The Hostage (35 page)

His smile remained and he headed towards her.

Kathryn watched the boy as he passed by, memories of her younger days and her visits to Father Kinsella’s confessional flooding back. She wondered if he was still recruiting young warriors for the cause.

‘Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn,’ he said quietly as he approached. ‘Good of you to come and see me so quickly.’

The boy paused in the entrance and waved back at the priest before leaving. Kinsella returned the wave.

‘Good lad that,’ he said, after the boy had left. ‘He wants to join the British SAS. I’ve got me work cut out for me there, so I have.’ He faced Kathryn, still smiling. ‘Did you manage to avoid the press when you left the house?’ he asked.

‘Yes. There were a few reporters hanging around out front, but the shortcuts through the back gardens haven’t changed.’ She smiled at the memory of finding those childhood escape routes almost exactly as she remembered them, but the nostalgia was quickly swept away by the growing dread of the media interviews the priest had spent the previous evening preparing her for. She had lost track of the number of newspaper and television journalists that had called at the house, only to be turned away by her mother with the promise Kathryn would speak to them soon. And it wasn’t just the media hounding her. She’d had calls from various military personnel in Washington DC, and also from the SEALs in Norfolk,Virginia; the commander of Team 2, Hank’s former boss, and another officer whose title escaped her, all offering moral support and assurances that everything was being done to get Hank back home. And then there was the guy from the State Department who was coming by in the week for a chat on national security and modern terrorism, and the welfare union was sending a psychiatrist over to evaluate her and the children for post-traumatic stress disorder.

Father Kinsella had said she would be ready for the press by this afternoon, after one last coaching session, but Kathryn had had more than she could take already. On receiving the priest’s message that he wanted to see her, she decided to tell him she was going back to Norfolk that evening, before meeting any of the press, and then prepared herself for the inevitable verbal onslaught on how important her work was and how she had to stick with it and ‘feed the press’ as he put it. But she was determined to stand up to him this time, although, she had to admit, to her surprise, he had been unusually kind and understanding since he first came to the house to see her. He spent many patient hours schooling her on what to say to the news media, and how to act, rehearsing her for specific questions, and even how to ignore or circumvent subjects in order to push prepared statements. She had lost count of the number of times she had quoted: ‘I don’t blame the IRA for holding my husband captive. They’re only fighting for what they believe in. I know they’ll set Hank free once the British Government admits its guilt in abusing my husband the way they did . . .’ Instead of bolstering Kathryn’s confidence the preparations only fuelled a feeling it was all some kind of ridiculous pantomime. It was clearly a propaganda campaign for the IRA and she was nothing more than another tool.

‘The truth is I can’t do the press interviews, Father,’ she admitted, cringing in preparation for the eruption. ‘I can’t stay here any more. I’ll go mad if I have to talk to all those people. I don’t care what you say. I won’t be able to do it.’

‘I know, I know,’ Father Kinsella said with great sympathy as he took her arm and walked her towards the church entrance. ‘It’s okay,’ he said.

She was suddenly wary.This was not the reaction she had expected from him. Suspicion immediately set in. He was up to something. He could never be this understanding. As they walked outside the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky and they headed along the stone path that went down the side of the church towards the car park. She wondered if he was guiding her somewhere private where he could shout his head off at her, but he seemed calm.

‘I agree that you should get away, Kathryn,’ he said sincerely.

Kathryn glanced at him. There was no sign of anger. ‘I thought you were going to be mad at me.’

‘No. I want you to go away, Kathryn … I want you to go back to England.’

She stopped in her tracks and stared at him in disbelief. ‘England?’

‘Well, there’s no point in going to Norfolk. The press would soon find you there.’

He was wearing the look of a dealer who knew the cards he was laying even though they were face down. A trip to England certainly wasn’t intended for her benefit. She could kick herself for even presuming for one second that the man had as much as an ounce of concern for her, or anyone for that matter.

‘But England?’

‘You’ll need to be leaving tonight.’

‘I don’t understand … Why?’

‘You’re going to meet someone who can help you.’

‘Who?’

‘I can’t tell you who right now. But it’s very important. He’ll be able to help you. You’ll be well looked after.’

‘I don’t want to go back to England.’

‘Kathryn. Trust me. Now would I be sending you all the way over to England if it was a waste of time?’

‘Can’t they come here?’

‘Not this person, darling,’ the priest said. ‘He’s very high up, if you know what I mean.’

Kathryn was only just beginning to understand. ‘IRA?’ ‘Ay . . . It’ll take but a day or so. That’s all. You’ll do just fine if there are any interviews.’

‘I have to meet the press?’

‘You’ll find out everything when you get there. Depending on how you get on might decide Hank’s future. He called me this morning and asked if you would go.That’s a great privilege, Kathryn. Now, is that a good enough reason to go or not?’ he said, beaming as if he’d solved the mystery of life.

Everything in Kathryn’s soul wanted to cry out, NO! But she could not find the strength to say it. She had to do whatever it took to get Hank free. Even go back to England and meet the IRA itself. When she’d left England she’d vowed never to return, and now here she was, only a few weeks later, on her way back.

‘What about Janet and Helen?’ she asked.

‘They’ll be fine here with your mother.’

Kathryn gave him a look that must’ve conveyed some sign of trepidation.

‘Don’t you worry about them,’ he said.‘A couple days aren’t going to do them any harm. And I’ll be here to look out for them . . .Then, when you get back, you can take them off to Virginia with you.’

She closed her eyes and sighed.

‘I’ve got your air tickets organised. And guess what? Business class no less. It’s not all for bullets and bombs, you know. And I’ve got you booked into a nice hotel in London with all expenses paid.’

Kathryn nodded, none too happy, but resigned. ‘Will this be the last of it?’ she asked.

‘I’ve a feeling this will all soon be over.You please them in England, it’ll all work out in our favour. Just keep telling yourself Hank will soon be home. That’s all you need to think about,’ he said. ‘I haven’t let you down yet, have I?’

They arrived at her mother’s car. ‘Look,’ he went on. ‘I know you find me a hard taskmaster, Kathryn, but I get the job done. Now, off you go. Pack some warm clothes, enough for three days. Keep it simple looking. No bright colours. No need to look too cheerful. I’ll be around tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to pick you up and take you to the airport and tell you everything else you need to know. Okay? Oh, and one more very important thing. You tell nobody where you’re going. I don’t care who it is. No one. Not your mother, children, friends, nobody. I’ve told your mother you’re away and that’s that. She knows enough not to ask you anything. Do you understand me, Kathryn?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Good, because this trip is most serious. Most serious. If they think anyone is following you, for instance, the meeting will be off, and it’ll not go well for Hank. I can’t emphasise that enough. Now off you go.’

Kathryn climbed into the car and started the engine. She looked at Father Kinsella before pulling away. He smiled at her with one of his more saintly looks. Something about this trip was already troubling her. The past few days she had begun to think better of him than she ever had in the past, and wondered if perhaps she had misjudged him. Now, the old feeling that there was something very dark and dangerous about him, was back and stronger than ever.

Hank made an effort to stretch his legs much further around himself than he had tried previously, searching for anything he could use as a tool to remove his bindings. He gingerly got to his feet, his back and thigh muscles aching with the exertion, and slid his hands up the pole until his bonds reached a pipe connector and could go no further. There was nothing to be had that was of use. The block of wood on the floor a few feet away was quite substantial but useless for anything other than clubbing someone and for that he needed his hands free.

He leaned his head around the pole, gripped the side of his hood with his fingers, and pulled it up as much as the tie around his neck would allow so that he might see out of the bottom, but the view was limited and strands of hessian got into his eyes. He could make out a pair of legs flat on the floor, in trousers but without socks or footwear. Seamus’s, he assumed.

The door opened and at least two people walked in.

‘What the fock you doin’?’ said a man. ‘Going for a walk, are we?’

Hank’s legs were kicked repeatedly until he dropped back down on to his backside.

‘For God’s sake,’ Hank cried out. ‘Why are you guys treating me this way? I haven’t given you any trouble. I’m a prisoner of war and I expect you to treat me like one.’

‘Shot the fock op,’ the man said and slapped Hank on the back of the head as if he were a naughty child. Hank had begun to say his piece as planned and received a whack for his troubles.The man’s shoes creaked as he crouched and Hank could hear his breathing close to his ear. ‘Ay, yev been a model prisoner for sure,’ said a man.

‘Then why don’t you treat me like one?’ Hank said, his voice betraying his anger.

‘Do yerself a favour,’ piped in Seamus. ‘The man you’re talking to is Brennan. Sure I told you about him. The Executioner? You’re wasting your focken breath.’

‘That wasn’t very nice, Seamus, tellin’ the man me name,’ said Brennan. ‘You might’ve just signed his death warrant. It could go against him at the tribunal . . . I s’pose you told him about our little package?’

‘Ay.The Yank’s not stupid. He knows he’s as dead as I am.’

This was news to Hank.

‘He may well be, but you’re first, Seamus,’ said Brennan. ‘Are you ready, or shall we play a game first?’

‘Fock you, ye sadistic bastard,’ Seamus said.

‘You’re the one who’s focked, Seamus me ole’ pal . . . Get his hood off.’

The men obeyed. Hank tried to visualise what he heard. Seamus hacked and groaned as they treated him roughly, and then their efforts stopped. The hood was obviously off and they were waiting for the next command. Then he heard a noise he knew very well - the double-de-clutch clunk of a pistol being cocked and then the snap and chink as the return spring threw the top slide forward to pick up a bullet and punch it into the breach where it settled snugly, ready to be exploded out of the barrel.

‘It’s a watery grave for you, Seamus,’ Brennan said. ‘You know what the Bible says goes well with water, don’t you? Fire. Fire goes well with water . . . There’s nothing I hate more’en a tout, Seamus.We’ll have some fun with you before we set you in the water.’

‘You’re focken mental, you know that, don’t you, Brennan.’

‘Take him away. Make sure you give his bollocks a good soaking in petrol before you loit him op.’

There was a great deal of shuffling and moaning as they hauled Seamus to the door. ‘Ya focken bastard, Brennan!’ he cried out. Then they were gone. Hank could hear Seamus’s shouts grow fainter as they carried him down the corridor.

It fell gradually silent as they climbed a stairwell.

Hank clenched his fingers to control the slight tremble in them. Nothing could prepare a person for this. No exercise the military could devise. He played Brennan’s words over in his head, trying to clarify them. Something about a tribunal, and Brennan’s name, and a package, obviously the virus. Hank was no longer confident about his survival.

‘Hank,’ a voice said inches from his face, making him flinch. It was Brennan. ‘Hank the Yank . . . I lied when I said there was nothing I hated more ’en a tout.There is one thing. A Pink. I hate Pinks more ’en anything . . . Rumour has it those were Pinks in Paris.Was it Pinks you were working with, Hank?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Hank said, which was true. He had never heard the term before.

‘Any friend of a Pink is an enemy of moine,’ said Brennan. ‘If I can’t have a Pink, I’ll have his friends.’

Brennan’s shoes creaked as he stood, turned and walked across the room and closed the door.

Hank could feel his heart pounding in his chest above the throb of the engines. He was more scared at that moment than at any other time in his life. Then came a sudden shriek of a human in utter agony. It was far away, up on deck, but so shrill it penetrated the very bowels of the ship. Hank tried to cover his ears and leaned his head into a shoulder to block one at least, but it was not enough. He could still hear Seamus as they set him on fire. It lasted only a few seconds but his mind kept replaying it, pure agony. And then it ended with a single gunshot. Hank realised his hands were aching where he had been squeezing the pole too tightly.

 

Stratton looked up from his desk at several monitors in the corner of the administration room situated on the top floor of the SBS headquarters building. One of them showed a van pulling into the HQ car park. He watched as the doors opened and out of the back climbed three men, all short haired, well built and fresh faced. He would have guessed they were Americans even if one of them had not paused to pack a handful of chewing tobacco into his mouth between his lower lip and gums.