toward the river we’re passing. Oh, my God! Her hands are still behind her back, zip-tied.
That doesn’t change as she hits the water like a sack of cement and sinks.
I don’t even realize it, but I’m screaming.
The porters are shouting too, and one of them gets on his comm unit to alert the engineer, but the train shows no signs of braking.
Evan hauls me away from the still-open door and back into the car. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, Kari,” he repeats.
“It’s not okay! They have to stop the train—someone’s got to pull her out of the water!”
“They can’t stop the train easily. Even if they did, by the time someone got to her it would be too late. And there may be other trains coming behind us on the same set of tracks.”
“But—but—”
“I’m sure the engineer has alerted the German police.”He settles me onto a bench and rubs my arms.
“She’s going to drown!”
“Yes.” His gray-blue eyes are somber. I know he’s thinking about the fact that he put the zip ties on her wrists.
“She committed suicide.” I say it baldly.
He drags a hand over his face, then nods.
“Who is she? Why did she target me? Is she trying to bring me to whoever has Charlie? No—that doesn’t make sense. So there’s another person after us?”
Evan just looks at me. “I don’t know.”
“And why did she kill herself? Why ?”
He shakes his head. “To some people, some organizations, failure is not an option. And she failed to bring you to whoever ordered your kidnapping. Maybe death is preferable to the consequences that await her.”
I think about that. About failure not being an option.
And I realize that it’s true for me as well. No matter what happens, no matter who tries to stop me, I will break Gustav Duvernay out . . . because failing Charlie isn’t an option. It’s unthinkable.
Chapter Seven
There is a lot of confusion onboard the train, needless to say. And off the train, once we get to Stuttgart. The first porter, the one who thought I was a runaway daughter, cannot seem to understand that I was actually being kidnapped by strangers.
“Your maman —she is the one who threw herself into the river?” he asks stupidly.
“She’s not my mother!” I say, for what seems like the tenth time.
“But regardless of who she is, you should send the polizei to pull her body out of the water,” Evan points out.
“Yes, yes, of course.” He mops at his brow with a handkerchief. Despite the chilly weather, he’s sweating profusely. “They have been dispatched.”
“You should have asked for the woman’s ID—andhis—before leaving me alone with those people,” I tell the porter.
“But you were already with them . . . I saw no need . . . you didn’t ask for help—” He flounders helplessly. Dark, wet circles are growing under the arms of his uniform.
“I didn’t ask for help because they had a gun jammed into my ribs.” My tone is pure acid.
“So you are a minor?” Another porter asks this question and demands to see our passports. “You are all minors?”
It goes on and on, the confusion.
Evan calls Interpol. To my surprise, he asks for someone I’ve never heard of instead of Rebecca; he speaks a language that I can’t even begin to interpret. It’s not French, not German. Perhaps it’s Dutch? Where did he learn that? I have no idea. But evidently the porters don’t speak it either, because they continue to scratch their butts and give us a hard time. Evan gives a sequence of numbers—a code?—to the person on the other end of the line and then ends the conversation.
“What were those numbers?” I ask in low tones.
“Code for ‘training mission.’ That will reassure them that there’s nothing going on.”
“Oh.”
At last the Person On High In Charge of Porters calls them and strikes the fear of God into them, and we are taken to a German Interpol office of some kind. We’re shoved into an office suite there, where a
That doesn’t change as she hits the water like a sack of cement and sinks.
I don’t even realize it, but I’m screaming.
The porters are shouting too, and one of them gets on his comm unit to alert the engineer, but the train shows no signs of braking.
Evan hauls me away from the still-open door and back into the car. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, Kari,” he repeats.
“It’s not okay! They have to stop the train—someone’s got to pull her out of the water!”
“They can’t stop the train easily. Even if they did, by the time someone got to her it would be too late. And there may be other trains coming behind us on the same set of tracks.”
“But—but—”
“I’m sure the engineer has alerted the German police.”He settles me onto a bench and rubs my arms.
“She’s going to drown!”
“Yes.” His gray-blue eyes are somber. I know he’s thinking about the fact that he put the zip ties on her wrists.
“She committed suicide.” I say it baldly.
He drags a hand over his face, then nods.
“Who is she? Why did she target me? Is she trying to bring me to whoever has Charlie? No—that doesn’t make sense. So there’s another person after us?”
Evan just looks at me. “I don’t know.”
“And why did she kill herself? Why ?”
He shakes his head. “To some people, some organizations, failure is not an option. And she failed to bring you to whoever ordered your kidnapping. Maybe death is preferable to the consequences that await her.”
I think about that. About failure not being an option.
And I realize that it’s true for me as well. No matter what happens, no matter who tries to stop me, I will break Gustav Duvernay out . . . because failing Charlie isn’t an option. It’s unthinkable.
Chapter Seven
There is a lot of confusion onboard the train, needless to say. And off the train, once we get to Stuttgart. The first porter, the one who thought I was a runaway daughter, cannot seem to understand that I was actually being kidnapped by strangers.
“Your maman —she is the one who threw herself into the river?” he asks stupidly.
“She’s not my mother!” I say, for what seems like the tenth time.
“But regardless of who she is, you should send the polizei to pull her body out of the water,” Evan points out.
“Yes, yes, of course.” He mops at his brow with a handkerchief. Despite the chilly weather, he’s sweating profusely. “They have been dispatched.”
“You should have asked for the woman’s ID—andhis—before leaving me alone with those people,” I tell the porter.
“But you were already with them . . . I saw no need . . . you didn’t ask for help—” He flounders helplessly. Dark, wet circles are growing under the arms of his uniform.
“I didn’t ask for help because they had a gun jammed into my ribs.” My tone is pure acid.
“So you are a minor?” Another porter asks this question and demands to see our passports. “You are all minors?”
It goes on and on, the confusion.
Evan calls Interpol. To my surprise, he asks for someone I’ve never heard of instead of Rebecca; he speaks a language that I can’t even begin to interpret. It’s not French, not German. Perhaps it’s Dutch? Where did he learn that? I have no idea. But evidently the porters don’t speak it either, because they continue to scratch their butts and give us a hard time. Evan gives a sequence of numbers—a code?—to the person on the other end of the line and then ends the conversation.
“What were those numbers?” I ask in low tones.
“Code for ‘training mission.’ That will reassure them that there’s nothing going on.”
“Oh.”
At last the Person On High In Charge of Porters calls them and strikes the fear of God into them, and we are taken to a German Interpol office of some kind. We’re shoved into an office suite there, where a
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