Twist and Turn

by Tim Tigner

  He released the smaller guy and backed up to stand amidst his pack. “Are you in on it with him?” he spouted, attempting to save face.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  He stared at me for a long, slow second, then straightened his back and shoulders. “I’m Harold Herbert Huxley III. Who the hell are you?”

  The third. I’d been right. While not a Chip or Skip or Biff, he was a Trey.

  I turned to the guy whose shirt collars Trey had seized. “And you?”

  “I go by Oz,” he said with a singsong British accent.

  “Like the Wizard?

  “I work in high tech.”

  “I go by Achilles. I work in low tech. What happened?”

  “I believe the technical term is racial profiling.”

  I turned back to Harold Herbert Huxley III. “What happened?”

  “This,” Trey said, gesturing around.

  “So to summarize, you think this is a terrorist act and are fighting back by attacking the brown guy?”

  “I play the odds for a living, a very substantial living, and this was an easy call. I mean, look around. You don’t need a Ph.D. in criminal psychology to pick the terrorist spy from this crowd,” Trey said, looking from one colleague to another for support as he spoke.

  I knew Oz and his wife weren’t spies because I’d already identified those. But Trey had inadvertently opened a welcome opportunity to covertly cripple them. “If this guy was a spy, he’d have a microphone hidden in his ear. Did you spot a mic?”

  Trey didn’t reply.

  “Did you bother to look?”

  Again nothing.

  As I turned to the target of Trey’s ire, I subtly scanned the room. The movement I observed confirmed my hypothesis. “Where are you from, Oz?”

  “I’m Maltese, not Middle Eastern. That’s an EU country, if you didn’t know. I studied chemistry at Oxford. My wife, Sabrina, is also an Oxford grad.”

  I looked back at Trey. He still wore a stubborn expression, but the fire had left his eyes. I was staring into them when the world went black. Completely black.

  There was utter silence immediately following the power cut, then murmuring broke out.

  The saying “It takes one to know one” is only half true. Like merely has an advantage in detecting like, not a monopoly. The advantage doesn’t stop with biology. It also applies to profession. Once you’ve worked as a spy, once you’ve lived a false identity while concealing your real one, you know the tricks of the trade. The little things that make a big difference. The tiny alterations and subtle disguises. You automatically spot them on others the way fashion designers do brands.

  Spend enough time living the clandestine life and you also become adept at predicting the behavior of other covert operatives. “Send a spy to catch a spy” as another old saying goes.

  Because of my past profession, I knew what would happen next. I knew it the way a poker pro knows you’re about to raise. The way a car salesman knows you’re going to counter. The way a cop knows you’re planning to run.

  I closed my eyes, aimed my ears, and heard exactly what I’d expected. The mechanical mix of shifting gears and sliding bolts, followed by a sucking whoosh. Two seconds later the auditory pattern reversed and the footfalls retreated, fading back into the crowd.

  I began counting down in my head. Five, four, three, two—

  The lights blazed back to life as suddenly as they’d been extinguished, creating a collective sigh. As people blinked, a voice boomed forth. “What happened?”

  I turned and saw the man who’d asked “What did we do?” during dinner. He now sported quite the welt above his brow. He was way over by the manual elevator, but spoke with a tone loud and authoritative enough to turn everyone’s head.

  He struck me as a cross between a banker and a drill sergeant. Mature, lean and fit, he had a shaved scalp and piercing blue eyes and wore clothes that likely cost more than my car. Last I’d seen, he’d been sawing logs on the floor. Apparently, he’d just come to.

  His next question really riveted everyone’s attention. “What are you guys doing in my bunker?”

  16

  Timeline

  Location Unknown

  I WATCHED TREY and his colleagues melt into the crowd as the man claiming to be the bunker’s owner made his way to the center of the circle. It was the man who had questioned our captors in the restaurant. I could tell by his voice and the lump on his head.

  He met my eye and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  He stopped walking well inside my personal space, as if claiming ownership to the concrete beneath my feet, but he took my question at face value. He tilted his head for a few seconds of thought, then said, “The appetizer at Cinquante Bouches. I was there with Governor Rickman and two other friends. You were there with a beautiful woman.”

  I didn’t recall which state Governor Rickman was from but figured his presence might explain things. Didn’t want to get ahead of myself though. “You don’t remember the masked gunmen?”

  His eyes widened. “No.”

  I raised my voice. “Does anyone else not remember the gunmen?”

  A dozen hands rose. One belonged to a tall tan man with a patrician face topped by thick white hair. I could place him now. Rickman was from Florida.

  Turning back to the owner I said, “Give it a minute. We’re all missing memories, but you’re missing a bit more than most.” As I spoke, an idea occurred to me. Again I raised my voice. “Does anyone remember what happened after you were led from the dining room?”

  No hands this time.

  The owner’s expression showed him to be a quick study. He backed off half a step.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Kai—Kai Basher.”

  “And this is your place?”

  “Hard to mistake it wouldn’t you say.” Even Kai’s light tone sounded like shoveled gravel.

  “Point taken. Where, exactly, are we?”

  It was Kai’s turn to address the attentive crowd. “You’re standing sixty feet beneath the foundation of my hunting lodge, which is in the Carson Spur of the Sierra Nevada mountains, southwest of Reno, Nevada.”

  The unexpected answer sucked the air from the room.

  Trey quickly jumped into the void.

  “We can discuss geography later. Just show us the way out.”

  Kai appraised Trey and then turned back to the crowd. “There’s only one way out of here and that’s up. Sixty feet up—measuring from the floor we’re standing on to the floor our captors occupy. The electric elevator is obviously out of commission, and if you’ll try the crank on the manual lift, as I just did, you’ll find that it’s been blocked. We’re not getting out until whoever put us here decides he wants us out.”

  “It can’t be a coincidence that you’re here,” Trey pressed, puffing back up. “You know more than you’re letting on.”

  Kai appraised his assailant with the nonchalance of a dog about to flick a flea. “While I agree that it can’t be a coincidence, I have no idea who put us here or why.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Trey was considerably bigger and decades younger, but my money was on Basher if violence broke out. And though I couldn’t deny the appeal of watching Trey get clocked, I had more pressing priorities. “Kai, what can you tell us about your bunker?”

  Kai half-turned in my direction. He had the hefty gaze of a man used to command, but it was more analytical than adversarial. “This bunker is constructed inside a natural cavern, which was eroded by the underground river that now supplies it with water.”

  “What about the elevator and ventilation shafts?”

  “Like the primary facility, they leverage a natural formation—a crevasse.”

  “Can the rest of the crevasse be accessed?” I asked.

  “It no longer exists. I had it plugged with concrete as part of the hardening process. Didn’t w
ant any contamination or radiation leaking in.”

  Wonderful. “Speaking of things leaking in, what’s with the bolts on the elevator doors?”

  Kai turned to fully face me. “Obviously, they’re the last line of defense for keeping people out. Both are designed to withstand small arms fire, and they’re hermetically sealed so we can’t be smoked out.”

  I had to hand it to Kai, he was a thorough and thoughtful prepper. “Do you have the key?”

  “There is no key. Keys can get lost. The deadbolts just slide.”

  “I’m talking about the kind of key firefighters use to open elevator doors. I’m talking about getting us out, not keeping marauders from getting in.”

  Kai’s face contorted. “You just push the button—if it’s not missing. There is no key.”

  I dropped it. “What’s the utility situation?”

  The confident look returned. “In a word, redundant. The river running beneath our feet keeps a 24,000-gallon tank topped off and powers a generator. The generator feeds a 1000 kWh battery array, which also has feeds from twin wind turbines and a solar farm up top.”

  “And ventilation?”

  “There are eight sixteen-inch ventilation shafts. A redundant set in each corner of the main room.” Kai pointed up. “Each fan can be individually configured to blow in or out, although typically they’re balanced in pairs.”

  “How are the fans controlled?”

  “Normally by thermostats. But you’ll note that those have been removed with the other electronics and anything that might be considered a weapon or tool.”

  That they’d removed weapons was no surprise. The fact that they’d tampered with the climate control system did concern me, although I was unsure if their removal was part of a specific plan or they’d just been swept up in a blanket order. “Do you notice anything that’s been added?”

  “The intercom camera over the elevator is new, as is the safe bolted to the floor in the lounge. Other than that, just the stuff on the table—the calculators, stationery supplies, pill bottles and cigarettes.”

  Our captors had installed a safe. That was an interesting twist, one I’d surely puzzle over in the coming hours.

  “What’s the situation with food?” I asked.

  “The pantry is stocked to feed 32 adults for a full year. Utilizing the garden will extend that indefinitely.”

  Trey jumped back in. “That’s enough to feed the fifty of us for nearly eight months. How long are they planning to keep us here?”

  The room fell silent as every captive contemplated the chilling prospect of being locked in an underground cave—forever.

  17

  Speculation

  Two Days Later

  Western Nevada

  AS SHE WALKED into the gym with Sabrina at her side, Katya found herself giving credit to Kai. The man knew how to build a bunker. Located directly beneath the den, the gym contained a stationary bike, a treadmill, a universal weight machine, and space for floor exercises.

  They headed for the mats.

  Katya was spending the bulk of her time with Achilles, and much of the rest with Sabrina—the bunker’s other female resident. Oz’s wife was smart, fit and pleasant, if not a bit mysterious.

  Achilles was the gym’s only other occupant. He was pounding away on the treadmill at a pace that would wind her in seconds.

  After forty-eight hours in the bunker, most of the captives were beginning to adapt to life “down under.” The forty-eight hours was just an estimation based on their collective biological clocks. Their captors had confiscated all watches and removed not only the wall clock but everything with a time display. In fact, kitchen appliances aside, there wasn’t a piece of electronic equipment to be found, other than the video intercom, which Kai told them wasn’t his. The reason for that action and everything else remained a mystery. They had not heard one word from above ground.

  “What’s the crowd’s latest thinking?” Achilles asked, pressing a button that took the treadmill down a notch.

  “People are beginning to speculate that we’ll never hear anything. That we’ll be buried underground until we die of old age or someone stumbles upon us,” Katya replied.

  “Don’t count on anyone finding us,” Kai said, walking into the room and plopping down on the bench press. “The elevators are expertly concealed. They’re tough to find even when you know they’re there. Trespassers could live in the cabin for years oblivious to the bunker below.”

  “What about the utilities?” Achilles asked.

  “The solar panels and wind turbines also service the house, so they don’t provide a clue, and the ventilation shafts are well hidden.”

  “People are proposing all kinds of crazy ideas,” Sabrina added. “Sebastian or Webster—I always forget which is which—suggested that we could be here for organ harvesting.”

  “That’s terrible,” Katya said. “Why would someone speculate like that out loud?”

  “It gets worse,” Sabrina replied. “The other one floated the idea that we were inventory to be used in snuff films. Said he’d recently read a bestseller where that was the big reveal.”

  With that conversation killer hanging in the air, Katya turned to the mat. She began a pre-yoga stretching routine, and Sabrina joined in.

  Everyone had changed out of their formal wear and into the dark blue surgical scrubs Kai had stockpiled. Katya found the plain cotton clothes comfortable for both casual wear and exercise. With everyone wearing matching medical garb, the bunker now resembled the breakroom at an elite hospital. The outfit also seemed to put people in a professional mindset. She wondered if that was an intended effect. Kai was clearly a very clever guy.

  Despite their now uniform appearance, cliques had formed. That was inevitable, she supposed. There was a banker clique, led by Trey, an executive clique, co-led by Kai and the governor, and an other clique. She and Achilles were others, along with Oz, Sabrina and the group of four software startup guys who shared their bedroom.

  The clatter of iron plates announced the end of Kai’s second set of chest presses. He looked over at Achilles. “I’d like to know your theory on why we’re here.”

  Katya was also curious to hear Kyle’s latest thinking. She was certain that his mind had been churning as fast as his legs.

  Achilles answered the question with one of his own, as was often his way. “Who knew you’d be dining at Cinquante Bouches?”

  Kai smiled. “Nice idea, but it doesn’t lead anywhere. I have a standing reservation. This time of year, I’m there almost every Friday night. The restaurant staff obviously know that, as do most of the people I’ve dined with over the years. My habit has even been mentioned in an article or two.”

  “Articles about you or the restaurant?”

  “Both.”

  “How about the bunker?” Achilles asked. “Your earlier comments imply that you’ve kept its existence secret.”

  Kai chewed on that one for two shakes. “Not really. Making something difficult to discover is different from keeping it secret. I’m worried about the wild herd. The looting mob. The people I’ve shown my secret bunker to aren’t the types who’ll pick up pitchforks and firebrands after the bombs drop.”

  Kai obviously had no firsthand experience with war. Nothing changes people like the prospect of an untimely death. “What about house keys and the alarm code? Who has access to those?”

  “There are no metal keys, just a keypad. I didn’t want to risk being locked out when the missiles launch.”

  “Do other people know the codes? Former guests, for instance? How often do you change them?”

  “I’ve never changed the codes. And yes, my former guests know them. Or knew them. Who remembers that kind of thing?”

  “So you didn’t use a mnemonic device? A passphrase or the like?”

  Kai’s face dropped. “Look, even if we could construct a Venn diagram and draw up a list of suspects from the overlap, what good would it do us? We’d still be complet
ely at their mercy.”

  “You’re probably right,” Achilles replied. “But one thing is certain: complacency won’t get us anywhere. Speaking of which, what does it look like upstairs?”

  “Like a cabin in the mountains. A very nice, very isolated cabin.”

  “What about the bunker entrance?”

  “It’s hidden behind a big built-in bookcase. You’d never know the elevators are there. You’d never stumble on them either. People don’t randomly try to pull built-in bookcases from the wall.”

  That wasn’t encouraging. “So how did our captors find it?”

  “Back on that topic, are we? Obviously, they already knew it was there.” Kai folded his arms across his chest. “Now, you still haven’t answered my initial question.”

  He was right, I hadn’t. “Surely, you already know why we’re here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Achilles grinned. “You’re a smart guy with two eyes.”

  “I don’t follow.” Judging by Kai’s expression, Katya concluded that he really didn’t. She didn’t follow either for that matter.

  “Look around. Who do you see?” Achilles asked.

  “Prisoners.”

  “Perhaps you’ve been blinded by familiarity, Kai. When I look around, what I see is rich people.”

  Kai clenched his broad jaw. “You think we’ve been kidnapped? As in for ransom? A mass kidnapping?”

  “That’s the way I’d do it, if I were so inclined. Fifty ransoms is a whole lot better than one. Fifty times better, as a matter of fact. Granted, not all ransoms are equal, but it’s fair to say that whoever planned this picked a perfect place to throw his net.”

  Kai stood and began swinging his shoulder, ostensibly to work out a kink. “So you don’t think it’s related to Governor Rickman?”

  “I considered that. But if it was about one person, the kidnapping would have been more surgical, don’t you think?”

  Kai didn’t appear convinced. “Bear in mind that we’re not actually kids. We can pay our own ransoms. Your theory neglects the simple fact that no one has asked us for money—and it’s been two days. Whoever did this surely wants to cash out and escape as soon as possible.”