21 Salzburg
Salzburg
Outside, Gabriel walked through the deserted streets of Salzburg to the Hotel Scherer, a modest establishment that catered
to discount travelers. The kidnappers had left a Volkswagen sedan on the opposite side of the street. He ran a hand beneath
the rear bumper and found the key. It was taped there in the same manner with which they had adhered the flash drive to the
bottom of the table in Brussels. He tugged it loose, then switched on the flashlight function of his phone and searched the
undercarriage of the car for a bomb.
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he unlocked the doors and dropped behind the wheel. The burner phone rang the instant
he started the engine.
“How well do you know your way around Austria?” asked the voice.
“Better than you, I imagine.”
“Head south on the A10. You’ll hear from us again soon. But only if we determine that you are alone.”
“You know I am.”
“For Alice’s sake,” said the voice, “I hope that’s true.”
The A10, better known as the Tauren Autobahn, stretched southward from Salzburg to the Italian border.
Near the ancient salt mining town of Hallein, Gabriel became aware of a pair of headlamps suspended a half kilometer or so in his wake.
The burner phone rang as he was approaching Tenneck, a small village wedged between two soaring Alpine peaks.
The automated voice instructed him to take the next exit.
It deposited him onto a two-lane road that ran along the western bank of the Salzach River. The burner phone rang again as
he drove through a sleeping market town. The voice informed him that he was approaching a traffic circle.
“Take the first exit, then head west toward Mühlbach.”
“We’re taking the scenic route, are we?”
The road wound its way along the base of the Hochkonig, the highest peak in the Berchtesgaden Alps. There was no oncoming
traffic at that hour, and no sign of the car that had followed him from Salzburg. He reckoned he was getting close to his
destination, though, because the kidnappers remained on the line even after their three minutes had elapsed.
“You are approaching a turnout,” the voice said at last. “Pull over and switch off the engine.”
Gabriel spotted the turnout a moment later. He slowed to a stop, doused the headlamps, killed the engine.
“Well done, Mr. Allon. Now leave the key and your phones on the passenger seat and get into the trunk.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Gabriel placed the key on the seat next to him, along with the burner phone and his iPhone.
Then he pressed the internal trunk release and went to the back of the car.
The compartment was not particularly roomy, requiring him to contort his modest frame into something resembling a fetal position.
As he lay in pitch darkness he chided himself for not having switched on the hazard lights.
He only hoped the kidnappers arrived before some fool rear-ended him.
A less dignified end he could scarcely imagine.
At length he heard a car coming up the road from the floor of the valley. It pulled up behind the Jetta and a single occupant
emerged. The leaden footfalls on the tarmac indicated he was a large chap, as did the way the Jetta sagged to the left when
he settled behind the wheel. Then the engine started and the car shot forward as though it had been fired from a gun. No hurry
at all, thought Gabriel as he braced himself against the interior of the trunk. Take all the time you need.
The secret to surviving confinement in a claustrophobic space, Gabriel reminded himself, was to place one’s thoughts elsewhere.
Some detainees sought refuge in their past but Gabriel’s was filled with nights of blood and fire, so he took up an imaginary
pad and pencil instead and mentally sketched a detailed map of western Austria—the mountain peaks and river valleys, the towns
and villages, the network of well-maintained autobahns and roads connecting them all. Somewhere there was a villa, by no means
large or ostentatious, but isolated. It was the sort of place where a group of outsiders would not attract attention. In all
likelihood their hostage was locked in a room in the cellar, blindfolded and bound, frightened out of her mind.
But how had they managed to clandestinely transport her to Austria from the island of Ibiza?
That had been the easy part. They had placed her aboard a motor yacht anchored off the island’s coast and then spirited her to the mainland, probably at a spot along the French coast. Gabriel knew of several suitable locations, places he had used himself.
She had likely passed the long drive to Austria zipped into a nylon duffel and dosed with ketamine to keep her quiet.
Gabriel had done that sort of thing too, more often than he cared to remember.
He had always known that one day his past might catch up with him.
Perhaps, he thought, tonight was the night.
In the absolute darkness of the trunk his wristwatch, with its nonluminous hands and face, was of no use. It was no matter;
his internal clock, as accurate as any Swiss timepiece, told him it was 3:25 a.m. when the car made an abrupt left turn onto a gravel track. The upward tilt of the vehicle was eight or nine degrees. The
man at the wheel made no attempt to give Gabriel a smooth ride.
Another two minutes passed before the car finally drew to a stop and the engine died. A second vehicle drew up behind them,
and a moment later the trunk lid swung slowly upward, revealing the presence of two men wearing balaclava masks. One of the
men pulled a hood over Gabriel’s head. Then, together, they hoisted him from the trunk and propped him upright on his feet.
His right leg buckled instantly; it was numb from lack of circulation. The two men took hold of his arms and marched him along
the paving stones of a walkway as if leading him to the place of his execution. The air, he noted, was colder here. They must
have gained several hundred meters in altitude during the drive.
He managed to scale a flight of four stone steps. Then they passed through an open doorway, into the sudden warmth of the
kidnappers’ lair. The wooden floor beneath Gabriel’s feet was rough-hewn. The air smelled of cigarettes and, curiously, freshly
baked bread.
They nudged him to the left, and blindly he placed one foot in front of the other. After twelve paces exactly, the hands gripping his arms jerked him to a stop. Then a chair scraped across the floorboards and pressed against the back of his knees. The hands lowered him into it with unexpected care.
A long silence ensued. Gabriel attempted to execute a mental sketch of his surroundings, but the tableau eluded him. He was
certain only that there was another person present, perhaps two.
At last he heard the clicking of a keyboard, followed by the toneless automated voice.
“Pleasant trip, Mr. Allon?”
“No,” he answered truthfully.
More typing, then, “If you had sent the money, you would be home with your family by now.”
“Let’s leave my family out of this, shall we? The sooner you let me see Alice, the sooner we can all be on our way.”
A hand pulled the hood from Gabriel’s head, and the tableau around him came into view. He was seated at a rectangular table
in a rustic kitchen, flanked by his two handlers, one of whom, as he had surmised, was built like a rugby player. Two other
men sat opposite, both wearing balaclavas, dark woolen pullovers, and gloves. The one behind the laptop had the watchful brown
eyes of a predatory animal. He laid his gloved fingers on the keyboard and typed. The automated voice read aloud the words
he had composed.
“Call Peter Hoffmann in Zurich and instruct him to wire the money.”
“How do you know that I was dealing with Peter Hoffmann?”
The hands typed, then, “How do you think we know?”
Alice . . .
“Bring her up here so I can have a look at her,” said Gabriel.
“She’s sleeping and wishes not to be disturbed,” the voice said after a few seconds of typing.
“I’m sure she won’t mind if you wake her.”
The man shook his head.
“We had a deal,” said Gabriel calmly. “No Alice, no money.”
He typed his response. “The terms of the deal have changed, Mr. Allon.”
The one built like a rugby player handed Gabriel his iPhone while his colleague on the opposite side of the table typed.
“Call Herr Hoffmann in Zurich,” said the automated voice. “Tell him to wire the money.”
“Not a chance.”
The man replied by drawing a SIG Sauer pistol from the small of his back and leveling it at Gabriel’s head.
“Nice gun,” he said with a disarming smile. “But why don’t you put it away before someone gets hurt.”
“Call him,” the man said aloud.
Gabriel treated him to another smile. “It’s nice to finally hear your real voice. You can be sure I’ll never forget it.”
What happened next unfolded with the suddenness of an automobile accident. One minute Gabriel was upright in the chair, the
next he was sprawled on the floorboards, with three of the kidnappers assaulting him like a pack of wolves. When they had
finished pummeling him into submission, they bound his hands, knees, and ankles with silver duct tape. The last swath they
placed over his mouth, leaving him incapable of complaint. Then, somehow, they managed to return him to his original seated
position. The one behind the laptop eyed Gabriel through the slits of his balaclava mask, then went to work at the keyboard.
The message was longer than his previous communiqués. When it was complete he took up a mobile phone and tapped the screen
once. The call was answered instantly. The voice sounded desperate. It belonged to Edward Knight.
“Allon? Is that you? Have you got her?”
The man with the vigilant brown eyes placed the phone next to the laptop and played the message he had just composed. It was delivered by the same toneless yet unfailingly polite female voice.
“Good evening, Mr. Knight. You have exactly one hour to transfer five hundred million dollars to CyproBank of Nicosia. If
the money does not arrive, we will have no choice but to kill your wife and your friend Mr. Allon. The time for games is over.
This is your last warning.”
The message concluded with the account and routing numbers. Gabriel attempted to warn Knight not to send the money, but with
the metallic duct tape covering his mouth he could manage nothing more than a muffled lament. Knight, frantic, begged the
kidnappers to repeat the two lengthy numbers, and the automated female voice obliged him. There was no need for her to issue
another threat. Knight had already capitulated.
“You’ll have the money within the hour. And whatever you do, please don’t harm my wife.”
The man behind the mask terminated the call, then regarded Gabriel across the tabletop. His brown eyes shone with mirth. He
typed a final message, and the automated female voice read it aloud.
“Did you happen to notice that Edward Knight didn’t ask us not to kill you?”
Gabriel, incapable of a response, stared at the masked figure until the hood was returned to his head and all was dark. Then
two pairs of hands hauled him to his feet and carried him outside to the trunk of the Volkswagen. Before closing the lid they
gave him a shot of ketamine and down he went, into the frigid black waters of an Alpine lake. His past, he thought, had indeed
caught up with him. Sixty minutes was all the time he had left. Sixty minutes, then he would be dead.