by Aaron Elkins
“Get up,” the other one said with a sort of weary distaste, as if Stig’s behavior had been a source of disappointment to him for a long time. I recognized the voice now. This was the man who had called me at the pizza place.
Stig, showing reluctance, sullenly pushed himself off me, but halfway up he couldn’t resist delivering one more of those stabbing jabs. I had closed my eyes for a moment, so it caught me by surprise, and an inadvertent whinny of pain escaped—the first cry I had made, I think. I tried to redeem myself with a snarled “God damn you!” but my mouth and throat were so clogged with blood that all that came out was a disgusting gargly noise—that and a spillage of blood down my chin and onto my shirt. I ran my tongue around my mouth, searching for missing or broken teeth. Amazingly, I couldn’t find any damage.
“Now you want to tell me what the hell that accomplished?” the other guy asked.
“It made me feel better,” Stig said.
“Moron,” was the muttered reply. Then to me: “That was stupid, what you did. Where’d you think you were going? The doors are all steel and all combination-locked.
I shrugged. “I thought it was worth a try.”
“All you got out of it was making this . . . my friend here mad, which is not a good idea.”
“Tell me about it,” I mumbled.
He was an average-sized guy, maybe a little taller than average, and aside from the usual black ski mask, he was the only one who wasn’t dressed for a ninja movie. He wore a reddish plaid flannel shirt and brown corduroys. Unlike the others, he had shoes on his feet. “He belongs back in the tent,” he told Stig. “And get him cleaned up, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Stig said dully.
“No, I don’t want you touching him”—a real edge of asperity here. “I want the other one to do it.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
I was still on the floor, sagging against the wall, hurt and bleeding from mouth and nose, but my mind was working fine, picking up information with almost every sentence. I now knew for sure that of the three people I’d interacted with so far, this new guy was the boss, which confirmed the impression I’d gotten over the telephone. And since he’d referred to Gullveig as “the other one,” didn’t that mean that the three of them were all there were?
Most important, I knew that they thought, or at least the man in charge did, that I’d been trying to get to the door. It hadn’t occurred to them that I’d be crazy enough to jump through a closed window, especially when I had no idea, or so they thought, of how high up we were. That would make it easier to try again the next time. When and if.
“And when he’s cleaned up, get him secured again.”
“I will.”
“Properly secured this time.”
“I said I’ll see to it.”
“I’ll come by and see for myself later.”
“I said I’ll see to it!”
Yes, definitely a little tension there. Maybe something else I could exploit.
NEVERTHELESS, Stig did dutifully see to it. In a few minutes I was well and truly secured, my right hand attached to the cot’s frame via handcuffs and chain . . . and my right leg shackled to it with another chain that had one end padlocked to the foot of the frame and the other one firmly looped around my ankle and padlocked as well.
Only then did we get around to the clean-up phase. And indeed, Gullveig was “the other one,” but Stig chose to leave it to me, tossing me a wad of wet paper towels to dab at the mess on my face while the others stood around and watched.
My face was swollen, but I could find only one injury worth mentioning: a split lip (no surprise there) that was still oozing blood. I kept the towel pressed to it.
Gullveig checked the padlocks one more time and gestured at various objects in the tent. “There’s food in the cartons and water in the jugs. That’s a chemical toilet over there. You know how to use it?”
“Yes, but it’s going to be a little hard with these,” I said, jangling the chains.
“Oh, that breaks my heart,” said Stig.
“Is there anything else you need?” Gullveig asked.
If it sounds as if she was concerned about my welfare, then I’ve given the wrong impression. She came across as a technician assessing the maintenance and preservation requirements of a piece of perishable merchandise.
Which is what I was.
I shook my head. “I’m all right.” I was too. One would have thought—I would have thought—that being bound hand and foot like this would have been enough to drive me around the bend, but I guess I didn’t have enough adrenaline left in me to do the job. What would happen when the adrenaline well was filled again I didn’t know and didn’t like to think about. “Um, I suppose there wouldn’t be any point in asking for those pills back?” I tried to make it a casual question but I don’t think I succeeded.
“You got that right,” Stig said with a laugh.
“Where are we anyway?” I asked. “How about at least telling me that?” Pointless, but it was what you did when you’d been kidnapped.
“Miles from anyone,” Stig answered, “so don’t waste your time yelling for help. There’s no one to hear but us, and it would only annoy us.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to do that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Also, don’t move anything in here, you hear what I’m saying? That would bug me too. The bed stays where it is, everything stays where it is. You have everything you need within reach. And keep away from the walls of the tent. I don’t want to see you touching them.” He spoke to Gullveig. “Check him again.”
“But I just—”
“Check him again.”
Okay, the full chain of command was now firmly established in my mind. The other man, the one who had interrupted Stig’s little exercise on my face was at the top, Stig in the middle, and, at the bottom, Gullveig.
She tugged on the chain around my ankle, jiggled the locks, and tested the handcuffs. I smelled body lotion and perspiration as she bent over me. “He’s secure,” she said, straightening.
“What happens now?” I asked.
Nobody answered. Stig motioned Gullveig to precede him through the tent opening, then bent, followed her through, and began to pull the flap across.
“Hey!” I yelled. “How about telling me what time it is?”
He laughed again. “What difference does it make to you?”
“Screw you,” I muttered, loudly enough to prove I was still my own man (but not combatively enough to bring Stig back), and then, battered in mind and body, and nauseated from having swallowed so much blood, I turned over and dropped off into a fitful, edgy sleep.
Chapter 21
Detective Chief Inspector Ellert Ragnarsson stood at the window of his third-floor office in the dingy, off-white monolith that served as headquarters for the Reykjavik Metropolitan Police Department, a building—cold in the winter, hot in the summer—as unloved by the personnel who had to work in it as it was by the general public. Twiddling his fingers behind him and puffing away at his beloved fifty-year-old calabash (the one he was forbidden to smoke at home), he gazed out at the mixed sleet and rain that had been slopping down all morning out of mud-gray skies. Ugh, nasty. He hated March. Like all Icelanders, he preferred the white stuff. At least you didn’t get freezing water down your neck when it snowed.
When the pipe went out he tried once or twice to keep it going, then gave up and tenderly placed it in the antique pipe rest on the gray metal bookcase behind his gray metal desk and went back to looking out the window. Across the street, the hunched, soaked, unhappy-looking people scuttling roachlike in and out of the oddly Orientalized intra-city bus terminal did their part to contribute to the day’s cheerlessness. A gloomy day in the far north, indeed, with little prospect of improvement in sight.
The arrival of the new man from Odysseus had done nothing for Ragnarsson’s mood. Ordinarily, he was not given to snap judgments about people, and Julian Minor ha
d walked into his office not even twenty minutes earlier. Still, the impression he’d made was anything but favorable, perhaps because the chief inspector had been expecting another Bryan Bennett, with all his confidence and ready certainties. But Minor, with his ear-lapped, fur-lined hat, his banker’s three-piece suit, and his fuddy-duddy manner, had seemed more like a punctilious assistant office manager than a skilled and experienced hostage negotiator.
Seated on the visitor’s chair beside the chief inspector’s desk, Minor methodically clicked his sleek, silvery ballpoint pen one, two, three, four—Ragnarsson gritted his teeth—five, six, seven times, checked to see that the point was withdrawn, placed it in his inside jacket pocket, read what he’d written one more time, nodded his approval, and said: “I think that should do it, Chief Inspector. In my opinion, this should go into tomorrow’s paper.”
“Mmp,” Ragnarsson rumbled, coming back to the desk and sitting down. Minor slid the paper across to him, and Ragnarsson took it without much confidence. The fastidious care with which he’d printed out the brief message in small, perfect, perfectly aligned block letters, hadn’t helped any.
“Well now, let’s see what we have here,” Ragnarsson said with gruff, largely false good cheer.
The proposed advertisement was almost exactly what the kidnappers had demanded: “Prestigious home, 400 acres, stables, woods. Near Akureyri. USD 850,000. Contact Mr. Julian Minor, Tel: 295-5266.”
Almost, but not quite. “They’ve demanded five million. I see you’re offering eight-hundred-and-fifty thousand.”
“In point of fact, yes.” Minor had his hands resting on the desk, his fingertips touching. Unless Ragnarsson was mistaken, he thought sourly, the man went to a manicurist. He wore cologne too.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ragnarsson said. “They were quite explicit—no counteroffers would be accepted. It’s up to you people, of course; it’s not my place to influence any decision as to ransom, but aren’t you concerned . . . ?”
“I take your point,” Minor said. “I do, indeed, but I believe we can assume with reasonable safety that their threats are empty. I assure you that they don’t expect to get five million dollars. We’ll offer the eight-fifty, they’ll be ‘outraged’ and counter with four million, we’ll offer one, they’ll come down to three, we’ll say two, and we’ll settle for two-and-a-half. Three, if need be.”
Ragnarsson’s bristly, V-shaped eyebrows went up. Whatever the merits of the plan, he had to admit that when it came to ready certainties, Minor was no slouch either. “Ah? I understood from Bryan that twenty-five percent was the more usual figure. That would be one and a half, if I’m not mistaken.”
“In the normal course of events, you might be right, but only when we have weeks of bargaining at our disposal. In the present circumstances, however, we are anxious to settle as quickly as possible. That being so, two and a half is a more likely outcome.”
Ragnarsson couldn’t help laughing. “If it’s as cut-and-dried as that, why not settle it for two and a half million right now and eliminate all this busywork?”
“There’s a right way to do this, Chief Inspector,” Minor said in gentle reproof.
“Of course. I understand.” The hell he did. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t be handing them one damn cent, but Minor was supposed to be the expert here, not him, and the chief had said to give him plenty of leeway, at least for a while. Well, he would. For a while. It was their money, after all, but still it was hard not to say something. He went and got the pipe and took some time to get it going again with the fearsome lighter—a jet like a flame-thrower—his son had given him for his last birthday. “Now as to this money, this $850,000. Suppose . . . huff . . . they take you up on your offer—”
“They won’t.”
“But suppose for a moment that they do. Do you already have it . . . huff . . . available?”
“As it happens, no, not yet, but the difficulties are basically logistical. It’s not easy to pull together that much currency, especially used currency, to say nothing of negotiating its way through the banking and finance regulations of both our countries. Fortunately, I have a good many contacts in that area and things should move quickly. The process is already in motion. I hope to have the first four hundred thousand dollars in a vault at Kaupthing Bank here in Iceland by tomorrow morning, and all the rest that we might need no later than the following day.”
“You can do this on a weekend? Tomorrow is Saturday. The ‘following day’ is a Sunday.”
“I have reason to believe it can be done, yes.”
Ragnarsson was beginning to wonder if he’d been a little quick in his evaluation of Minor. “I gather from all this . . . huff . . . that your people—the Odysseus Institute—are . . . huff . . . determined to pay for Bryan’s release, then.”
Now it was Minor’s neat gray eyebrows that lifted. “Determined? Hardly. Willing? Certainly, if that’s what it takes. Understand, Chief Inspector, my first obligation here is—”
“The preservation of life,” Ragnarsson said brusquely, looking to see that the pipe had been fully lit, which it had. “Yes, so I’ve been informed.”
He got out of the leather-backed chair and went to the window again. Minor waited politely for him to continue.
“My first obligations, on the other hand,” he said forcefully, “are the prevention of crime and the apprehension of criminals.” His arms were crossed, his back was to Minor. The well-chewed stem of the big pipe was clenched between his jaws. This was the fourth bit he’d had to have made for the calabash, and it was about ready for a fifth.
“I take your point,” Minor said respectfully.
“And so, my question to you, Mr. Negotiator, is: Will you work with me in those aims? May I count on your sharing information and keeping me abreast of events so that we can do our job too? It would work both ways, naturally.”
“Of course I will,” Minor said, surprised at the question. “That’s why I’m here now. I’ll do everything I can to help you arrest these people, and to recover the ransom too. It’s only that Bryan’s safety comes first.”
Mollified, Ragnarsson turned from the window. “That’s good, Julian.” He saw Minor stiffen slightly at the intimacy. “We go by first names, here,” he explained, “but if you prefer—”
“No, no, not at all . . . er, ahum . . . Ellert. Ahum.” He fiddled with the knot on his tie.
Ragnarsson very nearly laughed. He was starting to like Minor. The man did have a certain antiquated charm to him, and so far, at least, he seemed to know his stuff. “Let me ask you about something else that worries me, though, Julian. You seem to be letting a lot ride on their knowing these ‘rules’ you talk about as well as you do. But this is the VBJ we’re dealing with, you know; hardly experienced professionals.”
“Perhaps, but they seem to be quick learners, Chief Inspector—ah, Ellert. Consider the differences between the first note—the one for Baldursson—and the second one, for Bryan, a mere eight or ten hours later.”
Ragnarsson squinted through tobacco smoke. “Differences.”
“The first one,” said Minor, “was ninety percent harangue, with nothing whatever about method of payment, and so on and so forth. The second is all business, very professional. Not a word about earthrapers or war crimes.”
“A reference to Bryan as a corporate lapdog, as I recall.”
“True, but that was all. And the intent is entirely different. The first time it was ‘Publish this or else.’ This time it’s ‘Give us the money or else,’ accompanied by highly specific instructions on how to proceed. I’m sure you made note of the contrast.”
Ragnarsson, who had in fact failed to make note of the contrast, cleared his throat. It seemed he’d sold Minor short, all right. “And from that you infer?”
“Well, I’ve been giving that some thought, and it seems to me to indicate a sharpening of focus, a shift in their priorities from propaganda to profit. It’s as if they’ve pulled themselves toget
her and decided what they can realistically salvage out of all this, given the hash they’ve made of it thus far. There may well have been internal dissension, perhaps a change in leadership. Or it may be that they’ve sought the guidance of someone more seasoned—a professional.”
Ragnarsson’s eyebrows went up. “A professional kidnapper? Is there such a thing?”
“Oh, yes,” Minor said. He had his fingertips together on the edge of the desk and studied them for a few moments. “At this point in time, however,” he said, “it would be premature to pursue these inferential hypotheses.”
This time Ragnarsson did laugh. “I’ll buy that,” he said. “Now. About the money—the two and a half or three million dollars that you believe will eventually be required. I have a suggestion.”
“I am eager to hear it,” Minor said pleasantly.
Ragnarsson peered at him, not sure whether or not he was being sarcastic, but giving him the benefit of the doubt; the man certainly did have his own way of putting things. “It’s this, Julian: Iceland is not as thoroughly behind the times as you might think. We have ultraviolet currency-marking equipment and scanners here, and some experience in using them. When those bills arrive, I’d like to get my people started on them so that we have some hope of—”
To his astonishment Minor let out a laugh before quickly resettling his face. “Indeed? And how many people did you have in mind?”
“Two, if necessary,” he said, biting down on the pipe as he grew more irritated, “or even three. In all honesty, I fail to see what—”
“Forgive me, I meant no offense. It’s only that the very idea of . . . Ellert, you say your people have marked bills before. On the average, how long would you say one needs to allow per bill?”
“On average? Two or three seconds, no more.”
“Including marking, recording, bundling, and all?”
“All right, four seconds, if you like.”
“Even considering that these would not be smooth, new bills?”
“Five seconds, then. If you would get to the point—”