First Thrill

by Steve Richer

  There were nine kidnappers. How many more were in the cab up in front? Two? Jeff studied their faces in the event he would have to identify them through mug shots later on.

  He started thinking about how the little girl’s family was probably going mad at the moment. At least people had witnessed the event and authorities had been notified. He was sure CSE wasn’t aware yet though. At nine o’clock, when he wouldn’t show up to take the call, they would make the connection. But not until then.

  The vehicle stopped moving, the engine was turned off. The hostages began looking at each other, looking for a source of courage. The men in trench coats stood up and the rear door was slid open. It was almost completely dark outside and Jeff had no idea where this might have been. The kidnappers leapt out and aimed their weapons back inside.

  “Sortez!”

  The abductees stood and lined up to disembark. Jeff saw that the little girl didn’t budge, she was still hugging her knees. He went to her and offered his hand.

  “Come on, it’ll be just fine,” he said in French.

  “I don’t speak French,” she replied in a Scouse accent which meant she was from Liverpool.

  He smiled to her, finding his language skills particularly useful, and repeated in English.

  “Dehors, maintenant!” a terrorist screamed, urging them out.

  Jeff saw that it was the man who had kidnapped him that was talking, waving his Russian weapon toward him. The girl took his hand and he lifted her to help her down.

  The truck was parked behind a barn not far from the road. The day had been cloudy and what remained of the sun, if anything remained at all, was completely obstructed. Jeff had no way of orienting himself. There was another truck fifty feet away. The back wasn’t an ordinary trailer though; it was a cargo container.

  “Entrez tous là-dedans!”

  It was again Jeff’s kidnapper who spoke. Was he the leader?

  The group was a little reluctant, perhaps not all understanding the command.

  “Go!” the same man screamed.

  The hostages climbed aboard and their captors almost immediately followed them. Jeff settled in a corner, next to the little girl.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her. The noise from the others sitting down covered most of his words.

  “Emily,” she whispered.

  “I’m Jeff, nice to meet you.”

  As he shook her hand, he realized his IDs still listed him as Jean Tremblay. He hoped no one else had heard him.

  The ride was made easier by the fact that the kidnappers had brought along press-on lights that they stuck to the walls. Complete obscurity had a way of driving people crazy. The trip was longer this time, almost an hour by Jeff’s watch.

  The fact that they were in a container had to mean something. Were they to be shipped somewhere? Were they to become slaves? If he was the object of all this they would have used his name, he would have been singled out already. This was something totally out of his control.

  They finally stopped. This time however the door wasn’t opened and the kidnappers made no attempt to move. Ten long minutes later, they were on the move again. The movement was vertical though, like a shaky elevator. Wimpy cries were heard from some of the passengers. Emily hugged Jeff’s arm as the floor became an uncertainty.

  A guttural roar broke the silence.

  It was like a siren that had been beaten into submission. Jeff searched his memory. Where had he heard that before? He was sure he had never heard it personally. But what about from TV? Movies? It was familiar still. He saw images in his mind. A bridge. Water. A lighthouse. What was the common link?

  A foghorn!

  It was a foghorn, which meant they were near the ocean. They were at a port and were being loaded onto a ship. Or a train. Ports had train yards, didn’t they? If they went anywhere, the odds of being rescued got very slim. Fear was rushing back.

  Chapter 13

  At 9:04pm Paris time, Terry Raper was forced to tell Bellamy that Riley hadn’t shown up. Terry wasn’t particularly worried, thinking Jeff had probably stopped by the Moulin Rouge, or some other tourist trap, and had lost track of time. She was just pissed that she couldn’t go home yet.

  Bellamy on the other hand took the matter seriously.

  Reviewing Riley’s file, he had noticed that although he wasn’t the kind of kid to take great career initiatives, he always followed orders. He had seen something in Jeff, a desire to find himself, that he knew was the stuff great men were made of. He didn’t believe Jeff would let him down.

  “Terry, it’s Terry, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Terry, is there someone right now in the RCMP office?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Ouellet.”

  “Have him call the hospitals, morgues, police stations, even Interpol if he has to. He needs to find out if anything happened to a Jean Tremblay, grad student at the Sorbonne from Montreal.”

  “Sir, he’s probably just up the Eiffel Tower. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”

  “I’d rather look stupid than be sorry, miss. I want you to call his hotel and find out when he left exactly and the type of transport he used. If it was a cab, what company, which driver.”

  Bellamy hung up and stood. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and put his brain in motion. It would be handled as a crisis situation; he’d always thought more efficiently under pressure. The smart thing to do at the moment was to stay in his office and wait by the phone, but he had never been good at waiting. Waiting is what you do when you don’t have the heart to do anything. He had the heart.

  He left his office and took the elevator down to the Newsroom, as it was nicknamed in the building. This division of the Communications Security Establishment monitored TV broadcasts from around the world. The best intelligence came from open sources; CNN and BBC News were goldmines.

  Bellamy entered the room after punching in his access code. He faced the wall of TV screens and instinctively tried to spot Riley’s face. He approached one of the technicians.

  “Anything happen in Paris in the recent past?”

  “As a matter of fact, Sky News just had a report saying there was an attack of some sort.”

  Bellamy’s mouth went dry. “What kind of attack?”

  “They say armed men took over a street. There was an explosion, shots were fired, and some people were kidnapped. There are casualties.”

  “I need to know what street, what time precisely, and everything they know.”

  “The anchor said they would have a full report in the next half hour, with images.”

  “Tape it and send it up to my office the second it’s done.”

  He had access to the channel on the closed circuit TV in his office, but had no time to waste waiting for Sky News to put together a newsreel.

  At least now he had something to go on, even though he prayed it had nothing to do with Jeff’s disappearance. Back in his office, he called the embassy again to tell Terry Raper to have the RCMP liaison concentrate on the attack and to press the French police for details.

  “One thing I absolutely want: if there are any taxis on the street where it happened, I want fingerprints lifted from the door handles. I want every set to be forwarded over here. If they don’t make it a priority, you make it a priority. Send that Ouellet guy himself if it’s what it takes. There’s nothing more important on the face of the Earth right now.”

  He hung up again and switched to his normal phone thirty-six inches away. “Get me the Minister of Foreign Affairs,” he ordered his secretary.

  She came back on the line two minutes later. “The minister is meeting with an Italian delegation this afternoon. They’re playing golf in Gatineau.”

  Bellamy should have handled this through channels – the Director should’ve been the one taking care of the diplomacy aspect – but if one of his agents was in danger, he needed to know he had done everything in his power. And it kept him from waiting.

  He left his
office and walked down the hall to an office. His division kept a gofer here that was often helpful for such matters.

  “I need you to go to the Gatineau Golf Club and get the Minister of Foreign Affairs back here. Priority One.”

  Julian Farris nodded and jogged out of his office.

  It was a ship.

  Once the container hit the deck, the door was opened and the hostages urged out. They weren’t in the open air for long as they were escorted inside. Jeff had time to see they were on a bulk cargo ship however.

  What it meant was that these kidnappers were dedicated. They either had the means to pay for the vessel or they had hijacked it. Either way, Jeff recognized professionals.

  Once inside, the group was divided into two groups and stuffed into two staterooms. The cabins were designed for two people; they had two bunks, a desk, and a closet. Jeff noticed that the inside lock had been disabled and that a padlock on the other side was to keep them in. He was glad he had Emily with him; he had a reason to play it smart.

  “Everything’s gonna be great here, I’m sure we’ll be left alone now.”

  “What makes you an expert?” asked the man who had tasted the butt of the AK-47 earlier. He was Dutch and his English was better than his French. “Who says they won’t kill us one by one?”

  “They took us for a reason: bargaining, information, protection. Whatever it is they need us alive. We just have to cooperate and life should be decent.”

  “They’re killers,” said the same man. “They shot my wife before they took me. They’ll kill us all!”

  “No, they won’t.” Jeff stared at him as he grabbed Emily and lifted her to the top bunk. “The only ones they’ll kill will be those who make life hard for them. In the meantime, we should try to talk about what happened, try to understand why we’re here.”

  “What good is it gonna do?”

  The fortyish man’s wound started bleeding again and he pressed his designer tie against it.

  “What’s your name?” Jeff asked him.

  “Simon.”

  “Well Simon, it’s gonna give us something to do. Something to keep us from going totally postal. Does anybody suspect why we were taken?”

  Heads were shaken. Jeff offered the chair at the desk to an elderly lady while he sat on the desk. “What were you doing in Paris, Simon?”

  “I came to sign a transportation deal for my linen plant. It’s my first time in Paris.”

  “Good. Emily, what do your parents do?”

  “My mother is a doctor. I don’t have a father.”

  “Do you have grandparents, rich ones especially?”

  “My grandfather is a farmer.”

  “Okay, okay. Ma’am,” he said turning to the old woman. “What’s your story?”

  She didn’t understand and Jeff had to repeat in French.

  “My name is Clotilde. I am from Marseilles, I was visiting my daughter for a few days. She is a florist.”

  A man in his mid-twenties spoke next. “I am Bertrand, I go to the Sorbonne and I pay for it by being a bike messenger. I’m poor and so are my parents.”

  “Did you have any weird packages today, weird deliveries?”

  “I wasn’t working today.”

  “Do you have any packages waiting at home?”

  “We’re not allowed to bring parcels home.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I follow the rules.”

  “All right, we’re pimpin’. That leaves us with you, ma’am.”

  The woman was somewhere in her thirties but looked older. Jeff wondered if it was the situation that had this effect or whether it was her natural look.

  “My name is Helena,” she expressed in a shaky voice. Her French was uneven, botched even. “I am in France two years from Yugoslavia. I come in a box like before, on boat like this.”

  There was no need to press her for more information. Unless…

  “Are you close to anyone who has participated in the war? Special operations, anything related to intelligence work, terrorism?”

  She shook her head. Simon stared at him in a profound way. “What kind of question is that?”

  “Just trying to make everything clear, that’s all.”

  Jeff could see how Simon could bring on trouble.

  “What is your name,” Helena asked.

  “Jean.”

  “You told me your name was Jeff,” Emily piped in.

  “It’s a nickname, Jeff that is.”

  “Did anyone notice what port we were at when we boarded?”

  He repeated in French to make sure Clotilde and Helena understood the question.

  “It wasn’t Paris,” Clotilde said.

  “Okay, at least we know that.”

  “What does it matter anyway?” Simon whined.

  “When we’re released we’ll be interrogated by the police or whatever special ops team that frees us. They’ll wanna know everything we could find out about the kidnappers.” Jeff then lowered his voice. “Also, if we’re interrogated by the hostage takers we must do what they say. But don’t volunteer anything. Don’t alienate them by being stubborn. Don’t say you can pay them if they release you. When they find out you lied to them, they’ll kill you. All we gotta do is concentrate on surviving.”

  “How do you know all this?” Emily asked.

  “I worked for the government one summer, park ranger.” Jeff surprised himself with what he said and how fast he had said it. “They give out this manual to every federal employee. Most people throw it away; I was in the bathroom and the magazines were sticky.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Simon said, eyes narrowed.

  “That’s how they do it in Canada, you should come by some time, we have good beer.”

  He was beginning to sound arrogant but he didn’t care. Simon was getting on his nerves and he had to shut him up. More than anyone, the Dutchman couldn’t learn Jeff’s true identity.

  He knew he would sell it.

  AUGUST 4

  SUNDAY

  Chapter 14

  Ledoux didn’t appreciate having to make a phone call at 6am on a Sunday. He had been comfortable in bed next to his wife. But some things mattered more.

  He had closed the door of his study and in silence dialed the number he had been forced to memorize. The number must have remained in the phone’s memory, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He made a mental note to call someone else right after to prevent the number from being stored. He had called the man before going to bed but since he was going out, Ledoux had been encouraged to call back.

  It was now midnight in Venezuela and Morales picked up on the second ring.

  “I hope my request for you to call later didn’t indispose you or your sleep, my friend.” Gustavo Morales had never cared about anyone’s sleeping condition except for his own. Ledoux didn’t need to know that.

  “It did.”

  “Most unfortunate. I trust you didn’t call to talk about the things in life that displease you.”

  Time was money and he had no time to waste with that unpleasant little Frenchman. He had made his money with phone calls that lasted under a minute. Good businessmen did their thinking while in the shower; the phone was made to let decisions be known.

  “I’m calling to remind you that phase one of the project should be completed by now. If everything is in place, will you be ready to move on to phase two?”

  Morales yawned. If that were the only reason for the phone call he would be seriously angered.

  “I’ve told you before, all I need is a phone call. My bags are packed and I can take any flight anytime.”

  Being a VP at the largest bank in Venezuela had its advantages.

  “D’accord,” was Ledoux’s first French word in a conversation that had hitherto taken place in English.

  “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Morales said, displaying irritation in his voice.

  Should there be? “Let me make another call an
d I will get back to you.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.” Asshole, he wanted to add.

  Morales hung up and closed his eyes as he felt the wine he’d drunk earlier rise to his head

  It would have been heaven if Elba had agreed to spend the night, but it had been a pretty good day nevertheless. Soon she wouldn’t need other clients and he would be able to afford her all the time. Very soon. Surely, his people would allow him to.

  The night had been sleepless for most of the hostages. Room was sparse and the propinquity made everyone uncomfortable.

  Jeff wasn’t claustrophobic, but this situation was enough to induce the first stage of the condition. It was as if the walls were closing in on them with each passing second. At least they had been allowed to visit the bathroom across the hall. But food hadn’t been provided to them. It was noon now and there was no telling when this nightmare would end.

  The kidnappers were cautious. There were three each time they fetched a prisoner to be interrogated. One opened the door and kept an eye on the group, another selected a hostage, and a third remained ten feet away with his old Russian assault rifle pointed at that hostage. An abductee trying to be a hero would be shot instantly.

  Jeff was the third of his group to be escorted out. Bertrand and Helena had both said that it had been rather painless, but Jeff knew it could be just the opposite for him. Having a government worker on the ship, or even better an intelligence officer, would be a blessing for the bad guys. They would have a lot more leverage.

  Or a lot more fun in the torture room.

  The room he was taken to was where the sailors ate their meals, Jeff concluded. He had never been on a vessel, but the number of seats couldn’t refer to anything else. He was ordered to sit while a member of his escort party left. The others remained and waited for the one Jeff had identified as the leader to begin.

  The leader had removed his trench coat and huge biceps were visible bursting out of a black t-shirt. He took a few steps toward Jeff and paused. The latter was sweating bullets and tried to control his heart rate.