by Kirsten Boie
“Oh, Bea, where are you?” said Jenna in frustration. “Maybe she’s still at school. I’ll try again later.”
“Send her a text asking her to call you,” said Perry. “Right away!” He looked at Nahira. “Or do you think we should try the Scandian press anyway?”
Nahira shook her head. “We should still have a few hours at least,” she said.
Jenna clutched the cell phone. “So now what, Nahira?” she asked.
Jonas went on gazing at the passing trees. By now he must have gathered enough material for two presentations.
In the morning, Bea didn’t feel like going to school.
“I didn’t get a wink of sleep all night,” she said when, after three wake-up calls, her mother mercilessly pulled off the bedspread. “Mom, please! I’ll be too tired to learn anything, anyway!”
“Don’t you have a French exam today?” said her mother, disappearing through the door before adding over her shoulder: “Next time it’ll be a wet towel!”
Bea couldn’t remember ever having a night like that. She’d always laughed at the sight of her mother sitting slumped at the breakfast table with eyes glued together, saying, “Didn’t sleep a wink!”
How was that possible, Bea used to think. Nights were for sleeping, which was exactly what she did, like any other sensible person. Always. Until last night. She was certain that she’d been awake for every single terrible minute. She’d tossed and turned from left to right, from right to left, till the sheet beneath her had got so crumpled that no one could have slept on it. So she’d straightened the sheet and shaken the bedspread. After that she’d closed her eyes again, breathed deeply and regularly, counted sheep, and then — just when some fragment of consciousness had let her know that she was about to cross the border into sleep — back into her head came the jumble of images: Jenna with a crown on her head; Jenna with a gag in her mouth; Jenna with cheese on her chin in the pizza restaurant. Then Jenna at school — and suddenly the headmaster shooting at her with a gun, with the music that introduced the TV news in the background, and then smacking her rhythmically on the head with a French grammar textbook while he shouted, “Adverbial pronoun y, genitive en! And that’s for the pizza!”
But that last part must have been a dream. So she had had some sleep, at some point. Before her mom could carry out her threat of a wet towel, Bea heaved herself slowly out of bed.
What happened in school that morning was a blur. She fell asleep during history, and no one woke her. She snapped at the math teacher when he asked her a question, and he simply shook his head and said nothing. They all knew the situation.
After the third period she excused herself and went home on the pretext that she’d had a fever the day before and her headache today was unbearable. The young chemistry teacher was concerned and sympathetic. But things couldn’t go on like this indefinitely; she had to pull herself together. Jenna was still in the hands of the kidnappers — the morning news had confirmed as much — and Bea couldn’t do anything about it.
Back home, she dropped her schoolbag on the floor. She was almost too tired to unlace her shoes. She’d go and lie on the sofa in the living room, switch on the TV, and sleep, or — if she still couldn’t drop off — watch the news. But preferably sleep.
As she walked past the answering machine, she noticed the red light flashing. Wouldn’t be for her. Friends would call her cell, or send text messages or e-mails. Nobody would call her on the landline, especially in the morning.
She pressed the button anyway.
The voice that boomed out of the machine seemed familiar, although she couldn’t have said who it was. “It’s your lucky day, Miss!” said the voice. “What I’m doing isn’t exactly by the book, but we’ve known each other for a long time, right? They found your phone in a trash can!” There was a short pause, during which the policeman was presumably taking a good look at her phone. “Hardly surprising nobody wanted it, it’s practically an antique. Lucky for you your parents didn’t get you a more up-to-date one!” He laughed. “This one runs on coal, right? Anyway, you can come to the station and get it anytime.”
Bea stared at the answering machine. How could a person snap so wide awake in just a few seconds? She laced her shoes back up, and grabbed the key. Now at last she could try to call Jenna.
Bolström would have preferred to talk with all the top men around a conference table behind closed doors this morning, instead of having to do everything by phone or e-mail, as he’d done for the last year. There was always the danger of misunderstandings during difficult negotiations like these. Sitting together, being able to look into people’s eyes, was always the most effective way — especially when it came to persuading someone who didn’t want to be persuaded. A smile, a frown, a clearing of the throat: Even the best conference calls could never replace a face-to-face conversation.
But today, time was too short. They had to act now. He couldn’t wait for people to come from all over the country, from their mines, their oil wells, their farms on North Island. By the time they arrived, it could be too late. Everyone who mattered would now hopefully be waiting by their telephones. They’d all hear what the others had to say, and that would have to do.
Everyone, that was, except Petterson. Unfortunately, Petterson had to be excluded from this particular conference call. Who knew what he might do, loyal though he normally was? Since this concerned his son, it was obvious — if regrettable — that he couldn’t be relied upon. No one could possibly have anticipated a development like this, which threatened to ruin all their plans.
It wasn’t until around half past eight that Bolström heard something had gone wrong. The guards at the fisherman’s hut were supposed to check in with his men every two hours, day and night. Whether the two a.m. call had come through, no one knew for sure, because the men on telephone duty had been asleep. We’ll deal with them later, thought Bolström. Men who failed in their duties had no place among his people. But now there were other, more urgent matters to attend to. When the four o’clock call didn’t come, the men — who swore they were awake at the time — assumed that the guards at the hut had done the same as them, and fallen asleep on duty. Even when the six o’clock call failed to materialize, they still thought their colleagues at the hut must simply have overslept. And they acknowledged they didn’t want to blow the whistle on them, and they didn’t want to wake Bolström, either, although by now they were, admittedly, beginning to get a bit concerned.
Only when there was no eight o’clock call did they suspect that something must have gone wrong. They’d waited another quarter of an hour, then tried all four numbers. After that, they knew for sure. The only problem then was who should tell Bolström. They’d drawn sticks, because nobody dared to give him the news.
“Tarnation!” roared Bolström. “Send someone there at once! But tell them to be careful. It could be a trap!”
It was hard to imagine who might have set one. The rebels, possibly. Had they freed the children? No, that was absurd. They were scattered everywhere. Could it have been government forces, the police, the press, the military? No, the power centers of the country were now on his side — they’d all had enough of appeasing the north.
Shortly after nine o’clock, he heard that the guards had been found tied up in the hut and the children were gone.
“Tarnation!” Bolström yelled again. “How could this have happened? Now there’s no time to lose!”
If I hadn’t advanced the plan in the last few weeks, he thought, and if the military weren’t deployed all over the country, ready to strike — even though they might not know it yet — where would we be now? Suppose I hadn’t come back to take charge of everything? Useless idiots! But we’ve all got to work together. I need them all. And I have to be in charge.
He switched on the speakerphone. He didn’t want to have to hold the receiver to his ear the whole time. He needed his hands free for coffee and cigarettes.
“Is everything ready?” he barked. �
�It’s an emergency! We’ve got less than twenty-four hours now. Tonight at two. Holmburg. Parliament. The palace. I’m sure the people are ready for it.”
Someone interrupted. “Of course those two children are the second priority,” said Bolström. “Search the whole area for them, and don’t be squeamish. Tell the men there’s a price on their heads, dead or alive.”
People started talking all at once. Fools! thought Bolström. Fools, the lot of them! They’d like to think they can get everything they want without dirtying their hands.
“What difference does that make to our plans?” he snapped. They stopped talking. There was always silence when he spoke. “If the children are found dead, people will say it was the rebels, and that’s precisely what we intended all along.” He dragged on his cigarette. “And finally,” he said, flicking off the ash, “there’s Norlin.”
Someone said something at the other end.
“No, it has to be done now. Norlin’s got to go before anyone gets the chance to talk to him!” he said. “Who knows what he might come up with? He could ruin us all. But you can leave him to me.”
He’d finished his cigarette. “In summary,” he said, “at two a.m., we march in. Meanwhile, Norlin disappears. And so do the two children. Until then, the media will continue to show yesterday’s photos of the hostages. People may wonder why there are no new photos with today’s paper — doesn’t matter. One answer could be that the rebels have already killed the children. Then, if they’re actually found dead this afternoon, it’ll simply be confirmation that the rebels were responsible, and everybody will hate them all the more for it, as well as be frightened by how ruthless they are. And all that can only be to our advantage when we march on Holmburg tonight.”
Bolström went back to his desk. “We’ll stay in contact,” he said. Then he disconnected the call without waiting to see if anyone else had anything more to say.
Norlin had not yet made an appearance. Bolström’s men could probably dispose of him in his bedroom without the drunken buffoon even waking up. How convenient. That was one less problem, at least. Who’d have thought that Norlin’s boozing could turn out to be so useful?
Out in the hall, a figure in a silken robe hurried toward the staircase.
The windmill stood well back from the road, near the sea — too near, perhaps, to withstand the gales. One frame was broken, and the sails of the other three hung down in tatters. It had been a long time since the grindstones had turned, and the cobbled forecourt where cartloads of grain had once been unloaded now lay bare and desolate.
So when Meonok opened the door, Jonas was almost startled to hear the noise of voices and see the dense cloud of smoke hanging beneath the low ceiling before it floated up the narrow staircase. At least twenty men were leaning against the unplastered walls, or sitting on the worn wooden steps that led up to the next floor. Some were young, some old, but, like him, all of them had dark hair and the typical features of the north.
“Nahira!” cried one. “At last!”
They all looked toward the door through which Nahira had entered the room, followed by Lorok, Meonok, and the three young people. Jonas would not have been surprised if someone had started to applaud.
“I’m grateful that you’ve all come,” said Nahira. “And I’m grateful that you’re still ready and willing to pursue our cause. You all know what’s happening in our country. We’re still not getting our share in the north, but even the initial reforms have been too much for the southerners. They’re afraid of what they might lose in a country where everything once belonged to them. They’re not content to sit and watch it happen. That’s why we’re here now. That’s the whole point of our meeting.”
The room had fallen silent. Everyone was listening intently.
“They’re planning a coup, as we’ve suspected for a long time,” said Nahira. “They’ve prepared the way by fostering resentment among the people against the new government. And they’ve arrested Liron to prove that the government is actually being run by us, the rebels! So everyone in the south will not only be supportive if the government changes, they’ll even approve if it’s done by force.”
“It was careless of you, Nahira,” said one of the older men, “to meet with Liron.” As a murmur of agreement rippled around the room, Nahira interrupted him.
“You’re right, Inuk,” she said. “It was unforgivably careless. But something has happened now to change the whole situation. The conspirators are no longer in control of their own plans. They’ve got to act now, and act fast. Thanks to these young people”— she turned to Jenna and Perry, and motioned to them to step forward —“the conspirators have run out of time. We believe they will have to act tonight — earlier than they’d intended. And so this is our opportunity.”
Now she’ll tell them about the smuggled goods in the old warehouse, thought Jonas. And about Bolström, and how he held Jenna and Perry hostage. And about the rescue.
He looked at Jenna. Her head was resting on Perry’s shoulder, and Perry had put his arm around her. They were so comfortable with each other. Anyone could see they belonged together.
So why did Jenna tell me that story about Perry and Malena? Jonas asked himself. But maybe it wasn’t a story. Maybe Jenna and Perry didn’t fall in love until they were prisoners together. Things like that can happen.
For that brief shining moment at the party on Sunday, he’d even thought he and Jenna might … No, that was stupid, stupid, stupid. Jenna was a princess, and Perry was no ordinary southerner. Perry was an aristocrat, whose father owned mines and oil wells and plantations. While he, Jonas, was Liron’s son, just a poor northerner like everyone else gathered there in the mill.
“… and all the fishermen in their boats,” Nahira was saying. “Get the message to all of them. We don’t know where the enemy is coming from, or when. Everyone must be prepared.”
“There are too few of us, Nahira,” said Inuk, “especially if the military is involved. The Scandian army has thousands of troops; the air force can send planes over our towns; the navy can blockade the ports. There just aren’t enough of us!”
“I know that,” said Nahira. “But there are other ways of fighting. Just bring as many as you can.”
Slowly the men stood up.
Just three paces away from Jonas, Jenna raised her head from Perry’s shoulder and ran her hand through her tousled hair. When her eyes met Jonas’s, she quickly turned away.
He’d been so stupid on Sunday. But he’d learned his lesson. The hard way.
There were three people already at the reception desk in the police station. An elderly woman was waving her arms around while the policeman whose voice Bea had recognized on the answering machine was trying to calm her down.
“From my bag!” shouted the woman, holding up a large, old-fashioned shopping bag. “Over there, in the supermarket! Just as I got to the checkout …”
Another policeman had his head down, typing at the far end of the desk, while a man holding the hand of a little boy gave a statement. Bea looked from one policeman to the other. She couldn’t wait.
“Pardonnez-moi!” she said, trying to worm her way past the elderly lady. “Hello, it’s me, I’ve come for my poor little lost cell phone! Could you maybe just let me —”
Her policeman gave her a stern look. “You can see I’m busy, can’t you?” he said. “Give me the bag, please, madam.” He leaned over and peered into its large middle compartment, before pulling out a bunch of keys.
“Oh please please please please please!” said Bea, shuffling from one foot to the other. “It’ll only take a second!”
The policeman ignored her.
“A hundred dollars!” cried the old lady, her voice on the verge of cracking. “I’d only just been to the bank, Sergeant. I was going to buy a birthday present for my grandson!”
Bea could hear how upset she was.
“Next thing we’ll do is call the bank,” said the policeman. He hadn’t finished with the bag yet
. “You might have left your purse there.”
He was now searching the side pockets. The old metal zipper got stuck.
The woman shook her head in despair. “I can remember quite clearly!” she said. “I took the money out of the dispenser, put it in my purse, and then I deliberately put the purse …”
She stared at his hand. In it was the purse. He held it out over the counter.
“… in the side pocket,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry, Sergeant! Oh dear, I’m ever so sorry, Sergeant! Because there was so much money in it! I deliberately put it in the side pocket, so I could zip it up. Oh dear!”
The policeman gave her a friendly smile and handed the purse over.
“And when you went to pay at the supermarket checkout, you’d forgotten where you put it, right?” he said gently. “It can happen to anybody. Just as long as you’re all right now.”
The old lady looked as if the embarrassment was almost worse than the original loss.
“How can I ever repay you?” she said, putting the purse back into the middle compartment of the bag with trembling fingers. “I’ve caused you so much trouble!”
“We’re always happy to help. That’s our job. No reward necessary.”
The old lady wanted to say something else, but by now Bea had really had enough.
“You left a message on our answering machine!” she declared.
“Good-bye, madam,” said the policeman, waving to the old lady as she turned in the doorway to thank him. “The world isn’t such a bad place as we sometimes think it is, is it?”
Only then did he turn to Bea.
“OK, young lady. Now it’s your turn. It all takes time. First things first, right?” He smiled and went into the next room. When he came back, he was holding something in his hand. “There we are, then. I’m making lots of people happy today. Sign here, please.”