“Very quiet around here, sir. We miss you and Mrs. Potter.”
“We’ll keep in touch.”
Sunday had been reading the abbreviated copy of the International Herald Tribune that had been slipped under their door. “Henry, look,” she exclaimed.
They both stared at the picture of Hasna Ibn Saata. The caption under it read “Advisor to the sultan of Ahman dead of heart attack in Mumbai.”
Together they skimmed the story. His body had been found by his security chief, General al Hez, and his longtime personal physician, Dr. Ayla Ramas.
“Ramas,” Henry snapped. “I never heard of him. He’s not Hasna’s longtime personal physician.”
He took the paper from Sunday. “I’m very glad to have the opportunity to try to get that guide to talk tomorrow. My gut instinct tells me that Mac may have serious trouble brewing. Hasna looked terribly frail. If he felt he had to go personally to India, it must have been a mighty important mission.”
In his stateroom four decks down, Maja bin Sayyid was on the phone to General al Hez, who had returned to Ahman with the body. As Henry had, he spoke as though in casual conversation. “Yes, sir,” he said, “I am happy to report that I have found exactly the calibre of tourists we were seeking. Tomorrow I will escort a group of six to Silver Mountain. Four of them will interest you. The Camerons; Lloyd and Audrey. He is the retired chairman of Parker and Van Ness International Investments. She founded Audrey Cosmetics. Very well known to the media. They just gave five hundred million dollars to found a research hospital. They’re quite elderly. Why they thought they could do the horseback part of the trip amazes me.”
He smiled at the “Very good” he heard from his listener. “I also will be escorting Pamela and Muffie Andrews, who are the wife and daughter of Winston Andrews, the chairman of Andrews Communications.
“Quite right, sir. The media giant.”
He listened again, then smiled. “I knew you’d be pleased. The other couple are Harry and Sandra Potter, a nondescript former high school teacher and his wife. But surely they may have a few influential friends in academic circles.”
When bin Sayyid hung up, he began to go over the plan step by step. They would dock at nine tomorrow morning. A small motor coach would be awaiting them on the pier. They would drive slowly through the port city of Acqiom to allow the visitors to enjoy the ancient architecture and quaint streets.
In a way playing the role of a guide amused him. He knew he had been very foolish yesterday to show his contempt for the sultan. Today in his bus lecture he would praise His Majesty, pointing out the modern buildings, the handsome hotels, the better roads, the state-of-the-art schools-all of which had been built by the sultan with revenue from the oil fields.
When al Hez is president of Ahman I will take his place as general of the Army, Sayyid thought, envisioning the palace he would build with his share of the oil revenues.
Mentally he reviewed the plan. The tour bus would appear to break down three kilometres from Silver Mountain. It would be surrounded by men on horseback who would subdue the six passengers. They would be held in one of the mountain caves two ranges away from Silver Mountain and ransom demands would be made.
Bin Sayyid smiled coldly. Winston Andrews controlled TV network and cable channels, newspapers, and radio stations around the world. When word was released that his wife and daughter were being held prisoner by a band of rogue Bedouins, the media would screech the story. Add to that the powerful business connections of the Camerons, which would raise vociferous protests for the illustrious couple.
From within Ahman the revolution would start. The sultan would be denounced as a corrupt leader, a despot who could not maintain law and order.
When the bodies are found, General al Hez will be welcomed by the world as a fearless warrior who avenged the deaths by finding and punishing the kidnapers and deposing the sultan, who will of course die attempting to escape.
A masterful plan, Sayyid thought. There was just one question. Was it worthwhile to bother with keeping the Potters alive at all? Wouldn’t it be better to simply dispatch them at once? Mr. Potter annoyed him intensely.
Regretfully, he shook his head. No, better to let the outside world hope and pray for all the captives. Better to let the sultan promise a swift and safe end to the ordeal, as he surely would. Then when hopes were dashed, he would be blamed.
The next morning Sunday was sure she wasn’t wrong. In the bus she could see contempt in the eyes of the guide when Henry asked him a question. But his answer was smooth enough.
“Oh, sir, you can understand. In any country there is a measure of political unrest. No matter how benevolent an absolute monarch may be, there are those who long to have a voice in their own governing. Your democracy has set an example, has it not?”
“He’s too oily for me,” Sunday whispered to Henry as the minibus drove slowly through the crowded streets of Acqiom.
“I agree,” Henry murmured in her ear. “But never mind him. I used to explore Silver Mountain with Mac during summer vacations. We can go off by ourselves when we get there. I’ll be your guide.”
If we get there, Sunday thought ruefully as the minibus began to make coughing sounds. For the past two hours they’d been riding on a seemingly endless road through the desert. Except for occasional clusters of small flat-roofed stone houses, it seemed to be virtually uninhabited, the only company the trucks and tour buses that whizzed past them on the two-lane road.
Several times Henry had commented on the leisurely pace the driver had set. “It’s not exactly the Amalfi coast, where the view is mind boggling,” he said. “The ship sails at seven. At this rate we’ll spend more time on the road than in one of the great wonders of antiquity.”
It was clear that the seventeen-year-old daughter of Winston Andrews was in absolute agreement. “Mom, this is so boring,” she commented a number of times, obviously not caring who heard her.
By the time the range that held the Silver Mountain loomed before them, there were no buses or trucks in either direction. The driver suddenly pulled off onto a road between two crevices. Almost hidden, it wound to the right. He stopped the minibus several hundred yards later.
The guide and he conferred, then Sayyid stood up. “Will everyone please leave the vehicle?” he asked courteously. “The driver must try to locate the trouble with the engine and feels it would be safer. He hopes it will not be too long.”
As he rose Henry said, “I’m a fairly good mechanic. I’d be happy to help locate the trouble.”
Sayyid looked at him dismissively. “The driver will not require assistance, Mr. Potter.”
“Nevertheless he’s going to get it if he doesn’t locate the trouble soon,” Henry said firmly when the passengers were gathered outside. They had all moved to stand in the shadow of an overhanging boulder, shielded from the now blazingly hot midday sun. The hood of the minibus was up. Both the driver and guide were bent over the engine.