Joanna. The most important thing here is you and your safety. Do you want my help?
The psychologist. The one Erik argued with and threw out of the house. Bartsch.
The man next to me lets go, slowly, as though he’s waiting to see if I’ll start to resist again. But I remain motionless. My breathing is so quick, it’s as though I’ve just been running, as though I’m still running, and inside I am.
Gabor’s people have found us. Found me. And it was our own mistake—they must have followed Ela, from our house right to the hotel. The hotel I strolled out of just half an hour later without taking any precautions. After all, it was only a hundred feet to the taxi rank.
I feel like hitting myself in the head for my own stupidity. We were so careful the whole time, only to make this terrible mistake.
“Joanna, is everything all right?” Now Bartsch once again sounds as polite and concerned as he did a week ago, in our living room.
I don’t answer him, but instead just concentrate on the world outside the car. We’re slowing down. The car stops at a red light.
Don’t think. Just do it. I thrust myself away from the seat, grab the door handle—not locked, you stupid assholes, it opens easily, wide enough to slip out.
One of my legs and half of my upper body are already out when the man grabs me by the arm and pulls me back inside. I hear myself scream; it feels as though he’s ripped my shoulder out of its socket. The next moment, he throws himself on top of me and slams the door shut with a bang.
“You do that one more time, you stupid bitch, and you’ll see what I’m made of.” He hits me in the face, hard, first with his palm, then again with the back of his hand. I can taste blood.
“Lambert! Stop that at once!” Bartsch has turned around in his seat. “It was your mistake, why did you even let go of her in the first place?”
“Because I didn’t expect Wickers, that idiot, to forget to lock the doors!” bellows Lambert. He’s still lying on top of me with all his weight, pressing the air out of me. “But don’t worry,” he says, quieter now, “it won’t happen again.”
He pulls my hands behind my back and slings something narrow and hard around my wrists, then pulls it tight, so hard that it hurts. “It’s your own fault,” he says.
I touch my tongue against the spot where my lip has burst open. Yes, it’s my own fault, but it was worth it. Perhaps someone noticed my attempt to flee and made a note of the license plate. And maybe they’ll inform the police.
A phone rings up front. After two rings, Bartsch picks it up. “Yes? Yes, we have her. It all went smoothly, better than we’d hoped.” He stops, shakes his head. “What? No. That wasn’t what we agreed, that…”
The person he’s talking to must have interrupted him. Bartsch tries several more times to say something, but without success. “You really should have made that clearer,” he says eventually, sounding defensive. “No, I … That wasn’t … I wouldn’t presume to do something so arbitrary.”
He’s getting more and more nervous with every word, and it’s contagious. The tension in the car is palpable anyway, and if one of these three men loses their head …
My hands are starting to feel numb; I flex them into fists and then stretch out my fingers to keep the blood flowing.
“I understand,” says Bartsch into the phone. “Yes, I think that’s doable. Of course. We’ll be there shortly.”
He puts down the cell phone and turns around to me. “What’s the name of the woman who was in your house? The one who went to your hotel just now?”
I was right. We had been na?ve enough to believe that Gabor had withdrawn his people. And that the police had thoroughly checked the area. “Why?” I ask.
“That’s irrelevant. Just tell me her name.”
My thoughts are tumbling through my mind. Should I not say anything? Should I lie? I couldn’t betray Ela, no question of that; there was no way I could warn her about Gabor, and nor could Erik.
The thought of him burns like fire. He has no idea what’s happening; he is sitting there in the hotel waiting. Looking forward to my return.
A hand clasps my hair, tearing my head backward. Lambert. “He asked you something!”
“Stop it.” Bartsch’s warning sounds dangerously soft. “That’s not necessary yet.”
Lambert lets me go, grinning; he heard the yet just as clearly as I did.
Bartsch doesn’t ask a second time. He turns back to face forward again, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
I haven’t paid any attention to our surroundings for a while, and only now do I see that the landscape has changed. We are no longer in the city, but probably quite a way outside it by now. Industrial buildings line up against warehouses, and most of the vehicles approaching us are trucks.
“Patience,” says Bartsch, and I don’t know whether he’s addressing Lambert or me.
They park the car by one of the warehouses. It’s huge, and a little way back from the road, on a plot of land which is surrounded by high walls. Far away from anything. There could be no hope of running away from here.
At the other end of the compound, I see a truck driving out of one of the warehouses. But it’s so far away that I can’t hear the engine, not even when the driver opens the car door.
Is there any point in yelling? As loudly as I can?
Lambert seems to guess what’s going on in my mind. “You try anything, make one attempt to escape, and I’ll break your bones.”
So I don’t try. The chance that someone could hear me is tiny, and it’s obvious that Lambert would make good on his threat without giving it a second thought. He enjoys his sense of power. And I’m sure he’d like to feel a little more of it.
We walk up over a ramp and into the building. Lambert is shoving me roughly ahead of him. No one stops him, not even Bartsch, who goes past us and enters the building first.
Shelves that stretch up high, almost to the ceiling. Huge boxes, some of them wrapped in plastic. It would be very easy indeed to make someone like me disappear in one of these.
In an open space in the middle of the building there are three forklifts, and Bartsch goes to lean against one of them, striking a pointedly relaxed pose. “So. We still have a little time. And I’d like to use it to repeat my question from before: who was the woman who went to see you in the hotel?”
I barely have a chance to take a breath before Lambert pushes me so hard in the back that I fall to the floor. My hands are still tied, so I can’t break my fall, only turn to the side to protect my face. My right shoulder crashes against the floor with such force that tears shoot into my eyes. Lambert laughs and kicks me, not too hard, more symbolically. “Aww. Now the little girl’s crying.”
“That’s enough.” Bartsch strides over, pushes Lambert to the side, and squats down next to me. He looks down at me.
There’s some image in my head, something that I would be able to see if it would only just come a little closer to the surface. I shut my eyes, and at that moment Bartsch puts his hand under my chin and turns my face toward him.