by Angus McLean
Archer turned and fixed him with a steely glare. ‘It's what needs to be done with every rabid dog,’ he replied. ‘You put the bastard down.’
Chapter 29
Jed Ingoe wasn’t known for looking chirpy at the best of times, but today was a bad day even for him. His face was drawn and tired, and Archer wondered how much sleep he’d had in the last few days.
He didn’t ask – he knew Ingoe would just tell him sleep was for babies and retired folk.
They were Facetiming while Archer paced the footpaths, his ear buds in to keep the conversation at least semi-confidential. After the earlier revelation, he strongly suspected the CIA would have his hotel room wired up.
‘We got that heads-up just before your briefing,’ Ingoe was saying, ‘didn’t have time to get hold of you before you went in.’
‘From the Germans?’ Archer turned down a side street to lessen the background noise.
‘No, from Five.’ Ingoe gave the tiniest of smirks. ‘In fact, it was from your friend there.’
‘Which one would that be?’ Archer tried for innocent but knew he’d failed.
‘The most recent one. They’d apparently just got the word from a US agency – not Langley.’
Archer raised his eyebrows but said nothing. It wasn’t unusual for the American agencies to bicker among themselves, and obviously somebody had decided to let this particular cat out of the bag. His money was on the FBI or DIA, but it could have even been an internal leak.
‘And obviously the good ol’ boys didn’t want us to know. Who told the Germans?’
‘Don’t know. Sarah didn’t know either, she’s going to do some digging on that. But in the meantime, she’s come up with something else of interest.’ Ingoe’s tone lost any hint of joviality – not that he’d been rolling in it to start with. ‘Apparently Jessika never turned up back Stateside.’
Archer frowned, pausing outside an ugly brown stone building with an iron fence around it. He leaned against the fence while he talked. ‘As in she’s lost in transit or…’
‘She never got on her flight. Five have confirmed through Six that she was booked, using her own passport, but she never turned up.’
Archer mulled that over for a moment. ‘So the Yanks’ve redirected her somewhere, and just don’t want to tell us, or what?’
‘Nope. Apparently the shit’s hit the fan and they’re like a bunch of headless chooks right now. They believe she’s been snatched and they’re pulling in resources to find her.’
‘Nice of them to share the love,’ Archer mused. ‘So they think Kozlowski’s grabbed her, some kind of revenge thing?’
‘It would seem he’s the obvious candidate, yeah.’ Ingoe’s attention was attracted by somebody off screen, and he nodded before looking back to the camera. ‘Sounds like something’s happening. Gotta go, I’ll be in touch.’
Ingoe killed the connection and the screen went blank. Archer unplugged his ears and tucked everything into his pocket. He pushed off the iron railings and rubbed his face. So much was going on that his head hurt. He didn’t know who or what to believe right now, so the best thing to do was get a coffee.
He glanced at the building he’d stopped outside, recognising it from his tour. It was a former Stasi base, used for interrogating and torturing enemies of the state. He smiled wryly to himself. Somehow it seemed appropriate.
***
With nothing else to do right now, Archer returned to his hotel. He tried calling Eva on the burn phone, to no avail.
There was a small article in the news about a violent street fight in Prague that had left one man dead and two badly injured. Police were investigating possible organised crime links to this, and speculated that it was a drug deal gone sour.
There was no mention of the dead body of a Russian man being found in his apartment, but knowing who he was, they would be keeping that one under wraps. There would be little chance, and probably even less will, to solve that particular incident.
He hated this part of a mission, waiting around for something to happen. He had nothing to work on himself right now, no persons of interest to hunt down, no surveillance to carry out, not even some tedious CCTV to review. What he wouldn’t give for something to do other than pace his room.
Finally, bored with his own company after an hour of stewing, Archer went downstairs to the bar and ate lunch by himself at a corner table. He chased a hefty piece of steak and kidney pie and vegetables with a large schooner of ice-cold pilsner. Fuck it – if he had to wait around, he may as well dull the pain.
The beer was gone before he knew it, and he thought hard about another one before common sense got the better of him. It wouldn’t be a good look to be dispatched by Ingoe to a task when he was half cut.
He charged the meal to his room and had just arrived back there when his burn phone bleeped with an incoming message.
We have a task. Pick you up in the lobby in five minutes. Eva.
Archer replied with a thumbs up before deleting the messages. He took a few minutes to brush his teeth and wash his face, running his fingers through his hair as he thought about the German intelligence officer.
He couldn’t deny an attraction there, and he pondered whether he’d be able to make something out of it once this job was over. His luck with women had not been memorable lately, even though he wasn’t looking for anything serious. He wondered what it would be like to come to home to the same face every night. Was it something he could stand, or would it bore him into an early grave? He didn’t know, and maybe that was the problem. He just didn’t know what he wanted.
It was a dilemma when dealing with foreign agencies. How far did you take it? There were plenty of desirable women out there, and he had no doubt that the age-old “honey trap” was still in use, much as he had used on Jessika back in LA.
Perhaps Eva was playing that game as well. He had no idea, but he couldn’t deny there was interest there, and it seemed to be mutual.
Putting that thought aside, he focussed back on the task at hand. What exactly the hell had happened to Jessika, anyway? If she’d been snatched by Kozlowski, what was the end game for that move? Death? Interrogation? Negotiation?
There were plenty of options, and a spook from one of the big agencies would always fetch top dollar on the open market, but it was also a hell of a big move. He had no doubt that the place would be buzzing with activity by now. Intelligence officers and black-ops guys would be all over it like flies on shit. This wasn’t Baghdad or Kabul; there were limited places you could hide a kidnap victim without attracting attention.
Despite his misgivings about her personally, he sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be the star of an orange jumpsuit decapitation video. Nobody deserved that. Hopefully there would soon be a ransom demand of some sort, and they would have something to work with.
Either that, or she turned up after being on a bender and ending up in the wrong bed.
He was still mulling that over while he waited for the lift.
The doors slid open and he stepped in, clocking the presence of a uniformed porter with a tall baggage trolley. A couple of garment bags hung from the rack and on the bottom tray was what appeared to be a large empty sack of some sort.
Archer stepped inside, squeezing against the wall around the trolley and gave the porter a quick glance. He was tall and athletic, and was already hitting the button for Basement.
‘Ground, please,’ Archer said.
The porter ignored him but turned quickly as the doors slid shut. He brought a pistol up in his right hand and fired from the hip before Archer even realised what was happening.
The dart hit him in the left thigh and he felt an immediate burst of pain. The luggage trolley was rammed against his shins, locking him against the wall as he tried to fight back, but it was so difficult.
His limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated, his vision was shifting like he’d sunk too many pints, and the porter was moving from side to side, joined by a friend, then another and a
nother. Archer tried to lurch forward and grab him but his knees buckled and he fell face-first onto the tray of the trolley. He felt soft material against his cheek and could hear his own breathing in his ears, heavy and laboured. He knew he was in serious trouble here but all he wanted to do was go to sleep, so that’s what he did.
The porter tucked away the tranquillizer gun, hit the Stop button on the control panel, and set to work. Within a minute he had Archer’s limp form bundled into the sack, wrists and ankles secured, zipped up and lying on the tray like a piece of luggage.
He hit Stop again and the lift began its descent. The doors opened at Basement and two men stood there waiting. Unlike him they were clad in black utility kit. A plain white box truck idled nearby, the decals on the side panels identifying it as a fleet vehicle for a local delivery service.
The back was up and it took the two men in black another minute to lift Archer up and into the truck. They climbed up and manhandled him further into the cargo space, leaving him lying near a second similar package.
The porter abandoned his uniform jacket and the luggage trolley, and got behind the wheel of the truck. The other two men jumped down and secured the roller door before one of them banged on the back of the cab with a fist.
The truck moved towards the exit.
Chapter 30
When Archer came to, the first thing he became aware of was an overwhelming urge to vomit.
He was rolling with the movement of the truck, every bump and sway impacting straight through the hard wooden floor. He was in darkness, like he was rolled up in a sleeping bag with the hood pulled down, and it was stiflingly claustrophobic.
His stomach was churning and he could feel it rising, pushing up through his diaphragm, his throat getting tighter with every short breath he took. He immediately regretted the large schooner with lunch.
His wrists and ankles were bound tight and he could feel cable ties biting into the flesh. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to get control. Things had obviously gone very bad and he needed to grip it fast.
He swallowed again, licking his parched lips with a tongue made of steel wool. He slowed his breathing, calming himself and trying to tune into his surroundings. His head was thumping like a bad Saturday morning.
He heard muffled sounds from somewhere beside him, to his front. He listened harder. Definitely a person, very muffled though, so presumably another prisoner who was also cuffed and stuffed. He lifted his knees and pushed out with his feet, finding a soft form right beside him. His touch met with a grunt and he pushed again, trying to provoke a reaction of some sort. It would be handy to know who else was there – friend or foe.
The reaction he got was a savage burst of swearing in German that he barely understand, accompanied by a furious thrashing. There was no mistaking the intent of the words though, or the voice.
‘Hello?’ he tried. He swallowed, trying to wet his scratchy throat before trying again. ‘Eva?’
The other figure stopped thrashing and went silent.
‘Are you okay?’
Her response was unintelligible. He wriggled over closer, bumping his head against hers and making her squeal with pain.
‘Sorry. Are you hurt?’
‘Aside from you head butting me?’ she retorted sharply. ‘I think I am okay, yes.’ There was a pause. ‘I was drugged with a hypodermic needle.’
‘Same here. Who are they?’
‘I don’t know. I never saw a face.’
It occurred to Archer that they may well have a guard silently watching them, but he couldn’t hear or sense anyone else in the back of the truck. It sounded echoic, as if the cargo hold was empty aside from them.
‘Can you move at all?’
‘No. I have tried. I have plastic cuffs on my hands and feet.’
Archer strained against his bonds, but all he managed to do was cut into his flesh even deeper. He knew that if these were proper nylon restraints as utilised by military and police, there was little chance of him breaking them. Had they been the standard plastic ties used by gardeners all over the world to guide their prize roses, he would have been free in minutes.
He relaxed his arms and shoulders and lay on his side, his head nudging against Eva’s. He could smell her perfume, a pleasant counter to the musty bag over his head.
‘What are we going to do?’ Eva whispered. He could hear the undercurrent of fear in her voice.
‘No point busting a gut right now,’ he replied. ‘We need to wait and see where we end up.’
‘We will end up in a hole in the ground, I think.’
‘Not if we can help it.’ He angled his head, trying to get closer to her ear. ‘Conserve your strength and get your head space right. These bastards aren’t going to win, Eva. We will get through this, right?’
‘Of course.’ She sounded more determined now. ‘We are the good guys. We must win.’
He smiled to himself. ‘That’s right. And if things kick off, just stay close to me and follow my lead.’
‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘You certainly have some strange sayings where you come from. “Bust a gut.” “Fuck a duck.” I have not heard these sayings before.’
Archer chuckled. ‘It’s an isolation thing,’ he said. ‘Living down the arse-end of the world makes you a bit different.’
They settled into a comfortable silence, rocking with the movement of the truck, their heads nudging together. Archer estimated it was another half hour before the truck slowed right down, turned to his left and began up a bumpy track.
It stopped again shortly and he heard voices outside, too muffled to make anything out. The truck swung around and stopped, the engine cutting out.
Wherever they were, they had reached their destination.
***
The rear door of the truck rolled up and Archer heard and felt someone climb into the cargo area. There was no talking, just hands grabbing him roughly and dragging him by the feet to the back. Without pause, he was dumped unceremoniously off the back of the truck and landed with a thump on an unforgiving patch of bare dirt.
He was still trying to catch his breath when there was another thump beside him and he heard a squeal of pain.
Hands grabbed him and dragged him by his feet across dirt onto gravel. He was face down and tried to keep his head up off the ground. The gravel was sharp and rough through the bag and his shirtfront, grazing at the skin beneath. They reached a doorstep which he was dragged over, his chin bouncing off the ground, then it was down a hallway of some sort. He could feel rough bare boards beneath him.
Finally they stopped and dropped him to the floor. The bag was unzipped and the next thing he saw was the muzzle of a pistol in his face. It was so close he couldn’t focus on the face behind it.
‘You’re going to untie and move. Any stupid moves and I shoot you fuckin’ kneecaps. Un’stand?’ The voice was harsh and had some kind of African accent.
‘Uh-huh.’
The gun stayed in his face while he was rolled on his side and a knife sliced his bonds. He was hauled to his feet, with the pistol tracking him constantly. Two guys handled him while another two stood over Eva, waiting their turn.
They re-secured Archer’s hands in front of him, the plastic cables tight enough to cut off the circulation. At least things were a bit more civilised if they were going to keep him tied to the front, he reasoned.
His relief was short lived however, when one of the men stepped over to the wall and lowered a pulley from the ceiling. A large karabiner was attached to the end of a rope that ran through a bolt in the ceiling and over to a hook on the wall. The karabiner was clipped through Archer’s wrist ties and his arms were quickly jerked up above his head.
It was then that he realised that the room had a high stud, and as the two guys hauled on the rope he was lifted off his feet until he dangled half a metre or so from the floor. His wrists felt like they were being sliced open with his entire body weight hanging off them.
Archer hung the
re, struggling to position his hands for the least amount of strain, while Eva was similarly strung up from a matching pulley maybe a metre away.
He took the time to assess their surroundings.
The room was bare aside from a plain wooden chair that faced them. A door beyond that opened into a hallway and he could see that it led outside, presumably the way they had entered. An internal door to the right was closed. Windows to the left allowed a view of grassy paddocks and fences. The ceiling above them was cracked and broken and gave glimpses of an equally decrepit roof in places.
As far as he could tell, they were in a farmhouse somewhere, hanging from the ceiling like two sides of beef about to get butchered, guarded by five armed men.
Things could have been better, he figured.
The men huddled together for a minute in a hushed conference, then there were nods all round and three of them headed off through the internal door, closing it behind them again.
The two men that remained stood separately, one near the door to the hall, the other against the wall. The one against the wall was obviously the number two in this grouping, tasked with watching the prisoners. He was a skinny Arab with a bushy beard and a weathered complexion, and he moved with the confidence of a man with some training. Archer pegged him as an Afghan. Like the leader, he wore casual jeans and a loose shirt, and was somewhere in his late twenties.
Archer turned his attention back to the leader. He was a wiry African, probably Somalian, his skin so black it was almost blue, with a fluffy goatee. His hair was shaved at the sides and exploded above that in a crazy-looking bubble of black fuzz. It gave him an almost comical look, but that was where the humour ended.
His face was pock-marked with scars and his eyeballs were almost yellow. The confidence that he exuded had probably come from surviving to adulthood in one of the worst environments in the world.
Archer hung there, swinging slightly as he tried to anticipate the next move. Whatever it was going to be, it wouldn’t be good. There was a sense of expectation in the air as if they were all waiting for something to happen.
