by T L Yeager
“People on the other side. They came in right before you woke up,” Izzy explained.
Eventually a pair of legs arrived in Ross’s field of view. He couldn’t look up into the light. There were feet and the barrel of a gun and an offer of pain medicine, which Ross accepted.
The legs left for maybe an hour and returned, accompanied by the rattle of a pill bottle.
“How many?” the voice asked.
“What is it?”
“Ibuprofen. Two hundred milligrams,” the voice explained.
“Six. Please,” he replied.
The man handed them down. “Stay here on this side until someone comes for you. If you need anything, just yell.”
After that, Ross and Izzy were left in the corridor. He talked his daughter carefully through the events that had occurred after he was knocked unconscious. What he deduced from the information was that the men had shown a modicum of compassion. Izzy told her father how she’d laid with him crying. How the men had left them in the hall. She explained in as much detail as a six-year-old is capable, how they returned with a luggage cart. The men talked “nicely” to her. The men lifted Daddy onto the cart. The men let Izzy hold Daddy’s hand while they took them down the elevator to see the doctor. They’d walked outside, Izzy explained.
Ross gathered that they were now in the office near the main lobby. Izzy had traced the line by describing the pamphlet rack near the back door. She was routinely scolded for taking brochures and stuffing them in her purse. She also explained how she got to go behind “the big desk,” which Ross knew must be the area where people checked in.
What Ross could not reason was why he was still alive. Izzy had been given a blanket and two bottles of water. She seemed to have recovered from the trauma of the situation. Only kind words could have manifested that. Children were resilient, but Izzy seemed to have aged years while Ross was out.
“Get up and follow me.” It had come as a command. “Anas is ready for you.”
“Who?” Ross asked.
“Never mind that. Follow me now.”
In college, Ross had taken up psychology because engineering excited him less than rice cakes as a snack. While the geeks in his class relished the thought of a Rube Goldberg competition, for Ross it was evidence that his parents had pushed him into the wrong field. He felt deeply. Analyzing the faint sparks that precipitated an event was more his style. It was the conjecture that fed him—supposition over mechanics.
Even with his head still searing with pain, there was enough space between the throbbing bolts that he remembered his training. Comply, he thought.
The psychology of the situation told him that they were safe for now. If they were to be killed, it would have happened already. There were bigger plans.
Ross knew that kidnap and hostage victims actually had a higher chance of escape than most people believed. When the violence was not immediate, the kidnapper usually had a vested interest in keeping them alive. Self-defense protocol dictated that potential victims try and escape a kidnap attempt. Ross had tried that. But if you’re detained, compliance offers the best chance of survival. That was, of course, as long as the request being made did not place you in jeopardy.
Ross didn’t sense danger. He lifted himself from the floor by sliding up the wall. Izzy held his hand, raising it as if to take the weight of her father’s arm to help him up.
They’d been led out through the lobby. On the way out, he glimpsed three young co-ed’s sitting side by side on the floor. He and Izzy were quickly ushered to the back of the lobby, toward the pamphlet rack.
Light angled off the floor. The brightness of the sun’s reflection again amplified the pain in Ross’s head. Through the squint, he saw a pool of dark liquid and smear marks that led to the back door. Something had been run through the liquid. As they got closer, the red tinge brought the realization to life. Ross pulled Izzy in tight. Someone had been killed, their body dragged to the door.
The gore ended before the door. A heap of towels was piled against the wall. Someone had cleaned the floor to prevent others from slipping in the blood. It was a thought that sent chills racing down his neck rather than comforting him.
A second soldier pulled open the door as they approached. Hot air curled around the corner and washed over them. Heat and light blasted the goose bumps from his skin. Ross cringed at the light, again shading his eyes. Looking down, the trail of blood picked up again, running over the concreate toward the pool.
They were led straight out from the doors, following the dark streak to an area near the pool.
A camera sat atop a tripod. It was oriented toward the waterfall, still cascading some thirty yards distant at the end of the pool.
“Why is there a camera?” Izzy asked.
“I don’t know, sweets.” Ross pulled his daughter close.
It almost felt cliché. Terrorists take hostages. Terrorists film hostages. Terrorists request ransoms. But then what? He shuddered at the thought and shook his head to throw it clear. It was a bad idea. The headache drove its spikes deeper. Ross dropped to a knee, his arm around Izzy’s shoulders.
“Can I have a play date with Harper today?” Harper was another six-year-old Izzy had met the day before in the kiddie pool.
“We’ll see.” Ross said, his words strained.
“When can we go swimming Daddy?” Izzy’s question lit the memory of bodies rounding the corner in the lazy river. Ross could see up the long straight leg on this side of the circulating pool. The path was clear, but the water looked murky. He scanned left and glimpsed the top of what might have been a body resting in the water by the stairs on the far side. It looked to have made its way out of the current and become hung up on a railing leading into the pool.
“Not today, honey. Not until all of this is done. We need to listen and follow directions. Okay?”
Moments later, a man exited the doors where Ross and Izzy had emerged. For a moment, Ross thought their ordeal might be over. With khaki pants, a white button-down and loafers, his business casual appearance looked suitable for an evening out.
He slicked his long black hair back as he strode up to the camera. Ross’s sensors recorded the vanity and noted the stare he was trying to hide behind the tortoise framed sunglasses.
“How are you?” he asked. The wind caught his hair.
“Are you Anas?”
He lifted his glasses, uncovering one green eye, the other squinting from the light. “How do you know my name?”
“The guard. It was a mistake.”
“And you are?”
For a moment, Ross wondered if he should use fake names. The tongue-tied moment hung awkwardly. If he was caught in a lie there could be repercussions. “I’m Ross, and this is my daughter, Isabelle.”
“Ross, you have a wonderful daughter. Very sweet. I want you to understand that we are here for a reason and mean to do you no harm. Violence is merely a means to an end in this case.” Anas paused and centered the camera. “As I’ve told the others I’ve worked with today, please do your best to follow instructions so they aren’t forced to be rough.” He gestured over his shoulder to guards standing sentry behind him.
“So, you’re the leader?” Ross asked.
Anas smiled. “One of them.”
“Have you considered letting the children go?”
“We’re not here to debate, Ross. You and Isabelle are in my charge now. We’ll be working together.” Anas had a computer under his arm. He set it on the table and leaned down to inspect the screen.
“Here are the basics of what you’ll—“ He straightened and stepped around the camera toward Ross and Izzy. Ross felt the urge to retreat for the second time that day.
“Let me see your head.” Anas touched the side of Ross’s chin with his index finger, turning his head to the side. His skin felt as soft as Izzy’s.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Let’s pull the chairs up. Each of you can sit in one. Side by side, of course.” He helped with
the chair behind Izzy while Ross pulled up the second.
“Why are you filming us?” Ross asked.
Anas finished situating the chair then looked down at Ross.
“We have our reasons. Sit, please.” Anas offered the chair and then stepped away.
Anas’s personality felt reserved, almost introverted in tone, but the look he gave communicated control. He knew what he was doing. What he didn’t know was that Ross was counter-interpreting his every gesture.
“Once I start the recording, please state your names. Ross, you will do the talking. Tell us where you call home. Can you turn a little please?” Anas gestured for him to turn so that his left side faced the camera.
“I need you to explain that the bruise on your head resulted from you trying to escape. Then go on and explain how you’ve been in good care since then. How Isabelle has been cared for. Mention the blankets, water and medicines provided, please. Explain how you’ve been told you’ll be safe as long as you follow instructions and our requests are met. Say something like, ‘Please give them what they want so Isabelle and I can come home safely.’ But instead of home, tell us the state. Where are you’re from?”
33
US Consulate’s Office, Curacao
Margaret Baker initiated the second call of the day. “Ray, what’s our next move?”
“We’re establishing channels with the other countries and Wincopia. This just hit us at the same time as you, Margaret. We need time.”
“Is the non-compliance policy going to be reconsidered?” Margaret asked. The US and UK both had strict noncompliance policies when it came to ransom demands. “We’ve had news crews landing all day. Every charterable jet in the northern Hemisphere is parked on the runway out here.”
“We’ve got three days, Margaret. This is going to take time. The only thing you can do for now is state the policy, verbatim, and tell them it’s not in your purview.” The keel of Ray’s tone remained level.
There was a long bit of silence as Margaret considered the implications. The Secretary of State was known to labor for long hours and move quickly between priority items.
“Margaret?”
“We’re not seriously going to allow this to happen?” Most in the State Department agreed in theory with the no ransom policy. They also knew that kidnapped Americans were executed faster than citizens from any other countries. The terrorists knew they never paid. Corporations were known to pay if the captured employees were high ranking or a public relations disaster loomed, but not the United States.
“Killing the father and daughter will be bad enough, Ray. But watching those buildings come down with people... Germany, Sweden, Italy, the Dutch, they’ll pay. You know that better than anyone. They’ll pay to free their people. What then? Are we going to let the world watch the Germans, Swedes and Dutch walk out? They’ll bring those buildings down, Ray.”
“We’ve got people analyzing the videos to verify the explosives.” His monotone only added fuel to the fire.
“Isn’t plastic explosive easier to buy and smuggle than machine guns and RPG’s? That was the least of their worries. Why would they bluff?”
“Margaret, I know you’re stressed, but I need you to be a pillar here. Shift the heat to me when you have to. Everyone knows D.C. is making the calls, not you. The list of options is long right now. It’s going to take time for us to sift through them. Our goal tonight will be to identify the strategies likely to result in positive outcomes.”
“I appreciate the situation, Ray. And I’m not worried about the reporters. I can talk a party line with the best of them. I’m worried about the people in those buildings. I’m worried about Ross Günther and his daughter. I’m worried about the sweet old Swedish lady and the family of eight on holiday from England.”
“I hear you, Margaret. And I agree with your sentiments. Right now, it’s all about the mechanism. We’ve got assets all over gearing up to head your way. We’re sending a security detachment to provide protection for your team and the Forward Operating Locations. We’ll be in touch, Margaret. Hang in there.”
Even as a career politician, she struggled with the lack of humanity the top brass was capable of justifying. The internet was awash in videos of Americans and Brits being executed at the hands of terrorists. They were mostly unlucky reporters and renounced intelligence operatives. This was different, though. She could feel the proverbial blow to the gut that this group had just landed. The impact was still spreading across the torso of the government. They’d backed the United States into a corner like it’d never been backed into before.
The continental European countries operated without stated ransom policies. They made decisions on a case by case basis. More often than not, they paid to free citizens. This multinational ransom would create enormous pressure. Even through the monotone, Margaret could sense the sweat on Ray Ladenburg’s brow. Washington was on eggshells. Political futures hung in the balance. Give too much ground to the terrorists and your political enemies would castrate you. Let citizens die en masse and you’ll be eternally convicted in the court of public opinion. Fieri non potest ut vincas. You cannot win.
The Caribbean posting was supposed to be an easy one. Turquoise water, plenty of friends and family from home interested in visiting, simple-minded dignitaries; it was the easy life. Margaret and her husband would literally cruise their way into retirement with the most relaxing post of her career. Now she was watching videos of hostages who, from her estimation, did not know they might be executed in three days. There was a Dutch couple from Amsterdam, a German politician whose family was at the resort but not in the video. A Swedish woman who looked like a high mountain grandmother who had come down from the Alps. There was no mention if she was alone, but she struck Margaret as the oddest addition to the spectacle. From the UK, a group of three coeds on break from University that had decided on a holiday in the Caribbean. They’d started as two couples but lost one of the boys when he tried to escape to get help.
A family of five with two young daughters and an older son were selected to represent Italy. Imagine not paying and letting them go to their deaths.
The Wincopia video included a resort manager who was covering the night shift for a colleague. She did the talking. Beside her sat a security guard who’d clearly sustained a blow to the face, a housekeeper and a woman from the laundry facility.
After watching the videos a second time, Margaret was convinced that the hostages in the them didn’t know of the execution plans. Their voices lacked the fear that would most certainly be embedded if they knew they were to be killed over money. The statements, please give them what they want, were monotone. There was no pleading or crying. Several appeared stressed and each of them looked confused, but they were all managing the fear.
An eighth video was recorded beneath one of the buildings. The camera walked from one end to the other stopping at vertical concrete pillars. Each time the camera zoomed in on the wires running from cylinders of plastic explosive. “More than enough to bring this building to the ground,” a voice in the background said after each zoom.
What tore at Margaret the most was the video of the American, Ross Günther and his daughter. Margaret was a mother of two herself. She’d had a lump in her belly while she watched all of the videos, but the emotion in Ross’s eyes carried a supernatural quality through to the screen. The complete cocktail of emotions was only discernible by another parent. Anger, resolve, fear, determination—it was all there, swirling in his eyes and on display for the parents of the world to see.
34
Kavita’s Café, Aruba
Maddie fell into a state of shock. Sound dissolved and time ceased. As videos of other hostages played, her stare lost clarity. She entered an inner headspace that was wholly new to her.
There was a hand on her back.
“Have a seat, Maddie.” A chair was moved in from behind.
“I just need a—“ Maddie looked down at the floor. She rubbed her hands ove
r her face, pressing so hard it felt like the skin might tear. “A minute—I just need a minute—or two.”
She turned and walked toward the door, semi-conscious of Geert’s hand, which dropped away after a step or two.
A hush had fallen with the breaking news. It remained as the people in the café watched the other videos. Maddie kept her head down. One foot fell in front of the next. Her hands didn’t leave her face until she hit the front porch and descended the stairs.
Shock and disbelief began to boil into a red froth of anger as she crossed the parking lot. At the end of the gravel lot, she stopped and stared at the road, her body throbbing with fury. Her heart thumped, propelling the anger to the surface, just below the skin where it wanted out.
There was a car coming up from Baby Beach. For a moment, Maddie considered stepping in front of it.
After the car passed, she stood there thinking, still staring down at the asphalt. The video of Ross and Izzy flickered with images of Will’s ruptured skull. The pain would be magnified exponentially this time.
Please give them what they want, so Isabelle and I can come home safely to Maryland. Will! Jesus Christ, Will! You’re gonna be okay! Get me a corpsman!
Maddie’s mind bounced back and forth between the scenes with evil possession. Her hands found her hips and she looked up at the sky, drawing long breaths in and out. She needed to keep her energy focused. The negativity had nearly killed her the last time.
Sometimes she still caught the sound of Will’s last breaths drifting like ghosts through her mind. Morning, night, middle of the day—it had taken years to break away the cocoon.
Will was one of the best friends Maddie had ever known—second only to Ross and the girls. They were like bar room buddies, beating the hell out of pool balls, but instead of a pool table, their playing field was Iraq. They worked as a team, Maddie behind the gun and Will spotting targets and shots. It never sat right that the kills were credited to the person pulling the trigger. Will deserved the credit just as much, if not more.