distance between what I’d become and what I was about to be—dead—was not such a lengthy one. Physically, there wasn’t much left to save. It was my mind and soul that needed protecting.
In those final moments, as I was being steered toward my end, I suddenly realized something important. Incredible things lived in my mind and soul: memories of loving and being loved, laughing, being cared for and taking care of others, friendships, kindnesses, moments of amazement and awe. There was nothing these men could do to destroy them. They were greater than any of this. They existed in a place I was sadly deficient to describe, a kind of “me” cloud. They would survive beyond whatever happened to me here today.
Whoa. Deep.
Apparently I’d suddenly become a man of spirituality. Of faith. Be it the influence of a guardian angel, or even God, or maybe nothing more than body chemicals run amok in my body doing strange things to my brain—whatever it was, I believed. As much as I’d believed anything in my entire life. I believed in the survival of something greater than my physical being.
I was being propelled forward, my feet tripping across rough, uneven surfaces, the men’s fingers clawing my armpits as they urged me along. Just like when I’d been beaten, I felt myself floating above it all. I gazed down on the ghastly scene, the three of us proceeding at death march speed, to the edge of the precipice from which I would be tossed. I felt weightless, free, at peace.
Except I’d written the wrong ending.
There was no precipice. There was no end-over-end tumble down Toubklal mountain.
Instead, I heard a door opening, its bottom edge scraping harshly against hardened earth. The rope binding my hands was loosened. With one final thrust forward, I was set free.
The door closed.
Silence.
Were they gone?
Was I alone?
Unencumbered, my trembling hands rose to the blindfold. Slowly, slowly, I lowered it.
I was ready for anything. Anything but what I saw.
Chapter 14
Hand in hand, Jenn and I approached the dead fountain. Just as the ransom note instructed us to. In my left hand, I carried a briefcase. Inside, astonishingly, was ten million dollars. None of it ours. The money had been supplied by the FBI. On the off chance the kidnappers actually got their hands on it—an eventuality that was nowhere in the plan—each bill was marked and traceable.
We’d had two notes. Both identically prepared with letters and words cut from magazines and newspapers. Both appeared in our post office box with the regular delivery. Both were effectively devoid of clues as to who sent them. The first note told us they had Mikki. The second asked for the money, with instructions on when and where to deliver it.
The investigators were frustrated. Other than through the media—to which there was no guarantee the kidnappers even paid attention—there’d been no opportunity for them to communicate directly with the hostage takers and, consequently, no opportunity for negotiations. “Highly irregular,” they called it. Highly effective, as far as I could see. At least so far.
Along with the cash, the briefcase also contained a message. It said everything the officials would have said to the hostage takers, if they could have. Most pointedly that they would never get their hands on the money without proof that Mikki was still alive and well. Although the ten million was in the case, the case itself was constructed of blast-proof titanium, and could only be opened by a complex alphanumeric code entered into a keypad. The agents figured the kidnappers assumed they’d be safe to retrieve the case without interference as long as they still held onto Mikki. Which was true. But the FBI rarely play on the side of any game where the foregone conclusion is their own defeat.
With a visible shake to my hand, I dropped the briefcase into the dried-out bowl of the fountain, which had long ago stopped spewing water. For a moment we
In those final moments, as I was being steered toward my end, I suddenly realized something important. Incredible things lived in my mind and soul: memories of loving and being loved, laughing, being cared for and taking care of others, friendships, kindnesses, moments of amazement and awe. There was nothing these men could do to destroy them. They were greater than any of this. They existed in a place I was sadly deficient to describe, a kind of “me” cloud. They would survive beyond whatever happened to me here today.
Whoa. Deep.
Apparently I’d suddenly become a man of spirituality. Of faith. Be it the influence of a guardian angel, or even God, or maybe nothing more than body chemicals run amok in my body doing strange things to my brain—whatever it was, I believed. As much as I’d believed anything in my entire life. I believed in the survival of something greater than my physical being.
I was being propelled forward, my feet tripping across rough, uneven surfaces, the men’s fingers clawing my armpits as they urged me along. Just like when I’d been beaten, I felt myself floating above it all. I gazed down on the ghastly scene, the three of us proceeding at death march speed, to the edge of the precipice from which I would be tossed. I felt weightless, free, at peace.
Except I’d written the wrong ending.
There was no precipice. There was no end-over-end tumble down Toubklal mountain.
Instead, I heard a door opening, its bottom edge scraping harshly against hardened earth. The rope binding my hands was loosened. With one final thrust forward, I was set free.
The door closed.
Silence.
Were they gone?
Was I alone?
Unencumbered, my trembling hands rose to the blindfold. Slowly, slowly, I lowered it.
I was ready for anything. Anything but what I saw.
Chapter 14
Hand in hand, Jenn and I approached the dead fountain. Just as the ransom note instructed us to. In my left hand, I carried a briefcase. Inside, astonishingly, was ten million dollars. None of it ours. The money had been supplied by the FBI. On the off chance the kidnappers actually got their hands on it—an eventuality that was nowhere in the plan—each bill was marked and traceable.
We’d had two notes. Both identically prepared with letters and words cut from magazines and newspapers. Both appeared in our post office box with the regular delivery. Both were effectively devoid of clues as to who sent them. The first note told us they had Mikki. The second asked for the money, with instructions on when and where to deliver it.
The investigators were frustrated. Other than through the media—to which there was no guarantee the kidnappers even paid attention—there’d been no opportunity for them to communicate directly with the hostage takers and, consequently, no opportunity for negotiations. “Highly irregular,” they called it. Highly effective, as far as I could see. At least so far.
Along with the cash, the briefcase also contained a message. It said everything the officials would have said to the hostage takers, if they could have. Most pointedly that they would never get their hands on the money without proof that Mikki was still alive and well. Although the ten million was in the case, the case itself was constructed of blast-proof titanium, and could only be opened by a complex alphanumeric code entered into a keypad. The agents figured the kidnappers assumed they’d be safe to retrieve the case without interference as long as they still held onto Mikki. Which was true. But the FBI rarely play on the side of any game where the foregone conclusion is their own defeat.
With a visible shake to my hand, I dropped the briefcase into the dried-out bowl of the fountain, which had long ago stopped spewing water. For a moment we
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