Protocol for a Kidnapping

24

We went south along the highway that climbs back into the mountains. About ten miles out of Sarajevo we turned east onto a narrow road which the snow plows had given only a lick and a promise. The Italian had to keep the Volks bus in first or second gear most of the time because it was a steep, twisting road with sharp, unannounced cutbacks and nearly right-angled corners. On the right I could see the side of a mountain, on the left I could see nothing — no guardrails, no billboards, only the edge of the road that I was sure dropped straight down for at least half a mile.

The Italian drove with all the fine, unconcerned flair of his race. I was glad that we were going up instead of down because the grade kept him below forty kilometers per hour most of the time. It took us almost an hour and a half to go what I estimated to be thirty kilometers. The Italian slowed the Volks down to a crawl and we crept through a village that was a cluster of stone houses and what looked to be a combination café and general store.

“From here we take the horses,” he said.

“Where’s here?” I asked.

“It’s called Trnovo,” he said, “and it’s not much.”

Just past the village we stopped at a small stone house that had a long low shed attached to it.

“Wait here,” he said and got out.

He knocked on the door of the house and I caught a glimpse of a tall dark man with a mustache that drooped solemnly down the sides of his heavy chin. Then the Italian was inside the house and the door closed.

“What is he doing?” Tavro said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Asking directions maybe.”

“He said something about horses,” Tavro said.

“That’s right.”

“When’s the last time you were on a horse, Phil?” Wisdom said.

I thought a moment “Nineteen forty-two, in Columbus, Ohio. It wasn’t really a horse though; it was a Shetland pony and it cost a nickel to ride around the ring. I was six or seven, I think.”

“I’ve never been on a horse,” Arrie said.

“Maybe you’ll like it,” I said.

Tavro was sputtering. “It is... it is ridiculous. It is playacting.”

“It’s the only transportation there is,” I said. “I don’t think we’ll have to go far.”

“The last time I was on a horse,” Knight said, “was when I rode into Dodge City ten years ago looking for some mean son of a bitch who’d killed my pard.”

“What were you gonna do if you found him, Rafe?” Wisdom said.

“As I recollect, I was gonna shoot him down like a yella dog.”

“The marshal stop you?”

“No, as a matter of fact, the mean son of a bitch got me first, but then the marshal got him.”

“Maybe I knew your pard,” Wisdom said. “How’d he call himself?”

“Went by the name of Carstairs,” Knight said. “Jimmy Carstairs.”

The Italian came out of the house and opened the door to the Volks. “Around in the back,” he said.

The snow was almost a foot deep on the path that led to the long low shed and it spilled over into my shoes. My feet were thoroughly wet by the time we entered the shed. I looked around and none of the others wore boots except for the Italian.

The shed was illuminated by a lone kerosene lamp which was held by the man with the mustache. He hung the lamp on a nail and then busied himself with five small horses that were stabled on the right side of the shed. On the left side was a new tan Porsche. The Italian came over to me and held something out.

“Here’re the keys to Killingsworth’s car,” he said as I took them. “I expect he wants it back.”

“What about that guy?” I said, nodding toward the man with the mustache.

“He won’t be here,” the Italian said. “He’s with us.

“Who owns this place?” I said.

The Italian looked at me sourly. “When you gonna ask me for my home address?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking of the cops.”

“Let me worry about them.”

“Okay,” I said. “I will. How far is it?”

“To the castle?”

“Yes.”

“Five kilometers. Straight up almost.”

“It sounds like a tough ride.”

He gave me another sour look. “At least you’ll ride,” he said. “I’ve got to walk.” He turned and looked at the man with the mustache who nodded and slapped one of the horses on the rump. “Okay,” the Italian said. “Get on the horses. Get on from the left side. If you need any help, let me know.”

Arrie needed help, so did Gordana. I probably did but I was too proud to admit it. The horses were small animals, ponies really, I think, with shaggy coats that smelled of pine trees and manure. The saddles were wooden affairs with splits down their centers. The Italian and the man with the mustache came down the line checking stirrups.

“You know how to ride?” the Italian asked me.

“No.”

He sighed and took my horse by the bridle and led it around the one that Wisdom sat. “Up here with the rest of the girls,” he said to me. “Hold the reins in your left hand. You can hold on to the saddle with your right. Don’t try to tell the horse what to do, just let him follow.”

I turned to look around. Knight was last, sitting his horse casually, as if he knew what he was doing. Wisdom was in front of him. He’d probably learned to ride at school, but I didn’t ask. Tavro was behind me and it was evident that he knew how to ride. Gordana was in front of me and Arrie was in front of her.

The Italian looked back at us. He shook his head wearily and then started to speak in that high strained voice that people use who’re not accustomed to speaking to groups of more than three.

“We’re gonna follow a path for about five kilometers. Try to stay together. If you fall off, try to fall off on the right side. Don’t try nothing fancy. Just stay on your horse. When they go up, lean forward. It’s gonna take about an hour.”

He turned and grasped the bridle of Arrie’s horse and we moved out of the shed. The man with the lantern closed the doors behind us. The horses picked their way through the snow which got steadily deeper. Nobody spoke and the only sounds were those of the horses when they snorted and the creaking of the wooden saddles and the leather stirrups.

Ahead of us the Italian used a flashlight to pick his way through the trees. Sometimes its beam illuminated large gray boulders. The path, if that’s what it was, led steeply upward and the horses snorted and shuddered and blew their frosty breath into the icy air. I wondered how cold it was. I knew it was well below freezing and my wet feet were growing numb. I wore gloves and the tweed topcoat, but except for that, I was dressed to spend an evening in some cozy bar, not on top of an animal who moved as if his feet had piles.

The path narrowed and occasionally the branch of a pine, a fir, or some other coniferous brand would belt me across the face, leaving a bitter taste of resined snow. Ahead of me I could make out the dim outline of Gordana as she jogged and weaved in her saddle.

The path or trail became even steeper in grade and I had to lean forward as my pony took small, jarring jumps to get from one level to the next. He seemed to know what he was doing so I held on to the saddle and let him do it. My right coat sleeve occasionally brushed against an outcropping of rock. I poked my left hand out, but it felt nothing. Just space. Ahead the flashlight beam bobbed and jittered in the blackness.

I was straining to keep my eyes on Gordana’s outline when her horse stumbled and she fell from the saddle with a long shrill scream. I slid off my horse into almost two feet of snow and floundered toward the sound. I could see almost nothing. My left foot slipped and I felt myself falling before an arm grabbed me around the neck and pulled me back over the sharp edge of some rock that dug into my back. It was the Italian. He flashed his light into my face and said, “Was that you that screamed?”

“The girl,” I said.

He aimed his flashlight down and I could see that we were on a narrow ledge, not more than seven feet wide that cropped out from the side of almost vertical rock cliff.

“If she went over, she’s gone,” the Italian said in a no-nonsense tone.

He flashed his light down over the edge of the trail and nine feet below us we saw Gordana crouched on a narrow ledge, clinging to the side of the rock with hands that seemed able to find something to hold to when there was nothing in sight. Her face was turned up toward us, her mouth a black, round O of despair.

“Don’t move, kid,” the Italian said to her softly. “Call the big guy, the good-looking one,” he said to me. I yelled for Knight.

“She’s not bad, is she?” the Italian said. “In fact, she’s a beauty.” He could have been commenting on a dozen daisies.

Knight knelt down beside us. “See her down there?” the Italian said, shining his light on Gordana.

“Uh,” Knight said.

“Well, you take a leg and I take a leg and we lower St. Ives down so that he can grab her and then we pull them both back up. How’s that?”

“Succinct,” Knight said. “You ready?” he asked me.

“Did I ever tell you about me and heights?” I said. “I don’t function well.”

“You got a better idea?” the Italian said.

“None.”

“Get the other American,” the Italian said. I yelled for Wisdom this time and when he got there the Italian handed him the flashlight. “Keep it right on her,” he said. Wisdom lay on his belly in the snow and shined the light on Gordana whose mouth was now opening and closing silently as if she were gasping great gulps of air.

The Italian took my right leg and Knight took my left one. I felt myself being lowered over the side. I didn’t see anything because I had my eyes closed. I didn’t open them until I heard someone yelling my name.

“Goddamn it, St. Ives, grab her hands!” Wisdom yelled.

I looked down. Gordana had released her hold on the side of her cliff and was stretching her hands up to me. I tried for them and our fingers brushed, but we missed.

“Please,” she cried, “please.”

I tried again, stretching as far as I could, but again our fingertips just brushed and this time she lost what balance she had and started to fall and then she screamed and somehow I lunged and caught her left wrist with my right hand. I held on until I got my left hand around her wrist. I had her then, but I knew it wouldn’t last long because her wrist was wet and it was beginning to slip through my hands.

“Pull, damn you,” I yelled and I began to feel them lifting us slowly, but not fast enough because all I now had was her hand and it was beginning to go. “Faster,” I screamed and they tried and her nails dug into my palms as she fought against dying.

There wasn’t anything I could do. I looked into her face which was full of mute pleading that begged me not to let her go, but all I had were her fingers now and they began to slip away. And then someone landed on my back, his legs locked around my waist. It was the Italian and he grabbed Gordana’s wrist just as her fingers slipped from my grasp. Using his legs to climb with, he worked his way up over my hips dragging Gordana after him. I could hear Knight and Wisdom swear as they pulled on my legs which now supported both Gordana and the Italian. Then I was hanging only by one leg as someone grabbed the Italian and pulled him up. I closed my eyes again.

“Who’s got me?” I called.

“I have, I think,” Wisdom said.

“Could you sort of pull me up, if it’s not too much bother?”

“Wait a second.”

“Stick your other leg up,” Knight said.

“I thought it was,” I said and felt hands on my right ankle. They began to pull.

“How’s the view?” Wisdom said.

“Vertiginous,” I said, proud that I could think of the word, and then I was over the edge and lying in the snow next to Gordana. Her face was turned toward me and she was crying.

“Thank you, Philip,” she said softly. “Thank you so much.”

“I almost dropped you,” I said.

“You were very brave.”

I smiled a little and tried to remember if anyone had ever told me that before.