Foreign Exchange (25 page)

The
cameramen tell him their cameras are already rolling in Italian.

I
get another wave of nausea at the idea of rolling video cameras. What are they going to want me to do?

The Bulgarian starts
saying something I don’t understand.

I feel my forehead buckle, and h
e laughs, like he knows I wouldn’t follow. And then he translates to English in his heavily accented tongue.

“Beg for me to come to you,
Jamie.” The way he says my name nauseates me even more. “Tell me how you hate the American boys and want me instead.” His tight jaw and slight snarl on the word “American” makes him downright repulsive.

My mouth goes dry. Do
es he want me to say this so they can prove what they do to me later is not rape? I grit my teeth and shake my head. It’s a jerky movement, since my neck is so stiff it will barely twist.

“
Say it!” the Bulgarian booms, making me jump. He takes a step closer, but he can’t force me to say anything I don’t want to say.

The cameramen murmur
, but I can’t concentrate well enough to hear what they’re saying.

“Beg me!” The Bulgarian
says again, taking yet another step closer.

I
make out a few of the Italians’ murmurs and I try to focus on them. Something about how easily Stanko breaks people and why do they fight it? Stanko. That must be the Bulgarian’s name, though whether it’s his first name or last name I have no idea.

“You do it eventually, honey,” one of the Italians tells me in
broken English. I glare at him. They can say they’ll break me over and over again, but I can stand here not talking all day if I have to.

The Bulgarian—
Stanko—asks something I don’t understand, but I don’t think he’s asking me. There’s more murmuring, more fast Italian, but too quiet for me to hear.

Then I hear the word “Bishop.”

They’re asking who my friend is. They want to use her as leverage. Oh
shit.

Stanko
stomps closer to me, so he’s hovering right in my face. It’s all I can do to look up at him. My neck feels like it’s attached with iron clasps. My legs are shaking so badly I’m afraid I might collapse to the ground. But I do it. I stare straight at him.

“You sure you no want to obey?” he asks, his voice deep and calm, like he hadn’t just been yelling a second ago.

Even if I try, I don’t think I can obey anymore. I don’t think I can speak. I feel the blood drain from my face.

“Okay
. You decision then,” he says, and he stomps away.

It’s not until he’s out of the room that the most sickening thought occur
s to me: What if he’s leaving to torture Tristan? What if he brings back her finger or her hand? Without even thinking it through, I’m moving toward the door.

The loud buzzer sounds from
outside. The main entry must be closer than I thought, and in all of about half a second, I make a choice. The ringleader is gone. This might be my only chance.

I
launch into a run toward the door of the room while opening my mouth and screeching at the top of my lungs, “Help meeee—”

M
y yell is cut off by a hand cupped over my mouth, and I’m jerked backward. I wasn’t fast enough. If I’d thought it through, I probably should have realized I couldn’t be fast enough to get out, but it was my only hope. As my tight muscles are letting go, one of the cameramen pulls me into a dark corner of the room, farthest from where I’d heard the door buzzer.

The
angry cameraman whispers English in my ear. “You know what happen if Stanko hear you? You know?” he hisses.

I don’t
, of course, but I can imagine. I give my head a slow nod, still being held tight by the guy’s cupped hand.

“If I let you go
, you going to shut up?”

I nod again. He slowly releases me, and pushes me until I’m in front of the black curtain again.
The bearded cameraman doesn’t return to his camera, but hovers beside me, like he’s not going to let
that
happen again.

Though neither am I. He’s right.
Stanko wouldn’t hesitate to slit my throat and throw me into the canal behind this building if he heard me yelling for help like that. I’m sure of it.

The Italian behind the camera
speaks to his friend in Italian again. “Dumb American girl,” he says. “Why won’t they just play his games? Don’t they know they’re going to have to play along eventually?”

The other laughs and says, “
I think Stanko likes it better when they fight. He likes to feel his power over the Americans. And this is a wild one. I just want to get this lot on the boat and be done with that pervert.” Without Stanko in the room, they’re speaking loudly enough that I can pick up most of their words.

The
first guy agrees. “Yes, pervert and asshole. She yells and we’ll get punished. Just be glad we were paid half up front.”

I keep my face down, not wanting them to see that I can understand them.

So maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to yell again. Sure, I’d get punished, but perhaps then we’d all be fighting together for our lives. It doesn’t seem like it would take much to make these guys turn on their leader.

I wonder how
loud of a shout I could get out before the guy beside me would slam his hand back over my mouth? Could it possibly be enough?

But the decision is made for me when the door
swings open again and Stanko walks through it. He marches right up to me and thrusts a photograph in my face.

A
nearly-naked picture of my best friend.

Chapter T
wenty-Three

Tristan’s been more than slapped. I let out an involuntary gasp. In the picture, her eyes are blackened and squinty. The Bulgarians obviously weren’t concerned about preserving her beauty for the cameras––another thought that makes me shudder. What do they want with her? With us? She’s wearing a bra and a skimpy pair of underwear. That’s it. There are bruises on both of her arms and a huge greenish one up by her hip. Her chest appears to be the only part of her that’s untouched, though I don’t believe for a second it’s been completely untouched.

I gulp hard on her name so it doesn’t come out of my mouth. I try to keep my face down, pretend I don’t recognize her, but the fight is futile. I can’t
not
look at the photograph. After all this time of searching for Tristan, I can barely believe she’s here. They have her. I can’t look away from what they’ve done to my best friend. My eyes blur with tears.

Stanko
passes Tristan’s picture to the bearded Italian.

“
You beg me now,” Stanko says, “and I take you to find your friend.”

“Will you let us go?” I ask in a whisper.

“Of course,” Stanko says, the kind uncle again. I don’t believe him, of course I don’t, but I don’t think he’s going to let me go anyway. And even if he was, there’s no way I could leave Tristan with this monster.

The
cameramen are murmuring quietly again and even though I can’t concentrate on their Italian words, it feels like they’re sending me subliminal messages: “You have to say it, Jamie. Just do it so we can all get out of here—you’ll both be locked up in a Bulgarian sex-slave prison and your lives will never be the same, but us? We’ll be free.”

I doubt they’re saying that, but
their voices sound like mush in my head. All I know is it’s the truth. I have no choice. The cameraman who is holding Tristan’s picture starts to crumple it in his hand, very slowly, then lets it open up again.

Another message for me.

I feel like a small child, like a toddler who hasn’t fully learned how to speak yet and who needs someone to take care of her. Even though I don’t have a clue how I’ll make my mouth and tongue and vocal chords work, I nod. I’ll find a way to say whatever he wants me to say.

Stanko
, as though he knows I’ll need prompting, gives me the spiel again—that I want him. That I don’t want the
American
boys. These words make the Italian behind the video camera focus, and start his camera again. He laughs and says something about American boys. The bearded one calls me a whore in Italian, but the other corrects him and uses an Italian phrase that vaguely translates to
dumb little girl
.

I don’t care what they say. My best friend needs m
e and I’m going to say whatever they want. At least we’ll be fighting this together. Half of my mind is racing on how I can get us out of here once I find her, while the other half forces my mouth to open and say the words.

“
Non mi piacciono i ragazzi americani. Solo tu. Tu sei l'uomo che voglio…”
comes tumbling out of my mouth.

Stanko
’s face snaps toward me, tightening.

I said exactly what he want
ed. I’m not sure why his forehead is contorting and he's turning a deep shade of purple.

In the silence, I play my
words back to myself, and I wonder, did I say them in English? Or did I just speak Italian? I’ve been working so hard at keeping all my languages straight, I honestly don’t know. Even the cameramen have gone silent, so I can’t keep straight who has said what.

“American!”
Stanko booms in his thickly accented English. “She no American!”

One of the cameramen
glances toward the door, but no one says anything. Apparently no one stands up to this guy.

Well
, I do. They’re not going to ship me or Tristan off to Bulgaria without a fight. I don’t have anything to lose anymore.

“So what if I’m not a stupid American,” I tell him in as smooth Italian as I can muster.
I add a spit toward the floor to punctuate it, even though nothing actually comes out of my bone-dry mouth. I’m quite sure the cameramen will know I’m faking, will know it’s not my native tongue, not anymore, but I’m hoping they won't let Stanko in on my secret.

Stanko
steps toward me, but then seems to think of something else and takes a step away. He waves a hand at the cameras to shut them off. 

“Get boat ready,” he tells the
beardless cameramen, the one who is not holding Tristan’s photo. The cameraman heads for another door, one that had been invisible in the wall until it opens and lets in a glow of light.

Boat? What boat?
“You said you would take me to my friend! I’m not going anywhere until I see Tristan!”

Stanko leaves through the
door I’d come in through, and I’m about to scream after him, but the other cameraman grabs my arm roughly. “You’re going to see your friend. Shut up and don’t worry.” By the tone of his voice, I don’t believe for a second that I shouldn’t be worried. He shoves me along to follow the first cameraman. I feel a wave of relief, but I know I shouldn’t. It’s not like I can escape in either direction.

As we reach the end of the room, there’s a rustling at the
other door. I wonder if the woman from the front desk is bringing in a new girl or coming to help. I wonder how often they do this, and how many girls they have captive in this confusing building, right under the police’s nose.

I don’t have time to come up with any answers, though, because I’m being p
rodded into dwindling daylight. The cameraman pushes me onto a makeshift dock and then into a small rowboat.

A rowboat that definitely wouldn’t make it all the way to Bulgaria.

All at once, I chuck my purse as far as I can launch it ahead of me into the canal.

“My purse
!” I pant the words. “It has my passport!” I know I’m too excited. It’s not so far away that they can’t get it, but the cameraman doesn’t make a move to dive in after it.

He
says, “You do not need passport.” He laughs and yanks me down onto a seat in the boat. “You make sound and you get it.” He flicks open a pocketknife and holds it against the oar as he starts rowing. “And then your friend get it after.”

I sit stock still, wondering where he’s taking me. It can’t be far in this tiny boat.

The canal is quiet, I can’t hear another soul, and the cameraman’s knife stays steady in my vision. He rows us across the canal and several feet downstream. It probably only takes him a few minutes, but it feels like hours. It feels like I have time for my whole life to flash before my eyes in reverse: falling in love with Sawyer, being worried about Tristan, first hearing about the class trip to Spain, starting to learn Spanish, caring for Eddy after our nanny left, living in Quebec, moving all around Italy...

The walls of the buildings we’re heading for have a definite water damage line about three
-quarters of the way up the first floor, reminding me of the stories my dad used to tell me when I was little. I pull my knees up to my chest on the seat of the boat, wanting to be little again, wanting to be back there with both my parents where I was safe in my bed.

“Out,” the cameraman commands a minute later when we’ve pulled up to another makeshift dock
on the other side of the canal. I half-consider diving into the water, trying to get away. But I’m not a good swimmer, he would surely catch me, and getting away won’t help me find Tristan.

Instead, I suck in a
breath and step out of the boat, bracing myself on a railing for balance.

As the cameraman nudges me toward a nearby wooden door, I hear my name. But not really my name. I hear
, “
James!”
and I can’t stop myself from darting my eyes around.
Sawyer?
Could that have been Sawyer? But the whole area is deserted, and I don’t see a single soul before the cameraman pushes me into darkness.

The walls feel like they collapse in on me. The musty mildew smell makes it difficult to breathe, but the cameraman keeps nudging me forward. There are yellowy lights, high on the walls
of the corridor, but they’re not enough to see well. My mind works hard at coming up with any kind of solution. Is it dark enough to hide? Or to sneak away? Once I find Tristan, maybe we could convince this cameraman to help us escape. He’s not kind, but he doesn’t seem cruel like Stanko.

That seems like our best bet.

We pass an open door that looks like a small, unused bedroom. The mattress is thin and uncovered. The walls are dirty. Is this some kind of boarding house? I don’t want to picture Tristan somewhere like this, but the ache in my gut is telling me I need to prepare myself.

Through the second open doorway, there is someone, a girl, but it’s not Tristan.
I force myself to breathe. The girl is wearing a T-shirt and underwear and her arms are tied to the headboard of her bed with rags. She’s unconscious. I hope she’s only unconscious.

We keep moving, and pass several closed doors.
They’re wooden and rotted and I remember my dad saying how lower floors of buildings here were abandoned. But not this one.

We wind around a corner, and there’s the bearded cameraman. He’s standing outside an open door holding out Tristan’s photo. He talks to his cameraman buddy in Italian, telling him that he found the girl. He found Tristan.

I suck in a breath and hold it.

The cameraman who has been nudging me all the way from the other building gives me a hard shove through the open doorway. And there she is.
There’s my best friend.

There are rags tied to her headboard, too, but thankfully she isn’t tied up. Or maybe they already untied her.

I gasp. “Tristan! Are you okay?” My words come out as a cry. “Please tell me you’re okay.” She’s slumped on a bed, and looks up at me with squinty and bruised eyes. She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t do anything to acknowledge me.

She’s wearing a long man’s T-shirt and has pulled the stained sheet from the bed to cover her legs. I take a step toward her and hear the door thud shut behind me. A latch clicks, locking us in.

I rush toward Tristan and bend down. I go to grab her hand, but she flinches away like she doesn’t know me.

She
drops her eyes to the floor, and doesn’t move a muscle, like she’s posing or playing a part.

“You’ll be okay. I mean
, we’ll get through this,” I say, forcing the words out, even if I don’t believe them. I push strength into my voice anyway. “We just have to find a way out of here. Do you know any way out? Any possibilities? Anything we can take advantage of?”

She doesn’t look like she
even hears me.

I back away and feel all around the door. The lock is solid, it won’t budge, but the edges of the door are rotten. If we had something sharp or strong to wedge into one of the sides...

I look around, but there’s nothing else in here. The mattress won’t help us. The rags won’t help. I reach for the metal headboard, but it’s one big piece. Using all my strength I pull at it, but it doesn’t budge. I definitely won’t be able to bend or break it to get a free piece.

Moving back in front of Tristan,
I put both my hands on her shoulders and shake her a little. She moves like jelly inside a mould. “Tristan, look at me.” She doesn’t, and my voice gets more desperate as I hear someone—probably one of the cameramen—just on the other side of the door. “Tristan, we have to do something! We have to get out of here together!” This gets a slight cringe on one side of her face, so I rush on with my words. “Even if you don’t want to do it for yourself, Tristan, please, do it for me—”

My words are cut off by Stanko yelling something as he
pushes through the door toward us. He stops in place, and it must be because I’m bent down with Tristan, but I swear, he looks huge. He takes another large step and then his big hands pick us both up as though we’re weightless. He shoves us toward the open door, where the cameramen are waiting. The sheet falls off of Tristan as she moves like a rag doll in his grasp, and she doesn’t try to pick it up again, leaving her legs bare and bruised.

“Please,” I say, in almost a whisper. “Please let us go. We’ll never come back. You’ll never see us again.” I make a point of using English, hoping this might soften Stanko, but it doesn’t. I don’t know what kind of sick grudge he has against American girls,
why he’s set on pulling them into his cruel operation, but he still doesn’t believe I’m one of them.

“We get them to container tonight. They know people here. Can’t wait.” Stanko’s words are fast as he drags us past the cameramen in the direction they brought me in. Are they taking us out on another boat? Is he talking about some kind of container ship?

I think about Sawyer again. If it was him I heard, and not just my mind playing tricks on me, I have to find a way to get a signal to him as soon as we get out the door. I can’t make a sound, but there has to be something I can do.

In the recesses of my mind I think I’d still felt a small inkling of safety knowing they’d have to take
me out in front of the
Polizia
building to get me out of here. But no, now that they’ve ushered us downstream, they don’t have to worry about the police. They have a private way to get us out.