“Okay, it’s 646–555…”
59
Jeff called the number Cordelli had texted him.
No one spoke at the other end but the display window showed that his call had connected.
Jeff activated his cell phone’s speaker and set the phone on the floor on his side of the wall. Then with the utmost care to be quiet he slid the phone under the gap. It picked up the sound just as the man on the other side resumed making his statement.
“‘Greetings from God’s slave to the United Nations. You did not start this tragic war but if you are people with courage, determination and humanity, you will acknowledge our action today as the final call…’”
Jeff’s heart hammered against his chest with such force he feared the men would surely hear it. He worked on controlling his breathing while praying that Sarah and Cole were near.
Jeff drew back when the statement suddenly ended with a burst of activity.
“Let’s go! This is it! You know your jobs!”
From that point on, orders were shouted in a foreign language over the movements of people rushing, equipment cases being loaded and snapped shut, zippers being closed, computers shutting down, tables and chairs shoved.
Jeff grabbed his phone, then lay flat on the floor, pressing his face to the gap to see what was happening. His view was restricted to the boots of men hurrying, moving out.
Then he saw small white sneakers contrasted against the large military boots.
She was wearing them when they’d left the hotel to visit Times Square.
Jeff then saw a set of smaller khaki canvas sneakers.
His wife and son were right there, so close. Jeff’s stomach twisted. He wanted to bust through the wall but was helpless. There were too many opponents. He’d be overpowered, captured, killed. He drew his fingers into fists; his agony turned to rage.
Vehicle doors opened and closed, engines started, revved, and within seconds they were gone.
60
Underwater.
Aleena Visser was below the surface.
She could not open her eyes. The roar of the pressure throbbing in her brain and her ears was deafening.
Remembering and not remembering.
A story in New York.
Joost insisted.
The newspaper headline on the plane: Murder-Kidnap Case Stirs Terror Fears at UN Meeting in New York.
She delivered the music box.
What’s in the music box?
Aleena was swimming, swimming hard underwater. The forces chasing her were faster.
Swimming up with powerful save-your-life strokes, kicking up.
Breaking the surface to see, she gasped at the horror enveloping her.
Blood!
Aleena was swimming in blood and the screams pierced her ears.
Thrashing, she felt the tubes on her face, the IV fastened to her arm, and she smelled the antiseptic tape, the disinfectant in the air, the starch of laundered sheets, her hospital bed.
Nurses flew into the room to hold her, comfort her-one called for the on-duty resident, another soothed her.
“The number, call the number…718-555-768-”
“Easy, sweetheart, you’ve been in an accident. Easy.”
“She’s still in shock, delirious. Incoherent,” one of the nurses said.
But through her tears Aleena knew.
“Call the police! I need to tell them the number! Oh, please call the police! I need to tell them the emergency number….”
“Shh-shh, the police know about your accident, dear.”
“Everyone’s going to die if you don’t call the fucking police now!”
61
Jeff held his breath and waited.
Long after the vehicles had left, he remained fused to the wall, cursing himself for not knowing how many vehicles there were, or the makes, or the destination.
The questions tormented him as the building fell silent.
He swallowed, uncertain exactly how much time had passed, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to investigate for anything to lead him to his family. Jeff stood and hurried quietly along the wall until he came to its end and peered around it to the vast factory floor divided by decayed half walls, heaps of rotting lumber, wiring, piping and drums of trash.
