Hostage Read Online Free PDF

of them had read him his rights or
officially
arrested
him. They’d only asked him to accompany them to the station.
    ‘I’ll leave you to think about
my offer,’ said Colonel Black, laying a business card on top of the envelope. The
card was black as night with an embossed silver logo of a shield sprouting wings. Below
it was a single telephone number – and nothing else.
    The colonel nodded goodbye, then disappeared
out through the door, the two police officers in tow.
    Connor was left alone in the room. He stared
at the card, his mind whirling with the events of the past hour. His life had been spun
on its axis – one moment he was being crowned UK Kickboxing Champion, the next he was
being recruited as a bodyguard. He stared at the envelope, both intrigued and a touch
afraid of what it might contain. He decided to leave it for later. He had other matters
to think about first.
    Picking up the card, envelope and his
father’s photo, Connor stood and headed for the door. When he opened it, he
thought he’d made a mistake and gone the wrong way. The lights in the foyer were
all off, the reception booth deserted, the building silent as a grave.
    ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ he
called. But no one answered.
    He spotted his kitbag on the counter. Stowing
the envelope and photo next to his trophy and pocketing the colonel’s business
card, he made his way to the main entrance. His footsteps echoed through the empty
foyer. As he passed the noticeboard, he saw the Neighbourhood Watch meeting was for two
years ago and briefly wondered why the announcement was still up. Pushing open the heavy
double doors, he stepped outside into the grey evening light. Relieved to escape the
tomb-like atmosphere of the station, he looked down the street for Colonel Black. But
neither the colonel nor the police officers were in sight. Then, as the double doors
slammed shut behind him, he noticed the terrorism poster had been taken down. An
official blue-and-white sign was now visible:
     
    THIS IS NO LONGER A POLICE STATION.
    The nearest station is 444 Barking Road,
Plaistow.
    Connor stared at the sign, stunned. The
whole
operation had been a set-up!
    He felt in his pocket and pulled out the one
thing proving the encounter had even occurred – the black business card with the silver
winged shield … and a solitary telephone number.

‘You’re late, Hazim,’
growled the brooding man in Arabic, through a mouthful of green khat leaves. The man,
who boasted a thick bushy beard, a hooked nose and sun-blasted skin the colour of the
deep desert, bared a row of brown-yellowish teeth in displeasure.
    ‘I’m sorry, Malik, but the plane
was delayed getting in,’ replied Hazim, bowing his head in deference to the man
who sat like a king at the far end of the rectangular whitewashed
mafraj
room.
    Malik tutted in irritation, yet nonetheless
waved him over to sit by his side. Hazim, a young man of Yemeni origin with dominant
eyebrows and an angular face, almost handsome if not for his downturned mouth, nervously
took his place among the other members of the Brotherhood.
    The room was full of men dressed in
ankle-length
thawb
, their white cotton robes providing relief from the heat of
the day. Some were bareheaded, others wore red-and-white chequered headscarves. They
reclined on large cushions, left leg tucked underneath, right arm upon the right knee,
and the left arm supported by a padded armrest. Beforeeach was a pile
of green stems from which they picked leaves to chew as they engaged in animated
conversation.
    As was tradition in a
mafraj
room
there were two rows of windows, the upper set decorated in stained glass through which
the late-afternoon sun scattered shards of rainbow colours across the thickly carpeted
floor. The lower clear windows were pushed wide open to allow a cool breeze to waft in.
Not accustomed to the country’s intense heat, Hazim turned towards one of the
openings in relief. From the topmost floor of the house, he was able