The Sons Of Cleito (The Abductions of Langley Garret Book 1) (12 page)

'Yes.'

'Where am I?'

'Ankara. You're in protective custody.'

'Thank you. Thank you very much for telling me. And, eh, protected by who, and from who or what?'

'We'll discuss that when I meet with you again Mr Garret.'

'I understand,' I said, just happy to feel that I was safe. Well, safe being rather relative in my situation, but my stomach and liver seemed to be satisfied with its relativity.

'Good then. Well, I'll be in touch,' he said as he left.

I laid back down on my bed content with a relieved feeling of at last knowing where I was and it helped to confirm my assumptions about where I had been taken over however long it had been – weeks or months, I didn't know, but I hadn't been taken very far. As I was in Ankara, it was logical to assume that I had been held within the region surrounding Greece. If I'd had a map I could have guessed from the approximate time of each flight, but satisfied myself with my guesses of Greece, The Balkans, Turkey and of course a small remote island, perhaps in the Aegean or Ionian Seas. From there it was back to Noble House and Ian Dunross' discovery of secret documents that the KGB and MI6 would love to get their hands on. Given my situation I really wondered if I shouldn't be reading something a little less close to home. Perhaps 1984 or A Brave New World.

My days passed quietly, reading mostly, as the smiling young man who delivered my meals was kind enough to bring me a few more books. We'd managed to get onto a first name basis as well, which made Paul's visits more pleasant. As did his delivering of some clothes for me. Not high fashion, but casual and comfortable jeans, t-shirts, sweaters and sneakers as well as new underwear, still in shop-bought plastic wrap. The doctor came once more and checked on my nose, and gave me a pleasant surprise by removing the plaster cast from my left hand and replacing it with a hard plastic brace that I could remove when I had a shower. The only thing I really wanted was to be able to go for a walk, perhaps in a park or by a lake, but that was wishful thinking for the time being. I satisfied myself with the absence of black balaclavas – and women.

Close to a week went by before Urs Villiger called in to see me again but this time he invited me to come with him. It wasn't far to the interview room, which was basic, with a small round table and two plastic chairs, just a few metres down the corridor from my cell. But there were no guards accompanying us, or handcuffs for me. He asked me to sit down as he dropped a thick red dossier on the table.

'I'd like to start by getting all of your details first,' he said, as he opened the dossier and took out a blank yellow form that I could see had a lot of boxes for him to fill in.

'Yes, sure.'

'So your full name and date and place of birth.'

'Langley Benjamin Garret. Fifth of February, nineteen sixty-five. Weston-Super-Mare, Somerset, England,' I stated, and he began completing his long yellow form. For an hour at least he asked for almost every detail of my life, from schools and universities I had attended, previous addresses, past employers, passports, residency permits and driver's licence to my marriage date, Helen's date of birth and the names of her close relatives, plus the names of doctors, lawyers and accountants I had used. I thought we were close to finished as he reached the bottom boxes of his form, but he turned it over and there were yet more boxes to complete. He asked me for the names of relatives or friends who could vouch for me and give a reference of my good standing, as well as the names of acquaintances and neighbours that I knew in and around Neuchâtel. When he reached the end of side two, he handed me the form and asked me to read it through thoroughly and then sign and date it if I agreed that the information was accurate and factual. I signed it.

'Thank you Mr Garret. I'll need to have this information checked and verified, and after that we can move on to the steps we can take to resolve your case file.'

'So it will take a while?'

'I shouldn't think so. I know you must be quite concerned, so we'll do our best to find a speedy and sensible solution.'

'Can I ask some questions?'

'Yes of course, but I only have a limited knowledge of your file.'

'That's fine, I understand. I'd just like to know if I'm being held here by you? By you I mean the Swiss government.'

'No. You are currently being held in the Russian Embassy in Ankara. I have been given access to meet with you by the Russian ambassador.'

'How…? …the Russians…,' I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

'I don't know the precise details, but I understand that it was arranged between parties that came to believe that it was in their interest to have you delivered to a neutral authority.'

'I'd never thought of Russia as neutral.'

'All countries have different objectives in certain given situations,' he replied, but I was struggling to understand, so I tried a different question.

'Well, can I ask if you know who, and maybe why they took me in the first place?'

'No, we don't have any information regarding that, but we are investigating.'

'And the other ones who held me after that on the submarine?'

'No, we don't know. Sorry I can't be more helpful.'

'That's ok, but one more question if I may. Are you from the Swiss Government?'

'No, not the Confederation, but I'm with a Swiss agency.'

'Secret police?' I asked with a smile.

'An agency Mr Garret,' he replied, but with a hint of a returned smile that made me feel somewhat reassured.

'Look, there is one question you may be able to help me with.'

'Yes?'

'My wife Helen. Do you have any information about her?'

'We are not sure of her whereabouts, I'm afraid.'

'So she's not at home in Neuchâtel?'

'No.'

'And no idea at all where she could be?'

'I'm sorry. We don't have any more information than that.'

'Well, thanks at least for telling me what you know.'

'The least I could do. So if there's nothing else, I'll return you to your quarters.'

'Ok,' I said as I stood, and picked up on his politeness in referring to my cell.

'I'll be in touch as soon as I have any further information regarding your case file.'

After he'd accompanied me back to my cell, I sat on my bed, totally confused about why I was being held by the Russians, and even more by the fact that my cell door wasn't fully closed and locked. After what I'd been through, and with the comfort of fresh clean underwear, I didn't bother going to investigate. Waiting patiently in my cell, doing as I was told or asked and reading my days away was by far the best course of action I could take right now. Then hope that Urs Villiger returned with some news.

Go

My stomach and small intestine reacted with more than mild suspicion, even though almost every other part of my body was very pleased. It's strange how when what you've been waiting for, for a very long time finally arrives, it can all feel a bit ordinary. Rather like tearing the shiny colourful Christmas wrapping paper from a gift that has been sitting under the tree for a week, and discovering that it was only camouflage for a pair of socks. That is how I felt when I landed at Zurich airport aboard a commercial flight from Amman.

It had all happened so quickly. One day I was persona non-grata in my cell in Ankara and the next, I was Langley Garret again complete with my brand new British passport, my Swiss Permit C permanent residency papers, my driver's licence and ID card and a one-way flight ticket from Amman to Zurich, plus one thousand Swiss Francs. Paul furnished me with a small carry-on suitcase for my clothes and within two hours of Urs Villiger giving me the news that I was free and handing me my papers, I was driven to an airfield on the outskirts of Ankara and flown by small private jet to Nicosia, in the company of a representative from the Russian Embassy. I changed planes and was boarded onto another small jet, but this time I was accompanied by a Jordanian man for the flight to Amman. Neither man was a conversationalist, but they were both polite, and the Jordanian man was particularly helpful in making sure I arrived in good time for my flight to Zurich from Amman airport. I think he was also charged with the responsibility of making sure I boarded my flight without mishap, as he accompanied me all the way to my seat on the plane and only left as the door was about to close.

Taking the underground shuttle from my arrival terminal at Zurich Airport, the sound of clanging cow bells and yodelling that accompanies the ride sounded so normal to my ears, but the rest of me felt like a total stranger. When I alighted, I went by habit towards the railway station under the main terminal and then it hit me.

'Where the hell do I go now?'

Although it felt like it had been months, it had only been a little over ten weeks since I had been taken from my apartment that Sunday morning. Hardly longer than a decent holiday. I stood near the ticket machine, wondering what to do, as people pushed past me to buy their train tickets. I stepped back and watched as they all went about their rushing and scurrying and searching for their credit cards to pay the machine. It was then I realised I needed to go to the ticketing booth to buy my ticket, as I didn't have a credit card to use in the machines.

Waiting in the queue, with people who also had no credit card, or mistrusted machines, it gave me time to arrive at my decision.

'One-way to Neuchâtel. Second class please.'

There is nothing as beautiful as the Swiss countryside, mountains and lakes, and as they filled my train window in picture postcard perfection, the polite chatter of Swiss people completed my homecoming, yet for some reason the feeling in my gut that I was a stranger here remained. Even when I stepped down onto the familiarity of the platform in Neuchâtel, and then out into the street, I had second thoughts about my decision to come home. The second hotel I tried had a vacancy, so I booked myself a room for two nights so I at least had a couple of days to decide what I needed to do and then of course, what to do after that. Whatever I did though, at least now I could put the shocks and horrors of the last ten weeks behind me and start my life anew. As the life I was leading before I was taken by Hazel Eyes had been altogether miserable on most counts, it could only be an improvement.

Home

I had made a short list and started on my way after breakfast the next morning to get as many items as I could, crossed off before lunch. Surprisingly, my first point of call at my bank proved painless. Firstly by confirming that my accounts had been untouched, and within less than an hour, all the paperwork had been completed to issue my new cash card and credit cards. They would be ready for me to collect in two days. Using the excuse that I had been robbed while on vacation proved useful and I decided I would use it again on my visits to my other listed items.

The next stop was at my mobile telephone provider and using the same, stolen while on holidays line, they checked my account and told me my phone hadn't been used in over nine weeks. They blocked my old phone just to be sure and kindly issued me with a replacement phone on the spot. When I asked if I needed to pay they said there was no need, as it would appear on my next bill.

With two successes, I moved down to the last item on my list and skipped a few that could wait. If I really wanted to go home, I needed a key. It was only a short walk to the real estate agent that acted as landlord for my apartment and they were very accommodating when I told them I had lost my key while on vacation. The rental manager recognised me from the few times we had met previously, and after having shown her my passport and Permit C for identification, she immediately arranged to have a duplicate of their spare key cut for me. I was extremely nervous when I left with the key to my home in my pocket an hour later. Did I really want to go back?

Instead of answering my own question, I went for lunch. I'd finished my salad and was in the middle of waiting for my Emincé de veau à la zurichoise for the second course of my plat du jour when my new phone started beeping repeatedly. I took it out of my pocket and a long list of missed calls and messages filled the screen, as my new phone had obviously started catching up on what I had missed for the last ten weeks. I scrolled though them as I waited for my meal. Mostly friends saying
'call me',
and a few from my telephone company warning me about international roaming charges. I scrolled further down to the older messages and saw a missed call from Helen, only two days after Hazel Eyes had visited me. I then checked my voice mail and found among the long list, one from Helen on the same day as her missed call. I hit
'listen'
.

'I'm so sorry Lang. God I'm so sorry. Look, get out of the apartment as soon as you get this. I'm in really serious shit and I don't want you to get involved. Please Lang, listen to me. Just get out of there straight away. Go anywhere, but don't stay there.' There was a pause and it sounded like she was crying. 'Please Lang just go. Go to the UK or anywhere, but don't stay at home because these people…….' The message ended as if she had been cut off.

I looked up at the waiter arriving with my main course and must have had shock written all over my face.

'Is everything all right sir?'