by Glenn Cooper
“My offer is for all four of them,” Heirax announced. “One thousand five hundred crowns.”
Wisdom theatrically arched his eyebrows and addressed the three men to his right, “Gentlemen, do you wish to raise your bid?”
Navarro, the Iberian ambassador was rail-thin and feverish from a lingering bout of dysentery. The Macedonian bid seemed to stress his frail constitution and his retainers, de Zurita and Manrique, scrambled for a chair lest he faint.
De Zurita requested a drink for his master of equal parts water and wine and Wisdom’s man, Caffrey, slunk to the sideboard to prepare it.
Fortified by the drink, Navarro rasped in heavily accented English, “How can we speak of sums this large without seeing the merchandise?”
“As I clearly stated,” Wisdom said, “you will be able to see them after a price has been agreed upon. If they are not as represented—one comely, young, live maiden, two live children, one boy, one girl, and one older and fatter live matron—then you may withdraw your bids. However, you know me to be an honest broker, so you may be assured of my representations. You will also know that I previously acquired and did trade in a live maiden. I believe the French count who obtained her was most pleased with his purchase. It is a great curiosity that live souls have come of late to these parts. I cannot explain it but I have had the pleasure to become the exclusive purveyor of this exceedingly rare and singular merchandise.”
Navarro looked to Manrique, a small, dark man who turned away to check the weight of the purse under his cloak. He bent and said something to his lord. Navarro then asked, “And you say the maiden is fair?”
“Most fair,” Wisdom said.
“Then I bid two thousand crowns,” Navarro said.
The offered amount had now reached the sum-total for all of Wisdom’s flesh trade for five years and he took more drink to steady his nerves. “Excellent. And it’s back to you, Prince …”
A heavy banging against his front door stopped him in mid-sentence. He sent Caffrey to see who it was while Prince Heirax muttered something that Wisdom was sure was a Macedonian curse.
Caffrey returned with a wax-sealed envelope and whispered something in Wisdom’s ear. Wisdom broke the seal with a greasy finger, read the parchment and put it down, unable to hide a spreading and unctuous smile.
“Gentlemen, it seems the situation has changed. I have here a letter from Queen Matilda, herself. Yesterday, I informed the English crown of the new merchandise which had come into my possession and I have a response. She has submitted a bid of two thousand crowns.”
“This is what I have bid,” Navarro sniffed. “If I must, I will trump the lady by one additional crown.”
“Ah, but she has made her offer for the children alone,” Wisdom said grandly.
The Macedonians were furious and accused Wisdom of misrepresenting the nature of the auction but the broker held his ground. The two gentlemen took their leave in a huff, demanding to be returned at once to London.
Navarro was calmer and after speaking to his retainers put a different offer on the table.
“I must say, Solomon, that I did not have a clear vision for these children. I have little doubt I could find interested parties but I am certain there is a good demand in Iberia for a live maiden. I will give you seven hundred fifty crowns for her alone.”
“What about the matron?”
“I will take her off your hands but not for another crown.”
“I must have compensation for her.”
“Then just the maiden,” Navarro said. “Do we have a deal?”
“Very well,” Wisdom said. “I will delight the Queen by letting her have the children and a nurse. You shall have the lady.”
Navarro had Manrique count out the coins, subject to an inspection of the woman. He had one other condition. “Following our recent and unfortunate sea battle with Henry, we Iberians are persona non grata at court. We do not wish our presence here to be known to the emissaries of the queen so let us retire to a private chamber where we may inspect the maiden and complete our purchase.”
“Caffrey,” Wisdom said, “bring the gentlemen to my study and take the lady down to them. If they are pleased, send them off through the rear of the house. Count Navarro, your horses are in the stables, fed and watered. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
When Caffrey unlocked the bedroom door, Delia was just finishing her alterations. Arabel stirred at the sound of the heavy latch raising.
“Get dressed,” Caffrey said, pointing at Arabel. “You’re to come downstairs with me.”
Delia demanded to know why he wanted her alone but Caffrey just repeated himself. Arabel rubbed at her eyes and began to tear up over the realization that some of her turbulent dreams had been true. She was still in this awful place. She protested in a quiet voice so as not to disturb the children that she didn’t want to leave them, but Caffrey was seething now and he withdrew a short knife from his belt and threatened to slit Delia’s throat if she didn’t hop to it.
“Just try, you filthy shit,” Delia said, rising, dropping some of her sewing on the floor. She was bigger than he was. When she’d first joined MI5 she had taken self-defense training but when Caffrey approached her with a raised blade she blanched and sat back down on the bed.
“I’ll go,” Arabel said. “How long until I can return to the children?” she asked.
“You’ll have to talk to my master ’bout that. I was told to fetch you, no more.”
Delia gave Arabel her clothes. Her skirt and blouse now had ugly but serviceable buttons and her bra was sewn closed in the front.
“Will you please turn around so I can dress?” she said.
Caffrey’s leathery face stretched into a gap-toothed, leering grin. “I will not.”
“Then I’ll dress under the covers,” she said.
When she was done she carefully got out of bed to avoid waking Sam and Belle and lovingly gazed at them before turning to Delia.
“Will you look after them?”
Delia took her quivering lips as a sign she believed she might not be coming back.
“Of course I will, dear. But you’ll return presently, I’m quite sure.”
“But if I don’t, will you tell them their mummy loves them?”
“I will, luv. Ten times a day. And I’ll look after them as if they were my own. If something does happen and we find ourselves separated, remember. We will be rescued. We will be found.”
11
John and Emily spent the night together trying their best to slow down time. By tacit, mutual consent, the evening was more domestic than romantic. They shared cooking chores and afterwards, she helped him tidy his flat. They cuddled on the sofa and watched TV, sticking to comedies. Before retiring to bed, she checked his wound and declared it clean as a whistle. They didn’t make love, not because they didn’t want to, but because she simply couldn’t accept pleasure into her life, knowing the ordeal Arabel and the children must be facing. She didn’t have to explain it to him. He understood.
Instead they lay there in the dark, talking about what they would do when this was over, how she would find a university job somewhere, anywhere, and how he would follow along and mold his life to fit hers. They didn’t want to give in to fatigue because with sleep, time would begin to fly and morning would come too soon. But sleep was inevitable.
He was back in Afghanistan and that horrible scream was in his ears.
In the distance the Taliban-infested farmhouse was flashing orange in the black, moonless night, lit by 30mm cannon rounds spitting from the Black Hawk hovering a click away. Explosions punched holes in the mud-brick walls surrounding the compound, taking out the snipers who were using them for cover but sparing the main house and hopefully the raid’s objective, Fazal Toofan, the high-value target John’s Green Beret team had been tasked to take alive.
At that moment the mission objective was the farthest thing from his mind. John was focused on his medic, Ben Knebel, clutchi
ng his abdomen and screaming in agony next to the man he’d just been treating, SFO Stankiewicz.
John rushed over, cursing at the sniper who’d already been atomized by cannon fire. John had assumed a crouching position between the farmhouse and Knebel to protect him as he worked on Stankiewicz’s leg. The bullet that got Knebel must have threaded a needle—a ridiculously fucked-up shot in a ridiculously fucked-up war.
By the time John made it to their side, Stankiewicz had transitioned from patient to medic, ignoring his own bullet hole to divert his pressure dressing to Knebel’s belly, pushing down hard to staunch the flow.
John had to pull the earpiece from his canal because Knebel’s screams in his headset mike were too loud. He ripped open another pressure dressing from Knebel’s kit, tossed it to Stankiewicz and kept pressure on the medic’s abdomen.
“Stank, tape yourself up. I’ve got doc. Doc, stay with me. I’m going to bind you up and give you candy, all right?”
Through gritted teeth, the medic yelled. “Pouch in my bag. Can’t move my fucking legs. Fuck, fuck!”
John used a roll of surgical tape to bind the pressure dressing tight against his gut then unwrapped a fentanyl lollipop and shoved it between the medic’s cheek and gum. Then he put his earpiece back and called in the helo.
“I need you to evac two casualties, one of them’s my medic. Now!”
The Black Hawk pilot radioed back, “Are we extracting all of you?”
“No, just the casualties.”
“That’s going to leave you naked, Major.”
“You get my men out now. On my beacon. We’ve still got work to do.”
“Roger that. Our ETA is thirty seconds. We’ll get another bird to pick you up. I’ll get you their ETA when I’ve got it.”
John told the wounded men to hold on for a few more seconds and radioed Mike Entwistle on the north side of the farmhouse. “Mike, we’re going to be on our own for a while. Are you taking any more fire?”
“Negative. I think we’ve got ’em suppressed.”
“All right. As soon as Stank and Doc are evac’d we’re going to squeeze them from the north and the south, make entry, take our HVT, and get the fuck out of Dodge.”
As the fentanyl kicked in, Knebel’s screams faded away into something almost more disturbing, the high-pitched whimpering of a newly paralyzed man who seemed to understand that the life he knew was gone forever.
They awoke well before the alarm went off and took turns showering and dressing. They had carefully selected and modified their clothing to avoid the wardrobe malfunctions that had plagued them previously. All the fabrics and stitching were made of natural fibers, wooden buttons replaced plastic ones and metal zippers, and their boots had leather laces and soles.
They kept their conversation sparse and light; they didn’t feel the need to remind themselves what would happen in a few hours. As he checked the contents of his canvas and leather backpack one last time, John remembered the dream he’d had and realized his current mindset was similar to his pre-mission thinking in Iraq and Afghanistan: concentrate on the preparation, not the execution. Once a mission started, it almost never went to plan. Training and attitude was what kept you alive.
When it was time to go, they collected their gear and turned out the lights. He saw her look wistfully at the dark flat and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll be back.”
Rix and Murphy were up early to start a fire and begin cooking a breakfast porridge of wild oats sweetened with foraged honey. For a week they’d kept to the same daily routine—provide basic sustenance to their guests then set off into the woods to look for Molly and Christine.
The village of Ockendon was set in a clearing on poorly drained, boggy ground teeming with flies and gnats. When Rix and Murphy first led Martin and the others from the dangerous forest, the ramshackle village of crude thatched huts had seemed like a sanctuary, but after a week, it seemed more like a prison camp. Ever distrustful of their fellow villagers, Rix had all of them bed down in their one small cottage, using every square inch of floor for the purpose. For the last thirty years Rix and Murphy had lived there with Molly and Christine and it was plenty cramped with the four of them. Eight was more or less an absurdity. They had given their beds to Alice and Tracy and had taken to the floor with the men, Rix closest to the door and Murphy by the hearth. Martin had washed Tracy’s punctured foot and after he had declared the wound minor, he had wrapped it in a reasonably clean piece of cloth. Murphy and Rix possessed a meager collection of men and women’s clothes and shoes, and everyone had dealt with their wardrobe problems as best as they could.
Martin awoke at the first whiffs of smoke and tiptoed over sleeping bodies to squat by the fire.
“Morning,” he whispered.
“How you doing, doc?” Rix asked.
“Hellaciously,” he answered, his now-standard quip. “Going out again?”
“After some grub,” Murphy said.
Rix stirred the heavy iron pot suspended over the fire and grunted but with each passing day he was losing hope.
“I’d like to go with you,” Martin said. “I’m getting a serious case of cabin fever.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Murphy said. “It’s been a month since the sweepers last came through. They’ll be coming again, they always do. Everyone in this fucking village knows you’re in here. They may not know your secret but they know you’re here. They’ll grass you out in a heartbeat. You’ll need every last one of you to defend the ladies.”
Martin gestured at the makeshift weapons propped against the walls—wooden clubs, an iron bar, a bent sword.
“I’ve told you. I’m a doctor, not a fighter. None of us are. If they come we’ll be taken.”
Rix shook his head. “If they come you’ve got to fight,” he whispered. “You lot will be scattered to the four winds. The women will be raped and sold off as sex slaves. They find out you and Tony are poufs, you’ll be raped too. Just do as you’re told, all right? We’ll be back after a few hours to check on you.”
Tony had been awake, listening with eyes closed. He propped himself up. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I don’t think you’re going to find Molly and Christine. And I object to your calling us poufs.”
“You’re right,” Murphy fumed. “I bloody don’t want to hear it so shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you.”
His outburst woke the others and they began to stir and sit up.
Martin jumped to Tony’s defense. “It might not be a popular notion but if everything you’ve told us about this place is true then it stands to reason that whatever forces, physical or supernatural, that catapulted us here may have sent them back to our place and time.”
“It’s just a load of bollocks,” Murphy said. “The lasses are in the forest somewhere. Either the rovers have them or they’ve already escaped and they’re trying to get back to us.”
Rix stirred the bubbling pot. “Maybe it’s bollocks and maybe it isn’t,” he said. “You can say it’s bollocks that a bunch of live people came to Hell but, here they are. I’ll tell you one thing, Colin, I’d give anything to know that our lasses are right this minute strolling along some sunny High Street in the county of Kent in the country of England on the planet Earth in the year 2015, than in the clutches of some fucking rovers in this shithole of a land. But until we know it for a fact, we’re going to keep looking for them.”
Tracy began to do what she had done almost every waking hour—she began to cry. Alice had been her self-appointed caretaker when she wasn’t sewing everyone’s clothes. But this morning she seemed too lethargic to offer any more support. Charlie, sitting next to a yawning Eddie, picked up the slack by putting a large hand on Tracy’s shoulder and telling her everything was going to be all right.
But none of them actually believed it.
During their first night in Hell, Murphy and Rix had returned to the cottage following a fruitless day-long search for Molly and Christine, and laid out the shocki
ng realities of the situation to their six shell-shocked guests. Initially, none of them believed a word of it, even after the two hosts described in some detail the day they had both died in 1984.
“Do you have a better explanation for what you’re seeing with your own eyes?” Murphy had asked contemptuously.
Martin, ever the rationalist, had replied, “No I don’t. But that doesn’t make your cock-and-bull story less so.”
“When we first arrived here it was hard for us to accept it too,” Rix said. “But it’s the truth.”
“If what you say is true, that one can’t die here, then these lads’ father and grandfather are not dead.”
Rix had shaken his head. “Maybe yes, maybe no. I’ve never seen a live person in Hell before so I can’t be sure.”
Charlie had lifted his head from his chest at this turn of conversation. “You say they could be alive? We have to go back to the woods and get them.”
“I said I didn’t know,” Rix had said.
“For fuck’s sake, let’s get a move on,” Eddie had said springing to his feet.
“In the morning,” Murphy had said. “The rovers who almost had you are likely to be out and about.”
In the gloomy dawn Martin and Eddie had accompanied Rix and Murphy into the forest, retracing their route until they reached Charlie’s father first. Martin had waved Eddie off as he inspected the headless, butchered body. He was very much dead and gone. At the river, they found his grandfather who had suffered the same gruesome fate. Much of his muscle mass had been cut away.
“I suppose you lot can die,” Murphy had said, spitting into the stream. “You’re lucky.”
Walking back to the village behind the grieving son, Martin had said to Murphy and Rix, “I’m afraid you’ve shown me nothing to support your contentions.”
“Contentions,” Murphy had laughed. “It’s not contentions, it’s fact. Tell you what. Tonight, I’ll sneak you across the village to show you your proof.”