by Aaron Elkins
Her memory of the events immediately leading up to it was almost as blurry. (Traumatic retrograde amnesia, was that what it was called?) Baldur had been taking her on a tour of the Grindavik facility; she remembered that clearly enough. He’d been showing her around the marine research lab located at the rear of the warehouse: rows of big, floor-mounted tanks populated by halibut, char, and salmon at every stage of development. He was in the middle of a lively explanation of their plans to use microsatellites—repeating strings of DNA sequence—as means of isolating the genetic factors involved in herbicide-runoff tolerance in fish, when his cell phone had rung.
“Our major saltfish distributor just made its pickup,” he told Lori when he’d hung up. “I like to go out and say hello and sign the manifest myself; just takes a few seconds, and it gives me a chance to get to know the men. Want to come?”
What had happened next was the hazy part—a gray van, tires squealing, gunfire, blood, screaming—but after they’d wrenched her into the van beside the semiconscious, incoherent Baldur, things had snapped back into focus. They’d quickly manacled her hands to the arm rest and tugged this thing—an elastic support bandage, she thought, the kind you’d use to brace an injured knee—down over her face. Then doors had slammed, and the van had jerked to a start. Baldur had gone quiet and slumped against her, drenching her slacks with blood. She could actually feel the individual warm spurts as they pulsed from an artery. She’d shifted away as much as she could—it was impossible for her to aid him—but to her horror she could still hear the blood pumping—hssh . . . hssh . . .
As shocked and sickened as she’d been, she had tried to memorize what useful information she could during the drive, but with no sight and little hearing it was next to impossible, and after they stopped and bundled her into a second vehicle—Baldur too? She didn’t know—trying to count seconds (one Mississippi, two Mississippi) or keeping track of left and right turns was hopeless. Even smells, which Bryan had told her could be valuable because kidnappers often didn’t think to disguise them, were beyond her ability with the bandage over her face.
Even now, the canvasy, medicinal odor was all she could smell. She had no idea if she was in the city or the country, or how far they’d driven, or whether they’d gone in circles to confuse her. It seemed to her that she’d been sitting there on the bed frame for about twenty minutes, but it could easily have been much more. Because the floor under her feet seemed to be covered with a thick, coarse fabric that could be made to shift a little, she believed she might be in a tent. But indoors, not out in the country, because beneath the fabric the floor was hard and smooth. As she knew, kidnappers sometimes used indoor tents as a way to keep their captives from being able to identify their surroundings afterward.
Is that really what she was, a “captive”? Or merely an incidental bystander caught in the crossfire and impulsively hauled off because they didn’t know what else to do with her? There couldn’t be any doubt that Baldur had been their target. Didn’t that mean they’d release her when they’d gotten themselves straightened out? Or did it mean . . . No, don’t go there. If she was going to make up scenarios, they’d damn well be on the positive side. Better yet, forget the scenarios, and start planning for—
“Do you need anything?” someone asked.
“DO you need anything?” Camano asked. He had been sitting on a camp stool just inside the entrance to the tent, watching her for some time. He liked to observe them in the first few minutes. You learned a lot about human behavior that way. Not this time, though. She had sat there disappointingly still and composed, revealing as much emotion as a potted rubber plant.
The woman straightened and raised her chin to face him, although he knew she couldn’t see him. “No,” she said. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it if I could take this thing off my head, though. It’s starting to hurt.”
“Not possible.”
For three reasons: first, it wouldn’t take long to occur to her that being allowed to see the faces of her captors was a pretty reliable indication that they planned to murder her, and then would come the hysterics and other such nuisances; second, keeping her face covered depersonalized her, made it harder for her to establish a connection with them, which might create some reluctance when it came to doing the deed. Not for Camano himself, and probably not for Stig, but about Gullveig he was less sure. Third, and most important, killing somebody was easier when they couldn’t see you.
“Anything else?”
“How is Mr. Baldursson? Is he—?”
“Baldursson’s all right. We’re attending to him. What’s your name?”
“Lori Bennett.”
“Lori. What is that, a nickname?”
“No, it’s my whole name.”
“Okay, Lori. How well do you know Baldursson?”
“I hardly know him at all.”
Bad news, if true. “Then what were you doing at the plant?”
“Mr. Baldursson was giving me a tour of the research laboratory.”
“And what’s your connection to GlobalSeas, Lori?”
“I don’t have any connection. I was just visiting.”
“You were just visiting, and the president and CEO of GlobalSeas . . . who you hardly know . . . personally gives you a tour?”
“Oh. My husband is conducting a training program for them.”
“You mean in Reykjavik, the course in how not to get kidnapped?” He smiled. Camano had virtually no sense of humor, but he appreciated irony.
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Too bad Baldursson didn’t take it, isn’t it? He might have—”The smile died. “Wait a minute, Bennett? Is your husband Bryan Bennett?”
She jerked. The question had startled her. “Why . . . yes, he is.”
“The hostage negotiator?”
“He used to be, yes, but . . .” Her sudden stillness told him that she sensed she’d made a mistake, but she didn’t know what it was.
Camano rose slowly to his feet, his mind whirling with fantastic new plans and possibilities. A whole new world had just opened up to him.
And Lori Bennett was wrong about having made a mistake; she had just saved her own life.
Chapter 16
I’d botched the call from Gullveig. I realized now that I’d come across every bit as pushy and desperate as I actually was. I’d made her nervous, the last thing I should have done. This was exactly the reason your anxious, frantic spouse is the last person you want negotiating for you the next time you get kidnapped.
Earlier in the afternoon I’d put in a call to Odysseus to tell Wally what had happened and to ask him to send out a negotiator to take over. Wally, who was in truth at his best when the chips were down, had come through without hesitation. He would talk to the board immediately about freeing institute funds for Lori’s possible ransom (Baldursson’s ransom was GlobalSeas’ affair), and he was dispatching former FBI special agent Julian Minor, a first-rate negotiator, to Reykjavik. Minor was already on his way and would arrive in Iceland in the morning, but I couldn’t help hoping, despite knowing that Julian was the better point man in this situation, that the next call came before then, so that the process could get under way. I was desperate to do something.
But other than calling calling Ellert to tell him about Gullveig’s call, there wasn’t much I could do but wait. And worry. Gullveig’s response, or rather nonresponse, to the proof-of-life questions had been troubling. And now almost four more hours had passed, with no follow-up telephone call. What did that mean?
I’d had a pastry for breakfast and nothing since, and I needed something to eat. I knew that at least some of the GlobalSeas people would be having their dinners at the Hilton’s restaurant, and I didn’t want to have to talk to them, so I slipped into my parka and walked a few blocks to Laugavegur, the main street, lined with restaurants and shops. I went into the first eating place I passed, an unpretentious Italian place with only a few occupants inside. I didn’t want people and noise around me.
I found a table at a streetside window and ordered a pizza margherita from the wood-fired oven. I was ready to kill for a Scotch, but that was out of the question, so when the waitress suggested something called Egils Malt Extrakt, which she assured me was Iceland’s finest nonalcoholic beer, indistinguishable from the highoctane kind, I nodded, barely having heard her. If she’d recommended a glass of hot lava fresh from the volcanoes, I probably would have nodded too.
It did turn out to be vaguely reminiscent of a glass of beer, but a glass of beer in which you’d dumped two tablespoons of sugar. But since I could hardly taste it anyway, I sat there sipping it and staring out the window, waiting for the pizza and trying not to think bad thoughts—about Lori, and where she was right now, and what was happening to her . . . what they might be doing to her. I wasn’t going to be of much use if I completely tied myself into knots, so I made myself focus on the scene outside instead. There were a lot of people out, as always on Laugavegur in the evening. Watching them, I found myself filled with resentment—these laughing, chattering arm-in-arm pairs or threesomes, on their way to yet another pleasant meal, their lives as normal and predictable today as they were yesterday, with no dreadful threats hanging over them. I wanted to strangle them. There was one couple in particular, obviously deep in love, lost in each other’s eyes . . .
No, what kind of way was that to think? What was wrong with me? I shifted my attention away from them, tried to think about something else. Across the street there was a tattoo and piercing parlor, and I saw that its sign was in English only, not Icelandic as well, which was unusual. Was that because it was used basically by Brits and Americans, or because English seemed more hip? Or—
“Are you Mr. Bennett?” It was the hostess. “There’s a telephone call for you.”
“Thank you.” Startled and a bit confused, I reached without thinking for the cellular phone that I’d laid on the table.
“No,” the hostess said, also understandably confused, “you can take it up front.”
I jumped up and followed her to her station at the entrance. How could anyone be calling me on the restaurant phone? No one knew I was here; I’d only decided myself a few minutes earlier. So someone had been watching me—and still was; they’d known at which table I’d been sitting.
The hostess pointed to a telephone on a small stand beside her podium. I snatched it up. “This is Bryan B—”
“Bryan, it’s me! They—”
“Lori!” I yelled loud enough to make some of the diners turn around. “Are you all right? What—”
“Bryan, they won’t let me talk long—”
“Have they hurt you? Are you—?”
“I’m all right. I just—” There were scuffling sounds—they were taking the phone away from her—and I heard her shout, “I love you!” Then more scuffling, ending with a sharp “Ow, damn you!” from Lori that stabbed into my chest like a spike.
“Lori!”
More stares from the diners and a frown from the hostess, who approached gingerly, thinking she might have trouble on her hands.
I waved her away. “Lori . . . !”
“Hello, Bryan Bennett.” A man’s voice, steely and arid, no trace of an accent. He was American, maybe Canadian.
I lowered my voice. “I have to talk to my wife again. I need to know—”
“No, you don’t need to know anything. Now, stay where you are. I’m going to call you right back.”
I hung up, shaking, but wrung out with relief. She was alive. They’d maybe wrenched her arm to get her to give up the phone, but they hadn’t really hurt her. When someone really hurts you, you don’t say, “Ow.”
The hostess took the telephone out of my numbed hand and put it on a shelf inside the podium, then gestured as if to lead the way back to my table.
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, I’m going to be getting another call. It’s an emergency.”
“Sir, our busy time is just starting. I can’t let you monopolize—”
“Damn it,” I snarled, “just—” It rang. I snatched it up. “I’m here,” I said keeping my voice low. “Who am I talking to?”
“Now, Bryan, let me explain the situation—”
“Do I know you?” I blurted.
“As charming as your wife is,” he went on, “she’s not much good to us, you know? I can’t imagine either you yourself coming up with five million dollars, can you?”
“What do you mean? Is Baldursson dead, then?”
“You, on the other hand,” the voice went dryly on, “with the foundational resources of the Odysseus Institute behind you, would be a damn valuable commodity. You understand what I’m driving at?”
I blinked. Could he be suggesting—“You want to exchange my wife for me?”
“Would you be interested?”
“Of course I’m interested. As soon as possible.”
“All right. Tell me, then: Would the Odysseus Institute be willing to raise the money for your ransom? Be honest. Your life’s going to depend on it.”
“I’m sure they would.” What else did he think I was going to say?
“That’s good. All right, let’s do it. I want you to go—”
“Hold on, I need some guarantees. I’m not just walking into this on your say-so. I need to know you’ve let her go—”
“No, you do not need to know.”
“I—”
“Shut up. Don’t waste any more of my time telling me what you need. Listen to me, Bryan. The raw truth is, your wife is a liability to us. If you agree to the exchange, we’ll set her free, unharmed. Tonight, the moment we have you. You have my word on that. We have no reason to keep her. But if you don’t agree, we’ll kill her. You also have my word on that. Do you believe me?”
I took a breath. “I believe you.”
“That’s good. Trust me, I always keep my word. So, should we proceed?”
“No, not until—”
“And here’s something else you have my word on: This is not one of your famous negotiations, this is a one-time-only offer, nothing to negotiate. Either you accept now—now, not five minutes from now—or you don’t accept. If you don’t, it’s over and done. I won’t ever bother you again. Neither will Lori.”
“Sir,” the hostess said, “I really have to—”
I turned away from her, pulling the phone out of her reach. “All right, okay. What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t go back to your table. Walk out the front door and turn left. At the first corner you come to you’ll see a trash can. Drop your cellular phone into it.”
“I don’t have a—”
“Please, don’t insult my intelligence. Drop it in the trash can. Keep walking four more blocks. Which will get you to Laekjargata. When you cross it you’ll be on the corner of a large public square. You’ll see a pink bus shelter there. At 7:50 the next bus should arrive. Take it—”
“Is there a number on the bus? What will it say on the front?” I scrabbled through my pockets for a pen, a scrap of paper. “How will I know which—?”
“Just take it, don’t worry about the number. Get off at the BSI stop.”
“BSI, what’s that?”
“It’s the out-of-town bus terminal.” A quickening of impatience. “Stop talking and listen. Now, you speak to nobody, do you understand? Don’t ask the driver to tell you when you get there. You’ll know. When you arrive, get off and stand with your back to the terminal entrance. You’ll see a parking area in front of you, then an open field, and then a smaller, isolated lot, graveled, not paved, two hundred yards from the terminal under a highway overpass. Walk straight out from the entrance to that parking lot and wait.”
“Straight out from the entrance,” I echoed. “Open field. Parking area. Got it.” I don’t think I’d ever before had so many feelings boiling through me at once. Yet at the same time, I felt weirdly weightless and removed from myself; floating and directionless, like a kid’s balloon that’s snapped its string.
“And o
ne more thing, Bryan. We can see everything you do. I can see you right now. If you fail to leave the cell phone behind, if you try to leave a note, or if you say anything—anything—to anybody, it’s off. If you try to make some sort of signal, even an eye signal, it’s off. There will be nobody to meet you. Your wife will be killed. Now, tonight, instantly. Is there any part of this that you don’t understand?”
It took a moment before I could get my own voice going again. “I understand,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter 17
At 7:50 on the nose, the number I bus, with Klukkuvelli on the front panel, pulled up to the shelter. I boarded it and deposited my three hundred krona, making sure not to respond even to the driver’s nod. Was I really under observation every step of the way? I doubted it, but who knew? Possibly, there was someone in a nearby car who was following the bus. Maybe someone was on the bus itself, although none of the few passengers were paying me any attention. But then, of course, they wouldn’t, so that meant nothing.
Once seated, I tried to force my mind to think through what I was doing. As a consultant I would have said—I already had said: Don’t knuckle under to their first demands, no matter how threatening. Yet that was precisely what I’d done. But how could I have acted any differently? How could anyone? This, I thought grimly, was another reason you never used a negotiator who was personally involved. Hell, I was so emotionally fixated I hadn’t remembered to ask for proof of life on Baldursson.