Boston—around the same time
Massina regained consciousness in a grungy room with a view of the Charles River. His hands were tied behind his back, and his feet were chained to the leg of the couch he’d been deposited on. He knew it had to be past midnight, though his watch had been taken, along with his wallet and phone.
While he was well off, Massina had never considered himself a prime target for kidnapping or even robbery. The company’s security forces were focused on the plant and IP, not his own person. So he looked at the situation the way he looked at everything unexpected: with great intellectual curiosity. What did these thugs think they were going to get, and why? How were they going about it? What were their assumptions and their motivations?
Money would be a good guess as to the latter.
Standing, he found he could move a few feet from the couch before being held back by the chain. He stretched as best he could, then tried to figure out where exactly he was by staring out the window at the darkened river.
Lights were scattered along the far shore. He thought he could see the outline of the bridge to his right, but the window wasn’t clean enough for him to get a good view of what was outside.
West maybe of Arsenal Street or Route 20.
He strained to see if there was traffic on the bridge—a lot of traffic would make it the highway, but he couldn’t tell from where he was standing.
“Awake, good!”
Massina jerked around. A man leaned up against the corner of the room. Massina hadn’t even realized he was there.
“You’re pretty rich, huh?” said the man.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Just to make sure you were OK. I apologize for the rough handling. It was a mistake. The people responsible have been punished.”
His face was obscured by the shadows, but Massina guessed that he was in his thirties. He spoke English with a heavy accent, Russian or German.
“Is this a kidnapping?”
“A kidnapping, no? Not even a robbery. Your wallet and phone are in the outside room.” The man stepped forward. His face was covered by a ski mask. Massina tried to guess his size—over six feet, but by how much?
“Here’s the key,” said the man, turning as he reached the door. He threw a small ball of tape at Massina, hitting him in the chest. The ball dropped to the floor near the couch. “You may go when you free yourself.”
“Who are you?”
“Friends. You may do well to take on investors,” added the man. “As insurance in the future.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Massina, but the man left the room without answering.