by Jack Barnao
We stopped at last. Everyone got out of the back seat, then the door on my side opened and the driver unclicked my seat belt and Carla tugged my arm until I half fell out of the car. I could tell it was her from the presence of her perfume but her hands were as strong as a man's.
She jerked me upright and I felt concrete under my feet, or old stone possibly. In Florence you couldn't be sure. Then someone slammed the car door and it echoed. We were inside something. I wondered what.
Carla shoved me, steering by the pressure of the gun in my back. If I hadn't been blindfolded I would have swung at her, Herbie could have distracted Scavuzzo and I might have had a kick at the other guy. But if we were inside something, then someone outside the car had closed the outer door after us and if he was still present, the odds were too long.
I heard a door being opened ahead of me, then Herbie said, "What, in there?" in a surprised tone and the next moment I was shoved against a door jamb and inside some smaller space. I could tell it from the echoes, that was all. Herbie was still with me, that much was good.
"Stay there quietly," Carla said, and a door shut behind us.
I stood, listening carefully for about thirty seconds. Then I asked Herb. "Can you take this blindfold off me?"
"Sure." His fingers were trembling but he untied the knot and I could see again. There wasn't a lot to look at. We were inside an unlighted, windowless shed about thirty by twenty feet. Three walls were wood, the other was stone. I guessed we were up against some ancient wall, inside a tool shed of some kind. Only there were no tools or useful objects around that I could see.
Herbie's face was just visible, pale in the gloom. "What are they going to do to us?"
"They're going to sell you back to your folks. Don't worry," I told him cheerfully but he didn't reassure so easily.
"I don't think so. They're talking like they're going to kill us." His voice was trembling but I overrode it, heartily. Let's hear it for military command training.
"We're not dead yet. Now come here and feel carefully into the left lapel of my jacket."
"What am I feeling for?" He was bright enough to start looking before he started asking questions. That was a good sign.
"You're looking for a darning needle, about an inch and a half long. I stuck it there earlier on today, I know it's there."
He prodded the lapel until he found it, the hard way, the point in his finger. He hissed annoyance but didn't beef.
"I've got it. Now what do I do with it?"
"Hang on to it. If you drop it we'll never find it in this gloom." I turned around so that my handcuffed wrists were towards him. "This is difficult, so take your time."
"What do I have to do? Pick the lock?"
"No. Take the right cuff, now, can you see, or feel, which way the ratchet is working?"
He could and slowly I coached him through sliding the needle down into the ratchet, flipping the catch up so that he could unfasten the cuffs, one painful click at a time. It took us about one minute per tooth and my hand was only halfway to freedom when we heard the sound of voices outside.
"Stick the needle back in my lapel, out of sight," I whispered and he did. "Right, now stand behind me, in case only one of them has a gun. I can take a run at him."
He wanted to protest but there was no time. A lock clattered and the door swung open. Carla was there, with the gunman. She stood in the doorway and called to us. "Herb, come out from behind Locke."
He didn't move and Carla shrugged and said, "Have it your own way, I'll just tell Pietro to shoot Locke in the legs."
I wasn't sure whether she meant it but I didn't argue when Herbie walked to one side of me. She didn't seem to have a gun. That meant we had a chance if Herbie could hold her while I kicked Pietro's lights out. Not a good chance, but a chance.
He was too careful for me. Carla told us, "Come on out, Herbie, keep your hands on your head." And as we came to the doorway he backed off, out of striking range but plenty close enough for his gun to do its job.
"Sit down," Carla said. "You don't have to come all the way out." I was close enough to the door to see that we were inside a covered courtyard, old but not distinctive in any way. It was paved with flagstones. I couldn't see any doorway but when I sat down on the ground, like a good little prisoner, I could see the inside of the roof which was covered with the familiar baked tiles of the region. That meant that if we could climb up the wall we could break out. Good news.
Carla was carrying a purse and she opened it and took out a tiny Phillips tape recorder. "Time to say your lines," she said, smiling as if she meant it. She was wearing a light blouse and skirt and a whisper of perfume and I could feel Herbie yearning for her as we both waited to see what new nastiness she had dreamed up.
"I've written out what you're to say, don't make any mistakes with it," she said. She held out the paper to Herbie. "Read it through, then read it into the machine."
He read it to himself, frowning, then nodded and Carla handed him the machine. "You talk into there," she said, then pressed the Record button and motioned to him to begin.
"Hi, Mom and Dad. I am well and safe as long as you pay the money like the people tell you to. Please don't try to catch them or anything because they're going to kill me if you do."
He handed her the recorder and she switched it off and said, "Good. Now let's see how your kidnapper can handle his part."
She was crouching to be at our level and she pivoted on the ball of her foot so that she was facing me, her perfect breasts on a level with my eyes. She held out the piece of paper for me to read and I glanced through it and looked up into her wonderful brown eyes. "This is pretty smart, think of it yourself?"
"Just read it, and don't add anything," she snapped.
She held out the tape recorder and I read the words from the paper. "This is John Locke. Herbie will be fine as long as the money is delivered safely. We want five million dollars in United States one hundred dollar bills. Put the money into your matching leather suitcases, Mrs. Ridley, and go with the bellboy, out to the street with the moneybags on a baggage trolley. A car will drive up and the driver will ask if this is the Ridley luggage. You will say yes and get into the car. The money will be put into the trunk and the car will leave. Tell the police not to follow the car or to plant bugs or try any tricks of any kind. You and the boy will be released twelve hours after the ransom is paid."
Carla pulled the tape recorder away and rewound the tape and crouched listening to it like a teenager grooving on a Mick Jagger offering. Then she stood up, frowning as she noticed the cuts on my ear, still bleeding from her efforts with the gun barrel.
"Your ear's a mess," she said almost indignantly as if it was my fault she was obliged to notice.
"The bullet hole you're planning to put through it will be even more untidy," I said.
"Don't jump the gun. We made our bargain last night," she said. "Nothing's changed. I'm sorry about the ear."
"I'll remember that."
Suddenly she grinned. "Did you ever read Alice in Wonderland when you were a kid?" she asked.
"Of course. And since. Are you going to send me a white rabbit to steer me out of this mess?"
"No." She shook her head, smiling like Miss World. "No. But I guess you remember the Caucus Race."
I frowned and nodded. "I think so. 'All have won and all must have prizes.'"
"You're not just a pretty face, are you?" She laughed and shut the door on us.
In the darkness Herbie's calm evaporated. His voice was nervous as he asked, "What was that all about?"
"It means she's playing games with us, Herb. Maybe it's all in fun but I'm not sure I know the rules."
Herb was learning. He didn't waste time complaining or wondering why Carla was playing around. He asked, "Want me to have another go at your handcuffs?"
"Right on." I let him take the needle then turned for him to pick away at the cuffs. He freed one tooth almost immediately and was saying, "Now we've got it,"
when I heard the tiny click of the needle snapping.
Chapter 19
Herbie swore, softly. Then he said, "I'm sorry, John, the needle broke."
"It was going to happen sometime. Don't worry, can you use the broken piece?"
He fiddled with the cuffs some more before giving up. "No, it's too short, it won't reach the tooth on the ratchet."
"Let me try for a moment, see if I can wriggle my hand out of it," I said. "You hold the handcuff tight, I'll tug."
"Okay." He held the cuff and I struggled against it until my eyes were just about bugging out. The loop was looser and I could get my hand in almost up to the base of my thumb but not quite far enough to get it through. When my wrist got too sore I gave up.
"Okay, give it a rest. Let's take a look around, the best we can in this lousy light. See if there's a scrap of wire or a nail or something we could use to spring the ratchet. The ideal thing is the key from a can of sardines."
He was scared but he was happy to play my game, pretending nothing was serious. He said, "A sardine can key? You're kidding."
"No, deadly earnest. If we come across the litter from some sloppy picnic, we're laughing."
"I'll bear it in mind," he said gruffly. The little bastard sounded so macho I could have hugged him if I hadn't been out of commission. I was starting to believe he should have been kidnapped years earlier, the experience was doing him good.
Our prison was almost completely dark and it took us about an hour to go over every inch of it, noses close to the walls first, then the floor, looking for anything we could have used to open my cuffs. There was nothing. By then, my eyes had grown accustomed enough to the gloom that I was able to see that the roof was boarded in. There was no chance of breaking out, the way we could have done through the tiles of the courtyard roof outside. We would have needed a jimmy bar. Something else we didn't have.
"Right, Herb, let's think what we do now," I said. "Since we're not going to get anything to eat, we might as well feed our fancy with revenge. How can we kick these bastards' heads in?"
"I thought you would have a plan," he said carefully.
"Oh I do," I lied, "But let's see what you come up with, good mental exercise. For openers, what's outside the courtyard or whatever it is that we're in?"
"It's a big garden. Roses, trees, flowers, nice grass. Like a graveyard only with no graves."
I wasn't sure that would still be the case once Scavuzzo had collected the cash. Herbie and I would fit nicely under one of his rose bushes. But despondency wasn't going to get us home safe so I breezed on.
"Good lad. You really took notice. Did we come in through a gate that had to be opened, or was it just a driveway?"
He had that one too. "There's a big iron gate and a man there who opened it when he saw the car coming. I think he was waiting for us because he ran out and did it as soon as we turned the corner at the end of the street."
"What kind of street is it?"
"More of a road really, just a couple of other houses along it over the last half mile," he said. "Looked rich to me."
"Herb, you'd make a good soldier," I told him. "Did we cross the river coming here?"
"Yes." He was excited now, proud of remembering the details. "It seemed to me that we went back along the river on the other side for a couple of miles, then crossed and came back a bit towards town."
I sat still, weighing the information he'd given me. Big houses with gate-keepers and well-kept grounds probably meant there would be guard dogs running free, maybe little men with guns as well. Escaping wouldn't be as simple as just getting through one door and making a dash for it. I figured we would need a car. Certainly we would need firepower. Probably our best hope of getting away was to barricade ourselves inside the house and phone the police. I wondered if they were keeping tabs on the addresses where Scavuzzo could be found. And I wondered how long it would take them to respond if we did call in.
Herb stood up as I sat comparing our options. He went over to the door to squint through the crack beside the hinge. I saw his shoulders sag. Nothing out there offered any hope. Then he came and sat down next to me, resting his back against the outer wall of our shed.
"Maybe if I acted like I was sick. She might send that guy to get somebody, then I could grab her and we could make her let us out."
"Not bad. But it would be better if we could overpower the guy with the gun. If you can take that off him then we've got some real leverage."
"Yeah." His voice was full of excitement but it all exhaled as he finished the thought. "Yeah, but how?"
We sat and thought about it for a while. "I think we should tackle them the next time they come in. We have to act early, before the money is delivered. They want us alive until then, in case your parents get cagey and ask them for proof that you're still alive."
"You mean that's all they're keeping us alive for?" he asked in a croak.
"Just being realistic. I don't think they're planning to release me. I know too much about who's doing what to whom. And being honest with ourselves, they may feel the same way about you."
He didn't speak for almost a minute. Then he said, "You really think so?"
"I'm afraid so, Herb. It happens in a lot of kidnappings, even when it's a child involved. With a guy your age, someone who just proved to me that he would be a good witness, they may want to play safe. But don't get despondent. All we have to do is overpower one man and get out of one door, that's all." Lies. Lies. But he had enough worrying to do without getting into details.
He was silent again and at last he asked, "Have you ever been, like, you know, closer than this to getting it?"
"Sure." Hell we were maybe hours away from death. I'd been within micro-seconds of it a time or two.
"When was the closest, for you?" Normally I don't tell war stories, but Herbie was asking the big question out of the big need, wanting to know how much space we really did have left in our lives. Without a valid comparison he couldn't understand.
"It was in the Falklands." I could remember the rain and the gunfire, the slow approach, on my belly over the wet ground. The damp cold eating into my joints while my heart raced as I anticipated the sentry seeing us and firing.
"Go on," Herbie said. "What happened?"
"Oh, it was a firefight. We won."
"Yes, otherwise you wouldn't be here. But tell me about it."
"Didn't I tell you that a gentleman doesn't talk about women he's known or men he's clobbered?" I asked him.
"Yeah, I remember," he said, "and I'm going to keep the rule, I promise, if it ever applies to me. But do me a favor, eh, I want to know." He wasn't looking for kicks. He was asking it in a flat, information-seeking voice, fearful for his own life. And because I wasn't sure I could save it for him, I told him.
"We were sent on a patrol against an Argentine base. Our objective was to overpower the sentries and destroy their guns, then retire with the minimum possible losses."
"And what happened?" I could make out the disk of his face, the eye sockets dark and deep as a panda's eyes as he stared at me.
"What happened was a screw-up at headquarters. Or maybe the cynical bastards thought they were helping us by making the enemy keep their heads down. Anyway, just as we reached the enemy position, our own mortars came down on them." I pressed my fingertips against the cool stone, beneath me, remembering the shriek and thunder of the incoming fire, the flashes that lit up my patrol as we squirmed the last couple of hundred meters.
"And a shell nearly got you?" He was probing gently, like a surgeon fingering an inflamed appendix.
"Maybe, but that doesn't count. When you look back somewhere and see a shell land and think it would have got you—if—that's just geography, you don't count that. What happened to me was that the explosion blew me up in the air, tearing my weapon out of my hands. I came down, half stunned and disarmed and found myself looking up at an Argie sentry. He'd been caught in the same blast but he still had his gun."
"And he shot at you and missed?" Herbie's voice ran up the scale almost to breaking point.
I shook my head. "Tighter than that." Closing my eyes I could still see it all. I had honestly looked into the eyes of death that night, into the terminal eye of a gun muzzle aimed point blank. "No, he shot me, only his gun barrel was stuffed with dirt from the blast and his weapon blew up on him. He was firing from the hip and the blowback drove the mechanism back through his gut."
He was quiet for a long moment then he asked me. "Did you kill him?"
"I didn't have to. He was gone." I could remember the whimpering that ended even before I retrieved my own H. & K. and went on, towards the guns.
He cleared his throat, nervously. "Listen, don't get me wrong, all right?"
"Shoot." I could guess what was coming.
"How many men have you killed?"
"That's classified. But the answer is, none that I could have avoided killing, I've always been a soldier, not a hit man."
I'd picked the wrong time for philosophy. He made a tightlipped little joke. "I hope you're in the mood for soldiering right now."
"As much as possible with my hands behind me. But why don't I show you what to do, if you get the chance. Stand up and I'll give you a couple of basics."
He stood up and I talked him through a couple of strikes and kicks, nothing fancy, nothing that required elegant placing of the blow, just plain brutal tactics that might enable him to stop some overconfident thug from putting a bullet through his head.
He was sweating and excited when I stopped, anxious to learn more. The new knowledge had given him back the self-respect that had gone when the first hood had shoved the first gun into his side. He was ready to hurt them and anxious for the chance.
"Come on, this is great," he said, moving around me lightly on the balls of his feet.
"Practice what you know," I told him. "Practice and practice until it's second nature. You may never need to know any more tricks, fighting isn't about tricks anyway, it's about readiness."