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Not a rebel or a staff member then.
    Jana allowed herself a grain of hope: perhaps all the other delegates were inside. Maybe the
rebels' demands had been met and their release had been secured.
    And perhaps you're already dead and stuck forever in a nightmare. No one negotiates with rebels,
terrorists or kidnappers any more. No governments, no agencies, no one.
    As if verifying that notion, Jana heard Ifran say, 'What is taking so long? Do they not believe
we are serious? What is wrong with these Australians?'
    'The Americans probably,' the other man said. 'What did you expect, Mila? If you only wanted to
deal with the Aussies or Kiwis, you should've made sure there were no US citizens here.'
    'But there are only two of them,' Ifran shouted. He appeared in the doorway and motioned at them
with a toss of his head.
    Jana led the way up steps, while Alan whispered in her ear, 'Let me do the talking.'
    'I don't think so, Alan. Let's see who he wants to talk to.' She was, after all, the
conference chairperson and official delegate of the Australian Economic Tourism Council, while Alan
Wagner was merely a Sydney TV journo on a travel junket. She was also a trade negotiator of some
international renown, and far less obnoxious.
    There's that other thing too, she thought, but there's no way these rebels could know about that.
    As Jana entered the dining room, she noticed two things immediately: Mila Ifran was alone; and
the space had undergone a technological transformation since she'd been dragged here seven days ago.
Then the rebels hadn't cleared away the mess they'd made in the initial attack; now the place was
clean, tidy and full of high-tech equipment. Highly suspicious, high-tech equipment.
    Jana frowned. These were island rebels. Dressed in a motley assortment of tourist T-shirts and
camouflage pants or khaki shorts; their 'uniforms' reflected the grassroots poverty that topped a
long list of grievances against their government. Yet here were several tables covered with laptop
computers and state of the art communication and surveillance gear.
    While Alan tried to take control of the situation, Jana's already baffled attention was drawn to
the swinging kitchen door, through which she caught sight of a departing soldier. Obviously it was
the man with whom Mila Ifran had been talking, but why was he alone wearing pristine combat
fatigues? And since when do Pacific Islanders - rebel or not - have red hair?
    Sixth rule of survival, Rossi style: never admit seeing or knowing anything you weren't meant to.
    Mila Ifran meanwhile told Alan Wagner to shut up and sit down and then turned to Jana.
    'Dr Rossi.'
    'Mr Ifran,' she nodded.
    'I trust my men are taking good care of you,' he said, indicating she should sit opposite him.
    Jana shrugged. 'More than one meal a day would be nice but, given the circumstances, they are
being quite, ah, polite.'
    'Good. I,' Ifran began.
    'Bloody hell, woman!' Alan exploded. 'We've been held hostage for over a week by a bunch of
filthy bastards with guns.'
    Ifran raised his hand. 'Have you been harmed?'
    Alan opened his mouth.
    'Not by your people he hasn't,' Jana interrupted, with a smile. First rule of negotiating, Rossi
style: charm or disarm with polite composure. No matter how scared you are.
    'Are the other delegates okay?' she asked.
    'Yes. They are fine.' Ifran leant forward, turned a TV on and picked up a remote control. 'Your
famous mediating skills, Dr Rossi, would involve being able to read people, yes?'
    'Of course.'
    'Then I would like you to tell me, if you can, what you think your government is up to.' He
pointed the remote at a video recorder. 'This was recorded about five hours ago.'
    The tail end of a Sky News update on an Aussie cricketer was followed by the latest on the
Pacific Island Hostage Crisis.
    Jana shook her head. 'Straight up, I can tell you that news of an injured sportsman is more
important than anything our government is ever up to.'
    The TV newsreader, backed by a