Wings of the Morning Page 10

  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.

  ‘Just going to do the rounds,’ he whispered to her, and then in a louder voice which could be heard by first class passengers, ‘I’m leaving the Captain a bit of space. Amazing coincidence but the passenger who just came up with Max knows Pete. Childhood mates. I’ve left them swapping stories for a while.’

  He winked and moved on slowly up the central aisle of the aircraft. He saw that Alexa was dozing and maybe had the look of a girl a bit spaced out, but under the circumstances, he might be imagining things. By her side, the large man called Georges Eboli was very awake and watchful. He definitely did look tense, like a passenger with a fear of flying. Curtis smiled encouragingly at him and walked on to draw back the curtain into the economy cabin which he knew to be pretty much chock full. New Year’s Day would not be every traveller’s choice, but on these flights they topped up with assisted passage emigrants: if you wanted to start a new life, you went when you were told. Curtis kept relaxed as he chatted easily to passengers. It took him more than five minutes to reach the rear of the aircraft where he found Max and gave him the Captain’s brief. Max nodded and glanced at his watch.

  Meanwhile on the flight deck, Conrad was being grilled by Qantas Training Captain Peter Bushell, a veteran of flying and travel, also a shrewd judge of character. Connie told all he could about Alexa: her family, her history, their time together and what he knew of her doings over the last few years. He left nothing out but kept the account short and sharp.

  They were interrupted by a sharp intake of breath from Pete Grimes as he digested a radio message. He jotted a note and passed it to his Captain who slumped back in his chair as he read it. Conrad steeled himself.

  The Captain said, ‘I’m going to read you this, Conrad, at my own initiative. It’s from Qantas Flight Control at Kingsford Smith Airport Sydney, and therefore my boss,’ he added laconically, ‘and it reads BE AWARE. INFORMATION RECEIVED AND BELIEVED RELIABLE INDICATES FEMALE PASSENGER LABARRE FRENCH NATIONAL NOW ON AIRCRAFT DESTINATION BAHRAIN IS ABDUCTION VICTIM REF SI QS18H874NOV69. MAY BE LINKED TO MALE PASSENGER EBOLI AND/OR FRENCH NATIONAL NOT TRAVELLING CESTAC. RECOMMEND INVESTIGATE/ACT AT YOUR DISCRETION WITHOUT RISK TO AIRCRAFT OR ROUTE. BE AWARE. MESSAGE ENDS. OK. Well, I don’t know how or where they got this, but it sure as hell supports your story. Now ...’

  He broke off as the door opened. Keith Curtis was back. Bushell handed him the note.

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said softly as he finished, ‘this is going to be bloody complicated’.

  Bushell replied, ‘let’s take a couple of minutes to think this through, Keith. It might help us to concentrate if you explain it to Conrad who must be pretty confused.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? We have to speak to Alexa immediately and then take her on with us to ... well Singapore I guess and from there get her heading home.’

  Keith Curtis answered him.

  ‘No, Conrad, it’s not that easy. I’ll lay it out for you. You’re right we need to get the girl in private and let her speak for herself. But remember. We’ve got suspicions, but zero proof. We have no warrant for action, we’re not any sort of international police force and we’re not dealing with a passenger who’s underage or with a mental deficiency. She’s not drunk or dangerous, no sort of threat to the safety of this aircraft. She’s a paid up first class passenger and she’s travelling with a guy who looks pretty damn competent. Assume that Eboli is well in on this and knows the ropes and his rights, he has brains and balls and Alexa is one big meal ticket to him. He’s not going to admit to anything, plus he’ll be a canny bugger. I bet even now he’s just a bit worried about you being in here. He won’t like anyone or anything that’s different — routine to him spells normal equals safe and sure. If he gets a sniff of what he believes is trouble, he’ll drug her up so she can’t speak to us and he’ll pull the big sob story that she’s travel tired and sick.’

  Conrad tried to protest, but Keith cut him off.

  ‘Just hear me out. First off, this route is vital to Qantas. We fly it every day of the week, every week of the year and in both directions. Second, there’s range: we can only go so far without stopping to refuel. We have to have a staging post in the Middle East and for us, that filling station is Bahrain. Third, Bahrain is past being a suburb of the Poms’ colonial empire. They make their own rules now. In particular, we can only disembark passengers in Bahrain. They don’t allow us to pick up new fares on stopover and we can’t take on further someone who is pre-booked to get off. If you want to do that, you’ve got to get out, check in to Bahrain, do all your formalities and then start over on a new flight and with a different airline. You can fly in with our mob, but you can’t fly out.’

  He paused long enough for Conrad to respond.

  ‘OK, I understand, but surely if we, or rather, if you brief the authorities in Bahrain, won’t they permit an exception for an emergency?’

  Keith Curtis gave him a wry smile, but allowed his Captain to take up the commentary.

  ‘Conrad, if you imagine how much money and risk someone has invested in this abduction attempt, it’s a hop of logic to guess that he must have heaps of money and a barrel full of influence. He’ll have experience, power and passion. Sum it all up, this aircraft has to land in Bahrain and we’ve got to follow their instructions. At the same time, there’s some guy down there who will be determined to get his hands on the flesh he’s paid for and will have the clout to make sure we can’t stand in his way.’

  Conrad Aveling thought furiously to find a way out. He said,

  ‘I understand. But you haven’t said we now give up and simply chuck her out?’

  ‘Too right,’ Bushell replied immediately. ‘Look, first priority is to get you talking to Alexa and hope she can talk back. She’s a lucky lady. There was someone out there to send us warning, there’s we two who know how things are done, plus she has you on board and no way the bad guys could have planned on that.’

  He gave Conrad a hard look before continuing, ‘I don’t expect you to give me detail, but I reckon you’re not quite the straightforward soldier. Maybe have a bit of specialist training which could be of use here?’ He raised an eyebrow and Conrad responded with a positive nod.

  ‘OK,’ said Bushell, ‘How do we get close to Alexa? Do we try Miranda and go for a bit of girly chat with Conrad in the background?’

  Keith Curtis cut in immediately.

  ‘Not that. Too many uncertainties and it leaves the black guy alone and worrying. No, better to take him out for a while and Max can do that a treat. He helped me a couple of months back with some over drinking rowdies.’

  ‘Fair enough, Keith, I’ll go with that. What do you say Conrad?’

  ‘I trust Keith’s judgment.’ Conrad meant it and he could not have chosen a better comment.

  ‘Pete,’ said Bushell turning to his Navigator, ‘go out and find Max. Tell him to come up here in ten. No longer.’

  ‘Will do, Skipper, and we’re now one hour, thirty-five out from touch down.’

  The flight deck door closed behind Grimes as
Peter Bushell addressed the other two.

  ‘Let’s make our plans. Conrad, we need to brief you on Bahrain International Terminal. I’ll hand over to Keith for that. He knows the place much better than I do. And make sure you listen bloody carefully. While you’re in there, we won’t be able to help. We’ll be so far behind we won’t hear the band playing.’

  Time past quickly. Max joined them and Conrad was impressed by his calm ease as he took in his instructions. There was just time for a brief handshake and a murmur of good luck, then Conrad was following Max back into economy. He scrambled into his seat beside the Australian farmers who were now snoring.

  Max turned on his heel and returned up the aisle, entering the first class galley with a blown kiss and a cheery greeting to Miranda.

  ‘Sorry about this love’, he announced, ‘but Captain’s orders’.

  Max swept up a tray holding a bowl of soup. He added a large glass of red wine and bent down to release the lace on one of his winkle picker shoes. Then he burst out of the galley and advanced a few steps up the aisle, gaining speed as he went. Then he proceeded to ‘trip’ over his loose shoe, depositing his tray and its contents all over Georges Eboli.

  Eboli sprang up with an oath, his crutch burning from the hot soup, his crisp white shirt and expensive Hermes tie ruined by the explosion of best Australian claret. The neighbouring passengers looked appalled as Max struggled up from the floor, distraught and gesticulating his apologies. Miranda appeared with hot towels and comfort. Eboli was persuaded into the galley while Max fetched some replacement clothing. As they disappeared, Alexa felt a firm hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Conrad. He beckoned, she followed with Miranda behind as all three processed right to the back of the plane. They stood inside the rear galley and Alexa fell into Conrad’s arms with a gasp of relief.

  He held her tight to him but wasted no time. They had little of it. He spoke into her ear and his voice came to her, soft, familiar, calming.

  ‘Alexa, what’s going on here? You’re in some sort of trouble, yes? I didn’t imagine it? You did send me our message?’

  ‘Oh yes, Connie, yes I did and thank God for you being here. I feel just bloody — all spaced out and confused. I know I’ve been on drugs, but I couldn’t tell you what. The big black man I’m travelling with, he’s taking me to Bahrain to wait for Thierry before we go on for our holiday in Singapore. I’m excited about that.’

  Her voice started to slur and drift away, but she caught herself and shuddered within the encirclement of his arms.

  ‘There’s something wrong, Connie. It’s all such a mess. I don’t just feel ill, I feel frightened.’

  She shivered violently, but with a sudden mood change seemed to relax as she added, ‘but I don’t feel scared with you. I always feel safe with you.’

  She slumped again as if she was falling asleep in his arms. Conrad recognised the symptoms. Some form of barbiturate which was keeping her either side of consciousness. He shook her slightly, and pressed his fingers into her upper arms.

  ‘Don’t go to sleep on me, Alexa. Just two more questions and then you can rest again until we get into Bahrain. First thing, has your companion given you a pill, or a drink or any injection since we left London?’

  ‘Yes, Connie, but only two,’ her voice was back to a slur, ‘just my normal pink ones while we were in the airport — and maybe there’s been one more since.’

  ‘OK,’ Conrad kept his voice reassuring; ‘now I’ll tell you what to do when we’re in Bahrain Airport. Listen very carefully. It’s simple, but you must do exactly what I tell you.’

  ‘Alright then, Mr big, important man.’ She drew back and smiled at him, then threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him provocatively. Conrad did not resist: he knew that this was his only chance to get through to her. He hugged her more tightly to him and whispered one simple instruction over and over again. Then he held her a little away from him and put one hand gently under her chin, making her look at him.

  ‘Repeat what I’ve told you to do.’

  Alexa fixed him with huge flirtatious eyes and did so. She was word perfect. He was relieved, but far from certain sure that it would stick. He made the decision to leave it at that. There was too little time and too many risks in trying for more. But he did ask a final question.

  ‘When does your friend arrive — the man from Paris — Thomas did you say?’

  ‘No. Not Thomas. He’s called Thierry. Thierry Cestac. He’s always reliable. He’ll be there.’

  This was the crowning proof. Certainly she was spaced out and definitely scared. But ‘Cestac’: that was the name in the message from Qantas HQ. The crisis for Alexa was real. Conrad looked past Alexa at Miranda standing there behind them. He mouthed a message.

  ‘Confirm up front. It’s genuine. We’ll act as planned. Now, please take her back.’

  Miranda took over and steered the comatose Alexa back to her seat. Georges Eboli was just in time to see her settling in as he appeared in some clean but unflattering clothes. He sat beside her, demanding to know where she’d been. But the girl was genuinely out of it by then, incapable of coherent reply. Georges scowled and tried to stop worrying. He could not shake off a feeling of disquiet. Finally, he stood up and leaving Alexa to her sleep, he paced up and down the full length of the Boeing jet, sometimes pausing and peering at his fellow passengers. He saw Conrad, stuck away inside his burly farmers, and recognised him for the flight deck visitor. He doesn’t look too threatening now, thought Eboli to himself, not pressed in like that and snoring with his mouth open. Just another geeky air freak, Georges decided and returned more confidently to his seat. Conrad watched him go through slitted eyes and was glad to recognise a little spring in the black man’s step.

  The pink of an Arab dawn began to penetrate the cabin and the passengers could feel the slowing of the aircraft. They heard the familiar tones of Captain Bushell as he announced their imminent arrival into Bahrain. At the controls, Keith Curtis was flying the plane and he spoke to Air Traffic Control. Qantas QF 002 on time and on plan. All would be ready for them, he was reassured, ninety minutes on the ground for refuelling and cabin cleaning. Passengers disembarking in Bahrain to leave the aircraft first. Then all others to the transit lounge. Only those with Transit Pass or Flight Crew permitted to re-enter the aircraft. No joining passengers permitted. All the usual drill, but it had never sounded so ominous.

  Conrad caught a view of sea, sand, scrub and black tarmac unwinding beneath them before the slight jolt of a smooth landing, the noise of engines in reverse thrust, the effect of braking. Then came the slow process of turn and taxi while they listened to Keith Curtis with more details of arrival, temperature and local time.

  Quite some delay, and then the doors opened front and rear. The passengers started to file out, stepping down to the parking apron and gasping as the temperature hit them. Conrad took his place in the line, and received his yellow transit card from a Bahraini airport official, a fixed smile of welcome on his face. He followed the flow of fellow passengers towards the terminal building. Eboli and Alexa were already out of sight but he was expecting that. First class carries its privileges, but he could see no sign of a welcoming party actually on the tarmac which had been one of his fears. They had yet to start unloading the hold luggage. It was essential to their plan that this process should take longer than normal and Keith Curtis had promised a delay.

  Conrad walked into the transit lounge and made directly for a spot which gave him a clear view out over the apron towards the parked Qantas jet. He pulled a paperback novel from his pocket and settled to read it. He had about an hour to wait.

  He would have been relieved if he could have seen Alexa. She was standing quietly beside Georges Eboli as he made polite conversation to a diminutive figure beside him. The small man had approached them as they were waiting by the luggage area. He made a charming self-introduction and flashed a beaming smile at Alexa. He was Mr Riaz, Comptroller of your host�
�s household, delighted and honoured to welcome you both, responsible for all arrangements for your comfort and entitled to the special airport pass which he was now exhibiting. Alexa noted this old world gentility, touched a little with self-importance. Mr Riaz was determined to put them at their ease, offering drinks while they waited and apologies for the delay. Outside, he had more staff to help, plus a van for the luggage as well as the limousine in which he would whisk them to the fine house which awaited them less than an hour’s drive away. What a magical setting it enjoyed, Mr Riaz rolled his eyes dramatically: quite beautiful and almost new. They had been in occupation scarcely a year, although he had himself been in his position as Comptroller for much longer. A Pakistani by birth, he had been living here for almost ten years. Mr Riaz was in Arab dress which suited his small stature. He wore a full beard, neatly trimmed. He kept his small feet pressed closely together, his hands clasped in front of him. Alexa found him innocuous, even engaging and she began to wonder if this whole thing was not a false alarm, whether perhaps Thierry might appear at any moment, flashing his elegance. With a slight smile on her lips, she unconsciously struck a pose and ran a hand through her shoulder length ash blonde hair. This caught the attention of Mr Riaz who turned the full beam of his admiring attention on her, murmuring how truly entranced his Master was going to be to meet her. Something in his bland words and the rapacious flash in his dark little eyes sent shivers down her spine. She was suddenly afraid again. She tried to push down the panic and listened to Georges express his regrets that he was so unsuitably attired due to the idiot steward on the plane. Mr Riaz smiled encouragingly.

  Conrad could only sit and wait. He kept his head in his book and managed to read the script and turn the pages. The clock in his head ticked round towards their action hour. After fifty minutes on his uncomfortable plastic sofa, Conrad snapped shut his book, stood and stretched before commencing a casual wander closer to the big windows. His timing was perfect. He watched Keith Curtis descend the front mobile steps, walk round under the inner port engine, and pause to remove his cap and scratch his head. This was the cue to go.