The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

  The next time Freeman saw Stjepan he asked him why his sister seemed to hate him so much. Stjepan shrugged and in broken English said that he didn't want to talk about his sister.

  And he warned Freeman not to antagonise her. Freeman nodded and said he understood, though he wasn't sure that he did. He asked Stjepan how old the girl was and the man smiled. She'd be thirteen years old the following day.

  As soon as she came down the stairs the next day, carrying a plate of bread and cheese, Freeman wished her a happy birthday in her own language, trying to pronounce it exactly as Stjepan had told him. She showed no reaction as she put the tin plate on the floor and pushed it towards him with her foot, covering him all the time with the Kalashnikov. Switching back to English, he told her that he had wanted to get her a present but that he hadn't been able to get to the shops. Her face remained impassive, but at least she was listening to him and her finger remained outside the trigger guard. Freeman began to sing 'Happy Birthday' to her, his voice echoing off the walls of his prison. She looked at him in disbelief, a worried frown on her face as if she feared that he'd gone crazy, then she realised what he was doing. When basement.

  Maury Anderson's office was like the man himself – showy, pretentious even, and definitely built for comfort. Katherine walked across the plush green carpet and sat down on the imported sofa which curved around one corner of the room.

  It was the best office in the building, with its view of the woods and fields, and no expense had been spared on its furnishings.

  It was the office that the company used to impress its clients.

  Her husband's office was in stark contrast, a small cubicle overlooking the car park with a threadbare carpet, cheap teak veneered furniture and one sagging couch.

  Katherine studied Anderson as she lit a Virginia Slim. He was pacing up and down in front of his massive eighteenth-century desk, rubbing his hands together. He was dressed as if he were going to a funeral: a black suit, starched white shirt, sombre tie and gleaming black shoes. 'You said you'd heard from the kidnappers,' Katherine said, crossing her legs.

  'Uh-huh,' Anderson grunted. 'It arrived by Federal Express an hour ago.'

  Katherine looked across at the large-screen television and video recorder which was normally used to show the firm's promotional films to clients. 'A video?'

  Anderson stopped pacing. Katherine had never seen him so tense. She wondered how bad it could be. 'Canlgetyouadrink?' he asked.

  Katherine shook her head. 'Just show me the video, Maury,' she said. She took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out through tightly pursed lips.

  'You'd better prepare yourself, Katherine. He doesn't look too good.'

  Katherine nodded curtly and Anderson pressed the 'play' button. The screen flickered and then Tony was there, sitting on a stool and holding a sheet of paper that looked as if it had been torn from a child's exercise book. He was staring at the camera, then he jumped at a whispered command. He began to read from the note.

  'I am held by Bosnian forces who are struggling against invaders from Serbia. The Serbs are killing our country like Hitler in Europe.' Tony grimaced at the unwieldy English and looked off-screen. A harsh whisper told him to go on. 'Anyone who trades with the Serbian invaders is an enemy of the people of Bosnia and will be treated so. If I am to be released, you must agree not to sell your weapon to the Serbs.'

  'Weapon?' Katherine said. Anderson held up a hand telling her to keep quiet until the end of the message.

  'As compensation for breaking the United Nations embargo, you will give the Bosnian forces fifty of the equipment.' Tony broke off from reading and looked at the camera. 'They mean fifty of the MIDAS systems, Maury. They'll want the complete kits.' The man standing behind the camera told Tony to keep to the script, but Tony insisted that he had to explain what was meant so that there'd be no misunderstanding. The off-screen voice grudgingly agreed. 'They also want a quarter of a million dollars in cash, Maury. When it and the equipment is delivered to our contact in Rome, I'll be released,' Tony continued. His voice faltered. 'If this doesn't happen, I'll be killed. This video is proof that I'm alive and well. You'll be contacted within the next few days so that arrangements can be made.'

  The screen flickered as if the camera had been switched off and then Tony reappeared, looking directly into the camera. It felt to Katherine as if he was staring right at her and she shivered.

  'Katherine, I love you,' he said. 'Please don't worry, this will work out all right, I promise.' His hand went up to his bruised and unshaven face and he smiled thinly. 'Don't let this upset you.

  I cut myself shaving,' he said. He smiled, and for a moment it seemed almost genuine. 'They're treating me okay, and if Maury does as they ask they say I'll be released unharmed. I think they mean it, so just hang in there. I'll be back before you know it.'

  A whispered command made him turn to his right and Katherine got a closer look at his battered face. 'Oh my God,' she whispered. 'What have they done to you?'

  'Just one more minute,' Tony pleaded, then he turned back to the camera. 'Don't even think about coming over here, Katherine. It's not safe. They'll probably release me in Split and I'll fly to Europe, Rome maybe. I always promised you a trip to Rome, remember? I love you, Katherine, and…'

  The screen went blank in mid-sentence. Katherine turned to Anderson. 'Have they been in touch yet?'

  Anderson shook his head. 'No, like I said, the video's only just arrived. I'll stay here night and day until they call.'

  'He's in a terrible state, Maury.'

  'I think it looks worse than it is. They haven't let him wash or shave.'

  'Maury, he's been beaten.'

  Anderson went behind his desk and sat down. 'I don't know what to do, Katherine.'

  Katherine realised she'd finished her cigarette. She stubbed the butt in a crystal ashtray and lit another. 'Do we have the equipment?'

  Anderson nodded. 'Sure. We were planning to sell them to the Serbs. They're all ready to go, complete with SerboCroat instruction manuals.'

  Katherine blew a tight plume of smoke up to the ceiling. 'So we do as they say.'

  'You realise that with the cash we're talking about a million dollars, give or take?' Anderson said.

  Katherine's eyes hardened. 'And you realise that we're talking about my husband,' she said coldly. 'Give or take.'

  Anderson held her glance for several seconds, then he nodded.

  'I'll make the arrangements,' he said quietly.

  'Do that, Maury,' Katherine said. 'Do whatever it takes.'

  Over the weeks of his captivity, Mersiha opened up slowly to Freeman like a flower sensing the morning sun. It started with her wishing him good morning when she came to empty his bucket, and then she began to ask him if there was anything he wanted. He asked for a razor and soap and when she finally brought it to him she sat on her heels and watched openmouthed as he shaved.

  Her English was surprisingly good. Mersiha explained that her mother had been a teacher of languages – English, French and Hungarian – and that before the war she'd spent most evenings at the kitchen table studying. Freeman asked her what had happened to her parents but she'd answered with just one word: dead. She resisted any further probing and Freeman realised that if he pushed too hard he risked damaging their fragile relationship.

  Despite her new willingness to talk to him, the girl left Freeman in no doubt that he was still her prisoner. She never got within range of the chain which kept him bound to the boiler, and the Kalashnikov never left her hands. And while she smiled and sometimes even laughed with him, he was always aware of a hardness in her eyes which belied her years.

  Freeman wondered what she would do if her brother's demands were not met, whether she would still be prepared to kill him. He decided that she would, without hesitation.

  The black limousine pulled up almost silently and the back door opened. Maury Anderson could see nothing through the darkened windows but he could smell Sal Sab
atino's cologne and cigars. He climbed into the luxurious car and closed the door behind him.

  The man sitting in the back seat made even the stretch limousine feel cramped. He sat with his legs wide apart, his ample stomach threatening to break free from the constraints of his tailored trousers. He had a big cigar in his right hand and a glass of red wine in his left. 'This better be fucking important, Maury,' he said. He jabbed the cigar at Anderson, punctuating his words.

  'It is, Mr Sabatino. This could be what you've been waiting for.'

  Sabatino's smooth-skinned plump face was covered with a thin film of sweat despite the limousine's air-conditioning. He took a long sip of wine and studied Anderson with eyes that looked like they belonged to a dead fish.

  'The company's going to need cash to get Tony out. A lot of cash. The banks sure as hell won't give it to us, so it gives me a reason to look for outside investment. And who do I know who wants to invest?'

  'How much?'

  'As much as you want, Mr Sabatino. With Tony out of the way, I'll be able to approve it. His wife's too upset to even think about company business. She'll leave it up to me.'

  Sabatino nodded. A gold crucifix glittered at his throat under his open-necked white silk shirt. 'I want more than just a part of the company, Maury. I want it all.'

  'I know that, Mr Sabatino. But this is a start.'

  'Just so long as you know it's just a start.' He flicked the ash from his cigar and it sprinkled over the carpet. Anderson made no move to leave and Sabatino raised an eyebrow. 'Is there something else?'

  'I don't suppose you have any…'

  Sabatino put his head back and laughed. He stuck his cigar between his lips and took out a small package which he handed to Anderson. 'Enjoy yourself,' he said.

  The limousine pulled away leaving Anderson standing on the roadside. He could smell the cologne long after the car had disappeared from sight.

  Katherine Freeman put Buffy's food bowl on the kitchen floor and as the dog attacked the meat and biscuits she went through into the sitting room and poured herself a drink. She dropped down on to a sofa, kicked off her shoes and lit a cigarette. Her hand trembled as she inhaled. In the kitchen, Buffy's nose banged the bowl against a kitchen cabinet in her eagerness to get at the food.

  'Damn dog,' muttered Katherine under her breath. Buffy was pretty much Tony's dog, but the retriever seemed not even to be aware that her master had been missing for more than two months. All she wanted to do was eat, sleep and play with her frisbee. The first thing Katherine intended to do after Tony got back was to tell him how disloyal his dog was. Well, the second thing maybe. Or the third. The telephone rang and she jumped.

  She took a sip of brandy and Coke before picking it up. If it was bad news, she'd rather hear it under the influence of an anaesthetic. It was Maury Anderson and she steeled herself for the worst as she always did when he called. 'Good afternoon, Maury,' she said, fighting to keep her composure. She realised she was only a step away from screaming.

  'Good news,' Anderson said, as if sensing how tense Katherine was. 'The consignment has arrived in Italy.'

  'When will they let Tony go?' Katherine asked. Buffy wandered in from the kitchen, sniffing as if searching for more food.

  'It won't be long now,' he assured her. 'Their middle-man will inspect the goods, then they'll be shipped over to Serbia. The terrorists have promised to release Tony as soon as the crates are on Serbian territory.'

  'Do you believe them?'

  'Maybe. But I've got a fall-back position. I've met some people in the security business who say they can help. They've dealt with kidnappings before. If the Serbs screw us around, they'll move in.'

  'In Sarajevo?'

  'They've got contacts there. Are you okay?' he asked, the concern obvious in his voice.

  'I'm fine,' she replied. 'Under the circumstances.'

  'I could come around,' he said.

  Katherine took a mouthful of brandy and Coke as she considered his offer, but then declined, telling him that she preferred to be on her own. She stayed on the sofa for most of the day, chain-smoking Virginia Slims and refilling her glass at regular intervals. From time to time she looked over at a collection of framed photographs on the sideboard. Two in particular held her attention: a formal wedding portrait of her and Tony under a huge chestnut tree, taken just minutes after they had exchanged vows, and a smaller photograph of Tony and their son, Luke, laughing together as they played basketball, taken just two days before Luke died.

  Mersiha sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, cradling her Kalashnikov in her lap as she watched Freeman shave. She tilted her head from side to side like a small bird, and when he shaved under his chin she lifted her head up, gritted her teeth and tightened the skin around her neck as he did.

  'Why do you do that?' she asked as he splashed water over his face.

  'Shave, you mean? Because it feels better. Doesn't your brother shave?'

  Mersiha giggled. 'His skin is like a girl's,' she said. 'Do all Americans shave?'

  'I'm not American. I'm Scottish.'

  'Scottish?'

  'From Scotland. Next to England. The English come from England, the Scottish come from Scotland.' He rinsed his razor in the bowl of cold water.

  'But you live in America?'

  Freeman nodded. 'My wife is American. What about your father? Didn't he shave?'

  Mersiha shook her head. 'He had a-' She screwed up her face as she sought the correct word.'-beard,' she finished. 'He had a beard.'

  She fell silent as Freeman used an old green towel to pat his skin dry. 'I'm sorry about what happened to your father,' he said quietly.

  She frowned. 'How do you know what happened?' she asked.

  There was a hard edge to her voice and Freeman realised he would have to tread carefully. 'Your brother told me,' he said.

  'Told you what?' 'That he died,' Freeman said, realising how lame that sounded.

  Mersiha snorted. 'Not died. Killed,' she said. 'Killed by the Serbian butchers.' She stood up and Freeman noticed with a sudden chill that she'd slipped her finger through the trigger guard. 'Why do you deal with them? Why do you do business with the men who killed my parents?' Freeman held out the towel to her, hoping to break her train of thought, but she ignored it.

  'Why?' she pressed.

  'It's hard to explain,' Freeman said.

  'Try,' she insisted.

  Freeman took a sharp breath as he saw her finger tighten on the trigger. It was hard to believe she was the same girl who only minutes earlier had been giggling and mimicking the way he shaved. 'I have a factory, in America,' he began. 'We make things for the Army. If I don't sell the things we make, the people who work for me won't get paid. They'll lose their jobs, their homes.'

  'Why do you make weapons?' she asked. 'Why do you make things that kill people?'

  'We don't,' Freeman insisted. 'My company used to make arms, but I made them change. We make other things now.

  Machines that tell you where mines are buried. My machines help people, Mersiha. They don't kill people.'

  Mersiha frowned. 'Why did you come here, to Bosnia? Why don't you just sell to America?'

  'Because the American Army doesn't want to buy what we make. The people here do.'

  'Not people, animals. The Serbs are murdering animals. They killed my father, they killed my mother, and you are helping them…'

  'Mersiha, I didn't know…' he began.

  She waved the Kalashnikov at him. 'Of course you know.

  Everyone knows what the Serbs are doing. Everybody knows, nobody cares.' Her eyes blazed with a fierce intensity and Freeman was suddenly afraid. 'My parents did nothing wrong, nothing. They were killed because they were Muslims…' She frowned as a thought crossed her mind. 'You,' she said. 'You are a Christian, yes?'

  Freeman hesitated, knowing that the answer would only antagonise her further.

  'Yes?' she repeated.

  Freeman nodded. 'Yes,' he said softly.


  The barrel of the gun was suddenly still, centred on Freeman's chest. It was as if time had stopped. Freeman was aware of her finger tightening on the trigger, the perspiration glistening on her brow, the small, almost imperceptible movements of her chest as she breathed, the slight parting of her lips, the smears of dirt on the knees of her wool trousers. A myriad images were compressed into a single second, and Freeman had a sudden fear that they would be the last things he saw. His knees trembled and he wanted to say something to her but he had no idea what words to use. 'Mersiha…' was all he could get out, but he could see that she wasn't listening. Freeman wasn't looking into the eyes of a thirteen-year-old girl, he was staring at a killer. He thought of his wife, and of his son, and the objective part of his brain surprised him by wondering whether the bullets would hurt.

  Mersiha opened her mouth to speak, and Freeman knew with a dread certainty that her words would be the last he ever heard.

  The words that tumbled out weren't English and Freeman couldn't make any sense of them. Tears sprang to her eyes and her face crumpled. 'I miss my mother,' she said, her voice trembling. 'I miss her so much.'

  Freeman stepped forward. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but the chain tightened and he couldn't get close to her.