by Aaron Elkins
I looked at the card as I took my seat: Reykjavik Metropolitan Police Department, Ellert Ragnarsson, Detective Chief Inspector, Criminal Investigation Division. I nodded and mumbled something, but my heart was in my mouth. A detective chief inspector. Please, God, let her be all right. I had to wet my lips to speak. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Baldur,” Ingimar said. He was staring miserably at a couple of sheets of paper in front of him. Beside it was an untouched cup of tea on a saucer. “He was—we don’t have all the details yet, but it appears he was—that is, we know he was, ah . . .”
Mercifully, the chief inspector cut in. “He’s been abducted, I’m afraid. It happened a little less than two hours ago, in Grindavik.” He had the usual pleasant Scandinavian accent and a slow, deep, wise, comforting voice, like an old-time family doctor’s. The old-fashioned pipe suited him perfectly. “There was gunfire. We have reason to think he may have been hit.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said (a bald-faced lie; what I was feeling was nothing less than a joyful billow of relief—Lori was all right). But something more seemed to be required of me, so I said, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Indeed, yes,” Ragnarsson said. “We understand you’re an expert in these matters, and we consider it a stroke of luck that you’re here. We’d be very glad of your assistance.”
“Of course,” I said. “Anything I can do.” But the joyful billow was gone. Yes, Lori was okay, but God help me, I’m right back in it, I thought. How could this be happening to me? Immediately, I was ashamed. Baldursson kidnapped, maybe wounded, maybe dead, and all I could think about was my own mental devils? I was staring down at my clasped hands, unwilling to look Ragnarsson in the eye, afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep my own eyes from jumping around.
The chief inspector took one of the sheets of paper from in front of Ingimar—he moved the way he spoke; slowly and with conviction—and slid it across to me. The smell of pipe tobacco rose from the tweed of his jacket. “Approximately thirty minutes after the kidnapping this was faxed to Morgunblaðið—”
“Pardon?”
“Morgunblaðið. It’s a newspaper,” Ingimar said, surfacing from his trance.
“—and also sent to my chief superintendent’s office,” Ragnarsson finished.
“Do you know where—?”
“It was sent from a post office in Hafnarfjörður.”
“Which is?”
“A few kilometers south of here. Maybe thirty north of Grindavik.”
“And there’s no clue as to who sent it? Man? Woman? No witnesses?”
“None as of yet. Bryan, may I say with no offense intended”—his gentle, tolerant smile made his point for him—“that I am not requesting your help in our investigation, but in the way the situation, as it stands, is best handled?”
“Of course. Sorry.”
A couple of beats passed. “So,” he said patiently, “it might be a good idea if you read that fax.”
Yes, but what the detective chief inspector didn’t understand was that I’d been doing everything I could not to read it. Until I did, I wasn’t really involved, but once I did there’d be no going back. I’d be in it up to my ears. I looked at it a second longer, fought with myself, lost (won?), and, with a sigh, focused my eyes on it. It was neatly typewritten in English and headed “Communiqué No. I. Operation Baldur.”
At 1:30 p.m. on Thursday, April 1, the earth-raper Baldur Baldursson, president of GlobalSeas Fisheries, was arrested and taken prisoner by citizen-soldiers of Project Save the Earth, the Verkefnid Björgum Jördinni. This action was carried out as a strike against the bio-colonialism of the New World Order’s continuing assault on biodiversity.
For too many years, the GlobalSeas corporate monoculture has been at the forefront of the environmental nightmare known as “bioengineering,” particularly in its reckless aquaculture operations, which have caused havoc among wild species due to infection and interbreeding with escapees. THIS CANNOT BE PERMITTED TO CONTINUE.
Unless reparation in the amount of $5,000,000 is made to repatriate the prisoner, the prisoner will be tried and sentenced for his crimes against the biosphere by a war-crimes committee of the VBJ.
We are aware that the police, in their capacity as servile minions of the global elite will try to involve themselves in this. They are to be left to their own devices. ANY ATTEMPT ON GLOBALSEAS’ PART TO WORK IN CONCERT WITH THE POLICE WILL RESULT IN THE TERMINATION OF COMMUNICATION AND THE IMMEDIATE EXECUTION OF THE PRISONER.
We would like to make our purposes clear to all. Unlike GlobalSeas, we are not gangsters motivated by greed and profit. The profit motive, created and reinforced by the Amerika-dominated international-capitalist complex, is systematically destroying life on this planet. Therefore, only by taking the profit motive OUT of this wanton destruction can it be stopped. The reparations demanded by the VBJ are a first step in that process; a war tax. Furthermore, these reparations will be used solely to repair, to the extent possible, the damage to our native ecosystem caused by GlobalSeas and its human meatpuppets.
“The liberty in man’s laws consists solely in this, that he obeys the laws of nature because he himself has recognized them as such, and not because they have been imposed upon him by any foreign will whatsoever, human or divine, collective or individual.”
Note: This communiqué is to be published in full in tomorrow’s (Friday’s) Morgunblaðið. Failure to comply with this initial step will be seen as noncooperation and will end negotiations. Further instructions will follow upon publication.
This communiqué has been issued under the direction of the Executive Coordinating Committee of the Verkefnid Björgum Jördinni.
“Bakunin,” I murmured.
“I’m sorry?” Ragnarsson said. He was in the act of lighting up, so he was looking at me the way pipe smokers do, head down, squinting over the jetting lighter, through a cloud of fragrant blue smoke.
“The quotation. Mikhail Bakunin.”
“Ah. Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up.” Another couple of puffs to get the pipe going for good. “Bryan, the truth is, we’re not very familiar with affairs of this sort. They don’t really happen in Iceland, you see. The only similar instance during my tenure—and I’ve been with the department since 1999—was the previous attempt on GlobalSeas by the VBJ, and that one was over before it started. Any help, any advice you can give, we’ll appreciate. I know Ingimar feels the same way.”
Ingimar came out of his funk with a start. “What? Oh, absolutely.”
“Certainly,” I said. “I’ll do anything I can.” Strangely, reading the fax had settled me. The turgid diction, the bizarre, clumsy locutions—earth-raper, servile minions, Amerika, meatpuppets—were familiar, almost reassuring, the kind of thing I’d seen a thousand times. You had to convince yourself it was the real thing, not some kind of parody. Of course I could help, and I would help. I could deal with something like this practically by rote. There were rules, principles, established ways of doing things and, more important, of not doing things. If I stayed in the background and worked through Ingimar or Ragnarsson—and stayed the hell away from the upcoming negotiations themselves—there was no reason I couldn’t get along just fine. And be of some use too.
“That’s good,” Ragnarsson said. “All right, then, advise us. What’s to be done first?”
“First, Morgun . . . that newspaper . . . has to decide whether or not to publish the communiqué. My advice would be for you to recommend that they do so. Second . . .” I looked at Ingimar. “You’ll want to get your board of directors involved immediately. They’ll have to make some quick decisions—” I stopped. Ingimar was shaking his head. “What is it, Ingimar?”
“There is no board. Just Baldur. He’s the sole director. I serve as the assistant director.”
“So—you’ll be making the decisions?” Hoo boy.
He looked even sicker. “That’s right.”
“Okay, then, first decision: I
s GlobalSeas going to ignore their warning and work with the police? With the detective chief inspector here? Or are you going to try to deal with them on your own?”
Ingimar looked from me to Ragnarsson and back. “Well, I . . . How would they know if we cooperated with the police?”
“I don’t know, and I doubt that they could, but I think it’s safest to assume they might be able to find out.”
“So then . . . what’s your advice, Bryan?”
“I think you should involve the police in everything you do—and vice versa, for that matter. The likelihood of a successful resolution is a lot better if the two of you are in it together, as a team. Otherwise the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing, and you can create a disaster.”
Ragnarsson looked pleased. Ingimar gave a hesitant nod.
“And if they do find out, the chances of their actually killing Baldur on account of it it are just about nil,” I went on. “Look, if this was a terrorist group that took him, if this was some kind of military or political leader they had, there’d be more risk. They could make a statement with murder. But if they kill Baldur, what does it get them? They don’t score any points, they no longer hold any cards, and they wind up with nothing except a murder charge and a manhunt.”
“Exactly what I’ve been telling him,” Ragnarsson said.
“All right, then, yes, I agree,” Ingimar said. “Yes.” The more he could spread the responsibility around, the happier he was.
“Okay, assuming that’s taken care of,” I said, looking at Ingimar, “we’ll need a spokesman for GlobalSeas, a single, high-ranking person to serve as liaison with this group. I guess that’s you.”
“Me! But can’t you do that? You’re the expert.”
“Well, yes, but . . . sure, if you want me to, but I think it’d be better if you actually spoke for the company. I’ll be right there with you, but behind the scenes.”
Ingimar looked as if he was about to cry. “But I don’t . . . I wouldn’t know how to . . . what to . . .”
“Look, Ingimar,” I said gently. “Is GlobalSeas insured against this kind of thing?”
Ragnarsson raised a quizzical eyebrow. “There’s insurance against kidnapping?”
“Yes, we are,” said Ingimar. “With Argos Risk Management in London.”
“Ah.” This was not good news. Not only was Argos a notoriously tight-fisted company, but they weren’t like the newer outfits that specialized in this kind of thing. For them, kidnapping insurance was just a profitable sideline. They didn’t provide training to their clients, and while they did send out ransom negotiators, I’d met two of them and was greatly underimpressed. But this was GlobalSeas’ affair, not mine. “Well,” I said, “they’ll want to send one or two of their people over, and I’m sure they’ll be able to do the negotiating for you.”
“But that might take days. Don’t we need somebody now? What if—I mean, who knows what they’re going to do? Couldn’t you at least . . . at least . . . We’d be happy to pay whatever . . .”
I closed my eyes for a second, filled my lungs with air to steady myself, and said, “Until then, sure, if you prefer, I’ll be the contact. Don’t worry about payment.” The prospect terrified me, but what else could I say? GlobalSeas couldn’t just refuse to communicate for the time it would take to get someone there from London. Especially not with a bona fide, super-duper internationally recognized expert sitting right there.
“You’ll do the negotiating?” Ingimar said, brightening.
“Until whoever’s coming from Argos gets here, yes.” Sheesh, I’m really in it now, I thought. Damn it. I knew this would happen.
“Thank you,” Ingimar practically sighed, but a moment later his face fell again. “But the policy is only for two million dollars. These people are demanding five million.”
“Well—”
“And there’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar deductible. Oh, my God, five million! That’s . . . that’s over half a billion krona! I’m not at all sure that we’d be able to—”
“Let’s not worry about that right now, Ingimar. You wouldn’t want to pay it even if you could. If you cave in too fast—at the first demand or the first threat—they’ll most likely realize they didn’t ask for enough and they’ll up the ante. It happens all the time—doubletapping, we call it. They’ll also have learned that GlobalSeas is an easy mark . . . for the next time.”
“The next time,” Ingimar echoed woefully. “Please.”
“Besides,” I said, “if past history is any guide, they’re not really expecting to get anywhere near that much. This is a first offer.”
“How much are they expecting to get, then?” Ragnarsson asked. “If the past is any guide.” I detected a bit of an edge to his voice.
“Maybe I’d better rephrase that, Chief Inspector.”
“Ellert.”
“Ellert. Naturally, we have no way of knowing what these people are really expecting. Sometimes a group demanding ten million dollars will settle for five hundred thousand. Other times, they’ll refuse an offer of five million. But statistically, when ransoms are finally paid, they generally come to about twenty-five percent of the initial demand.”
“And does the payment of the ransom generally result in the safe release of the hostage? Statistically speaking.”
I knew only too well what was bothering him. No cop could like the idea of even considering, let alone caving in to, ransom demands. Neither did I, but I knew there was another side. And the truth was the truth.
“Yes,” I said, “it does.”
“And therefore,” said Ellert, “your advice to GlobalSeas is to pay the ransom?”
“If the objective is to get Baldursson back, yes.”
He leaned forward, eyebrows bristling. “And if the objective is to apprehend a vicious gang of kidnappers and killers?”
“Well, then, maybe not. But you see, that wouldn’t be my objective. I couldn’t afford to be perceived by them as being on anybody’s side. I’m a middleman, a facilitator, a neutral. I’m not emotionally involved. The same will go for the guy from Argos. If we get out of this without anybody else’s getting hurt, we’ve succeeded as negotiators, ransom or no ransom.”
“Have you, now?” Ellert’s tone was distinctly less warm than it had been a few minutes ago. “And what happens the next time they abduct someone, since you’ve made it so easy and pleasant for them this time? And what about all the nice new automatic weapons they might well be going to buy with their precious ransom, and all the terrorist organizations they might fund, how do you feel about that?”
Now I was the one who was getting irritated. “Look, Chief Inspector—”
“Ellert, damn it.”
“Look, Ellert, I said ‘perceived by them,’ didn’t I? You think I like them any more than you do? I want to see them put away too. But I’m not a cop. Catching them isn’t my primary job.”
“What is, then?”
“What I said: saving lives.”
“Oh, I see. Like a doctor, is that it?”
“No, not like a doctor, because once it’s over, then—”
“You’ll pardon me,” Ellert said gruffly, and turned his head. The officer who’d been on the telephone had come up to him and bent to whisper in his ear. Ellert whispered back.
I took advantage of the break to go to the soft-drink machine in the lobby, got a Coke (Iceland, I’d read somewhere, consumed more Coke per capita than anywhere else), and returned to my purple tulip chair. Aside from letting myself show more annoyance with Ellert than I should have, I was doing fine. True, most of what I’d been saying had been straight out of the books and monographs, so I could speak the words without internalizing them, but still, I was doing all right. I had no sense whatever that I was in danger of going over the edge, of losing control. How much of this was the meds talking I couldn’t say, but what did it matter? A crisis had erupted and here I was, pitching right in and doing what I could to help.
One o
f the things that Zeta Parkington had told me stirred at the back of my mind: “The minute you stop running from the fear and decide to start confronting it and to start gaining some control over the situation and over your own life, you’re on your way.” Well, I was confronting it, wasn’t I? Xanax or no Xanax, I could have chosen to run and hide, but instead I’d taken it on. “You can feel the difference from the first minute,” Zeta had told me, and it was true. Already I sensed an inner strength building, a steady, dispassionate capability that hadn’t been there before.
Which lasted for all of one second. Then, with a mere dozen words, Ellert emptied me of air the way the smack of an open hand collapses a paper bag. The floor opened up underneath me.
“Bryan, I have some disturbing news. It seems they have your wife.”
Chapter 13
As to Lori’s condition—Ellert’s voice softened—they didn’t believe she’d been hurt. The forklift operator and the truck driver, who had been there, told identical stories. Baldursson had begun firing first but had quickly been shot—twice, they both thought. While still slumping to the ground, he’d been caught by one ski-masked man on either side, half-carried the few steps to the van with his toes dragging, and roughly thrown in. One of the men had then turned, caught hold of the stunned Lori, and jerked her into the van as well. As far as they could tell, she hadn’t been shot or otherwise harmed.
I closed my eyes. “Unh,” I said, an inadvertent release of the air I’d been holding in without knowing it. I’d listened numbly to Ellert’s account with a sick, disembodied sensation of being there and not being there. The chief inspector was looking at me now, waiting for a response, but I felt as if I were locked in some vast sea of ice, deep in the earth, unable to manufacture thought or action. When Zeta had asked me what was the worst thing I could imagine, I’d told her it would be to wake up with the metal collar around my neck again. Now I knew there was something worse. When Lori’s pretty, smiling face suddenly swam up in front of me, my world started shaking. I could feel all the little cogs and wheels of my mind begin to wobble and come loose.