her shoulder to identify the lay-by. She turned back to the sentry but he was already walking back to his cubicle. She mumbled a curse as she crunched the gears into reverse, looked over her shoulder, screeched back a few yards, found first gear and turned sharply into the lay-by, her front wheel mounting the kerb. She stopped sharply, ripped up the handbrake, stalled the engine and climbed out of the car slamming the door shut. She walked smartly past the barrier and up a couple of steps to the single-storey guardroom not much bigger than a volleyball court. There was a small alcove with a ticket-style window and she peered in to see a soldier seated at a desk the far end of the narrow room reading a newspaper. She rapped on the window. ‘Hello?’ she said.

He looked up at her, casually put down the paper, got to his feet, straightened out his combat jacket as he crossed the room, and slid open the small window. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘I need to see the commander of the SBS.’

‘What’s this about?’ he asked, with a little more feeling than the sentry, but not much.

‘My husband is Chief Petty Officer Munro, US Navy SEALs. He’s posted here. I have to talk to the commander of the SBS. It’s very urgent.’

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘I doubt it but I promise you he’ll see me. Can you get someone to take me to him.’

‘Do you have a pass or ID?’

‘I’ve been through that with your guy over there. I haven’t got a pass.’

‘You can’t get into the camp without a pass, miss.’

‘So it would seem. But I need to see the SBS commander. It’s urgent. I have a right to.Will you please take me to him. I’m not a terrorist, okay. I don’t have any bombs or guns on me, I promise.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, miss. I’ll call the headquarters building and let them know you’re here. What’s the name again?’ he asked as he took a pencil and licked the end.

‘Chief Petty Officer Hank Munro . . . ’

‘
Your
name, miss,’ he said.

‘Kathryn Munro. Look, I received a call, and, well, I know they’ll want to see me—’

‘I can’t let you into the camp, simple as that,’ he interrupted and walked over to his desk and picked up a phone.

She reined in her frustration and held herself in check while she watched him talk into the phone. A minute later he walked back to the window.

‘Someone will be up to see you shortly.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘They’ll probably be coming from HQ block.’

‘So how long will that take?’ she repeated irritably.

‘It’s on the other side of the camp. If he walks, about ten minutes, if he drives, a couple.’

She sighed deeply and held herself as if she were cold.

‘You can wait inside if you want to,’ he said.

‘No . . . ’ then changing her mind. ‘Yes. I’ll wait inside.’ He walked to the back of his office, through a door into the hallway, and to a door the other side of the alcove and opened it. She stepped inside. He led her to a room where half-a-dozen Marines sat in chairs and on bunks watching a television. Rifles were stacked in a rack near the door and fighting orders hung on hooks along a wall. The Marines, all dressed in combats as if ready to leave at a moment’s notice, glanced at her for a few seconds before going back to the television.

‘Is this the only place I can wait?’ she asked the guard commander.

‘You can wait in there if you want,’ he said, pointing to a small room across the hall. She walked to the room and stood in the doorway. It was a cell. There was a simple cot in one corner, a blanket folded neatly at one end of its stained mattress, with a clean pillow squared away on top of it. A sink was fixed to the wall in another corner and bars covered the tiny window near the ceiling. She looked back but the guard commander was already heading down the hall into his office.

She walked in to the immaculate cell, sat on the edge of the bed and put her face in her hands, holding it there as if trying to shut everything out for a moment. Hank remained at the forefront of her thoughts. She could not begin to imagine what might have happened to him. The night he left he had mentioned going on an exercise but she had paid no attention. She remembered him saying he didn’t know much.

The sound of the main door opening made her look up. A man was standing in the hallway looking at her, a Royal Marine officer in lovat trousers, woolly-pully and green beret. He was wearing the expression of someone who was uncomfortable with what they were about to do. She stood up as he approached.

‘Mrs Munro,’ he said with a sincere, warm smile as he stepped into the cell. ‘I’m Lieutenant Jardene.’ He held out his hand to her. There was something pleasant about the man. He was strong and forthright in manner. She offered her hand and he shook it.

‘I’m sorry we haven’t met before now. My wife tried to call you last week to invite you to a get-together but you must’ve been out. She called several times in fact. I’ve been trying to phone you myself. I drove to your house yesterday evening but I missed you again . . . I’m Hank’s team commander.’

‘Are you the commander of the SBS?’

‘No. I’m in charge of training. Hank is in one of the training teams.’

‘I want to see the commander.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s in London at the moment.’

‘What’s happened to my husband?’

Jardene looked back into the office where the duty corporal was looking up at them from his desk. Jardene closed the cell door, not completely, and stood opposite Kathryn in the confined space. ‘Mrs Munro. Your husband is missing. ’

‘So I’ve been told,’ she said, starting to raise her voice. ‘Where is he?’

Jardene raised his hand in a calming fashion. ‘I’ll tell you everything I can. Before I do you must understand one thing. What has happened is of a very sensitive nature. It is highly classified.’ He took a moment to consider his approach. ‘Your husband was involved in an operation.’

‘Operation? What operation?’

‘I’m not at liberty to discuss those details right now.’

‘Hank didn’t come here to get involved in any operations. He never said anything to me.’

‘Hank wasn’t meant to be on the operation. He was there as an observer.’

‘Where?’

‘I can only tell you what I’m allowed. Unfortunately something went wrong.’

‘Why can’t you tell me where?’

‘Because I can’t, Mrs Munro. Please try and understand. Everything will be revealed in good time.’

‘Has he gone to the Middle East? Is that where you sent him?’

‘No . . . ’

‘Where then?’ she insisted.

‘Please, Mrs Munro . . . Something went wrong and Hank was taken.’

‘Taken?’

‘Kidnapped.’

Kathryn couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Kidnapped?

Jardene gave her a moment to digest the news.

‘By whom?’

‘I’m afraid—’

‘By who, goddammit?’ she shouted, her voice almost painful in the concrete room.

‘Please, Mrs Munro. You have to show calm.’

She suddenly became as calm as he asked, but it was a dark, calculating calm. ‘Now you listen to me,’ she said. ‘If you don’t tell me where my husband is, what happened to him, who’s kidnapped him, I’m gonna walk out of here and go to the police, I’ll get a lawyer, I’ll go to the damned newspapers. I’ll kick up such a ruckus between here and the US you’ll have to tell the whole goddamned world what happened to him, not just me.’

‘Please, Mrs Munro. That wouldn’t be wise.’

‘What are you gonna do to stop me? Lock me up in here?’