Strangers: A Novel(99)

He’s getting more and more nervous with every word, and it’s contagious. The tension in the car is palpable anyway, and if one of these three men loses their head …

My hands are starting to feel numb; I flex them into fists and then stretch out my fingers to keep the blood flowing.

“I understand,” says Bartsch into the phone. “Yes, I think that’s doable. Of course. We’ll be there shortly.”

He puts down the cell phone and turns around to me. “What’s the name of the woman who was in your house? The one who went to your hotel just now?”

I was right. We had been na?ve enough to believe that Gabor had withdrawn his people. And that the police had thoroughly checked the area. “Why?” I ask.

“That’s irrelevant. Just tell me her name.”

My thoughts are tumbling through my mind. Should I not say anything? Should I lie? I couldn’t betray Ela, no question of that; there was no way I could warn her about Gabor, and nor could Erik.

The thought of him burns like fire. He has no idea what’s happening; he is sitting there in the hotel waiting. Looking forward to my return.

A hand clasps my hair, tearing my head backward. Lambert. “He asked you something!”

“Stop it.” Bartsch’s warning sounds dangerously soft. “That’s not necessary yet.”

Lambert lets me go, grinning; he heard the yet just as clearly as I did.

Bartsch doesn’t ask a second time. He turns back to face forward again, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

I haven’t paid any attention to our surroundings for a while, and only now do I see that the landscape has changed. We are no longer in the city, but probably quite a way outside it by now. Industrial buildings line up against warehouses, and most of the vehicles approaching us are trucks.

“Patience,” says Bartsch, and I don’t know whether he’s addressing Lambert or me.

They park the car by one of the warehouses. It’s huge, and a little way back from the road, on a plot of land which is surrounded by high walls. Far away from anything. There could be no hope of running away from here.

At the other end of the compound, I see a truck driving out of one of the warehouses. But it’s so far away that I can’t hear the engine, not even when the driver opens the car door.

Is there any point in yelling? As loudly as I can?

Lambert seems to guess what’s going on in my mind. “You try anything, make one attempt to escape, and I’ll break your bones.”

So I don’t try. The chance that someone could hear me is tiny, and it’s obvious that Lambert would make good on his threat without giving it a second thought. He enjoys his sense of power. And I’m sure he’d like to feel a little more of it.

We walk up over a ramp and into the building. Lambert is shoving me roughly ahead of him. No one stops him, not even Bartsch, who goes past us and enters the building first.

Shelves that stretch up high, almost to the ceiling. Huge boxes, some of them wrapped in plastic. It would be very easy indeed to make someone like me disappear in one of these.

In an open space in the middle of the building there are three forklifts, and Bartsch goes to lean against one of them, striking a pointedly relaxed pose. “So. We still have a little time. And I’d like to use it to repeat my question from before: who was the woman who went to see you in the hotel?”

I barely have a chance to take a breath before Lambert pushes me so hard in the back that I fall to the floor. My hands are still tied, so I can’t break my fall, only turn to the side to protect my face. My right shoulder crashes against the floor with such force that tears shoot into my eyes. Lambert laughs and kicks me, not too hard, more symbolically. “Aww. Now the little girl’s crying.”

“That’s enough.” Bartsch strides over, pushes Lambert to the side, and squats down next to me. He looks down at me.

There’s some image in my head, something that I would be able to see if it would only just come a little closer to the surface. I shut my eyes, and at that moment Bartsch puts his hand under my chin and turns my face toward him.

“Tell me, Joanna. Her name.”

His smell. This aftershave, which had already bothered me in our living room, now almost makes me retch.

Another kick, this time against my thigh, stronger now.

“I said stop,” Bartsch snaps at Lambert. At the same moment, I hear steps approaching.

“What’s going on here?”

A familiar voice, albeit only from the telephone. Gabor is here, and he’s not alone. Two men flank him, and there are more in the back; one of them is sitting on one of the crates. “Just how incompetent are you people?” he says quietly.

Gabor casts a look full of irritation back over his shoulder, then turns to Bartsch. “Why is Frau Berrigan lying on the floor, and who did this to her?” He looks around. “Gentlemen, you can’t be serious.”

With exaggerated care, he helps me up, even brushes the dirt off my right sleeve. “I’d like to apologize for my colleagues. If there’s something I can’t stand, it’s bad behavior.” He looks around to Bartsch. “And? I’m assuming you now know who the woman was that you let get away?”

“We were just in the process of finding out.”

Ela, my God. We put her life at risk, even though we should’ve known better. What would I do if she didn’t get away? How would I feel?