He stood quite still for a moment and listened.
Nothing.
He carried on toward the outbuilding and warily opened the door.
The crowbar was right in front of him on the workbench, underneath a hammer and a monkey wrench. He lifted the hammer and shoved the monkey wrench aside, only to jump in fright as it tipped over the edge and fell to the floor with a clatter.
He froze, listening.
Then he picked up the crowbar and crept away.
The faces he saw on his return looked relieved. As though every movement he and Assad had made since opening the door of the boathouse had been a miracle in itself. No wonder.
They carefully broke the chains away from the wall.
The boy immediately crawled into the middle. The girl stayed put, groaning.
“What’s the matter with her?” Carl asked. “Maybe she needs some water?”
“Water, yes. She’s in a bad way. We’ve been here a long time.”
“You take the girl, Assad,” Carl whispered. “Keep tight hold of the chains so they don’t make a noise. I’ll help Samuel.”
He felt the boy stiffen and turn his head toward him, staring as though Carl all of a sudden had lifted the lid on a demon inside his soul.
“You know my name,” he said warily.
“I’m a policeman. I know a lot about you and your family, Samuel.”
The boy withdrew slightly. “How come? Have you spoken to our parents?”
Carl took a deep breath. “No. No, I haven’t.”
Samuel drew back his arms and clenched his fists. “There’s something wrong,” he said. “You’re not a policeman at all.”
“Yes, I am, Samuel. Would you like to see my badge?”
“How did you know where we were? How could you possibly know?”
“We’ve been trying to find your kidnapper for quite some time now, Samuel. Come on, we need to hurry,” Carl insisted, as Assad drew the girl through the door opening.
“If you’re with the police, then why do we need to hurry?” A look of horror appeared on his face. Clearly, he was beside himself. Was he in shock?
“We had to break your chains loose from the wall, Samuel. Isn’t that proof enough? We haven’t got a key.”
“Is it to do with our parents? Haven’t they paid up? Has something happened to them?” He began to shake his head frantically. “Where are our parents?” he demanded, raising his voice.
“Shhh,” said Carl, urgently now.
There was a thud outside. Assad stumbling on the slippery path? “You OK, Assad?” Carl whispered. No reply. He turned to Samuel again. “Come on, Samuel. We have to get out of here.”
The boy stared at him distrustfully. “You weren’t talking to anyone on the phone just before, were you? You’re taking us outside to kill us, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
Carl shook his head. “Listen, Samuel. I’m going to go outside now. Once I’m out, you can look through the door and see that everything’s all right.” And then he crawled out backward into the fresh night air.
There was a sudden sound. A sharp, heavy blow against his neck.
Everything went black.
51
Maybe it was a noise outside or pain from his wounds. Whatever it was, he woke up with a start and glanced around the room in bewilderment.
Then he remembered what had happened and looked at the time. Almost an hour and a half had passed since he’d lain down.
Drowsy, he pulled himself upright on the sofa and turned onto his side to see if he had been bleeding.
He nodded to himself, satisfied with his work. The wounds seemed to be dry and healing. Not bad for a first attempt.
He got up and stretched his limbs. There were cartons of juice and canned food in the kitchen. A glass of pomegranate juice and a piece of crispbread with tuna would give him sustenance after losing all that blood. A quick bite, and after that he would go down to the boathouse.
He switched on the light in the kitchen and peered outside into the darkness for a moment before drawing down the blind. No need to advertise his presence if anyone should be out there. Safety first.
Then suddenly he paused and frowned. What was that? A noise of some kind. He stood motionless for a moment. All quiet now.
A startled pheasant, perhaps? But what would startle a pheasant in the dark?
He pulled back the blind and stared intently in the direction he thought the sound had come from, standing stock-still.
And then he saw it. A shape in the dark. A figure moving.
Whoever it was, was at the outbuilding, and then gone.
He darted back from the window.
Now his heart was beating faster than he cared for.
He pulled open the drawer in front of him and picked out a fileting knife. With the right positioning, the intruder would never survive the thrust of such a long, thin blade.
Then he put on his trousers and crept outside into the night in his bare feet.
He heard the sounds from the boathouse clearly now. As though someone was pulling the place apart inside. Grating against the timber.
He stood for a second and listened. Now he knew what it was. They were at the chains. Someone was jimmying the bolts that fixed the chains to the wall.
But who?
If it was the police, then he would be up against weapons better than his own. But he knew the terrain. He knew how to turn the darkness to his advantage.
He slipped past the outbuilding and saw right away that more light was escaping from the door than was supposed to.
The door was ajar now, but he knew he had closed it behind him after he had been down to check the temperature in the tank. He was certain.
Maybe they were more than one. Maybe someone was in there now.
He drew back against the wall and considered what to do. He knew this place like the back of his hand. If anyone was inside, he could knife them before they realized what was going on. One lunge at the soft spot beneath the breastbone. He could take out more than a couple like that in only seconds, and he would not hesitate to do so. It was either them or him.
He entered swiftly with the knife extended in front of him and scanned the empty room.
Someone had been there. The stool was in the wrong place, and his tools had been messed with. The monkey wrench was on the floor. That was the noise he had heard.
He picked up the hammer from the workbench. It felt better in his hands than the knife. More familiar.
He moved stealthily down the path toward the water, the slugs slimy between his toes. Bastard things. He would exterminate them as soon as he got the time.
He leaned forward, craning his neck to see, and made out a faint light in the crack of the boathouse door. He heard hushed voices from inside. He listened hard, but he was unable to make out who they belonged to or what they were saying. But what difference did it make?
Whoever was inside had only one way out. All he had to do was steal forward and bolt the door, and they would be locked in, with no way to escape before he fetched the jerrican from the car and set the place alight.
The blaze would be seen from a long way off, but what option did he have?
He would set fire to the boathouse, gather together his documents and money, and head for the border as quickly as possible. It was the only way. A man who couldn’t adjust his plans deserved to perish.
He tucked the fileting knife into his belt and moved cautiously toward the door. But at that very moment, it opened and a pair of legs came into view.
He darted aside. Now he would have to deal with the problem more directly.
He watched the figure as its feet made contact with the ground, the rest of the body still stretched into the boathouse.
“Where are our parents?” he heard the boy say loudly all of a sudden, his question answered immediately by urgent hushing.