She lifted the hood enough to draw in a lungful of air. She carefully placed the water bottle on the ground and opened the brown paper lunch bag. Inside she found what felt like an apple, a hunk of bread and small pack of butter, and a small block of cheese. Her mouth watered.
Her fingers brushed the blunt serrated edge of a small plastic knife. She decided to eat the cheese first and save the bread and butter and apple for when she was hungry later.
She sliced a piece off and nibbled, savoring the taste of the provoleta. The flavor flooded her senses. It was the first thing they’d given her to eat since she’d been taken. At first, she hadn’t felt hungry but, before long, her stomach had started to crave food.
Were they treating Irene the same way they were treating her? Was she scared? Irene was never scared. She was always so brave and smart. But it wasn’t a normal situation. Even Irene would be terrified of what was happening to them now.
Guilt ate away at Kristen. She’d heard them shouting at Irene that it was her own fault she was here and that they hadn’t wanted her. Except they’d taken her. They had kidnapped her and stuffed her in the back of a van. No one had forced them to do it.
What if they weren’t taking care of her friend? What if they’d hurt her? What if they hadn’t given her any food? Kristen would be happy to share her meager stash with Irene. If only she could get out of here…
Frustrated, she took the plastic knife and wedged it in the old-fashioned latch on the door. To her absolute astonishment and horror, the catch sprang open.
She knelt there with the knife in her hands, holding her breath, listening to see if anyone had heard. There was no sound. Nothing at all.
Slowly, she placed the knife beside the bag inside her wooden cage. The hood sat like a beanie on the top of her head. If she was discovered, she’d pull it over her eyes before she caught sight of their faces. She knew they’d hurt her if she tried to escape—but if she saw their faces they might blind or kill her regardless of ransoms or promises.
Freedom beckoned, even though she knew it was a massive risk. And even if she couldn’t get out of the room, she couldn’t ignore this opportunity to at least explore the margins of her prison. To look for signs of where they might be holding Irene. Maybe find her friend and the two of them escaping.
She looked around the room, scanning for cameras because it was entirely possible they’d set something up in order to watch over them. The room was completely bare except for the wardrobe and an old packing crate but showed remnants of past grandeur. Now the mansion smelled of rot and decay.
Her feet were bare and slid silently over old, polished wood. The large window had boards nailed over the outside shutters, and it was impossible to make out what might be beyond in the hushed predawn quiet.
Kristen crept carefully to the black, painted door and held her ear to it for a silent count of thirty. No sound came from anywhere within the house.
Saying a quick prayer, she grabbed the handle with her bound hands and eased the door open an inch. It didn’t make a sound. She peered out into the gloomy shadows, again searching for security cameras, but there was nothing visible. Another inch and just the barest creak, which she tried to absorb with her body.
Finally, it was wide enough for her to slip through. The hallway was large with a grand staircase winding through the middle. She went to stare gingerly over the edge of the balustrade. She was two flights up with at least another floor above her. The bottom of the stairwell was shrouded in darkness.
Enough ambient light penetrated the windows for Kristen to make out several paneled doors along this level. It would make sense to keep Irene nearby—assuming she was in this same building. Kristen crept across the hallway from her room and snuck a look inside. The room was empty. She tiptoed across to the window and stared outside. There was a crumbling stone window ledge. A tall tree overhung the property, obscuring whatever lay beyond.
She slid the catch free and tried to lift the window, but the wood rattled noisily. She stopped, not wanting to risk forcing it and making a noise until she found Irene.
She went back out into the hallway, carefully listening for sounds that might indicate someone was awake or nearby. The thought of being caught threatened to paralyze her. She did not want to get caught. She did not like pain.
Several doors were ajar, and Kristen quickly poked her head into each but didn’t spend time searching them. It made more sense that they’d keep a hostage behind a closed door rather than an open one. She came to a room, four down from hers, near the back of the house. This place was huge. It must have twenty bedrooms.
If the kidnappers came up the stairs, she’d be trapped, unable to get back to her room without them seeing her. Her hands shook as she very slowly turned the handle and peeked inside. There was only a bed and no wardrobe. Kristen almost turned away, but the slight chink of metal had ice forming along her spine.
Was one of the kidnappers inside? Her eyes searched the darkness. Then she spotted a figure lying on the floor near a massive, old radiator. Irene.
Joy and horror swept through her. This was their reality. Chains and worse. She snuck over to her friend.
“Irene,” she whispered.
The girl stiffened and then raised her head cautiously. “Kristen?”
Kristen grabbed her friend’s hands. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Quiet,” Irene murmured. “I can hear them talking in the kitchen sometimes. They can probably hear us.”
Kristen lowered her voice even further. “I managed to free myself. Are you okay?”
She pushed the hood back so she could see her friend’s face. Skin pale. Eyes a little wild.
“How did you escape the cuffs?” Irene asked, raising her hands. The chains jingled, and they both tensed and waited a few seconds. Irene nestled the chain carefully into her lap like a pet cobra.
“They tied me with rope,” Kristen raised her bound hands to show her. “And kept me in a locked wardrobe, but I managed to open the latch.” Kristen traced the metal on Irene’s bracelets and realized they were too tight to slip off.
She knelt beside the radiator and felt cautiously along its length. The thick chain was secured with another large padlock. “Do you have anything we can use to pick the lock?”
“Not on me.” Irene’s attempt at humor failed. “You have to escape. You have to run and get help. Now.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Kristen repeated.
“This might be our only chance to escape.”
“No. They don’t know I figured out how to get out of the wardrobe.”
“What if they move you somewhere else, dummy? Or chain you to a radiator like me?”
Kristen ignored the sting of the insult. Irene was trying to push her away on purpose. She refused to go.
The pitch of Irene’s voice dropped to barely audible. “If they catch you here like this, they will beat and rape us both, and probably kill me.”
Shudders made Kristen’s teeth chatter. “Even more reason to figure out a way to get you free.”
Irene’s expression turned desolate. “Kristen, there isn’t a way. I know you’re trying to save me but, if they catch you here like this, it is going to become a thousand times worse. You have to leave. Now, while you can. Before they catch you. Find help and send them back for me. Please, Kristen. Please. I beg you.”
The pleas tore at Kristen. As desperate as she was to run, she would not leave her friend behind. Tears threatened to flood her vision, but she blinked them away. She would be here for her. She would find the same courage that Irene had shown.
“Listen to me. There’s a room when you head out this door—turn right, straight ahead until you reach the end of the corridor and it’s the last room on the left. There’s a tree next to a window. If we can figure out a way out of those cuffs, we can both escape. Tomorrow, when it’s dark, I’ll come again. Before dawn. I’m across t
he hall from there. If you aren’t free by then I’ll go for help alone.”
The sound of a door banging downstairs had both girls tensing.
“Go. Quickly, before they catch you,” Irene whispered desperately.
Kristen nodded. She moved stealthily back to the door and closed it behind her even though she hated leaving her friend. Then she scooted silently down the hallway until she came to her room. She shut her door quietly again and crept back into her wardrobe. She stepped inside and used her fingernail to hold back the latch until she could pull the door properly closed. The snick of the lock felt a lot less like a prison now and a lot more like a refuge. She curled up in the bottom and pulled out the bread and butter they’d given her—damn, she’d forgotten to take Irene any. Too late now. She spread the butter with the precious plastic knife which she then placed on a small ledge higher up in what was hopefully a safe spot.
Then she knelt in the bottom of her cramped, stuffy, wooden box and concentrated not on the fear that buzzed constantly through her, but on the pleasure of each tiny bite of bread and butter, and the thought of getting out of here.
Chapter Twelve
Things to remember: Active Listening Skills. Feeling Words.
Max printed the headers on a large whiteboard he’d borrowed from a nearby hallway. He’d sent the Assistant Legal Attaché, a guy called Adam Quinn, who not only spoke Spanish but also had some basic negotiation training, home to grab a few hours’ sleep while Max set up a workable Negotiation Center and also manned the phones.
The kidnappers had said they’d call again this morning. Some groups liked to jerk negotiators around and play mind games, but other kidnappers were punctual and didn’t like wasting time. They all had their own agendas. Max wasn’t sure what type this group fell into yet, but he suspected the latter. They wanted their money.
Max finished writing out the communication reminder notes the Crisis Negotiation Team used at every incident. Usually, the team brought them along but, since Max had been on vacation when he’d received the call, that had been impossible.
He’d hauled everything out of this old storeroom when he’d arrived that morning and piled it in the corner of the main office. It was a perfect space because it was close to the Legat’s office and the investigation, but also self-contained. He’d initially tried the door of one of the offices next to Brian Powell’s room and had been met by an intensely territorial agent who’d told him in no uncertain terms that those rooms were strictly off-limits.
Whatever “Operation Soapbox” was, it was big, and they took secrecy very seriously.
Max dragged a table and three chairs inside the former storage space. He set up power strips and lamps, which he’d also borrowed off desks in the main office as there was no natural light in here. He’d beg forgiveness later.
He planned to set up a camp bed in case something happened where he or some other poor bastard needed to stay for long periods of time with little or nothing going on. He’d already sent in the purchase order request. May as well get a little rest, if possible. He looked around to see if he’d forgotten anything.
The visual reminders reinforced everything he’d learned in training and would help whoever was on duty when they were struggling with what to say.
Go back to basics.
Keep your ego out of the conversation.
Actively listen to what the other person was saying rather than simply waiting for your turn to speak.
Ask open-ended questions that encouraged the other side to divulge as much information as possible and use minimal encouragers to keep them talking.
Mirror the last thing the hostage taker said to you, or the most important three words of the sentence.
Paraphrase their wants and demands and complaints so they knew you understood them.
Label their emotions to create trust while not diminishing those feelings or views.
Get the hostage taker to feel safe by encouraging them to say no. No allowed people to protect their position. It provided a place from which they could move forward without worrying they’d given anything away.
Bend their reality regarding what was a fair ransom request.
Develop questions in advance so the kidnappers helped you solve problems.
“How am I supposed to do that?” was a way of asking for their help to figure out how to get what they wanted. CNU recommended using what and how questions that were open ended and always keeping the tone conciliatory. Questions that were answered with single words went nowhere and should be avoided at all costs, as should why questions that put people on the defensive.
Max had written out some questions for the negotiators to ask on any given day depending on what was happening and whether or not negotiations were stalled. First, they needed to know they were dealing with someone who had the power to make decisions about the girls’ release and, most importantly, he needed proof of life without asking for it directly.
The nitty gritty of negotiations for money usually followed a fairly predictable pattern. Max took nothing for granted, but he was more confident with K&R cases than almost any other hostage situation. It was a business transaction, and kidnappers who killed their hostages rarely got paid.
Max was determined to get as much of this basic structure in place in case he was called away for another more urgent job. It was preferable to have someone who understood the nuances of the local dialect as the chief negotiator. He could and did work through interpreters, but that introduced another layer of possible miscommunication, and the delay factor wasn’t ideal. Preferably negotiators were fluent in the language and also dedicated, trusted members of law enforcement or a capable family member. Adam Quinn was ideal and another Spanish-speaking negotiator he’d worked with in Washington State was joining them shortly.
The cell number the kidnappers were communicating with had been transferred to a phone here and all the ambassador’s family’s other cell numbers had been disconnected and changed. The calls were being recorded by communication experts at the FBI National Laboratory and, as per agreement, those recordings were being sent immediately from Quantico to federal police here in Argentina.
Max had also set up devices for real-time recording within the Negotiation Center. Multiple headsets were arranged on the table, but only one had a microphone attached so that only one negotiator could talk to the kidnappers at a given time. Other people could listen in to a call and pay attention to different aspects of the conversation.
Max looked around in satisfaction. This space allowed the negotiator some privacy to talk to the kidnappers without fear of interruption and the ability to replay phone calls on the spot and discuss the case in private. It also gave him a space to work without the Legat or the ambassador being able to walk in on him without warning.
And because it was the US Ambassador’s daughter, Max had a sneaky feeling Catherine Dickerson would be unable to refrain from trying to interfere. He understood that. He was also sure he couldn’t allow it.
Last night, after he’d said good night to Lucy, he’d gone through Kristen’s diaries. The name Miguel had turned up a few times in recent entries. Sounded like the boy she’d met online and had a crush on. Or like someone pretending to be a handsome boy named Miguel who liked a girl called KrisD. Max didn’t trust online identities. Unless he knew better, he assumed everyone at the end of a social media account was a fat Russian dude in a tiny, airless Moscow apartment.
Was that unfair to fat Russians in tiny, airless Moscow apartments? Absolutely. Did he care? Only when he was wrong.
Max checked his watch. Buenos Aires was only an hour ahead of Virginia, so he decided to call his housemate and colleague back in Quantico.
Eban Winters answered with a disgruntled moan.
“Kidnappers haven’t called back yet.” Max told him.
“Not surprising, considering it’s so early.”
“Did the tech guys get anything from the kidnapper’s call yesterday?” asked Max.
“Yeah. It came from a burner which was subsequently turned off. They got nothing except the call was made on the western edge of the city. We passed our data to the Policia Federal de Argentina who might be able to get more off it. Mike Tanner warned me that the PFA might stop the phone company from working with us directly though.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Same reason we would if they were trying to solve a crime on our turf.”
Max grunted. “Before I forget, I couriered Kristen Dickerson’s laptop to Quantico overnight along with the ring I found at the site where the kidnappers changed cars. Should be arriving this morning. I had to hand in the cell that the kidnappers left behind to the local authorities along with the gun I took off that asshole who chased me through the streets of La Boca yesterday. The Legat insisted.” Max had decided not to fight the guy on those issues. He liked to pick his battles. “He got a little pissed when I suggested we bypass the local authorities. Said he had to work with these guys after I left, and the locals wouldn’t keep him in the loop if he didn’t share what we found.”
“We?” Eban snorted.
“My thoughts exactly,” Max agreed. This was evidence Max found after the locals had missed it.
“I’ll track the package and see if I can get a rush on processing. As you know though, most people are on vacation.
“Can you send me the results of the background checks on the ambassador’s staff when you get them?”
“You have a suspect?”
“Not exactly.” Lucy was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit and, considering the circumstances, he needed more data. “And anything on the ambassador’s husband.”
“You know they’ve all been thoroughly screened?”
“Screenings can miss things. People can change. Someone mentioned he’s a bit of a flirt. We need to make sure this kidnapping isn’t revenge for some unknown offense he committed. Some jealous husband deciding to act up and make the guy pay.”
Cold Cruel Kiss Page 13