The Red Room

24

Grace pieces together the events of the past few minutes. She’s blinded by the hood over her head, so must reconstruct what has happened without the benefit of sight.

Upon being stuffed into the vehicle — a minivan, again — they took away her phone. The man closest to her was instructed by the driver, in heavily accented English, though the accent was not immediately revealing — to remove the SIM chip. The van took two immediate rights and a left, increased speed, and has remained on this street since.

The driver swore — in Persian — complaining bitterly about his watch. This was followed by the rattle of a wristwatch’s metal band, then the sound of an object — the wristwatch? — hitting the floor.

Interrupted, the man closest to Grace, who is now her interrogator, repeats himself — also in struggling English.

“You are to tell me who is this that employs you.”

Her wrists are bound by a plastic tie — in front of her body. A mistake on their part.

Grace’s mother is overbearing, highly manipulative, not merely fast-talking but verbally dominating. Throughout her teen years, Grace deployed imitation to challenge her mother. As fast as her mother could dish it out, Grace could reciprocate. She and her brother would take turns mimicking their mother and playing her foil. Now, in response to her interrogator, Grace spews a stream of Mandarin from a verbal fire hose, drenching the man with a continuous high-pitched rage of indignity and offense. She levels a half-dozen curses on the man and his lineage while insulting the size of his sex organ and comparing his testicles to kidney beans.

Once past the curses, still speaking Mandarin, Grace explains that she is but a humble accountant in service to a Westerner and that both are in Istanbul on business and that it is by no means any business of the men in this van.

Not that her captor understands a word. The idea isn’t to be understood; it’s to take control of those trying to control you. To get away with as much as allowed. To test the boundaries and buy time and look for a quick way out. She has her best chance of escape while in transit. Once locked down in a fixed location, her chances of survival sink quickly.

Grace is further benefited by the van’s mechanical problems. Apparently the two men chose a lemon for an abduction vehicle; even as she continues her Mandarin assault, she hears the driver complaining. The engine misfires amid the storm of her cursing. The two men argue about what a poor job the driver is doing, taking the heat off Grace, who continues to protest her innocence defiantly.

“Fucking yellowtail,” her interrogator complains. “Cannot shut her up.”

“Fix it!” the driver says. “She spoke English when requesting the transcript. Get it out of her!”

Grace translates this from Persian while her tongue lashes out in Mandarin and her brain hears a translation in English. Mention of “the transcript” runs cold through her as she determines the nature of the house call. Points connect with vectors, arrows weave through her thoughts: these men are tied to her call to the university; the university connects her to the records of graduate Nawriz aka “Mashe” Melemet, who holds multiple degrees associating him with advance studies in particle physics.

They will beat the English out of her, she thinks. Rape her, gladly. Share her with every man.

She begins to fall down a tightening spiral of defeat. Too much knowledge can be dangerous. She has lived such outcomes through their clients, but always at a healthy distance.

Grace clutches at the unrealistic: the van will quit; they will be forced to move her on foot. But where? Is there a destination planned, or is it to be an interrogation and dump? Get what they can, as quickly as they can. Kill her. Move on.

“This fucking piece of shit!” the driver says, pounding the wheel.

“English!” her interrogator roars, attempting to create a wedge in her tirade.

“I am humble accountant,” Grace says suddenly in Mandarin-accented English, still breathless, “serving Westerner making sale of art. Due diligence. Background. Credit checks. No understand what you want.”

She buys herself time as he processes her statement.

“Simple background check,” she continues. “Do so dozen times. Banks. Investment. Education. What you want? What I do wrong? Simple phone call. No more. You have no reason treat me like this.”

“Working for who?”

“This my client!” Incensed.

“Who is this client?”

“I wish all things foul on you and your children. Your children’s children. This none of your business. This confidential.”

There’s a foul smell of fuel; the engine’s choking continues. Maybe she’s going to get her wish after all. Maybe divine justice is real. Maybe all the incense-burning her mother does means something. A twenty-foot golden Buddha with fruit piled at its chipped feet swims across her mind.

“What the fuck!” The driver keeps cursing — in English now. She wonders about a culture that apparently can’t come up with its own expletives.

Flung off the floor by a sharp turn, Grace is thrown back against the side door. Had her hands been bound behind her, this would have been her moment; she might have found the recessed door handle and bought herself freedom. Instead, she smacks her head. Her head sack catches and, as she bounces back onto her bottom, a few threads snag and fray at the bridge of her nose. The van shudders to a stop, coughs and dies.

Grace is thrown back, a forearm to her throat. The door comes open and she’s dragged out, held by her collar. She can see dark, looming shapes through the snag. It’s a parking garage.

She’s led up concrete stairs to a landing, and then on to a higher floor.

Her internal processor slowed by the blow to her throat and the adrenaline compromising her system, only now does she identify the square object mounted to the concrete block wall a level below. A fire alarm.

She’s forced to climb higher. At level two, another fire alarm in the same location on the wall.

Hands bound in front of her.

She knew that would cost them.