by Dancer, Jack
“But, I don't get it. Why is she still holding Monica hostage if you've already paid the ransom?”
I go on to tell him after he handed over the moneybag to Pau, the money was intercepted by a guy on a motorcycle. I didn't bother telling him I had a tracker on it. No real need to at this point and besides I didn't want to overload the poor guy with too much information all at once.
"Let me get this straight. First, you lost Ebba and Terry, then you lost Monica, then you paid one million euros to get them back, and now you've lost that too?"
"You are a piece of work, Pat. But, you know what?"
"I'm an accurate piece of work?" he says laughing.
"Yes, you are," I admit, and we're both laughing. I really am starting to like this guy.
I pick up and go on. “Besides it's not the ransom Libica wants. She may not even know about the ransom. I don't know. That's Nanette and the flight crew scammers' deal. This Libica woman's under the impression I'm holding a winning lottery ticket worth €120 million. That's what she wants.”
Pat starts choking on his club sandwich.
“Wait. You said that at the Taverna la Tomaquera last week when I first met you. So it wasn't a joke?”
“Well, yes and no. You see I do have the winning lottery ticket, but it's a fake, only Libica thinks it's real.”
“But, it's not real, right?”
“No,” I lie. I think.
“So just tell her.”
“She won't believe me; she's convinced the ticket's real. Besides, if I told her that, what's to prevent her from killing Monica anyway? You think for a minute she'd just say, okay so here's Monica back; I don't need her anymore? I don't think so.”
“S'pose you're right.”
“So you see, it's better she believes I have the ticket, and that it's real. At least, it'll give me a card to play for Monica.”
“I see. What do you want me to do?”
“First of all, you'd better order up three FAs instead of just two because I don't think Nanette will be making the flight back home either.”
“Ha, ha. Easy enough, three FAs and one pilot.”
“For the moment, what I'd like you to do is help me confuse the enemy and by that I mean Nanette. Right now, I guarantee you she's going nuts because she can't locate Pau, James or Lisa, and the money's disappeared too. I'm pretty certain she suspects Libica has nabbed 'em all.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Sorry, Pat, but I can't say right now but when I can I will. Just go along with me on this for now.”
“Okay.”
“What I'd like for you to do is call Nanette's cell with some sort of bullshit emergency like you have to call the company for replacement FAs, and you're worried about Ebba and Terry. What should you do? Go to the cops? And, hey, where's James and Lisa by the way? Have you seen them?”
“Oh, shit. I've forgotten about them. Now I need five FAs (flight attendants) and a pilot,” he says.
“Oh, that's right. Wait. I thought they were crewing another flight,” I say.
“Oh, yeah, they are. Jesus, Tucker, this shit's startin to get me confused."
“Tell me about it,” and we both start cracking up. And what a relief it is to laugh again. I'd almost forgotten how.
I also tell Pat about Dick's Dicks, and that it's possible he could be hearing from them, that we're all in this together; we're a team, and we have one primary objective: To rescue Monica. Only second do we care about nabbing Nanette and Libica. Saving Monica is our number-one objective.
“What about Ebba?” he asks.
“Sounds to me like she went over to the other side,” I say.
“That's what Terry says, but you know Terry's not fond of Ebba anyway so I think it might be wise to find out ourselves if what she's saying is true.”
I think I'm detecting a bit of fondness for Ebba as Pat says this.
“You're right, Pat. We will.”
“You know, Tucker, this whole thing with Terry and Ebba and Juan too, going over to the other side like they have, I think this is a classic case of Stockholm syndrome. Know what I mean?”
“I do. Where the captives become so enamored with their captors, they develop a sympathy for them and actually begin to align themselves with 'em.”
“Exactly. And it explains Terry and Ebba - especially Ebba - but then there's this guy Juan. He was the captor, and he jumps to the side of the captive. You know what that's called, Tucker?”
“No, what?”
“Lima syndrome. That's where the exact opposite happens - when the captors sympathize with the captives and take on a protective behavior toward them, even does things to help them escape.”
“Now that you mention it, I read a book about a party involving the Japanese embassy in Peru crashed by a bunch of revolutionaries, and they took the partygoers hostage. That was it, right?”
“Yes, exactly - Lima Peru, the Lima syndrome. I think that's what happened to Juan.”
“So Ebba and Terry go Stockholm syndrome, and Juan goes Lima.”
“I like to hear a shrink try to take that one on."
After lunch and after I think, I've got Pat thoroughly recruited, I drive him back to the Fira. On the drive over he brings up the subject he's been avoiding, and I can't say I blame him. I'm actually surprised he brought it up at all, but he did as he was getting out at the Fira.
"So, Tucker, you're sure Lisa's really a guy?”
"Saw it with my own eyes, Pat, twice."
“Think I'm gonna be sick.”
***
Back at the apartment I see Dick's delivered the cell phones I asked for: Tiber's, Drusus's, James', Lisa's, Pau's, Terry's, Juan's. Now the fun starts with the text messaging I'd been mulling over. First thing to do is to get on the Internet and Netlingo.com to bone-up on my texting shorthand.
Here goes using Pau's cell. "Nan, been snatched. Scared. SOS. SOT. Tell JW co-op. TQ Pau.” (SOS is a mayday naturally, SOT means "Short of time,” TQ means "Te quiero" / I love you (Spanish SMS).
I press Send and off into the ether it goes.
Along with the cell phones Dick delivered, are a couple of disks containing names, phone, FAX and cell numbers and email addresses, in Access database form, of people and organizations I'd asked him to compile. I came up with the idea after Dick had told me his guys had gotten out of Tiber and Drusus, contact information for most of the members of Libica's Terra Lliure II membership and their spouses. They'd also provided information for many of their mother's personal and professional contacts - politicians, government officials, leaders of the various independence movements (Catalonian and Basque), policing authorities, medical associations, hospitals, schools, churches and on and on, from Perpignan to Barcelona.
At my request my on-the-payroll hacker buddy Mike Speed, we several online services specializing in bulk fax and email distribution to deluge everyone with warnings and alerts about Doctor Drusilla Libica, the pedophile, kidnapper, and murderer.
Speed took my rough layouts and photos and made up a wanted poster with the good doctor's Photoshopped image - the one I made - prominently displayed, including her Perpignan address and phone number. These went mostly to the government agencies, schools, and professional organizations. For the organizations and leaders of the various Catalonian Independence organizations, Speed also made-up posters of Libica Unmasked - Traitor to the Cause. For all, I created a bounty poster and handbills offering a five million euro reward for the capture of Doctor Drusilla Libica - Wanted Dead Or Alive. I loved that television show growing up.
My following two hours are spent uploading the databases Dick's people had assembled, sending them up to Speed who in turn forwarded them to the fax/email services we had waiting, with instructions to fire away on my go, which they can expect to be receiving from me by text message sometime over the next forty-eight hours.
Once that's completed, I upload the contact numbers of members of Libica's Terra Lliure II operations and separa
tely, their spouses, to Speed. I composed several orders I'll issue to the leaders and members by text message using my own cell phone, but with a Spoof card so the message will arrive under Libica's caller ID, and I composed separate text messages for their spouses and family members offering the same five million euro reward for Libica's head in the hope they'll help turn her army of followers into an army of bounty hunters. It took another two hours to complete the project.
Now I have more firepower at the touch of my SEND button than the good doctor would ever believe possible, and my trigger finger’s getting itchy. But, I have to wait. It's now closing in on the time for my date with Nanette, and I still have to shower, shave, and sh . . . ('scuse the alliteration) yet. But first, I send Nanette the next text message.
Text to Nanette from James: "Nan, Serious trouble. LJ dead. Help. JC” (LJ is Lisa Jones otherwise known as Leroy.)
When the text message flies off I do to and mount the Mini for Nanette's place and what should prove to be an interesting evening ahead. I’m fully armed by the way.
fifty-five
21:00 Hours, Tuesday, 9 September.
Club M, Barcelona.
"Nice wheels, Tucker," Nanette, says as I open the passenger-side door for her.
“Thanks. I actually like it a lot. There's a lot more to it than meets the eye.”
“What do you drive at home?”
“Little sports car, so a small car like this is not so small for me.”
“What kind of sports car?”
“Porsche.”
“So, you're the stereotypical middle-age divorced guy re-living his youth with boy toys?”
“That's me, exactly.”
“And are you having fun at it?”
“More fun than a tornado in a trailer park.”
Pause.
"What exactly does that mean?"
"I have no idea."
“So, you don't intend to get married again?”
“I wouldn't say that. I'm sure I will one day. But for now, I’ve got to get all this swinging single bachelor stuff out of my system. I've been married most of my life. I'm not complaining mind you . . .”
“Well, you must have been complaining some, you got divorced.”
“Getting divorced. Hasn't been signed, sealed and delivered yet. Soon though.”
“How soon?
“Couple of months. Why? You want to marry me?”
“Well, you did propose the other night if you remember.”
“Did you accept?”
“I did.”
“Well, there you go. I guess we're engaged.”
“Sounds like you want to back out now?”
“Before I answer I want to know if you can dance.”
“I see, so this is a test?”
“Sort of.”
“And what exactly are you testing for?”
“The first rule of dance of course,” I say. "Actually, the only rule of dance.”
“And what would that be, pray tell?”
“If you have to ask, you must not be a dancer.”
“Jerk,” she punches me in the shoulder. "So, what is it?”
“I lead you follow, of course.”
“Could be a tough one for me.”
“I know, but it's the rule of dance.”
“Are you saying you want to be the dom tonight?”
“On the dance floor, the guy's always the dom.”
“What about afterwards?”
“Suppose we'll find out when afterwards presents itself.”
“I can see where this is leading.”
“Could be a role reversal for you. Think you're adaptable?”
“Pliant, you mean?”
“Close enough.”
“For you, Tucker, I'll bend over backwards.”
“But, can you Tango?”
Club M turns out to be a perfect dinner and dance club. Some Tango but mostly Latin: Salsa, Rumba, Samba, Cha-Cha. We dance until two. Nanette's an excellent dancer, light as air and follows like a shadow. During one break, she gets a text message from Pat spoofed with Terry's caller ID.
"Tell TB to give it up & MR lives. Pls hlp us. TH” (MR FYI is Monica Reyes and TH is Terry Hinkle)
Reading the message Nanette goes as pale as the white linen covering our table.
“You okay?” I ask. "Looks like you've just seen a ghost.”
“Can we go, Tucker?”
“Sure, but really, you all right?”
“I'm fine. I just need to get out of here. Can we go to your place?”
That's convenient. Didn't even have to ask.
“Sure,” I say taking her hand and walking out into the sharp night air where two young valets are standing to the side smoking. One drops his cigarette, crushes it under his shoe and steps over. I hand him my ticket, and he turns with a "uno momento” and disappears into the dark.
Nanette's phone hums in her purse.
“Excuse me,” she says turning away to view the next text Pat sends her way.
“Nan, n trouble, busted. Steer clr Tucker. Pau”
She stuffs the phone back into her purse and gives me a quizzical look.
"What?" I ask innocently knowing full well.
"Nothing," she says, "wrong number."
When the Mini drives up, the valet jumps out and runs around the other side to hold the door for Nanette. She offers a smile as tight as steel wool then walks around the car and lowers herself into the seat with the grace of a heron. The valet shuts her door and jogs around to me where I palm him a folded bill and drop myself behind the steering wheel. A gracias, Señor, and he closes the door.
I turn and ask, “You okay?”
“Of course, everything's fine.”
Yeah, right. From the looks of it, your stock market just crashed.
Heading out into the empty streets of Barcelona the night air hits us in the face like a cool, refreshing slap.
“God, that feels good,” I say taking a deep breath.
“Do you mind rolling the window up?” she asks. There it is - seems like every time; I never get more than thirty seconds of fresh air after these club nights and the girl's wanting the windows rolled up. I always comply but what is it with this and the fresh air? Is it a female thing because it never fails, no matter what, no matter who. If it was your wife, you might ignore 'em, but you can't ignore a date. (I say that knowing better.)
We pass a couple of taxis, but at two am, there's not much else on the road except for one car hanging behind us not half a block. I step on it and make a quick turn and downshift. She lays her hand over mine. "Slow down honey, we're in no rush. We've got all night.”
“Sorry, just got a little carried away with the empty streets and all,” I say and back off the gas.
But, the car following also makes the turn and is closing the gap considerably. She can't see because I own the mirror. I take another turn, and he's right on me.
“Tucker, this is not Monte Carlo. Please keep it down, okay?”
“I hate to tell you, but there seems to be someone following us. Hold on,” I say and slam screeching breaks before the next turn, downshift again and shootout, rubber squealing. God is this fun! Brake hard, release then turn and give it the gas, and you won't spin out. Never downshift to brake. That's what brakes are for. Two tips I picked up under the tutelage of Curley Hayfield, a professional race car driver, and chief driving instructor at the Porsche Racing School.
The tail hangs on, and now I'm certain we've got a problem. I make another quick turn, and another and the tires squeal like a fun date.
“Goddammit, Tucker, slow down, or you're going to kill us.”
“Okay,” I consent to brake, but do it hard enough to rocket us through the windshield if not for being strapped in like crash dummies. The tail freaks at this unexpected stupidity, brakes hard, and jerks to the side sparing us a vehicular colonoscopy.
“Goddammit, Tucker” she screams, and on cue, flames burst out of the passenger-side
window of the other car, bullets ricocheting off my side window. The noise is deafening. I throw the car into a hard reverse then jam the floor shifter forward and the accelerator to the floor. The little Mini-muscle punches a solid uppercut into their rear quarter panel and pushes 'em until they're on the sidewalk pinned up against the outside wall of Jaco's Tacos. Reverse again and forward and we're flying down some of the narrowest streets I've ever driven, and before you know it; I'm impossibly lost.
“Goddammit, where the hell are we?”
Nanette's gone pale again, her face contorted into a silent scream.
“Park Güell ahead,” she croaks out, pointing a limp finger.
“Okay, I see.” I make another sharp turn just past the park's entrance onto Carrer de Larrard, down a few blocks and then another few turns until we're on the street I think fronts the apartment. I can see the other car pin-balling off buildings lining both sides of the narrow street behind us, so I press the garage remote and spot the door opening ahead. I race for it and slam the brakes before making a careful turn into the garage then hit the remote again. Just as the garage door closes, another burst of gunfire, and bullets are careening off the Mini's back window like ball peen hammers.
“Come on, let's get outta here.” Reaching across Nanette, I push her door open, and she throws herself out crouching on all fours. I rush around the car to help her up.
“You okay?”
“Hell no, I'm not okay.”
“Well, move it anyhow and quick.” I grab her by the arm and pull her to the door of the apartment where I press my thumb against the fingerprint reader, and the deadbolt clicks open.
“Come on.” I pull her through and slam the door behind us.
“What the hell was that all about?”
Bullets start pinging off the windows, and we drop like someone had cut our strings and lock onto each other - two swimmers drowning.
“It's okay the windows are bullet proof. I think.”
“What the hell's going on, Tucker? Why're they shooting at us? Who are they?”