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Unknown Location

 

Viggo Karlsson moaned, his nipples in agony, the bastards that had kidnapped him twisting them with pliers hours ago to elicit a scream out of him when his friends apparently had doubts on whether to continue. While he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want anyone risking their lives for him, yet he was powerless to do anything.

He had refused to speak to Acton when it was demanded of him, so they had brought out the pliers. He had never imagined such pain was possible, the mere thought of it sending a new surge through his body. At this moment, he would rather die than feel such a thing again, and the very thought devastated him. To think that this could be the end of everything, all over a ring lost for one thousand years, was tragically disappointing. He might be old in some people’s eyes, but he still had too much left to contribute before he was cremated and his ashes spread across the fiord where he was born.

And his wife would be wrecked.

She could take care of herself. That wasn’t what worried him. The woman took care of him. But she was lonely. He still had his work, but she only had him and a dwindling pool of friends, some passing as time was known to cause, others moving to greener pastures or to be with children who had made lives elsewhere.

If only Theo were still with us.

Their only son had passed away almost ten years ago from ALS. It had struck swiftly, taking him in less than a year, and much of that final time was filled with pain and suffering. It had been a blessing and a curse to finally see his suffering end, but it had changed them both forever.

It was almost enough to make him believe in God, if only it would have meant his son would be in a better place, rather than simply dead, his existence finished.

His wife believed, and that was enough. He had always felt that if God were indeed real, he would be loving enough to accept all into His dominion, even those who didn’t believe, so long as they led a good life.

And he thought he had, though if the afterlife were real, he’d prefer eternal damnation than his friends dying for him.

But again, he had no control over the situation.

In fact, he had no idea where he was, except that it wasn’t the airplane they had woken him on. When he had refused to hand over the ring to the Ambassador, he had risen to leave, but before he could get out of the room, he was grabbed by both arms and jabbed in the neck with something. He assumed it was a needle loaded with some sort of drug, because he passed out in short order, waking on the plane where they demanded he speak to Acton, then provide them with every detail of his university he could remember, including the location of security cameras and passcodes.

What had dismayed him was that they knew so much already. They had the blueprints and security camera layouts in levels of detail far greater than he could provide.

They just asked the questions to make sure you were telling the truth.

It was clear to him they were blackmailing Acton and his wife into stealing the ring in exchange for his life. His fear at first was that they might get hurt in the attempt, so he was reluctant to actually give complete information. If they were to be caught in the act because of a forgotten camera or an incorrect code, then they could be saved from what was to come.

Unfortunately, these men holding him captive had apparently thought he might try something, and instead threatened not only the lives of his friends, but those of his wife and students at the dig site.

And he believed them. These were fanatics. No sane person would go to these lengths just for a ring. And their actions in Turkey removed any doubt that they would make good on their threats. There they had sent a team of fifteen hitmen in a premeditated murder—one doesn’t bring a bone saw to a kidnapping—and beat a man to death, then chemically liquified his remains.

Then denied, denied, denied.

And they would do the same to him and his friends.

All for a ring he couldn’t care less about right now.

I just want to go home.

But where was home in relation to here? He had no idea where he was. After giving them everything he knew to help Acton steal the ring, they had injected him again, and he had woken tied to what he assumed was a chair, with a hood over his head and tape over his mouth.

And a bladder ready to burst.

He shouted against his gag, not certain if he was alone or not, the hood over his head leaving him completely unaware of his surroundings. He hadn’t heard anything since he had regained consciousness. For all he knew, he could be alone in the center of a warehouse, or surrounded by dozens, all staring at him in silence.

“He’s awake.”

 It was said in Arabic, a language he had learned in his youth when his father had been stationed in Egypt as part of the diplomatic core. Things had been more peaceful then, not like they were today. At first, he had supported the migrants fleeing the civil war in Syria, but as his government took more and more in, he, like many Swedes, realized too late the mistake they had made.

They were losing their country.

Yet none of that mattered right now. He’d give anything to be back there, and was about to demand an answer as to what was going on when he decided to keep the fact he spoke Arabic to himself—it might prove useful should they reveal some detail he could use later to gain his freedom.

“Please, is anybody there? I need to use the bathroom.”

It was a universal need, shared by everyone, though he wasn’t sure if it would be understood through his gag.

Someone approached. Footsteps on carpet.

Not a warehouse.

His hood was yanked off and he blinked rapidly, staring up at the bearded man who stood in front of him. He jabbed him in the chest with a finger.

“Scream, Professor, and you die a slow, painful death.”

Karlsson nodded, there no need to convince him of the truth contained in those words. The tape covering his mouth was yanked free, and he drew several deep, gasping breaths, the first he had taken unrestricted in hours, he was sure. “I-I need to use the bathroom.”

The man stepped back and pointed to a door on the left. “Five minutes. And leave the door open.”

Karlsson stood, the effort required surprising, his joints protesting at not having been used since the embassy. He stepped into the bathroom, turning on the light, and gasped.

It was immaculate.

Based upon the amenities in plain view, wherever he was must be a hotel. He made for the toilet and took full advantage, as he had no idea when he might be given another chance. As he sat, he took in his surroundings, deciding this was a luxury hotel like none he had been in before.

It meant his captors had money.

And of course they did. They were connected with Saudi royalty, and that meant Saudi oil money.

He shook his head.

Why anyone would buy Saudi oil over that available in peaceful countries like Canada, he’d never know. It was why he had a problem with the environmental movement sometimes. By blocking pipelines, they forced companies to buy their oil from murderous regimes like the Saudis and Venezuelans, instead of from those evil Canadians.

Their response?

Leave it in the ground.

Right, and shut down Western civilization as we know it.

Morons.

He flushed a toilet full of what those people were dishing, and headed for the sink, finally staring out the window in the room behind him, reflected in the mirror he now faced.

And gasped once again.

A city, carved out of a desert that stretched as far as the eye could see, was shocking in how far below him it appeared.

Where am I?

Then his eyes shot wide as he realized exactly where he was.

The Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest building, located in the heart of Dubai.

And his heart sank.

Nobody would think to look for him here. There was no hope of rescue, no hope of police that could be trusted to come to his aid. Even if he managed to escape, he would be surrounded by potentially hostile, certainly untrusting people, who would hand him over to authorities likely under the influence of whoever had taken him.

The Saudi government.

I’m doomed.

He dried his hands and stepped back into the room. The man who had removed his gag pointed at a comfortable chair in the corner.

“Sit there and keep your mouth shut. If you try anything, you’ll be bound and gagged. Understood?”

“Yes.” His stomach growled. “Umm, could I perhaps get some food and water?” He glanced at his watch, his eyebrows jumping.

Eight hours!

“I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

The man nodded. “I’ll have some brought up.” He left the room, a conversation between the man and another starting up, again in Arabic, debating whether to bother feeding a man who might be dead in short order.

“Someone could ask questions,” protested the other man.

“Who? And what would they ask? Why hotel guests ordered room service? Why would they possibly have questions about that?”

The response was dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe why we need a third meal when there are only two of us here?”

The first chuckled. “Is that what you’re worried about? Then we’ll order something that can be shared. No one will question that.”

“I still say we let him starve. Give him tap water if it will shut him up, but every time someone enters this room, we risk being discovered. Sheik Al-Zayani will not be at all understanding if we mess this up.”

Karlsson latched onto the name.

Al-Zayani.

He had heard the name once before, this morning. The Ambassador had said the ring belonged to the Al-Zayani family, and they wanted it back. Things had rapidly headed south when he said he didn’t have the ring with him, nor was it in his purview to give it to them.

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t belong to me.”

The Ambassador had vigorously nodded. “Exactly! It belongs to us!”

Karlsson’s eyes narrowed. “Your country didn’t even exist when this ring was buried and forgotten.”

“You know what I mean. The ring belongs to the descendants of who originally owned it, one of our citizens. It belongs to the Al-Zayani family, and they want it back.”

Karlsson hadn’t bought the explanation. “How can they possibly know the ring belongs to them? It’s over one thousand years old.”

The Ambassador had seemed slightly uncomfortable with the question, leaning forward in his chair and lowering his voice. “I will tell you something, my friend, something you need to understand. When the Al-Zayani family says something, no matter how outrageous you may think it is, you believe it as if Allah himself had said it. Their word is enough. The ring belongs to the Al-Zayani family because they say it does, and they want it back.”

Karlsson shook his head. “And again, like I said, it’s not mine to give.”

Frustrated words had been barked behind him in Arabic. “Enough of this nonsense!”

And moments later he had felt something jab into the side of his neck as he rose to leave, his world fading to black.

This little overheard tidbit at least confirmed who was behind this.

He strained to listen to the conversation that continued in the next room of the suite they occupied.

“That American has the ring,” said the first. “It’s only a matter of hours before he gets here, then this will all be over.”

“Right, and do you think the sheik will want any witnesses left who might be able to talk?”

There was a pause. “Would he care?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s one of the most powerful, richest men in the world. He’s untouchable.”

An audible sigh sounded. “I pray to Allah that you are right, my friend, otherwise you and I could be sharing a grave with our Swedish professor before the night is out.”

“I’ll put a bullet in the sheik’s head myself before I let that happen.”

“You would condemn your family to death just to save your own? I for one would happily accept death, as should you. I just pray that Allah finds our deaths worthy of entry into Jannah.”

The first chuckled. “Let’s not plan our deaths just yet. I still think the sheik doesn’t care if anyone knows. He’s simply above the petty concerns of us mere mortals.”

The second laughed. “Let’s hope you’re right.” He sighed. “So, we feed him?”

“Feed him, and order extra for ourselves. If we’re going to die today, then I refuse to do it on a stomach that isn’t bloated with the finest life has to offer!”

Karlsson shivered as his stomach growled. It sounded like Acton had succeeded in stealing the ring, and if he were indeed on his way, he had obviously come through the ordeal unscathed, and he prayed the same was true for Laura.

Prayed.

He sighed, wondering if he were a hypocrite for praying to a god he didn’t believe in.

If you’re real, then please protect my friends. Don’t worry about me.

He suppressed a grunt.

No Atheists in foxholes?

He frowned.

I am a hypocrite!