Stormchild by Bernard Cornwell Page A

which I tried to hook my fingers, but the man managed to find his balance and tear himself free, leaving a handful of wiry hairs in my right fist. Abandoning his two companions the man sprinted toward the beach.
    The man I had pushed into the water was already climbing out of the pool’s far side, and I saw that his green overalls were discolored by black streaks which, together with the thick stench that polluted the night air, made me realize that the swimming pool had been deliberately fouled with gallons of black and stinking oil. Behind me Charles suddenly grunted, and I turned to see his captive still desperately struggling. I ran over and thumped a boot into the man’s midriff. “Get him into the bushes!” I said.
    Conference delegates were flooding into the gardens. I did not want to share my captive with anyone, but instead wanted to force some swift information from the man. Charles dragged the bearded figure into the deep shadows behind the small hut where the hotel’s bathing towels were kept. The prisoner made one last frantic effort to twist out of Charles’s grip, but only received a smashing punch in the stomach for his pains. He doubled over, but I grabbed his beard and rammed his head back so that his skull thumped painfully against the hut’s wall. “Do you want me to give you to the police?” I asked him.
    The man said nothing. I could barely see his face, so dark were the shadows, but I could see that our captive was not Caspar von Rellsteb. “Do you speak English?” I asked him.
    Still he said nothing. I sensed Charles moving beside me, and the prisoner suddenly gave a small cry of pain. “I speak English,” the man said hastily. He had an American accent and breath that smelled rotten.
    “Are you from Genesis?” I asked, and, in my excitement, I pronounced it the English way. “Genesis?” I corrected myself.
    “Yes!” he said, but with difficulty, for I was holding him by the throat.
    “Listen,” I said, and slightly released the pressure of my hooked fingers as I spoke. “My name is Tim Blackburn. My daughter is Nicole Blackburn. Do you know Nicole?”
    He nodded frantically. I could see the whites of his eyes as he glanced in panic toward the urgent voices of the conference delegates who were milling excitedly by the fouled pool. I could smell the fear in our captive. He had been hurt by Charles and now feared that I was about to add to his pain or, worse, was about to hand him over to a vengeful mob.
    “Is Nicole here tonight?” I asked urgently.
    He whimpered something that I did not catch.
    “Is she?” I insisted.
    “No! No!”
    “So where is she?” I demanded.
    “I don’t know!”
    “But she’s with Genesis?”
    “Yes!” he said.
    “Where is Genesis!” I hissed at him. “Where’s your base?”
    He said nothing.
    “Answer me!” I said too loudly.
    Still the man said nothing, so I rammed a fist into his belly. “Where the fuck is my daughter?” I shouted at him, suddenly not caring if we were overheard. The man stubbornly shook his bearded face. He had evidently decided to act the heroic prisoner; he would give me his name, rank, and number, but he was determined not to reveal where the Genesis community lived. “Where?” I gripped him by the throat and shook him like a dog shakes a rat.
    “Hurry!” Charles urged me. Flashlight beams were raking the nearby bushes, and it could only be minutes or even seconds before we were seen. “Hurry!” Charles said again.
    “Was von Rellsteb here tonight?” I asked our prisoner.
    “Yes!”
    “I want to meet him. Tell him that. Tell him I’ve got some important news for Nicole. Ask him to give her this letter, but tell him I’d like to talk with him first.” I took the letter from my jacket pocket, then borrowed a pen from Charles and wrote the guest-house telephone number on the back of the envelope. Afterward I fumbled about our captive’s overalls until I found a pocket into which I stuffed the precious