The Taste of Fear (17 page)

“They know who you are now,” Miranda went on. “They’re not going—going to let you go. They’re not going to let any of us go anymore.”

She burst into fresh tears.

Scarlett didn’t know what to say. Any words of comfort would sound empty. Because that was the exact same conclusion she’d drawn herself six or seven hours earlier.

She began thinking about escape—attacking the gunmen when they opened the van doors, making a run for it—but she soon drifted into a weird half sleep during which time she tried to convince herself she was on an airplane going to Hawaii. It wasn’t a dream because she was aware of being partly awake. Maybe a hallucination. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to break the spell. The flight attendants would be coming by soon to take drink orders.

The van hit unsealed road, jarring Scarlett lucid. She sat up, feeling worse than ever. They bumped and jolted down some rutted road and she became painfully aware of her aching bladder. What was she going to do if she couldn’t hold on, wet herself? God, she hoped not. Hostage or not, she still had her dignity. Maybe they’d pull into a McDonald’s drive-thru for a restroom break. That would be lovely, thanks. She’d order one of those ridiculously large thirty-two ounce, four hundred calorie soft drinks she’d never considered ordering before. Mountain Dew, please. Free refill? Hell yeah! When that fantasy wore thin, she moved onto the next in queue: being back in her Indonesian-inspired Bel-Air home, doing laps in the infinity pool, hearing the clap of water against the tiled edges, feeling the water stream over her as she dived deep into a cool, silent world—

The van slowed to a stop. Doors opened and closed. Someone slapped the side of the van. The tailgate squawked open. Light seeped in under the lips of Scarlett’s blindfold. Someone grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her outside. The fresh air was heaven sent. She heard water—waves lapping against the shore.

Was she hallucinating again?

Someone started shouting in Arabic, probably at her.

Well, screw him, she thought. She couldn’t see, could barely stand. Let him yell. Let him yell his stupid head off.

She remembered the stabbing pain in her bowels.

“I need—” She tried to work up nonexistent saliva. “I need a bathroom.”

She was shoved forward. The sound of waves became louder. She could detect a sedge-like, seaweed smell. She stepped onto a wobbly walkway. Yes, definitely waves, below her now. Was she on a gangplank?
Walk the plank, matey.
She froze. Were they making her walk a
plank
? No. Why would they drive this far just to make her walk a plank? She wasn’t thinking straight. Before she could figure out what exactly was happening, that same rough, vile hand urged her forward. There was nothing to do but obey. She took one small step after another, half expecting the next one to plummet through air. That never happened and soon she was on solid ground once more. The sedge smell was replaced with the astringent reek of oil and gas.

A boat? Why were they taking her on a boat?

There was more shoving and pushing and shouting until she stumbled into a hot and humid room that felt like a sauna.

“Who’s here?” she said, each word like a hairball coming up her throat.

One by one Sal, Joanna, and Miranda answered her, like kids responding to roll call at school. Scarlett wondered once again what happened to Thunder. Was he still back in the van? Had the terrorists carried him in here? She was about to call out to him when the engines coughed, then rumbled to life. Vibrations shuddered the ship’s superstructure.

“Where are they taking us?” Miranda asked.

“Would you stop asking that same bloody question,” Sal snapped. “You’re like a broken—”

“You are a boor, Mr. Brazza,” Joan croaked.

They started yelling at one another. Given their raspy and weak voices, it sounded like a fight at an old age home. Scarlett wanted to cover her ears but she couldn’t because of the restraints.

This is hell,
she thought.
Forget fire and brimstone and pitchforks and the seven princes. This is close enough.

She swallowed a scream—and heard someone moaning.

Thunder?

She dropped to her knees and crawled/waddled toward the sound until she bumped a body. “Thunder?” She shouted back at Joanna and Sal: “Would you two please stop it?”

They went quiet.

“Thunder?” she said again.

“What the—? I can’t see.”

“Thunder, it’s me. Scarlett. It’s just a blindfold.”

“Why?” She felt him try to sit up. “My hands are tied.”

“Welcome to the club,” Sal said.

“Who are you?”

Scarlett introduced everyone, then explained what happened, pausing every few seconds to give her baked throat a rest. When she finished there was a hushed silence.

Thunder surprised her with a dry laugh. “Well, I came to Africa looking for an adventure,” he said. “Guess I just found one.”

“He’s in shock,” Joanna stated.

“Nah, I’m right,” he said. “Just relieving some tension, you know?”

Suddenly rusty hinges groaned. Heavy footsteps approached. Someone tugged Scarlett to her feet. “Let go of me!” she shouted, twisting in the man’s firm and calloused grip.

“What’s happening?” Sal demanded.

“They’re taking me!”

“Where?”

But then Scarlett was out the door, the man locking it again behind them. The hand around her bicep directed her up a flight of circular steps. At the top she felt a muggy breeze. Her restraints were removed. The blindfold came off. The onslaught of bright light overwhelmed her sensitive eyes, and she reflexively squeezed them shut, seeing stars and feeling momentarily faint. When she cracked them open again, she was looking at worn teak floorboards and her muddy sandals. Her toenails were painted a frosty pink.

Looking up, she saw she was on the top deck of some kind of riverboat. Maybe fifty or sixty feet long and in the middle of an iron-gray lake that spread away as far as she could see. From the sun-bleached wood and blistered paint and rusty bolts, she guessed the boat’s heyday to be at least one hundred years ago. A tarpaulin overhead provided shade from the equatorial sun while beside her stood a scarred, wooden table surrounded by several chairs. Aside from the gunman at her shoulder, four more leaned casually against the iron railing. Two were the men from the van. The other three wore jungle camouflage and black keffiyehs wrapped around their heads. All five had AK-47s hanging from their shoulders, and they all had hard, cold expressions.

One man in particular—tall and thin and effeminately handsome—was giving her an odd, almost creepy stare. Like maybe he recognized her. Or maybe he wanted to rape her. She turned quickly away.

There was a wheelhouse amidships. Through the open door she could make out the tiller wheel, throttle, and basic control panel. There didn’t appear to be a radio or radar. Nothing electronic of any kind that she could see. The helmsman, who had ignored her until this point, now turned to face her. It was the man from the van that had swatted the Rav 4 off the road, the man with the third-degree burns.

Scarface.

He was wearing a long olive-green tunic, loose pants, and no headdress. He held a dainty cup of tea in his hand, which he brought to his lips, sipped, then returned to the bone-white china saucer. He walked toward her, smiling an entirely fake smile. Scarlett lifted her chin and focused on the middle distance between them. She would not be cowed by him.

At the table he pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit. “Please, Miss Cox,” he said. “You must be tired.”

So he was the British national, she thought.

“I need—” She swallowed. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Of course,” he replied. “It’s directly behind you.”

Scarlett turned and noticed a small aft cabin. She crossed the deck, forcing the urgency from her step. The cabin turned out to be just as dirty and rundown as the rest of the ship. A couple chairs, a chest of scuffed drawers, an oil lamp, and a small table on which sat a backgammon board. A frayed hammock swayed back and forth, looking more utilitarian than relaxing. The toilet was in the water closet off to the right. The seat was yellowed with age, and there was no plumbing, just a deep dark hole.

As she did her business, she wondered about escape but there was nowhere to go but down the hole. She looked quickly around the small room for a weapon of some kind. Nothing. She reluctantly returned outside to the sweltering heat.

Scarface told her to sit, so she sat.

He saw her eyeing his tea and said, “Where are my manners?” He made a gesture to one of the gunmen, who brought her a metal mug filled with water. “It’s boiled. Quite safe, I assure you.”

The water was warm and tinny but tasted better than the finest champagne on ice. She gulped down every last drop.

Scarface took a seat across from her. He produced a small micro recorder from his tunic pocket, pressed a button, and set it on the table. “If you’d be so kind as to answer some questions for me?” he said, still playing the absurd good-host act.

“Go ahead then,” she replied, still playing the absurd unfazed-hostage act.

“My name is Jahja al-Ahmad. You may call me Jahja.”

She did not wish to do so and said nothing.

“What is your name?”

“You know my name.”

He nodded at the micro recorder. “I would like you to tell it to me again.”

“Scarlett Cox.”

“Do you prefer Scarlett or Miss Cox?”

“Why are you speaking like that?”

“English?”

“The good manners.”

“You believe because I am currently your captor, I must be some sort of savage? I am a civilized member of society, just like yourself, Miss Cox, or your husband, for that matter. I attended the University of Cambridge. I have a wife who loves me very much and a beautiful daughter who loves me even more. The only difference between you and I is that we differ on our politics—differ greatly, I should say.”

Scarlett wanted to tell him they were about as different as black and white, good and evil, chocolate and shit, but she held her tongue.

“When were you born?” he asked.

“December 13, 1978.”

“Social security number?”

“Why do you want that?”

“Answer the question, please.”

And then Scarlett understood. Or at least she thought she did. A number of terrorist groups were likely going to claim responsibility for the bombing, and the great citizen Jahja with the dignified British accent and the loving wife and daughter wanted to prove to whomever he spoke that he was the real deal. For a brief moment she considered giving him false information, but she didn’t see how that could help her in any way. She rattled off her social security number.

“License plate number?”

“Which one?”

“Of course. You are a famous American film star. You have more than one car. You must have many cars. You certainly are a lucky woman.” He said something in Arabic to his henchmen. They erupted in laughter. “Let me clarify the question,” he went on, returning his attention to her. “Which car do you drive the most?”

“An Aston Martin Vantage. It has a vanity plate. S-E-M-A-R-A.”

“What is Semara?”

“The name of the Balinese god of love.”

“Do you believe in a god, Miss Cox?”

“No.”

“You are an atheist then?”