Shadow Conflict

by Shadow Conflict (epub)

  Leaving the gun where it was, he pushed himself away from the counter. The magnificent view outside gave him little comfort now, his thoughts dwelling on the dangerous and unpredictable future that lay ahead.

  Anya had instructed him to give Lauren something to eat and drink, and while his cooking skills were hardly Michelin-star quality, he could prepare a simple meal without getting anyone killed.

  A quick search of the fridge yielded little to work with. Clearly Anya hadn’t visited for a while. Still, there was plenty of canned produce in the cupboards. Selecting a tin of tomato soup, he emptied it into a pan and set it on the hob. Even he couldn’t fuck up soup.

  As he waited for the soup to warm through, he glanced around the room once more, surveying it with a slightly more critical air now that he was alone.

  His first observation was that there was no TV, and he was willing to bet it was the same story in the rest of the house. Neither was there a landline. Anya seemed to regard modern technology as a necessary evil, to be endured when it was useful, and discarded when it wasn’t.

  Perhaps she felt the same way about him, he reflected.

  Her lack of interest in modern entertainment media seemed in contrast to her appetite for literature. A wooden bookcase ran almost the full length of a wall, its shelves laden with thick volumes, many old and bound by leather covers.

  Alex was intrigued. He doubted Anya was a fan of trashy romance novels or airport thrillers, and a closer inspection confirmed that her reading tastes were anything but superficial. There was a heavy emphasis on history and philosophy, with everything from ancient Egypt to the Napoleonic Wars, Socrates to Nietzsche represented. Hardly subjects that fired his imagination, but he wasn’t surprised to find them on Anya’s bookshelf.

  He spotted some more familiar titles – Moby Dick, The Count of Monte Cristo and A Tale of Two Cities – mixed in amongst the stodgy, factual stuff. He presumed Anya had gotten more out of them than he had in secondary school English. All were cracked and worn at the spine, suggesting repeated use.

  Leaving the bookcase for now, he glanced down the corridor, wondering what else he might find if he were inclined to go snooping. This was the first real glimpse he’d had into Anya’s private life, and the chance to learn about her was too tempting to pass up, especially since she wasn’t around to stop him.

  Venturing from the living room, he advanced with the wariness of a man expecting some hidden enemy to leap out at any moment. Considering how most of his time with Anya had been spent, that fear wasn’t entirely unjustified.

  The first door led to the spare room where Lauren was being held. He’d avoided it thus far, reluctant to confront the woman he’d helped kidnap, though he’d have to do so soon. Part of him knew he was using this clandestine exploration as an excuse to put it off a little longer.

  The second door opened into a bathroom that was as sleekly modern as the rest of the decor, while the third was the master bedroom. Alex opted to leave that undisturbed for now, partly because there was a certain level of snooping even he wasn’t prepared to indulge in, and partly because he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d rigged it with some kind of booby trap or alarm. Anya’s trust in him might have been a little more than most, but not much more.

  The last door at the end of the corridor was more interesting. Easing it open, he found a set of steps leading to the basement. He hesitated at this point, a little uneasy at what he’d find down there.

  If horror films had taught him anything, it was that basements invariably provided a window into the darker aspects of a person’s character. That being the case, he could only imagine how dark a person like Anya’s must be. Still, curiosity won out over caution in the end, and he gently pushed open the door and descended the stairs.

  His fears were soon allayed, however. The large, open and brightly lit room below seemed to serve as nothing more sinister than a workshop and exercise room, which was hardly surprising given the kind of physical condition Anya kept herself in. There was a heavy punchbag hanging from the ceiling, and various weights and pieces of exercise equipment set up around the room. All quite basic and low-tech – nothing that required power to operate.

  The far corner had been given over to a workbench equipped with a mechanical vice, spanners, screwdrivers, wrenches, tins of oil and grease, and other more advanced instruments he didn’t recognize. He imagined this work station was used for stripping and cleaning weapons rather than the kind of household maintenance tasks it had been designed for.

  Alex was disappointed. He’d hoped for a dramatically lit room filled with rows of guns and explosives, high-tech security systems and computer screens monitoring every square inch of the house. That was the kind of thing spies were supposed to have in their basements.

  He was about to take his leave when he happened to notice something stowed beneath the workbench. A metal tin about the size of a lunch box, battered and dented, its paintwork faded to the point its original colour was almost unrecognizable.

  He knelt down and gently lifted it out, swinging the rusty lid open. To his surprise, the box contained what looked like military dog tags – easily a dozen or more, some old, others comparatively clean and new. One even had a ragged hole punched right through the thin metal, which had torn away the rubber edging at the same time. They all had one thing in common: there were no names printed on them.

  Alex laid the box down, feeling both unnerved and strangely guilty for handling them. It was clear the owners of these tags were long since dead, but who had they been, and why was Anya now in possession of them?

  It was then that he noticed something else hidden amongst the shining steel tags and chains. A photograph – one of the old fashioned Polaroids. Like the tin, it had clearly taken a beating over the years, its edges frayed and its image faded. Alex carefully lifted the picture to get a better look, and was startled by what he saw.

  The image depicted a much younger Anya, probably in her early twenties at most, dressed in civilian clothes. She was sitting on a white sandy beach, with palm trees and buildings and blue sky in the background. He couldn’t be sure, but it reminded him of the West Coast of the United States.

  But it was her face that caught his attention most of all. She was smiling. Not the occasional flicker she’d shown him, but a proper smile of uninhibited joy and delight that seemed to light up her whole face. It was the smile and the vitality of youth, of optimism, of excitement about a life of adventure and glory waiting to be lived. And there was a sparkle in her eyes, a fire of attraction that even he could see.

  What had inspired such a look?

  The answer, he suspected, was visible near the edge of the shot. A man was sitting near Anya, apparently caught in the midst of conversation. Young, clean-cut and handsome, he seemed to be a good match for his beautiful companion. But Alex sensed that the connection between them went far deeper than mere physical attractiveness. There was an ease about their body language, a companionship, a closeness. Whatever had become of the young couple in that picture? he wondered.

  Alex stopped then, alerted by a smell in the air. The scent of burning.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ he gasped, remembering the soup he’d left heating.

  Quickly replacing the box under the workbench, he bounded back up the stairs and into the kitchen, where he found the pan of soup bubbling over, the spillage burning against the sides. Killing the gas, he grabbed a dish cloth and used it to lift the pan off the cooker, pouring its contents into a bowl and slopping some over the edge.

  ‘Jesus. Nice one, Gordon Ramsay,’ he said sarcastically, surveying the messy results of his work and shaking his head in dismay.

  Apparently it was possible to fuck up soup.

  Chapter 31

  In the bedroom, still tied securely to the steel chair, Lauren had her eyes closed. She’d heard movement outside the room, but had no idea what was going on. All she knew with certainty was that she was both hungry and extremely thirsty.

 
She opened her eyes suddenly and frowned at the unexpected sound of someone knocking on the door. Who the hell would knock on the door of a hostage?

  ‘Come in,’ she said, not knowing how else to respond.

  The door swung open to reveal a young man she recognized immediately from the Sorbonne.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said with hostility. She’d still harboured a faint hope that Alex had been some innocent bystander in her abduction, but it was now abundantly clear he was in league with the woman behind it all.

  ‘Evening,’ he began uncertainly. ‘Sorry to disturb you, I just…’

  He trailed off, apparently not knowing what to say.

  ‘Just came to gloat?’ Lauren finished for him. ‘You and your friend really did a number on me back in Paris. You must be feeling real good about yourself right now.’

  ‘You’d be surprised, actually,’ he said, having the good grace to look regretful. ‘Kidnapping people isn’t exactly a regular thing for me.’

  If he was expecting empathy from her, he was looking in the wrong place. ‘Do your eyes still hurt?’

  ‘A little.’ There was a certain redness to them still, she noted.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I actually felt bad about it before, but not now. Shame I didn’t have something stronger and more permanent.’

  He looked stung. ‘Look, this isn’t an ideal situation for either of us. There’s no need to be a total dick about it.’

  Lauren might have laughed. This man was actually chiding his hostage for being impolite.

  ‘You and that… that woman attacked me,’ Lauren said through gritted teeth. ‘You drugged me and kidnapped me, and now you’re holding me hostage. How exactly should I be about it?’

  Alex let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Trust me, I’d rather none of this was even happening. I don’t know you and I’ve got no reason to see you hurt. But I’m stuck with you for now, so let’s just make the best of it and act like civilized people, okay?’

  ‘Says the man who’s keeping me tied to a chair. What do you want anyway?’ Lauren asked.

  He edged his way into the room with a tray of food. ‘I brought some food and water. If you want it?’

  ‘It’s a little tricky to eat when you’re tied to a chair,’ she observed, glancing down at her bound hands.

  ‘I can help with that,’ he replied, setting the tray down and fishing out a pair of wire cutters from his back pocket. ‘Left or right?

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Are you left or right handed?’ he explained patiently.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right, as in… you understand my question now? Or right, as in—’

  ‘As in, I’m right-handed,’ Lauren snapped. ‘Jesus, tell me this is an act and you’re not actually this dumb.’

  Approaching cautiously with the cutters, he tried to discern her intentions. ‘I really hope you don’t take a swing at me when I do this.’

  ‘Worried you’ll get beat up by a girl?’

  ‘Depends on the girl.’ Reaching out, he snipped the plastic cable tie holding her right hand, then backed away out of reach.

  Grateful to be able to move at least one limb again, Lauren flexed and tensed her hand, making a fist a couple of times. She could feel pins and needles creeping up her arm, and there was a red mark where the cable tie had been, but otherwise she was unharmed.

  ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a glass of water.

  Caution held Lauren back. ‘How do I know it’s not drugged?’

  Gulping down a mouthful himself, he held it out again. ‘Happy now?’

  ‘I’ll be happy when you and your friend are arrested and put in prison where you belong,’ she said, snatching the glass and greedily downing its contents, desperate to slake her thirst.

  ‘If your dad catches up with us, it won’t be prison we end up in,’ he said, his expression darkening as he reached for the tray. ‘He’ll make sure of that.’

  She stopped drinking. ‘What would you know about my dad?’

  ‘Enough to know people who mess with him end up dead. Like, in the ground dead.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she countered. ‘My dad is—’

  ‘Your dad is not what you think he is,’ Alex interrupted. ‘You know the bad guys in spy films who meet in dark rooms and plot to take over the world? Well, that’s pretty much your dad. Sorry if this is all new information, but it’s time to wake up and smell reality. I mean, you do know he works for the CIA, right? What do you think he does for them? Runs bake sales? Delivers gift cards?’

  ‘Shut up! I don’t need to be lectured by someone like you,’ Lauren shot back, keenly aware that Alex was the second person to have said such things. ‘My father’s a good man. Better than you’ll ever be.’

  In truth, her father had never talked much about his work, and eventually she’d learned to stop asking. She knew he worked for the government, that there were naturally many things he couldn’t discuss, but he’d always assured her that his job involved nothing more exciting or dangerous than offices and meeting rooms. He dealt in information, research, facts.

  He wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be.

  Alex said nothing, perhaps thinking it best not to antagonize her further. ‘Fine, let’s just get this over with, shall we?’ he said instead. ‘I’ve got tomato soup here, and a bowl of tinned peaches.’

  Half of that meal wasn’t going to work out well for her. ‘I’m allergic to tomatoes.’

  Trust him to pick the one thing in the world she couldn’t eat.

  Alex let out a breath, then calmly laid the bowl of soup aside. ‘I’ve got a bowl of tinned peaches in that case. Bon appetit.’ Laying the tray across her lap, he handed her a metal soup spoon. ‘Now, I’m pretty sure nobody ever escaped captivity with a spoon, but please don’t take that as a challenge.’

  Lauren kept her head down as if focussed on her meal, while surreptitiously observing him. His shoulders were slumped, his face sallow, his eyes red from more than just the pepper spray earlier. He looked strung out.

  ‘So what should I call you?’ Lauren asked, slicing a peach segment in half with her spoon. ‘Assuming you have a name? Your friend doesn’t seem to.’

  He shrugged. ‘Just Alex.’

  ‘That your real name, Just Alex?’

  ‘I was telling the truth back at the library. Well, at least about my name.’

  ‘Fair enough. So at least one thing about you isn’t total BS,’ she remarked. ‘Doesn’t mean I dislike you any less. But it helps to know who I’m dealing with.’

  Lauren was feeling more confident and in control of the situation the more she conversed with Alex. The woman frightened and unnerved her, but she seemed to be gone for now at least, and Alex was different. He was soft, reluctant, unsure of himself.

  ‘And who do you think you’re dealing with?’ he asked, running his hands through his hair.

  Lauren laid her spoon down. ‘Someone who doesn’t want to be here.’

  She knew she’d struck a nerve. There was little choice but to press the opportunity that might just have presented itself.

  ‘Look, I don’t pretend to know your history or where you came from, but I can tell this isn’t who you are, Alex,’ she said earnestly. ‘Taking innocent people hostage, being on the run from the police… That doesn’t seem like the life you want for yourself.’

  He snorted. ‘But it’s the one I’ve got.’

  ‘Maybe it doesn’t have to be,’ she said tentatively.

  He frowned. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying, maybe we can help each other out,’ Lauren pressed. ‘If one of the people holding me had a change of heart and helped get me out of here… well, I’m pretty sure I could convince the police and everyone else that they were unfairly caught up in this thing just like I was.’

  ‘What about your dad?’ Alex asked. ‘If he gets his hands on me, the police are the least of my worries.’

  ‘I’ll tell my dad you were forced to go along with
this, and as soon as you saw your chance to help me, you did,’ she promised. ‘He’ll believe me.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘So let’s make it simple,’ she persisted, knowing she couldn’t afford to let up now. ‘I can tell you’re not a bad guy. So for God’s sake, stop this now before it gets out of hand. All you have to do is cut me free, and we can get out of here. Please, Alex. Help me.’

  Alex rose to his feet and strode over to the window. She couldn’t see his face, but could see his hands trembling slightly.

  Lauren looked at the bowl in her lap. She could tell he was wrestling with the decision, that every word she’d spoken weighed heavily on his mind. All she could do now was pray he made the right choice.

  ‘You might be telling the truth,’ he said quietly. ‘Maybe you’d do everything you just said. But it wouldn’t work. He’d have me killed just for being part of this. He’d have me tortured to death if he thought it would help him get to Anya.’

  Anya, Lauren repeated to herself, realizing Alex had just given away the name of his co-conspirator. That name meant something to her, and she was beginning to understand the connection the woman had to her father.

  Alex swallowed hard, and she could see he believed every word he was saying. ‘And if by some miracle I escaped your dad and disappeared, Anya would know I’d betrayed her. It wouldn’t matter how far I ran, sooner or later she’d find me and kill me. So you see, I’m pretty much screwed either way. But if I had to choose a side, I know I’m on the right one. We’re not the bad guys, Lauren. We’re just trying to stay alive.’

  With that, he turned away to leave the room.

  ‘Wait,’ Lauren said. ‘I… I understand, Alex. I can’t blame you for being afraid, even if I wish you’d trusted me. But it’s your choice.’ She sighed and looked away, her gaze resting on the empty water glass he’d set aside. ‘Could I at least have some more water, please? I’m so thirsty.’

  He nodded, picked up the glass and quietly left the room, apparently relieved to be out of there. The feeling was mutual.