Tony Park - Silent Predator

The man stood in the doorway as Bernard, his hands still manacled in front of him, stripped off his stained boxer shorts. In addition to the bruises on his body and the cuts and welts on his feet, his pale skin was covered in mosquito bites. Out of modesty, he turned away from the terrorist and ran the taps. He felt hot water coming out of the shower head. Sitting on the toilet he stared at the man, who smiled behind his mask at the Englishmen’s attempt at showing some defiance despite his embarrassment. Facing back towards the corridor, Bernard now saw a simple wooden chair behind the door. On it was a pair of folded orange overalls. His mind flashed back to videos he’d seen of the captives of Arab terrorists in Iraq. Often the victims wore the same type of garb, that reflected the uniforms worn by the detainees in Guantanamo Bay. Was he being cleaned up for his television performance? Quite possibly. If he could get to the chair he could use that as a weapon. However, the man stood blocking the doorway, his right hand on the pistol grip of the assault rifle, his finger curled through the trigger guard. His eyes followed every move Bernard made.

Naked, he stepped under the shower and attacked his filthy body with the bar of soap. There was a small window of frosted glass set high up on the wall beside him and if he’d stood on his toes he might have been able to see out. It was only opened a few centimetres and he sensed that if he tried to look out or open it wider he would be clubbed down. The man seemed to read his mind for, when Bernard glanced back over his shoulder at him, he shook his head. Bernard nodded his acquiescence. He lathered his hair with the soap and washed himself from head to toe again.

As he rinsed, Bernard caught a strong whiff of smoke. He looked back again at the guard and saw that he, too, had his nose in the air, and was sniffing. A gust of sea air brought a curling wisp into the bathroom, along with some black flakes of ash which disintegrated as soon as they landed on Bernard’s wet skin. Bernard stepped back from the window.

‘Enough! Out!’ The man brandished his AK and Bernard stepped out of the bathtub, dripping on the polished concrete floor. ‘Sit.’ Bernard followed the barrel’s direction and sat on the floor, knees drawn up, in the corner next to the commode.

The terrorist stepped into the bathtub, took another menacing glance at Bernard and quickly raised himself on his toes and looked out the bathroom window. He swore in the Latin language Bernard had heard spoken before — probably Portuguese. ‘Stay,’ he barked at Bernard, then turned and walked out, slamming the bathroom door behind him and turning the key in the lock.

Bernard leapt to his feet and got back into the bathtub. He opened the tiny window a few more centimetres and peered out. The darkness outside was lit by flames. Next to the dwelling he was in was a small separate circular cottage with white walls and a thatched roof which was rapidly being engulfed by fire. Bernard could feel the growing heat on his face. No one else was outside and he heard a door open somewhere else in the house. The masked terrorist, his rifle now slung over his back, ran outside to a tap hidden in a flowerbed of bougainvilleas, and uncoiled a garden hose.

Bernard scrambled out of the bath, nearly slipping in his haste, and pulled on his dirty boxer shorts. He put his eye to the keyhole and smiled for the first time since his abduction. He saw nothing — the key was still in the lock. He looked around him for something to stick in the keyhole. The flushing mechanism on the toilet had long since broken off the top of the cistern and a piece of wire now protruded through the hole in the top of the porcelain cover. He pulled the top off the cistern and unhooked the wire. Next, he tipped Robert’s hair from a sheet of newspaper and slid the paper under the door and poked the wire into the keyhole. ‘Come on, come on,’ he whispered as he jiggled. The key fell with a clatter and he held his breath. Hopefully it hadn’t bounced off the newspaper. He pulled the sheet to him. ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed as the key slid under the door. Picking it up in his cuffed hands he almost dropped it in his anxiety. He turned the key in the lock and the door opened.

Bernard quickly grabbed a towel and dried his feet, leaving a pink stain. He didn’t want to leave footprints on the polished floor of the house and make it easer for his captor to trace his movements, but his soles still oozed blood. So be it. He moved quickly down the hallway. ‘Robert?’ There was no answer from the first door. He moved past the room where he had been imprisoned and stopped by the next. ‘Robert, it’s Bernard. Are you in there?’ In answer came murmuring from the other side and the noise of metal rattling on metal.

Bernard tried the bathroom door key in the lock and, to his surprise, it worked. This was hardly state-of-the-art security, but the terrorists were also relying on their prisoners being bound and gagged most of the time. Robert lay on his back, dressed only in underpants, on the bare springs of an iron-framed bed, his wrists and ankles handcuffed to the frame. Bernard moved to him and untied the hessian hood, then peeled off the duct tape from the politician’s mouth. His head had been shaved close to bald, the skin of his scalp showing purest white against his tanned face.

‘Thank god,’ Robert Greeves said, working his jaw. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Fire outside. Looks like there’s only one man guarding us.’ Bernard tugged on Greeves’s handcuffs then ran his hand along the bed frame.

Greeves turned his head to follow Bernard’s hands. ‘It’s solid — same as the one I was on when they, when they…’

‘It’s all right. I’ll get you out of here somehow.’

‘How?’

Bernard’s panic was mounting. Greeves was right. He was cuffed to a solidly welded frame. Without a key, or bolt cutters to sever the handcuffs’ chain, Greeves was trapped. They couldn’t even remove the bed’s head and foot as these, too, had been welded to the spring base. ‘Oh, shit.’

‘Bernard, listen to me.’ Bernard ran a hand through his hair in frustration and looked down at Greeves. His eyes took in the man’s injuries. Blue-black bruising about his chest and abdomen, bloodied feet — like his — and dried blood all down his left leg from below the knee. It looked as though they had cut him there. Greeves’s eyes were bright, though. Defiant. ‘Bernard, get out. Now!’

‘No, Robert, I can’t leave you, I — ’

‘Listen to me. This is an order, Bernard. You know you can’t get me out of here and you probably only have a few minutes before the guard comes back. You must get away and find help. If he’s alone he won’t be able to move me until the others come back. Did you hear the vehicle leave earlier?’

Bernard nodded. ‘But, Robert — ’

‘Shut up, man. The quicker you go, the better chance I’ve got.’

‘I’ll overpower him, get his gun and shoot the chain off your cuffs.’ Bernard turned to move.

‘No! Stay here and listen to me, damn it. He’s got an assault rifle. If you botch it, then we’re both dead. The best chance you have is to get away and get help, Bernard. I’m more valuable to them alive than dead. Go now, before it’s too late. With luck you can organise a rescue while this chap’s still on his own.’

Bernard looked back at the door, expecting the guard to return any second. He smelled the smoke, which was stronger now, though he heard the spray of the hose. He took Greeves’s chained right hand in his and squeezed tight. ‘You’re right, damn it. God be with you, Robert.’

‘I’ve got you, haven’t I? That’s all I need.’ He forced a smile, then it vanished from his face. ‘If, well… just tell Janet and the kids I love them. And tell the PM these bastards can go fuck themselves.’ Bernard smiled down at him, feeling the first tears prick the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m sure Helen will massage that into something more palatable and patriotic for the media, but you get the general idea.’