Оливер Блик - Protocol for a Kidnapping

“At the corner.”

“How many?”

“Five. Two women, three men.”

He rolled his eyes a little at that, but then gave me a magnificent shrug which made it perfectly clear that he considered them to be my foolish responsibility and one which would rest lightly on his shoulders for only a brief time.

“I got a Volks bus outside,” he said. “We may as well go.”

I followed him outside to a three- or four-year-old gray Volkswagen microbus that had chains on its rear wheels. I looked around again, but I could still see no one other than the two Gypsies in the train station. The Italian also took his time before climbing up into the driver’s seat.

“You sure you weren’t followed?” he said, starting the engine.

“Hell no, I’m not sure.”

“Cool it, friend, we’re almost home.” He paused a moment and then gruffly asked, “What do you think of my English?”

“It’s swell.”

“That’s what he says.”

“Who?”

“Killingsworth.”

“What’s he been doing?” I said.

“Chopping wood and when he’s not doing that, he talks. He says he’s going to write a story about us.”

“What do you tell him?”

“That we’re going to kill him. It keeps him quiet for a little while.”

“He still thinks it’s for real?”

“All the way,” the Italian said.

“What’s the schedule?”

“I’ll get you up to the castle. Then you’re on your own. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay.”

He pulled the Volkswagen up to the corner and I got out. The two women got in first, then Wisdom and Knight. Tavro seemed to hesitate. “What’s the matter?” I said.

“I must know your plan,” he said.

“Get in,” I said, “and I’ll try to think of one.”

We went south along the highway that climbs back into the mountains. About ten miles out of Sarajevo we turned east onto a narrow road which the snow plows had given only a lick and a promise. The Italian had to keep the Volks bus in first or second gear most of the time because it was a steep, twisting road with sharp, unannounced cutbacks and nearly right-angled corners. On the right I could see the side of a mountain, on the left I could see nothing — no guardrails, no billboards, only the edge of the road that I was sure dropped straight down for at least half a mile.

The Italian drove with all the fine, unconcerned flair of his race. I was glad that we were going up instead of down because the grade kept him below forty kilometers per hour most of the time. It took us almost an hour and a half to go what I estimated to be thirty kilometers. The Italian slowed the Volks down to a crawl and we crept through a village that was a cluster of stone houses and what looked to be a combination café and general store.

“From here we take the horses,” he said.

“Where’s here?” I asked.

“It’s called Trnovo,” he said, “and it’s not much.”

Just past the village we stopped at a small stone house that had a long low shed attached to it.

“Wait here,” he said and got out.

He knocked on the door of the house and I caught a glimpse of a tall dark man with a mustache that drooped solemnly down the sides of his heavy chin. Then the Italian was inside the house and the door closed.

“What is he doing?” Tavro said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Asking directions maybe.”

“He said something about horses,” Tavro said.

“That’s right.”

“When’s the last time you were on a horse, Phil?” Wisdom said.

I thought a moment “Nineteen forty-two, in Columbus, Ohio. It wasn’t really a horse though; it was a Shetland pony and it cost a nickel to ride around the ring. I was six or seven, I think.”

“I’ve never been on a horse,” Arrie said.

“Maybe you’ll like it,” I said.

Tavro was sputtering. “It is... it is ridiculous. It is playacting.”

“It’s the only transportation there is,” I said. “I don’t think we’ll have to go far.”

“The last time I was on a horse,” Knight said, “was when I rode into Dodge City ten years ago looking for some mean son of a bitch who’d killed my pard.”

“What were you gonna do if you found him, Rafe?” Wisdom said.

“As I recollect, I was gonna shoot him down like a yella dog.”

“The marshal stop you?”

“No, as a matter of fact, the mean son of a bitch got me first, but then the marshal got him.”

“Maybe I knew your pard,” Wisdom said. “How’d he call himself?”

“Went by the name of Carstairs,” Knight said. “Jimmy Carstairs.”

The Italian came out of the house and opened the door to the Volks. “Around in the back,” he said.

The snow was almost a foot deep on the path that led to the long low shed and it spilled over into my shoes. My feet were thoroughly wet by the time we entered the shed. I looked around and none of the others wore boots except for the Italian.

The shed was illuminated by a lone kerosene lamp which was held by the man with the mustache. He hung the lamp on a nail and then busied himself with five small horses that were stabled on the right side of the shed. On the left side was a new tan Porsche. The Italian came over to me and held something out.

“Here’re the keys to Killingsworth’s car,” he said as I took them. “I expect he wants it back.”

“What about that guy?” I said, nodding toward the man with the mustache.

“He won’t be here,” the Italian said. “He’s with us.

“Who owns this place?” I said.

The Italian looked at me sourly. “When you gonna ask me for my home address?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking of the cops.”

“Let me worry about them.”

“Okay,” I said. “I will. How far is it?”

“To the castle?”

“Yes.”

“Five kilometers. Straight up almost.”

“It sounds like a tough ride.”

He gave me another sour look. “At least you’ll ride,” he said. “I’ve got to walk.” He turned and looked at the man with the mustache who nodded and slapped one of the horses on the rump. “Okay,” the Italian said. “Get on the horses. Get on from the left side. If you need any help, let me know.”

Arrie needed help, so did Gordana. I probably did but I was too proud to admit it. The horses were small animals, ponies really, I think, with shaggy coats that smelled of pine trees and manure. The saddles were wooden affairs with splits down their centers. The Italian and the man with the mustache came down the line checking stirrups.

“You know how to ride?” the Italian asked me.

“No.”

He sighed and took my horse by the bridle and led it around the one that Wisdom sat. “Up here with the rest of the girls,” he said to me. “Hold the reins in your left hand. You can hold on to the saddle with your right. Don’t try to tell the horse what to do, just let him follow.”

I turned to look around. Knight was last, sitting his horse casually, as if he knew what he was doing. Wisdom was in front of him. He’d probably learned to ride at school, but I didn’t ask. Tavro was behind me and it was evident that he knew how to ride. Gordana was in front of me and Arrie was in front of her.

The Italian looked back at us. He shook his head wearily and then started to speak in that high strained voice that people use who’re not accustomed to speaking to groups of more than three.

“We’re gonna follow a path for about five kilometers. Try to stay together. If you fall off, try to fall off on the right side. Don’t try nothing fancy. Just stay on your horse. When they go up, lean forward. It’s gonna take about an hour.”

He turned and grasped the bridle of Arrie’s horse and we moved out of the shed. The man with the lantern closed the doors behind us. The horses picked their way through the snow which got steadily deeper. Nobody spoke and the only sounds were those of the horses when they snorted and the creaking of the wooden saddles and the leather stirrups.