by Aaron Elkins
The cave stretched out behind me, sloping downward for another thirty feet before the darkness swallowed it up. A few yards into it was a moldering skeleton that I’d first taken for that of a human being but soon realized that it wasn’t. (The horns were my first clue.) Probably a goat, I thought; perhaps the former occupant of my collar. Of my captors there was no sign, but I knew that they were nearby, because I had hazy memories of their coming in with flashlights to look at me while I was sleeping, and of the gate clanging open and shut. They’d been in sweaters or fleeces, not coats, so I knew that they’d set up shop nearby.
I opened a plastic bottle of cranberry juice and flopped down on the mattress to do a little cogitating. With each passing minute I was more sure that the panic attacks were over and done with, and that was a wonderful thought.
Which is not to say that I had nothing to fear. Not only did Camano have it in for me from the beginning, but now I’d gotten a look, a good look, at the faces of the other two.
No question about it now. I’d have to be killed.
Chapter 33
“He’ll have to be killed,” Stig declared. “He saw our faces.”
“If you’d been wearing your hood the way you were supposed to . . .” Camano grumbled.
“He saw Gullveig’s face too.”
“Well, I couldn’t very well run out into the courtyard wearing a hood, could I?” she spat back.
“Whatever the reason,” Stig said. “We can’t let him loose. Once the news about Baldur Baldursson’s death gets out, the police—”
“Another event for which we have you to thank,” Gullveig said bitterly. She had been showing more and more signs of displeasure with Stig recently. Camano doubted that they were still sleeping together. “All the same, Stig is right, Paris, you know he is. He’ll have to be killed.”
Camano was so disgusted with the two of them he could hardly bring himself to reply. The longer this mess went on, the more screwed up it got. And now he was reduced to freezing in this damp, moldering, falling-down, two-room hut with its single worthless, stinking stove (was that evil-smelling stuff peat? Coal?) in the company of these two cretins.
The place belonged to an ancient great-uncle of Gullveig’s who had built it in 1938 as the guard shack and ticket booth for “Vatnajökull Cave, Iceland’s second-longest lava tube.” This was the attraction that was to make the family’s fortune when the coming tourist boom arrived as a result of the decision by the Cunard cruise line in 1938 to make Iceland a port of call on its transatlantic cruises.
Unfortunately, it didn’t happen that way. German U-boats put an end to the North Atlantic pleasure-cruise business for more than seven years, and by the time the war was over, the busybody geologists and spelunkers had demoted Vatnajökull to Iceland’s eleventh-longest lava tube, a designation that failed to draw any tourist hordes. The shack had been abandoned for going on seven decades now, and the cave next to it had been forgotten years ago as well. And the rockstrewn, six-mile-long track that led to the place, more imaginary than real to begin with, was now mostly a memory.
That was the good part—unless you already knew about that track and were specifically hunting for it, you’d never find it, and if you didn’t find it, you weren’t going to find the shack and the cave either. Then too, the cave itself could practically have been designed to hold a prisoner; great-uncle Snaevar had thoughtfully embedded twin ring bolts in the walls, originally for the chain that would hold the surging crowds back, but equally good for keeping a captive in one place without the need for constant guarding.
All the same, these very advantages were a source of personal concern. In a city, if one had to, one could disappear in two minutes. Just walk out into the street, turn the nearest corner, and fade into the crowds. But here!—with no people and no other buildings, there was nothing to fade into. There weren’t even any trees. A police helicopter would spot you in no time. Besides, the city-bred Camano was simply out of his element when he was in the country, and he knew it; especially godforsaken country like this. The jumbled, brown moonscape of lava outcroppings and jagged boulders that surrounded the shack and went bleakly on for miles in every direction made him uncertain, threw him off balance.
That was why he had vetoed the idea of using it in the first place, when Gullveig, Stig, and Magnus had been all for it. But now things had changed, and they were lucky to have the place.
“Yes, all right, he’ll have to be killed,” he finally agreed, as if he hadn’t decided on it the minute he’d heard that Bryan was in Reykjavik. “But not yet. We need him alive until this is wrapped up.”
“Why?” asked Stig.
“In case there are more proof-of-life questions,” Gullveig said knowledgeably.
“Exactly, Gullveig.”
“When, then?” persisted Stig.
“Tomorrow, I think. I want to close down negotiations then, anyway. This is getting too damn ridiculous.”
Stig nodded, satisfied. “I want to do it myself. I owe him.”
Camano raised an eyebrow at him. Not the way I do, you don’t. “We’ll see,” he said.
Chapter 34
It took me twenty minutes or so of tossing things around in my mind to conclude that I probably wasn’t in any immediate danger; not tonight, anyway. Camano was knowledgeable enough to want me available in case more proof of my being alive was required before any money changed hands. And Julian, a stickler when it came to such things, was knowledgeable enough to demand it. Besides, the fact that they’d supplied me with a parka, shoes, blankets, and food had to mean that they preferred that I keep body and soul together for at least a little while. (Didn’t it?)
But how long was a while? If I really intended to get out of here alive, I needed to get going on a plan now.
Okay. Plan.
Huddled over lunch (cheese, chicken-flavored crackers, beef jerky, and mixed nuts) with my coat zipped up and a blanket draped over my shoulders, I managed to come up with one. Not so much a plan, really, as a set of assumptions, based on the inferences and observations I’d gleaned over the last few days, on which a plan of sorts could be constructed.
Item: Getting out of here depended on getting the key to one of the two padlocks on the chain. This was surely the most firmly based of the assumptions.
Item: Camano would have the key on him. This was the flimsiest assumption, based on an equally shaky inference: On the first day of my captivity, when Gullveig had needed the key for my handcuffs, she’d asked Stig for it and his reply had been, “He keeps it. I’ll get it from him.” Well, who else could he be but Camano? And didn’t keeps it imply that he kept it, not in a drawer somewhere, but on his person? And if he had the key then, wasn’t it probable that he had it now? (I know, I know, I said it was shaky, didn’t I?)
Item: Paris’s sizeable ego had taken a huge hit when I’d ruined his Big Moment by professing to have no recollection of George Henry Camano.
Item: Because this had to be driving the man nuts, at some point before they did me in he would want to confront me with his identity and with the fact that, in the end, it was he who had bested me. But . . .
Item: There was palpable enmity and an underpinning of rivalry between Camano and Stig. Therefore, considering Camano’s giantsize ego, he would be loath to have Stig hear about his bumbling past. Which meant that he had to keep it from Gullveig as well. Which meant . . .
Item: When he did come, he would come alone. It would be me, Camano, and the key, and that would be when I’d have to act. Or never.
I needed a weapon.
Chapter 35
On-scene witness interrogation of Svanhildur Hreinsdottir, recorded and transcribed by Constable Jónmundur Petersson, 0400, 04 April 2010.
Q. Will you state your name and address?
A: My name is Svanhildur Hreinsdottir, and I live right here, at Digranesvegur 44, apartment 66 D.
Q: And about what time did you witness the incident you are about to describe?
&
nbsp; A: Maybe an hour and a half ago.
Q: That would be about 2:30 a.m.?
A: About.
Q: Please tell me in your own words what you saw.
A: I was watching television—I don’t sleep too well, and I was watching a program about lions on National Geographic, and I was just thinking about making myself a—”
Q: And you heard something?
A: Yes, I heard this tremendous crash, so I ran to the window, that window right there, and I saw that one of the ground-floor windows in D block was broken and there was a man lying on the ground in front of it, trying to get up, and he was holding something heavy, some kind of big box or crate in his arms, so I thought, well, he must be a burglar trying to get away. And sure enough, in a minute a bunch of people came running out—
Q: How many people?
A: Three, I think. Yes, three. And they just picked him up and took him back inside. And that was all.
Q: Would you be able to describe any of the three people?
A: Oh, no, it was dark.
Q: Could you tell if they were men or women?
A: (Shakes head.)
Q: Could you hear anything they were saying?
A: No, I didn’t want to open my window.
Q: What about the man with the package in his arms? Could you tell what he looked like?
A: (Shakes head.) Well, he was a man, but don’t ask me how I know. You can just tell.
Q: But you didn’t dial 112 at that time?
A: No, because when they took him back I saw that he wasn’t exactly walking straight, if you know what I mean, so I thought, well, I bet he wasn’t a thief at all, he was just drunk and he fell through the window by accident. But then when they went back inside, the first thing they did was put some kind of big canvas up over the window so you couldn’t see in. But there were shadows on it, on the canvas, and I could see that they were running around—there was a lot of activity, you know? For about half an hour, and then suddenly it was all quiet, as if they all left. Well, the whole thing struck me as kind of funny by then, and that’s when I called 112. I hope I didn’t bother you for nothing.
Q: No, ma’am, you did the right thing. Thank you very much.
END OF TRANSCRIPT
Seated in the visitor’s chair, Detective Sergeant Tinna Gudmundsdóttir waited politely, hands folded in her lap, until the detective chief inspector lifted his head, signifying that he’d finished the slim case file. “This happened more than sixteen hours ago,” he said. “What has taken so long to inform me?”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t see the report until four this afternoon, but, naturally, as soon as I read it I thought of Bryan Bennett.”
“I understand. And so you went out to look for yourself?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve just come back from there. It’s one of those new building complexes in Kópavegur, mostly still unoccupied—a perfect place to hold someone. And there’s no doubt that that’s where they had him. A tent set up in the middle of the living room, a cot, even a BB pressed into the rubber flooring. Also various—”
Ellert scowled. “A beebee?”
“His initials. Bryan Bennett.”
“Ah.”
“I tried to find out to whom it was rented, but the manager was away in—”
“Never mind about that right now. Put Halli on all that.” He was leaning back in his chair, tranquilly puffing on the calabash, but his mind was spinning ideas. “They need to find someplace else in a great hurry,” he said, thinking aloud. “They don’t have time to go looking for another apartment to rent; they’ll have to use someplace that’s already available to them—but someplace well suited to hold a captive in secrecy.” He lifted a shaggy eyebrow at her. “Does anything come to mind?”
Tinna looked at him. “You think . . . ?”
“I think. Can you leave in thirty minutes?”
“You want me to come with you?”
“I want you, I want Brynjar, I want Björn, I want Klemenz. Gummi too. If they’re off duty, bring them in. Two cars. No, better make that three.”
“WELL, well, well.” With a shake of her head, Professor Emeritus Zeta Parkington gathered together the journals and printouts that Teddy had found for her and laid them aside. Her guesses about Bryan’s condition had been confirmed. The young man was in for a few shockers when they next got together.
Good thing he was having himself a nice, relaxing week in Iceland right now.
Chapter 36
The temperature in the cave must have been near constant, but I got colder as the day wore on and the dampness and the chill worked their way into my bones. I spent most of the time squatting or lying on the mattress with my coat collar turned up, my hands in my pockets, and both blankets snugged around me. No sign of Camano, but Gullveig and Stig came for the usual jailhouse shakedown, during which I asked them for gloves. To my surprise, Gullveig came back a little later and tossed an old pair of mittens to me.
“I see no reason for unnecessary suffering,” she said when I expressed my gratitude. Since Stig hadn’t come with her, I assumed he was of a different opinion.
For the rest of the day, I was left to my own devices, which was all right with me, because I had work to do. Not long after dark the crunching of footsteps and the beam of a flashlight alerted me that someone was coming.
Be Camano, I urged.
And it was; the flashlight’s jiggling beam illuminated his face briefly as he fumbled with the gate catch. It had worked! He was here—and he was alone! A combination of exhilaration and apprehension flared up in me like a match. I tore off the mittens, flung aside the blankets, and threw myself onto the mattress, curled up on my side and facing the entrance. I lowered my eyelids until my eyes were slits. Through a curtain of quavering eyelashes I watched him approach. It took all my willpower to keep still.
He stopped ten feet away and ran the beam over me. “Bennett.”
I didn’t respond.
“Bennett!”
I didn’t respond.
“Bennett, I know you’re not sleeping.”
Nothing from me.
He hesitated and came closer. It seemed impossible for me to tense up any more, but I managed. I imagined I could hear my nerves twanging like piano wire.
He used a foot to nudge me in the ankle. I uttered a grunting noise or two, figuring it would be more convincing than complete silence. He did it again, in the hip this time, and closer to a kick. I made few more grunts and weakly, irritatedly flapped an arm at him. I realized with a little shock that I was imitating my father’s reaction to attempts to rouse him from the semiconscious aftermath of one of his binges.
I could tell that Camano was now uncertain. He came a little closer and bent slightly down, shining the light directly into my face. I closed my eyes all the way.
“Bennett?”
I waited for the next kick, and the instant it came, my right arm, the upper one, swept out in an arc and encircled his legs behind the knees while my left hand grabbed his right ankle. A hard shove on the ankle, a simultaneous pull against the back of his knees with all my body weight behind it, and the knees buckled, the flashlight went flying, and he toppled over onto his back, scattering soup packets and juice cartons. I scrambled to my own knees and got hold of his shoulder as he began to struggle up. Although the flashlight had ended up pointing away from us, it provided enough reflected light for me to see the rapid progression of expressions that crossed his face, one after the other, in the space of two seconds: surprise, incredulity, anger.
He squirmed up and went for my eyes with his thumbs, but I twisted my face away, and he got his hands around my neck instead and squeezed. We were staring into each other’s eyes, our faces only a few inches apart. I pressed the point of the weapon I had fashioned into the hollow at the base of his throat. Camano went stone still. His fingers eased up a little, but didn’t come away from my neck.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?” he croaked.
“Wh
at does it feel like?” I said. I rotated the handle a bit so that he could see a little of it from the corner of his eye.
What I hoped it looked like, of course, was a knife. What it was was the hollow plastic flush lever from the toilet, into the narrow cavity of which I’d jammed the handle of a spork, first breaking off the two outside tines and leaving only the central one, which was intended to have the feel of a knifepoint.
Apparently it did. His fingers loosened a little more.
“Take your hands off my neck.”
He hesitated, deciding. I took a chance and pressed the point a little harder into the yielding skin. Fortunately, it yielded more than the plastic-coated paper point, but not by much. Any more pressure on the point, and it would fold right up, but Camano folded first. He let go of my neck, otherwise keeping very still.
“Now lie down and turn over onto your side, facing away from me.”
As he did, I kept the tine pressed against his neck from behind. “Now reach into whatever pocket you have it in and give me the key to the padlock.”
“I don’t keep it on me. Do you think I’m that stupid? I wouldn’t—”
I pressed the spork a tiny bit harder into his throat—I didn’t dare really lean into it because that lone, pathetic little tine was already bending. A spork, I was finding, wasn’t any better at killing someone than at eating soup. “Don’t make me kill you. If I have to, I will.”
“All right, all right, hold it. Let me sit up. It’ll make it easier.”
“No.”
He muttered a curse, pulled a key ring with one lone key on it from his hip pocket, and held it up.