by Sam Clarke
My father’s silhouette appeared in the background, Isabelle by his side. He was taking his time. No doubt the coward was hoping that Viggo would fix things for him. I barely registered the battered Ford Transit van until it suddenly braked and the side door slid open. Five armed men stormed out. My father sprinted forward. The yellow pointer on Viggo’s chest was followed by a short, buzzing sound. He collapsed to the floor, his body twisting and jerking. Isabelle screamed. I turned. My father’s body was on the asphalt next to her, also writhing madly. What on earth… I felt a hand over my mouth, someone grabbed hold of me and dragged me into the van. Despite all her kicking, Isabelle was next. One of the captors rolled duct tape around our wrists, the others collected the unconscious bodies from the street and dumped them into the van.
CHAPTER 42
My father and Viggo were unconscious, but alive. Their chests were going up down, following the universal rhythm of life. The abductor in charge of duct taping had finished an outstanding job on my father and was busy restraining Viggo. He was the provident type and had brought a spare roll, mum would have praised his forward thinking. My breathing was laboured and my mouth dry, funnily enough I could still taste the lemonade. In an attempt to dominate my fear, I concentrated on the citrusy flavour. I couldn’t figure out what the hell had happened until Isabelle mouthed “Taser guns.” A newspaper article about the Met Police being issued with weapons which incapacitate, rather than kill, their victims, flickered through my head. My father stirred.
‘Sergei, he’s waking up,’ said the Duct-Taper.
Sergei abandoned the front seat and climbed into the back. ‘Mr Larsson, we meet again.’
His face wasn’t familiar, but I immediately recognised his voice. He was the man who had been threatening my father in the cathedral. How on earth did he manage to track us down so quickly? My father was just as mystified. ‘How did you find us?’ he asked, grimacing in pain.
I’m sure he was referring specifically to how he had located us in Monreale, but Sergei was in show-off mode and started from the very beginning. ‘Our contact at Interpol monitored your passport since you left Nassau. After the Licata break-in, you covered your tracks pretty well, switching car was a good move, but I bet you didn’t know that Italian hotels abide by strict anti-mafia laws. They have a duty to report their guests’ passport details to the police on a daily basis. The moment you resurfaced at the Grand Hotel Ortigia, we kept you under surveillance and put a tracker in your car. When your aide picked it up yesterday, it led us straight to Monreale.’
I prayed he hadn’t seen us slip into the safe house. When we had first reached Monreale, Viggo had insisted on parking the Discovery two streets away from it, on the off chance that we had been followed. I wished he had been as paranoid when he had parked the bugged Discovery right in front of the pizza place.
‘We couldn’t believe you were so close to our base,’ continued Sergei, ‘we’re practically neighbours.’
‘I’ll pop in to borrow a cup of sugar then,’ said my father. His impertinence cost him a smack in the face.
‘You won’t be so smug when we finish with you. Where’s the ring?’
Good, he had no idea about the safe house.
‘I already told you in the cathedral,’ replied my father, ‘I don’t know. Let the kids go, they have nothing to do with this and would only be in your way.’
‘Nice try, Mr Larsson. Until your memory recovers, these kids will keep us company.’
‘Let them go and I’ll get you a copy of the map,’ said my father. Technically, he was cheating – the map’s missing corner made it completely useless – but this wasn’t a time to be pedantic.
Sergei laughed in his face. ‘We already have a copy. Yuri got it off your scanner the day he broke into Valhalla.’
‘That’s impossible,’ I blurted. ‘Viggo and I were responsible for scanning the map and we never left any hard copies lying around.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ said Sergei. ‘Your scanner has a built-in memory feature which enables it to recall the last ten documents that have crossed its glass screen. All Yuri had to do was press print.’
My father tensed. The scanner had seen its fair share of confidential documents. ‘What else did he get?’ he asked, alarmed.
‘Just faces,’ replied Sergei, with palpable frustration. ‘Map aside, it was like printing a bloody art gallery.’
I paled – the prehistoric selfies had found their way into the real world. My father frowned. ‘Faces?’
‘Why don’t you ask your son?’ said Sergei, tilting his head in my direction.
I glanced at Viggo, hoping we could share the mortification, but he was still out cold. For a brief moment, I wished I had been tasered too. ‘I… um… may have scanned my own face.’ I paused. ‘Repeatedly.’
My awkward confession reaped a selection of chuckles from the other captors. And a disdainful scoff from Isabelle. Sergei leaned towards me and lowered his voice to a hiss. ‘Vladimir kept one of your self-portraits.’
I doubted he wanted to display me on his mantelpiece. I nervously glanced around the van. ‘Where is he?’
‘Moscow. Getting his jaw fixed.’ I let out a loud sigh of relief. Sergei smirked. ‘Did I mention he’s my brother?’
#
The van eventually came to a halt. Its door slid open and revealed a remote farmhouse surrounded by various outbuildings and a vast expanse of countryside. My father, still a bit wobbly on his legs, was immediately frog-marched to the farmhouse. I was very worried about Viggo. He had never regained consciousness and the Duct-Taper was hauling him into one of the outbuildings. ‘Shouldn’t he be awake by now?’ asked another captor, picking at the long scar on his cheek.
‘Maybe electric charge in your gun too high,’ replied the Duct-Taper in a thick accent.
Scarface gaped. ‘Is it adjustable?’
‘It is in Star Trek.’
The Duct-Taper and Scarface shared similar features and, I suspected, a single brain. Their square jaws and deep-set eyes were complemented by Marine haircuts which clearly did nothing for their weapon-handling skills.
Isabelle and I were ungraciously dumped in the same outbuilding. Before locking us into our cell for the night, the Duct-Taper deposited a bottle of water and a tower of plastic glasses on the floor. He then removed a large knife from a brown leather sheath. ‘You behave, I cut restraints. No screaming, no shouting. Yes?’
I agreed, we were in the middle of nowhere, shouting would have been a pure waste of energy. He put the blade too close to my wrists for comfort, I shut my eyes and hoped he had a firm hand. Within seconds, I was massaging my forearms and peeling off sticky residue. After cutting Isabelle’s ties, the Duct-Taper shone his torch on the water and then on a plastic bucket standing in a corner. ‘Drink and toilet. Food tomorrow.’
At the prospect of using a proxy-toilet in my presence, Isabelle plucked up the courage to speak. ‘Excuse me, sir, you must be joking!’
Diplomacy had never been her strongpoint.
‘I no joke. Never.’
‘Well, that is your prerogative, but I’m a girl and I will need my own toilet. I’m sure the Geneva Convention stipulates that male and female prisoners of war are entitled to separate facilities.’
‘You no prisoner of war, you hostage.’
‘But you must adhere to some kind of humanitarian manifesto,’ she spluttered, ‘every organisation does!’
‘I ask boss,’ said the captor, who probably had never had such an argumentative hostage. He locked the door and left. Our cell, a bare room of four metres by four, was an unfinished storage area. Its glassless window was too high to reach and the only piece of furniture was an uninviting double-mattress. Isabelle sat on it and pulled her knees to her chest. We had been given a candle, but it was burning quickly. ‘What do you think they’ll do to us?’ she murmured.
‘Not sure.’
I was being devoured alive by the sense of guilt. If I hadn’t
stormed out of the restaurant in such a hurry my father and Viggo would have been more vigilant and this whole mess could have been avoided. Now my friend lay unconscious next door and my father was in the exact position he had wanted to avoid all along: having to choose between me and the ring. ‘Do you think they’re going to kill us?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Of course not,’ I replied, even if the thought had crossed my mind more often than I cared to admit. I joined her on the mattress and lay down. The flickering flame died and the room was plunged into total darkness. ‘Noah?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Are you scared?’
‘A bit.’
‘Are you thinking about Cressida?’
I was actually thinking that Isabelle smelled nice, but there was no way I was going to tell her. ‘I am now.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Kind of. It’s hard to miss what you never had.’
‘When you go back to London, you should get together with her. I know she’s way out of your league, but you look much better than when you first came. You’re fitter and less pasty. You may have half a chance.’
I snorted. ‘Thanks, I feel so much better. You should be a motivational speaker. Was I that pasty?’
‘Cadaver pasty.’
‘So my courtship will have to be quick, if the tan disappears, I’m done.’
She giggled. ‘Courtship? Where do you come up with these ancient words? Do you watch period rom-coms before going to sleep or something?’
I chuckled softly. ‘The last book we read in school was Wuthering Heights, some of the lingo stuck.’
I kept quiet about Carmen’s soaps. If this was going to be my last night on earth, I wanted to go to my unmarked grave with a modicum of dignity. She laughed again, that rare, sweet laugh that she kept for special occasions. I leaned on my elbow but, in the obscurity, she didn’t see it. ‘The last book we read was The Old Man and The Sea,’ she said. ‘Seriously, who would go through all that trouble for a marlin?’
‘I’m surprised you read something other than Teen Vogue. Do you read it or do you just look at the pictures?’
She laughed again and leaned forward. The idea was to pretend-smack me, because I did get a light slap on my shoulder, but she didn’t expect my face to be so close. The unthinkable happened. Somehow, and totally unintentionally, our lips brushed. The accidental gesture completely spoilt our carefree moment. Had we just kissed? Surely, if it was involuntary, it didn’t count, right? I couldn’t see her face, so it was hard to figure out what to do next. Was she shocked? Horrified? Happy? OK, I knew it couldn’t be the last one, but the fact that she hadn’t delivered further blows confirmed that she was as befuddled as I was. Why did I always have to end up in these pathetic situations?
‘Well, goodnight then,’ she said stiffly.
‘Goodnight.’
I rolled over to my side. She hadn’t accused me of anything, so I went with the assumption that she didn’t know what the hell had happened either.
#
The rooster’s crow woke me with a jolt. Isabelle was lying on my left arm, her back turned, and I was holding her the same way I used to hug Bruno, my giant teddy bear. She felt a lot nicer, definitely less hairy. I had never woken up next to a girl before. Despite wishing that the circumstances, and possibly the girl, were different, it was a fairly pleasant experience. She stretched in her sleep and rolled over, draping one of her arms around my shoulder. She was now facing me and our lips were less than five centimetres apart. There was no way I was going to repeat last night’s clumsy performance, so I pushed my head as far back as it would go. While I realigned my vertebrae, I studied her pretty face: the long lashes, the cute freckles, the black ant scouting her forehead… Suddenly, she opened her eyes. ‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked.
Sometimes the best defence is a direct attack. ‘Nothing, I woke up and you were hugging me.’
‘Liar!’
I poked her right arm, which was still draped over my shoulder. ‘This sweaty scarf belongs to you, doesn’t it?’
Before she could think of a suitable insult, the key turned in the lock and Viggo stumbled in. He leaned against the wall, moaning that he wasn’t feeling so good. We rushed to his aid and helped him onto the mattress, where he whinged for another couple of minutes. The captors ignored him and left. ‘You guys OK?’ he asked, in a normal voice, as soon as their steps faded away.
Isabelle immediately stopped stroking his forehead. Being nice to him on his deathbed was acceptable, being nice to him because she fancied him was unthinkable. That’s girls for you. I was confused by his miraculous recovery. ‘We’re fine, you’re the one who’s supposed to be in pain.’
‘Nah, just pretending. I never blacked-out, I’ve been conscious all along.’
I should have been happy he was alive and well, but all I could feel was mounting anger.
‘Dude, what’s with the hypercritical look?’ he asked.
I threw my arms in the air in a fit of rage. ‘Nothing, absolutely nothing! I was torn apart by guilt for the whole of last night and you were fine all along! Everything’s hunky dory, Viggo!’
Isabelle shrank away from him. Resorting to a possum surviving technique wasn’t exactly heroic. ‘You played dead?’
He clearly resented her vocabulary. ‘I played harmless. I figured that if I looked out of it, they wouldn’t see me as a threat. And it worked. I’ve been locked up with Miguel all night.’
‘How is he?’ she asked, forgiving the possum on the spot.
‘Fine, worried about you though. His door is secured by a simple external latch which is impossible to open from the inside. Even if he managed to, they check on him every fifteen minutes, so he couldn’t get very far. Hey, you’ve got a window.’
‘We’ve considered it,’ I said. ‘It’s too high.’
‘How often did they check on you?’
‘Not once. They threw us in here last night and we didn’t see them again until this morning.’
He got to his feet and assessed the distance between the floor the window. ‘How’s your balance?’
‘Constantly in the red,’ replied Isabelle gloomily.
‘I meant your physical balance. Ever done circus skills?’ We shook our heads. ‘Pity, it would have made it much easier. Princess, you’re the lightest, if you balance on my hands, I could extend my arms and push you out of the window.’
‘And splatter me on the other side? No thanks, I’d rather die pretty.’
I could have told her that worms are blind and would have feasted on her either way, but decided not to. ‘Nobody’s going to die,’ said Viggo. ‘There’s a huge pile of hay at the other side. I saw it while they brought me here. If you land on it, you’ll be fine.’
‘Says who?’ she asked defiantly.
‘Me, Viggo.’
‘I was being sarcastic, you idiot!’
The insult washed right over him, he was too engrossed with his plan. ‘Listen to me, I’ll push you out of the window under the cover of darkness. You’ll land on the hay, make your way to the nearest village and raise the alarm.’
‘Which nearest village? We have no idea where we are!’
If she yelled any louder, our captors could have given us directions. He removed his diver watch and gave it to her. ‘It’s got a built-in compass. Head North-East, towards the coast. You’re bound to find villages on the way.’
She took the watch and drew a sharp breath. ‘Even if I survive the plunge, I’ll be a sitting duck in the Sicilian countryside. Forget it, your plan sucks!’
He crossed his arms and sulked. I couldn’t help but notice that she had kept the watch. I had been the catalyst of this mess, the least I could do was put things right. ‘I’ll do it,’ I blurted, before I could change my mind.
CHAPTER 43
I spent the morning balancing on Viggo’s shoulders. Despite a couple of bad falls, it wasn’t long before I could stand on his upturned hands. Pushing me up towards t
he window was a different matter. I wished Isabelle would change her mind. She was the lightest. Pushing her up would have been much easier. Viggo’s muscles were beginning to shake under the strain and we decided to take a short break. Incredibly, we began bickering over toilet customs. Isabelle had forbidden Viggo from using the bucket and he was feeling quite resentful. He didn’t think that her inhibitions should have interfered with his bodily functions. For once, I publicly sided with her. He took offence and called me a prude from Victorian times. Our surreal fight was cut short by the unmistakeable sound of rotor blades. Could Dracula have noticed our absence and organised a rescue operation at such short notice? Viggo crushed my hopes. ‘The safe house isn’t a baby-sitting service,’ he said, ‘people come and go at all times. Ariel is our only hope. If he realises that we’ve disappeared without a trace, he may get suspicious and get things moving.’
‘It’s a long shot, he’s still in hospital.’
‘I know,’ he said glumly. ‘Essentially, we’re on our own.’
The helicopter touched down somewhere on the farm. ‘Who do you think it is?’ I asked.
Viggo sat on the dirty floor and leaned his back against the wall. ‘I don’t know, but it could explain why we’ve been here over twelve hours and nobody came to interrogate us. They were waiting for the big shots. I have a bad feeling about this.’
I did too. I was now more determined than ever to put Viggo’s plan into action, even if it meant leaving my fingernails embedded in the wall. I wished that darkness would come faster, the waiting around was driving me insane.
Early in the afternoon, the Duct-Taper and Scarface paid us a visit. As per Isabelle’s appeal, and possibly in accordance with the Geneva Convention, we had been granted proper toilet breaks. Irrespective of the machine gun buried in my back, I made the most of my lavatory tour. In daylight, the farm proved larger than expected. The stables and a pig sty were behind the main farmhouse, the helicopter – not that I could fly it – was next to a derelict barn. There was no sound coming from the stables. Unlike the pig sty, they had to be devoid of animals. The van was parked under a canopy and seemed to be the only driveable vehicle apart from a once-red tractor. Both had seen better days. Plenty of them. I made a mental note of the layout and tried to memorise any tree, bush or building that could provide cover during my escape. I returned to my cell, keen to compare my findings with my fellow-prisoners. Unfortunately, one of them failed to return. ‘He’ll be here soon,’ I said to Isabelle, even though I feared the contrary.
