The Persian Price (12 page)

‘Saiid Homsi, trade attaché. She identified him at once.'

For a moment Ardalan said nothing. He looked up at his assistant and down again at the photograph.

‘There was no doubt? No doubt at all?'

‘None,' Sabet said. ‘I showed her all three photographs and asked her to point to anyone she recognized. She chose Homsi without looking at the others. “That's the man who came here.” That was what she said.'

‘Trade attaché,' Ardalan murmured. ‘The head of espionage in an Embassy usually hides in the passport section. Very well. We will have to talk to this Saiid Homsi.'

‘How?' the assistant asked. ‘How, without causing an incident?'

Ardalan leaned back and rubbed his forehead with one thin hand. Black hairs grew profusely on the back of it and crept under his sleeve.

‘There is only one way,' he said. ‘And I have to satisfy myself that it is justified. Then I will get the authorization. Until then we will set a non-stop watch upon Homsi.'

The villa was built on a rock; it was poised above the sea, surrounded by a two-acre garden, ringed on the shore side by a ten-foot wire fence. It was a long, low building, dazzling white, shaded by palm trees and giant pines. A huge purple Bougainvillaea sprawled over the front wall. They had locked Eileen into a room on the first floor overlooking the sea. The landing at the field in the country had been a nightmare. The little plane bumped and shuddered and she was thrown violently forward; the seat belt saved her from being flung out of the seat. She had given a scream of terror and felt the American grab her. She was dragged out of the plane, trembling and dazed, hustled by Peters across the grass at a run which brought her stumbling down, her high-heeled shoe turning under her. He had been extremely rough in his handling of her; he almost threw her into the back of the car. The Frenchman jumped in on the other side. A man was in the driver's seat and they swung off onto the road. The American leaned over and took something from the driver. She heard them speaking in a language she couldn't understand. He sat back and pointed a gun at her side. There was no expression on his face.

‘If you make any attempt to attract attention or do anything stupid, I'll kill you. Just sit dead quiet. You understand?'

‘Yes,' Eileen whispered. She had tried to identify the coast when they left the country roads and started on the road by the shore. It was very warm and the sea was the bright Mediterranean blue; there were palm trees. They came into a big resort. Beach umbrellas and sunbathers, people sitting on the terraces of smart hotels.

Several times they stopped by traffic lights and as the car halted the gun was rammed into her side. She recognized a large, magnificent hotel on the left. It was the Negresco; she and Logan had stayed there twice soon after they were married. They were driving through Nice.

They arrived at the villa some twenty minutes later. The tall gates swung open and they drove up a drive lined with palms. When the car stopped the Frenchman got out first. He stretched in the sunshine and yawned. Peters nudged her.

‘Outside.'

He had put the gun away. When she stood in the drive she felt as if she were going to faint. She clung to the car door for support and the Frenchman put an arm round her waist.

‘Come inside,' he said pleasantly.

Peters came up beside them.

‘Leave her alone,' he said. He took Eileen by the arm. The villa was cool and spacious; the ground floor was open-plan and luxuriously furnished; an expensive modern abstract covered the far wall. The American walked her up a marble staircase and along a corridor. The room was simply furnished, with a bed and a chest and a single armchair. There was mesh over the window. He came inside with her and let go of her arm.

‘You'll stay here,' he said. ‘There's a bathroom through there. Make no trouble and nobody will hurt you.'

‘Wait …' Eileen turned to him. ‘Wait, please. What are you going to do? Why have you taken me?'

Peters closed the door. He searched through his pockets and brought out a flattened packet of cigarettes. He lit one.

‘You look beat,' he said. ‘Sit down.' She sat on the bed watching him.

‘What do you hope to gain?' Eileen said. ‘I don't understand. I've never even been to Palestine.'

‘We haven't got anything against you,' Peters said. ‘We were going to take your child. She wouldn't have come to any harm. We're reasonable people.' He drew on his cigarette. He didn't offer one to her.

‘Reasonable? You call kidnapping a little child reasonable? You'd have shot me in that car, if I'd made a sound, wouldn't you?'

‘Yes,' he answered. ‘We have a job to do and nothing must interfere with it. As far as you're concerned, Mrs Field, it was your bad luck to be there and get taken instead. We're not interested in you, but we can use you. Alive or dead won't make any difference, so don't get clever. I'll bring you something to eat.'

He went out and she heard the door being locked. She got off the bed and stood looking round her. She went to the window first. It opened inwards, secured by a catch on the wall. The mesh covering it outside was rigid and showed a view of blue sea with a curve of coastline bending from the right. It was impossible to see below. Eileen went into the bathroom leading off the bedroom and found another window, also protected. This showed the same line of coast continuing round. The house overlooked a bay and the right-hand promontory connected with the mainland. There was no skylight in the bathroom, which was small and plainly equipped. From the glimpse she had caught of the interior, the room chosen for her was in the servants' quarters of the villa. She paused by the bathroom mirror, shocked by her appearance. She looked haggard and dishevelled; there was a streak of dirt on her face, smudged by tears. She washed in cold water. There was no soap and no towel. She dried herself on the bedcover. The room was very hot and airless and she lay on the bed exhausted. She was almost asleep when she heard the door open. The American came in carrying a tray. He put it down on the dressing table.

‘You'll get three meals a day,' he said. ‘And if you need anything, you can ask Madeleine. She'll come up and take this away.'

Eileen sat up.

‘If that's the woman who threatened to murder my child, don't you send her near me. I wouldn't ask her for anything!'

Peters shrugged.

‘Suit yourself. Resnais can come up to you.'

Alarm flared in her. She didn't know why, but she didn't want the Frenchman coming into that room alone.

‘No! No, not him. You're in charge of this – I hold you responsible.'

Peters had no intention of wasting time with her. To him she was dehumanized, an object rather than a person. He meant to put the tray down and go out. The use of that one word stopped him. Responsible. He looked at her.

‘I'm not responsible for anything about you, Mrs Field, except seeing that you don't escape. And you're in no position to dictate who comes up here and who doesn't.'

She got off the bed and faced him.

‘You've kidnapped me,' she said. ‘You've dragged me here by force and you're holding me for some purpose that I know nothing about. By the grace of God, it's not my little girl that's locked up here. How exactly would you have treated her?'

‘As fairly as we'll treat you,' Peters said. ‘So long as you behave yourself.'

She turned away from him. The eyes were so cold. For a moment she had been angry enough to challenge him, but there had been no response. It was like confronting a machine. She began to cry.

‘There's no soap,' she said. ‘And no towels. I had to dry with the counterpane. I've no clothes, not even a comb! I don't want your food – I won't eat anything!'

‘Suit yourself,' he said again. He went out and locked the door. She cried for some time, until she had worn herself out. There was a carafe of water on the tray and she was very thirsty. She drank most of it, leaving the food untouched. The outburst had relieved her; she felt clear-headed and personal fear was minimized by the immense relief that she had saved Lucy. Logan wouldn't have expected her to act so quickly. Throwing the key out of the window had been an instant reflex. Everything she had done since they confronted her in the nursery was dictated by the need to protect her child. She had gone out of the house, driven through the streets, entered the plane; when the American mentioned Madeleine, she had instinctively connected the name with the woman who had threatened to empty her pistol through that nursery door. His admission that it was the same person hadn't sunk in for a time. But now she knew it meant that there was no more danger to Lucy. They were all together in the villa. She had no one to fear for now but herself. Eileen went back to the tray. Her stomach knotted against the idea of eating. There was cold meat, butter and bread, piled on one plate. Probably there was no one besides the three kidnappers in the villa. Then she remembered the driver. The Palestine People's Army. That was what he had said. Arab terrorists. The driver had been very dark-skinned, certainly not European. She forced herself to eat the bread and butter. She had a vague idea of conserving her strength without knowing why. She believed herself to be quite calm, and in one sense she was. In another, her whole body was quivering with shock and in spite of the heat she felt clammy and cold. She went to the window again and hooked her fingers through the mesh. It was fixed to the outside wall and it didn't yield a millimetre when she tried to pull it. They had made their preparations very carefully. Which meant that Lucy's kidnapping had been planned some time ahead. But why Lucy? Why her? Facing the bright blue sea through the steel mesh, Eileen understood that the reason was in her marriage to Logan Field. And through Logan, Imperial Oil. But why? Why? The question hammered at her, making her head ache. What had Logan or the company done, or what could the terrorists hope to gain by holding her? Their original target had been Lucy. There was a clue there. A child held as hostage. But against what? It must be money. She heard the door open again and swung round. The woman stood inside. She was casually dressed in a white shirt and dark blue trousers. She looked like a smart holidaymaker.

‘Have you finished?'

Madeleine was a French name, but she wasn't French. The eyes were green, but there was a dark tinge in the skin that was stronger than sunburn. Eileen remembered her at Lucy's door, calling the little girl to come into range.

‘I told him not to send you up here,' she said. ‘Get out! Take your filthy food and get out!'

The girl laughed.

‘You won't be so full of fight in a few days. Think yourself lucky you're not shut up in the cellars. That's where I'd have put you!'

Eileen looked at her; the sneer was fading on the girl's face as she met the contempt and disgust of the older woman.

‘You'd have murdered a child,' she said slowly. ‘You'd be capable of anything. You're not even a woman.'

She turned back to the window. Without knowing it, she had said the one thing to which Madeleine was vulnerable. She had denied her identity as a female. She didn't see the blaze of hate directed at her as the girl took the tray and went out. To be less than a woman was the ultimate insult to a Lebanese, however liberated and equal with men she thought herself to be. Peters had told her to bring the prisoner soap and a towel. An impulse of feminine spite had made her ignore this. It irritated her that he should pay the woman's needs any attention. Let her do without the amenities. There weren't any luxuries in the refugee camps. She went back downstairs, dumped the tray in the kitchen and found only Resnais in the lounge. He looked up at her and grinned.

‘How is our charming guest?'

‘Insolent! And arrogant!' Madeleine settled into one of the white sofas. The owner of the villa was an Algerian millionaire with strong terrorist connections. He had a passion for white.

‘I'll deal with her if she gives any trouble,' the girl said. Her expression was vicious and sulky. Resnais watched with amusement. Women never surprised him when they displayed cruelty. The idea that because they bore children they were more compassionate and squeamish than men was a myth. Women were capable of absolute savagery provided that the motive was strong enough. There was a thread of female dislike between Madeleine and the hostage which had nothing to do with politics.

‘Where's Peters?'

‘Out on the terrace.'

‘I don't think that room is safe enough,' she said. ‘I think we should put her down in the cellars.'

The Frenchman lit a cigarette.

‘She must have really made you angry,' he said. ‘I wonder what she said?'

Madeleine swore at him and jumped up. He watched her go out in search of Peters and his laughter followed her.

James Kelly's solicitors had never heard from Eileen. That was the first result of a series of telephone calls which he undertook after days went by and he heard nothing from her. This in itself worried him badly. She had promised to protect herself and Lucy. All he knew from their London staff was that she was away and staying in Ireland. A second call to Eaton Square elicited the telephone number of Meath House and began the incredible frustrations of attempting to link one erratic line of communication with another equally unpredictable.

James's anxiety was based on his fear that she might have decided to try for a reconciliation. He had no reason for supposing that Logan would agree, or that the influence of Janet Armstrong was not stronger every time they met. It was just a nagging fear that his hopes were going to be disappointed and because of the distance between him and Eileen there was nothing he could do. Ireland and its telephone system defeated him for a full twenty-four hours. He had agreed to take the call at any time; if Logan was in the house it couldn't be helped. James doubted if he would have noticed or cared. All his energies and concentration were bent upon the problem of reaching a solution which would safeguard their concession at Imshan. Paterson, the finance director, had already been despatched to Tokyo to sound out the Japanese oil importers. A favourable response would bring Logan himself flying out.