Sabotage (37 page)

Rove hocked up blood and spittle, his attention returning to the work of his own hands. He'd managed to relax a snug knot by a few cinches. Maybe it would be easier to break loose than he'd first guessed. If he could free a little more slack, he figured he could liberate one arm. The rope was coarse and chafed against his skin. Its clutch was still too tight on his wrist bone, but only by hairs.

He knew he had to seize every opportunity and slacken his bindings while the effort would go unnoticed. That meant waiting for the next beating before attempting to wriggle free. He tried to provoke them.

“Your men slap like schoolgirls in a catfight,” Rove said.

Brun looked dimly amused. “Again, then?”

He placed the ring in his right hand, over a crease. The padding at the base of his thumb pressed the ring into his palm while muscle tension held it in place. For three seconds, nothing happened. Then with a shimmer and an imperceptible twitch of his thumb's flexor, the ring leapt as if animate, shooting skyward. It didn't merely levitate in idle suspension, but rather appeared to fall upward as if on strike against a fundamental rule of physics. Rove had the impression the ring would have continued indefinitely had Brun's other hand not caught it midflight.

His fingers twirled the ring and tossed it in the air. Rove watched the diamond come to a full stop about a yard over his own head. It descended, and when the ring reached eye level, the hands sped inward to clasp it. The steal happened in a blur, and at this point Rove had no idea which hand had snatched the ring. He eyed them both, looking for any sign of a bulge or space between fingers. It was all for naught anyway. Even if he chose correctly, the game would continue till he could no longer utter a selection.

“Left hand,” he guessed.

Brun revealed the jewelry piece in his right. He shook his head.

“My friend.”

Rove felt like a statue at the mercy of an overzealous sculptor, one who had opted to use a sledgehammer instead of a chisel. He'd kept relatively dry through the first battering. Now it was as if they'd dug into a well. Blood spattered his cheeks and neck. His head felt like a blend of paste and pulp. The smiling toucan began to burn his shoulder as memories of his last tormentor were called from suppression. He was seeing those dark chambers again, where his legs had been fractured and his flesh melted with a blowtorch. His lips ballooned and broke in places where teeth carved painful trenches. He couldn't guess how many more poundings he could take. A voice screamed inside him, telling him these attackers were the ones who'd turned on the blender, and he'd be damned if he didn't find a way to throw a rock in it and rough up the blades.

He could hardly breathe under the onslaught of six men. He wobbled the chair, throwing his weight to knock it over and all the while loosening his bindings. The chair teetered, but the men caught him before he fell over. He used the ploy to buy a few extra seconds and begin working on the binds of his left wrist. As for his right, he'd wriggled it free.

 

THIRTY-EIGHT

The spiraling stairway of the Bruges bell tower favored the agile-footed and punished the clumsy. The cavity's narrow walls had little tolerance for a man of Deeb's girth. Even less forgiving was the low ceiling, which forced them all to stoop. A rope wrapping around the central stone shaft served as a handhold as they descended the 366 stairs. The twisting chamber fed into a courtyard. Deeb and his men exited under an archway and lengthened their strides as they crossed the civic center and entered a crowded vein. The minister tossed a glance at the tower, seeing in the looming belfry a monument to his latest kill.

He was holding the briefcase and enjoying the solid weight of it, his contentment bringing him to a meditative state. Deeb had always believed the ability to introspect, to look inside one's own mind and identify the roots of the emotions at play, was a mark of intelligence. Today he'd discovered a new possibility: regret without remorse. For killing Vasya, he felt no remorse, but a tinge of regret. Pulling the trigger had been an act of impulsive trust in the girl. Victoria had assured him she knew the code. If she had been lying, he had murdered his only source of the truth, and his only link to the password.

The sound of hooves plodding on cobblestone gave him pause. A horse-drawn carriage approached. He moved to the side of the street. He and his men were supposed to turn into an alley beyond the carriage, an alley that would lead to the limousine. A policeman stood outside a nearby coffee shop. The sight of the uniform struck fear into Deeb, a feeling that burgeoned when the officer looked directly at him. Or had he? Deeb clutched his firearm and made sure it was hidden from view under his coat. He'd just committed murder. He felt confident no authorities had yet discovered Vasya's body in the tower, but close as he was to leaving the city with what he'd come for, even mild threats were unsettling.

He noticed a congregation of officers ahead and wondered whether it was unusual for them to gather in one spot; had someone reported discovering the corpse? He assured himself this was paranoia, as hardly fifteen minutes had passed since he'd pulled the trigger. He relaxed when the lone policeman's gaze came to rest elsewhere, and he heard guffaws from the others in uniform.

“Ouch!” Deeb exclaimed.

The carriage driver spouted apologies to the people in his charge. The horse had accelerated from a leisurely trot to a brisk canter. Without warning the animal plowed head-on into Deeb, who jumped aside to avoid getting trampled. To spare his toes from the weight of the wheels, he shifted his balance and lost his foothold, twisting an ankle. He fell backward and nearly toppled a vendor's fruit stand.

“Watch where you're going!” he hollered, frightened momentarily as he realized the leather carrier had vanished from sight. Had the horse crushed it? Ignoring the pain, he scrambled to his feet. His bodyguards formed a triangle around him. “Out of the way!” he said, elbowing them. “Find the—” He let out a sharp wisp of air. “Never mind,” he then said quietly. “It's here.”

The briefcase was standing upright on the ground beside him, its leather having acquired a few scuffs, but nothing to suggest the contents were anything but safe.

*   *   *

The driver had returned. Victoria muttered relief when the limousine door opened and let in a refreshing cross-breeze. Deeb and his three guards arrived and slid into the car. He took a seat beside Victoria and instructed the driver, “Take us to Brussels Airport.” He then looked at the man who'd been guarding Victoria. “Put the gun away, Jasim. She's with us now.” The driver fired the ignition, and the limo pulled away from the curb.

Tempering her revulsion, she regarded Deeb with apparent disinterest. She concentrated on the hook of his nose, then moved to a blemish or scar—she wasn't sure which—on his cheekbone. He wore the look of a shrewd negotiator. She hadn't studied him in such proximity before.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Deeb,” she said.

He didn't answer for a full minute. He faced the windshield and watched the movement of the road. When his mouth did open, the iciness he projected began to thaw—or at least she perceived a change, detecting in his inflection a hint of genuine esteem for her. So he had a mercurial nature, she thought, and wondered how long he would remain cordial.

“I am honored,” he said. “You are the daughter of a genius.”

She, too, waited before responding, letting linger an interlude of silence. It wasn't until a few seconds' reflection that she heard the edge of hostility in his words. He had spoken bluntly, though it wasn't his candor she questioned; she was searching for the source of something else in his tone. There was an enmity, and a trace of apprehension, behind the flattery.

“I hope for your sake you haven't acted rashly,” he added.

She attempted to ease his misgivings with a dispassionate smile. “I understand your reservations and would be equally skeptical in your position. Just know that I'm doing this for my dad. With his life on the line, I wouldn't do anything remotely stupid. Obviously he wouldn't approve of your owning Baldr, but sometimes a daughter's love calls for an overriding decision. I intend to keep my promise, if you keep yours.”

They merged onto the A10 en route to Brussels. Deeb didn't bother to look at her. He was admiring the countryside. “For your sake, I hope what you say is true.”

She wanted to add,
and for yours.
She bit her tongue, then said, “Don't mean to sound rude, but I am, after all, a passenger in this vehicle. Would you mind explaining why you're taking us to the airport?”

“I'm done here,” he said with a baleful look. “My ‘business partner' is dead.”

She put on a mask of disbelief. Pitting Deeb against Vasya had worked, and her horse had come in first. “But why are you taking me with you?”

“To ensure you keep your promise.”

“What about your end of the deal? How can I be assured of my dad's safety?”

“That's not within my power.”

She had known this from the get-go, but couldn't let on. She jerked to the side, responding as she would to a dose of hornet venom.

“You lied to me!”

“There were no lies. You proposed a deal. I seized the opportunity.”

“But my daddy…” She began to choke.

“He's already dead.”

“Murderer!”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“But I thought—”

“Sit back and shut up.”

Her tears streamed, though she was careful not to oversell the grief. She buried her nose in cupped hands and whimpered.

“Can … can you at least tell me where we're going?” she asked.

“To my mansion.”

“Where?”

“The outskirts of Tripoli.”

An hour passed, and she buffered her bouts of weeping with periods of silent consternation. She'd gag and stifle sobs every now and then, playing between intensities on the sentimental spectrum. By the time they reached the airport, she had dropped the act altogether, substituting a cold simmering for her misery. She dabbed her smudged mascara now and then, eyes tearless but still glassy and bloodshot.

The limousine bypassed the main terminal access. They swerved onto a narrow lane that wound its way around the back of the airport, then turned onto a gravelly road leading to an enclosure behind a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Police guarded the entrance with canines. The limo slowed to a halt. Deeb passed a card to the driver, who rolled down his window and handed it to the officer at the inspection booth.

The policeman barely glimpsed the card before handing it back. “Your plane is here,” he said.

The security gate opened, and the limo rolled through, driving out onto the tarmac. The driver helped unload baggage onto the plane while Deeb dragged Victoria by the collar.

“Board the plane,” he said.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned back as if to run, but the Arab held her firmly.

“I can't!” she whispered, pleading. “I only said I'd do it for my father's safety!”

“Too late for that. Start climbing.”

“You've—you've taken advantage of me.”

“Move.”

She started bawling again as she entered the jet's main cabin. Deeb's pilots filed into the cockpit and donned the headgear linking them with air traffic control. One of the other bodyguards shut the hatch and signaled to the pilot they were ready for taxi. Deeb thrust Victoria into a seat and instructed her to fasten her belt. She cinched it tight with little fuss.

The Gulfstream entered a lineup on the taxiway. After idling for fifteen minutes, the aircraft began to move, veering in a broad arc, and aligned itself with the runway. A brief interval of silence ensued before takeoff, and then the gas turbine engines started to roar as the pilots finished running through their checklists. The noise escalated, and the seats started to vibrate.

I'm being kidnapped, Victoria told herself—play the victim. Live the role.

Jet fluids discharged, and the cabin filled with sounds of internal combustion as the pilots powered thrust. A creep turned to a crawl until finally the Gulfstream was hurtling down the runway. The front wheels lost contact with concrete. The back wheels followed, and the aircraft nosed into the air.

*   *   *

“Congratulations, Chatham. You win the auction.”

Chatham wavered in a moment of reprieve. “It's over?”

“I can no longer reach your main competitor. He's dropped out of contact.”

“And the other players?”

“They have conceded. As promised, I've run a fair auction.”

Chatham held the phone on speaker up to everyone in the office. “Baldr's back!” he exclaimed. “Did you all hear that?”

The others didn't appear to share his jubilation, particularly Dirgo, who looked capable of strangling a gorilla as she leaned against the wall, her arms crossed.

“Not quite,” said the Viking.

“What do you mean? We gave the highest bid. You just said that.”

“Change of rules.”

Chatham stood in disbelief, a thumb jutting awkwardly from a belt loop under his barrel chest. “What kind of change?”

“Since I've lost communication with my overseas negotiator, I must take extra precautions to enforce agreements.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is only prudent to make sure no party deviates from plan.”

“What rule are you changing?”

“The payment timeline. You need to pay
now
.”

“That wasn't.… How can I be assured you'll deliver Baldr?”

“I haven't crossed you, nor do I plan to. You have twenty-four hours to wire the money to my account. If at this same hour tomorrow you've failed to do so, you will have ensured that the passengers aboard the
Pearl Enchantress
never see shore.”