Falling

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  N’Djamena in contrast consisted of old asphalt, glaring men, and completely insane traffic. Jeeps and rattling pickups, undernourished children, and white plaster buildings with Arabic lettering on the signs.

  They followed Lutz, went to a café, and drank sweet tea. Alexander looked at his watch. He had started a timer on his phone, and it kept track of the amount of time Isobel had been missing. The seconds flew by, running away like sand in a digital hourglass.

  Lutz spread out a map. All three men leaned in over it.

  “Her phone is somewhere in this area,” Tom said, drawing a circle with his finger over blurred lines and numbers. “Until further notice we’ll assume she’s there too. She might have been taken because she’s a doctor. It might be that some clan needs her help. If that’s the case, they’ll treat her relatively well.”

  Lutz bared his teeth.

  “If she’s been kidnapped, it’ll probably be brutal. They don’t like white people here,” he said with a growl. “They think all Westerners have money, and they want to lay their dirty paws on the gold. Fucking vermin.”

  Alexander met Lutz’s pale blue eyes and decided that he hated this South African murderer.

  “We can begin to get a team together,” Tom explained. “I’ve started to pull some threads. But if we don’t know where she is, there’s nothing we can do. Still no witnesses?”

  Lutz shook his head. “I’ve asked around. Nothing yet.”

  “But you said she was here?” Alexander asked, pointing at the map.

  “Yes,” said Tom.

  “So can’t we just go down there and look?”

  Lutz gave a scornful laugh, and Alexander wanted to get up and beat him stupid, work out all his anger and frustration.

  “That area is as big as southern Sweden,” Tom said evenly. “All we can do now is wait.”

  Alexander’s cell phone rang. Leila. He wanted to refuse the call; it was her fault, her fucking fault, but he answered: “Any news?”

  “No. I wanted to see if you’d heard anything. I’m starting to wonder.”

  He hung up and looked at the timer again. Again and again.

  Chapter 59

  Air, water, sleep, and food. Those are our basic needs. In roughly that order. The physiological needs are the most important, the absolute minimum of things a human needs to survive. But which need came next in the hierarchy? Isobel tried to remember. Was it security? Love? Psychological needs came after the physiological, she was certain of that. But did love even belong there, among psychological necessities, or was it really just a modern construct? Someone had said that to her once. That love was a recent invention. Alexander, wasn’t it? She tried to recall his exact words, but it was difficult. It went so fast, being reduced to someone who could think of nothing but quenching her thirst.

  She licked her lips, even though she knew it was stupid. How long had it been since they’d torn her from the car, forced her to change clothes, taken her shoes, and thrown her in here? She had really thought that she could keep track of time. But it was so dark. At least two nights had passed—she had been so cold her teeth had chattered twice now. But it was day again. She knew that because it was so hot she couldn’t think. So, at least two nights had passed, but she supposed it could be even longer. Could it be as much as a week? She had no idea. They gave her very little to eat, and her skin was looser than it had been, which meant she had been losing weight for a while.

  So maybe it was a week after all.

  Things shouldn’t have ended up like this. She shouldn’t be locked in a clay hut with only her own thoughts for company.

  Things should have ended happily.

  She should have realized what she felt, dared to take a chance on Alexander, and lived happily fucking after.

  Now she would probably die.

  Alone.

  They hadn’t even given her a blanket. There was nothing but floor, walls, and ceiling. A tiny window, nailed shut. A bucket. If the cold or the thirst didn’t finish her off, there were always the mosquitoes and malaria. Or the abuse.

  So many ways to die.

  She was ashamed of how afraid she was.

  And she was so sad she’d never had the chance to tell Alexander she loved him, because of course she did.

  Undoubtedly she ought to be happy and thankful that she had gotten to experience at least a little love. But she was furious—the whole thing was just so goddamn senseless.

  She didn’t know who the men holding her were, but she suspected they had been tipped off by the chauffeur, Yannick. She shouldn’t have gone with a new driver, her instincts had warned her. He’d seen her money. Probably he’d alerted them. And there was something else, nagging at the corner of her mind. Something about a bird. No, feet. Bird’s feet. A tattoo. The father of little Ahmed, yes Muhammed. She’d seen him, hadn’t she? At the market, staring at her, hatred in his eyes. Was he involved in this? She tried to remember, but there were so many men here, some of them with their faces covered.

  Maybe it was fate. Her grandfather had died here, murdered by Chadians. It was arrogant to assume they would treat her any better. She was a foreigner, a stuck-up Westerner with an arrogant savior complex, and they believed they could make money off of her.

  They had hit her, but she wasn’t seriously injured, not as far as she could tell. She carefully examined her body again. No broken bones, no vital organs in danger, her kidneys were working, her lungs were fine, her heart was still beating. Well, if they were going for a ransom they needed her alive. Not that it stopped them from abusing her.

  She heard voices. Oh, God, they were coming.

  The door opened. It was so dark in her prison that the light was painful.

  Swallowing as they came closer, she blinked rapidly, tried to steel herself. Wasn’t that Muhammed? She tried to focus, thought she saw the tattoo at his cheek, but the light was too blinding and she had to avert her eyes. She didn’t want to show any weakness. Wanted to be dignified to show that she deserved their respect. That she could be useful to them. That even if they hated her they didn’t have to beat her so badly, take out their frustrations on her.

  But Isobel was only human, and she cried when they eventually left.

  Chapter 60

  That evening, Alexander and Tom left the hotel and went out to find something to eat in N’Djamena. Alexander had wanted to stay in the same hotel Isobel had been in when she was last seen, but Tom had clipped out short phrases about security and risks and then dictatorially chosen another hotel, and there were only a certain number of battles Alexander could bring himself to fight, so he’d given in.

  Lutz had reported all the information he had to Tom and already moved on. To Iraq or Syria or somewhere equally as hospitable, doubtless.

  They sat down and picked up the menus. There were kids everywhere, gaunt children who silently slipped around the tables and watched the guests—wealthy Chadians and foreigners—with cautious eyes. They came up to the diners, begged and offered things as soon as the waitstaff disappeared and the guards looked away.

  Fruit, shoe polish. Massages.

  A small, scrawny boy approached their table, but he was immediately chased away. He gave Alexander a beseeching look but disappeared under the blows of a waiter.

  They ordered. Alexander took what Tom told him to without protest.

  “Not a good idea to get sick right now,” Tom said curtly, ordering unopened bottles of water instead of a jug. “And avoid the ice.”

  Alexander’s fingers drummed impatiently on the tablecloth. He didn’t want to sit in a restaurant and make small talk about the local food. He wanted to do something. The scrawny boy snuck up to them again. He was thin, and his clothes hung like rags around him. His gaze didn’t move from Alexander.

  “Monsieur?” he whispered in French.

  Tom shook his head warningly as he tore off a bit of bread, put it in his mouth, and chewed it briefly and efficiently.

  “Don’t give him anything;
they won’t leave us alone.”

  Alexander demonstratively took a coin from his pocket and gave it to the boy. Tom rolled his eyes and reached for his beer. “Suit yourself.”

  The boy took the coin but stayed by the table. He moved his lips. He pulled at Alexander’s hand. “Le docteur,” he said.

  Alexander studied the boy more closely, feeling something prickle at the back of his neck. “What?”

  “Monsieur,” he repeated, glancing around with a frightened look. The waiter was approaching with heavy steps. “You have been asking questions, yes? You’re looking for Doctor Isobel.” His head darted back and forth, then his thin throat worked. “I saw her,” he whispered almost inaudibly.

  Tom took a swig from his beer and glared at the child. The waiter had almost reached them.

  The boy stayed put with a defiant expression. Every now and then his eyes flicked to the plates of food at the table. When had he last eaten?

  “What’s your name?” Alexander asked as he handed the child a piece of the garlic-scented bread they had been served with the stew. Firmly he waved the approaching waiter away.

  The boy took the bread and it disappeared into a pocket.

  “Marius,” he said, almost inaudibly.

  Alexander sat up straight. Could it be?

  “I know who you are. You’re her friend, aren’t you?”

  The boy nodded. “Oui, from the hospital.”

  “Tom, I know who this boy is,” Alexander said. “Isobel talked about him a few times.”

  Tom turned to Marius with a deeply skeptical look.

  “What did you see?” he asked in French, studying the child.

  “I saw them take Docteur Isobel. Where the road is narrow. In a car. Many men with guns. I was there, on my way to the hospital. She screamed.”

  Tom gave Alexander a warning look, and Alexander had to use all his might to sit still and keep quiet. No good would come of him showing his anger, his powerlessness. Tom looked at Marius again, still suspicious. The man was born a sceptic.

  “Do you know who they are? Which clan they are from?”

  “Oui, monsieur. I know the village.”

  “Okay,” Tom decided. “Let’s take him to the hotel and see if he can point it out on the map.”

  * * *

  “So. We have an eyewitness who confirms she was taken,” Tom said after Marius showed them where he had seen Isobel. They were talking with low voices. Marius was asleep on the couch in Alexander’s locked room; Tom had refused to let the boy go.

  “That’s if we can trust the kid. We can’t dismiss the idea that someone might have sent him to give us false information.”

  “Is that really likely?”

  “No. But we can’t take any risks.”

  “What should we do with him?”

  Tom shrugged. “I can’t let him go now.”

  “You mean we are kidnapping him?”

  “Call it what you want,” he replied without looking up from the map of Chad.

  “So. We know where she’s probably being held, and by whom. What we don’t know is why—whether it’s money or politics. Or both. What we should do now is go home, tell the police a Swedish citizen has been taken, and let them and the authorities take over. But I’m guessing that’s not what you want.”

  Alexander didn’t even bother replying. He wasn’t leaving Chad without Isobel; it was that simple.

  “If we’re going to rescue her, there’ll be a price to pay,” Tom continued. “People and money. And it’s still uncertain. We only have a street kid’s word for it.”

  “He seems trustworthy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “In concrete terms, what do you need?”

  “I need to get eyes on that desert village the kid pointed out. Verify that she’s actually there. Put together a rescue team. A scout and a sniper, six men for the actual rescue, eight in total. Weapons. Two or three cars.” Tom frowned, concentrating. “A helicopter, I think. For me.”

  “Can that be arranged down here?”

  “Anything can be arranged. It’s all about money.”

  Alexander smiled grimly. “I have money. Do it.”

  Tom turned his wrist and looked at his watch.

  “I’ll get the ball rolling. Keep an eye on the kid.

  Tom disappeared, and Alexander remained sitting as night fell over N’Djamena and the ridiculously expensive hotel.

  * * *

  “I made a few calls,” Tom said when they met for lunch the next day. They could hear the muezzin between the buildings; Alexander hadn’t gotten much sleep, but Marius had slept soundly for twelve hours on the couch, eaten all the food he’d been given, and then sat down in front of the TV with the remote control.

  “They’re on their way, from various parts of Africa. They have weapons and vehicles, and all the other equipment we need.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  Tom shrugged. “They’re not nice guys, but they’ll do what they need to as long as they get paid. So now you and I need to go and buy some bags. Tomorrow we go to the bank and empty it of dollars and euros.”

  * * *

  “What happens next?” Alexander asked when they left the bank the following day. Each carried a black leather bag full of notes. Two of Tom’s mercenaries who had arrived the previous day—silent, serious men—kept them company. “It’s virtually a death sentence to take out lots of money in this country; we need guards,” Tom had explained laconically.

  “We get moving,” he answered now.

  They went quickly to the hotel and put the bags on the table in Tom’s room.

  “So what do we do now, then?” Alexander asked impatiently as Tom closed the curtains and secured the locks.

  Everything was moving so goddamn slowly.

  Isobel had been missing for six days now, but they hadn’t heard a word from her kidnappers. Was she even alive? Could she have died without his sensing it? He refused to believe it, clung to what Tom had once said: Regardless of who the kidnappers were, she was worth money to them.

  But Tom shook his head firmly as he emptied his pockets onto the table. He spread out money, electronics, and pieces of paper, then started to sort through them.

  “From now on, there is no we. I can’t have a civilian getting in the way.”

  So, that’s the way the wind blows.

  “Fine,” said Alexander. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned one shoulder against the wall as Tom gathered his things, folded maps, and began to pack his equipment into a bag.

  “I need to find an FOB. Somewhere we can meet. Test the weapons, practice, plan.”

  Alexander nodded. A Forward Operations Base. It sounded logical. “Excellent. Out in the desert, maybe?” he said agreeably.

  Tom peered suspiciously at him.

  “I need to learn the helicopter. There’ll be a load of tactical talk. Pretty tough.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Tom jerked shut the zipper on his bag.

  “It’ll be two, maybe three days out in the desert. Worst conditions imaginable. We’ll sleep under the cars. Eat sand and drink dirty water. Wait.”

  “I see.”

  Tom sighed deeply. He squashed an insect on his neck. “You’re going to come, aren’t you.”

  “Yup.”

  “Damn, you’re annoying.”

  “Not at all. I’m an asset.”

  “But can you keep your cool? Knowing that she’s suffering while we have to train and plan? That they might be torturing her, that it might end with us just finding her dead, raped body? That the only thing you might have to do is to identify what little is left of her?”

  Alexander knew that Tom’s words were deliberately brutal. He steeled himself. Don’t think about it.

  “I can manage,” he said curtly.

  “You were a parachute ranger?”

  “Squad leader. Damn good.”

  “You can go with the scouts, then. We’ll get you a weapon.”

&n
bsp; “Fine. What are you going to do with the boy, Marius?”

  “He’s with us until it’s over. Period. I don’t trust anyone. That’s the only way to survive here. The kid is coming with us, and I’ll keep an eye on him until it’s too late for him to warn anyone. He can leave then. He’s a street kid, so no one is looking for him. I’m going to meet the others. They’re at the entrance now. Is her mother alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her maiden name?”

  “Blanche Pelletier.”

  “French?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Alexander?” Tom gave him another of his black looks.

  “Yeah?”

  “Answer your goddamn phone sometime,” he hissed, and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Alexander hadn’t even heard it ring, but he had missed calls from Leila, David, and Natalia.

  He called Leila first, but she knew even less than he did. As soon as he hung up, it rang again. David Hammar.

  “Your sister is worried,” he said brusquely when Alexander answered, and then Natalia was on the line.

  “David is hiding something from me, so I guess it’s serious, whatever you’re doing. Do you want to know just how little I like being treated like an idiot?”

  “Sorry. But it’s bad. Isobel is gone.”

  “Are you really in Africa? With Tom Lexington?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, and he knew his sister was much too sharp not to see how badly it might end. “Natalia?” He swallowed. “If . . . if it doesn’t go well for me, but she’s okay . . . will you tell Isobel that . . . you know.”

  “Alexander, you have to tell her that kind of thing yourself.”

  “She’s been kidnapped, for God’s sake.”

  But Natalia knew him too well, wasn’t put off by his outburst. “I heard that. You should write it down or something. You can’t just leave and maybe die and not say how you feel in your own words. You know that, right?”

  “I don’t plan to die.”

  “Well, no one does.”

  “You know my friend Romeo Rozzi? If I send you his number, can you call him and tell him?”