by Dean Carson
There were other pills — there had to be. I totted up what I had drunk the previous evening and it came nowhere near explaining the strength of the hangover. Or the fact that I couldn’t remember much of what had happened. It could have been a tranquillizer, or something more sinister.
What did it matter? I was still stuck to the bed. I was pinned there, like an insect in an entomologist’s sample tray.
THIRTEEN
Getting out of handcuffs without a key can be tricky. The best way to do it is to distract the person putting on the cuffs. Most people don’t realise it, but a handcuff doesn’t lock securely until you push the spike at the end of the key into a small hole in the locking mechanism. If someone is not used to cuffing people, or if you distract them at the right time, then all it takes is a bit of physical force and the cuffs pop off. But one tug told me that La Donna had not been distracted. These cuffs were secure all right.
That left two options. The first was to pick the lock. How? Both hands were secured to different sides of the bed. That left one option, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. I would have to physically rip my hand through the cuff and out. It would hurt, it would damage the hand, and it would take time.
Luckily, I started with two advantages. The first is that even after a kick in the balls, our instincts are still firmly in place. I knew I would have tightened my wrist as she cuffed me, slightly puffing up the muscles. This meant that they were not as tightly on as she thought. The second is that I had done this before, many times. It is one of the things we prepare for in the hopes we will never have to do it for real.
There was no point in tugging wildly. This had to be done slowly and systematically. I began by pushing up in the bed as far as possible to give myself a tiny bit more room. Then I squeezed the thumb and little finger of my left hand together as tightly as possible. I pushed my hand back behind the bedpost then pulled it slowly forward, so that the edge of the cuff caught on the metal of the bed. This gave me something to pull against. Now it was a matter of pulling slowly and steadily. As I pulled, I felt the cuff tighten over the base of my thumb. When I had pulled it up as far as it could go on that side, I turned my wrist slightly and began pulling the cuff over the base of my little finger. The first two pulls gave me about half an inch. The next pull gave me far less as the cuff reached the thicker part of my hand. At this point a pound of butter would have helped enormously, and to try to control the increasing pain I imagined a beautiful redhead leaning over me and gently performing that unction. In my mind I could sense her fingers kneading the soft butter into my skin, and could feel the cuff slide over rather than ripping the flesh.
It took a few minutes, and the pain as the cuff slowly passed over the first joint of my thumb was excruciating. But in the end the cuff cleared that point. The first joint of the little finger was less painful. Once it was past those two joints, all I had to do was maintain the pressure, move my wrist to keep the pull even and do it gently so as not to do more damage. My hand slipped free.
I took a moment then wet my tongue and licked my fingers. I applied this moisture to my other hand, and used my left hand to pull the cuff over my right. This was a lot quicker. The moisture helped, and the fact that I was pulling with another hand rather than pushing against a bedpost also helped. In a few minutes both hands were free, and I sat up in the bed rubbing my wrists. The foot bindings were now a piece of cake, and soon I was sitting at the side of the bed, buck naked. Time to get dressed.
Easier said than done. The bitch had stolen my clothes.
It didn’t take long to toss the bedroom; there was nothing to wear. I did find a letter, though, addressed to me. It was written in an ornate feminine style on scented lavender paper. It was left on a chair well away from the bed, where she knew I couldn’t reach it. I smiled as I picked it up and began to read.
My darling Eli,
Thanks for last night. And sorry I had to run this morning. I did give you a kiss before I left, but you didn’t wake up. Rohypnol does that.
I knew it wasn’t the champagne!
I hope your head is not too bad, Chérie. But you deserved it.
It is not likely you are reading this letter but if you are, you are a better man that I thought. More likely you are lying on the bed struggling against the chains and ropes and cursing me. Don’t curse too much — I will help you. I have a plan.
I will be back later to untie you. If you are reading this, try to return to the hotel by six. I will tell you all.
You were magnificent last night.
Hugs and kisses, your Donna.
I tossed the letter on the bed and checked the corridor outside. No one was around, so it was safe to walk out naked. I broke into one room on the corridor and found nothing. I broke into the second and was lucky enough to find a suit that fitted me. It was old-fashioned and I looked like an east European peasant in his Sunday best, but at least no one was going to arrest me for indecency. Then I left the hotel and disappeared into the warren of streets outside. No point in remaining where La Donna thought I was. I trusted her about as much as I would trust a shark in a feeding frenzy.
FOURTEEN
How do you kill time in a town like Dubrovnik? Stupid question — it’s one of the prettiest towns in Europe. And if I was a tourist, I would have loved it. But I wasn’t a tourist. I was a bounty hunter with a price on my head, and that makes the difference. I had a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder. Now that La Donna knew I was here, who else might know? It’s not as if I didn’t trust her, even though I didn’t. It’s just that I am always acutely aware of a quote from Benjamin Franklin: ‘Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead’.
But if you can’t trust your friends, no matter how odd and twisted, who can you trust?
I decided to go to the oldest part of the town, inside the ancient walls. The streets were very narrow here, and all motorised vehicles were banned. If I was hunted down, at least it would be a level playing pitch. They would be on foot, I would be on foot. They would be armed with a small gun, I would be armed… Hang on, I wouldn’t be armed. It was not a level playing pitch. I was a moving target. I slipped a steak knife from a pavement café table into my pocket as I passed. It was not enough but better than nothing.
After an hour of aimless wandering, I was reasonably sure I was not being followed or observed. I could spend the rest of the day wondering, or I could try to relax and go with the flow. Be in the moment, my mindfulness teacher would have said. The moment called for a strong coffee. And I had picked up enough change in the bedrooms I had raided to at least afford that. I chose a café with small tables out in front, facing the sea. I sat with my back to the wall, both approaches in full view, and ordered a cappuccino. In Europe you can have a cappuccino up to midday and not appear a hick. After that it is espresso all the way, but they will serve you an americano without looking at you as if you were something scraped from the bottom of a shoe.
I sipped the strong coffee and considered my options. There were none really. I could trust La Donna to come up with something, if you could call that an option. Or I could try to leave Croatia without a passport. It is not part of the Schengen Area. Most European countries have abolished passport control at their borders. But Croatia was one of the few not in on the deal. And so was Britain. I couldn’t get out of where I was or into where I wanted to be without showing paper. I reached into my pocket for my phone and came out empty-handed. Of course. She had taken my phone with my clothes. She really wasn’t being much of a friend.
I called the waiter back and asked him if the establishment had a phone I could use. He looked at me sceptically but, eventually, when I assured him it was a local call, he retreated, returning a few minutes later with a handset. I waited until he was gone, then keyed in the number. Not quite local, but it would show on the bill as local and the other end would pick up the charges.
The phone rang twice, then he picked up.
“You prick,” he said.
> “And a good morning to you too, Bill,” I replied.
“You fucking prick. It’s four in the morning. It is never a good morning when someone rings you at four. You know what people do at four? They sleep. I was asleep. My woman was asleep. You’re lucky you didn’t wake her up. If I hadn’t got to the phone in time…”
“What’s up, honey?” I could hear a faint female voice in the background. “Put the phone down. I’m trying to sleep.”
“Shit — you’ve done it now. You’ve woken her.”
There were sounds of movement over the phone, a few curses, then his voice came back clear.
“Now I’m up and standing in the kitchen in my bare feet. This had better be good.”
“Actually, I had forgotten the time difference, Bill,” I admitted sheepishly. “It’s mid-morning here, and I just thought it was the same in Langley.”
“I’m not in Langley now. I’m at home,” he said peevishly.
“And where do you live?”
I had him there. He lived in Langley, three kilometres from where he worked. It was a lovely leafy suburb full of Washington types.
“In Jefferson,” he snapped.
I had forgotten the separation. He had moved on quickly if there was already a new woman sharing his bed. But now was not the time to probe that. If I ever got home, I could get all the dirty details.
“Are you on your way home?” he asked with a sigh.
“Not quite,” I admitted. “It hasn’t been an easy journey. I’m still in Dubrovnik. I have no phone, no money, no weapons and no papers. And I am in a cheap suit I stole this morning. And a set of La Donna’s panties. But don’t ever admit that I told you that.”
He laughed. “Was it a good night at least?”
“I have no idea. She fed me a roofie.”
He laughed again and I was starting to find it irritating.
“It’s not funny. I have a splitting headache and my balls hurt.”
“Are her knickers that tight?”
“She tried to kill a man last night.”
That stopped the laughing.
“When I got there she had a man tied to her bed, naked. She was going to kill him on a webcam with his wife looking on.”
“Wow — that’s her? Fascinating.”
“What the fuck do you mean, fascinating? She was going to kill him for some sort of sexual kick.”
“Yes, they usually do. Interpol’s profile has her down as a sexual deviant. It’s quite a common motivation among serial killers. They reckoned a dominant woman, single, probably well-adjusted but solitary, and holding a stressful and high-status job. Would mafia hit-man count as a high-status job?”
“Did you know about her?”
“No — her name never even occurred to me. But I can see how she fits. Is she going to help you?”
“Hang on — you can’t just say fascinating and move on. Why does Interpol have a profile of her?”
“Not of her specifically,” Bill said. “They have a profile of the Webcam Killer. You’ve heard of the Webcam Killer?”
No, I hadn’t.
“She’s been around for a few years now. Six confirmed kills. Interesting MO. She lures guys who are on the road — truckers, salesmen, that sort of man — to a cheap hotel or apartment and she ties them to a bed. Then she sets up a webcam connected to their home computer through Skype or one of the other messaging services…”
“I know how she works. I was in the room.”
“Did you see the kill?” He sounded genuinely fascinated, as if I was describing a rare bird I had spotted in a forest or an exhibit at the museum that he had missed.
“I rescued the guy.”
“Oh.” Did he sound disappointed? “I suppose it was the right thing to do.”
“So what now?” I asked.
“Is she going to help you get out of Croatia?”
“I mean, do I hold her for Interpol, or do we just pass on the information and let them handle it?”
“How many of those roofies did she feed you? I don’t work for Interpol. I work for the CIA. You work for yourself. It’s none of our business. So you stay on the right side of that mad bitch and you use her to get out of Croatia and you keep your mouth shut. Capeesh? I know that offends against your code, but we’re not boy scouts here. When you get home, we can send an anonymous tip to Interpol if you insist. But not until then.”
“What if she doesn’t help me?”
“Don’t worry. I have a Plan B,” said Bill. “I have a week leave due to me, and I am flying to Rome today. You’ll cover the cost. I have a yacht chartered out of Pescara and I will sail across to Dubrovnik. I should get there the day after tomorrow. If you are still there, I will pick you up. If not, I will sail on to Venice and call it a vacation.”
“You don’t sail,” I interrupted.
“My son does.”
“Jesus — Ben is just sixteen.”
“So I’ll take him out of school for a week. No big deal.”
“What does Rita say?” Rita was his ex, not the woman in his bed.
“She probably wouldn’t approve. But tonight is my night to have him. I’ll take him out of school on my way to the airport, and she won’t find out until he doesn’t come home tomorrow evening. Problem solved. It is sometimes easier to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.”
That was the stupidest thing I had heard in quite a while — but also one of the most touching. It was a sign of the depth of our friendship that he was willing to do that for me, and I was grateful. Now it was doubly important that La Donna came through for me. I couldn’t let him risk his son’s life and what was left of his relationship with his ex.
We left it at that and said our goodbyes. I called over the waiter and handed him back the phone and a fistful of coins. Then I turned back to the road. And spotted her.
FIFTEEN
She was walking down the street towards the sea, and if I hadn’t been scanning the street, I would have missed her. She saw me too. The redhead from Mostar, the one with the legs who didn’t have daddy issues. What was she doing here? I had seen her at the airport yesterday morning.
She hesitated when she saw me, then waved uncertainly. There was nothing for it. I waved back.
“I thought I saw you at the airport yesterday,” she said.
“I thought the same about you.”
I looked at her. She shrugged. “I was meant to fly to Rome to meet my brother, but I got a call that he missed his connection in Dubai. So I have a few days more to kill.”
You didn’t need to be a detective to work it out.
“Afghanistan?”
“Yes — but how did you know?”
“If he’s making a connection through Dubai, he is either there or in Australia. Is he military or civilian?”
“I’m not meant to say.”
“With that answer you just have said.”
We both laughed.
“Can I sit down?”
“Have you got over your daddy issues?” I asked.
“Sorry — but you did look old that day. A lot older than you do today.”
“There was dust in my hair. If you had given me a chance, I could have shaved fifteen years off my age with a damp cloth.”
She sat and I waved the waiter over, calling for two coffees. I was really beginning to stretch my limited supply of coins.
“So what’s your story?” she asked.
“A bit embarrassing. Someone lifted my wallet, got most of my money and my passport.”
She made a sympathetic noise and put a hand on my arm. It felt good. “Have you been in touch with the embassy?”
I made a non-committal noise and moved my head in a way that could be taken as a nod or a shake.
“What’s with the grandfather suit?” she asked, as the waiter laid the coffees on the table.
“I’m having a bit of a run of bad luck. My room was broken into last night and all my clothes stolen. So I borrowed this off the landlord.
Actually, that’s a lie. I stole it off the landlord. I’m living the renegade life.”
From her face I could see she didn’t know whether to smile or frown sadly. Then she smiled, and it was glorious. Her face lit up. I had been reserved up to then, but her smile opened me up and I grinned back. There was nothing in it. I was just killing time. But killing time in company is more fun than killing time on your own.
“We got off to a bad start a few days ago,” she said. “My name is Jelly. I’m a teacher from England. But you knew that from the accent. I’m using the summer holidays to tour around the Med for a month.” There must have been something in the way I looked at her, because she went on: “Jelly is not my real name. But my brother was a year old when I was born and couldn’t say ‘Jenny’. And it stuck. Your turn.”
“My name is Eliot Locke, my brother can say my name, and I am a professional mountaineer.”
“Sure you are.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “I lead groups of tourists on exotic adventure holidays. But I have been up mountains.”
“Any I would recognise?” she asked sceptically.
“Kilimanjaro, Everest.”
“I’m impressed. Did you get to the top?”
“On some. Not the full way on Everest.”
“Did you get beyond base camp?”
I shrugged. “So now you know. I am a chancer,” I said. “A dilettante who talks big and leaves the climbing to the experts.”
