“I don’t know why Daddy made us take this trip,” Muffie Andrews complained to her mother.
Pamela Andrews, stylishly thin with auburn hair, snapped, “Because he thought you might actually learn something about history and the way other people live.”
Lloyd and Audrey Cameron, silver haired and both somewhat frail, came over to Henry. “I don’t like either that driver or the guide, Mr. Potter,” Lloyd Cameron said quietly. “Do you think there’s any possibility that there’s more to this than a faulty engine?”
Sunday looked at Henry and realised that that was exactly what he was thinking. His eyes were narrowed and his forehead creased. “There’s something up,” he agreed. “I want everyone to get back in the bus. I’m going to tell that pair that I’m an engineer and insist on helping them. But I want all of you inside the bus when I do it.”
“But…” Sunday bit her lip on her protest. Henry had a black belt in karate. Even so, she found herself wishing that Jack Collins and the other guys in their Secret Service detail were around.
As Henry went to speak to the driver and guide, she took the lead in getting the others to slip quietly on the bus.
Muffie Andrews protested, “It’ll be hot in there.”
“You heard my husband. Get in,” Sunday told her sharply.
She realised that Lloyd Cameron was perspiring heavily. Reaching a hand under his arm, she helped him up. She noticed him wince in pain. “Are you all right?” she asked quickly.
“Nothing a nitroglycerin tablet won’t help,” Audrey Cameron said, the worry in her voice evident.
Outside Henry was arguing with the driver and guide. “How can you possibly tell what’s wrong without turning the engine over?” From the corner of his eye he could see that everyone was on the bus. He knew the key was in the ignition. These two were stalling, but for what? Waiting for accomplices? How much would they get if their purpose was robbery? Enough, he realised. Both Pamela Andrews and Audrey Cameron were wearing valuable diamond rings. Lloyd Cameron had a Rolex watch similar to the one he usually wore himself.
Then his blood froze. In Arabic the driver said to Sayyid, “Why wait to kill this one and his wife? Do it now.”
In two steps Henry had leapt on the bus, and slammed and locked the door. He turned the key, raced the engine, and jerked into reverse. He saw Sayyid and the driver reach into their pockets. “Duck,” he shouted. But before he could switch into drive, thundering hoofs signalled the arrival of a dozen armed men, attired in burnooses and robes, who surrounded the bus, their rifles pointing at the windows. Without being told, Henry stopped the bus and turned off the engine.
In New Jersey, Sims paced the library waiting and hoping for the phone listed in his name to ring. The call he expected was already hours late. His instructions were to open the sealed envelope with the travel itinerary and call the White House if a full twenty-four hours lapsed without phone contact.
Not twenty-four hours yet, Sims comforted himself. I am sure all is well.
The ringing of the phone was a symphony to his ears. With dignified haste he reached for it. “Mr. Potter, good morning.”
He was crushed when he heard the familiar voice of Jack Collins, the head Secret Service agent. Collins did not waste time. “Sims, I’ve got the willies sitting around doing nothing. Has Ranger been checking in on time?”
Sims’s fears crystallised. Something had gone wrong. Collins had sensed it too. “I’m afraid Mr… er, Potter is twelve hours behind schedule.”
“Twelve hours!” Collins exploded. “Open the packet.”
“We are under firm orders to wait a full twenty-four hours before we check the itinerary,” Sims protested.
“I’m on my way,” Collins said. “By the time I get there it’ll be a full sixteen hours. I’ll take responsibility for opening the envelope.”
He had just reached Drumdoe when the regular NBC program was interrupted. “A breaking story,” Tom Brokaw announced briskly. “Six American tourists have been kidnapped in Ahman. The victims are the wife and daughter of media mogul Winston Andrews; philanthropist Lloyd Cameron and his wife, Audrey, founder and CEO of the Audrey Cosmetics empire. Not much is known about the other two, Harry and Sandra Potter, a retired educator and his wife from Massachusetts. The minibus they were in disappeared on its way to Silver Mountain, the legendary city carved out of rock some seven thousand years ago and only discovered again in this century.”
Brokaw warned, “The State Department has issued a travel warning urging Americans to stay away from Ahman, since it is obvious their safety cannot be guaranteed.”
Jack Collins and Sims stared at each other.
“Give me the itinerary,” Collins demanded. Ashen, Sims nodded and went to the centre drawer of Henry’s desk.
Collins ripped open the envelope, scanned it, groaned, then with flying fingers pressed the numbers on the phone that would connect him to the Oval Office.
Desmond Ogilvey sat at his desk, the presidential seal behind him, surrounded by his advisors. It had been an uncommonly pleasant day in late March and he’d been longing to play a fast eighteen holes of golf with the Speaker of the House, whom he’d just scathingly attacked in the media but who also was one of his best friends.
A lean, spare man who epitomised the stereotype of the academic he once had been, Des Ogilvey was a remarkably intelligent, shrewd statesman who never forgot that he’d been plucked from congressional obscurity by his predecessor and best friend, Henry Parker Britland, IV.
Instead of golf, the day had brought a major crisis, a new hot-potato hostage situation.
Hostage. The word sickened him. Lebanon… Iran… hijacked planes. Innocent victims, cries for retribution at home, fractured political alliances abroad, sounding board for revolutionists.
This time in Ahman; six Americans vanished on their way to Silver Mountain. The minibus they’d been riding in found one hundred miles to the north of their planned destination.
The kidnapers had chosen their targets well. The wife and daughter of Winston Andrews: he’d already been on the phone three times and was now in his private jet heading for Ahman. Lloyd and Audrey Cameron: they’d been at a state dinner only a month ago. If those people were not returned unscathed, all hell would break loose. Somebody in Ahman would be hung out to dry, and in this case Des was sure it would be the sultan. Mac, westernised, smart, our friend in the volatile Middle East, was vulnerable. His absolute monarchy had been a source of criticism no matter how many reforms he had instigated.
And of course there was another couple involved, a former high-school teacher from Massachusetts, some poor schmuck; named Harry Potter and his wife. Probably saved money all their lives to take that upscale cruise.
The private phone rang. Only one person called on this one.
Henry. Just the person he wanted to talk to about this calamity. Henry was a big buddy of the sultan.