by Matt Rogers
Halfway through the process, his satellite phone barked.
He noticed Slater peel one eye open, curious enough to emerge from his nap.
He answered.
Violetta said, ‘You need to see something. We’ve received a video. I have to warn you — it’s not good.’
39
Slater hadn’t been asleep for more than a few minutes, but the room was awfully quiet and he heard every faint word from Violetta’s end.
He sat up immediately. ‘Ask her how they got it.’
King mirrored the enquiry, and thumbed a button to put her on speaker.
She said, ‘It’s from the kidnappers — whoever they are. They uploaded it to the dark web using tags they knew we’d be searching for. We found it eight minutes after it was uploaded. It’s… well, see for yourself.’
‘You’ll send it to this phone?’
‘Yes — it’s secure.’
‘Okay. Whenever you’re ready.’
He ended the call and tossed the phone to Slater, who fidgeted with the display. The satellite phone was blocky and archaic compared to the sleekness of commercial devices, but it was technologically state-of-the-art and could receive video files without issue. The screen was smaller and the quality less impressive than a typical smartphone, but Slater didn’t imagine they’d have to scrutinise the footage too hard to get the picture.
He was right.
The device vibrated in his hands, and he opened the MP4 file sent anonymously from a blocked number. Its thumbnail appeared on the screen, and both he and King took in the scene. Raya Parker, Oscar Perry, and the porter, Mukta, had their hands bound behind their backs, and their ankles strapped together, and grimy gags in their mouths. They were propped up in seated positions in front of a cheap plasterboard wall with no easily identifiable features. The lighting was weak, and all three of them were in rough condition.
Sure enough, Mukta had a horrifically swollen eye.
Perry had superficial cuts and scrapes, but nothing drastic.
Raya just looked exhausted.
‘You already know what this is going to be, right?’ King said.
Slater looked at him. ‘I could assume. I’m trying to be more optimistic, though.’
‘You shouldn’t be. Hit play.’
Slater took a deep breath.
Steeled himself for what was to come.
Hit play.
The trio came to life, transforming from a freeze frame into living, breathing people. They shook in the cold, and their teeth rattled against the gags, and Raya’s eyes seemingly went everywhere at once, fixating on multiple targets behind the camera.
Then two men who looked like the same Maoist rebels who’d ambushed them in Kharikhola stepped into frame.
They wore the same shiny boots and cheap camouflage fatigues, and they had the same soulless black eyes. That was all Slater could make out, because they were clad in cheap black balaclavas. They stared into the camera for a few beats, one on each side of the seated hostages, flanking the trio. Then one of them squatted down so he could speak into the camera.
His English was broken, but passable.
‘We know there are two soldier your government send on trail. This is good for us. It prove to us that you take this seriously, so we can make high demand. They are good soldier. They do lot of damage to us, but not enough. We have many men.’
He turned and looked at Raya, who stared defiantly back.
The guy reached out and touched her cheek.
Then returned his gaze to the camera.
‘She valuable,’ he said. ‘She very, very valuable. You send your best. This is mistake on your part. But this is why we take her on this trail. Because it obvious if you send people to get her back. We do not want this, though. This bad for business. We do punishment now.’
Over Slater’s shoulder, King cursed.
‘Shut up,’ Slater said.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the video.
The soldier took a knife out of a sheath on his belt. It had already been sharpened, and the blade glinted even in the lowlight. He turned it over and over again in the shadows, almost admiring it before he put it to use.
Then he turned to Raya.
The hairs on the back of Slater’s neck bristled.
‘Jesus Christ,’ King muttered.
The soldier seized the restraints around her wrists, and her face turned white with fear. Her hands shook, bound together as tightly as possible. Slowly, the man lowered her hands to the floor, and spread the fingers on her left hand out. He took the pinky finger and pressed it down against the sawdust, pinning it in place.
Then he rolled the blade over the knuckle with expert precision.
It happened so fast, and so smoothly, that at first Slater thought he’d faked it. Then the soldier picked up the severed finger and displayed it to the camera.
Sweating, shaking, groaning against the gag, Raya’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head.
‘This today’s punishment. Every day your soldiers spend on trail, more punishment. Tomorrow, twice as bad. Trust me. Pull your soldiers out, and then we negotiate.’
Neither Slater nor King said a word, but they both bristled with rage.
‘And we have demand. We know girl have special risks insurance. So you get back to us on this website, and you tell us how we can speak to professional crisis responder. Then we sort payment. This way, things go smooth. Or you keep your soldier on trail heading toward us, and things no more smooth. Things very messy. Do not make messy. Last warning.’
He reached toward the camera, and the video ended abruptly.
Slater sat in silence.
King sat in silence.
They stared at the final thumbnail — saw the intensity in the soldier’s eyes, saw the pain in Raya’s, saw the discomfort in Mukta and Perry. Both men seemed genuinely horrified by what had happened. Their eyes were bloodshot and wracked with terror.
It wasn’t an emotion you could easily fake.
‘Maybe we’ve got it wrong this whole time,’ King said. ‘Maybe it’s neither of them.’
Slater said, ‘Maybe…’
The phone rang in their hands.
40
Violetta again.
King took the phone back, and answered.
‘You’ve seen it?’ she said.
‘We’ve seen it.’
‘I want you to know I’m seriously considering pulling you out.’
‘No way.’
Slater added, ‘Not a chance.’
She said, ‘This isn’t the situation we imagined. Your presence has made it unimaginably worse. We didn’t understand that they’d have eyes everywhere. We still don’t know how—’
‘We were ambushed last night,’ King said. ‘Everything’s been so chaotic that we haven’t had the chance to debrief you. We stayed at the teahouse in Kharikhola and woke up to a midnight assault. The owner relayed information to Parker’s guide who confirmed it’s Maoist paramilitary mercenaries who’ve been hired to deal with us. Seems like they’re committing the cardinal sin of coming down into tourist-heavy areas to take us out, so there must be a pretty spectacular price on our heads.’
She didn’t immediately respond, and he could practically hear her processing the information and trying to sort out the next move.
Then she said, ‘Okay — I’m pulling you out.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Have there been any more sightings since the Swedish backpackers saw them along the trail?’
‘No. We’re moving heaven and earth to try and get accurate intelligence, but there’s basically nothing. Which means they’re probably spreading the hostages out between different groups of these Maoist troops so that no-one ever sees them all together when they’re walking during the day. And it’s fairly straightforward to cover your face when you’re passing by other hikers. They’re practically ghosts.’
‘But that makes for slow progress,’
King insisted. ‘There’s no way they’re keeping a pace like ours. Not with three resisting hostages spread out across multiple groups. Raya’s only fourteen, and she’ll be in bad shape with a missing finger. They admitted themselves how valuable she is, so they’re going to make damn sure she doesn’t drop dead on the trail.’
‘What are you saying?’ Violetta said.
King paused, ruminating.
‘We can be up past Namche Bazaar by mid-morning tomorrow. Then we’ll keep hiking for as long as it takes to catch them. Logistically, if they were spotted near Namche yesterday, then we’ll almost certainly get them tomorrow.’
‘That’s a massive effort.’
‘It’s what we have to do.’
‘Are either of you hurt?’
‘No,’ King said.
Slater raised an eyebrow, and gave his bandaged forearm a glance.
King stared at his own swollen ankle.
Then met Slater’s gaze and shook his head.
She can’t know.
She’ll pull us out.
Slater nodded his understanding.
Violetta said, ‘I’d need guarantees from both of you that you’re in good enough condition to close the gap tomorrow. Because that’s all the time we have before this thing escalates out of control. And that’s my head on the chopping block if I keep you in the field against my superiors’ orders.’
‘We’ll get it done.’
‘How are your bodies holding up? You’ve probably covered close to thirty miles of extreme terrain.’
‘I’m fine,’ King said.
‘And Slater?’
‘I’m fine, too,’ Slater said.
‘If either of you are lying to me…’
‘Do you want this kid back or not?’ King snarled. ‘If we drop out, she’s as good as dead. And what was all that about a “professional crisis responder”? Who the hell do they want to talk to?’
Violetta sighed. ‘You know the basics of the kidnap insurance industry, right?’
‘Guess I haven’t done my research. Enlighten me.’
‘Obviously there are certain sections of the planet where kidnapping is more rampant than others. Modern solutions are required, and these days everyone has something to sell. Insert “special risks insurance.” These firms offer insurance and protection for wealthy clients if they’re going to be venturing into dangerous parts of the world. They have professional negotiators on standby in case everything goes to hell, and they’ll also cover any of the ransom costs that might ensue.’
‘That sounds like a messy industry to try and maintain control of.’
‘It is. And it’s usually the richest of the rich that they market these policies to, so they can charge as much as they damn well want. The more paranoid their clients, the better. But it works — they have incredible success rates at negotiating with terrorists and kidnappers. Of course, those success rates are often unofficial because most kidnappings aren’t actually reported, especially if they’re quietly resolved. So, yes, it’s a murky industry to say the least.’
‘These rebel soldiers … they think Parker has special risks insurance?’
‘It’s fairly well-known amongst kidnappers that the industry exists. Which makes it an even stranger industry, because if kidnappers know that they’ll have access to professional negotiators, then they’ll know that the process will be smooth and resolved easily…’
‘Which encourages more kidnappings,’ King said.
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘There’s pros and cons to it. I can’t spend all day debating it. Maybe when you get back…’
‘I should know as much as possible right now if it affects the operation.’
‘It’s not important right now,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is important. If I decide to let you do this, you need to promise me you’ll catch up to them tomorrow. No matter what.’
‘We promise.’
‘I can stall the professional negotiations for a day or two, and they won’t freak out. But any longer than that, and it’s anyone’s guess…’
‘We won’t fail.’
‘You can’t.’
King paused for thought, and said, ‘One more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘What happens when these special risks insurers have to pay out too many ransoms? Surely if kidnappers know about it, they’d exploit it for everything it’s worth. If they know there’s firms out there who have to make the negotiations smoother, they’d milk the hell out of it. At least, I would if I was in their shoes and had that sort of moral compass.’
‘That’s the really murky part of the industry,’ Violetta said. ‘None of this is official, of course, but these firms often have middlemen that are actually in contact with the most prominent bands of kidnappers in certain regions. That way, they can come to agreements so everyone profits. If the kidnappers don’t go above certain quotas, they can still make consistent profit off the ransoms whilst staying under the firm’s targets. Then the insurance money trumps the ransom payouts, and everyone makes money. Except the clients, of course.’
‘That’s the least ethical thing I’ve heard in a long time.’
Violetta said, ‘Welcome to the modern world.’
He didn’t respond.
She said, ‘Is there anything else you need?’
‘No.’
‘Good — then I won’t overload you with more talk. You know what you need to do tomorrow. Get some rest.’
King hung up, fished around in his duffel bag, came out with the first-aid kit, and took a massive dose of ibuprofen — four tablets worth. Then he adjusted his foot, draped his sleeping bag over his legs just as Slater had done, and settled back against the wall.
Slater watched him the whole time. ‘Your ankle’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘It’ll be fine by the morning.’
‘King…’
‘The more I think about it, the worse it’ll get.’
‘There’s no use covering an obscene amount of distance tomorrow just to fall in a heap at the feet of the rebels.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘You’re too tough for your own good sometimes. So am I. Maybe we’re being too hotheaded about this. Maybe that video was actually a positive sign.’
‘And what the hell makes you say that?’
‘Because they asked to speak to a professional crisis responder. They know what they’re doing. They want to go through the due process. Maybe this can be resolved peacefully.’
‘No,’ King said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because if it’s resolved peacefully, they’ll get away with it.’
He rolled over and faced the opposite wall and closed his eyes.
Before he fell asleep, he said, ‘I’ve set an alarm for dinner. Bolt the door, and we can both rest. We need all we can manage for tomorrow.’
Then he drifted off.
41
As much as he tried, Slater couldn’t doze off.
Not anymore.
He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, staring at the locked door, imagining what sort of horrors might come through it. His imagination ran wild, probably intensified by exhaustive delirium. His muscles throbbed and ached and protested the suffering he’d put them through for the last two days, but he savoured every minute of it. Pain meant healing, and healing meant improvement.
So he rocked back and forth in something close to a trance until it got dark outside and the sounds of newcomers rustling around downstairs drifted up through the thin wood.
Dinner time.
He woke King with a pat on the shoulder.
The man rolled over, alert in an instant. ‘What is it?’
‘Time for food.’
‘Uh…’
Slater immediately knew something was awry. He didn’t often see hesitation on King’s face, but the man was struggling with something. He watched King sit up and peel the sleeping bag off his frame and
peek through what little duct tape was left taped around his ankle.
The skin was black and blue.
‘Can’t walk?’ Slater said.
‘Not right now. It just needs rest, that’s all.’
‘One night’s rest is enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘It has to be.’
‘You want to pull out?’
‘That’s not an option.’
Slater nodded once. ‘I won’t argue. I’d be just as stubborn in your position. You want me to bring food up?’
‘That’d be great. And ice.’
‘You’re something else, you know that?’
‘I had to staple your forearm together today. Don’t kid yourself — we’re cut from the same cloth.’
With a shiver, Slater said, ‘Don’t talk about what we’re cut from.’
It reminded him of the blade slicing through his flesh, separating his skin folds.
The staples pounding up his forearm…
He went downstairs, already plagued by memories he’d much rather forget.
There was a considerable wait to order food. The dining hall was packed with groups of trekkers, separated into their individual packs, huddled around tables riddled with huge mugs of tea — either masala or ginger. Their scents blended together and filled Slater’s nostrils with a pleasant aroma. He opted to drop into a chair rather than stand around drawing attention to himself. As soon as he found an empty table, the nearest group noticed his arm.
‘My God,’ a plump man with a thick German accent said. ‘Are you okay?’
Slater held up the bloody, sweat-stained bandages and managed an innocent smile.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just scraped it on a branch.’
The man winced, and so did his friends. ‘Have you seen a doctor about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’d he say?’