The Dragon's Tale: A Jack Lauder Thriller (19 page)

CHAPTER 6

     A couple of days after her rescue Diana was in the same room but with her back to the men congregating in Rashid’s house. Rashid had just said, "Don’t worry about her, she doesn't understand Arabic!” Oh no? Arabic was of course one of those languages it had become important to master for a girl who had to make a living in the casinos and pleasure palaces of the world, and not necessarily on her back. Horizontal attributes had proved useful numbers from time to time in her equation of success and they had got her out of a spot of trouble on more than one occasion (for instance she and her supposedly pious host had already enjoyed their first sexual encounter but he had been mistaken in thinking that the tear she had shed had been a sign of her gratitude to him) but they were not as good as facility with languages. But this wasn’t something these guys needed to know and, for the time being, she was stuck in this cage. Some cage, though! And she was safer here than out there so she had to be happy with the billet for now, but she intended to escape, and with some compensation for her time in captivity.

     Perhaps the reward was about to be posted as it became clear that the group was talking about a daring raid on a government target. Thousands of Filipino conscripts were garrisoned in Mindanao, keeping an eye on the Muslim fishing villages which provided a conduit of supplies and information for the guerillas.  They were masters of this chain of islands. The government troops might hold the cities but that meant no more than had the American stranglehold over Saigon during the Vietnam War. The discussion became heated as different factions argued over the precise target and the mode of attack. It was Rashid’s quiet voice, the missionary one, which calmed them all.  Missionary! Diana laughed inwardly. She’d never come across a priest quite like Rashid. His point was, of course, that he was doing Allah’s work. Allah seemed to agree with killing human beings, provided they weren’t of the faith. The qualification wasn’t all that stringent. You simply had to disagree with some extreme and irrational pronouncement made by some allegedly holy man.

     It was difficult to keep a straight face as they prattled on, finalising the details for a military coup. She heard enough to gather that the target was an army group based just outside Zamboanga. The problem was the information was going to be of no use to her because she couldn’t escape. Her mind worked overtime. It wasn’t she was altruistic enough to want to stop the plotters at all costs, just that she saw an opportunity to ensure that her passage back to Hong Kong was arranged, paid for and made pretty comfortable by the authorities. There might even be a decent pay-off in it too. How could she organise that?  The conversation over and the prohibited corks popping, she excused herself in English and left for the bathroom, knowing eight pairs of eyes were on her – everyone’s but Rashid’s. He didn’t need to. He’d get his eyeful later. The others could whistle Dixie. “Eat your hearts out, boys,” she whispered to herself and put in an extra provocative sway as she pushed open the door. She was gratified to hear one of the plotters castigating Rashid for his choice of woman. She was unclean, an
Infidel
, he urged. “Oh yeah,” she continued under her breath, “I know what you’d like sunshine. Dream on.”     

She smiled sweetly at the guard at the front door. The man, no more than a boy, looked at her, swallowed hard and turned away. She stopped and did up a button on his khaki fatigues. It had come undone over his muscled torso. Sweat stood out on the soldier’s forehead. Diana smiled while the boy hyperventilated. She waved a farewell and went into the bathroom.

     More time went by and Rashid seemed to have listened to his men, or perhaps it was because he now thought he owned her, but she found herself suddenly forced to dress discreetly and, if he didn’t insist on her donning the scarf, she was obliged to cover up whilst men were around. It was noticeable, though, that, once they were alone, Rashid always had a desire to see the whiteness of her skin. He was careful not to allow even his closest aides to view his prize in a state of undress. He insisted that it would inflame their lust and bar them, at least temporarily, from heaven. If they were to die with such thoughts on their mind there was no telling the depths of eternal torment they might suffer. In this way, Rashid’s selfishness could be interpreted as protectiveness and generosity but she guessed the real feeling in the camp was that Rashid had been barking mad to bring the western woman to their guerilla base. All western women were whores, fit only for one thing, and Rashid was getting plenty of it, whilst everyone else was living like a monk. The additional sexual jealousy fuelled the existing resentment of men far away from home, living in conditions of deprivation not shared by their leaders, particularly Rashid, who, despite his status as
muezzin
spared himself nothing. His lifestyle was as ostentatious as a desert sheikh’s
.
He was the self-styled Emir of Mindanao. The danger didn’t help either. Everyone was looking over his shoulder nervously. The Philippines Army was never far away. Their position here was precarious. It depended entirely on their leader’s credentials as a missionary. The Government knew precisely what he was up to but, whilst Libya supported the Muslim population as a whole as well as giving secret support to the Moro guerillas, they went along with it because it brought in much needed foreign exchange. It was a fine balancing act and it would only take one breath of wind to bring the high wire act down. Everyone was aware that their next action could be their last. A blood bath could follow. Rashid was meanwhile lining his own pockets by dodgy deals with every crook in this part of Asia and now he had all but kidnapped a western woman to gratify a lust, which his status should have made him shun.

     It was worse when her protector was off on one of his forays. Diana prowled around like a caged tiger and the guards quickly learned to avoid her. Even though she was allowed the run of the place, she wasn’t trusted an inch. Armed guards followed her everywhere. She was like a songbird in a gilded cage, her days spent lounging by the pool, her nights in Rashid’s bed, albeit alone. As soon as Rashid returned she took him to task. “Look,” she said, “I want to go home.”

     “Where’s home?” he asked politely.

     “Hong Kong,” she replied.

     “You don’t look Chinese?”

     “Hong Kong’s cosmopolitan in case you hadn’t noticed.”

     “Hong Kong used to be yours when it was a downtrodden colony of the effete British Empire but now it is about to become a province of China in case you hadn’t noticed. Anyway, what do you have in Hong Kong that makes you call it home?”

     “It’s where I live.”

     “Here is where you live at the moment. Think of it as home.”

     “How can I do that? It’s a barracks! You told me when I came that you would find me rooms in a hotel.”

     “I lied.”

     She looked at him flabbergasted, “You are a holy man, aren’t you? You’re not allowed to lie!”

     “I have to do as I see fit when I go about Allah’s purpose. My role here is to make converts to the true faith, to overthrow the infidel.”

     “You don’t have to keep me a prisoner to do that!”

     “You’re not a prisoner! You’re a guest!”

     “A guest is allowed out once in a while - to take in the sights!”

     “There’s nothing to see. Jungle, mosquitoes, malaria, disease, pirates, war, famine, and more jungle. Here it is safe.”

     “A guest would be allowed to leave!” Diana shouted, fully aware that she was getting nowhere.

     Rashid shrugged. “You can always return to the pirates,” he said, “they will welcome you back.”

     The thought made her shudder. “You knew those men,” she said bitterly, “for all your talk about God and conversions and good works, you operate through those savages.”

     “They are all God’s children. They are at an early stage of their development. It is not long since head-hunters roamed these jungles. Even the generation just past had its cannibals. Cruelty is a way of life, a way of fear, of domination. Unfortunately, they have not had the benefit of the easy life you enjoy in the west. Different rules apply here as they do in all the wild places of the world.” Having just given the philosophy lesson, Rashid shrugged and strolled away.

     This time though she was frustrated to the point of tears and the only privacy she got was in the bathroom. She retreated there now. Running the tap so no sound would escape she said, “What?” snarling out the words. “What am I supposed to do? You’re not fucking here, are you? You never approve of anything I do!” She was talking to Jack and she sat down on the loo and put her head in her hands. When, several minutes later, she looked up again, tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Bastard!” she muttered. “You bastard!” She would never forgive him for leaving her.

CHAPTER 7

     The object of Diana’s frustration awoke after a deep and dreamless sleep. At first he didn’t know where he was and then the boat’s motion as it scudded through the swell brought it all back to him. The girl had gone, though. He struggled up on deck to find Ian still at the helm. “Hey, look, it’s Rip Van Winkel,” he said cheerfully enough. Jack turned and saw the Filipina girl at the bow. She returned his gaze. She looked lovely in her ankle-length white cotton dress now that it had dried out. Her black hair shone, so did her eyes as she gazed into his. “See you got luckier than me, Pom,” the Aussie added, winking hugely. “Good body, her. Amazing how quickly you forget, ain’t it?” Jack could tell from the look in his eyes, a mixture of envy and respect, that no malice was intended by the comment.

     “Nothing happened,” he said. 

     The Aussie winked. It was obvious he didn’t believe him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve changed course.”

     “Why?”

     “The girl, Conchita – you didn’t know her name, did you?”

     Jack shook his head. “No,” he admitted.

     “Good trick that. No names, no pack drill!”

     “It wasn’t like that!” Jack protested.  If it sounded o.t.t it was perhaps because it wasn’t as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, it was just that he hadn’t wanted to take advantage of her vulnerability, but now he was being lampooned as if he had.

     “I’ll believe you, thousands wouldn’t! “

     “What were you trying to tell me about the change of course?”

     “Connie lives on the Celebes side. Good news that, mate. Easy landings there. No coastguard for miles.”

     “You have a problem with the coastguard?” It was just a reminder that he could bite as well. The Aussie went silent and spat into the foaming wake around the hull. “How far is it from the city?” Jack added.

     “You’ll need your jungle kit,” the Australian chuckled.

     “Great!” Jack exclaimed ungraciously.

     “Never mind, you Pommie bastard, you might get a ride from Connie’s village.”

       “Connie?” Jack said to the girl, pointing at her. She nodded, her face shining. He pointed to himself. “I’m Jack,” he added.

     “Hey Jane, meet Tarzan,” the Aussie called mockingly.

     The girl ignored him and repeated, “Jack?” in a delightful voice. They both looked slightly bashful and then solemnly shook hands, much to the amusement of their host. “You’re supposed to do that before not after!” he snorted.

     An hour or so brought them to a suitable beach for disembarking and Ian brought the yacht in skilfully, dropping the spinnaker at the last moment and tacking to allow Jack and Conchita to step over the side in water shallow enough to wade ashore. The Aussie anchored up then. Placing some clothes in a plastic bag, he swam ashore behind them. Conchita was certain of her direction and headed off into the forest, the two men following behind. Ian was nervous. The mere thought of dry land seemed to disorientate him. He grumbled on behind Jack and two or three times threatened to turn round and head back to the boat. “Stick with it,” Jack said, “at least you should get some fresh provisions.”

     After a walk of about an hour, they reached a village. “This my home,” Conchita announced proudly, the first English she’d spoken. Jack was about to respond when someone caught sight of them and it was suddenly apparent that some of the villagers thought Conchita was a ghost. They fled from her with shocked faces and screamed in a constant “
ululu
” as they ran down the dusty street. Eventually it was Conchita’s sister who ran up and, after first of all looking totally shocked and then touching her as if to ensure she was corporeal, she finally took her sister in her arms and hugged her as if she had thought she‘d never see her again, which was of course true as the news of the shipwreck had clearly reached even these remote parts. The next moment her parents arrived and soon they were all down on their knees on the ground exchanging mutual love and tears. Another group ran up, including a young man who seemed utterly bewildered.

     “Whoa, trouble for you there, mate!” Ian said in a whispered aside.

     “Why?”

     “That’s Connie’s husband. Rather you than me, mate. He’ll be after you with his gutting knife.”

      “Thanks a bunch,” Jack said, “that’s all I need.”

     “You know my motto, mate. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time!”

     “Bollocks! It was you who wanted to get in her pants, not me.”

     “Yeah, really? Are you sure?” The Aussie had a big smirk on his face as if he knew that Jack wasn’t quite as pure of mind as he pretended. “Anyways, someone up there must have been looking after me. He looks a tough, little geezer, don’t he?”

     He was right on that score. Conchita’s husband, who had now grabbed hold of her with a gusto which suggested her present vertical position was under threat, had lifted her up bodily and was swinging her round. He was a young, lean man with a strongly muscled torso. Moments later Conchita whispered in his ear and pointed at the two Europeans, who were sufficiently rare specimens in these parts to have excited some comment of their own. “I do hope she’s not seen fit to confess all,” Ian teased. To Jack’s consternation the young man’s face seemed to turn a thunderous colour and he advanced on the Europeans, his wife in his wake. Jack braced himself for the inevitable. His face fell in shock when the man fell on his knees in front of him and grabbed his hand. Not for the first time a westerner found himself embarrassed by a natural show of emotion from a member of a less sophisticated race. “Struth!” Ian exclaimed, “you’re a hero, mate!”

     “Me?”

     “You didn’t tell me you saved the girl’s life.”

     “Did I?”

     “And you fought off a shark. Who the fack are you? Mel Gibson?”

     Before long a feast of the village’s resources was in preparation. A fast-flowing river ran through the settlement and the afternoon became so hot that Jack and Ian were soon standing in the stream with a group of villagers, passing round a gourd filled with a strong tasting alcohol. It was like a rough, yellow coloured wine but twice as strong. “Worse than a pint of warm Pommie piss, this,” Ian said uncharitably but it didn’t stop him throwing the gourd to his head and downing the contents for the umpteenth time. Soon the muddy brown water was hitting Jack like a sledgehammer. He dived into the stream and swam against the current but made no headway as he was speared down towards the rapids. Ian shrieked with laughter and Conchita stood on the bank, a twinkle in her dark brown eyes. Jack dragged himself to his feet and waded upriver again before trying the same trick.

     Fortunately, there was someone in the village who spoke half-decent English. “Do you have a telephone in the village?” he asked. The question was greeted with some hilarity.

     “Oh sure,” Ian retorted, “look at the overhead cables!”

     “Well, a radio then?”

     It turned out there was a telephone post about half a day’s march from there. The sun was starting to go down so Jack said he’d try for it the next day.

     “Do you no good, mate. Told you, she’s gone!”

     “Cheer me up, why don’t you?”

     Listen,” the Aussie said, “when I go, I’ll run you round past Zamboanga and drop you off.”

     “I thought you didn’t want to land there.”

      “Hey, no worries, maybe I’ve come to like you, even if you are a Pom! Anyway, who said anything about landing? I’ll put you ashore, then you’re on your own.”

     “Deal,” Jack replied.

     The village’s resources might have been meagre but they spared nothing at the feast. An abundance of food was washed down with the island’s rough, watered down spirit. Jack sat up until late in the night. Conchita and her husband were his neighbours and, with the interpreter not far away, they enjoyed their first conversation. Ian had, in the meantime, scored. “You see, you’re not the only one, Pom!” His face had a self-satisfied smirk as he walked by, supported in his inebriated state by a dusky beauty who clung to his arm.

     “Careful, that’s probably tantamount to getting engaged in these parts.”

     The saddest moment came when he had to say goodnight to Conchita. He could sense something in her. She had been given a glimpse of another way of life and suddenly what she had was no longer as satisfactory as it had been. He knew the feeling but the other way. He had been given a glimpse of the simple life and his mind was working along similar lines. It was ironic that, just as he was wondering what it would be like to live in a tropical paradise like this with a dark, sweet beauty warming his bed every night, she was thinking the same but about swanky hotels and life in the shopping arcades of the west. In the morning he felt an indescribable sense of loss as he walked down to the boat. He stood looking at the receding shoreline for many a minute after the yacht had pulled away. “Looking a bit wistful there, mate?” Ian enquired.

     “Yeah,” Jack replied, “just thinking about the fragility of the human condition.”

     “Whoo!” the Aussie said, “you’ve got the bug, that’s your problem, mate! Fallen for the lure of the east. It’s easy, mate, it gets into your head and then it gets into your blood.”

      Jack looked at him, “And then?”

      “And then there‘s no going back.”

     The next day he stood at the prow as the yacht arrowed swiftly into the stone steps of the Zamboanga City jetty. His clothes were ripped, he was shoeless, his hair was unkempt, his shirt buttonless, but his head was high and his eyes were as clear as a blue Indonesian dawn. He felt more alive than he had ever known; the only regret was what had happened to Diana. He was ambivalent about his feelings for her. She was too much out for herself but there was something about her he had needed and he had missed it all these years even though he had managed to put it into his past. The second meeting had shown the fire wasn’t dead, it just needed the kindling. Now the fear was the signs were no longer vital and he felt somehow he’d miss her and he’d regret the lost opportunity. The chances of her being alive looked remote as Conchita’s village had heard of no survivors. What would be worse, he conjectured, was if, as Ian thought, she might have been captured and was now doomed to a life of sexual slavery in some foreign harem. How would she handle that? He perked up slightly when he thought how adaptable Diana was. She’d end up the mama-san.

     His thoughts came to an end and he concentrated as Ian killed the genoa after tacking the boat in to the jetty’s edge, so smoothly and so accurately that Jack was able to step from the prow to the shore with the lightest of springs. He waved from the slithery stairs as the Australian’s voice boomed,  “Good on you, mate, look me up at Raffles!”

     “Chance ’d be a fine thing!” Jack replied and the Aussie saluted as the boat gybed, the boom passing harmlessly over his head. Jack watched them go until she was too small to make out the figure at the wheel then he sighed and thought how fleeting this life was. He would probably never see the Aussie again but he had felt closer to him than any man he’d met back home. He stepped up on to the quay, where he was momentarily dazzled by the bloom of a thousand flowers. He saw gladioli, sampaguita, chysanthemum and heliconia flourishing on the walls as a welcome to tourists. The sight was incongruous amid the noise and the hustle and bustle of the working quay. Shading his eyes against the sun he looked around, trying to get his bearings. The first thing to do was contact the police and get them on the trail of the pirates who had kidnapped Diana. How did he find the local feds?

     He needn’t have asked the rhetorical question. Alive to any form of illegal immigration, they found him. The hubbub of the bustling quay didn’t quite drown out the sound of sirens. A car screeched round the corner, kicking up a cloud of dust as its wheels spun. The vehicle pulled up and two officers got out. They shouted and cursed as they scattered bystanders with their semi-automatic weapons. An armoured vehicle appeared behind the squad car, and the gun in its turret pointed at him. “Jesus!” he exclaimed, “that‘s what I call a welcome!” He put up his hands in a gesture of surrender only for one of the officers to take out a pistol and crack him across the shoulder. The other policeman dragged him roughly by the arm through the crowd and slammed him unceremoniously into the bodywork of the car. The same officer didn’t look too pleased when an ugly dent appeared where the Englishman’s knee had caught the door. “You’re blaming me for that?” Jack asked the cursing officer. He was shoved into the back of the car and the two crazy cops jumped in the front. Wheels spinning, the vehicle roared off round the block to the Police Station. It was all of a quarter of a mile away but the sirens blared all the way. It screeched to a halt, the driver doing a handbrake turn in front of the station. Jack was bundled out, almost thrown into the dust, slammed through the doors and frog-marched down a windowless corridor. He was forced to run a gauntlet of jeering officers until he was thrown headlong into a lime-painted cell.