by Nancy Madore
“You will leave!” Helene shouted, speaking more harshly to her daughter than she’d ever done before out of fear that she might suffer the same fate as her. At all costs, she must get her daughter out of Saudi Arabia. And she succeeded, though it meant that she would never see or hear from her daughter again.
Not liking this particular memory, Helene called to mind a different one. She recalled how brave Giselle had been the day she left them forever, assuring her mother confidently—“Don’t worry Ummi, I’ll make you proud!” Her eyes had sparkled with determination even as she struggled to hide her anxiety. “You’ll see.”
A small gasp—half sob, half laugh—escaped Helene’s lips, and then her body went limp, falling backwards on the cool stone bench.
Chapter 1
Present day, Manhattan
She knew something was wrong the minute she set foot in the ladies’ restroom. It was one of three bathrooms on her floor, shared among nearly two dozen offices, a small café and a nail salon. This one was situated about halfway between Nadia’s office and the café, so a trip to the restroom always triggered a craving for a latte—a guilty pleasure at this time of day. But although she loved her work, Nadia’s attention would wane in the afternoons, just about the time the sun came round to her window, warm and distracting, gently luring her away from whatever it was she was doing. The Europeans had it right, she thought, with their afternoon naps. And yet, sluggish as she sometimes felt, she knew she would never be able to sleep. A shot of caffeine seemed the next best thing. It would give her that second wind, even if it did leave her a little on edge and make it all the harder for her to sleep that night.
Aside from these two o’clock doldrums, as Nadia came to think of them, she had no complaints. Her career had progressed like a fairy tale, with everything falling magically into place. If only the rest of her life were this easy she might not be spending her vacation in her office. But it comforted her to be there, where everything made sense and her efforts were always met with success. And she was proud of each and every accomplishment, like a mother doting over her children. Why, just to get an office in this part of Manhattan was an achievement in itself. It was impossible to do without the right connections—in addition to enormous amounts of money. And even then, there were concessions. Her office, for example, was terribly small. But size had ceased to matter once she’d gotten her first glimpse out the only window and saw that it overlooked Bryant Park. It was mid-July, and the hollyhocks were coming into bloom. All up and down their imperious stalks were pastel-colored flowerets with furled edges, peeking out from the big, billowing leaves like cheeky girls in Easter bonnets. Nadia also spied an array of bright yellow and orange daylilies among clusters of purple foxglove. There were too many species for her sweeping gaze to identify, but she was delighted by the prospect of admiring each and every one from her new office window. Gardens were in short supply in the city, and she had killed enough house plants to give up on any dreams of someday creating one of her own. But now she could enjoy extensive gardens without chipping a nail. She imagined herself taking long, leisurely walks through the park in the mornings, or bringing her laptop outside to work on sunny afternoons (neither of which she ever actually did in the six years she’d been there). Yet she had a deep appreciation for flowers—almost a distant calling to be near them—and she knew that their mere presence would satisfy that primal urge. Cost hadn’t been a factor—apart from the occasional twinges of guilt she felt about it—but in those moments she reminded herself that location played a huge part in the immense sums of money she was able to raise. Her success depended on her proximity to the most privileged, and Manhattan was where the most privileged were housed. Education and wealth afforded social consciousness. Compassion for the less fortunate was as much of a luxury as jewelry or fine wine—a sad fact but one which Nadia had been made aware of from a very young age. That awareness was what made her so good at what she did. She truly believed in what she was doing. She sometimes wondered who benefited the most—the relief victims she raised money for or the people making the contributions. The key was to make it personal for the donors. Nadia made sure her patrons knew exactly where the money was going, sparing them no detail. She made her charity events educational, and encouraged other forms of giving besides just the writing of a check. Her efforts accomplished much more than mere fund-raising. She’d brought multitudes of people together, improving the lives of more than just her relief victims. Those who had everything found a new satisfaction in such activities as fishing through disaster debris for a treasured child’s toy or scrubbing mold from the walls of a flooded school house.
Although she was never satisfied that she’d done enough, Nadia loved every minute of it. Helping people in crisis gave her life a sense of meaning, and the fund-raising was the icing on the cake. It was exciting and effortless, and Nadia went about it ‘first class all the way,’ as her mother would have said.
Nadia supposed she had a little of her mother in her after all, although her father was the one she had consciously tried to emulate. She’d been influenced, one way or the other, by both parents; one the eternal philanthropist and the other the self-indulgent social butterfly. She couldn’t help enjoying the lavish parties any more than she could resist the call to duty in any disaster. She could still see her mother, dark and glamorous, flirting shamelessly with a powerful senator or a wealthy CEO while her father spoke somberly of the issues at hand. Nadia liked being the center of attention too. But unlike her mother, she was interested in other people besides herself, and she liked to think that she would ultimately put their interests above her own. And she was able to find pleasure in little things, like gazing out her office window at the splendor of the park below, or enjoying an afternoon latte when she knew she really shouldn’t. But on this particular September afternoon, these pleasures were tempered by an odd, creeping sense of doom.
To begin with, the restroom was empty. In a city like Manhattan, this is an odd thing. Being alone in Manhattan, truly alone, the kind of alone where none of the senses are infringed upon by another human being, can bring about an alarming sensation. There was always some sign of other people’s presence. Smells and sounds wafted through windows and vents, bringing with them a vague but constant awareness of activity, from the shrill scream of a fire engine’s siren to the gentle ping of an elevator. In Nadia’s office building, there was always a steady flow of traffic making its way up to the fourth floor to conduct business with the various investment companies, publishers and accountants who kept offices there, not to mention the café and salon. There were times when Nadia had to wait in line to use the restroom, and she sometimes wondered if people weren’t just wandering in off the street. But no one else seemed concerned by their presence, trusting, she supposed, in the abilities of the security people on the first floor.
But the minute Nadia entered the restroom on this particular afternoon, she knew she was alone. She could tell by the unusual silence that hung in the air. The restroom was actually a long, slightly curving hallway with an exit at either end. The bathroom stalls were lined up along one side, and the sinks and mirrors were located on the other. Nadia’s sense of unease increased as she hurried to empty her bladder. It wasn’t just that the bathroom was empty. Although unusual, this wasn’t unheard of. But there was something in the silence itself that was disturbing; it had too strong a presence to ignore. At one point Nadia actually looked up, half expecting to see a face looking down at her from one of the adjacent stalls. She laughed at herself when she saw that, of course, nothing was looming overhead, but even the hollow sound of her laughter brought her up short. It was a Friday afternoon in September…in Manhattan. Where was everyone?
The odd sense of isolation was so strong that Nadia was actually relieved—though startled—when she stepped out of the stall and found a man standing there. He wore a janitor’s uniform and was quietly moving a cloth around the sinks. He glanced up at her with a blank expression.
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“Oh!” Nadia exclaimed, moving automatically toward one of the sinks to wash her hands. “I didn’t hear you come in!”
The sense of strangeness increased. Everything was wrong, yet Nadia found herself oddly incapable of action. It was as if everything was happening in slow motion while her mind tried to piece the puzzle together. There had been no sign to indicate the janitor’s presence when she came in, and yet neither had there been any warning calls to announce his arrival. In fact, there had been no sounds at all; no clanging of the cleaning cart, no footsteps, nothing.
“You must have slipped in after me,” the janitor concluded offhandedly.
He was what was most wrong. He looked out of place in the ill-fitting janitor’s overalls, which seemed to clash with the rest of him. He was too meticulously groomed; his chestnut brown hair too expertly cut and styled, his expensive shoes too finely polished. Even his hands seemed at odds with the cleaning cloth as his perfectly manicured fingers maneuvered it over the countertops with an almost disdainful air. His demeanor was what was most wrong. He was too superior. His blue eyes flashed over Nadia with cool disdain, almost as if she was the one who had trespassed on him! He certainly didn’t act like the other janitors she’d encountered there. Yet for all intents and purposes, he appeared to be completely focused on the job at hand, meticulously circling the cloth over the countertop, moving it quickly and efficiently around the row of sinks.
These observations occurred in mere seconds—in the time it took Nadia to exit her bathroom stall and advance two or three steps to the sink. She acted out of habit, and there seemed no opportunity to alter her course before the man, who’d been circling his cleaning cloth nearer and nearer to the sink she was approaching, suddenly turned and was on her. In one fluid motion he pressed the cloth firmly and securely over her nose and mouth. It was saturated with a nauseatingly sweet-smelling substance that instantly jerked Nadia out of her stupor. She tried desperately to fight the man off, clawing at his hands and wrenching her head back and forth. Nadia was healthy and strong, but she might have been a sickly child for the all the effect she was having. From both sides of her peripheral vision she could see two more men entering the restroom from the exits at either end. They were wearing the same janitorial uniforms as her attacker. It was as if it was happening to someone else as she watched the events in the mirror. People always said she resembled her father, but the woman in the mirror looked more like her mother, which was odd, because Gisele had been as dark and exotic as Nadia was classic and fair. Yet there was something in her expression—perhaps it was the wild look in her eyes—that so resembled her dead mother that Nadia became momentarily confused. She felt a single, sharp thrill of terror just before everything went black.
Chapter 2
Nadia came to with a jolt. She was aware of extreme discomfort, but couldn’t pinpoint where it was or what was causing it. Full consciousness eluded her, but something—a distant thought or memory—seemed to be knocking with some urgency upon her mind. She tried to ignore it, instinctively preferring blissful insensibility but, bit by bit, the intruding thought eventually wedged its way in. As her memory slowly returned, her discomfort turned to horror. She tried to cry out but her voice was muffled by something thick and heavy that had been packed firmly into her mouth and secured there, most likely with tape. All of her joints were aching. Her body was bent and compressed into the fetal position and restrained somehow to stay that way. She must be tied up. After a moment of ineffective struggling, Nadia realized she was confined in a very small space. And she was being transported in a vehicle. She could feel the steady, rumbling movement beneath her, punctuated by the occasional bump in the road. Her fear increased with each and every realization, making it harder and harder for her to breathe. The fear seemed to take hold of her internal organs and squeeze them in its vice-like grip. Adrenaline rushed through her, swift and severe. The rapidly rising panic seemed to be robbing her of what little breath she had. She felt a chilling certainty that she was going to die and every part of her recoiled at the thought. Yet she was utterly powerless to save herself.
Or was she? With great effort, Nadia corralled her scattered wits and reminded herself that she had been trained to respond in a crisis. At all costs she must keep from panicking. She struggled to gain control of her thoughts. She would need to stay focused if she were going to survive. She’d been able to breathe while unconscious and therefore it stood to reason that she could do so now. Don’t think about the gag, she told herself. Just breathe.
Nadia turned her thoughts to the abduction, meticulously going over every detail. Each recollection brought stern recriminations. She should have listened to her instincts and fled the bathroom the minute she got that eerie feeling. When she saw the strange man at the counter—why hadn’t she screamed? Or better yet, run? He’d been just far enough away that she might have actually escaped if she’d acted quickly enough. The other two men were covering the exits, she supposed, but she might have at least alerted someone on the floor that she needed help. She berated herself inwardly for each and every missed opportunity, coming up with one thing after another that she might have done, until she was even scolding herself for being at the office at all when she was supposed to be on vacation. But although these thoughts were distracting, they were definitely not helping. Her only hope was to accept the situation and assess her options.
There were at least three strong, healthy men involved. The first one appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties, well groomed, arrogant, and most definitely not a janitor. He was a white man with chestnut brown hair and blue eyes. She didn’t get a good look at the other two, but she recalled that they were both dark skinned with brownish-black hair. She was pretty sure one of them was African American, but the other could have been Middle-Eastern or possibly Asian. The first man must have followed her into the restroom while the other two guarded the doors to prevent anyone else from entering. Yet they had managed all this without making a sound – the strange quiet had been the first thing she noticed.
In addition to the janitors’ uniforms, the men had acquired a janitor’s cart, stocked with the usual cleaning paraphernalia. She didn’t know how difficult this might be. There were, of course, security personnel in the building, but Nadia had no idea what they did besides greeting her when she came in every morning. Somehow, the three men had gotten in. Attached to the janitor’s cart, Nadia suddenly remembered, was an oversized barrel used to collect trash. Could that be where she was now—inside that barrel? Nadia strove to control the new surge of panic this realization brought. She turned her head upwards but was enveloped in darkness. She was covered with something soft—trash perhaps—but was there also a lid overhead? Or maybe she’d been placed in the barrel upside down? She tried to wriggle her body in either direction, but her limbs were too constricted to move and her efforts were making it harder to breathe. Working particularly hard to keep her breathing even and slow—it took a long moment for her to accomplish this—she forced her mind to continue its assessment of the situation.
She’d been kidnapped of course, but why? Possibilities came at her from all directions. A kidnapping was not so hard to conceive, given her position and her family. She was well connected politically and economically. Her mother had been notable, if not famous. Although nearly five years had passed since Gisele’s death, the settlement of her estate had only recently been finalized. These details of her life had been duly noted by the media. As Nadia considered this she felt a small bit of relief. The kidnappers would be looking for money. And of course her father would pay anything to get her back. All she had to do was keep her head and cooperate.
But what if—even after getting the money—the kidnappers killed her anyway? Or what if this wasn’t about money? The man in the bathroom didn’t look like a desperate felon who kidnapped for money.
Nadia tried to keep her fear in check as other, even more terrifying possibilities, came to mind. She decided to take them on
e at a time, starting with the one that frightened her most. Terrorism. Given the business she was in, she had to consider it. Slowly and methodically she made a mental list of her most recent activities. Yet her mind balked at the idea that her abduction could have anything to do with BEACON. While it was true that organizations such as hers were sometimes the objects of protests—even violent protests, on rare occasions—she felt that BEACON fell way below the radar on controversial matters. It was extremely rare for any of the numerous special interest groups to find cause to protest her activities. She’d made it her policy to offer her services without taking sides or issuing judgments. It was the only way to gain trust enough to reach the people who were the most needy in a crisis—many of whom would otherwise be forgotten. There were officials who would refuse help for their constituents if they didn’t care for your political position, preferring to let their own people suffer and even die, rather than to accept assistance from a source who would later use it to criticize or control them. By remaining neutral, Nadia was able to help the people who really needed it, many of whom were as much victims of their own government as they were of whatever disaster had just struck.
Then again, people were sometimes offended when you didn’t take sides. Still, it was hard to imagine that Nadia’s actions in helping disaster victims could somehow be related to this. For one thing, BEACON was much too small to warrant a protest of this kind. There were much larger organizations wielding a bigger impact on industry and human rights throughout the world. In the realm of political adversaries, there were definitely bigger fish to fry.