“And that’s the mellow sound of Dave Brubeck Taking Five, coming to you on The Midnight Show, Radio New Zealand International.  Why don’t we take five and spin up another cool disc? It’s Kenny G and ….”  Carmen turned down the bland saxophonist so that it became nothing more than a murmur in the background.

“Do you like listening to the radio, Charlie?” she asked.

Charlie glanced over at her. She was faintly silhouetted in the glow of the radio’s dials and displays in the cockpit of the Catalina.  “No, not really.  I watch You Tube or listen to Spotify on my computer.  I don’t suppose you have that out here.”

Carmen laughed, “Don’t have that out here?  Where do you think we are?  We have You Tube and Spotify! I just didn’t ask you about them!”  She giggled again.

Charlie felt the blood rushing to his face.  It was a good thing it was dark in the Catalina or he really would have looked the fool that he felt now.  He stared out of the canopy into the night, “I didn’t mean …er…I mean I didn’t…um…”

“I know what you meant, Charlie.  Duh!  I simply asked you if you liked listening to the radio.”  Carmen sighed. 

“No, I don’t listen to the radio much, sorry.  It doesn’t really play the sort of things I like.  I’m not really in to music much,” he muttered.

“Well that’s a topic of conversation that’s come to an end then.” 

“Sorry,” Charlie mumbled.  “We could talk about something else.”

“We could, but I want to talk about the radio,” Carmen persisted.  “You know, I love listening to it late at night.  It sometimes sounds so weird – hissing and popping and sometimes changing people’s voices so it sounds like they’re talking from the bottom of a trash can.  I can lie on my bed and just think about how those voices are travelling hundreds or thousands of kilometres just to get to me.  The journey must be so difficult that their voices get changed forever so that it becomes hard to understand what they are saying. I just want to say ‘I don’t know what you’re saying!’  It’s almost like the radio comes from another planet, you know.   Sometimes I think I can hear other voices in different languages in the hissing.  Listen, you can hear it now!”

Carmen turned the radio up.  Underlying the main shortwave broadcast was a strange hollow sounding white noise in which Charlie was sure he could hear voices, possibly French, whose sound quality was so warped that, although it seemed very familiar, no distinct words could be made out.  Charlie wasn’t sure what to make of it really.  He could see what Carmen meant but if that was all there was to do in the islands, or if that was your first choice of conversation with someone you barely knew, then he seriously doubted whether she was entirely on the same frequency as him.  However, out of a desire not to upset someone, who he was beginning to consider rather odd, he decided on a more considerate response.

“Um.  Yeah, I can hear that.  It does sound weird.  It’s probably atmospheric interference.”

“Atmospheric interference?  Well, gosh, I never thought of that!  Perhaps my big mechanic of a dad never thought to tell his little girl about such manly, technical things!”  Carmen hooted with derision and slapped her knees.

“Uh…I didn’t mean that you didn’t know about interference and…er…stuff.  I just was saying, you know, it was atmospheric interference!” he said hotly.  She was so infuriating!  One minute she was mocking him, then she was being weird, and then being sarcastic when he was only trying to make an effort!  God, but he wished his dad was back and then he wouldn’t have to listen to dreadful radio or have to talk to mad girls.

“I know! I’m just playing with you, Charlie!  There’s nothing else to do so don’t get your pants in a twist.  Even so, it does sound kind of cool, like a message from Mars or something,” she mused.

“I suppose.  It does sound kind of cool,” he had to agree and as they sat there listening to the white noise in the darkness, he began to be lulled into a dream-like state where the pops, whistles and hisses of the interference seemed to take on more significance.  He could almost imagine…

Suddenly he sat up bolt upright in Rick’s seat.  He turned to Carmen and could see that she looked similarly agitated.  “Did you hear that!” they both said simultaneously.

“It couldn’t have been!” said Carmen.

“Nah, I must have imagined it!” Charlie answered.  His skin prickled with goose bumps and he could feel a strange chill creep over him.  He listened again.

            Over the radio, distorted by interference and almost inaudible behind the main broadcast, both Charlie and Carmen could swear that they had heard a metallic sounding voice say “Get out now!  They’re coming for you!  Get out now!”

            “Well, well, well, Mr Bravo.  Fancy seeing you here,” Winthrop-Smythe sneered.

            Rick and George and been ushered into the camp, none too gently, by the Frenchman.  Winthrop-Smythe and Jones had turned to see what the interruption was, and before they had uttered a word the Frenchman had told them what he had observed:  Rick and George, lying prone beneath the bush, listening in to Winthrop-Smythe and Jones.  A number of other members of the “TV crew” had also turned to see what was happening and had then slid over to watch things in a loose circle.

            The Frenchman forced George and Rick to their knees with a couple of sharp jabs to the backs of their knees with his rifle butt.  “Descendez!”  he ordered. 

“I think, Jean, that you have redeemed yourself.  Well done!”  Winthrop-Smythe addressed the Frenchman.   “Now, scoot on back to your post.  We’ll handle these two little birds of paradise ourselves.”  

Jean looked momentarily disappointed, disheartened about the all-night sentry duty that he was enduring, as well as missing out on a potentially interesting interrogation, but he nodded an acknowledgement and moved away to the perimeter of the camp, disappearing into the shadows beneath the trees.

            “That boy’s uncannily good,” George leaned in and whispered to Rick.  “I had no idea that he was there.  How did he get so close?”

            Rick wasn’t so much worried about Jean’s supernatural stalking abilities –there was always someone out there better than you, it was just a matter of time before you met them – but the situation was shaping up to be profoundly awkward.  These men were professionals.  The camp, the weapons, the organisation, the skills on display, all pointed to one thing: Rick and George were amongst some very serious people who appeared to have a very serious reason for keeping their activities secret.  That did not spell out a comfortable future for the two of them, or, he realised in a panic, the children.

            “We got complacent, George.  We forgot there’s always somebody better!  It’s the oldest lesson and we just forgot it!” Rick hissed back.

            “If you two have finished whispering sweet nothings to one another perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me why you were spying on us,”  Winthrop-Smythe enquired.  “Who sent you?”

            Rick looked at George, and raised an eyebrow.  “Say nothing,” he seemed to say. “I’ll deal with this.”  George’s response was inscrutable but it almost seemed resigned.  It was hardly an inspiring vote of confidence.  He turned back to Winthrop-Smythe, “Who sent us?  You brought us!  You booked us through Victor Hong!  You’d never heard of us and we’d never heard of you until Victor walked you down to the Catalina!” 

            “Really?”  Winthrop-Smythe smirked, “And how do I know that you hadn’t set up Hong in advance?  How many fat American middle aged pilots are there who can use such good stalking skills that they can sneak up on a camp full of ex-special forces?  It doesn’t seem possible unless that fat Yank has some experience of covert operations. Who are you working for?  I won’t ask nicely again!” 

            Rick looked around him and took stock of the situation.  George and he were surrounded, unarmed, vulnerable and in the power of what appeared to be some very nasty people.  However, their hands were unbound, they had their wits about them and he had one trump card: he and George were the only ones who could fly the Cat off the island.  He decided to play the innocent, as well as play it straight.

            “We work for ourselves!  We really do!  We’re just pilots who work the islands!”

            “Work for yourselves, eh?  I’m sure that you do, but who are you going to be selling your information on to?”  Winthrop Smythe turned to Jones, “J J, I think Mr Bravo here could do with a really persuasive reason to be a little more forthcoming.  If you’d oblige me!”  He gestured at George with a sweeping motion of his hand.

            Jones nodded, cracked his knuckles and took one step forward.  Without pausing, or even blinking, he struck George hard on the side of the head four times in rapid succession, raining the blows down so fast his arm was a blur.  George grunted, then folded under the blows and ended up gasping, face down in the grass and leaf litter of the clearing.  Blood ran down the side of his head and collected in dripping trails around his right ear.    Rick was sickened by the sudden violence and concern for George.  A hard knot of apprehension formed in his stomach, he knew what would come next.  Things were escalating fast and he was not sure he could stop things getting worse.

            Unable to take his eyes off George he shouted back at Winthrop-Smythe, “What did you do that for?  We were talking!  You didn’t let me answer!”

            “I never waste time, Mr Bravo.  If I want answers, I want them when I ask the question and not after you have tried to delay things with a little play of innocence.  I know you heard the gunshots but why did you come to the camp so surreptitiously and suspiciously?  Someone with nothing to hide would have come up to the camp quite openly and asked us if we had heard the same thing.  I’ll indulge you and ask again: who are you working for?”

            “We’re not working for anyone!  We heard the shots and we came to check it out!  George and I hunt wild pigs on occasion down on Tofua.  I was brought up in Wisconsin, for goodness sake!  We stalk deer and bear from the age of five.  I’ve never been in the special forces and we’re not working for anyone!  We came up to look because we’re not idiots!  We were worried!  We heard gunshots!  We’re not so stupid that we are going to stomp around when somebody’s popping a few caps!”

            Winthrop-Smythe nodded at Jones, who immediately bent low over George and struck him four times in the ribs on his right side with astounding ferociousness. A sharp crack punctuated the last blow. George arched his back and screamed in agony then slumped back onto the grass groaning and quivering with shock.

            “For crying out loud, stop!  You’re breaking his ribs!”  Rick yelled.

            Winthrop-Smythe walked up to Rick and bent low so that his face was only inches from Rick’s.  His cold blue eyes were unblinking, reminding Rick strongly of a snake.  “Tell me what I want to know.”  He said softly, sympathetically.  “This could stop now, it depends on you.  I won’t stop at broken ribs.  After all, I only need one pilot for the Catalina.”

            Rick slumped and sighed heavily, “All right, all right! I’ll tell you.  Just stop beating on George.”  He hung his head and paused before continuing, giving himself enough time to straighten the kinks in the yarn he was about to spin. “You were right about Victor Hong – he did tell us about you after all – but Victor is not just a booking agent.   He controls all the tourist business on the island, as well as all the crime committed on tourists.  When he got your call, he saw a chance to make some serious money from the TV company he thought you were from.  When he needs a crew to make the most of a situation he calls on us.  We were to keep an eye on you from a distance and see if there was anything you had brought with you that we could sabotage that would need a replacement flying out.  A replacement that needed a flight that Victor would have to arrange at short notice and high cost.  I swear we knew nothing about guns or anything else.”  He paused and tried to look guilty and shifty. 

            This would have been news to Victor Hong, who was a very meek little man as far from Rick’s idea of a gangster as it was possible to be.  In point of fact the nearest thing that Victor came to running a gang was by volunteering as a Scout leader, a task that he was ill-fitted for since the troop ran Victor ragged to the extent that his influence on the troop’s choice of activities was largely negligible.  However, Victor enjoyed the involvement since he felt he was doing something for his island community and the Scouts enjoyed it since Victor pretty much left them alone to gamble, smoke, play football and talk about girls.  Rick knew he could use Victor’s name because by the time anyone could get off Solitude and investigate further, it would be patently obvious that Victor was no gangster.

Winthrop-Smythe straightened up, “So you’re telling me that you are a pair of small time chancers working for the local crime boss?”

            Rick nodded enthusiastically, “Yeah!  Really small time!  The Catalina hasn’t even had its air worthiness certificate done!  Look at these shorts, have you seen the holes?  We’re so broke we can barely keep ourselves fed, let alone keep the Cat in the air!  It’s only Victor who makes it possible.”  This last part was largely true.  Most of their work came through Victor Hong’s office, mainly because Victor was a long time fan of Rick’s and couldn’t believe that a former celebrity like Rick had ended up on his doorstep.

            Winthrop-Smythe walked away from Rick and beckoned Jones to follow.  He gestured at one of the men in the circle to keep an eye on the two pilots.   Turning to Jones so that his face was hidden from Rick, Winthrop-Smythe said, “So what do you think?  Are these two for real or are we going to have to dig a little further?  Does it matter?”

Jones shrugged, “I don’t mind working them over, Boss, but they’re the ones with the plane which we flew in on.  I don’t suppose that you’ve arranged another?”

Winthrop-Smythe rubbed his chin, “They’re an added complication, but our client has only hired us as a safeguard and muscle.  She’s not expecting anything particularly taxing.  We should be able to handle keeping these two under guard until we need to leave.  Then it’s just a matter of buying their silence, or arranging something more permanent.”

Jones grinned, “Don’t forget the children!  I’m sure that we could use them to secure some considerable co-operation.  We could probably even get rid of one of those two if we had the kids.  Keep everything nice and easy like!”

Winthrop-Smythe nodded thoughtfully, “Wait here.  I’ll be back in a mo.  I think I’ll give Mr Bravo something to think about.”

He walked over to the equipment tent and selected a black plastic flight case similar to a briefcase.  Opening it, he found four automatic pistols and their loaded magazines packed in foam liners in the top tray and beneath that an equivalent number of pistol belts with black, webbing holsters.  Selecting a belt, he buckled it on, then picked up a pistol, loaded the magazine and cocked it by pulling back the slide.  He smiled as the slick mechanism smoothly slid a 9mm round into the barrel. Winthrop-Smythe was a man who loved high quality things and found the tools of his trade profoundly satisfying to work with.  He flicked the safety catch on and walked back to Rick and George, signalling for Jones to rejoin him.

 “Well, Mr Bravo.  I just don’t know what to do about you.      I think you’ve told me a pack of lies and that’s very naughty,”  Winthrop-Smythe spoke like a patient parent talking to a child caught stealing from the cookie jar.  “Now, seeing as this piece of island trash seems indisposed and unable to fully appreciate the severity of the situation, I shall address my conditions to you.”  He flicked off the safety catch of the pistol and pressed the barrel so firmly to George’s temple that the skin wrinkled beneath the muzzle.

            Rick was frantic.  His eyes were drawn like magnets to the pistol and what it was resting on.  He could see the large vein in George’s temple throbbing under the pressure of the pistol on it.  Blood from Jones’ beating pooled by the muzzle and he could see tiny droplets of sweat forming in the pores of George’s skin mixing with it, dripping, forming little rivulets that curled around the contours of his face and disappearing out of sight.  He couldn’t think what to say, his mind was frozen and his tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth.  All that he could croak out was, “Don’t…please don’t!”

            “Why, Rick?  Why?  Don’t answer, it’s a rhetorical question,”  Winthrop-Smythe smiled at him indulgently.  He continued quickly, “Are you prepared to be a good boy?  My conditions are very simple.  To guarantee your co-operation I promise you this; if I have cause to doubt your sincerity I shall shoot poor George in the head and we will leave him here for the land crabs.  If I continue to have problems trusting you, I shall prescribe the same medicine for the little girl, then the little boy.  I will not shoot you. I need you to fly that plane off the island, but I am happy to dispose of you once we get back to your home island so that you don’t feel left out.  I expect you to do as you are told and not cause any further trouble.  If you can make your self useful then you will be allowed to go on your way, provided, of course, that we have extracted some form of guarantee over your silence.  Do we have an agreement?”  Winthrop-Smythe’s finger visibly tightened on the pistol’s trigger.

            Rick nodded mutely.  He was prepared to agree to anything so long as this horrible man would take that pistol away from George’s head.

            “Good.  I thought you might agree.  Now, Mr Jones is going to take you two away and keep you under guard.”  Winthrop-Smythe turned to Jones,  “Jones, bind their hands – use some cable ties, get Cameron to dig them out of the stores.  Pop them over by the cook house and make sure they are kept under guard.  Then come back and we’ll sort out a detail to bring the children ashore.”

            Jones nodded and beckoned to four others in the watching group to grab Rick and George.  George needed the four to lift and drag him whilst Jones only needed to hoist Rick up with one arm and prod him before him with the pistol that Winthrop-Smythe had passed over.    They staggered through the camp, passing the bonfire where Rick could see a variety of automatic weapons laid out that had obviously been in the process of being unpacked, cleaned and checked when Rick and George had interrupted the proceedings.  He recognised assault rifles, light machine guns and grenade launchers.  They passed the other tents and ended up by the kitchen tent.  George, groggy though he was, was laid down on a folding bench.  Rick was told to squat with his hands behind his head.  Jones sat at a table opposite and rested his pistol on the table, though keeping it pointed at Rick. 

            “Make yourself comfortable, boys.   I don’t mind if you make a little noise, have a chat or whatever,” Jones said.  “Just to let you know though, any talk that I think is out of order will be rewarded with a little kiss from Mr Left and Mr Right.”  He raised a fist to Rick to emphasis the threat then spoke to the four who had carried George, “Get some cable ties for these two.  Ask the Doc to come and have a look at the big guy.  We might as well patch him up in case we need to give him a going over again in the future.  No point in him dyin’ now.  Also, break out a couple of AKs and vests then I want two of you back here to replace me!”

            Rick looked around.  The position they had put him in was uncomfortable but not one he couldn’t handle. Moving about the Catalina required a certain amount of agility and so his legs were limber enough to cope with the stress position.  He took the opportunity to think about the situation.  He did not know how hurt George was but since there was nothing he could do about it at the moment; he simply put his concern for George into a mental box and decided to deal with the worry of it later.   He was much more concerned about the children.   He could not imagine what Winthrop-Smythe had in mind in order to ensure that the children were used as leverage for his good behaviour.  Even now there would be men swimming through the dark sea to the Cat for them.  Winthrop-Smythe might not just hold back at frightening them and might actually carry out a threat to harm them.  Desperately, he tried to rationalise his situation.  Would the Englishman harm them?  What would he gain from doing so?  Rick could only presume that the man - and his crew - were killers, judging by the firepower they had.  However, he also had to assume that they could think tactically.  Rick tried to put his fears to one side. There was no benefit in harming the children, or George for that matter.  Winthrop-Smythe’s threat should be enough to keep him in line without having to carry it out.  The children would be brought ashore but they would be OK - so long as Rick was sensible.  He smiled ruefully to himself.  Sensible; not much evidence of that tonight!  What on Earth had possessed him to risk the children, George and himself in a desire to simply play at adventurers like in the good old days of his TV show?  What a cretin, he thought to himself.  There’s no fool like an old fool!

            He gave more thought to the ‘TV Crew’.  The camp gave every impression of being that belonging to a well armed platoon.  As far as Rick was concerned there was an awful lot of firepower for anyone to be carrying on a deserted island.  Without some form of transportation he could not see the point of such a heavily armed group being there.  It was obvious that they intended to stay, they had no boat and they were depending on the Catalina for transport off the island.  Without their own boat or helicopter they certainly could not be planning to board passing vessels.  There was no mining or logging outpost on this island that he knew of so some form of hi-jacking or hostage taking was out of the question. He just could not figure out what they were doing here, armed the way they were.  Who were they?  What did they want?  Whatever they were up to, Rick, George, Carmen and Charlie were caught up in the thick of it and things did not look good for them.

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