by Alan Russell
Graham wondered if it was another photographer. His was a cutthroat business. If the son of a bitch had his extra cameras and memory cards, he might try to pass off Graham’s work as his own. In celebrity photography, the race was to the swift. You got the money and the credit if you beat everybody else. Not for the first time, Graham kicked himself for mailing his primary memory card back to himself. The other bastard could be downloading his pictures at that very moment. First thing in the morning Graham would make some calls. There were only so many outlets for those kinds of shots.
But if there was a second photographer, why hadn’t he just sabotaged Graham’s photos? That would have been easy. And Lanie’s rescue would have made for the most compelling shots anyway. All he had to do was keep clicking away, and he stood to have the true exclusive.
Graham stepped out of his van, reexamining the puzzle in his mind. He was too preoccupied to notice the two men in the shadows.
They came at him without a sound. One applied a choke hold, yanking him up so that his feet dangled just off the ground. With his breath cut off, Graham flailed with his hands and feet, but his struggles didn’t help. He was close to blacking out when his assailant eased off the pressure, allowing Graham to breathe again. While he was gasping, the second man used duct tape to tie his hands and feet. Graham coughed, fought off nausea, and then tried to suck in enough breath to shout. The choke hold was tightened, and this time he fell limp, not quite unconscious but completely immobilized. A strip of duct tape was applied over his mouth, forcing him to breathe in and out through his nose.
The entire struggle, if you could call it that, lasted no more than ten seconds.
One of the men lifted him into his van and threw him in the back while the other stood lookout. Graham’s nose was making teakettle sounds. It was the only noise he could make. Graham felt himself being patted down. His car keys, wallet, and cell phone were taken. He didn’t resist as his legs were tied to the seat frame.
“No camera or memory card,” announced the man who had frisked him.
Graham had been hoping this was just an everyday mugging. Now he knew better.
His second assailant stuck his head inside the van’s sliding door. The two men looked too alike not to be related. They had to be brothers. Both had dark, curly hair, olive skin, overdeveloped chests, and aviator glasses. They were wearing white button-down shirts along with a tie and dark pants, but Graham had the feeling that they weren’t on a Mormon mission.
The two studied him behind their aviator glasses. Mugged by the fucking Wright brothers, Graham thought.
Orville, the one who frisked him, was the tacit leader. “If you cooperate,” he said, “I will remove your gag. That will allow you to breathe more easily. If you scream or shout, you will be severely punished. Do you want me to remove your gag?”
By the sounds of it, English was Orville’s second tongue. At Graham’s nod, he pulled off the duct tape. Orville waited while Graham took some deep breaths.
“Our interest in you is very simple,” Orville said. “We need to know what you did with the photos.”
Though Graham had a good ear for accents, he couldn’t place Orville’s country of origin.
“Care to tell me what this is all about?” Graham asked.
Neither man answered.
“I have maybe forty bucks in my wallet,” he said. “You are welcome to the credit cards as well, though I am afraid they’re mostly maxed out.”
Orville removed his aviator glasses. “Where’s the memory card?” he asked again.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Graham said. “I was ripped off tonight. They got all my cameras and equipment. If you know anything about them, I’m willing to pay a substantial reward, no questions asked.”
“Where’s the memory card?” Each time he asked, Orville sounded more menacing.
“All the memory cards are in the cameras. If you’ve got those cameras, I’m not kidding, we need to talk.”
Orville and Wilbur seemed to come to some understanding. The gag was back on Graham’s mouth before he could even protest.
Wilbur drove without speaking. Graham wondered what happened to Orville. His answer came when the van stopped in a deserted parking lot. Orville had apparently driven ahead and was there to open one of the sliding doors.
“Would you like me to remove your gag?” Orville asked.
Graham nodded.
“Then I need you to do as I say. With your cooperation, you’ll come out of this night with little more than a hangover.”
He raised a brown bag and pulled out a liter of vodka. “Truth serum,” Orville said, unscrewing the top of the bottle.
Wilbur removed Graham’s gag while Orville filled most of a cup with vodka.
“Why are you doing this?” Graham asked.
“Because I don’t have Sodium Pentothal,” said Orville, “so getting you good and drunk is the next best alternative. That, or torture.”
Orville seemed to be considering that as he pressed the cup to Graham’s lips. He swallowed it in several large gulps. The liquor burned his throat as it went down, then his chest felt warm.
Wilbur leaned over with the gag. “Open your mouth,” he said.
“No gag,” said Graham. “I’m having trouble breathing. I have this deviated septum.”
The duct tape went back over his mouth.
In his job, Graham’s van served him well. No one could look in and see him. But now it worked against him. He couldn’t signal anyone, and he couldn’t move.
They drove for almost a quarter of an hour before the van pulled over at what must have been a prearranged rendezvous spot. Orville was once again waiting. The brothers didn’t need to confer. One played bartender, the other bouncer.
“No sounds. Is that understood?”
Graham nodded, and the duct tape was removed from his mouth.
“Tilt your head,” Orville told Graham, then raised a cup to his lips.
“If this vodka is supposed to be truth serum, why haven’t you asked me any questions?”
“You’ll be more receptive after a few more drinks.”
“Is that your dating technique or interviewing technique?”
Orville pressed the cup to Graham’s lips and he reluctantly drank. When Graham finished the glass, Wilbur leaned over to put on his gag.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Graham said.
“You can wait,” said Orville.
“I don’t think so.”
As Wilbur gagged him, he said, “Then piss quietly in your pants.”
They took to the road again. Graham could see they were traveling north. They drove along Sunset, then got on Laurel Canyon. Traffic was light, but not nonexistent, but there was nothing he could do to make himself seen.
He didn’t spot Orville’s blue Camry on the road. Since they were meeting at prearranged spots, it appeared they were driving out of sight of one another. Any chance at escape, Graham realized, would be improved if he had to contend with just one of them. They exited off Laurel Canyon and started traveling along more residential roads. Graham didn’t hear Wilbur’s phone ring, but did hear him talking. The conversation was brief. The van made several turns, then pulled into the parking lot of what looked like a deserted park or soccer field. Orville was already there waiting with the vodka.
This time Graham decided not to go along quietly. When his gag came off, he said, “I’m not drinking anything until you tell me what’s going on.”
The brothers didn’t choose to have a dialogue with him. Without warning, Wilbur held Graham down while Orville forced a plastic funnel into his mouth, then filled it with vodka. Graham tried not to swallow, but Orville pinched his nose. When he gasped for air, he took in some of the vodka down his windpipe, coughed, then swallowed and gasped, and swallowed and gasped some more. The
y made him drink two full funnels of vodka before gagging him again.
Graham tried to think through the alcohol, his anger battling the fogginess overtaking his brain. He hadn’t been so drunk since Roncesvalles. Booze hadn’t brought him the amnesia he wanted back then, and now it just brought back memories of that night. Truth serum. His captors were right. Since the accident, Graham had learned not to drink too much, because whenever he did he thought of Paris.
A tear ran down his cheek. That angered Graham. The booze was breaking him down. Self-pity wouldn’t help. He had to act. So far they had dictated everything. He had to somehow loosen their control.
Graham tried to focus on his surroundings. He had to act before they force-fed him more booze and he became even more debilitated. Feigning loud retching noises, he doubled over. His acting sick didn’t go unnoticed.
“Hold off,” Wilbur said. “I’ll pull over.”
As he parked, Wilbur picked up his phone, autodialed, and had a hurried conversation with his brother.
They were on a residential street. Graham knew he might not have a better opportunity to escape or get noticed. In a quiet neighborhood, screams traveled far.
He was still doubled over when Wilbur came up to him. When his gag was removed, Graham said, “Let me out. I’m going to throw up.”
“Breathe in and out. I’ll let you out in a minute.”
In a minute his brother would be on the scene. Graham knew he had to act now. He retched, and Wilbur grabbed for the top of a box.
“Do it in this,” he said.
Graham leaned over toward it, then jerked his head up and tried to ram Wilbur’s head with his own. His abductor seemed to be expecting something like that. He easily eluded the blow.
There was a house not fifty yards from the street. Graham started screaming. His shouts were abruptly silenced. Wilbur’s hand lashed out, striking him in the temple. Then the gag was over his mouth again.
The sliding door opened, and Orville appeared. The two men spoke quickly in another language. Romanian, thought Graham, or perhaps Bulgarian. Orville loomed over Graham, looking down on him. He didn’t take his eyes off him, just reached into his pocket, pulled out something, and then flicked his wrist. The blade of the knife was finely honed. For a moment it hung in the air, just above Graham’s throat. Then Orville plunged it downward. The blade easily passed through the duct tape, making a hole in it. The sharp blade tickled Graham’s throat, but drew no blood. Orville pulled it out, and then inserted the funnel into the hole.
This time he filled the funnel full of vodka three times.
Once again, Graham teetered on the edge of consciousness. He tried to will himself to be alert, to be ready to act, but his body refused to respond. He had already blacked out two or three times. A part of Graham’s mind recognized that he was close to succumbing to alcohol poisoning. If they wanted him dead, all they needed to do was force another glass or two of vodka down his throat.
If they wanted him dead . . .
Drunk as he was, Graham realized they did want him dead. But they weren’t planning on having him drink himself to death. They had other ideas.
Wilbur turned his head and looked back, and Graham stayed sufficiently still for him to think he had passed out again.
Eyes closed, Graham struggled to hold a thought or two in his head. Though he knew his life might depend on it, the images kept slipping through his mind. It was like holding on to mercury. He had struggled too long. Slipping away became ever more attractive. But there was a part of him that wouldn’t give up.
Sounds filled the van. It was a long time before Graham realized they were his own groans coming through the hole in his gag. His pathetic little whistling moans were about all that he could do.
“It’s all right, Pilgrim,” said Wilbur. “We’re almost there.”
At first what he said escaped Graham’s attention. Everything was so hazy that he almost overlooked it, but the echoes replayed the word over and over in his head.
Pilgrim, Pilgrim, Pilgrim.
His abductors were with Smith.
Wilbur’s attention was diverted by his phone. The conversation was brief, and apparently to Wilbur’s satisfaction.
Graham tried to focus. It was as much as he could do to raise his eyes open. But he had to do more than that. Graham knew his death would be made to look like an accident. Odds were that no one would investigate much beyond his blood alcohol level.
His stomach told him they were on a winding road, but he couldn’t afford to get sick, not with the gag in his mouth. As drunk as he was, Graham realized they were driving on Mulholland. It was a road full of blind turns and dips and swerves. Graham closed his eyes and tried not to feel dizzy. He concentrated on centering himself, but the world refused to stop spinning.
It was long seconds, maybe even a minute, before his conscious but stupefied mind registered that the van had stopped. Someone else seemed to be staring out from his own eyes. He watched as Wilbur poured vodka on the driver and passenger seats, saturating the area.
The knife appeared in his sight again. The blade moved in and out, sawing through the bindings, and Graham was suddenly free to move and speak.
“Sick,” said Graham.
“You need fresh air.”
Graham was helped out of the van. His legs were unsteady; without a guiding arm he would have fallen. Wilbur assisted him into the driver’s seat.
His synapses were trying to spark, but they were alcohol-logged. Graham knew his life was on the line, but he felt helpless, pulled down by weights he couldn’t throw off. The surface seemed incredibly far away.
Think.
Something cool dripped down his face. The vodka. It ran down his shirt and pooled in his pants. Hands other than his own buckled him in. His wallet was returned to his pants, and his cell phone was tossed on the passenger seat.
“You need a quick drink,” said a voice in his ear.
“Sick,” Graham said. He tried to open his eyes, but even that was a struggle.
“Just one more drink.”
His eyes opened a crack. In Wilbur’s right hand was the drink, but there was something palmed in his left hand.
The knife, was Graham’s first thought.
But he knew that wasn’t it. He was almost insensible, but he still recognized what Wilbur was holding. His head was spinning, but he refused to let his sudden insight tumble out of his skull. Graham had to hold on to the thought.
From the other side of the van, Orville said, “Hurry up.”
In a leap of befuddled thinking, something in Graham’s mind kicked in. He remembered another man who had been playing with fire.
“Drink up, now.”
The glass was pressed against Graham’s mouth. “Can’t,” he protested. “Sick.”
“Last glass, I promise.”
Graham opened his mouth and drained the vodka. He raised his hand to his mouth, as if to ward off getting sick. Wilbur tossed the glass to Orville, then he reached inside the van and turned over the key. With the engine running, he closed the driver’s door. All the while, Graham was hunched forward, apparently fighting his nausea.
Wilbur tossed the vodka bottle on the passenger seat, then thumbed his lighter. Flame shot out of it.
Graham had one hand on his mouth, the other near his eyes. His sickness wasn’t an act. Only an act of will was keeping him from vomiting, that and the solitary plan he had managed to frame in his head.
Wilbur reached over with his lighter. The vodka-soaked upholstery would torch quickly.
Graham raised his head and spat the vodka he had never swallowed at Wilbur. The man cursed. His first thought was that Graham had thrown up on him. He realized too late that he was on the wrong end of a flamethrower. The alcohol became a line of blue flame igniting his shirt. Wilbur slapped at the fire with his hands, but cou
ldn’t put it out.
Graham couldn’t run. He could barely think. He fought to get free of his safety belt, but couldn’t even manage that.
Orville screamed to his brother in their native tongue, and suddenly Wilbur was rolling on the ground.
Graham knew he only had moments. But he couldn’t react. They would catch him if he tried to run. He had to try and drive away. The van’s engine was already running. He turned around, prepared to put it into reverse, but the Camry was blocking his way.
His head movement alerted Orville. He stepped forward and reached for the passenger door.
With exaggerated precision, Graham put the van into drive. But he needed to see where he was going. He found the lights just as Orville’s hand ripped the door open.
Graham saw ahead of him, but wished he hadn’t. He accelerated over the cliff.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Blackwell wasn’t sure if there was a term for someone like him. He wasn’t a spy, at least not exactly. A spy sells secrets to another country, and that’s not what Blackwell did. And he wasn’t a double agent, because that would have meant he was working for another power. Blackwell worked for intelligence, but most of all he worked for himself. The information he gained during his day job often benefitted him personally.
A spy who was an entrepreneur.
When he was a Princeton undergraduate, the best piece of advice Blackwell received didn’t come from one of his Ivy League professors, but from a senior vice president of a manufacturing company whom he was interning under. The company was in the throes of a major reorganization, and even top management was running scared. All except for Higgins, the veep who was mentoring him.
“I’m safe,” Higgins had told him with absolute confidence. “You’re always safe when you know where all the bodies are buried.”
At the time, Blackwell had assumed that Higgins was speaking rhetorically. But there had been something about the cruel, certain manner in which he made his pronouncement that caused Blackwell to wonder over the years if there was more than a little truth to his boast. Whatever the case, Higgins proved untouchable. Though the reorganization ax chopped off many of the top heads all around his mentor, Higgins ended up getting a promotion.
