Hayward’s leg bounced with nervous energy as he worked the computer keyboard at what must have been one of the last cyber-cafés on the planet. He was a little out of his element. Cyber warfare had made most other forms of force irrelevant, but that didn’t make Hayward an expert.
He was carefully following a set of instructions that came with a nasty little bit of code he’d bought long ago from a vendor on the Dark Web. His leg bounced faster. The little blue ball twirled around on the computer screen while electronic things happened in the innards of faraway servers. This had better work. Hayward had the ChemEspaña information Grange and the CIA were after, but he would only turn the information over after seeing proof that Katrin and Joao were still alive.
And when Grange provided proof of life, Hayward would spring his trap.
A window popped open on the screen. It was white and completely blank, save for three text entry fields. The fields were labeled “start,” “string,” and “end.”
Everything was ready.
Almost.
He downloaded a copy of a special browser and installed it on the café’s computer. The browser was designed to hide his IP address by bouncing any signals to and from his computer around the globe a few times. It would temporarily frustrate the Agency’s efforts to locate him, but only by a few hours.
He used the browser to open his email account. His heart thumped in his chest as he scanned the list of unread emails.
Jesus, there it is. He hovered the mouse over the new email. The field identifying the sender was blank, as was the subject line, but Hayward knew it was the message he had been waiting for.
The message contained just one item—a link.
Hayward copied the link and pasted it into the special browser. A bitter taste filled his mouth and his guts churned.
A muddy image appeared, pixelated beyond recognition. Hayward carefully noted the time. He wrote it down on a piece of scratch paper so he wouldn’t forget it. It was a vitally important piece of information. Katrin’s life depended on it.
Slowly, as more data finished its trans-global trek, the image resolved.
Blonde hair, matted down across her face. Two black, swollen eyes. Blood caked on her lips and chin. It looked as if her nose had been broken. Her mouth was red and puffy. She was lying in the fetal position wearing nothing but underwear that had a deep crimson stain.
Hayward’s jaw clenched. Tears formed in his eyes. His fists flexed. Rage welled within him. They had violated and beaten her.
I will kill every one of you motherfuckers, he vowed.
There was motion in the video image. A man’s boots came into view. One leg retreated, then swung forward, and the sharp toe of the boot struck Katrin’s ribs. She yelped in pain and it tore at his guts. Anguish and anger pushed tears from his eyes.
Hayward wiped his face and replied to the email. “The abuse ends immediately,” he typed. “Or no deal.”
Then he waited, watching, his eyes taking her in, trying to assess her condition, looking for clues to her whereabouts, wondering if he had any chance of pulling this off.
Ding. Another email popped up. “Proof of life,” it read.
“Hardly. Ask her to read the following phrase.” He typed in a sentence, then sent the message.
A minute dragged by. Hayward watched the webcam screen intently. Katrin adjusted her position on the floor, pain and misery in her face, but nothing else changed.
Goddammit. Was it a pre-recorded video? Had they already killed her? His thoughts threatened to spin out of control.
Then more motion. A man’s hand holding a piece of paper came into the frame. He shoved it in front of Katrin’s eyes. A puzzled look came over her face. She shook her head.
The hand balled into a fist.
Katrin flinched. Hayward heard harsh words from a male voice, but he didn’t make out what they said.
Katrin considered what the man had said to her, then slowly nodded her head. She sat up, held out her hand, received the paper, and took a deep breath.
“Allahu Akhbar,” she began. Hayward’s throat constricted at the sound of her voice. It was thin, dry, exhausted, and she seemed on the verge of tears.
But she was alive!
Katrin finished the phrase: “Tonight our glorious martyrs bring the new caliphate one step closer, inshallah.”
Hayward took a deep, steadying breath. He needed to keep a clear head, to keep his emotions in check. “Now Joao,” he typed. “Same phrase.”
Another long pause.
Then the webcam view tilted to the left, revealing a bloody pulp of a man with only a passing resemblance to the Joao Ferdinand-Xavier that Hayward knew. Hayward’s heart sank. Guilt took his breath away. I’m so sorry, Joao.
Joao spoke. The words were strained and labored, distorted by Joao’s swollen face and missing teeth, but they were understandable. The computer algorithms would detect them easily.
Hayward pumped his fists. I’ve got you, motherfuckers.
The video link went dead.
Hayward sat for a moment, letting the tidal wave of emotions subside. Katrin and Joao were alive—there were no detectable video tricks, and it certainly was not a phrase Katrin or Joao would ever dream of uttering, making the chances that the Agency thugs pre-recorded the video next to zero.
But there was another, more important reason for the phrase Hayward had chosen. He returned to the strange search window he had opened earlier. He looked at the three empty text fields. In the “start” field, he typed in the time displayed on the computer when the image of Katrin had first appeared. In the “end” field, he typed the time that the video link had gone blank. Then, in the text field labeled “string,” he typed the phrase he’d asked Katrin and Joao to read aloud on camera.
Hayward clicked on the “start” button.
And he prayed.