Chapter 8
The travel agent hadn't marked Den Haag on Charles' itinerary, but he was getting his first glimpse of that city now as he rode in the Volkswagen police car with John Jorgerson along the narrow strips of road that paralleled the railroad tracks through the manicured landscape of Holland. Who were these people who'd snatched Janice and held her now, he kept wondering. How did they behave, cooped up in that hot train car? The police officer stepped on the gas, his eyes gazing toward the frail man sitting beside him. It didn't take much to read his mind. "Just because they're dope smugglers doesn't mean they're rapists, Mr. Tarrington." He shook his heavy head. "But you can never tell what people will do under stress."
"What does that mean?" Charles began to question him, but the Chief of Police paid little heed; he'd heard those questions a hundred times in route from Amsterdam, and, if the truth be known, he was getting a bit tired of making up answers. To change the subject, he pointed to a train depot, not far in the distance, small by European standards, situated on the outskirts of tidy Den Haag, and there, sitting alone, gleaming like a newly polished gun barrel in the sun was the sleeping car where Janice had spent hellish days and nights with a group of kidnappers.
Charles choked, gaped, and reached up, grabbing his knotted tie and loosened it. Then he cracked the window a bit. For days he'd conjured up images in his mind of where his fiancee was held captive, and now that he was there at the scene, it took on no more reality than it had in his wildest imagination. He felt as if he were watching a television program, or a movie.
Jorgerson slowed the car and pulled up alongside the lineup of polished blue police cars surrounding the train car and, with one foot out the door, started giving orders, calling officers to him, sending them off in all directions. From time to time he spoke into a small transmitter, informing police headquarters of developments, requesting reinforcements, ordering officers posted at strategic points. Then he turned and put his arm on Charles' shoulder.
"I've been given orders by headquarters to settle this nonsense as soon as possible. All trains are being held up, rerouted through Utrecht. You have any idea, sir, what that's doing to our revenue? Seems the Minister of Justice isn't sympathetic." He took one look at Charles' withering expression and said, "I'm sorry, Charles. But I'm only following orders."
Inside the stuffy train car, Theo, Gunnar, Lisa, and Hank lay crouched below the low windows that lined the side of the car facing their enemy, fingers clutching sweatily at the safeties of their guns while they listened anxiously to the loudspeaker behind which a voice blasted. There would be no amnesty. This was it.. . the end . . . fini.
With a loud curse, Theo dropped his gun and buried his face in his dirty hands. The world seemed to whirl around him, and he shook his head as he tried to work things out in his mind. Calmer now, he considered the situation facing him. He had vowed once to die rather than spend the rest of his life behind bars, and now it looked like he might do just that. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I don't want to die yet," he mumbled, not caring who heard him.
He tried to think of a way out. He could turn Janice over to the police and try to save his skin that way. But Lisa, Hank, and Gunnar would never stand for that . . . not to mention what Ti Wong would do, knowing Theo had defected. That was certain death at the hands of a madman. Thoughts of Christine fleeted through his mind, and he froze, paralyzed with fear. There had to be better ways to end life than bleeding to death, nailed to a door in some Amsterdam alleyway.
Their supplies were running low. They'd drunk all the water from the faucets, and nobody had thought to stop Janice from flushing the toilet so that now, except for a bottle of whiskey, liquids had run dry. Hank knew that, too, Hank who sat on his haunches next to Gunnar, his eyes peeking occasionally out of the window at the infestation of cops milling around the lineup of police cars.
Today it would end, and they all knew it.
Tension between Lisa and Hank was tight as a bowstring, almost tangible, adding to the pervading tension in the train that seemed to crawl over their flesh, making them quake, jump, snap at any misunderstood word or gesture. All they had was each other now. "How is that American bitch?" he asked of Lisa. "We've got to keep her from getting hysterical or they're likely to bomb this goddamned train car. We've really got to keep her cool and happy."
Lisa reached into the deepness of her skirt pocket and drew out a matchbox. "Dope," she said, offering it for Hank's approval. "We could slip her a little H in it, but I'm afraid that if they give her a blood test . . . or an autopsy . . . " she gulped, fear edging her voice, too, ". . . it's not gonna look good for us."
"Yeah, roll her a couple of reefers and keep her smoking. I'll keep the cops covered." He squinted into the sun, two beady eyes peering over the window ledge. "They're getting antsy out there . . . trigger happy sonsabitches."
Uniformed policemen lay on the ground, some digging holes in the soft earth like World War I trench war face reenacted.
Charles was growing impatient. Hands thrust in his trench coat pockets, fingers playing with a tiny ball of lint, he paced the distance from the police cars to the train depot and back again, ignoring the calls from the officers to keep low. I dare the bastards to take a pot shot at me! he thought, grinding his teeth angrily, his head pounding with fear.
He caught Jorgerson waddling back from the men's room in the train depot, and he cornered him, demanding an answer. "Why don't you just storm that train and rescue Janice?"
Once again, Jorgerson placed a restraining hand on Charles' shoulder. "Suppose we start shooting. What happens if we hit Janice?"
A low, sarcastic snicker whistled from Charles' nostrils and he threw up his hands. "So what are you going to do?"
"Wait for them to shoot firsi," answered Jorgerson in a deceptively calm voice.
Charles Tarrington sat down on a rock alongside of the road, his legs spread, hands folded limply, hanging between his knees and staring up into the blue sky at a flock of geese winging high overhead. He bit his lip. God, but he envied them their animal stupidity! His eyes fell back on the metal box that was Janice's prison.
If only this could have happened in the States . . . Christ, he'd have the whole goddamned army and every FBI agent on the Eastern seaboard out there . . . not to mention the Chief Justice of the United States, an old college pal of his father's. What an outrage; he thought, taking off his glasses and folding then, tucked them in the breast pocket of his vest.
Then a cold blast of what felt like Artie air chilled him as fleetingly he thought of his mother hearing of this insipid kidnap from the lips of Walter Cronkite. Charles froze to the rock. God, she'd have a heart attack. Reluctantly, she'd allowed her son to accompany his fiancee from Boston to Paris, where Janice was to stay while Charles traveled on to pay his respect to Aunt Sybil, the couple meeting at Orly Airport to wing back to the States together.
Scandal would rock the newspapers' social sections, not to mention what his Harvard Law professors would think of their dandy boy whose conduct up to now had been as clean as a baby's buttocks at birth. He could see the headlines now: "Boston Debutante Kidnapped While Traveling With Heir to Tarrington Estate."
Charles closed his swollen eyes, lowering his head, and rubbed the reddened lids between his thumbs and middle fingers, feeling victim, for the first time in his life, to the public that had a knack of keeping tabs on the wealthy. What of a political career, now? Sometime-just when he'd gotten national attention-some boorish columnist would dig up the dirt and smear his face with it, wiping out his career for ever. That would be it for his senatorial seat. Then what would he do? Sit behind a desk and settle divorce cases for the rest of his life?
The day wore on. The sun beat down on the train, on the policeman's backs, on the gun barrels.
Charles sat under a tree, waiting . . . waiting. Everything remained the same, nothing changed. Nobody changed his mind. The Dutch police wouldn't shoot, the Dutch Ministry wouldn't change it's mind, and the smugglers wouldn't give themselves up.
Charles had shed his trench coat and dropped it on the ground to sit on top of it; then he'd torn his tie off, loosened his shirt to the third button and sat waiting like a hawk. From time to time he'd sneak around the train car, despite the barrage of pleadings from the police officers, and strained to see any sign of Janice within. His body ached and his stomach grumbled, but Charles could neither eat nor sleep.
Jorgerson picked up the bullhorn for the countless time. "We've got you surrounded. Come on out with our hands up and then we'll negotiate." No response came from the metal box.
"How long do you think it will be?" Charles demanded. "How long will we have to wait?"
Jorgerson's patience was growing thin. "God only knows," he blasted, then turned back to confer with a group of officers, some in plain clothes.
Charles stomped off, pondering what he'd heard. He kicked at a rock with the toe of his hand sewn shoe, scuffing it, then wondering why he did a silly thing like that. He felt slightly faint from the heat and the anxiety and the fear for Janice that tore at his insides now. All the thoughts he'd had before came flooding back to his mind. Had she been violated already by one of these wretched dope addicts . . . smugglers . . . dregs of society?
The whole sickening scene passed again in his mind, like the thousandth replay of an old movie: Janice lying naked, on a cot in that toyish looking train car in front of him, pure and lovely and beautiful. He saw one of those foul, dirty men approach her, begin to stroke that tender, milky skin, run his huge, calloused hand with its dirty nails down the smooth, slender curve of her buttocks, her thighs, her legs, while his other hand squeezed and manipulated and . . . mauled . . . and here Charles nearly broke. Yes, mauled one of her snowy rounded breasts that was perfection itself. He saw the leer on the face of the man, the lips curled back obscenely, the glint of sheer lust in his evil eyes as one hand glided from her beautiful breast to the lovely naked curve of her belly, to the golden thatch of silky hair that hid her femininity and finally dropped between her knees and entered her!
"Jorgerson!" he snapped in a voice so filled with pain that Jorgerson turned his bearish body to gaze into the anguish-filled eyes of Charles Tarrington.
"Yes, Mr. Tarrington?"
"How do we know Janice is in there? What if they're bluffing?" His eyes were wild with hope and fear, giving a wolfish kind of visage to his otherwise delicate face.
Jorgerson stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I'd never thought of that, chap. Yes, we need proof." Patting Charles on the shoulder, the chief of police ambled off to confer briefly with another officer, while Charles tried to content himself under the aspen tree, his future life as well as Janice's welfare pounding in his temples.
Whatever happened today, he decided, picking up a twig and striping off its bark, he must uphold the Tarrington family tradition.. . yes, to death, if necessary. His delicate fingers worked at the twig, breaking it into a million pieces, then scattering the bits to the wind. Again he wiped his brow, then let his elbows rest on his knees.
Maybe this was is recompense.. . maybe this was the price he, Charles Edward Tarrington III, must pay for those favors society flits in the direction of the rich. The draft board his father bought off . . . yes, there was that to pay. And how about the private tutoring of top Yale professors . . . old friends of is fathers . . . ? There was another example. Perhaps, he wondered, this was the first time in his life he had really suffered.
His future . . . and what did that mean now? Scandal? Not to mention the possibility of losing Janice. His potential political career was all but sold up the river if he passed the buck this time. Charles Tarrington had never thought of being a hero, in the physical sense, but the blood boiling in his veins, his head dizzied with hunger was radioing messages to his brain, and before a second thought stopped him, he jumped to his feet, heading for the group of officers gathered around the cars.
"Mr. Jorgerson," he demanded, "let me change places with Janice. Let them take me hostage."
The hulky set of shoulders shrugged. "Mr. Tarrington, do you have any idea what you're asking? But.. . " he threw up his arms, ". . . that's one way of finding out if Janice is still inside that car."
Janice sat up on the bed, legs curled under her, sweltering in the stifling heat. She wished that somebody would open a window to let in some air. But in her compartment there was no window to open, so she contented herself, cooling herself with an accordian-pleated newspaper with which she fanned herself. Someone . . . Gunnar or Theo . . . brought her a bottle of whiskey to nip from, but it was Lisa, she well remembered, who later offered her the sweet-tasting cigarettes which she'd rolled herself and lit for the hostage.
As Janice inhaled deeply, letting the smoke swirl around her lungs as long as possible before blowing it out again, a strange feeling of peace and well being came over her. She, oddly, was no longer frightened as she had been before, although it was obvious that she was in greater danger than ever. She was certain, though, through the drug she was unknowingly taking, that nothing could touch her, nothing could harm her, and she was just as certain that, if she were threatened, she would have no desire to protect herself.
Happily, she rocked back and forth on her buttocks, staring at the blank wall, humming to herself. For a while she concentrated on the smear of rust around the sink's basin, a rich deep red color that seemed to grow more intense with each second.
She heard someone call her name . . . blast it, from somewhere outside the train car. Yes, there really was a world outside this train car, she mused profoundly. That seemed terribly silly, and she giggled behind her tiny fist and resumed her rocking. It came again: "JANICE QUINCY . . . JANICE MEREDITH QUINCY . . . " It seemed to come from the skies, maybe heaven itself, inviting her to emerge forth like Boticelli's Venus drifting ashore on a seashell.
The door burst open then, and Janice smiled up at Lisa, a broad, good-morning kind of grin. But Lisa wasn't looking very jovial; her eyes were wild, dark, sloe eyes that to a rational Janice would have registered fear. Janice cupped her ears as she heard the voice louder this time: "Attention!" John Jorgerson was bellowing. "You are surrounded by police, and we will attack unless we see Janice Quincy!"
Hank burst into the room just then. "We'd better show them the girl," he shrugged at Lisa. With a crisp gesture, he motioned for Lisa and Janice to follow out the door of the sleeping compartment to the line-up of windows on the open side of the car. His dirty fingernails gripped at her flesh, squeezing it painfully, as he thrust her towards the window. "Here she is!" he called out. "Okay?"
Janice waggled her hand back and forth.
"We wish to make an offer!" came the answer from the bullhorn. "Do you hear?"
Inside the car, the three men whispered excitedly among themselves. "You hear that?" Gunnar's sweat-streaked reddened face seemed to pale a little. "What is this, some kind of trick? Yesterday they wouldn't even talk to us, and now they want to make an offer."
Hank reached up and opened the window a little and called out between cupped hands. "What is your offer?"
"We will exchange Janice Quincy for Charles Tarrington. Do you accept?" the bullhorn blasted again.
Hank turned to the others, a broad grin on his face. "Well, I guess we can accept that. Two hostages are better than one. Besides if they're gonna open fire, chances are, they're gonna be a little more careful with two Americans."