Foreign Éclairs (20 page)

Slager gave an exasperated grunt. “You have depended on me to bring us this far. Trust me. You have seen how these Americans react and how careful they attempt to be. It slows them down.” He paced. “They are incapable of assembling forces within thirty minutes. We will not be stopped.”

Kern seemed to consider this. “Even if she regains control, she cannot escape her bonds,” he said, sliding an index finger along the nylon cables cuffing me. “She will die here.” Quietly, almost reverently, he added, “Tonight, I will finally have my revenge.”

“Then the timer’s detonation must be your decision.”

Kern placed his flashlight on the ground next to him. He crouched next to me. “Shine your light here,” he said.

Slager complied.

Kern held a digital timer in both hands. About the size of a deck of cards, it was an ordinary device—the kind that kitchen stores sold by the thousands every year. Two kinked wires sprang from the back of the timer’s case like skinny blue arms.

Kern shifted his weight to one knee as he thumbed a control level on the right to “set” and then tapped small gray boxes below until the display read 0:30:00. “You see?” he said, holding the timer up for Slager’s benefit. “I prove my faith in you. Thirty minutes.”

When Slager grunted acknowledgment, Kern reached into the backpack and pulled out a fat PVC cylinder. The shiny white plastic was about six inches in diameter and about twelve inches long. There was a nine-volt battery
duct-taped to the side and wires ran from the battery to a long, slim piece of metal. It looked like an expensive pen, but I recognized it as the detonator.

I’d seen similar components, first several years ago when Gav had come to the White House to teach us about bombs, and then again Thursday night during my impromptu class on IEDs.

The thought of Gav made my heart swell with sadness and fire race to my eyes, but I forced myself to concentrate on Kern’s movements. He attached the timer’s blue wires to the detonator and gently placed the PVC cylinder atop the backpack.

“No need to hide it at this point, is there?” he asked.

I swallowed, fighting to ignore the terror building in my chest. My heart slammed so hard that I was surprised its reverberations didn’t catch their attention.

Kern continued working, propping the timer against the white PVC and arranging it so that I could read the display.

Kern looked up at Slager. “You are ready?” he asked.

Slager nodded.

“Give me your flashlight,” Kern said.

Slager slapped the heavy-duty instrument into his leader’s upturned hand. Kern positioned it on the cold ground next to my head, its beam pointing to the timer, and beyond it, the homemade bomb. “You see? I am a man of my word. You will be given the gift that so few enjoy. You will know the moment of your death.”

I stared at the digital readout, still set at 0:30:00.

“I am certain you would wish to thank me,” he said with a cruel laugh, “but I cannot wait.” He boosted himself to his feet and turned to Slager. “Let’s go.”

The other man executed a brisk pivot and headed back up the embankment.

Kern leaned down. “Our family will finally know peace tonight.”

He pressed one of the small gray buttons on the timer, and with a tinny beep, sent the display into motion. He took off running up the embankment. Moments later the car’s doors slammed. Its engine revved. Before half a minute had elapsed, they were gone.

Thirty minutes to live. No, less than that.

Though I desperately wished they would have given me that hour, I couldn’t waste time lamenting my fate. This situation was the gravest I’d ever encountered, but I fought to keep my bubbling emotions in check. Spending the next twenty-nine minutes crying served no one, least of all me.

I might die trying, but I couldn’t
not
try.

I’d never given up before, had I? No. This would be a bad time to start a new habit.

The moment Kern took off, I’d resumed stretching, trying, fighting for control of my body. Although the two men had argued about the timer’s duration for only a few minutes, those were a few more minutes in my favor.

My thumb twitched with more consistency. Both hands began responding, the left a little slower than the right. Tingles ran brilliantly up and down my entire left side and though I knew that was the result of lying atop my arm for
so long, I willed myself to believe that feeling was truly seeping back into my body. I hadn’t the strength or power to clench either hand completely but I could make my fingers move a little bit. They were abbreviated, jerky responses, but they gave me a heart full of hope.

I’d given up on the breathing exercises because my breaths were coming faster on their own as adrenaline flooded my system.

The two men left me lying on my right side with my hands in front of me, attached to the backpack, which lay stretched out just beyond my reach. The timer, resting comfortably atop the backpack, blinked its deadly alert.

Slowly—only because I couldn’t move at any other speed—I worked the index and middle fingers of my right hand under the woven backpack handle. Once I’d gotten them far enough in so that the handle rested in the crooks of my fingers, I pulled.

The backpack’s weight resisted my paltry efforts. It didn’t move.

A sharp breeze swirled over my recumbent form, chilling the perspiration that had broken out at my hairline and down my neck. I’d dressed for the weather, but temperatures had dropped at least twenty degrees. I shivered, but took that as a good sign.

As cold as I was, however, sweat poured off me, pooling around the right side of my waist and leaking down my back.

I pulled at the strap again, maintaining my focus on the backpack, knowing my only hope lay in disabling the bomb. Gav, John, and Jane had done their best to instruct me on the workings of IEDs like this one, but their strongest admonition had involved running away and calling the bomb squad. No chance of that tonight.

Still no movement. If I could only exert enough pressure
with my thumb to get a grip on the woven handle, I’d have better leverage. Alas, my thumb still lacked the necessary strength.

John and Jane had taken care to impress upon me that some bombs are set to fail “open” and some set to fail “closed.” That’s the main reason why movies relied on “cut or no-cut” scenarios to build suspense. A cut wire could trigger—or cancel—a bomb’s detonation. It was all in the design. Only the bomb-maker knew for sure which move was the right choice.

The timer kept up its steady pace. Twenty-three minutes and change.

I remembered them telling me that most bombs are set to go off without interference. That is, they’re designed to explode before anyone becomes aware of their existence. And, in the case of remote detonation, if the bomb-maker is able to maintain a line of sight at a safe distance, he can send the signal to explode if anyone so much as gives his creation a second look.

As sweat drenched my right side, I hoped that was an indication that my metabolism had kicked into high gear. I still had no idea if that would help me, but I had no reason to believe otherwise.

I attempted to curl my fingers more snugly into the handle. Closing my eyes, I visualized sitting up, nabbing the backpack, and expediently disarming the bomb. When I opened my eyes, I was still lying helplessly on the ground, but I swore my hand felt stronger.

The frogs in the distance croaked their melody, and I told myself they were singing to me, urging me to persevere.

This time when I tugged, the timer wobbled for a long two seconds before righting itself again.

I’d moved the backpack.

Or maybe I’d only jarred it some.

No, I’d moved it. I had. I couldn’t allow myself to believe otherwise.

Belatedly, I realized my jaw was clenched. No idea when that had happened, but as I loosened the tension I attempted a shout. I doubted there were any other humans nearby but I had to try.

The incoherent croak that burbled from my throat rivaled that of the frogs.

Frustration twisted inside me as I tugged again with no result.

The definition of a fool, I reminded myself, was one who attempted the same thing over and over and expected a different result.

I pulled in a deep breath and held tight, using every shred of strength to maneuver myself farther along the ground. My arm inched against the uneven terrain in increments so small my teeth hurt, but the scraping sound of my sleeve—sliding one notch, then another—boosted my optimism and brought my fingers ever closer to the backpack’s padded shoulder straps.

I blew out my breath and tried again.

Salty, cold perspiration fogged my vision. I blinked repeatedly, trying to bring the clock into focus. Eighteen minutes? No. Sixteen, and thirty-two seconds.

Please, body. Move. We’re in this together.

I slid my two fingers into the small spread between the right shoulder strap and the body of the backpack.

My lips moved now—barely—attempting to bolster myself with unspoken affirmations.

The fabric of the shoulder strap was smooth, but I believed its thickness would work to my advantage. The width of the strap meant that I couldn’t get my fingers all the way
around it, but I kept at it, working them deeper, inching myself closer.

I mouthed what should have been “All together now,” but probably would have looked more like a silent prayer if anyone had seen me.

Of course, if anyone had seen me, I would like to believe they’d cut me loose and we’d both run far, far away.

The timer had counted down another two minutes. I had less than fifteen minutes to go.

When I got my fingers jammed beneath the strap up to the second knuckle, I blew out another breath.

I tugged.

The backpack lurched toward me with sudden and unexpected speed. This time when the timer wobbled, it lost its footing and toppled facefirst onto the ground, angled upward against the tension of its wires.

I gasped, then exhaled in relief when I wasn’t blown to bits.

The backpack had moved less than an inch, but the surprise had energized me. I curled my fingers closer, trying to reach the edge of the timer. It had fallen close to my face, nowhere near my hand.

There wasn’t enough power in me to lift my head off the ground, but I scooched my face closer to the timer with the intention of pushing it to within reach of my fingers. My angle was off, way off.

I managed to ease my head back again, bringing my nose closer to the timer’s edge. I thrust forward in tiny bursts, pushing the timer with the tip of my nose. Little pebbles in the grass scraped at the side of my face but I didn’t stop, not even when my grunts of exertion morphed into exclamations of pain. The timer moved about every third try, and then only the barest fraction.

I didn’t want to think about how much time was counting down. All I concentrated on was getting my fingers close enough to grab it.

When my fingers finally grazed the plastic, I moaned with relief. I was finally able to lift my hand slightly. My right thumb had gained a little more power in the minutes I’d been struggling and I used it, along with my index finger as a pincer, trying to lift the timer back up.

The plastic casing was too smooth. I got no traction at all.

Summoning all my willpower, I jerked my left hand closer to my right, keeping at it until one hand was atop the other. Using both sets of fingers, I clawed at two sides of the timer at once, dragging it unevenly back to where I might have a chance to lift it up.

I’d planned to turn the device over quickly yet gingerly, but the casing slipped from my nervous fingers, straining against the blue wires once again. It landed faceup, and again, I couldn’t see the time at all.

When I finally got it pointed toward me, the display was out of the light. I conked my forehead against the flashlight’s handle, like playing kick the can—a solid, heavy can—with my skull. I knew I’d have bruises for weeks.

I
hoped
I’d have bruises for weeks.

I nudged it into place. Fear threatened to take over as I fumbled with my tethered, uncooperative hands until I was finally able to angle the timer into the light.

My heart dropped and my stomach clenched.

Fourteen seconds.

Holding the timer in my weak, trembling hands, I couldn’t take time to decide. Without enough strength to yank out one of the wires and without the skills necessary to defuse the bomb any other way, I had to rely on instinct. All I had were my reluctant fingers and a familiarity with kitchen timers.

Moving with inexorable clumsiness, I slid my right thumb up the side of the timer and used every ounce of pressure I could muster to slide the control from “Lock” to “Set.”

Eight seconds left.

My breaths coming fast and shallow, my hands moved like they belonged to someone else—someone dosed with sleeping pills wearing giant clown gloves—as my right thumb eased leftward to the first gray button on the right.

Four seconds.

I pressed the button as the display rolled down to three.

Back to four seconds.

As it turned to three again, I pressed the button again.

Four seconds. I pressed again and again and again, as quickly as I could.

Up to eight seconds.

I allowed myself a breath as it dropped to seven, then started back at the little button, hitting it as fast and often as I could until the readout showed that I had fifteen seconds to play with.

With the amount of sweat I was producing, my racing heartbeat, and my panicked breathing, I felt as though I’d run a marathon.

Before the seconds could drop back below twelve, I slid my thumb to the second button from the right and tapped it. A minute added to my total. I breathed a relieved, terrified, half-sob laugh, and went back at it, adding minutes until I’d totaled twenty.

Finally able to relax enough to think, I slid my thumb sideways farther and hit the hour button. One, two, three. All the way up to twelve, the maximum it would allow.

I hadn’t realized I’d been able to pull my head up a little. It hadn’t been much, but now I allowed it to drop back against the ground. Above me, tree branches obscured some of the night sky, but I was able to find an open patch where the stars shone through. I stared through the leaves at the glittering beauty above and thanked the heavens for seeing me through another close call.

I wasn’t free of the bomb yet. I knew I still had a struggle ahead of me. But for now I enjoyed the sound of my breathing. I stared. I smiled. And allowed myself to relax.

When I checked the timer again, we were down to eleven hours and change. I added another hour, hitting the maximum yet again. I didn’t want there to be any chance of time running out if I lost consciousness or fell asleep.

Not that there was much chance of that.

I had a little bit more feeling in my legs, and when I tried shifting position, my left leg twitched. My right side was suffering the same fate that my left had on the ride here. Too long in one position. Pain shot up along my thigh, and I tried rocking myself from side to side to get the purse out from underneath.

I was a long way from being able to reach it, but my phone was in there. If I could get even minimal signal, I could call or text for help.

Whether it was because of my small stature or petite build, or if it was because Slager miscalculated the dose, the effects of the drug he’d administered held me tight for another three hours. I shivered in the cold, feeling my already lifeless body growing numb by the minute in a completely different way.

When I moved, it was with such excruciating clumsiness that I growled my frustration. Is this how babies feel when they’re first learning to roll over? No wonder they constantly cry. I lay there for hours. The cold and damp seeped through my pant legs, chilling me through every point of contact.

Though it took enormous effort, I eventually managed to raise the upper part of my body, propping myself up with my right elbow. With some effort, I was able to check my watch. Two in the morning. I hesitated to move too quickly—not that I could—because I didn’t know how touchy the detonator might be. I knew it needed an electrical charge to blow, and I knew I’d effectively taken the timer’s role off the table, but I wasn’t about to declare victory yet.

I remained tethered to the backpack, and unless I chewed through its woven handle, or gnawed the tie-wraps off my wrists, I wouldn’t be safe. Not until the bomb itself was disarmed.

I tried to speak; nothing came out. My throat remained paralyzed, as did my legs. They were the last, it seemed, to begin this painful, cold reanimation process.

Another several hours passed before I had enough strength and control to completely raise my torso. I navigated up, moving my hands as little as possible and realizing I needed to use the washroom. There clearly wasn’t one nearby and likely wouldn’t be for some time.

I blew out a breath and told myself to block the discomfort from my mind.

Yeah, like that old quip: “Don’t think about a pink hippopotamus.”

Sitting up now, I made sure I had the maximum number of hours on my timer, then did my best to scooch my cross-body purse to my lap. My movements were still slow and heavy, so that process took another ten minutes. I fumbled around inside and finally located my cell phone and switched on the sound. I felt as though I suddenly had all the time in the world.

Light began to dawn behind me and I turned myself—to the extent I could—to face it. My legs still didn’t want to cooperate, but they had begun to show signs of life. I faced the sun, watching as it slowly rose in the eastern sky. Though the view was mostly blocked by trees, I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

I tapped the phone to bring up the touchpad dialer. Rather than try to provide my location—which I didn’t know—to a 911 dispatcher, I dialed the White House.

No signal.

And then I remembered I still couldn’t speak.

Texting took less bandwidth, or so I’d been told. I didn’t know whether it was true or not, but I decided to try. With Gav out of town, I composed a text to Sargeant.
Please help. Kidnapped.

While the phone searched for a signal, I hit Send, and waited for the confirming
whoosh
.

It didn’t come.

Two minutes ticked down on the timer while ticking up on my phone before the “No Service” message appeared.

Hardly surprising. I couldn’t be annoyed by the inconvenience; the fact that there was no signal out here might have driven the decision to use a timer rather than a remote detonation device. What was a minor nuisance in the moment had undoubtedly saved my life.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, I carefully tucked the PVC cylinder into the backpack, and ensured the timer was set for the longest interval possible. I stretched my limbs, lifted the backpack to my chest, and prepared to stand. With my throat parched and my bladder swollen, I had to get moving.

The first thing I did was make my way up the embankment to look around. The hearse was exactly where they’d left it, about a hundred yards off. My heart raced as I stumbled my way toward it, hoping they’d left the keys in the ignition, or had carelessly dropped them on the seat. Though it would be difficult to drive with my hands attached to the backpack, I knew I’d figure out a way to manage.

Wedging the fingers of my right hand underneath, I lifted the metal door handle and guided the heavy door until it was fully open. There was plenty of light, both from the sun and from the vehicle’s interior but there were no keys. I eased myself into the driver’s seat and did my best to examine the space, spending extra time scanning the top of the dash and around the passenger side until I gave up and scooted out again. My last hope was that he’d dropped the keys on the floor. I got to my knees—carefully—and did my best to search under the seat. Nothing.

I did a slow circuit around the vehicle, hoping the sunlight might glint off discarded metal. Still no luck.

With no choice but to walk to safety, I headed east for no better reason than because it felt like the right decision. More than once I wished I could sling the backpack over one shoulder the way it was designed to be carried. Hauling it around with it plastered to my chest made navigating the uneven ground difficult. But with my hands shackled to the bag’s top, I had no choice.

My elbows clamped against the bag’s soft sides, I hooked both thumbs under the woven handle for leverage, glad now that I hadn’t tried to chew it away.

Although I’d regained the control of my limbs, I remained weak. Every step required effort, and not knowing my location or where I’d find the closest civilization could have dampened my spirits. But I was alive when I shouldn’t have been and because of that I found the strength to fight my weariness and despair—even when I finally conquered a small rise and still saw nothing but trees in my path.
Every
time I conquered a small rise and saw nothing but trees in my path.

“It’s okay,” I assured myself aloud, now that I could speak again. “I’m going home.”

Every fifteen minutes or so—which I knew because the timer kept me apprised—I stopped. Placing the backpack on the ground, I sat next to it, and went through all the awkward gyrations necessary to pull out my phone and check for signal.

At the fifth such pause in my journey, I spied what looked like an outhouse a hundred feet away.

The sight of the dingy wooden structure with the slanted roof warmed my heart and as I picked up my burden and made my way over, I tried to remember which campgrounds
were nearest D.C. Not that it mattered. Unless I encountered a sign, I wouldn’t have any idea which forest I was in.

An outhouse like this one, however, made me believe I’d happen across hikers or campers soon. Though I knew it was likely that most adventurers had headed home Sunday night, I didn’t allow it to discourage me.

The rocky terrain surrounding the outhouse meant that I half-hobbled the final fifteen steps, but I made it. Inside the stench was overwhelming. The processes required to complete my necessary bodily function were some I hoped never to encounter again.

Though it seemed to take forever, I emerged about twenty minutes later, relieved in more ways than one.

I took the opportunity to check for signal once again. Still nothing.

Hungry, thirsty, and bone-tired, I felt reenergized and determined to succeed. I set off for home.

*   *   *

At ten-twelve a
.
m
.
, it finally happened. In the middle of a golden meadow, a single bar of signal replaced the “No Service” alert. Before the overhead satellites had a chance to change their minds, I re-sent the text to Sargeant, adding:
Got away. In a national forest, I think. Tell Gav.
I then texted a similar message to Bucky and sent a separate one to the White House emergency number, hoping at least one of the missives would hit its target.

Although chances were high that Gav remained out of the country and therefore out of touch, there was also the possibility—however slim—that once the White House became aware of my absence, they may have recalled my husband home. I hoped so.

There was far more I wanted to say to him than I could
properly manage in a text. My emotions shimmered too close to the surface to try. Biting my lip and swallowing hard, I settled for the barest minimum:
I’m okay.

I sat in the grass staring at the tiny phone, listening for each
whoosh
, and hoping not to receive a belated “Not delivered” alert in return.

Less than a minute passed before Sargeant’s reply dinged in.
On our way.

With a whoop of triumph, I crowed my happiness to the skies. A moment later, I texted him again.
Send bomb squad.