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Authors: Wilbur Smith
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said, ‘Who? How?’ His voice rang like a sabre being drawn from its scabbard.
‘Four hours ago we ran into an ambush. It’s bad. Hazel took a .22 calibre bullet in her brain. She’s in theatre now. The medico is going for the bullet. We don’t know yet if she’s going to make it.’
‘She’s a great lady, Heck. You know how I feel.’
‘I know, Paddy.’ They were warriors, they didn’t wail and bleat.
‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she? What about her baby?’ Paddy growled.
‘They saved her. We have a girl. She seems to be doing well.’
‘Thank God for that, at least.’ Paddy paused and then he asked, ‘Do you have any leads?’
‘I cancelled two of the bastards. They were Somalis, I think.’
‘It has to be the Beast again!’ Paddy said. ‘I thought we had got all of them.’
‘That’s what I thought. We were wrong.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Paddy asked.
‘Find them for me, Paddy. Some of the Tippoo Tip brood must have survived. Find them.’
Hector had built up Cross Bow Security into a formidable operation on the principle that offence was more effective than defence and that good intelligence was the most powerful offensive asset. When Paddy took over from him he had built on those precepts. As one of the directors of Bannock Oil, Hector still had access to the accounts of Cross Bow. He knew just how much Paddy was spending on his intelligence arm. If it had been good before, now it had to be that much better. Hector went on speaking.
‘Is Tariq Hakam still with you?’
‘He is one of my main men.’
‘Send him back into Puntland to search for any survivors of the family of Hadji Sheikh Mohammed Khan Tippoo Tip. Nobody knows that terrain better than Tariq. He was born there.’
‘After what we did to them in Puntland, any of them that got away are almost certainly dispersed across the Middle East.’
‘Wherever they are, just find them. Tariq must draw up a list of every male descendant of Khan Tippoo Tip over the age of fifteen years. Then we will hunt them down; every last one of them.’
‘I hear you, Heck. In the meantime I’ll be pulling for Hazel. If anybody can make it, she is the one. All my money is on her.’
‘Thanks, Paddy.’ Hector broke the contact and went back to the waiting room.
*
An hour dragged by like a cripple, and then another passed even more painfully before a theatre sister came for him. She wore a plastic cap over her hair. A surgical mask dangled around her neck and she had theatre slippers on her feet.
‘How is my wife?’ Hector demanded as he sprang to his feet.
‘Mr Irving will answer all your questions,’ she told him. ‘Please, follow me.’
She led him to one of the post-operative recovery rooms adjoining the operating theatres. The sister opened the door and stood aside for him to enter. Hector found himself in a room with green painted walls. Against the far wall was a single hospital bed. Beside it a heart-monitoring machine stood on its trolley and peeped softly. Across its electronic screen bounced the glowing green electronic point of light keeping time to the heartbeats of the patient on the bed below. It left a vivid green sawtooth trail across the screen. In the few seconds that Hector stood in the doorway he realized the trail was not regular. A rapid series of heartbeats was followed by a distinct pause, then an almost hesitant beat, another pause and then three or four rapid beats.
Irving was leaning over the patient on the bed, screening the supine body. He stood aside as he sensed Hector behind him, enabling Hector to see Hazel’s face.
Her head was bound up in a tight turban of white bandages, which extended under her chin and covered her ears. The lower half of her body was covered with a sheet. She still wore the green theatre gown. There were IV needles in the veins of her arms and the backs of both her hands. Plastic tubes dangled down from the sacs of liquid that were suspended above her on a
‘Four hours ago we ran into an ambush. It’s bad. Hazel took a .22 calibre bullet in her brain. She’s in theatre now. The medico is going for the bullet. We don’t know yet if she’s going to make it.’
‘She’s a great lady, Heck. You know how I feel.’
‘I know, Paddy.’ They were warriors, they didn’t wail and bleat.
‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she? What about her baby?’ Paddy growled.
‘They saved her. We have a girl. She seems to be doing well.’
‘Thank God for that, at least.’ Paddy paused and then he asked, ‘Do you have any leads?’
‘I cancelled two of the bastards. They were Somalis, I think.’
‘It has to be the Beast again!’ Paddy said. ‘I thought we had got all of them.’
‘That’s what I thought. We were wrong.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Paddy asked.
‘Find them for me, Paddy. Some of the Tippoo Tip brood must have survived. Find them.’
Hector had built up Cross Bow Security into a formidable operation on the principle that offence was more effective than defence and that good intelligence was the most powerful offensive asset. When Paddy took over from him he had built on those precepts. As one of the directors of Bannock Oil, Hector still had access to the accounts of Cross Bow. He knew just how much Paddy was spending on his intelligence arm. If it had been good before, now it had to be that much better. Hector went on speaking.
‘Is Tariq Hakam still with you?’
‘He is one of my main men.’
‘Send him back into Puntland to search for any survivors of the family of Hadji Sheikh Mohammed Khan Tippoo Tip. Nobody knows that terrain better than Tariq. He was born there.’
‘After what we did to them in Puntland, any of them that got away are almost certainly dispersed across the Middle East.’
‘Wherever they are, just find them. Tariq must draw up a list of every male descendant of Khan Tippoo Tip over the age of fifteen years. Then we will hunt them down; every last one of them.’
‘I hear you, Heck. In the meantime I’ll be pulling for Hazel. If anybody can make it, she is the one. All my money is on her.’
‘Thanks, Paddy.’ Hector broke the contact and went back to the waiting room.
*
An hour dragged by like a cripple, and then another passed even more painfully before a theatre sister came for him. She wore a plastic cap over her hair. A surgical mask dangled around her neck and she had theatre slippers on her feet.
‘How is my wife?’ Hector demanded as he sprang to his feet.
‘Mr Irving will answer all your questions,’ she told him. ‘Please, follow me.’
She led him to one of the post-operative recovery rooms adjoining the operating theatres. The sister opened the door and stood aside for him to enter. Hector found himself in a room with green painted walls. Against the far wall was a single hospital bed. Beside it a heart-monitoring machine stood on its trolley and peeped softly. Across its electronic screen bounced the glowing green electronic point of light keeping time to the heartbeats of the patient on the bed below. It left a vivid green sawtooth trail across the screen. In the few seconds that Hector stood in the doorway he realized the trail was not regular. A rapid series of heartbeats was followed by a distinct pause, then an almost hesitant beat, another pause and then three or four rapid beats.
Irving was leaning over the patient on the bed, screening the supine body. He stood aside as he sensed Hector behind him, enabling Hector to see Hazel’s face.
Her head was bound up in a tight turban of white bandages, which extended under her chin and covered her ears. The lower half of her body was covered with a sheet. She still wore the green theatre gown. There were IV needles in the veins of her arms and the backs of both her hands. Plastic tubes dangled down from the sacs of liquid that were suspended above her on a
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