Lynne Heitman - The Pandora Key aka The Hostage Room

“Leaving? What? Who was that?” To his credit, he didn’t just ask questions. He started moving around in a low crabwalk and grabbing his stuff while he asked questions. “What’s going on?”

I was busy with another phone call. “They’re here,” I said when Frank picked up. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“I lived through a hijacking. This is nothing.”

“Good.” I moved on my belly to the wall Kraft’s room shared with the next. I stood up long enough to grab the end of the dresser and swing it away from the wall and toward the door, the direction that would provide the most cover, at least as much as we would get in that flimsy room. I found a good spot low on the wall and knocked on it quietly. “Right here,” I said into the phone.

“Stand back,” he said, and hung up.

The second I clapped my phone shut, the banging erupted, and it was loud. Kraft stared at the wall. He was still staring when the sight of the ax blade coming through the wallpaper knocked him backward into a graceless sprawl. “Holy mother of God. They’re coming through the fucking walls?”

“He’s with me,” I said. “I lied about coming alone. Give me your jacket.”

“What?”

Kraft had on a lightweight olive-green jacket, the top half of the running suit he was wearing. “Give it to me, now.”

He unzipped it and pulled it off. I put it on, then reached into my backpack for my Red Sox cap. By the time I had it on, Frank had broken through, making a passable hole at the base of the wall. When the banging stopped, his face appeared through the drywall dust, then his hand. I put my backpack in it, and he pulled it through by the straps. Kraft still hadn’t moved. I grabbed his big canvas bag and shoved it through, but when I reached for his laptop case, he wouldn’t let it go.

“Give it to me, Kraft.”

“No.”

It wasn’t a big hole. I was pretty sure I could squeeze through, but Kraft was stouter than I was, and it would be a tight fit for him, even without a laptop clutched to his chest. “Then hand it through to Frank.”

“Who’s Frank?”

“A concerned citizen who wanted to help.” Had insisted on helping, in fact. He had overheard me asking Tim about Kraft and then followed me out to the curb. He had wanted to meet Kraft and set the record straight on Salanna 809 and Hoffmeyer. He was about to get his chance. On the way over, he’d told me he was a volunteer firefighter back in Norfolk, and we had formed a plan in case there was trouble.

“Come on,” Frank said. “What the hell’s going on in there? Get your ass moving, Kraft.”

Kraft looked at me, and he looked at the front door. Then he crawled to the opening.

“Give me your gun,” I said. He handed it over, then, still holding his computer, dove through headfirst. Frank must have grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled, because Kraft’s top half disappeared into the wall. Then he got jammed.

“Dammit, Kraft, are you willing to die for what’s on that laptop?”

“Yes, frankly, I am.”

“I’m not.” I reached up and grabbed the case with both hands. I had the better angle and could brace my foot against the wall. He was breathing hard, so I waited for him to inhale and gave it a big yank. When it came loose, I fell flat on my back with the case in my arms. But I knew Kraft had slipped through. I could hear him yowling.

Sounds coming from just outside the front door told me they were setting up to come in. I checked my watch. Ninety seconds. That’s when I noticed the sirens, the wailing kind that you hear in Europe when the police are on the way. Frank might have called them, or someone might have summoned them when they heard the shots. Either way, it was probably a good development for us.

I spun around, shoved the laptop through the hole, and followed it. From inside the neighboring room, I reached back through the opening, grabbed the leg of the dresser, and pulled. It was not a lightweight piece of furniture-I had to struggle to move it-but I knew it would cover the hole. It wouldn’t fool a professional army for long, but it might give us the edge we needed.

I stood up and wiped the drywall dust from my eyes. I looked for Frank and Kraft, but they were already through a door that led to still another room. I hadn’t even known the room adjoining Kraft’s was a connector. Frank had worked it all out on his own. I followed them through, Frank closed that door behind me and locked it. That put us another room removed from our pursuers.

The sirens were getting loud. If we didn’t want to get picked up, we had to move fast. I started toward the front window to check the scene, but Frank grabbed my arm.

“Back here.” He led me to the bathroom. I joined him there in time to see Kraft disappear through a window above the toilet seat.

“This one has a window?”

He smiled. “Deluxe suite.”

“Cool.”

Frank climbed up onto the toilet seat and dove out after Kraft. I was right behind him. I pushed my backpack through and jumped out after it. When I hit the pavement six feet below, Frank was across the alley, banging on an old and rusty slab of a back door to what looked and smelled like a restaurant.

The sirens were upon us now. I expected police cars to come barreling up each end of the alley any second. It was hard to talk and hard to hear and harder to think. Frank and I decided to split up. We shook hands quickly as Kraft looked on, stunned, confused, and angry. Frank would take Kraft. I would be the decoy.

Shouting came from inside the hotel and then what sounded like gunfire. Kraft took off, but Frank tracked him down, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him back to the iron door. Frank stared at it as if it might open magically for him. He was about to bang on it again when it did. The big door swung out wide enough to let the two of them slip inside. Before it closed, a man with a chef’s hat stuck his head out and looked up and down the alley. Frank had turned out to be a very resourceful guy to have on my side.

I heard a police car coming from one end of the alley, so I took off in the other direction. I covered the half-block easily to the street, made a left turn away from the hotel, and ran almost directly into a woman standing on the sidewalk. Something about her was familiar. She had on a light raincoat. She was the woman Frank had spotted at the reunion. Without thinking about it, I turned and headed the other way, directly into the path of a van that veered up on the sidewalk in front of me.

It screeched to a stop. The side door cracked open, and at least four men came rushing out like a black tide. There was a lot of yelling in French and heavy boots on the ground and the sound of gear moving. Also the sound of weaponry-metal against metal. When the assault rifles came out, I dropped my backpack and threw my hands in the air. Someone came up from behind and grabbed my arms. Someone else grabbed my feet, and then I was flat on my belly on the wet ground with my hands behind me, wrists cuffed, and a boot on my neck.

From my vantage point, I could see the end of the street. There was a lot going on and a lot of people racing around. I looked for the woman in the light raincoat. She was gone.

A POLICE LIEUTENANT IN BOSTON, WHO HATED ME ANYWAY, once threw me in a holding cell, basically because I ticked him off. My first time behind bars had been a pretty frightening experience, mainly because I wasn’t in there alone. The second was in California, where the highway patrol picked me up on a warrant for check kiting, a charge that turned out to be totally false and a complete misunderstanding. The West Coast lockup was nicer, as were the officers. In neither case was I locked up for more than twenty-four hours, but it made being in jail not an entirely new experience for me. What was new was being tossed into a French jail.