Becoming the Talbot Sisters

by Rachel Linden

  The young man interrupted their exchange. “If you need the toilet in the night, Artur will be outside the door to help you.” He indicated the hulking guard, who scowled at the far wall. “He doesn’t understand English, but he knows the word toilet. Do not try to escape. You have nowhere to go, and we will treat you kindly if you help us. Now you should rest. Tomorrow will be a very busy day.”

  He gestured for Artur to follow him and started to leave the room.

  “Wait,” Charlie called, desperate to learn anything she could, trying to understand what was going on. “What is your name?”

  The man turned. “I am Jetmir,” he said. He inclined his head cordially, then left them, locking the door behind him.

  Jetmir. Charlie frowned, puzzling over his nationality. It didn’t sound like a Slavic name. Not Greek or Italian either. Was it Albanian? His accent had sounded Albanian to her, similar to Arben and Ilir’s.

  Waverly was sitting on the bed rifling through her purse. “They took my cell phone.” She sounded disappointed.

  Charlie looked through her bag. Nothing was missing except her laptop and phone, the only things she really wanted to find. She left her purse on the bed and went to the table. Her stomach growled with hunger, and she lifted the foil that was over one of the plates on the plastic tray. Strange that even in the midst of the most extreme circumstances the body still needed sustenance. Many things went on as before—the breath filling her lungs, the steady drumming of her heart, quieter now that there seemed to be no imminent danger. She slid into a chair at the table and rested her throbbing head in her hands. How had this happened? How were they in this place, held captive for unknown purposes, whisked away from their lives in the blink of an eye? No one knew where they were. They didn’t even know where they were. Everything felt turned inside out.

  Charlie and Waverly shared a mostly silent meal of baked peppers stuffed with rice, meat, and tomato sauce. The food was hearty and good, but neither enjoyed it under the circumstances. Charlie ate mechanically, filling her belly, eating for the baby, but her mind was on their current situation. While they ate they briefly discussed their predicament in low undertones, in case Artur was listening outside the door. Unfortunately, there was little to discuss. They didn’t know where they were, who had taken them, or why.

  While Waverly seemed confused and a little unsettled to discover that apparently she was the reason they had been kidnapped, Charlie was secretly relieved. Whatever this was, it seemed better than being kidnapped by the traffickers. The Serbian Mafia was brutal and ruthless. These people, whoever they were, were at least treating them with some level of decency.

  “We have to find a way to contact someone and tell them what’s happened to us.” Waverly took a sip of water, drumming her fingers on the table, trying to come up with a method of communication.

  “Even if we could get hold of someone, we have no idea where we are. We have almost nothing to tell them,” Charlie pointed out, dabbing at the sauce from her dinner with a hunk of bread.

  “Maybe Ilir got away and is trying to get help for us right now,” Waverly said hopefully.

  “Or he was in on everything from the beginning.” Charlie frowned. “The guy who roofied us was related to him, remember?” She thought of how distant and curt Ilir had been during the drive. It seemed likely that he had been the one to orchestrate their disappearance. A depressing thought, that the one person in the world who knew where they were was probably not in any hurry to reveal their whereabouts.

  Waverly pursed her lips. “What in the world could they want with me?” she wondered aloud.

  Charlie had been wondering the same thing. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” she said grimly.

  Waverly looked up and met her sister’s eyes. In Waverly’s, Charlie saw fear mixed with a tinge of curiosity. Neither said anything more. There was nothing more to say.

  CHAPTER 22

  The next morning Artur brought another plastic tray with breakfast and removed the remains of their dinner. Charlie sat up with a groan as he left the room with the dinner tray. She had slept poorly, alert to every noise, her mind whirling through the long hours of darkness, trying to make sense of their situation, trying to come up with an escape plan and a solution. She had reached no conclusion, just frustrated and exhausted herself until she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  In the bathroom down the hall she showered and changed into fresh clothes. Waverly did the same after her. Then they sat down to a simple breakfast of fresh round bread, cheese, ajvar, and scrambled eggs. Halfway through breakfast Artur brought in two cups of strong coffee. Charlie waved hers away, but Waverly downed hers quickly, grimacing as she swallowed the thick, dark brew. She and Charlie both preferred tea, but coffee was the only beverage on their breakfast tray.

  They were almost finished with breakfast when Jetmir appeared, Artur following him like an obedient hound. Their host was looking just as dapper as he had the day before. He was wearing a new tracksuit, this one red, but the same spotless athletic shoes.

  “You are refreshed?” he inquired. “Is there anything you need to be comfortable?”

  “We’d be a lot more comfortable if you’d tell us where we are and what you want with us,” Charlie said boldly. Waverly nodded her agreement.

  He chuckled. “Soon you will know everything you need to know. Please get ready now. We are going to meet the man in charge.”

  Charlie and Waverly exchanged glances. That sounded ominous but possibly enlightening.

  With Jetmir leading the way and Artur bringing up the rear, his hand hovering menacingly over his gun, they walked single file through the house. As they passed an open doorway, Charlie caught a glimpse of a narrow kitchen where a tiny, wizened woman in a head scarf and long skirt was stirring a bubbling pot on a gas stove. The woman looked up and glowered at them as they passed. On the other side of the hall was a half-open door leading to a living room. On a black leather sofa sat two large men smoking and watching television. They did not look up as Charlie passed them. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she recognized them from the restaurant in Montenegro.

  Jetmir led them through the front door and across a scrubby patch of ground toward a large outbuilding made of brick plastered over with stucco. Charlie looked around her as they walked. There were no other houses within sight. The air smelled sweet and fresh, the morning sun burning off the night’s chill. A large, bare vegetable patch lay in the sun beyond the outbuilding. A shiny new Mercedes was parked in front of the building, along with a few older Volkswagens.

  Charlie craned her head, focusing on the license plates. Most license plates in Europe had the initials of the country to one side of the plate. She squinted. RKS, the plate on the shiny Mercedes read. Republic of Kosovo. The other cars’ plates were the same. Kosovo. They were in Kosovo. Charlie closed her eyes for a moment, relieved to at least know what country they were in, but that only deepened the mystery. They had been kidnapped in Montenegro and brought across the border into Kosovo. But why?

  They came to a halt in front of the outbuilding. Roughly triple the size of the house, it had a few windows set high in the wall and covered with black material, and a heavy metal door. Jetmir opened the door and ushered them inside.

  It took a moment for Charlie’s eyes to adjust. The room was a hive of activity. Over half a dozen people were running to and fro inside, heads bent as though on important errands. Her gaze instantly went to a makeshift stage at the other end of the room, illuminated by lights on poles. In front of the stage two men fiddled with a video camera on a tripod. The air was cold in the cavernous room and smelled of stale cigarette smoke and vaguely of horse manure from the garden outside.

  “Welcome, welcome, honored guests.”

  Charlie and Waverly turned in unison to find a balding, rotund man in a dark suit addressing them. His eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses were sharp, assessing. His leather shoes were perfectly polished. He said something to Jetmir, who nodded an
d fell back a half step, ushering Charlie and Waverly forward. They’re speaking Albanian, Charlie realized, listening to them. She didn’t speak Albanian, but she recognized its soft cadence, the shhes and pursed lips. The man in front of them must be the big boss Jetmir had mentioned.

  “Welcome to our television studio,” he said, gesturing expansively. “I am Erjon.” On his left hand he wore a heavy gold ring with a red background and a bold black double-headed eagle, the symbol on Albania’s national flag. “Come.” He motioned for them to follow him to the stage. “See what we have prepared for you.”

  They skirted the two men adjusting the video camera and approached the stage.

  “Oh,” Waverly gasped. “It’s my kitchen.”

  Charlie stared in surprise. Waverly was right. Their captors had tried to reconstruct the kitchen from Simply Perfect, but nothing looked quite right. The marble was obviously laminate and not the right color, the refrigerator in the back was only spray painted silver, but it was clearly the Simply Perfect kitchen, or at least a cheap knock-off version of it.

  “What in the world?” Charlie muttered, more confused than ever. She shook her head, feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, as though she’d tipped down a hole and come out in a strange Albanian alternate universe.

  “You like it?” Erjon asked Waverly, gesturing to the kitchen and looking pleased. “It is for you.”

  “Er, thank you,” Waverly said politely.

  “Please . . .” He invited them to sit down on two folding chairs facing the stage, and he sat down opposite them. “Coffee, tea? Burek?”

  “We’re fine,” Charlie said automatically.

  Waverly was still staring at her makeshift kitchen, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She crossed her legs at the ankle, posture correct even as her face displayed a mixture of consternation and confusion. “What is this for?” she asked, voicing the question Charlie had been waiting to ask as well.

  Erjon smiled broadly. “Your television show. We have the kitchen, the cameras, even your costumes.” He snapped his fingers, and a young woman hurried over with a rolling rack of bright evening gowns in a rainbow of colors.

  “You see, we have thought of everything,” Erjon said proudly, motioning to the evening gowns.

  “Ah, I see,” Waverly murmured, hesitating before reaching out to touch an emerald-green gown covered in sequins. They were a far cry from her usual demure outfits under pretty vintage-print aprons. “But I still don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”

  Erjon nodded, snapping his fingers. The young woman rolled the rack of gowns away as another young woman appeared with a small cup of thick dark coffee. He took a sip, savoring it for a moment.

  “You are here,” he said slowly, with gravity, putting the cup down with a clink of porcelain, “to help the Albanian people gain unity and freedom.”

  Waverly and Charlie exchanged a look.

  “What?” Charlie asked guardedly.

  “You are going to help us bring the Albanian people together, to once again achieve ethnic Albanian unification,” Erjon said smoothly. He threaded his fingers together and rested them on his rounded middle, sitting back in his chair, satisfied.

  Waverly looked utterly mystified. Charlie stared at him, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. Finally, something clicked into place. She’d read a report on the concept of a unified ethnic Albania a few years before. It was a grand plan to reunite all ethnic Albanians under one country. The problem was that the plan included uniting Albania, Kosovo (whose population was mostly ethnically Albanian and identified strongly with Albania), and portions of land from at least four other sovereign nations. Unfortunately, Serbia, Montenegro, Macedonia, and Greece were not favorably inclined to carve off portions of their national territory and hand it over to a large group of zealous and patriotic Albanians; it was a plan that seemed doomed to failure from the start. So this was who had kidnapped them? Albanian nationalists?

  Charlie felt equal parts relieved and baffled. “How exactly is Waverly going to help you?” she asked.

  Their host smiled, pleased that they had finally gotten to the crux of the matter. “She is a famous TV star in America,” he said, gesturing grandly to Waverly, “and America is a very powerful country. When America wants something, other countries listen. So . . .” He shrugged as though the outcome were obvious.

  Charlie stared at him for a moment, trying to follow his logic. “Wait . . . You want Waverly to convince the US to support Albanian reunification?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Yes.” Erjon nodded. “Exactly.”

  “But how will I do that?” Waverly asked. “I’m just a home entertaining show host.”

  “You will help us by filming your cooking show and showing American people how great Albania is,” Erjon explained.

  “I’m not that famous,” Waverly said in a fit of honesty.

  Charlie kicked her in the shin discreetly. Now was not the time to have a sudden spurt of humility. Waverly’s supposed fame might be all the leverage they had to work with.

  Erjon laughed. “We see you on the television. All America watches the television. You are a famous lady.”

  Charlie’s mind was working furiously, trying to determine the best course of action. Their kidnappers’ plan was, of course, ridiculous. To use a home-hostessing show on the Food Network to convince the US to back an impossible reunification effort was absurd. But at least it meant that they had not been kidnapped by human traffickers, and if the Albanians wanted Waverly’s help so badly, that meant that Waverly and Charlie had some possible negotiating power.

  “What do we get if she cooperates?” Charlie asked abruptly. “Will you let us go?”

  Erjon nodded. “Of course. When we are finished making the shows, you are free to leave. You are our guests here.”

  Charlie calculated dates in her head. They had been taken yesterday, she thought. Therefore, it was probably April 8. Just nine days until she had to testify in Belgrade. And about three months until her due date. Surely they wouldn’t keep them long enough for her to have the baby? How long did the Albanians think it would take to convince America to support their plans? It seemed likely that someone would figure out where they were before her due date, but the odds of being released before the trial seemed slim. Nine days was a short period of time to find the missing Talbot sisters, but she had to be in Belgrade by the seventeenth. What could they do?

  “And what if she refuses to help you?” Charlie asked. She was testing the parameters, trying to gauge their captor’s intentions.

  Erjon smiled slightly, looking Charlie in the eye. He leaned back in his chair comfortably and took another sip of espresso, then set it in its saucer. The woman who had brought him the coffee appeared, and he handed her the cup before waving her away. “I hear something interesting from Jetmir,” he said in a conversational tone of voice. “He says there are people in Serbia who are looking for you. People who would very much like to find you.”

  Charlie’s blood ran cold at his words. So Jetmir had been listening to their conversation about the traffickers. Erjon’s mouth was drawn over his teeth in a smile, but his eyes were hard.

  “I have contacts in Serbia,” he said softly. “My cousin knows powerful people there, people in that line of work. A phone call from me and they will know exactly where to find you. But we don’t want to do this. There is no need for anyone to know you are here.” He spread his hands in a gesture of goodwill. “As long as you help us, we will keep you safe.”

  Charlie swallowed hard and sat back in her chair. So that was the end of the negotiations. The Albanians held all the cards. She and Waverly were stuck, with no obvious way out.

  “I’ll do it,” Waverly said, casting a worried glance at Charlie. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent.” Erjon looked genuinely pleased. He clapped his hands, and Jetmir appeared from somewhere behind them. “We start tomorrow,” he said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand
.

  “Are you honestly getting dressed up for this farce?” Charlie asked early the next morning, yawning and stretching on the bed with a groan.

  Waverly, who had been up for a half hour already, glanced up from the mirror, her curling iron in her hand. Charlie was not a morning person, never had been, but Waverly loved the early mornings. There was such a sense of purpose and possibility in the morning. Anything could happen when the day stretched before you. Waverly found those early hours to be her happiest and most productive. She often used them to try new recipes and putter around her kitchen, listening to Whitney Houston or Celine Dion, her mother’s apron tied over her pajamas.

  It was barely light, but a few minutes earlier Artur had brought breakfast and an evening gown for Waverly—a flared emerald-green mermaid cut that looked like a prom dress from the early nineties. He left the dress on her bed and tapped his watch, motioning for Waverly to get ready quickly.

  “I’m preparing for whatever the day holds,” Waverly responded. “Usually I have a hair and makeup girl, but I can do it in a pinch. And I’d say this certainly qualifies as a pinch.” She took a small bite of eggs and carefully wound another piece of hair around the barrel of the curling iron.

  Charlie helped herself to breakfast and then flopped onto the bed, balancing a full plate of bread and cheese and eggs on her stomach. “But they’re forcing you to do this. It’s not like it’s a real show.”

  “Well, I’m a professional,” Waverly stated tartly. “This might not be a real show, but if I’m in front of the camera I need to look the part. I’m Simply Perfect’s Waverly Talbot no matter what the circumstances. And right now our circumstances seem pretty dire, and I am doing whatever it takes to keep the people who have captured us happy.”

  She closed one eyelid and brushed a pearly eye shadow across it. Charlie didn’t understand what it meant to have a public image, Waverly thought as she readied herself for the camera. She had been cultivating her public persona for years. She was the consummate professional, even in less than ideal circumstances.