Joan Redux

"Mine might work, though. It should, anyway. It's one of those new ones, they're supposed to work everywhere. But I haven't switched it back on since we got off the plane - yesterday." It jolted both of us: It was less than 24 hours since we got off the plane. It seemed like a week.

Joan's mobile made a noise like an orchestra tuning up as it came back to life, but nothing stirred upstairs. The sated bandits were all still asleep we assumed.

"Yes, it's got a carrier," whispered Joan after a moment. "Who shall we call?"

I'd been thinking about that as she was powering the thing up. The only two telephone numbers I'd had in Montenegro were the hotel and the car rental, and they were in my mobile. I couldn't even remember the country code for Montenegro, let alone the numbers.

"What about the airline?" asked Joan. Not a bad idea at all - it was one of those numbers that you don't have to remember because it spells out the company's name.

She dialed the number. After an incredibly long time a computer-simulation voice said "Thanks you for calling the world's premier airline for international travel ..." and gave a long list of choices and a number to press for each one, ending in "If you need to speak to a representative, press 9."

Joan pressed 9, and some music came on, "She Came In Through The Bathroom Window".

After a minute the computer voice interrupted and said "All of our representatives are busy serving other customers. You are the one-hundred-and-eleventh customer in the queue. It is estimated that your waiting time for a representative will be ... fourteen minutes," and the music came back on.

Joan whispered "If you require assistance with bandits, press 6". Then she went on "Well, we know the phone works, but I'm a bit worried about the battery - I don't think it lasts very long."

"Yes, hang up. I think we should phone Tolly."

"Who's Tolly?"

"He's a friend. Well, he's the uncle of a friend really. He probably won't be able to do anything, but he might know someone who can - he works for one of those hush-hush departments in the government that only has letters and numbers in it's name."

"Like MI6?"

"That sort of thing. I think we should give him a try. We'll come back to the airline if that doesn't work."

"And you know his telephone number by heart?"

"Yes."

"Who would be your second choice?"

"My brother."

"Who else?"

"Who's numbers do you have stored in your mobile?"

"None. It's new. Try Tolly. But ... what time is it in London?"

"They're three hours behind so it must be about two o'clock in the morning."

"Won't he be at home? - or does he work the night shift at the department of letters and numbers?"

"It's his home number that I know."

"One day you're going to have to tell me why you know the home telephone number of a spy. But at the moment ..." and she handed me the phone.

* * *

The familiar English phone-ringing noise went da-da da-da only twice before it was picked up.

"... this had better be good."

"Tolly?"

"Who's this?"

"Tolly, it's Bunt."

"Bunt? Bunt the Cunt?"

"... er, yes, it's Bunt." I wished Joan couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but I knew she could - I'd heard the airline computer when she was on the phone.

"Bunt! How are you old chap? I assume there's some compelling story behind this - why you're phoning me at whatever the hell time it is - two o'clock in the morning."

"There is. I'm in a spot of trouble and you're the only person I could think of who might be able to help."

"So, you haven't been arrested for obscene behaviour in the toilets at Piccadilly ... drunk driving ... need twenty quid Bit more serious than that, otherwise ..."

"... I wouldn't be phoning you in the middle of the night. No, it's quite serious."

"Tell me." Now he was serious too.

"We're in Montenegro, and we've been kidnapped by bandits. They're holding us in an old house out in the middle of nowhere."

"Have they made any demands? Asked you for names of people to contact - any signs at all of a ransom bid?"

"No, none."

"Where exactly?"

"Well, that's the thing - we don't know. We were lost when the bandits arrived on the scene. Very lost."

"Mmmh. I'm getting the number of the local police, but I'm not sure that's going to do any good if we can't tell them where you are. Let me think for a minute."

There was a silence.

Joan whispered in my ear "Battery." I nodded.

Tolly came back on the line. "What sort of phone do you have?"

"I - I don't know. It's my wife's phone. It's new."

"Good - if it can call London from Montenegro then it probably has GPS too."

Joan slapped her hand across her forehead. "Yes, why didn't we think of that!"

Meanwhile Tolly was still talking: "Now, the phone almost certainly doesn't have a Montenegro map in it's memory. But take a look at that, it's not impossible."

"Hang on." I gave the phone back to Joan. She pressed a couple of buttons and shook her head, no local map.

"No, thought not. But the phone can still be helpful."

I realised where he was heading. "You can tell where the phone is!"

"Well. I can't, but the Americans can. But - how's the battery?"

"Not sure, but probably a bit on the low side."

"OK, here's what you have to do: Leave the phone on for 15 minutes after we hang up - give me time to telephone over to Grosvenor Square and ask the Americans time to give us a fix on the signal. After that, turn it on for five minutes every hour, on the hour. I'll phone you when I have something more to say. Put it on vibrate if the noise would be a give-away."

"OK. In the meantime, there might be a slight chance of getting away."

"Keep the phone with you. Whatever you do, keep the phone with you."

* * *

We both lay back in the dark and absorbed what he'd said. It was a huge advance that someone knew of our plight. But on the other hand - what could he do? Send in the Specials?

"What can he do?" asked Joan. "Even if he can work out where we are?"

"Yes, I know, it's hard to think of anything. But if they know where we are they might be able to persuade the locals to send up a couple of policemen or something."

"I think the local police would give these guys a very wide berth."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, we've been calling them bandits, but I don't think they are, really."

"What are they?"

"Some sort of militia I think - guerillas, freedom fighters, something along those lines. Rebels. Is there a war going on up here?"

"Um, there was, yes. Think it's died down a bit now."

"How long's it been going on for?"

"About six hundred years. You think they're - participants?"

"Yes. Did you see those arm bands they're all wearing - and the boss's was a different colour? They're sort of insignias, I think - marks of rank. I don't think bandits bother about that sort of thing, they just have a boss, and everyone knows who the boss is because there aren't all that many of them."

"Didn't Tolly say he'd get the police to come up except he couldn't tell them where we were?"

"Yes. But we didn't Tolly about the arm bands, did we? And another thing - remember when they first came up to us, one of them was ranting about 'mines countries' and so on? I don't think these are bandits. They're - well, I'm not sure what they are, but I bet if you asked them they would say they're soldiers."

Of course. It was obvious once she'd said it.

"So anyway," Joan went on "I would bet the police don't come up here, not within 10 kilometres of here. Not if they know what's good for them."

We lay in silence again for a little while. Then -

" 'Bunt the Cunt'? What was that all about?"

I'd been thinking about what to say about that.

"Well, you know how it can be - everyone named 'Bunt' gets called 'Bunt the Cunt' at least a few times in their life."

"But you're not named Bunt. Your name is Andrew."

"But at school - some people called me Bunt, sort of a nickname."

"You never told me that before. What does it mean - Bunt?"

"Well, that's why I didn't tell you about it before. It's a sort of cockney rhymer for 'runt'."

"Or 'cunt'."

"No, it was 'runt'."

"Sounds fishy to me. And how old is Tolly, anyway? You weren't at school with him, were you? Isn't he much older than you - your friend's uncle, didn't you say? How does he know about 'Bunt'?"

"He's about, oh, sixty by now I suppose. No, I wasn't at school with him."

"And, did I get his voice right? - isn't he a little bit, you know ... queer?"

"Well, he's from a time and a social class that had what sounds to others like strange mannerisms, sort of foppish - you know how they can come off."

"Yes, I do - with the mouth. Or the hand. Or both."

I laughed, but as I did there was a stirring upstairs. Our captors were waking up.