The Armada Legacy

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Brooke had interviewed many former kidnap victims during her years as a hostage psychology educator and consultant. One of the key lessons that had come out of those discussions, and which she’d always striven to emphasise in her lectures on the subject, was the vital importance of staying mentally sharp and focused during captivity. Psychological fitness was at least as critical as physical exercise to a hostage’s wellbeing – one UN aid worker she’d known who had been abducted by a volatile armed gang in Somalia and held for five months in a dingy cellar, not knowing from day to day whether he was to be released or shot in the head, had managed to survive the ordeal by building a wooden boat in his mind.

Plank by plank, joint by joint, he’d designed and constructed the thing over and over in his imagination as he’d sat there in the rat-infested darkness. As soon as the boat was completed, he would mentally dismantle it piece by piece and then immediately start redesigning an improved version. On his eventual release he’d never wanted to see another boat again in his life, but those months of mental discipline had saved him from going crazy.

How an individual chose to cope was down to them, as long as they found something to keep their mind busy and ward off the soul-destroying fear and stress of captivity. Those who caved in under the terrible pressure might survive the experience physically, but were very often never the same people again.

Brooke didn’t know much about boat-building. Instead, using an eyeliner pencil and a page ripped out of one of the vapid women’s magazines that had been left for her to read, she busied herself during that afternoon by drawing a plan of her prison.

She started with the house itself, based on the parts of it that she’d seen when the guards had taken her down to see Serrato earlier. She’d returned from her meeting with her ‘host’ to find that the damaged window blinds had been repaired, but that the unseen workmen had accidentally left a small gap allowing her to peer through and observe the surrounding compound.

She’d traced the shape of the outer wall, or as much of it as was visible to her, and drawn little rectangular shapes to show the positions of the buildings around the main house. The hangar from which vehicles came and went was marked ‘garage’; the squat white building from which she’d observed more armed men wandering to and fro in pairs and groups throughout the afternoon was tentatively labelled ‘guard house?’. A twisting dotted line represented the roadway from the gates that vanished into the surrounding jungle. Then there were the fortified gates themselves, with tiny matchstick figures showing the guards who constantly manned them.

Brooke spent a long time staring out beyond the gates at the jungle and wondering where that snaking road went. Was there a town nearby, or even a small village where a lone fugitive on foot might be able to get help?

Her secret map wasn’t an escape plan, not yet. Another cardinal rule that she’d always drummed into anyone attending her lectures was that, unless they had a solid strategy and were completely certain they were fully equipped to survive outside the stronghold, a kidnap victim should never try to escape. It was a last resort that almost always ended in disaster, death or recapture, entailing punishment and the loss of whatever tiny privileges the hostage might have started out with. But she was determined to find out everything she could about her environment.

The only way Brooke had of telling the time was to go over to the window repeatedly to check the position of the sun over the jungle, which told her that her room faced west. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, the door was unlocked and Consuela and Presentacion came in with a tray of coffee and little cakes, seeming anxious to tend to her every need.

Room service only made her predicament seem even stranger. Despite the language barrier, Brooke made the older of the Brazilian women understand that she’d like some more comfortable things to wear. Consuela seemed reluctant and anxious at first, but the clothes arrived an hour or so later: a couple of neatly-ironed T-shirts, tracksuit bottoms, a pair of tennis shoes.

Brooke was interested in forming a rapport with Consuela and her daughter, firstly because a hostage’s most valuable asset was a friendly face among their kidnappers, and secondly because it was very obvious that the two women weren’t to be counted among the bad guys. She could tell that they were almost as scared as she was of their employer.

But what was less clear to Brooke was the odd, continual fascination they seemed to have for her – the way they’d stare at her sometimes, and whisper to one another in Portuguese. Twice more she’d caught the name ‘Alicia’ – but like before, when she asked who Alicia was, all she got were timid looks and silence.

Left alone again, Brooke checked her window for any more developments outside. She spotted a figure she recognised: it was the stinky cigar-smoking guard, standing over by the compound wall sneaking a quick puff when he thought nobody was watching. He took a half-smoked stub and a lighter from his breast pocket and started blowing great clouds. Brooke observed him for a moment, then moved back from the window to do some push-ups, sit-ups and running on the spot. She might be trapped in here, but she was determined to stay fit and strong.

The sun was sinking in the west by the time she received another visit: Consuela and Presentacion had returned to prepare her for what she quickly realised was to be another meeting with her host.

‘Not again,’ she groaned when Consuela revealed the dress she was to wear. It was as delicate and expensive as the first, but this time it was a deep shade of emerald green. Needless to say, the high-heeled sandals matched perfectly. Brooke closed herself in the bathroom and put on the dress and shoes without protest. What was the point? Satisfied and beaming at her, the women departed.

Moments later the door opened again. Two guards had come for her. It was hard to tell which one looked more menacing: the musclebound one with the glossy jet-black hair tied back in a thick ponytail, or the wiry one with the top half of his right ear missing.

‘Only two goons this time,’ she snapped at them. ‘We must be making progress. How about you just give me a key to my door?’

The guards said nothing as they walked her along the passage, down the staircase and through a maze of corridors and hallways she’d never seen before.

‘Slow down,’ she told them. ‘I can hardly walk in these bloody things.’ Whether they understood her or not, they slowed their pace and she was able to take in the layout of the passageways so that she could add them to her map later.

The guards ushered her into an enormous room and shut the door. The walls were adorned with gilt-framed oils and mirrors, and a glittering crystal chandelier shone down on a long dining table covered in a white silk cloth and a gleaming array of silverware and glassware.

Sitting alone at the head of the table was Ramon Serrato, immaculate in a cream-coloured suit. He stood up as Brooke entered the room, and stared at her for a long moment as if stunned by her appearance. Then, seeming to collect his wits, he wished her good evening and pulled out a chair near the top of the table for her.

‘I trust you passed a pleasant afternoon?’ he asked.

Brooke was about to make an angry reply when another door opened and two white-coated male servants filed into the room. One was carrying an ice bucket on a silver platter, the other wheeling a trolley bearing hors d’oeuvres. Without a word they set everything down on the table, then hurried away again like mice.

‘What’s the matter?’ Serrato said, seeing her expression. ‘Are you not hungry? The pâté de foie gras is very good. I recommend eating the toast while it is still warm. And the wine is a Cabernet-Sauvignon, from my own vineyard in Chile.’

Right, she thought to herself. So we’re not in Brazil. And we’re not in Chile either. How many South American countries did that leave to choose from? Too damn many. ‘Am I supposed to be impressed with all this?’ she said out loud.

‘I would have hoped so. There are many people who would never have a meal like this in their lives.’

‘That makes me feel so much better. I should be grateful to you, really.’

‘Have you ever been poor?’ he asked her, reaching for the champagne. ‘So poor that you had only stinking rags to wear, so hungry that you would kill a rat with your bare hands and eat it?’ he smiled. ‘No, I don’t think so. You have always been comfortable. Perhaps if you had grown up in poverty as I did, you would appreciate this more.’

Brooke said nothing.

‘You don’t believe me,’ he said. ‘And yet it’s true. I spent my childhood in the slums of Mexico City. My brothers and I had to beg for food while my mother cleaned toilets and my father picked watermelons for a few pesos a day. Our whole family lived in two rooms that were not fit to keep animals in.’

‘I’m overwhelmed with sympathy.’

Serrato looked at her sharply. ‘I am sure you would have been, if you could have seen the way we lived. It was a squalid existence. As a boy I would watch the rich men drive past in their big cars and I knew that I was destined for better things. My grandfather used to tell us that for all our poverty and unhappiness, there was noble blood in our veins. Noble blood,’ Serrato repeated, ‘dating back to the time when the Spanish Empire covered half the world. My mother and father used to laugh and tell us not to listen to an old fool’s tales. It was not until I was much older that I learned that my grandfather was right.’

Brooke didn’t reply.

Serrato seemed about to continue, then restrained himself. ‘But I have no right to bore such a charming companion with stories of my past. Won’t you take some foie gras?’

‘Stick your foie gras. I’m not hungry.’

‘Perhaps this will whet your appetite.’ Serrato reached behind him and picked up a square, flat jewellery box, which he slid across the table towards her. ‘A gift.’

‘You think I’d want anything from you?’

‘Please, I insist.’

Brooke opened the box. Inside was a diamond and emerald necklace that looked as if it must be worth about the same as her flat in Richmond, together with a matching bracelet. ‘What the hell are these?’

‘They’re yours. And I should very much like to see you in them.’

The green dress matched perfectly with the sparkling emeralds: it was clear that Serrato liked to plan every little detail. The way he was looking at her was deeply unsettling, but she met his eye and replied fiercely, ‘I’m not your doll, or anyone else’s, to be draped in bangles and beads.’

‘You’re a woman of strong opinions,’ Serrato said. ‘I have every respect for that.’

‘Then why are you dressing me up like this? Is this how you get your kicks, kidnapping women and making them wear this stuff? It’s sick.’

‘It seems to me that you underestimate your own beauty,’ he said. ‘Whereas I do not. And you would greatly oblige me by putting the jewels on.’

Brooke saw a strange light in his eye. Something told her she shouldn’t push him too far. ‘If you insist.’ She plucked the bracelet from the box and tried it on.

‘As I thought, a perfect fit,’ Serrato said admiringly. ‘And now the necklace.’

Brooke knew she couldn’t refuse. ‘Let me take this off first,’ she said, and reached behind her neck to undo the clasp of the little gold chain Ben had given her. She removed it with real reluctance, picked the cold, heavy necklace from its velvet liner and slipped it round her neck in its place. The clasp was awkward to fasten.

‘Allow me,’ Serrato said. Rising from his chair he stepped behind hers, and she felt his fingers delicately touching the back of her neck. ‘There, it’s done. It looks as wonderful on you as I had thought it would.’

She could see herself in the gilt-framed mirror opposite, and him standing over her, watching her as if she were something in a museum to be admired and gawked at. His hands brushed her shoulders. She twisted away from his touch.

‘You have such fine features,’ he said, carefully studying her face in the mirror. ‘If you were to tie your hair up it would accentuate them even more. Let me show you. There. Like this.’

‘Please tell me what’s going on. Tell me what I’m doing here.’

‘You’ll understand in due course,’ he said, returning to his chair. In the meantime, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’ Taking a small envelope from the pocket of his blazer, he opened it and produced a tiny photograph. ‘Is this the man you mentioned, this Marshall person?’

Brooke instantly recognised the photo of Ben, taken the previous spring at Le Val. Even when it had looked as though their relationship was over forever, she hadn’t had the heart to throw it away. Serrato must have found it in her purse.

There was a gleam in his eye as he waited for her reply. It suddenly struck her what his expression was. It was the look of a jealous lover, and it turned her blood cold to think what might happen if she told the truth.

‘That’s nobody,’ she said carefully.

Serrato scrutinised her face for a long moment. ‘Are you quite sure? Not, for example, the man who bought you that?’ He pointed at the slim gold chain that Brooke was holding in her hand.

‘Forget him,’ she said. ‘He’s not important.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Is there anyone else … important in your life?’

She shook her head. ‘No. There’s nobody.’

Serrato gazed at her a moment longer, then smiled and seemed satisfied she was being truthful. ‘What about some wine?’

‘Just a little,’ she said, and held out her glass for him to fill. She hated playing this game that he seemed to enjoy so much, but she badly needed something to steady her nerves.

‘You should eat, as well,’ he said, scraping pâté onto a sliver of toast. ‘We don’t want you becoming too thin.’

Why, then I won’t fit your fucking dress collection any more? she wanted to yell at him, but kept her mouth shut. After a few moments she reluctantly began to pick at the food.

‘Good, no?’

‘Better than I had in my last prison,’ she said dryly.

‘I love your sense of humour.’ Serrato rang a little bell and the two servants instantly filed in to clear away the hors d’oeuvre plates and bring in the main course and more wine before disappearing as quickly as before. Serrato lifted the lid of a silver platter and breathed in the aromatic steam that rose up. ‘Salmon poached in fino sherry, with a butter and parsley sauce,’ he said with relish. ‘It’s wonderful together with these sautéed potatoes and steamed asparagus tips.’

‘You really must give me the recipe,’ she muttered.

He picked up a silver fish slice. ‘Let me serve you.’

‘I’ve had enough to eat. I want to leave now.’

‘You wish to return to your rooms?’

‘I wish to return to my country. To my home, my friends, the ones you and your thugs haven’t murdered. To my life. It’s been left kind of interrupted, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Your life is here with me now,’ he said quietly after a pause. ‘That is how it was meant to be.’

The words hit her like a slap across the face. She nearly laughed at the surreal absurdity of it. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You’ll soon forget your old life,’ Serrato told her, delicately laying a slice of salmon on his own plate. ‘Believe me when I say that the one I have to offer you is far superior in every way. I have so many plans for us. There’s so much we can do together. Once my plans are finalised, the world will truly be ours.’ He reached for the vegetables.

‘You’re mad. Who do you think I am?’

Serrato began eating and made no reply.

‘Who’s Alicia?’ she asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Serrato put down his knife and fork with such a loud clatter that it made her jump. He looked across the table at her with a hard, wild glare in his eyes. His tanned face had turned almost white. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me. Consuela and Presentacion keep talking about someone called Alicia, and looking at me. Who is she? Do you think I’m her? Because I’m not. You know my name. It’s Brooke Marcel. Not Alicia someone-or-other.’

Looking as though he was making a huge effort to control himself, Serrato wiped his mouth with a satin napkin and rose from his seat. He left the dining room without a word.

Brooke sat there alone at the empty table. A minute went by, then another. She carefully pushed the little gold chain into the cup of her bra, for want of a pocket. It was more precious to her than a million emerald necklaces and she didn’t want to lose it.

Because a crazy, dangerous, irresistible idea had just come into her mind. She stood up, slipped off her shoes and crept silently across to the door through which the guards had brought her. After listening for sounds outside the door and hearing nothing, she gently opened it a crack and peeked through. There was nobody around.

She swallowed. You’re as mad as he is, she thought. But the opportunity was too tempting to resist. She stepped out of the dining room and glanced around her. The wide hallway had four other doors, all gleaming walnut with shiny gold handles, any of which could lead to some kind of exit.

Brooke was committed now. She padded furtively across the hallway to the nearest of the doors, pressed her ear to it for a moment and then turned the handle.

The room behind the door was a lounge that looked like something from a gentlemen’s club circa 1850: heavily varnished panelling, yet more artwork, a mirror over the fireplace, Chesterfield furniture. Brooke searched the room for a phone. She had no idea what country she was in, let alone what number to call for the police, but if she could make a call to Ben’s mobile, she might be able to get through to him. The thought of being able to speak to him made her heart jump.

But there was no phone. Brooke was about to leave the room and try another when the sudden tap of approaching footsteps outside made her back away from the door and press herself against the wall. The footsteps paused outside. Voices: two men, speaking Spanish.

She held her breath. The door was a couple of inches ajar, and leaning forward she could just about make out the two guards in the hallway. Both were armed with pistols. They’d paused so that one could show the other something on his phone, some picture that made them both laugh. Brooke drew away from the door. Would they notice it was hanging open and come inside to check the room? For a terrifying instant she glanced about her for a hiding place, convinced she was about to be caught – but then the guards moved on and she could breathe again.

Their footsteps grew fainter. She counted one – two – three –

And stopped at four.

She stopped because she’d just realised that what she’d taken to be a mirror over the fireplace, framed in ornate gilt wood, was actually a painting.

It was a portrait of a woman. A woman in a shimmering green dress, with long, curling auburn hair that was elegantly swept up to show off the diamonds and emeralds around her neck. The slender hand posed resting on her lap wore the matching bracelet. Her green eyes looked straight into the viewer’s, stunningly lifelike and filled with joy and excitement. She was smiling.

Brooke gaped at the painting. It couldn’t be … was it … ?

It was of her.