by M. G. Harris
He was watching as I walked away from my bout – the one I lost to Snowboarder. At the time I thought he might be with the Austrian team – that’s why I was confused. I didn’t expect to see him in a dune buggy with three Brazilians.
That first night in Natal, when I sensed that someone was watching me from the shade of the darkened garden. . . Is there some connection? I sit up rapidly, grab my shoes. Montoyo needs to know about this. The blue buggy being on the dunes at the same time as us – what if it’s no coincidence? What if something started the day we arrived in Brazil?
What if this is no ordinary kidnap?
I lock the room behind me, then leap down the short flight of marble stairs to the lobby. Montoyo’s there, holding a phone to his ear. He looks up at me, his expression wide, hopeful. He gestures at me to be silent as he nods twice. He speaks briefly in Portuguese before ending the call.
“There’s news, Josh. We have a proof of life.”
MESSAGE FROM IXCHEL
Hi Carlos, Benicio, Josh. First thing: try not to worry. We haven’t been harmed. We’re staying with some guys called Tiago, Nando, Mario and Gaspar. Gaspar and Nando were in the buggy behind us at the dunes. Tiago and Mario were in the white van.
Gaspar was at the capoeira match too, maybe you noticed? He’d been watching us for a while, Josh.
There are some other tourists with us too. I’m allowed to tell you that there are seven others and that they are all fine, in case you’ve been in touch with their families.
So far no one has gone to the police. Gaspar told me to tell you that everyone is cooperating. If everyone keeps doing that, everything will be fine and no one will get hurt. They have people watching all our families. If they get any idea that you are going to the police, then it’s going to make things bad for us.
As you can see from the photos, we’re all fine, no injuries. Eleanor was very shocked and needed some medicine, but they let her take one of her own diazepam pills. She’s feeling better now.
We have to spend most of the time tied up. I’m dictating this via Gaspar. I guess there’s no way I can make you believe that these are my actual words. You’ll just have to accept it. I can’t tell you anything else about where we are.
Gaspar says that he’ll let us communicate via the comments on this blog. He said not to bother to trace the IP address, that he’s smart enough to know how to shield that information. If they detect any IP tracing activity they’ll assume the police are involved. So please don’t!
Josh – your mother asked me to tell you that she’s concerned about the bad mood you were in this morning. She says that she understands you sometimes feel things are hard and that’s OK, of course she loves you anyway, so don’t feel bad.
Gaspar says that if you do exactly what they want, we’ll be home in a few days.
We send you lots of hugs and kisses; we are trying to be strong. Please don’t do anything dangerous. Let’s all stay calm and this will soon be just a bad memory.
Montoyo pores over the photos on the computer screen. I’ve never seen him this anxious. I’m the same; I can hardly believe my eyes. Ixchel and Tyler, sitting on two shabby-looking plastic chairs, hands behind their backs – presumably tied. Mum sitting on another chair, her face drawn, looking ten years older than she actually is. She’s holding a copy of today’s newspaper. The strain shows on their faces. These aren’t cheerful shots of hopeful hostages just waiting for their inevitable freedom.
These are photos of terrified people trying hard to appear relaxed.
Montoyo reads Ixchel’s message over and over, muttering to himself as if it were some kind of code.
“Is this what you were expecting?” I say, breaking the tension.
“It’s more high-tech than I expected,” he admits slowly, “using the Internet and blogs to make a proof of life. But it makes sense. If they really do know what they are doing, it would take some serious intervention to track them down. They’re probably using a mobile satellite to get their signal. Which means they can just keep moving from place to place. Using technology to track them down would be unreliable. Risky, too.”
“Track them down? I thought you were just going to pay up.”
Montoyo gives me a guarded look. “Did you notice that nobody has mentioned money yet?”
I’m thrown. “What else would they want?”
“I don’t know what else, Josh. But Ixchel didn’t write most of that message – however it looks. And these four names are just normal Brazilian names – they tell us nothing.”
“Maybe they’re still wondering how much money to ask for?”
“Money is top of the agenda for kidnappers.”
I hesitate. “What if this is no ordinary kidnap?”
Montoyo goes silent, clicking a fingernail against the keyboard. Then I tell him all my worries, the dark suspicions that have rumbled away since the first night.
“You should have told me,” he says eventually.
I say nothing. It’s hard to explain how unimportant those tiny little details had seemed, with everything else to think about. All that anger and frustration, all those plans I made with Ixchel about fixing the Bracelet of Itzamna. Plans that are fading with every passing second. I sense the weight of the Bracelet in my pocket. Right now, it might as well be a worthless chunk of metal.
Montoyo continues, “For whatever reason, these kidnappers have identified us as a target. It’s not unusual for kidnappers to stalk their prey, but. . .” His voice trails off, as though he’s lost in thought.
“What?” I ask, anxiously.
Montoyo eyes me cautiously. “I don’t want you to worry, Josh. Let’s take this one step at a time, OK?”
I can’t stop myself, though. “‘Stalk their prey’? Why? Tell me!”
After a pause, Montoyo speaks again, reluctantly. “There’s something called a ‘tiger kidnap’. When they take someone in order to coerce someone to do something. . .”
“Coerce someone? Like who?”
I can see from Montoyo’s expression that I’ve pushed him as far as he’ll go on this. “Leave this now, Josh. There is something strange about this kidnap, it’s true. Most likely we’ve wandered into some kind of territorial struggle between two gangs. The kidnappers appear to be new to Natal. That will make them many enemies here.”
Benicio arrives in the lobby. His hair is all messy, his eyes blazing with unspoken anger. Montoyo calmly explains the situation to date. Benicio stays silent. Only a single, resentful glance flashed in my direction gives a hint that he blames me.
I can’t return his look. Deep down I agree with him. I’m the reason that Ixchel’s in danger.
We’re still staring at the computer screen in the lobby when the receptionist comes over with the phone. Yet another call for Montoyo. She rolls her eyes, grins in mock sympathy. Bet she’s got no idea what’s going on. She probably imagines it’s a travel agent playing phone tennis with him.
Montoyo takes the phone confidently. He says “yes” a couple of times and then goes silent. His expression doesn’t change one bit as he listens. Then, very slowly, almost incredulously, he hands the phone back to the receptionist.
“What?” Benicio asks. We wait impatiently. Montoyo doesn’t seem to know where to start.
“We’ve found them!”
Benicio and I gasp. It’s the last thing we expected to hear. But Montoyo’s expression makes me suspicious.
“Something’s dodgy, isn’t it?”
Montoyo shrugs. “It just seems too incredible. But one of the bugeiros has a contact who has a contact who saw them. We’re all forgetting that one of the buggy drivers was kidnapped too. I assumed that he was in on the plan. But maybe not.” He frowns. “That was the head of the buggy tourism company. He’s organizing a rescue mission. The hostages are being held about twenty minutes away, in an abandoned construction site.”
I say, “But they said no police.”
Benicio adds, “And why do you trust that guy who spoke to you? Wha
t if it’s a trap – a way to lure the rest of us?”
Nodding, Montoyo says, “You have a point. But we cannot risk that this may be genuine information. It’s typical – plans go wrong. You think you have a secure plan, all the t’s crossed and i’s dotted. But you forget about the friend of a friend who works for another friend. . . Information finds a way to leak. We’re just very lucky that it’s leaked this early. We cannot delay. However,” he adds thoughtfully, “the time may have arrived to call for reinforcements.”
Benicio grins. “You’re gonna call the Chief?”
“I think it’s time some more of our guys from Ek Naab joined us at the beach,” Montoyo says with a thin smile. “Don’t you?”
We all go up to Montoyo and Benicio’s room. Montoyo makes some lengthy calls, including one to Chief Sky Mountain, the head of Ek Naab’s tiny armed force. The whole time he speaks Yucatec – the language they mostly speak in Ek Naab. I can’t understand a word. Benicio paces up and down, mumbling to himself.
I feel totally left out. I get the distinct impression that I’m not going to be asked to help.
When the call is over, Montoyo sits us all down. Carefully he closes the balcony door, turns up the air conditioning so that there’s a loud background hum to our conversation.
“The Chief is sending six people in two Muwans. With weapons. I’m afraid we have to use ordinary guns, because anything else will leave a very suspicious trace.”
I chime in, “What else would you use?” Do they have some kind of laser gun? It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone from Ek Naab talking about weapons.
Montoyo ignores the question.
“We’re going in tonight, as soon as it gets dark. We’ll land all three Muwans – yours and the other two – on the roof of the building. It’s one of those unfinished hotels. The developers ran out of money – it’s the same story all over Natal. This place has been deserted for over a year. The intelligence says that the staircase is only partly completed. So we’ll lower ourselves down more than ten storeys, and then go in to the staircase. They’ll never be expecting an attack from above.” Montoyo pauses. “We could use some independent intelligence on that hotel building. But it’s a risk. Chances are that any request for information may be detected. Asking the wrong person . . . could be fatal.”
Benicio says, “I could take the Muwan – fly some reconnaissance.”
“And if you’re spotted? What then?”
Benicio bristles. “You prefer we take our information from the buggy company guy? It could be a trap.”
“He’s taking his group in on foot, from the ground. Naturally, he doesn’t know that we’re planning anything.”
“So why is he telling you anything about his plan?”
I agree with Benicio. Why tell us anything?
“Because he wants my help.”
Benicio and I, we sneer in disbelief. “Then it’s definitely a trap!”
Now, Montoyo seems annoyed. “Of course I didn’t offer him any men. I offered money – if the rescue is successful. He’s agreed.”
“How much?”
Montoyo pauses. “It’s quite a sum.”
Benicio can’t hide his scorn. “In that case, it’s one kidnapper buying the debt from another! He’s gonna kidnap the hostages and then he’s gonna pass them on to his guaranteed buyer!”
“I agree, it could be.” Montoyo’s answer is spoken mildly. But his eyes have narrowed.
Montoyo doesn’t like Benicio talking to him like this, but I can tell that he doesn’t want Benicio to notice. Benicio hasn’t, though – he’s on a roll now. In fact, he’s getting more confident by the second.
“The guy who runs the buggies might even be in on the original kidnap. . .”
My mind reels as I try to understand the implications of what Benicio is suggesting.
“Hang on,” I say. “Are you saying this is a kidnap within a kidnap?”
Benicio looks triumphant. “Exactly!”
Still Montoyo doesn’t seem fazed. “There are many possibilities. Who to trust, who not to trust. Maybe it’s genuine. The guy is taking a big risk to deal with me openly. If he really is another kidnapper.”
Benicio snorts. “No, he’s legitimized the whole business! You won’t be able to call him a kidnapper – he’ll just claim to the police that he rescued the hostages and you paid towards the rescue.”
Patiently, Montoyo says, “That is precisely why I’m not telling him about our own plan.”
Sitting there with Montoyo and Benicio, listening to them plan the rescue, a feeling of exhilaration grows inside me. Turns out that they are going to let me get involved – I’m going to fly in with them, help guard the Muwans in case anyone from the kidnap gang manages to get on to the roof.
A kidnap within a kidnap.
Well, OK, maybe that’s how these things are done.
Either way, the rescue is going to be one terrific adventure. What a way to improve my image with Ixchel, to earn Tyler’s admiration, to make it up to my mum. Just as much as Benicio, I’ll be one of the heroes.
Now that we know we’re being watched, we take care to lie low in the hotel all afternoon and evening. The question is, who’s watching us now? The original kidnappers or the buggy company guy?
It’s hard not to marvel at the convoluted game that’s being played here. Gang A watches a bunch of buggy-riding tourists, rounds them up on a day out, and then calls all the relatives. No police, do as you’re told . . . the whole thing. But they make a mistake and kidnap a guy from Gang B. So Gang B puts together another deal with the relatives who all hired buggies. Gang B swoops the hostages away from Gang A.
It could even be like Benicio says – maybe Gang A and Gang B were working together from the start.
Montoyo’s right, though – none of that really matters. Either way, we’re going to get our guys back. With or without assistance.
As the sun sets, Benicio and I change into our darkest clothes. In my case, that’s an old black rock concert T-shirt and some black jeans. In Benicio’s case, it’s his Muwan pilot’s jacket over his jeans. Benicio mutters something about getting me a bulletproof jacket later on, when we get to the Muwan. It’s obvious from his tone that every word he has to speak to me is one more than he’d like.
Does that mean I’ll be getting a gun too?
I’m not sure I’d be much good if it comes to shooting someone. I remember when I had a gun on Simon Madison that time we fought in the nunnery ruins. He was knocked out cold, but I couldn’t even shoot him in the leg. Real-life violence is nothing like computer games.
I don’t want to see anyone else die. I’ll never forget how I watched those two US agents dying from the poison gas released by the Ix Codex. Their screams bubbled with the sound of blood. And Camila and Dad. . . They both died near me, but thank God I didn’t actually see Camila drown, or watch Dad break his neck. Although what I’ve imagined might be worse.
I decide that if I have to shoot, I’m aiming for their knees.
When it’s properly dark outside, Montoyo receives the signal. It’s go time. We leave the hotel by taxi. The taxi driver is probably in the pay of Gang A or Gang B – but who cares? By later tonight, no one will believe a word they say about us.
Montoyo tells the taxi driver to take us to the Serhs Grand Hotel, where the capoeira championship was hosted. We talk about capoeira all the way, pretending to our taxi driver that we have teammates staying there. When we arrive Benicio and I step out, saying that we’re going to pick up a friend who’s waiting in the lobby.
Instead we go straight to the motorbike parking, where Benicio’s left his Harley Davidson. He used it the first night to drive from where he hid the Muwan, then down to the beach. Benicio starts the machine in a hurry, looking around nervously as the engine revs. I grip the pillion as we take off. No time for helmets. We fire off into the brightly lit beach highway. Within minutes we’ve pulled off into a side road and we’re climbing into the hillside neighb
ourhoods – the poorer backwaters of Natal.
I don’t know how Montoyo’s going to find his way to the construction site where they’re holding Mum, Tyler and Ixchel. When I asked him, he just looked grim and told me, “You let me worry about that.”
Benicio and I make such a quick getaway, it seems at first that we’re not followed. But I guess we make a distinctive pair – two teenage boys without helmets on a Harley. It’s not long before someone’s on our tail.
Unfortunately, it’s the police.
A traffic cop is the first to spot us. He flashes us from behind to pull over. Naturally, Benicio ignores him and speeds up. He makes a few rapid turns and we’re in another network of higgledy-piggledy streets. Eateries, pedestrians, cars and bikes clog the road. It’s so busy, it could be the middle of the day. The police car switches on its siren. A few people look around curiously. Benicio curses. We’re stalled behind a delivery van. On its open load, stacks of plastic crates packed with bottles of Antarctica-brand guarana clink against each other, precariously balanced. Then we hear another siren – a second cop. This one’s on a motorbike.
