The Hostage (31 page)

‘No one is going to lock you up, Mrs Munro. If you go public with this it can only worsen matters for your husband.’

‘Bullshit! Tell me where he is!’ she shouted. ‘Tell me!’

Jardene was not equipped to deal with this kind of situation. Give him a battlefield, an enemy, exploding shells, raking machine-gun fire and he would feel confident, but a hysterical woman was another matter.

‘Mrs Munro—’

‘Would you step aside please. I’d like to leave now.’

Jardene remained blocking the doorway.

‘I said I want to leave now.’

Jardene was in an awkward situation to say the least. He had to deal with this here and now. It was his responsibility but Kathryn did not appear to be in any mood to negotiate. ‘Mrs Munro—’ he started again, but she cut him off.

‘If you’re keeping me in here against my will I want that soldier outside to tell me. Guard!’ she shouted. ‘Guard!’

‘Mrs Munro,’ Jardene said, raising his voice, trying a touch of male domination as a last effort. The door pushed open gently and the guard commander stuck his head in.

‘Is everything okay, sir?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Corporal, thank you.’ Jardene reinforced his comment with a look that conveyed the woman was being difficult but he could handle it.The corporal nodded, glanced at Kathryn, then withdrew. Jardene closed the door completely this time. Kathryn looked at him defiantly.

‘Okay,’ Jardene said, sighing deeply. ‘Will you assure me that you’ll keep this in confidence. I’m serious when I say it could harm your husband if it got out.’

‘I’m not going to do anything that will hurt my husband.’

‘Your husband’s been kidnapped by people who, well, people I would have to describe as terrorists.’

Kathryn listened quietly, absorbing every word.

‘They obviously thought he was one of ours,’ Jardene continued. ‘Hank found himself in a situation he should not have been in. It was as much our responsibility he was in that position. He ended up isolated and was abducted. Now, we fully expect that when the kidnappers realise their mistake they’ll let him go.They have no reason to hold an American. It doesn’t serve them any purpose.’

Jardene felt he had revealed more than enough and waited for her reaction.

‘That’s it?’ she asked.

‘I can’t tell you more than that I’m afraid. Perhaps in a day or two . . . ’

‘Well, I’m sorry but that’s not good enough. If you can’t tell me, then perhaps you’ll tell a lawyer or the newspapers.’

‘Mrs Munro—’

‘Where was he kidnapped?’

Jardene was being outgunned and he knew it.‘A European country,’ he said.

‘Eastern Europe?’ she asked.

‘Western.’

That was a surprise to her. ‘What were you guys doing?’

‘There are some things that lawyers and newspapers will never be told.’

‘Who kidnapped my husband?’

‘I’m putting myself on the line by telling you as much as I have.’

‘You put my husband on the line,’ she said coldly. ‘You owe me something for that . . . You said he was taken by terrorists. What terrorists?’

Jardene wondered for a moment if he should just lock her in the cell, then quickly dismissed the thought as preposterous despite its attraction.

‘Irish Republican terrorists.’

‘The IRA?’

‘Probably not the official IRA but, yes.’

Kathryn mellowed. For reasons that were not immediately obvious to her, it didn’t seem quite so bad as it first seemed. ‘Has someone seen him? Have they contacted you?’

‘No. We’ve heard nothing yet . . . There has already been a significant investigation and we believe it is not in their interest to harm Hank, and, as I said, once they realise he’s American, well, hopefully things will get sorted out quickly.’

‘Hopefully?’

‘Hopefully sooner rather than later is what I meant.’

Kathryn finally calmed herself. There was nothing else she could think of asking, nothing that he might know or would tell it seemed.

‘Can I trust you to keep what I have said to yourself?’ he asked.

She didn’t appear to have heard him.

‘Mrs Munro? You’ll be kept informed. If there is any news, I’ll call you immediately.’

Kathryn felt very tired all of a sudden. ‘I’d like to go home now,’ she said.

‘Of course.’ He opened the cell door and stepped out. He paused in the hallway for her to join him. As she passed the television room all the Marines turned to watch her leave, having heard the raised voices. Jardene opened the door and they stepped outside into the crisp air. She didn’t say goodbye and walked to her car. Jardene watched her climb in and drive away. He was not looking forward to telling the boss how much more he had told her. Hopefully he would understand that Jardene had to do it to avert exposure, but it would be another black mark in his report. This whole thing was a nightmare and one he could expect to last for a very long time, and far beyond its conclusion.

 

Kathryn was calm as she drove away from the camp, her mind focused on dealing with this quandary. This situation had changed everything. She could deal with it in England or back home. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make. All she had to do was justify going back Stateside. The unexpected feeling about this was that she was suddenly in charge. She now had the power to solve the most burning issue in her life - other than Hank of course - and that was getting back home.There was nothing to stop her.When Hank was released she would fly back to England immediately. The SEALs would no doubt fly her. This was no small thing that was happening to her. It could even mean the end of Hank’s UK assignment. As the British officer said, it didn’t make sense that the IRA would hurt Hank since he was American. And when they found out he was Irish American they’d probably treat him first class.

Kathryn turned into a cul-de-sac and pulled to a stop by the kerb at the entrance to Rushcombe school. She was almost surprised to see she had arrived. It was as if her subconscious had brought her here without her knowing. She climbed out and looked over at the playground where a class was playing rounders. Helen and Janet were not amongst them. Kathryn headed up the flagstone path to the main entrance, stepped inside and walked along the corridor, pausing to look in each room through the small glass window in the door. She found her daughters seated at their desks in the last classroom at the end of the corridor. They were following a passage in their books as another girl stood by her desk reading out loud. Kathryn opened the door. The girl stopped reading and all the children, including the teacher, a rotund grey-haired woman, looked up at her.

‘I’m sorry for interrupting,’ Kathryn said. ‘I’ve come to collect my daughters: Janet and Helen Munro.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the teacher said, quite unhappy with the interruption. ‘And you are?’

‘I’m their mother,’ Kathryn announced as if it were obvious.

‘This is most irregular,’ the teacher said.‘Have you spoken to the headmistress?’

‘No.’

‘There are rules, Mrs . . . ’

‘Munro. As in Janet and Helen Munro. Come along,’ Kathryn said to her girls. ‘And get all your things - your sweater, Janet.’ The two girls collected their sweaters and backpacks and made their way to their mother, both looking embarrassed.

‘Could you tell the headmistress that they won’t be back,’ Kathryn said to the teacher as she ushered the girls into the corridor. And then as an afterthought she added, ‘I’m sorry for interrupting your class. Please tell the headmistress that it was urgent.’

She closed the door, leaving the teacher looking exasperated.

Kathryn walked briskly along the corridor and out the main doors. Janet and Helen had to run to keep up.

‘Where we going, Mommy?’ Helen asked.

‘Back home. America.’

‘We can’t go home yet, Mommy. We haven’t finished school,’ Janet said.

‘It’s can’t, not carn’t,’ Kathryn said, opening the rear door of the car for the girls to climb in. ‘Stop speaking in an English accent. You’re Americans. Buckle up your seatbelts.’

Kathryn climbed in and started the engine. ‘Mommy, the sleeve of my jumper’s caught in the door,’ Janet said.

Kathryn climbed out, opened Janet’s door to let her pull the sleeve in.‘It’s not a jumper, honey, it’s a sweater. Kangaroos are jumpers.’

Kathryn climbed back in and they pulled away.

‘We going home to America right now?’ Helen asked.

‘First flight we can,’ Kathryn said. Then it dawned on her. She’d forgotten. They couldn’t go to Norfolk. Their home was rented out on a two-year lease. And she couldn’t impose on any of her friends, not at such short notice and to stay for weeks.

There was only one option, which did not appeal to her particularly, but it was better than staying in England. Boston, New England. Her mother’s house. Whatever spark of relief there was to be had from leaving England was significantly reduced by the prospect of moving back to her childhood home. Having her mom visit them in Norfolk was bad enough, but to stay with them at her house would be hell. Mind you, the kids liked Grandma. That was something at least.

‘Mommy,’ Helen said, ‘if we’re going home, where’s Daddy?’

Kathryn had been so consumed with her own problems she hadn’t even thought about what she was going to tell the children.

‘He’s going to come along as soon as he can, honey.’ Of that she was strangely confident. Kidnapped. It probably sounded a lot worse than it was.

Quincy, Boston Massachusetts was wetter and colder than England had been that month. Kathryn’s mother lived in a spacious New England-style house built in the twenties and just within reach of the spray from the bay during a strong south-westerly gale. The neighbourhood had not changed much since Kathryn was a child apart from the cars parked in the thickly tree-lined street where mothers still let their children play. Every house squatted on its own plot, a small garden in front, a larger one in back, with none of the inhabitants apparently obsessive about gardening. The wooden siding that covered the exterior of the house had seen a new coat of paint in recent years but the detached garage in the far corner of the back garden could have done with a lick and a new layer of felt on the roof. A wide porch cluttered with retired lounge furniture took up much of the front of the house and the front door in the centre of it was wide enough to march a generous dining table through without too much manoeuvring. It all had a lazy, old feel to it.

The ground floor was a sprawling living room, which the front door opened directly into, and across a short hall, where a staircase led up to the second floor, was a spacious kitchen, the centre occupied by a solid wooden table that Kathryn used to play table tennis on with her brothers. Upstairs were half-a-dozen bedrooms and one large bathroom; the wooden floors creaked in all of them. Dusty, tired rugs covered most of the old carpeting. The house was evidently occupied by an old person but filled with memories of youthful, bustling times. Framed pictures had claimed a piece of just about every level surface and were evidence that several generations of the same family had lived in the house.

Kathryn stood in the kitchen looking through a window at Janet and Helen playing in the back garden. They were pushing a small wheelbarrow around collecting bits of rubble, pretending to be construction workers. They reminded her of her own childhood when the house was also home to her sister, two brothers and four adults. Now her mother lived alone, the children all grown up and gone, and her father, aunt and uncle all in St Mary’s church cemetery.

A car pulled into the drive and stopped in the back garden in front of the garage. The heavy driver’s door creaked open and a sprightly woman in her sixties, wearing a well-tailored dress suit and a new brittle hairdo, climbed out.

‘Grandma, Grandma!’ Janet and Helen shouted as they dropped their tools and building materials and ran to her. A broad smile spread comfortably across the woman’s craggy face as she embraced the girls.

Kathryn didn’t move from the window as she watched her mother open the trunk and pull out several bags stuffed with groceries. Janet and Helen took a small item each and flanked their grandma as she headed for the back door.They walked under the window, where Kathryn looked down on them, and then up a short flight of steps to the back door.

Kathryn’s mother led the way in, puffing under the load and put the bags down heavily on to the kitchen table. She took the items from the two girls and rested her hands on her knees to catch her breath and also to look into their little faces. ‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing them on the cheek one at a time. ‘At least someone around here is kind enough to help an old lady out,’ she said dryly in her thick, Boston accent.

Kathryn didn’t react. It was an old record. Her mother was a habitual critic as far as Kathryn was concerned. Kathryn had built up a kind of immunity, although it was rather like being in a tank: the bullets bounced off harmlessly but the sound was still psychologically discomfiting.

‘I need a cold drink,’ her mother said as she took a glass from a cupboard.‘The air’s dry today.’ She opened the icebox and removed a bottle of fruit juice. ‘You haven’t washed the plates from breakfast.’

Kathryn remained quietly staring out of the window as her mother poured the juice into the glass.

‘Two days you’ve been here and you’ve not lifted a finger to help with the housework. I’m not the maid, you know.’

Kathryn watched a seagull land on the garage roof. It reminded her of the times her brothers used to lie in wait in their bedroom overlooking the garden, clutching loaded catapults and a supply of ammunition in readiness for just such a target. She would wait and watch with them, stealthily crouched, nose level with the window ledge, fascinated, but never enough to want to take a shot herself. In that regard she was quite the typical little girl. Her fun, as she remembered it, was dolls, playing mommy and dressing up for pretend parties.