Wings of the Morning (13 page)

Alexa prized the independence which Oxford and England made possible. In 1963, her brother Michel had disappeared whilst serving his commercial apprenticeship in Africa, and no trace of him had
ever been found. The tragedy had almost destroyed the Labarres. They had always been a close group, the parents happy with each other and both were international, influential and involved. Their
children, three to include Alexa’s younger brother Bernard, were all touched with gold and had enjoyed an idyllic childhood with the expectation of a fulfilling life before Michel dropped out
of sight.

They were all changed forever, but Joffrey was shattered by the experience and tortured that he would never know the full story. He hired an expensive investigator who vanished into Africa and
reported back with the likely conclusion that Michel had perished because thieves fell out. But there was no proof and nothing left behind.

While Joffrey and Elizabeth struggled to accept this finality, they were locked together in a dungeon of grief, guilt and frustration and as they served their sentence, the relationship with
their other two children suffered. Alexa dealt with this estrangement by going to build her life around Oxford. After she won her degree she was still anxious to preserve her independence and
accepted a job offer from a London city bank. Two years later, she was offered a move to their Paris office. It was good that she was closer to Limoges, but not too close and she settled down to
enjoy her career and the Paris lifestyle.

By the autumn of 1968, all was pretty good for Alexa except that she was working long hours with too little time for her friends and not much of a love life. But that changed just before
Christmas when she attended, on behalf of the bank, a reception at the Chilean Embassy where she met Thierry Cestac.

He was better than a breath of fresh air. After fighting off too many dreary bankers and immature suitors, here at last was a man of abundant style and savoir faire. He was fortyish and
established. She was unsure of his profession, which mattered not a jot to her. He was older and wiser, with time, charm, conversation and a real interest in her. He was fun to be with and won the
instant approval of her friends. She was delighted to be invited into his bed and fulfilled by what happened there. Alexa fell in love and under the spell of this cultured, handsome man with the
long face and aquiline nose which she chose to describe as aristocratic.

They were together regularly throughout 1969 and Alexa’s confidence in their relationship grew without check or concern. Thierry was the man for her and she was never as happy as when in
his company. He was kind, thoughtful and endlessly entertaining. He was an energetic lover and imaginative with it. The manner in which he used toys and diversions fired her libido to an extent
which sometimes shamed her, but never enough to complain and still less to stop.

During all the progress of the year, it would have been inconceivable to her that Cestac had a different agenda: that he was all the while preparing her for sale. The background story was
unprecedented. Cestac had received an approach on behalf of an end user client in the Middle East. The man had bought two girls from other procurers, but neither had lasted more than six months.
When the initial thrill was satiated, he resorted to pleasuring himself with such violent treatment that both girls had died at his personal hand.

The client was now prepared to pay without limit if Cestac could find for him a girl of exceptional physical attraction, but also one of breeding, character and brains. She was to be a toy that
the client could not break too easily and would remain the challenge which his warped ego demanded. The task energised Cestac, all the more as he had just met Alexa. He recognised her worth
immediately. She was pure gold. He set himself to turn her into a million dollars of income and the ultimate stimulus for which he was ever seeking.

He devised a development programme which relied on his natural instinct to go slowly and with caution. He knew that Alexa was special and would take time. He knew also that the client’s
need and budget would be heightened by waiting for the very best. But finally came the time in late November 1969 when Cestac was satisfied that she was ready and the client was desperate. It was
time to close the deal, and Cestac agreed to delivery in the New Year.

Alexa, of course, knew nothing of this duplicity and evil. But she did feel bloody awful. She sat there in the Heathrow lounge and the world around her seemed to be spinning off its axis.
Physically, she alternated between nausea and shivering with either accompanied by a splitting headache. Mentally she felt much, much worse, but she lacked the experience to recognise the symptoms.
She was already in trauma. The worst of it was the confusion. Alexa simply could not get a grip on what had happened to her during the last twelve hours. She remembered some things quite clearly
but then others seemed to lose focus and the chronology was never as it should have been.

She was fixated by her last sight of Thierry. He had introduced her to this huge black, Georges, who was to accompany her to London and then on to Bahrain but she had hardly responded to
Eboli’s graceful bow as he turned aside with some small talk for Thierry. She had suddenly felt tearful and lonely. She had never been to Arabia and the prospect of twenty-four hours in a
hotel waiting for Thierry to catch up with her was scary. But why? She knew the plan. Thierry had an important business meeting in Frankfurt: he was going there today and would join her by flying
out tomorrow night. She was troubled and Thierry seemed to understand. He broke off from Georges and came to cuddle her, whispering endearments and saying he would soon be with her and they would
fly on together to Singapore. Quite his normal, considerate self and she felt reassured. He said that she must take the sleeping pills which he had given her. They would give her a good rest on the
long overnight journey to Bahrain. She smiled bravely. Then he said that she and Georges should go on through customs and he must run for his plane to Germany. She allowed Eboli to shepherd her
through the formalities and then she looked back over the barrier. But Thierry had gone: he had left. It seemed to symbolise abandonment that he had not troubled to wait just a few minutes
more.

Other flashbacks danced in her head. It had been a great party but she had no memory of who had been the host, where it had been, who else had been there. She remembered accepting drinks which
Thierry described as ‘just a cocktail’ and with one of them some powder in a twist which he had encouraged her to sniff. When they left at whatever hour after midnight, there had been
another man in the back of the car with them. He was young and blond. Russian, so Thierry had told her, and a friend. She spoke to him in his own language and he mumbled a reply in a coarse accent
as he concentrated on getting a hand up her skirt.

When they left the apartment that morning, Thierry was distracted by something in the street and he simply dumped the blond instead of dropping him on the way to the airport. What had all that
been about? Perhaps it had been to do with what went on during the night. She had a horrifying vision of herself greeting the dawn by making oral love to Thierry while she was being screwed rigid
by the nameless young Russian.

And now she felt bad, must look worse and was intimidated by the huge Georges who tried to sound smooth but smelt of cheap Cologne and would not leave her side for a single minute. He had even
insisted on standing outside the Ladies when she went there an hour ago. That thought brought back the nausea. Alexa stood up abruptly and put her hand to her mouth. She said something about la
toilette to Eboli. He nodded and kept his seat, but his eyes followed her across the lounge. She was feeling distraught. She must simply lock herself in and refuse to come out. ‘Thierry
himself will have to come for me’ she was thinking, and at that moment, she saw Conrad Aveling, sitting by himself and reading a newspaper. He didn’t look up.

Alexa got herself into a cubicle, sat down and shivered as she thought. ‘Connie? Could it really be him? Why was he here? Perhaps she could ask for advice. Perhaps he could find Thierry
for her. Surely he could at least get her away from Georges’. Then the nausea returned, followed by a fresh attack of panic in which she was convinced that the roof was coming slowly down on
her head. She sprang up and fled out of the Ladies.

CONRAD AVELING — 1970

By the time they started calling forward passengers Conrad had been keeping careful watch for ninety minutes. He couldn’t work out Alexa’s condition. She kept her
gaze down and her hands were constantly picking at each other or running through her hair. When she got up, she seemed startled and her movement was crabbed and nervous, not the elegant stride he
remembered. The big black guy was constantly with her and watching her. Conrad bided his time. Alexa might resent an intrusion and if she was in trouble, a bald approach might let her companion
spirit her away before the riddle could be unpicked.

But then she banished any doubt from his mind.

At Oxford, they had been lovers for a while and were extravagantly discreet. When with friends, she used to communicate a private message with a toss of her head and an arched eyebrow which
meant — stay with me. Five years later at Heathrow, the first class queue was overtaking economy and as Alexa moved past, she turned her face to him. Conrad was shocked by the look of nervous
pain, but he didn’t miss her message as the eyebrow arched.

The passengers filed into the aircraft. They left on time and made a brief stop in Frankfurt to take on fuel and a handful of passengers. Two hours later, with the aircraft at cruising height
and dinner served, Conrad sat in his window seat with two Australian neighbours who filled their seat pockets with beer cans and the cabin with smoke. They got up for the washrooms and Conrad
slipped out to look for a cabin attendant. He picked out Max, the steward with a mincing step, and asked diffidently if he could visit the flight deck. He had chosen well and soon Conrad was
following the tightly trousered bum through the curtain into First Class with its suitably expensive calm. He had time to notice that Alexa was in a window seat on the port side with her companion
next to her.

Max tapped at the door of the flight deck and after a word of introduction, stood aside for Conrad to pass into the small, cramped space lit by the subdued orange glow of innumerable
instruments. A large man in the captain’s seat turned to hold out a hand.

‘Welcome to the sharp end, Mr Aveling. I’m Peter Bushell and my colleagues tonight are Keith Curtis,’ this with a wave to the First Officer who smiled a greeting, ‘and
beside you there is another Peter — Pete Grimes, who I hope knows where we are right now! Not much room in here I’m afraid, but it’s always nice to have a visitor. Have you been
in a 707 before?’

‘Only once’, said Conrad, ‘but I have spent time in various helicopters and a fair few Hercules.

Actually, I’m a Captain too, but different and junior to you, Sir,’ he produced his military warrant card and handed it to Bushell, adding ‘I’m travelling to join my unit
in Singapore. I believe I’ve got a problem. It’s nothing to do with my job, but it is urgent and I need your help.’

The Captain stared at him and the other two assumed wary expressions. Finally, Bushell said, ‘Well you’re in here now so you’d best say your piece, but keep it short and
don’t move around. I don’t care for deception on my aircraft.’

‘Quite,’ responded Conrad, ‘I apologise but I felt I had no choice but to contact you this way.’

He went on to provide a concise summary of the background and the current position. There was a long pause when he had finished and the aircraft seemed to hang in space whilst digesting the
information. Captain Bushell broke the silence.

‘So, the bottom line is that you think an old girlfriend who just happens to be travelling on this aircraft just might be in a bit of trouble and that she just could be some sort of victim
of the big black guy whose with her, even though right now she’s slumbering like a baby in one of our first class seats. Is that about it, and what do you expect me to do with this
story?’

Before he could answer, Pete Grimes piped up to comment.

‘Better check it out, boss. We’ve only just had the abduction risk lecture.’

Bushell ignored him and said to his First Officer.

‘Keith. Nip out and do a cabin tour, would you? Take your time and make it at least fifteen minutes. Give me a chance for a bit more of a talk with Captain Aveling here.’

‘It’s Conrad’.

‘OK,’ said Bushell, ‘and Keith, if this is for real, I don’t want the big guy alerted, so grab hold of young Max and put it about that it seems Conrad and Pete were at
school together way back so they’re going over a few old times. Tell Max to come back and collect Conrad when time’s up.’

‘She’ll be right,’ murmured Keith Curtis as he slipped out of the flight deck door, pulling on his uniform jacket as he left. Outside, he paused to smile at Miranda Longman who
was in charge of first class and busy in the small galley area.