The Worst Thing

by Aaron Elkins

  “Yes, Julian.”

  “But . . . you don’t mean to say they exchanged you for him?”

  “Yes, Julian.”

  “You don’t mean—?”

  “Julian, you look bushed. You’ve been traveling all night. Let’s go get you a cup of coffee.”

  He nodded submissively. “I suppose I could use a little something.”

  Iceland’s international airport, Keflavik, had only one place to eat, a snack bar consisting of a counter and three small, bar-height tables with stools. The English version of the sign above the counter said SANDWICHES, COFFEE, DRIED FISH, ETC. “My word,” Julian murmured when he read it. “I do believe we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  They took an uncleared table, and Julian fastidiously wiped it down with a paper napkin and deposited the used cups in a wastebasket before measuring sugar and nondairy creamer into his coffee. He drank half of it down in five fast, tiny sips, shaking his head all the while. “I just can’t believe it. Lord, Lord.”

  Little wonder he was rattled. He had been briefed by telephone not much more than twelve hours ago, then driven within the hour from Providence, where he’d been winding up a negotiation, to Boston, from which he’d gotten the red-eye to Iceland. He’d prepared himself to be met by Bryan and brought up to date on the status of a kidnapped Lori. Instead, it was the other way around, and the astonishment could have been read on his face from fifty feet away. “Oh my word, that’s awful,” he said mournfully, and then, in clumsy apology: “That’s not to say . . . I mean, naturally, I’m glad you’re all right, Lori. I meant only . . .”

  She patted the back of his hand. “It’s all right, Julian. I understand.” It felt good to laugh. It was the first time in many hours, but immediately she felt guilty. How could she possibly be laughing when Bryan—

  “By no means is it all right. You shouldn’t be comforting me. I’m the one who should be comforting you. Are you really all right?”

  “Yes, really—well, as good as can be expected. I’m . . . desperately worried about Bryan, Julian, but having you here is a tremendous relief. Drink your coffee. I’ll fill you in as much as I can.”

  “You don’t want any yourself? Something to eat?”

  She shook her head. She’d been unable to eat, or even to drink, since she’d learned that she’d been released only because Bryan had exchanged himself for her.

  Julian gulped down some of his coffee. “All right, what is the situation at this point in time?”

  She almost smiled again at the choice of words: the situation at this point in time. As a negotiator, Julian Minor couldn’t have been more of a misfit. A former FBI special agent (specialty: bank and tax fraud), he was a tidy, slightly overweight, middle-aged black man with neat, grizzled hair, dressed as always in a dark, pinstripe three-piece suit, crisp white shirt (being Julian, no doubt he’d changed to a fresh one before landing), and dark, solid-color tie. Even now he carried with him the finicky manner of an industrious tax accountant. Adding to this impression was a fondness for fussy, archaic phrases straight out of a 1920s secretarial handbook: “Be that as it may . . .”; “Thus and so . . .”; “In the normal course of events . . .”

  As such, it was impossible for him to project the unflappable, super-laid-back manner of the textbook negotiator. On the contrary, there clung to him an aura of vague but constant fretting, and yet somehow for him it worked. Kidnappers trusted him. In critical situations, hostage-takers who might be wary or fearful of decisive, takecharge negotiators were disarmed by Julian’s honest, earnest prissiness. When Julian said, “I doubt sincerely that such an arrangement would prove constructive under the present circumstances,” or “I’ll have to query the company on that before I can respond with confidence,” he was believed, where others might not have been. According to Bryan, he was the most effective negotiator they had, and Lori was immensely glad to have him there.

  Having been effectively interviewed by Detective Chief Inspector Ellert Ragnarsson the night before, it took Lori only twenty minutes to tell him her story. Not that there was much she could tell. She was fairly sure that Baldursson had died there in the van, right beside her. It was something that had become clear to her only later, under Ragnarsson’s questioning. Those horrible sounds of the blood pumping from his neck, so clearly audible at first, had become weaker and less regular, and within a few minutes they had died away altogether. She’d never heard another sound from him and never sensed a movement. After a while, they’d stopped the van and moved him away from her. She’d heard the door slide open and closed, and had heard them moving around outside while it was open. Ragnarsson had said it probably meant Baldursson was dead and they had disposed of his body somewhere.

  “An assessment with which I’d agree,” Julian said. “It would appear to have been one of the carotids, which would have emptied within a regrettably short time. And inasmuch as it’s the carotids that supply the brain, the loss of blood would have—”

  Lori grimaced and held up her hand. “Julian, could we not be quite so graphic, please?”

  “Of course. Forgive me, Lori. What can you tell me about the man who spoke to you when you were in the tent?”

  “Not much. I think he was American. I couldn’t hear any accent at all. Seemed well educated. He didn’t threaten me or anything. Um . . . he knew Bryan.”

  Julian’s head came up. “He knew Bryan?”

  “Well, he knew who he was.”

  “That seems odd, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, does it? He knew about the training going on at the Hilton. Wouldn’t he be likely to know the name of the person conducting it?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s possible. Still, it makes one wonder—Well, never mind. He finished his coffee. “Go on, please.”

  At about eight p.m. (she and Ragnarsson had reconstructed the time afterward), she’d been informed she was to be released. When she’d started to ask questions, she was forcefully told to be quiet and then ignored, which didn’t much bother her, not with the tremendous flood of relief she was feeling. When time, and then more time, passed with nothing happening other than her being given water to drink and being led, still blindfolded, to a bathroom, she grew concerned that they wouldn’t follow through, but eventually they came for her—two of them, a woman and a man—and drove off with her. When the vehicle stopped—she couldn’t tell what kind this one was: van, truck, ordinary automobile—she was told to close her eyes and keep them closed for a count of one hundred after they let her out. The blindfold was removed, she was helped out of the vehicle and left standing with her hands placed on a low stone wall for balance. She followed instructions and counted to a hundred.

  “I don’t suppose you were able to keep track of how long the drive took, or the traffic sounds, or that sort of thing?” Julian asked.

  “I know it took a good half hour. Ellert—Chief Inspector Ragnarsson—said that meant they had to have been in the general Reykjavik area, but nothing more.”

  “That’s so,” Julian said. “They could really have been half an hour from where they let you off, or just as easily right down the block. Where did they let you off?”

  “At the Tjörnin, which is a sort of a mini–Central Park for the city, with paths and a little lake—Bryan and I had a breakfast picnic there. It’s only a few minutes’ walk from police headquarters, which is where I went at once. I called the hotel from there to talk to Bryan, but of course he wasn’t there, and then, later, while I was with Ellert, we found out that . . . that . . . that Bryan was . . .”

  She shook her head as her throat closed and her eyes welled up. She had sat in the hotel’s ninth-floor lounge until four a.m., looking out over the sleeping city with her arms around her knees, endlessly rocking back and forth, but her eyes had stayed dry. And now, here came the tears, pouring down her cheeks. The two tissues she had with her were sopping wads within seconds. “Oh, Julian, I’m sorry. This is silly. I’m not a crier, haven’t cried for years. It’s j
ust—”

  Now it was Julian who covered her hand with his. “Lori, I know how awful this is for you, believe me. But we’ll get him back. I have absolutely no doubt. None whatever. Bryan knows what he’s doing and I know what I’m doing. All right?”

  She sniffled. “Okay.”

  “You trust me, do you not?”

  “I do. Bryan says you’re the best.”

  “As usual, he’s entirely correct, and I intend to make sure he continues to think so when this is done. Now, then. I am going to get some more coffee for myself. I am going to get some for you as well.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Yes, you do. I am going to get us something to eat too. What would you like?”

  “Julian, really, I couldn’t—”

  “If you don’t tell me, I shall bring you dried fish. But you will eat something.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “Some kind of pastry, then. Thank you.”

  He stood up, fished in his inside pocket, and came up with a packet of Kleenex, which he placed on the table for her, then went to the counter.

  Her throat still closed up at the idea of swallowing anything, but she was as worn out and depleted as Julian seemed to be, and perhaps she could get something down. Julian brought back two more coffees and a couple of almond sweet rolls on a paper plate. “And you’re completely sure they really do have him?”

  She spread her hands. “If not, where is he?” And here came the tears again.

  Julian waited until they stopped. “Now tell me,” he said mildly, “have they made any new demands since this all happened? I have a copy of the first one, but has there been anything since?”

  Lori made a final dab at her nose with a tissue and slid across the note that she’d discovered in her handbag at the police station. Julian, scowling, mumbled his way through it.

  To whom it may concern:

  We now hold the corporate lapdog Bryan Bennett as well as Baldur Baldursson. Arrangements for their release will be handled one at a time, with Bennett first. We will give you exact details on how to get Bryan Bennett back as soon as you have complied with the demands of this letter. The price is the same as it will be for Baldursson, five million US dollars. The money is to be in twenty, fifty, and one hundred dollar bills of approximately equal number. No series, no unused bills, no marked bills. Any deviation from these requirements will be considered nonfulfillment, and you will be responsible for the consequences.

  We do not wish to hear from you at this point. However, as soon as the money is ready and physically available, you are to place a classified ad in Morgunblaðið. The ad is to be under Real Estate for Sale, and is to say in English: “Prestigious home, 400 acres, stables, woods. Near Akureyri. USD $5,000,000,” followed by the name and telephone number of the person we are to contact. Do not waste our time with counteroffers, delays, or explanations. Also note that we are not interested in discussing the status of Baldursson at this time. That will be taken up again at a later date.

  If the ad does not appear by Monday, 5 April, exactly as indicated, this transaction will be terminated. There will be no further communication from us and the prisoners will not be heard from again.

  It is of no concern to us whether the money is provided by the Odysseus Institute or GlobalSeas Fisheries or both. That is for you to decide. We have carefully studied the financial situations of both organizations, and we know that the amount we require is within their capacity to pay.

  Then he read it through again, silently this time. “The language . . .” he mused, still scanning it. “It’s different, not like the first one. Less doctrinaire, more straightforward, fewer catchphrases. No ‘meatpuppets,’ no ‘repatriate,’ no ‘soldiers,’ no ‘Amerika’ with a k.”

  “Is that important? Does it mean something?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked up, his lips pursed. “Lori . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “You do know, as much as we want him back, we can’t simply give in to their demands right off the bat. That wouldn’t be a good beginning. It could make things worse, drive up the price, lengthen the entire affair.”

  “I understand.”

  “If I thought the quickest, safest way to get him back was to pay what they ask, that’s what I would tell Wally to do. But—”

  She held up a hand to stop him. “I know how it works, Julian. I’m married to him, remember?” She smiled. “It’s just . . . just . . .”

  “Just that it feels a little different when it’s someone you love. But look, even if it takes a few days, I truly believe there’s no reason to worry. They didn’t mistreat you, did they?”

  “They shot Baldur—”

  “That was during the excitement of the abduction. I mean later, once they had you.”

  “No, they didn’t mistreat me.”

  “Well, then, you see, there’s no reason to think they’ll mistreat Bryan. Besides, he knows how to handle himself, he knows how the game is played. We’ll get him back for you, safe and sound, don’t worry. I’ll call Wally right away, and whatever money we have to come up with, we’ll come up with, I have no doubt at all. We just want to play according to our rules if we possibly can. But Bryan’s safety comes first.” Then, as an afterthought: “And Baldursson’s; that is to say, if he’s alive.”

  She had been picking without appetite at half a sweet roll, forcing it down, but now she stopped. “You think he might be?”

  “No, I don’t. I believe he’s dead, all right.”

  “So why would they say he’s still alive?”

  “In my judgment, because they consider that it benefits them for us not to know of his death, and by simply refusing to discuss him they preclude the embarrassing possibility of being required to get proof-of-life information from a dead man. But I strongly suspect Mr. Baldursson is no longer negotiable property. Bryan is all they have.”

  “Is that what he is now?” she asked softly. “Negotiable property?”

  “Yes,” Julian said bluntly. “And I am ready and eager to begin negotiating for him.” He put down the last of his roll and wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “Enough, I’m recharged. Shazam. And now I’d like to meet the detective chief inspector.”

  “Of course. I’ve got a car in the lot, and I promised to bring you over to talk to him. Would you like to stop by the hotel to freshen up first, though? We have a room for you.”

  “Freshening up can wait. Time is of the essence. Lead on.”

  On the way to the parking lot, Lori reached a decision that she’d been struggling with since the middle of the night. “Julian,” she said falteringly, “time really is of the essence, more than you know. I . . . I don’t think it’d be good for Bryan to be in captivity for very long. He . . . well, he’s not really . . . not really able . . .”

  “Lori,” Julian said gently, “I take your point. I know what you’re trying to tell me.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “I doubt it.”

  “Oh, but I do. You’re worried he might not be able to cope. He has a few, ah, hang-ups, doesn’t he?”

  She stared at him openmouthed. Bryan—and Lori, for that matter—had been convinced that no one at the institute knew. They had worked hard to keep it that way.

  “How did you know that?” she blurted.

  “What is it, claustrophobia?” Julian went on, not pressing, but not backing off either. “Fear of heights, fear of confinement—?”

  “Julian, does everyone know?” They had stopped walking now and stood in the parking lot, in the slanting early-morning sun.

  “I don’t know if they do or not, Lori. Whatever else we may be, we’re not a gossipy group of people. I wouldn’t be surprised if they do, though. The people at the institute aren’t exactly stupid, and it’s not really too hard to figure out. Even in the five years since I’ve been there, Bryan has never once flown anywhere. In automobiles he becomes, shall we say, not to put too fine a point on it, squirrely. He refuses to participate directly in negoti—�
��

  “It’s not that he’s a coward!” she interrupted fiercely. “There are just some things that get to him.”

  Julian held up his hands as if to hold her off. “I know, I know. You don’t have to tell me that. Some of the risks he took in his days as a negotiator are famous; they’re in the textbooks. All I meant—”

  “He was once kidnapped himself. As a child, did you know that?”

  He goggled at her. “You don’t mean it.”

  He was held for two months. In Turkey. In appalling conditions. He almost died. He was only five years old.”

  “How terrible. My word, I had no idea.”

  “And it’s left him with a few scars,” she said, calming down under Julian’s gentle concern. “He has panic attacks sometimes; that’s the worst thing. If they’ve taken away his pills . . .” She shook her head mutely.

  Julian took her elbow. “Come then, let’s get going. Lori, I’ll have him free by the close of Monday. Four days. Whatever it takes. That’s a promise.”

  “It’s not the days I’m worried about, Julian,” she said soberly. “It’s the nights.”

  Chapter 19

  “Are you calm now? Can you speak rationally?”

  My eyes were closed, but I recognized Gullveig’s voice, and with its recognition came a playback of the way I’d behaved in the parking lot. It hit me like a brick in the face. My God, it had been one of the wildest, worst attacks ever, and they had seen it all, they had watched as I groveled and raved and whimpered. They’d had to subdue me. They’d laughed at me. I very nearly groaned with remorse and embarrassment. How strangely the mind worked. Here I was, helpless, hands manacled painfully behind me, not knowing what awaited me, my life at the doubtful mercy of kidnappers and murderers, Lori’s fate uncertain, and what was my overriding feeling? Mortification, acrid and profound.

  Whatever happens, I said silently, whatever is in store for me, you won’t see me like that again.

  “What did you say?” The man’s voice, the one from the parking lot.