Night. She’d been gone almost twenty-four hours. Her parents must be out of their minds. Tony would have told them about Jacques. No doubt they’d started searching. Probably Becks had even asked the FBI and Spanish cops for help. But they didn’t have a name or a picture or any way of knowing where she’d gone.
Better not count on them showing up anytime soon.
Her friends were still in the house. She heard them now and then. But no one had come up to see her since her trip to the bathroom. Hunger and thirst were creeping up again. She remembered now, the ache carried a certain pleasure, the triumph of mind over body. Thirst, not so much. Her tongue was swollen, and she could taste her breath.
She closed her eyes and took herself to Boston Children’s, a prison crueler than this one despite its clean white rooms. Thought of the last time she’d seen Ayla Lafan. She’d given Ayla a present, a T-shirt that said ALWAYS BE YOURSELF UNLESS YOU CAN BE A UNICORN.
Ayla stared at the shirt. “Are they real?” she finally said, in her soft high voice.
Kira had an answer ready. “They might be, A.”
“But no one’s ever seen one.”
“No.”
“They’re not, are they? They’re just not. They’ve never been and they never will be.”
Words that forced on Kira a truth she tried to keep from herself. Ayla knew she was dying, and after so many trips to this place and so many friends lost probably knew what dying was. Her serenity didn’t come from ignorance of the threat. If anything, Ayla wanted to spare her parents from their own fear.
Kira promised herself now that whatever happened she would be as tough as that little girl.
She drifted for a while…
Woke when the light snapped on.
* * *
She felt obscurely foolish. How come she hadn’t heard the steps? How had she let someone surprise her when she was in a locked room? She rubbed the sleep from her eyes as the door swung open.
Jacques. No doubt he liked sneaking up here, scaring her even in her sleep. He had a folder tucked under his arm. He looked slightly goofy, like the graduate student he’d pretended to be.
“I need to ask some questions.”
“Fuck off.”
His face changed, and she knew she’d gone too far. He came at her in two steps, punched her. Just once, in the diaphragm, the blow placed perfectly and so fast she had no chance to avoid it.
His fist twisted her, left her gasping, drowning in the open air.
Finally her diaphragm unclenched, and she could breathe. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and stared up at him. She wanted to curse him again, tell him he didn’t scare her. But he did. All those karate classes and she had no idea what violence really was, no idea what it was like to be hit by a man who wasn’t holding back.
He opened the folder, held up her driver’s license.
“Kira Unsworth. Not such a usual name.”
He tucked the license back in the folder—such an organized kidnapper—and pulled out a piece of paper.
The Washington Post. She saw the newspaper’s squiggly font, and she knew what was coming. “FBI Arrests Russian Agent in Maryland,” Jacques read. “When we looked up your name, to see if we were lucky, you’re a billionaire, this came up. Rebecca Unsworth, who supervised the investigation, said the FBI had received a tip about Kuznetsov several months ago.” He handed her the paper.
She didn’t see how lying would help. “My mom.”
“Your mother is an FBI agent?”
“Way up in the bureau.”
Jacques seemed pleased. “The US government will pay very much for you, I think.”
“That’s not how it works.” Could he really be sophisticated enough to take her the way he had and naïve enough to think the FBI would hand him millions of dollars?
He shrugged. We’ll see. He put away the Post, handed her one final piece of paper, the front page of a Spanish newspaper—El País—neatly folded.
“Stand up, hold this.”
He pulled out his phone, took her picture. “Now give me mommy’s email. And mobile. Daddy also.”
She did.
“Are you rich?”
She wondered if she should ask him to define rich, but she didn’t want to risk another punch.
“My parents both work for the federal government. Not super-rich.”
“Any other money?”
Maybe he already knew, maybe he’d seen it on the Internet somewhere.
“My dad sold a phone app a while ago. Made a bunch of money.” Saved my parents’ marriage. Without that stupid app maybe I wouldn’t be here.
Jacques smiled, the most real smile she’d seen from him. “This app—”
“It’s called Twenty-One. Like blackjack, you know, for casinos.”
“And how much did he get?”
“They never told me.” A lie.
He squatted beside her, the greed flashing in his eyes. “Many millions, yes?”
What if he started to think her parents had ten or twenty million dollars hidden away? Better to tell the truth. “I think it was two million. Enough to buy a house.”
“I thought they didn’t tell you.” A dangerous coldness in his voice.
“They didn’t, but I overheard them once.” Another lie, Brian had been proud of it.
“Spying on mommy and daddy.”
“I promise, there’s no way they have millions in the bank. We’re not rich like that, we flew over in economy class, okay, premium economy—” She made herself stop.
You’re talking too much, Kira. He’s not your friend. He’s not even some cop who pulled you over for speeding and will let you go if you flirt a minute. You’re not going to convince him of anything, you’re not going to make him like you, and if you try you may just make him mad. So hush. Don’t speak unless spoken to.
“You don’t know how much money your parents have?”
“No.”
“But they love you. Their sweet little girl.” He nudged her leg with his boot. “They would give all of it to get you back.”
The question, statement, whatever it was, made her stomach hurt.
He walked to the door. Stopped. Looked her over, head-to-toe. “But, you know, part of me hopes they won’t.”
Even more than Rodrigo, Jacques made her feel dirty, made her want to take a long hot shower.
Then he was gone. The deadbolt slammed. The light dropped.
She wondered how much money he’d want. And what her parents would do to get it.
22
Barcelona
The Mossos had gone into high gear.
CC hadn’t apologized for the way he’d acted earlier. He’d done something better. He’d called his boss, explained that an American girl had been kidnapped, a professional job. The Mossos needed to pull video footage to find the kidnap car, ask for help from Madrid and the French police too.
Surveillance cameras revealed an obvious candidate for the suspect car, a black Toyota Camry that came down Carrer de Trafalgar at 12:55 a.m. and then returned seventeen minutes later. No surprise, the Camry’s back windows were heavily tinted. And the driver wore a hooded sweatshirt that shadowed his face. But the windows couldn’t hide the fact that the Camry’s back seat had been empty on its way to the alley behind Helado, full on the way back.
The windows couldn’t hide the license plate, either. With it, the Mossos tracked the Camry along the Avinguda Diagonal, which ran to the ring road west of the city and the highways that connected Barcelona with France and the rest of Spain.
But the trail ended there.
The modern superhighway between Barcelona and Madrid, the AP-2, was a toll road with plenty of cameras. So was the AP-7, which ran from the French border through Barcelona and down Spain’s east coast. But neither highway’s cameras had captured the Camry.
Xili told Rebecca the vanishing act shouldn’t surprise them. Most of Spain’s older highways were not toll roads and did not have surveillance. The most n
otable was the A-2, an upgraded version of the old Route Nacional from Madrid to Barcelona.
The Camry itself also looked to be a dead end. Spain had a serious car theft problem. And based on its body type, this Camry had been built between 2006 and 2011. That model was notoriously easy to steal. The national stolen car database showed thousands of thefts of Camrys from those years.
Worse, the plates didn’t belong to the car. They matched a Mini Cooper owned by a woman who lived north of Barcelona. She hadn’t reported them stolen. The Mossos had already sent an officer to talk to her. But she wasn’t home, and her car didn’t seem to be around.
Rebecca suspected that the Mini’s owner was on vacation, her car parked in an airport lot. Stealing a car from a garage was tricky. Gate cameras would catch every vehicle as it entered and left.
But stealing plates was easy. Find a car tucked in a corner. Preferably a small car tucked behind a bigger vehicle that hid it from cameras. Unscrew the plates. Toss them in your own car’s trunk and drive out.
The combination of stolen plates and a stolen car meant that finding the Camry was going to be tough. The Mossos had put an advisory notice—what American police called a BOLO, be on the lookout—for the Camry into their system. Any officer who saw the car was supposed to pull it over.
But Rebecca already knew they weren’t going to see it. It was in a garage somewhere. Or in a Madrid slum, unlocked, waiting to be stolen again. Or burned to its frame in some empty field. And if they did find it, it would be clean. No fingerprints, no clues. Because this guy Jacques didn’t make mistakes.
* * *
Sunday night rolled into Monday morning as the Mossos chased the Camry. All along, Brian and Tony were stuck at the apartment in Eixample. She called them every couple of hours with updates. Around midnight, she half-heartedly suggested they get some rest. “I’ll sleep when you do,” Brian said, almost angrily.
By 2 a.m., after the toll road searches came up empty, fatigue overwhelmed her. Yes, they’d made progress today. They’d put to rest any notion that Kira had disappeared on her own.
But they had no answers to the big questions: who Jacques really was, if he had targeted Kira for some specific reason, if he had any idea who Rebecca was, if he was hoping to ransom her back or pass her to someone else.
Not to mention the most crucial mystery of all, where Kira was now.
“I’ll take you home,” Xili said. “Sleep, we can meet around ten, figure out who to talk with in Madrid. The Guardia”—the Guardia Civil—“must have had cars on the A-2 last night, and they have cameras and plate readers. With luck that will tell us where they’re headed.”
“Sure.”
She would call FBI headquarters, too. But she thought she should wait until Monday morning East Coast time—afternoon here. The Mossos seemed to be doing everything possible. She didn’t see how extra pressure from the bureau would help.
This late on a Sunday night, even the Gothic Quarter was quiet, only a few drunks sputtering up La Rambla. Even Barcelona slept eventually. Neither Xili nor Rebecca spoke until he stopped outside her apartment.
“Thank you,” she said. “For taking me seriously.”
“Thank me after we find her.”
“After we find her I’ll buy you a ticket to Razzmatazz. Relive your glory days.”
* * *
She couldn’t escape a crushing sense of failure. They were no closer to knowing where Kira might be. Normally Rebecca would have figured the kidnappers had gone to ground close by, somewhere near Barcelona. Moving a hostage was dangerous.
But nothing about this kidnapping was normal. Maybe Jacques had already smuggled her into North Africa. Or swung her north into France on her way to Eastern Europe.
Rebecca wondered more and more if the kidnapping was related to her job. She hadn’t said much about the possibility to Xili. Getting the Mossos on board had been hard enough without conspiracy theories. But the degree of planning here suggested either high-level organized crime or a government-backed group.
Again, though, why would the Russians come after her this way? The risk of reprisal was too high. All this doomed speculation led back to the original theory. Maybe Jacques had just taken Kira randomly.
* * *
Brian was alone on the couch when she walked in. “Becks.” They hugged and again she felt his strength, his solidity.
“Where’s Tony?”
“Oh, he went out for coffee like an hour ago.”
How could he be so calm. “Brian—”
He raised his hands. “I’m kidding. Bedroom, asleep.”
He hadn’t made a joke that terrible since that night in the nursing home. More than twenty years ago. Plus ça change… “Jesus, Brian.”
“Sorry. Been a long night.” Tony had been inconsolable, blaming himself, Brian said. “He’s losing his mind.”
* * *
Rebecca found Tony in his bedroom, sleeping badly, muttering in his dreams. She kissed his forehead lightly, not wanting to wake him, and went back to Brian. Who had moved to their bedroom.
“Tell me about the night,” Brian said. “What you found.”
“Can we do it in the morning?”
“She’s my girl too.”
He was right. So she told him—about Xili, the clubs, her revelation that Jacques must have taken Kira somewhere else. About Helado and Flor and the Queen.
“You did good.”
“I did nothing. What if it’s because of me, Bri? What if this really is some group that found my name in an article in the Post and somehow locked on to me—”
“Not a four-star general, not the director?”
“Those guys have security.”
Brian shook his head. “I can’t see it. There are hundreds of people further up the intel chain. Not that you’re not important.”
He was right again. She moved closer to him, felt him wrap his arms around her. She closed her eyes and began to drift within seconds. Brian was falling asleep too, his breathing settling, his grip on her easing.
“Gonna be okay, Becks.” His voice a murmur. “I promise…” the words running down.
Summer on the Cape, and she stood at the top of Newcomb Hollow Beach, running down the dunes, the sand biting her heels—
Becks.
Dove for the relief of the cold gray ocean—
Tell.
Who said that? The surf rushed at her, a big wave, bigger than she’d expected—
Something—
And the water took her.
IV BRIAN
(THEN AND NOW)
23
Charlottesville
Brian was taking it easy this winter.
No worries, he had eleven hundred bucks stuffed in the bottom of his duffel. Hadn’t touched it since he came to Virginia. He paid the rent running pizzas on weekends, sometimes with a special side order for frat boys who needed a hookup. Not often, and nothing harder than pot or Addys. No coke, even if they asked. He didn’t want a reputation. Didn’t want the cops looking for him. But if he could pick up fifty bucks in five minutes selling pills he wasn’t gonna say no.
Plus he could live on the cheap in this town. His rent was only four fifteen a month. A fourth-floor one bedroom, no elevator, mice in the walls. Sometimes they woke him up, pitter-patter behind his head. But the place was an easy walk to the bars on Main Street. Even had a round window that opened up to the hills west of town.
Brian liked Charlottesville. He had his laptop, his Nintendo, his Introduction to C manual. No more cold-enough-to-peel-skin midwestern winters, no more Seattle rain. And UVA deserved its rep as a party school. Especially during basketball season. When the games were done, the students poured out of the U Hall—the arena—and headed for the bars.
Of course, the grade A sorority sisters usually went straight to Frat Row. Even when they were at the bars, Brian didn’t hit on them. Up north, rich coeds might slum once in a while. Down here the class system was set in stone. Fine. Let the no
se-job girls chase their BMW-driving princes. Sixes and sevens were more his wheelhouse anyway.
Over the years, Bri had developed a clinical attitude toward the game. He played the odds, didn’t take rejection personally, moved on if he wasn’t feeling a vibe.
He’d figured out he had a type. Quiet outsiders. Girls majoring in philosophy who wanted to spend a year in Tokyo after graduation. He stayed away from real artists. Those women were too in love with themselves to pay attention to him—and if they did, they saw through his crap because they were just as full of it as he was.
He played instead to the middle-class romantics, the ones who convinced themselves that he had special insight into the human condition because he’d driven an ambulance. That he was a poet because he hadn’t made it through his first year at Michigan State. They treated him with a seriousness he was pretty sure he didn’t deserve, but that he could pull off for a night of drinking.
He tilted his head and listened—kinda—as they told him how they hated the conformity of college. He didn’t have to push drinks on them. They got lit on their own, flushed with the excitement of talking to someone who wasn’t majoring in business. Their cool-headed friends tried to get them to leave, tugged their wrists, whispered warnings loud enough for Brian to overhear, You don’t even know who this dude is, he’s shady, too old for you, come on, let’s go. And the romantics shook their heads and stayed. Maybe they were genuinely into him, or the idea of him as a wanderer. Maybe they were just bored. Or drunk.
As for him?
He just wanted sex.
Brian was pretty much a realist, no illusions about the world or his place in it. He wasn’t dumb, and spending so much time by himself had given him a chance to read a lot. But he couldn’t stand doing any kind of intellectual work that didn’t grab his attention right away. Same thing with manual labor. He was clever and good with his hands. He could learn most jobs in a hurry. But he couldn’t make himself care enough to become great at any of them.
The Power Couple Page 19