Antiphon

by B. L. Roberts

  In the days left before the axe was to fall, Wong began to work feverishly, scanning page after page of notes and records, and saving them on memory sticks. He also filled dozens of test tubes with specimens. Keeping them alive might be tricky, but he would try.

  He had barely completed his work, when the arrival of professor Maglio Bordicelli was announced. The enemy had come to destroy his beloved laboratory. Then came the call to stall for as long as possible, without arousing suspicions. That should be no problem.

  Bordicelli had anticipated there would be resentment for what he was about to do, and Wong’s surliness towards him came as no surprise. One million lira per day bolstered his ability to work in an unfriendly environment. He thought he should, first of all, find out just what it was this laboratory was doing, that had so upset Coca Cola. It would be wrong if he was not thorough with his work, and spending a few days first, maybe a week or so, to understand what was going on here, really was necessary if he was to do his job properly. One million lira a day would be paid for his thoroughness. He was in no great hurry to complete the work.

  “So professor, I am truly sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. I have been an admirer of your work, and it must be upsetting, to have to scrap it all now.”

  Bordicelli had never heard of Wong before his assignment, and had looked up his references. They moved in different areas of science, but a little flattery was not out of order, to smooth the way. He was also surprised that the noted professor had become involved in soft drink manufacture.

  “Hm. Yes, well we have made some rather incredible advancements in the furtherance of genetic understanding, and the interaction of viruses with genes. It is tragic these cannot be put to work.”

  “Virus and genes? I thought you were working on a food product, to compete with Coca Cola!”

  Wong spluttered. This Italian imbecile had no idea of what his laboratory had been working on! He began to explain patiently, and Bordicelli could not hide his amazement. Wong spent the next three days, showing the Italian the experiments that had been undertaken, and were still in progress, and explaining what they had hoped to achieve. Bordicelli was both astounded, and horrified.

  He had not been told the truth! Bordicelli realised this, after just a few minutes with professor Wong. This was no new product development that threatened Coca Cola, this was far, far more significant. They didn’t want this work to succeed, because of the effect it could have on Coca Cola sales around the world. What Wong’s laboratory was doing was, on the one hand outrageous, seeking to manipulate the world’s population, but on the other hand, brilliant.

  He could understand Wong’s argument about overpopulation, see it, understand it, but not agree with it! His priest had explained it was God’s will that nature should determine when babies were born. God had put this system of reproduction in place, it was God’s system, and it shouldn’t be interfered with. Yes, what he had seen was miraculous, there was no doubt about that, how they had manipulated viruses to alter their behaviour, brilliant. It was also potentially dangerous, and he pointed this out to Wong.

  “If this got loose, it could have devastating consequences.”

  “We planned extensive testing, before it was released, we are not reckless.”

  “Well, now you have to destroy it all, I’m afraid.”

  Until Wong told him, Bordicelli had not heard of the kidnapped Sorensen children, that this was the leverage behind Coca Cola’s determination to destroy the laboratory. That a company such as Coca Cola would stoop to such things, surprised him. It was terrible, but he agreed, the work this laboratory was doing was dangerous, and should be destroyed. It went against God’s will. He would earn his one million lira per day to see that it happened, and he would be very thorough.

  For the next few days, Bordicelli watched on, observing and photographing every action as Wong shredded file notes and records, and fed, into the lab furnace, virus samples. Apart from the two men, the lab was otherwise deserted. Wong sent his staff to the mainland while the destruction progressed. Seeing the results of countless hours of meticulous work destroyed, would be too hard to bear, and he had given them the week off.

  It was excruciating for Wong, but what kept him from screaming in frustration, was the freezer, and box of file notes and memory sticks, hidden away in his rooms. For one dedicated to science, and the unlocking of mysteries of the planet, to see the knowledge gleaned over the past two years wantonly destroyed, was criminality at its worst, but he understood the pressure Frederik Sorensen was under. It had to be done, but it was stupid.

  It eventually came to an end, and, satisfied his job was completed, Bordicelli arranged to be picked up for his flight to the mainland, to be reunited with Margaretta. He hoped she hadn’t been spending all the money he was earning. They would have a little holiday before returning to Italy, another day or two before reporting, was neither here nor there, and a company as wealthy as Coca Cola, could surely afford him a day or two extra. He had earned it.

  It was a week later before he and his wife boarded the flight back to Rome, and the following day, before he telephoned the Coca Cola representative to give his report.

  26

  Brent Peters poured over the photographs laid out on the table. Sheets of close printed copy were also picked up, read, and put down. His team, studying the video of the boys, had identified numerous clues as to the nature of the island they were on, enough to give him an approximate area where the island might be located, but it was a very large area. There were hundreds of islands matching the criteria. He also studied another report, which showed the scheduled flight path of an aeroplane, a freighter, that had departed Stockholm airport shortly after the boys disappearance. He put the papers down and made a phone call.

  Peters’s secondment by the C.I.A., after several hectic years leading a specialist navy seal team, had opened his eyes to a world most people do not get to see, which is probably just as well. It was a dark world, peopled by those who moved behind the scenes, controlling, manipulating, and at times, co-oercing, as well as those in the forefront of politics, national leaders and aspiring leaders, most of whom seemed to be motivated by the same driving force; greed, and self advancement.

  A lot of what he had encountered, disgusted him. His own country was engaged in dirty tricks that he found impossible to justify. Eventually, it lead him to quit the intelligence service, and establish his own business. He carefully selected his small team, both for their intellect, and personal character. The men and women who worked for him as permanent staff, were reliable, and he would trust them with his life, which sometimes became necessary. There were many others he could call on, when he needed their expertise.

  Kidnapping was a business enterprise, kept largely under the covers by its very nature. The wealthy who had loved ones kidnapped, did not want the fact advertised. It was dangerous for the one kidnapped, and it encouraged copy cats. For the same reason, law enforcement agencies did their best to keep kidnaps from the front pages. Governments, officially, held to the position they would not cave in to kidnappers, but often, secretly, they organised deals.

  Handling kidnaps, negotiating with kidnappers, and occasionally killing them and recovering the victims, provided his team with a surprising amount of work. Carrying out occasional assignments for his government that could not be processed through official channels, also kept the team busy.

  Most of his work was highly lucrative, but from time to time, Brent would take on a job at his own expense, where he felt he was needed. His network of contacts throughout government agencies, and other private sources, was formidable. Peters had a list of names of men and women who could be called on for special assignments, and were highly skilled. Many were seals who had served under him, and who were intensely loyal, prepared to lay down their lives for him, if the situation demanded it.

  Peters was satisfied he had worked out h
ow the kidnappers had managed to get the Sorensen boys out of the country, and now he had the names of the flight crew on the plane used. Pinpointing the island which held the boys, posed difficulties he hoped the flight crew might be able to resolve, and according to his information, they would be returning to Stockholm the following day. It was the pilot’s name that had identified the plane. Other aircraft in the time frame had Swedish pilots. This one, was Italian.

  Giuseppe Torletti taxied his bird to a halt at the cargo terminal, and stretched, before preparing to climb out of the cockpit into the hold, prior to alighting. A car drove across the tarmac with two policemen inside, and pulled up next to the aircraft.

  “Mr. Torletti?”

  Torletti tensed. What was going on? Had something slipped out about the nice little smuggling business he was conducting? He had been careful, had spoken to no one, except the man to whom he handed over the parcel of cocaine and received payment, and they were perfunctory words.

  “You are to come with us please, we wish to ask you a few questions. We shouldn’t keep you long.”

  That was a relief to Torletti. If they knew about the drugs, they wouldn’t be releasing him, they would be searching the plane. It must be something else. He relaxed a little, as he allowed them to usher him into the rear seat of the motor vehicle. They drove for about ten minutes, then the car turned off the road and into a warehouse, with door open, waiting to receive them. This was no police station, as Torletti had anticipated.

  “What’s going on? Where is this?”

  “Out, Torletti, this way.” No more politeness.

  He was directed to a room to one side of the building, which was bare, apart from three chairs.

  “Sit down.”

  The policemen were abrupt. Giuseppe had few dealings with the police, but the ones he had met, were more inclined to be polite to him, as an experienced pilot. His interrogators were not polite.

  “On the 24th January, you flew out of Copenhagen with cargo, but it was not a usual flight was it? You were carrying something you don’t normally carry, and you went somewhere you don’t normally go, correct”

  Torletti’s blood ran cold. That flight to Africa! Landing on that awful bush airstrip in northern Spain, could have killed him, and why someone had gone to so much trouble for a couple of old wardrobes, he could only guess. He had been paid well, extraordinarily well, as had his co-pilot, but he did not doubt that certain members of his family, as well as himself, would be killed if he had not done as he was told.

  “I do not know what you are talking about. It was a perfectly normal flight”.

  What came next happened so fast, Torletti only remembered it later as a blur, but suddenly the polite policeman jerked him from the chair, twisted his arms behind his back, then threw an arm, which felt like an iron bar, around his neck.

  “I do not like people who lie to me. You just lied to me. If you lie to me again, I will kill you. If you answer my questions, and tell the truth, you will walk out of here alive, and I will pay you one thousand American dollars.”

  Torletti was choking, his feet dangling several inches from the floor by that arm, suspending him in the air. He felt himself growing faint. Then the pressure eased, he was lowered to the ground, coughing, then shoved back into the chair. When his eyes cleared, he saw his questioner was now holding with one hand a large black gun, pointed at his head. The other hand held a wad of banknotes.

  “So what will it be. The money, or your life? Shall we start again? Remember what I said. Lie to me again, and you die, now.”

  Sven Hendricksen had not been too happy supplying Brent Peters with two sets of Swedish police uniforms, especially as Peters would not tell him their intended use, but a phone call from his commanding officer cleared the way. Peters and his side kick closed up the warehouse after releasing the frightened pilot, who left shaking, and clutching a handful of banknotes. They then returned to his office in the Sorensen home, to analyse what he had just been told.

  The mafia had gone to considerable trouble and expense, to set up the kidnap and hide their trail. The church had obviously parted with a hefty sum, to finance the operation. Kidnapping was a risky operation to be undertaken, and the mafia did not come cheaply, but he would try to trace the money trail. It would not be easy, but moving millions of dollars around, usually did leave a trail, if his contacts could find it. Identifying who, in the Mafia organisation, was responsible, would take time, but it had to be someone at, or near, the top. Where had that plane put down?

  He spread a large map on the table, and began tracing lines from Stockholm airport. It was not a big plane, and knowing its speed, and time of flight to the bush strip, gave a radius to work in, but he also could see the bush airstrip was only a stop over. The boys would have been transferred from there. They were on an island with sand, there was no airstrip, so a helicopter must have been used.

  He did some calculations, and studied the map carefully, using a scale rule to do the sums. Peters then made a series of phone calls. If finding the island was like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack, that haystack had suddenly become much smaller. With any luck he might know something definite, and soon.

  27

  Viktor Sorensen nudged his brother with his foot. “Wake up Michael, it’s daylight.”

  His younger brother rolled over in his sleeping bag.

  “What’s wrong with you. Why should I wake up. Let me sleep.”

  “You lazy sod, you’ve slept enough. Come on, let’s do something.”

  Michael sat up. “Yeah, like what, do you suggest? There’s nothing to do.”

  “Well, we could check out the beach, see if something has washed up.”

  They had been doing this several times a day for the past week, and could identify every rock lying along the edge of the sand. When the realisation struck that they had been abandoned on a small island, Michael’s first reaction had been fear, and he had to bite his lip to stop crying. He could not let Viktor see him cry. Their first exploration of the island disclosed the stash of food and camping gear, and the realisation that they were on their own, and obviously expected to take care of themselves.

  “My guess is we’ve been kidnapped, so dad will fork out a ransom, which means we are going to be here until that happens.”

  Michael knew the story of the fate of his grandparents.

  “Do you think they will kill us when they get the money?”

  The thought had occurred to Viktor.

  “No, if they were going to kill us, they would have done it. Look at the food they left for us. They want us alive. Dad will make sure they won’t kill us, before he hands over any money.”

  “Do you think he will pay up, to save us?”

  Viktor laughed at his young sibling. “What a stupid question.”

  Viktor made an assessment of the food and water pile, then divided it into small heaps. “If we eat one of these each day, we have enough stuff to last about four weeks.”

  “There’s no bread, or cereal, or milk.”

  “Correct, but there are plenty of tins of beans and vegetables, and also fish. We won’t starve.”

  They noticed the overhead camera on a further inspection of the island.

  “I don’t know how they are doing it, but I reckon that camera is to watch us, and maybe show we are still alive. We had better think about that. There may be some way we can get a message across, to let people know where we are.”

  “Where are we? We don’t know where we are, so how can we tell people?”

  Viktor could not answer that, but the knowledge there was a camera observing them, niggled his brain. The sense of isolation grew that first day as the hours passed, and they heard, and saw, nothing, except for the handful of sea birds that visited. Viktor climbed a tree, using a strip of blanket held around the tree to support him, and managed to almost r
each the top. Ocean stretched in every direction for as far as he could see, and he descended, despondent.

  “Nothing, just water. We are stuck here bro. until someone comes and gets us. We had better take it easy with the food and water, we don’t know how long we are going to be here.”

  The days dragged. The boys swam naked, lay in the sun, and jogged around the island for exercise, but with nothing else to do, their boredom increased. Viktor kept track of the days by the number of food piles remaining, and as each day passed, his anxiety about what they would do when it was all eaten, increased. There was nothing they could use to try to catch fresh fish, and the beach sand had yielded nothing edible. Small sand crabs scurried around in the early mornings and evenings, but there was no meat on them. The boys were entirely dependent on the food which had been left. Water was also confined to the bottles that had been left, and from the second day, Viktor decided they must limit themselves, even when they felt thirsty. Michael complained, but Viktor was adamant.

  “When that goes, we die of thirst. We don’t know how long we are stuck here, so just be sensible. We’ll rig up the sheet of plastic to try and catch some rain, if it rains, but so far we haven’t had any.”

  Michael could see the wisdom, and stifled the urge to complain. Another day dragged by.

  “What was that?”

  Michael heard it, and grabbed his brother’s arm. It was towards the end of their second week, and late in the afternoon, when the faint sound of an aeroplane engine throbbed through the air. They both rushed to the edge of the beach, but the sound faded, and they saw nothing. It was the first sign of life outside the island since they had arrived.

  “Do you think they are looking for us?” Michael was hopeful.