‘These rebel soldiers … they think Parker has special risks insurance?’
‘It’s fairly well-known amongst kidnappers that the industry exists. Which makes it an even stranger industry, because if kidnappers know that they’ll have access to professional negotiators, then they’ll know that the process will be smooth and resolved easily…’
‘Which encourages more kidnappings,’ King said.
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘There’s pros and cons to it. I can’t spend all day debating it. Maybe when you get back…’
‘I should know as much as possible right now if it affects the operation.’
‘It’s not important right now,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow is important. If I decide to let you do this, you need to promise me you’ll catch up to them tomorrow. No matter what.’
‘We promise.’
‘I can stall the professional negotiations for a day or two, and they won’t freak out. But any longer than that, and it’s anyone’s guess…’
‘We won’t fail.’
‘You can’t.’
King paused for thought, and said, ‘One more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘What happens when these special risks insurers have to pay out too many ransoms? Surely if kidnappers know about it, they’d exploit it for everything it’s worth. If they know there’s firms out there who have to make the negotiations smoother, they’d milk the hell out of it. At least, I would if I was in their shoes and had that sort of moral compass.’
‘That’s the really murky part of the industry,’ Violetta said. ‘None of this is official, of course, but these firms often have middlemen that are actually in contact with the most prominent bands of kidnappers in certain regions. That way, they can come to agreements so everyone profits. If the kidnappers don’t go above certain quotas, they can still make consistent profit off the ransoms whilst staying under the firm’s targets. Then the insurance money trumps the ransom payouts, and everyone makes money. Except the clients, of course.’
‘That’s the least ethical thing I’ve heard in a long time.’
Violetta said, ‘Welcome to the modern world.’
He didn’t respond.
She said, ‘Is there anything else you need?’
‘No.’
‘Good — then I won’t overload you with more talk. You know what you need to do tomorrow. Get some rest.’
King hung up, fished around in his duffel bag, came out with the first-aid kit, and took a massive dose of ibuprofen — four tablets worth. Then he adjusted his foot, draped his sleeping bag over his legs just as Slater had done, and settled back against the wall.
Slater watched him the whole time. ‘Your ankle’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘It’ll be fine by the morning.’
‘King…’
‘The more I think about it, the worse it’ll get.’
‘There’s no use covering an obscene amount of distance tomorrow just to fall in a heap at the feet of the rebels.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘You’re too tough for your own good sometimes. So am I. Maybe we’re being too hotheaded about this. Maybe that video was actually a positive sign.’
‘And what the hell makes you say that?’
‘Because they asked to speak to a professional crisis responder. They know what they’re doing. They want to go through the due process. Maybe this can be resolved peacefully.’
‘No,’ King said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because if it’s resolved peacefully, they’ll get away with it.’
He rolled over and faced the opposite wall and closed his eyes.
Before he fell asleep, he said, ‘I’ve set an alarm for dinner. Bolt the door, and we can both rest. We need all we can manage for tomorrow.’
Then he drifted off.
41
As much as he tried, Slater couldn’t doze off.
Not anymore.
He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, staring at the locked door, imagining what sort of horrors might come through it. His imagination ran wild, probably intensified by exhaustive delirium. His muscles throbbed and ached and protested the suffering he’d put them through for the last two days, but he savoured every minute of it. Pain meant healing, and healing meant improvement.
So he rocked back and forth in something close to a trance until it got dark outside and the sounds of newcomers rustling around downstairs drifted up through the thin wood.
Dinner time.
He woke King with a pat on the shoulder.
The man rolled over, alert in an instant. ‘What is it?’
‘Time for food.’
‘Uh…’
Slater immediately knew something was awry. He didn’t often see hesitation on King’s face, but the man was struggling with something. He watched King sit up and peel the sleeping bag off his frame and peek through what little duct tape was left taped around his ankle.
The skin was black and blue.
‘Can’t walk?’ Slater said.
‘Not right now. It just needs rest, that’s all.’
‘One night’s rest is enough?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘It has to be.’
‘You want to pull out?’
‘That’s not an option.’
Slater nodded once. ‘I won’t argue. I’d be just as stubborn in your position. You want me to bring food up?’
‘That’d be great. And ice.’
‘You’re something else, you know that?’
‘I had to staple your forearm together today. Don’t kid yourself — we’re cut from the same cloth.’
With a shiver, Slater said, ‘Don’t talk about what we’re cut from.’
It reminded him of the blade slicing through his flesh, separating his skin folds.
The staples pounding up his forearm…
He went downstairs, already plagued by memories he’d much rather forget.
There was a considerable wait to order food. The dining hall was packed with groups of trekkers, separated into their individual packs, huddled around tables riddled with huge mugs of tea — either masala or ginger. Their scents blended together and filled Slater’s nostrils with a pleasant aroma. He opted to drop into a chair rather than stand around drawing attention to himself. As soon as he found an empty table, the nearest group noticed his arm.
‘My God,’ a plump man with a thick German accent said. ‘Are you okay?’
Slater held up the bloody, sweat-stained bandages and managed an innocent smile.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just scraped it on a branch.’
The man winced, and so did his friends. ‘Have you seen a doctor about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’d he say?’
‘Just to
