He went down to the street. At six thirty exactly the phone buzzed.
“Feodor?”
“A pleasure, a great, great pleasure to hear your voice,” Irlov said. “And such a surprise.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t understand.”
Brian closed his eyes, tried to think of a clear blue sky. Anything to keep from screaming. Irlov wanted Brian to suffer. So Brian would suffer.
“My daughter, Kira—”
“Can you be more specific?”
Brian’s composure cracked. “Fuck you—”
He was talking to no one. Irlov had hung up.
* * *
The phone slid out of his hands, bounced against the sidewalk. Lucky him, it was a cheap clamshell burner. His iPhone would have cracked.
He picked it up. Waited.
Finally it rang again.
“I don’t enjoy being cursed at. If I hang up again it’ll be the final time.”
“Please. Do what you like to me, don’t hurt her.” Brian counted to ten, could take the dead air no longer. “I’m begging you.”
“Why would I do anything to anyone as important as you, my friend?”
“Whatever you want. Never ask for money again.”
“We’re not savages, Brian. We keep our word. We like our friends to do the same.”
“Just let her go.”
“Assuming I know what you mean—”
“Please.”
“I can’t promise. Decisions have been made.”
“But. Feodor. I don’t understand. I mean this sincerely.” Brian hoped he had the right tone, I’m desperate but I’m still thoughtful, useful to you. “If you hurt her. Doesn’t your leverage disappear?”
“You seem to have forgotten, I understand, all this stress”—Irlov paused—“you have two children. Not one.”
Brian found himself sitting on the sidewalk, his legs rubber. The phone at his side. He picked it up. Tried to call. Again. Again.
But Irlov was gone.
He stomped the burner until it was hardly recognizable as a phone, scattered the pieces.
* * *
Upstairs. Thank God. Rebecca was still asleep.
He had to tell her.
No. Not just because he’d spend the rest of his life in a cell. He had to give Irlov a chance. The man hadn’t said no. He hadn’t said yes, but he hadn’t said no. Pressuring him might backfire.
He lay beside his wife, closed his eyes.
Suddenly he found himself in the back of an ambulance, a faceless paramedic putting a mask to his mouth, rattling over the rough road.
He didn’t know how long he’d slept but his phone—his real phone, his iPhone—was buzzing. Rebecca’s too.
A text from a blocked number.
A picture of Kira holding a Spanish newspaper. The text said only Two million euros. Pay tonight. Tomorrow costs more.
Rebecca sat up. “Brian?”
The moment of decision. But Brian had already decided.
Irlov had come through. Brian would keep his secrets to himself.
“She’s alive.”
V KIRA AND REBECCA AND BRIAN
(NOW)
24
Somewhere in Spain
Kira was already growing used to being neither awake nor asleep, bobbing on the sea of her own semi-consciousness, fleeting Technicolor dreams.
Now the snap of the deadbolt pulled her back to the world. She saw Rodrigo’s outline in the doorway, just enough gray light for her to distinguish him.
With the light still out, he stepped in and closed the door.
“Kira?” His voice slurred, accent stronger than before.
She had the fleeting hope he meant to free her. But she knew better. He stank of weed and booze. Something sweet. Sangria, maybe. He had to be wasted if he was coming for her with the others in the house.
“You know what Jacques said.” No screaming. Persuade him to leave on his own.
“That puta just wants—”
Rodrigo broke off, leaving unanswered the question of what Jacques wanted.
“You’ll get us in trouble, Rodrigo.” Us. I’m on your side. Buddies. Best friends, see?
He stepped toward her. Put his hands on his hips as he considered his next move.
The light snapped on and she heard two quick steps. A pair of huge hands tethered themselves to Rodrigo’s shoulders and flung him against the wall. Jacques. Before Rodrigo could recover Jacques put a shoulder into his chest. The two men thrashed, arms and legs and grunts. Kira stood. She wondered if she could edge past and run, reach the front door, maybe this was the moment—
But she didn’t know who else was in the house.
Before she summoned the courage to move, Jacques had control. He wrapped his left arm around Rodrigo’s head, punched low with the right hand, one two three four, the blows landing hard, their smack echoing through the closet. Jacques stepped away and Rodrigo sagged against the wall. His eyes were pure animal hatred, but his hands were low at his sides.
“Not for you.” Jacques wasn’t even breathing hard.