“A collect call.” He gave the number registered to Sims at Drumdoe.
There was no answer.
Ten minutes later he tried again, this time giving the main number.
Again no answer. They’d given the rest of the household staff a holiday, but where was Sims?
Of course. He had opened the envelope. He had contacted Des. If Henry knew anything it was that Sims and Collins, with all the Secret Service guys, were on the way here now.
There was a line for the phone booth. Henry glanced out at a sea of angry faces. There was just one thing he could do. “Another number collect,” he told the operator, then prayed. “Please God let him take the call.”
It was seven-fifty. Sunday knew that for the last hour their captors had been looking in to see if they were awake. Now she was sure that unless they all began to stir, suspicion would be aroused. Had Henry gotten to Acqiom? Who had he contacted there? What had he overheard last night that so upset him?
No use thinking about it, she decided.
Clearly it was going to be a brilliantly sunny day. Light was filtering into this cavern far more than it had yesterday or the day before. The blanket that last night had been a reasonable facsimile of a man’s body now seemed pathetic as a disguise.
Muffie Andrews seemed to understand the problem. She left her mother’s side, their blanket in hand. “Mrs. Potter, maybe your husband would like our blanket too.”
Together they threw it over the supposed form of Henry.
“Such caring,” bin Sayyid’s voice echoed hollowly from the opening. “Surely your husband would enjoy a last meal, Mrs. Potter.”
Last meal, Sunday thought.
“And, Muffie,” bin Sayyid continued. “You don’t have to wear the shurshaf or veil now. Why don’t you take them off?” It was not a request.
Pamela Andrews stood up, thrusting Muffie at Sunday. “My daughter will remain suitably garbed. I must speak to you, Mr. Sayyid.” She began to move forward when the faint sound of a vehicle approaching made Sayyid turn abruptly from the opening.
Desmond Ogilvey was about to leave his office with Patrick Blair, his chief of staff, to once again face the media, when one of his private phones rang. Probably his mother calling to offer suggestions on what to do in the crisis. He wasn’t up to it.
Impatiently, he put his hand on the door of the Oval Office as the ringing continued to permeate the room. There was an urgency about it that was bothering him.
Reluctantly he nodded to Blair. “Tell my mother I’ll call her back.”
He watched impatiently as Blair’s brief hello was followed by widened eyes. “Are you kidding?” the chief of staff demanded.
Some instinct made Ogilvey rush across the room.
“Sir, it’s got to be a sick joke,” Blair told him. “The operator wants to know if you’ll accept a collect call from a Mr. Potter.”
At eight-thirty, Henry waited impatiently, watching the side gate of the palace. Every passing second was agony. Had Des been able to get through to Mac or had the call been stopped inside the palace? If he did get through, had Mac believed that he could trust none of his Army brass, that his own life was in danger? And if he did understand, would he be able to get out of the palace unnoticed?
If Mac didn’t show up… It was one of the few times in his life that Henry felt absolutely helpless. There was no alternate plan that could possibly work.
Sunday. The other hostages… Please, God… Henry realised he was praying. Time was so short. He needed a miracle.
And then he saw what he had been desperate to see. A service van stopped at the guard’s station and was permitted to pass. It drove up the street, around the corner, and slowed.
The driver rolled down the tinted window. He was dressed in a coarse, dark robe, a flowing burnoose, and heavy dark glasses. But when he whipped the glasses off, nothing could conceal the aristocratic features of the sultan of Ahman.
Three minutes later, aware that time was racing against them, they drove back to the palace. This time the guard waited before opening the door.
“Insolent…” the sultan muttered.
Henry jammed his foot on his friend’s instep. “Mac, wait!”
The gate opened. They drove through. In the service parking area the sultan ripped off the coarse robe, revealing a western business suit. “Let’s go, Henry.”
A few minutes later, in his magnificent private office, surrounded by officers of the division that was his personal guard, he sent for General al Hez. When the man arrived, confident and with self-satisfaction emanating from every pore, he was astonished to be surrounded by the soldiers.
“You and your entire staff are under arrest,” the sultan told him. “You are a traitor to your country and your people. For the sake of your ancestors and descendants, the captives had better be safe.”
Al Hez paled, then gasped as Henry stepped forward. “I know that you have ordered my wife executed in less than an hour. Call it off.”
Now al Hez smiled. “I know what will happen to me, but it’s already too late for her, Mr. Potter. I have given the final order to proceed. No more communication will be accepted as genuine.”
The car or van that had arrived had distracted Sayyid. Nearly an hour had passed. What was going on? If only I understood Arabic, Sunday fretted. Cautiously she slipped up to the opening and stood next to it. Clearly some sort of preparations were being made, but for what? She could tell that Sayyid and the driver lapsed into English occasionally. Then she heard Sayyid say, “I can wait for the girl. It’s only fifteen minutes more till ten o’clock. After we get rid of the Potter couple, we can do what we want. The old man is helpless and the other women terrified. At five of ten, tell them to pull open the barrier and drag the first two out.”
Henry and the sultan were in the first of the armada of helicopters. They had just had their first glimpse of the mountain range where the prisoners were being held. “Almost there, Henry,” the sultan promised.
“If only we had time to go through the tunnel.” Henry’s throat was closing with tension. It was two minutes of ten.
“We don’t but Allah is with us. We will be there in time.”
“They might panic and shoot all of them.”
“They will know their only hope for mercy is if the hostages remain unharmed.”
Henry looked back. Two dozen helicopters, each containing six armed men, enough to overpower the kidnapers but too many to surprise them. They’d already be poised to shoot Sunday.
They were over the cave. Henry looked down, then sickened as he realised there was barely room for one helicopter to land near it. In the important first moments the soldiers would be useless.
“Put it down,” the sultan commanded the pilot. The descent was rapid. As the wheels touched the rocky surface, both men jumped out. There were only seconds left till ten o’clock.
“We can’t wait,” Henry snapped.
“I know it. Stay here,” the sultan ordered the pilot and co-pilot. “It’s too late for guns.”
The captors had broken the barrier and were coming for her. Lloyd Cameron made a futile effort to stand. Audrey Cameron, Muffie, and Pamela Andrews were shrieking.
Sunday fought back. She stiffened her palm and cracked it on the throat of the first man who tried to grab her, then attempted to kick the second one. But then her arms were roughly yanked behind her back and Sayyid was in front of her.
“Get him,” he ordered, nodding to the prone figure that was supposed to be Henry’s body.
The yelp of surprise from the man who found himself holding an empty blanket and the realisation that Henry was missing stunned Sayyid. He grabbed Sunday by the hair and yanked her face up to his. “Where is he? How did he escape?”