Interest (3 page)

“Your identifying biometrics have been reassigned in all government databases. They now belong to Jim Rivington. From now on, you
are
Jim Rivington.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that. To prevent recognition by humans, you will also shave your beard and dye your hair before leaving here today.”

“And when will I be done with this alleged assignment?”

“At the completion of our objectives, you will be allowed to return home with the money we’ve promised and your daughter.”

Just then, two unmasked men walked through the door wearing suits. Len didn’t recognize them.

“Anything else?” Len asked.

“That’s it. Here’s a suitcase for these items. Majors Paine and Hancock, please make sure Mr. Savitz gets changed into new clothes, dyes his hair, and gets to the airport with these materials. His flight leaves in six hours.” Neith sat back down at her desk.

___
_

About four hours later, Major Hancock pulled off the highway and parked. Paine went around back and opened the trunk. He took Len’s hood off.

“I’m going to uncuff you, but if you try anything, I’ll just cap you right here,” Paine said. His voice was kind of nasal and insecure, not what Len expected.

Paine freed his hands and Len crawled out of the trunk. It was evening, and they were in a secluded spot in an industrial park.

“Get in the front passenger seat. We’re almost at the airport.”

The men drove a bit farther. Len saw highway signs for Dulles, his first real indication of location since he’d been abducted. Doing some mental calculations, he guessed Jefferson’s hideout was probably somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia.

They pulled up to the passenger drop-off. “Here are your boarding passes and suitcase,” said Hancock. “Our colleagues will meet you at the airport in Quito.”

Amazingly, the two didn’t accompany Len into the airport. He wheeled the suitcase into the airport alone, then turned around to look through the glass doors. They were still there at the curb, watching him. Len thought about running but figured it would be best to wait it out until he could find a way to rescue his daughter.

He made it through security with no problem; the computer didn’t even balk when the agents scanned the fake passport. Len’s hands were starting to shake, so he headed straight to the duty-free shop to buy a fifth of bourbon. Out of professional habit, he also picked up a local newspaper. Most of the headlines were about the recent bombings, but to his amazement, on page A2 there was an article about his abduction: “Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist abducted by insurrectionists.”

The plane wasn’t boarding yet, so Len sat down in an uncrowded part of the airport to take some very shameless slugs from the bottle while reading the story.
Pulitzer Prize–winning. Ha!
he thought to himself. People who didn’t know better probably thought he was a big deal. In fact, that stupid prize was probably the reason he was in this mess.

There was something no one had told Len in journalism school: you could win a Pulitzer and still be broke. Len pulled the envelope of cash Neith had given him out of his jacket pocket and counted it inconspicuously. Inside was an advance of sorts, enough to buy a new car. Len didn’t get it. Two million dollars could motivate anyone. Why bother with kidnappings on top of it?

5

Once in his seat on the airplane, Len stared out the little oval window and thought about his poor daughter. How was he going to get her out of this? How was he going to get himself out of this? Why him? He felt someone take the seat next to him but didn’t care.

“Hey, is that Applewood Forge?” The accent sounded Slavic.

“Yeah. Want some?” Len said, preoccupied, handing it over while staring out the window.

The person sitting next to him took the bottle out of his hand. Len didn’t think anyone would actually take him up on the offer. He looked over. A woman in her mid-thirties maybe, willowy, jet-black hair cut in a bob, wide-set blue eyes. Len couldn’t remember the last time he saw a woman so attractive flying economy. She uncorked the bottle and took a huge swig like a goddamn lumberjack. “That’s good shit,” she said. “Can’t get in Russia.”

Mentally and physically exhausted, a little drunk, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Len couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. Unfazed by his reaction, she took another swig.

“You look like you have trouble,” she said, as though they’d been pals since the second grade.

“You could say that.”

“What happen?”

“Ever get roped into other people’s problems?”

“No, thanks. Life is too short. So, where you going?” she asked.

“Quito, I think. You?”

“Same. You been before?”

“No, what’s it like?” Len asked.

“It smells like bus farts. Do you go on business?”

“Yes,” Len answered.

“What do you do for living?” she asked.

“I’m a travel journalist, apparently.”

“What does it mean, journalist?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Do you enjoy?”

The question struck Len as very un-Russian. “No,” he said.

“They why you do it?”

“It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

The woman laughed. “My name is Natalia,” she said, extending her hand. “Natalia Zherdeva.”

“L—I mean, Jim Rivington,” Len said, shaking it. “Nice to meet you. What do you do, Natalia?”

“I export matryoshka dolls.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Len laughed. He needed a laugh. “And do you enjoy it?”

“You know what I enjoy? Drinking. But no one pays me for that,” Natalia said, smirking.

“Hear, hear, sister.”

“You married?” Natalia asked.

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know, I got tired of being wrong all the time. She was the angry, self-righteous type. Anything she did, no matter how selfish or awful, she felt was profoundly sensible and justified. Anything anyone else did was inherently terrible and worthy of scorn. She hated my friends, she hated my family, she hated fun and spontaneity. It seemed like she was just deeply dissatisfied with reality and took it out on everyone around her. Eventually she started accusing me of cheating all the time so she could justify sleeping around. I broke it off with her.”

“Why you marry woman like that?”

Len chuckled. “Good question. At the beginning, she seemed so serious and idealistic, which is probably what I needed at that point in my life. I was young and didn’t really have my act together.” Len paused for a bit, then asked, “Are you married?”

“Hell no!” She scrunched her face up in contempt. “I like freedom. Man wants me to clean house and make babies. I want to travel and wake up in new city every day. So I do it.”

“It sounds like an amazing life you have.”

“Every life should be amazing! Everyone think like they have to suffer, but they don’t. I don’t know why. People are crazy.”

The words hit Len like a Dumpster dropped on his head. He’d been intentionally grinding through difficulty for forty-two years in the hopes that it would make him a better person, doing one hard thing after another. Why? Because that was what everyone had told him his whole life: that grit, hard work, and adversity would reward you in the long run. But they didn’t, did they? You died anyway, just like everyone else. Misery was just misery, and your trophy was a coffin.

6

Len awoke with a start when the plane made a sharp, banking turn over South America. Landing at the airport in Quito was no joke; it required sharp turns between enormous Andean mountains with violent updraft turbulence. Len’s stomach was turning, and he was so dehydrated from the booze and the cabin air that his eyes felt like cotton balls. Natalia was bent over, sleeping with her head on the tray table, holding the now-empty whiskey bottle. He sort of remembered them hitting it off and talking for two hours or so. Every now and then Len met someone on his wavelength, and always at exactly the wrong time.

He nudged her. “Hey, wake up, we’re landing.”

“Nyet,”
she murmured without opening her eyes.

Len thought about the logistics of having to help a drunk woman off the plane, then find her luggage and get her to her hotel. His brain was thick like corn mash that morning, but he suddenly remembered why he was in Ecuador.
Daughter kidnapped, right. Gotta take care of that first and foremost. Priorities, old man.

On the way out, Len gave the flight attendants a few hundred-dollar bills and pointed at Natalia, telling them, “Make sure she gets her luggage and gets where she’s going.”

Exiting customs, he saw three serious, dark-skinned men in suits and fedoras, one of whom was holding a sign that read “Jim Rivington.” They’d have looked out of place, like extras from some 1930s-era gangster film, had everyone at the airport not been dressed in the same style. An Ecuador thing, apparently. The guys waiting for him looked hard and had cold, jailbird stares. A shot of adrenaline pierced his hangover, jangling his nerves. It wasn’t the greatest feeling.
This is how people are never heard from again,
Len thought to himself. He took a second to breathe and walked over.

“I’m Jim.”

“Please come with us.”

The men led Len out to a crappy white-paneled van. It smelled like wet dog and patchouli inside, and the seats had no seat belts. The dashboard looked like a mobile Catholic church: pictures of the Virgin Mary, rosaries hanging from the rearview window, several crucified Jesuses, and, to Len’s amusement, lit candles and incense.

They drove out of the city and into the mountains. The vehicle’s poor suspension, combined with the switchback mountain roads and the ups and downs in altitude, increased Len’s nausea, and twice he had to ask the driver to pull over so he could vomit out the door. Slowly the mountains gave way to low-lying coastal jungle. Cresting a final hill, the rainforest canopy opened up, and Len saw the vibrantly blue ocean. The van pulled up to a dock on the beach, where a speedboat was waiting for them. After tossing Len and his luggage in, the men piloted the boat to an island that Len judged was about five miles off the coast. Around midday they puttered past a breakwater into a small marina on the island. It appeared to be a private harbor, containing a big white yacht and other smaller watercraft. A man carrying an AK-47 came up to the dock and tied the boat down. Len and the men got out. Len surveyed the place. Beyond the marina there was a huge concrete wall surrounding some kind of structure. Along the wall at various intervals were spotlights and armed guards. A wrought-iron gate opened automatically and they all started walking. A roundabout driveway circled a fountain. Inside the wall was an enormous house, a Spanish colonial–style mansion. The men led Len inside the house, and there inside the foyer was Octavia.

“Daddy!” she squealed.

“Octavia! Thank God!” Len picked her up and gave her a long, long hug. She looked healthy, which was a huge relief.

“Daddy! Daddy, guess what? Guess what! Guess what! This house has a swimming pool and games and there are lizards everywhere! And their tails come off when you catch them and then the tails wriggle around like worms. Isn’t that cool? And in the morning we eat fruit and then we go to the beach. Come see! Come see!”

“OK! I can’t wait to see!” Len had never felt such relief. His little girl was OK, and it was the first time he’d seen her in a month. “Hey, where’s Mommy?”

“Oh, Mr. Salva—Salva—Salvatierra made her sit in the room with the door closed because she had bad behavior,” Octavia said. “She was yelling too much. I think she’s in time-out. This is Mr. Salva—Salvatierra’s house. He has a mustache. He’s nice. He has a doggy! Daddy, do we have to go back to Pittsburgh?”

“I don’t know,” Len said.

“Señor Savitz?” a man’s voice called out.

Len looked up. A man in his sixties with a white mustache and wearing a tan guayabera was standing on the stairs.

“Yes?”

“Hello. I am Jose Salvatierra. Welcome to my home. Please let me show you around. Pedro, please take Mr. Savitz’s bag to his room.”

A man who was apparently Pedro came out of nowhere and took Len’s bag. Len didn’t want to be shown around, he wanted to take his daughter and escape. But until he figured out how to make that possible, he figured he should try to appear cooperative. “Octavia, can you go play for a little bit? Daddy has to talk to Mr.…?”

“Salvatierra.”

Octavia skipped out of the room.

“Come with me.” Salvatierra led Len around the house, pointing out dining rooms, a game room, bedrooms, and so forth. “In this courtyard is the swimming pool. Your daughter just loves it here. She’s a sweet girl. I took her to the beach the last two mornings. She reminds me of when my children were that age. Through these doors is the guest bedroom where you’ll be staying.”

“I’ll be staying here?”

“For tonight. After that, Neith has some work for you to do.”

Len took note of his surroundings. The mansion was entirely open-air with no windows whatsoever, as houses sometimes were in the tropics. Birds flew in and out as they pleased. A mosquito net surrounded the bed. From his room, Len could see a helipad and a fair amount of the compound’s perimeter wall.

“What business are you in, Mr. Salvatierra?”

“Narcotics.”

Len almost laughed at the frankness of the answer but didn’t for fear of ending up in a ditch somewhere. Salvatierra had tanned skin and a thick head of white hair that matched his mustache. He had the vibe of a sleeping volcano, a warm pleasantness that almost dared people to take him for granted. Len could smell a river of rage underneath that charm and mentally filed Salvatierra under “not to be fucked with.”

“May I ask you a question?” Len asked.

“Certainly.”

“What is your connection to Neith? How do you know each other?”

Salvatierra smiled to himself. “Neith and I are old friends. She provides me with intelligence, which allows me to move my product into North America. We split the profits. She speaks very good Spanish!”

“I’m surprised you’re so open about this.”

“That is because you will not tell anyone,” Salvatierra said, turning to face Len and staring him in the eyes.

“I won’t. I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Savitz. Do not let it kill you.” Len averted his gaze. “I am keeping you here as a favor to Neith, but I have no…what’s the word? Compunction?” Salvatierra poked Len in the chest. “Yes, no compunction about getting rid of you.”

Octavia came running into the room like a welcome breeze. “Daddy, do you want to come to the beach with me?”

“It is no problem,” Salvatierra said, suddenly back in character with his avuncular smile.

“Of course, darling.” Len glanced back at Salvatierra. Salvatierra summoned one of his armed guards, then walked out of the room.

Len and Octavia walked down to the beach, where they played in the waves while Salvatierra’s guard sat under a palm tree and watched. Without being too obvious, Len tried to get a feel for the lay of the land. Salvatierra’s compound was the only structure on the island; they were completely isolated, surrounded by miles of water in every direction. Apparently the only access was by helicopter, boat, or swimming. Len wondered if there were sharks out there. Somewhere, he speculated, there was some asshole real estate agent who specialized in finding drug cartel kingpins their dream homes.

It was ingenious, really. Neith had picked a place to keep hostages that was remote, fortified, and in a country that had tenuous diplomatic relations with the United States. Salvatierra could murder them out here if he wanted to, bury their bodies in the jungle, and no one would ever know. And even if someone did know, a man like Salvatierra would have enough political muscle to avoid problems with local law enforcement. In fact, he probably got away with murder on a routine basis.

Coming back into the house with Octavia after an hour or two at the beach, Len saw Sara in the entrance, arms akimbo and looking ready for a fight.
Christ, here we go,
thought Len.

“Octavia, can you catch me a lizard?” Len asked.

“OK, Daddy!” Octavia ran off to the courtyard.

Sara at least had the decency to watch Octavia run off before starting in on Len. He hadn’t seen Sara in person for a while, and he looked her over discreetly while her attention was on Octavia. She was still beautiful on the outside, statuesque and Nordic looking, with a round, pretty face. Like a Viking princess almost, but without any hint of nobility.

“Good job, Len! Who did you piss off this time? You got us kidnapped and sent down here to this third-world hellhole!”

“I tried to warn you, didn’t I?”

“No, fuck you, Len. You could have told me someone was going to kidnap us. Instead you had to be all vague and mysterious,” she said, making vague and mysterious hand gestures.

“Oh, right. I always forget that everyone is a liar except for you, and that I have to corroborate everything I say. You’ll have to excuse me, I didn’t know specifics. You know what, Sara? Even if I had known that you were going to be kidnapped, which I didn’t, you still wouldn’t have believed me. So really it doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t say.”

Two guards in the foyer watched the exchange with bemusement. Sara’s eyes narrowed.

“Len, you’ve always been a loser. I spent six years living your loser life, and now here I am, involved in your loser bullshit yet again. Are you happy now?”

Len felt he was getting sucked into her crazy but caught himself. To Sara, everything was about control. He remembered how she’d use insults and personal attacks to constantly push him off base because it was easier to manipulate someone who doubts himself.

Len didn’t bite and tried to reply calmly. “Had you gotten out of town like I suggested, you and Octavia wouldn’t be here. But as usual, you were too damn arrogant to listen.”

Her gambit having failed, Sara’s face flushed with fury. Then she turned away abruptly, put her head in her hands, and started crying. Len almost felt bad for her for a second, then remembered that he wasn’t obligated to anymore. After years of living with her, Len had figured out that Sara manipulated the way other people breathed. Emotions were weapons to her, not gut-felt reactions. The only times he’d seen her turn on the waterworks were to gain an upper hand in a situation. Sara’s tears were always about power and never about emotional distress.

Life’s too short,
Len thought to himself before walking outside to catch lizards with Octavia.

___
_

Len slept surprisingly well that night, despite the fact that he’d gone to bed sober and was being held hostage in a house full of armed, psychopathic drug dealers. He was awoken right after dawn by a particularly loud helicopter landing outside. Looking out the window, Len saw an enormous Russian cargo beast setting down on the comparatively undersized helipad. The chopper’s rear ramp lowered, and two forklifts took turns driving up the ramp and into the helicopter. From the aircraft’s cargo hold, the forklifts retrieved crates stenciled with Russian characters like the ones Len had seen at Neith’s warehouse.

The helicopter’s crew door opened, and some of Salvatierra’s men wheeled a set of steps up to it. Len saw Jose Salvatierra walk up to the aircraft. From the helicopter emerged a familiar face in a business outfit. She came down the steps to shake hands with Salvatierra. Len thought maybe he was imagining things, but nope, it was definitely the woman he had met on the plane a day earlier. Salvatierra and Natalia walked around to the back to inspect what the forklifts had unloaded.

Just as Len was watching this, one of Salvatierra’s goons burst into Len’s room without knocking.

“You awake? Get dressed. It’s time to go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not we, you. You’re going to Japan.”

“Japan? Why?”

“Get dressed. We leave in thirty minutes.”

Len threw on his clothes, made sure he had the suitcase Neith had given him, then went into the room next door where Octavia was still sleeping. He had to resign himself to postponing her rescue; the tight security of Salvatierra’s compound made it impossible. He had no choice but to hope Sara would look after her while he was away. Without waking her, Len kissed Octavia’s forehead and covered her with the blanket, then told Salvatierra’s men he was ready. They loaded him into the boat, then the same smelly white van he’d arrived in, and headed back to the airport.

“I trust you have now verified your daughter’s safety,” said one of the thugs riding with him to the airport. Len didn’t answer him, so the man continued, “When you arrive in Japan, you will stay at this hotel.” He handed Len a piece of paper with a Japanese address written on it. “At the front desk will be further instructions from Mr. Hamasaki. If you are ever in doubt during your time in Japan, return to the hotel and await further instructions.”