He saw movement on the dark floor and got goose bumps; he automatically pulled his legs closer. Something was moving. Holding his breath, he leaned forward and saw a fat cockroach crawling towards him. It was dark-brown and as big as a saucer and looked scary with its feelers and armored body. John took off a shoe, held it in both hands and hit the giant bug. He thought he got it, but instead of turning into a sticky mess on the floor it only turned around and hurried back into the crack in the wall from where it probably came from. John felt nauseous at the thought of the insect having crawled all over him while he had been unconscious.
He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt the dull, throbbing pain in his skull and wished he was far away in another place and a different life.
He must have briefly fallen asleep, because he suddenly opened his eyes when he heard approaching footsteps nearby.
There was a knock at the door. “Hola!” a voice called out. “You waking?”
John grimaced which caused instant pain. “Not really.”
“Lay … face on mattress. Not look or kill you. Lay — andele, andele!”
“Okay, okay,” he said and did as told. The mattress stank. It was probably soaked with the sweat of fear from other kidnapping victims. He heard the door being unlocked, then footsteps and a scraping noise, and then the door slammed shut again. It sounded odd, as if the door were made of cardboard, and the lock clicked shut. The footsteps went away, and then all was quiet again.
That probably meant that he could move. John looked up slowly. There was a plate on the floor with a piece of bread and a tin cup, which smelled like coffee. A wonderful smell compared to the other odors in the room. His stomach rumbled, and he realized he was hungry. Apart from the headache he felt relatively fine. Well-rested, in fact, as if he had slept for days. He could not say for sure, since his watch, which would have showed the date, was gone.
He got the plate and the cup. The coffee was okay, even had milk and sugar. And the bread tasted fresh. No doubt they would raise the ransom money to cover such creature comforts — after all, you get what you pay for. This whole thing had an air of business to it. There was no suggestion of panic or emergency in the unknown man’s voice. It seemed more like kidnapping was his normal day job.
Kidnapped! Unbelievable! And nothing in the least had happened all the previous years. The bodyguards had been near him the whole time, and the most they had to do was to clear paths through hordes of reporters or gawking bystanders when they got in the way. He had never felt in any sort of danger, especially since he had run away with Ursula and there were no problems. But that must have been only luck. It all proved McCaine right again, as usual.
When he placed his plate on the floor, the chains rattled on the pipe. He looked up and studied it. The noise that the chain made would be heard loud and clear from above. Was this how they noticed that he was awake? For sure. And then they made coffee right away.
John stood up, but avoided making any more noises with the chain. He stood next to the pipe and thought, what works one way should work the other way around too. Or? He put his ear against the cool metal, pressed one ear against it, and put a finger in the other, which was not easy with the cuffs. Indeed, he could hear a TV, playing music, and then he heard the sonorous voice of a TV moderator. He heard someone working in what seemed to be a kitchen and whistling to the tunes on TV. A phone rang, was answered and then someone spoke with a melodious, but unintelligible Spanish. The pipe was a practical listening device.
It was a strain for his body to listen for a longer period of time, and since he didn’t understand Spanish the whole effort brought nothing but a rough overall picture of his situation. So he quit listening. At any rate, it sounded as if the kidnappers had everything under control.
He sat down again and concentrated on the crack in the wall where the monster cockroach lived. He fell asleep and was again awaked for another meal: a bunch of beans, a little meat, and a cup of water.
“Be patient,” the unknown man told John without being asked. He placed the plate and cup on the floor and took the ones from breakfast.
Napping was the best thing to do, according to the man’s advice. The light from the slit gradually dimmed as the evening approached. Before total darkness set in, John pulled himself together and dared to urinate in the bucket. He put it as far away from the mattress as he could when he had finished.
He listened on the pipe one more time. Some American program was on TV, probably with subtitles; it seemed to be some crime show that dealt with the kidnapping of some millionaire’s daughter. This could almost be considered to be educational programming, John thought as he lay down to sleep. But instead of sleeping he only stared into the featureless darkness and tried to listen for the potential march of a horde of monster cockroaches.
He must have fallen asleep again after all, because when he awoke it was broad daylight. And there were no cockroaches scuttling about. He got up without making any noise with the chains and listened, but he could not hear the TV, instead he heard several men talking. They sounded very relaxed, as if they were having coffee together and with nothing better to do then to kill time.
“Breakfast, por favor,” John mumbled and rattled the chains.
But instead of breakfast another man came, a different one from the previous day, and he didn’t knock or give instructions, he simply came in. He spoke English, and with a US east coast accent, no less. “We have never met,” he told John, “but we know each other.”
John looked him skeptically. He had a swollen face with rough skin, perhaps from a bad case of acne in his youth which had left its marks. He had excessive body hair spilling out from his collar and sleeves. Not exactly an appealing figure. It was someone John did not care to know. Then he remembered. Yes, he had seen this man before, but with a different hairstyle and on TV. “Bleeker,” he said, “You are Randolph Bleeker.”
Afterwards it was impossible to determine how the rumors got started. The Mexican police officials, who had been appointed to the special commission, had been committed to the strictest silence, and the final internal investigation into the case showed no reason to believe that one of their own had been the source of the information leak. Even so, foreign news and camera teams suddenly landed in Mexico City’s airport, requests for comment to the police were sent by fax and telephone, and the whole world wanted to know if it was true that John Salvatore Fontanelli had been kidnapped.
The headquarters of Fontanelli Enterprises in London refused to make any sort of comment. The police of Mexico City also refused to make a statement. The campus grounds of the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico were suddenly flooded with police and people with cameras and microphones.
“It just won’t stop,” one of the secretaries complained to McCaine. “Even our own TV stations are calling us. What should I tell them?”
“Nothing,” McCaine responded. He closed a folder with a smack and shoved it into a drawer. “Cancel all my appointments for the next five days and book me a flight to Mexico City.”
“What’s all this about?” John asked. “Is this your revenge because your plan with my brother failed?”
Bleeker grinned mockingly. “Revenge? No. I’m not the kind of person who holds a grudge. I’m quite professional in things like this, you know. I’m only doing what I’ve been told.”
“So? What are you being told?”
“You’re not going to ask who I’m working for, are you? You’re too smart for that.”
John just shrugged his shoulders. “What happens now? What are you going to do with me?”
“Oh, I think your ransom money will make history.” Bleeker made sure he kept outside of John’s radius of movement. He was wearing a light and very wrinkled suit and kept on rubbing a small spot beneath his ear. “And besides, it depends.”
“On what?”
“You, for instance. Your behavior, your cooperation, and other things you have no influence over.”
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“It won’t work,” John said, and he wondered over his own calmness. “You will fail again, Bleeker, just like before, when you ruined Lino’s life.”
Bleeker stared at John and then snarled, “You would be surprised how much detail your brother put into his potential role as father of a trillion dollar heir.”
John could easily imagine that it wasn’t a lie. Lino was always someone who lived by the motto “Take whatever you can” — regardless of whether it was with women, money, or anything else. John rubbed his handcuffed wrists. “I would suggest you tell me what it is you want.”
“Quality control,” Bleeker said. “I have to make sure that my … subcontractors have done a good job and got the right man.”
“Your subcontractors?”
“I’m only doing this for money, Mr. Fontanelli. Since no one hands it to me for nothing I have to work for it. I have discovered that you can live very pleasantly when you are ready to do unpleasant things once in a while. Like this here, for example.”
“And what else? Surely you won’t let me live. I could incriminate you as soon as I’m set free.”
“That really doesn’t frighten me. I’m already a fugitive, remember? I’ve learned a thing or two, and believe it or not, I like it like this. Life is pretty exciting this way.”
McCaine glanced warily at the giant chandelier directly above his head. Mexico City was earthquake prone and should one hit this evening that thing could flatten him. He cleared his throat. All eyes, microphones, and cameras were fixed on him.
The press conference took place in the big hall in the Hotel El Presidente. Green velvet cloth hung in elaborately pleated large, tent-like webs, draped across the ceiling and gold ornate pillars seemed to support the symbolic tent roof: all this in bizarre contrast to the huge, exotically colorful mural behind McCaine, which had been painted by legendary Mexican painter, Diego Rivera. There was no need to be an art connoisseur to know this; the hotel informed its visitors amply with brochures, signs, and engravings.
“So far,” McCaine said, after he explained the reason why he was there, “all we know is that Mr. Fontanelli has disappeared. The circumstances behind his disappearance do not support the notion that he was forcefully abducted, although this cannot be totally discounted. If indeed he had been abducted, there haven’t been any messages from the kidnappers yet.”
A woman put her hand in the air and spoke when McCaine gave her the floor. “Do you know who Mr. Fontanelli was going to meet?”
“No,” McCaine answered. “I even doubt that such a meeting had taken place. As far as I know, Mr. Fontanelli knew no one on the campus here.”
That caused excitement. “Why did he say that?” one man called out before McCaine gave him the floor.
McCaine leaned over the forest of microphones. “Everybody knows that Mr. Fontanelli likes to take a risk every now and then, to venture out without his bodyguards. There has never been any foul play in the past when he did this, but, of course, his bodyguards do not like this sort of behavior. I, by the way, don’t either. Mr. Fontanelli, however, is an adult and does not need to have anyone telling him what he can or cannot do. I’d like to add that one of the bodyguards is missing too. The police are currently investigating the possibility of a connection between the two disappearances.”
A heavy-set man wearing a tee-shirt with the logo of an American TV channel raised his hand. “Could this be a pre-mediated kidnapping?”
“I can’t see how someone could have planned this,” McCaine responded. “It was only decided a few days ago that Mr. Fontanelli would come to Mexico, and it was known to only a handful of people. As far as I’m informed, the police think this may have been purely opportunistic.”
“Will you pay ransom?” someone shouted out.
“How high is the sum?” another one wanted to know.
Flash-bulbs popped, dictaphones were pointed towards him.
McCaine stared blankly into thin air for a while, brooding before he answered. “Naturally, we will do whatever is necessary to get Mr. Fontanelli back in one piece, if he has indeed been abducted. But, as I said before, we know nothing definite.”
“There is a witness who saw Mr. Fontanelli running,” someone chipped in. “What do you say to that? Was he running away from something?”
McCaine raised his hands apologetically. “I can say nothing about that. I was not there.”
“What happens if Mr. Fontanelli is dead? Who will inherit the fortune?” a voice asked from somewhere in the rear of the hall.
“Yes, that’s right. Who is the heir?” another person asked. The hall erupted with everyone asking the same question, as if they had all been waiting for someone else to ask it, but no one had dared.
McCaine stared grimly into the crowd and waited until they had calmed down — more or less. “You can rest assured that all questions concerning the fortune have been duly addressed. But at the present time, I think it would be more than tasteless to give details of any sort.” He thought it unnecessary to mention that he flew to Mexico only after one of the most important legal experts of Britain thoroughly examined John’s hand-written will and assured him that it would be considered completely valid.
The waiting got on his nerves — badly. If he could have done so, he would have paced back and forth in his cell like a tiger in a cage, but the chains didn’t permit even that. If he could only get rid of them! When the man brought him his food, he asked, with his face pressed against the stinking mattress, to have the chains removed. But the unknown man only thought that was amusing. After he was alone again, John looked long and hard at the door and then understood; without the chains, he could easily kick the flimsy door down without any effort at all.
Out of pure boredom he got up every few minutes, stood by the pipe, pressed his ear against the metal, and listened. He did this until his back and neck got sore and he had to sit down again. Most of the time he only heard the TV anyhow, it seemed to be on the entire day. Sugary music played and then sentimental songs, and at times there were overly excited dialogue between guests on some cheap talk show, and then a news program, with the moderator rattling out the news at machinegun pace. Once in a while he could hear dishes and the clanging of pots and pans, or the chopping of food on a wooden board. Occasionally a couple of people talked to each other, always deep, mens’ voices, sounding bored. They spoke Spanish, but even if John had known the language they slurred their speech so much he would never have been able to understand a word.
Every time he sat back down he thought that he would just stop listening from now on, because he hadn't got a single piece of information about what his kidnappers had planned or what they wanted to do with him. That’s when he told himself that he would be satisfied just to watch the cockroach for a while. But then it became so boring he could not stand it anymore so got up and listened again.
As he listened he suddenly heard his name being mentioned. There is something slightly magical about hearing the sound of your own name. Even if you’re not paying any attention, even if you’re listening to a foreign language, even standing in the middle of a crowd with a jumble of other voices all around — as soon as your own name is mentioned, you hear it. And since you don’t expect to hear it, it shocks you when you do. John heard his name, but it was a voice from the TV.
He reeled back, startled. That must have been a hallucination, surely? For sure, the cracks and holes in the walls told him. He pressed his ear back against the pipe, holding his breath. Then he heard excitement in the men’s voices. They were watching the TV news program up there. He barely heard the men’s nervous whispering. The TV was switched to another channel, and the whispering changed to excited chatter. One interrupted the other and they got louder and more excited until one of them got the others to quiet down.
One of them seemed to be using the telephone, and he ranted at someone in a harsh tone of voice. The phone was hung up with a slam and the voices got excited again and now it even started t
o sound like panic.
Something had gone wrong.
John had to step away from the pipe and he placed a hand against his chest; his heart was pounding. This was not good. This was very bad. Something had not gone the way his kidnappers had planned, and he had read enough stories about abductions to know that this could end very badly for him.
He tried to calm down and not to make any suspicious noises with the chain. He returned to his listening post. He still heard the excited voices talking loudly. They were not calming down.
After a while a door was slammed, and heavy footsteps could be heard. Then he heard a new voice speaking broken Spanish and John thought he recognized Randolph Bleeker’s voice. The men verbally attacked him, throwing accusations at him and other, stronger words. Bleeker defended himself, talking loudly, even yelling and shouting. John started to understand what had gone wrong: the kidnappers had no idea who it was they had abducted. They did not know who he was. It was only when they saw his picture on TV that they learned the wealthiest man in the world sitting in their dungeon. And now they were scared.
Perhaps they were indeed professional kidnappers and abducted a relatively wealthy person every once in a while, and earned their livelihood this way. The police were probably overburdened with these cases, or did not even find out about some of them. But the abduction of John Fontanelli was like poking a stick into a beehive, and heaven and hell would be set in motion to find the abductors. This was more than they bargained for.
No doubt, Bleeker was trying to convince them otherwise. He cursed and he argued told them to stick to the plan, but the men were shouting all at once, chairs were falling over, and it sounded like there was a scuffle going on. They finally managed to throw Bleeker out. John heard the former lawyer shouting dirty American cuss words, but it sounded like they already had him out in the hallway, and then outside. A door slammed shut.
One Trillion Dollars Page 61
