Sander's Courage Page 4

  hell away from here," I said. "You okay to walk?"

  "Fuck, yeah. It takes more than a bomb to get

  Sander Lars Hansen any day!" He smiled. "I'm just a little

  sore, but I'm okay."

  A two minute phone call later and we were told to

  meet the shuttle van outside the main entrance. And

  within the hour we were the proud drivers of a

  Volkswagen Golf. It's all they had, unless we wanted to

  hire a moving van or a Smart Fortwo. No thank you! Our

  little white Golf would do just fine, and we could leave it

  at the Hertz office in Odense. We'd worry about retrieving

  our own car later.

  "Let's go get our brother," Sander declared. "I'm

  ready for this day to end."

  "BUT HE HAS TO BE HERE," Sander told the admitting

  nurse. "We've already been to all the hospitals, and even

  one in Tastrup. Nobody knows where he is! Where's my

  brother?!" Sander yelled.

  "Sander... Sander! She's trying to help us. We'll find

  him," I said, doing my best to comfort him.

  "As I said, sir, I have the final list of casualties, as

  well as those who didn't make it. There is no boy named

  Jannik Hansen, and there are no boys who are even close

  to matching his age or his physical description. I'm truly

  sorry," she said.

  "We saw him carried into an emergency van, and

  they left for the hospital, I'm sure," I explained. "Where

  else could he be?"

  "Perhaps they took him to the police station.

  Mathias Krug is the head man over there, and if the police

  have him, he will know. Do you want his number?"

  "NO, GENTLEMEN, WE DON'T have the boy, I assure

  you," Police Major Krug reported. "If you saw him leave in

  a medi-van, they would have taken him to hospital."

  Sander and I were speechless. The fear that welled

  inside both of us was excruciating. Sander broke down in

  sobs, and I wasn't very far behind. In fact, I found

  difficulty in processing my thoughts. I knew what I

  wanted to ask, but the dread I felt kept the words inside.

  Krug broke the tension.

  "Mr. Allen, can you describe to me the van you saw

  the boy being loaded into?"

  "Uhmm, yeah. It was a very bright white with an

  orange—a fluorescent safety orange—stripe, and it was

  very tall and had black and white checkered paint all

  around the top of it," I recalled.

  "Do you remember if it was right or left hand

  drive?" he asked. "Only say if you know for sure."

  "It was right hand," Sander interjected. "I'm sure of

  it, because I saw the driver sitting on the right side with

  the steering wheel, and the one who talked to the terrorist

  was sitting on the left."

  "You say you saw the Arabic translator in the medi-

  van?"

  "Yes. It was him, why?"

  Krug called a sergeant over and instructed him to

  take us to one of the small apartments in the police

  barracks, across from the small back garden. Before we

  even had the opportunity to determine that Krug must

  have felt there was something wrong, we found ourselves

  in a hallway with open doors revealing off-duty policemen

  relaxing until their next shifts.

  "You both can stay here until the chief figures out

  where your boy is. And he will figure it out. He's the best

  there is, okay?" the youthful, rosy-cheeked sergeant

  insisted. "And the canteen is to your left. There is always

  plenty to eat, or there's coffee or Cokes. So make yourself

  at home, please."

  "Thank you, Sergeant."

  "You're welcome, and please call me Josef. I will be

  at the desk all night, so if you need anything..." He mimed

  placing a telephone against his ear. The sergeant went on

  his way, and we just sat on the beds and stared at each

  other for comfort. Sander spoke first.

  "Do you think that Jannik is okay?" I didn't know

  what to say; what to think. None of this made any sense at

  all. A whole medi-van of EMT's, the driver, the translator,

  and Jannik can't have just vanished. They had to be

  somewhere safe. And I know Jannik—nothing would keep

  him from us if he had any say in the matter. At the very

  least, he would have told whomever he is with to contact

  us, to let us know that he's safe.

  "I have to think he's okay, Pokes. How else could

  he be? A van full of medics didn't just disappear. I mean,

  it's been a crazy day, right? I bet they just didn't think of

  the place where they're obviously at," I told him.

  "You have to be right, Johnnie. You just have to. I

  don't know what I do without Jannik. Besides you, he is

  my favorite person in the world!" Sander cried. "I want to

  know where my brother is! I want to know if he's safe!"

  The only thing I could do at the moment was to

  hold him and let him cry in my arms. God, I felt so fucking

  useless!

  Chapter 6

  annik awakened for the third time, but now he

  wasn't tired anymore. He just felt weird. He was

  J disoriented when he first entered the big car. Yes it

  was a van, he remembered. Big, and he could tell that it

  was diesel powered because he caught a whiff of the

  exhaust fumes and recognized the smell—it was the same

  odor that came out of the smokestack on the ship that he

  and Sander had taken to Norway that one summer.

  There were men—four of them—and they didn't

  speak Danish, English or German. They sounded angry.

  Maybe they were talking in French, he thought. But maybe

  not. All he knew was that he couldn't understand a single

  word they said.

  The man who saved him from the dynamite guy

  was sitting next to the driver, that much he could see. But

  that was about all. He felt the odd motion, but he could tell

  that the van was—parked? But why the odd sensation of

  motion if it was parked? He didn't feel very well, and

  his face hurt

  from the scratches. Sweat poured from his forehead and

  ran in rivulets to the tiny wounds, making them sting like

  hell. He decided that English would be his best course of

  action.

  "Hello! Excuse, please, but I am back here! Can you

  help?" he began. That begot a frenzy of quick, heightened

  activity from all of the men, each over-talking the other

  one, each louder than the next. And to Jannik the whole

  affair just seemed very odd. What were they so upset

  about? "Can you understands what I say?"

  "Yes, boy, of course we understand. We are not

  stupid!" the driver barked.

  "You are a guest," the one sitting next to him

  added, a tad kinder but still menacing. At least to the

  young boy he appeared to be. Anyway, none of them were

  very nice at all.

  "You have a name?" the smelly one asked. Jannik

  hadn't seen him at first. The tall man with the spotty beard

  was sitting in the rear of the van and he had a gun.

  "I'm called Jannik," he answered.

  The fourth one sat behind the driver's seat
in the

  extra cab.

  "It's the right one," he said. He just glared at the

  boy and turned his attention back to the front. When

  Jannik tried to move, he realized for the first time that he

  was strapped onto a gurney.

  "Why am I here? And where are you taking...

  Uh, please, where are you taking me?" the boy asked

  calmly. "Does my brothers know that you take me here?

  We must to call them on the mobile phone. I know his

  telephone number."

  "We do not worry of this, my friend," the nicer one

  said. "You were in a great accident and you are with us

  now."

  "But where do we go?" Jannik insisted. "My mother

  and father will be wery angry if we not say we is here, so

  we shall call them, yes?"

  "No."

  And that was that. The men suddenly went quiet.

  Jannik noticed that there were sounds of machines and

  some kind of heavy blower fan nearby. He could also hear

  people talking outside. They sounded kind of distant, or

  like they were talking in a cave. Again, he couldn't place

  the language. Then he heard the great whistle blow. Now

  he knew! He was on a ship! The van was aboard a ferry—

  where to, he didn't know. But it explained the odd sense of

  motion he'd felt since he'd woken up. They were at sea.

  EARLY SUNDAY MORNING the duty officer summoned

  Sander and me. The chief wanted us to look at some

  photos. The apprehension we both felt was nearly

  unbearable, and I knew that whatever he had to show us

  must be very important—what if it was a morgue shot of

  Jannik lying on a slab, his little body lifeless? No! No way

  it could be that! He was fine, and he'd soon be back in our

  care and we'd be on our way home.

  "Sander, son, does this look like the van you saw

  your brother taken away in?" the chief asked without

  emotion.

  "Yes! Just like that! Just exactly like that!" Sander

  exclaimed.

  "Is that the van?" I asked Chief Krug.

  "No, Johnnie. But we believe this one is." He

  showed us a photograph of the checker-topped medi-van

  driving onto a huge car ferry. "The van we are looking for

  boarded the Nils Holgersson, a TT-Line ferry out of

  Travemünde. It left at ten last night, and they drove off of

  it in Sweden at seven-thirty this morning," he said.

  "So, what are you saying?" I asked. "They're your

  people, right?"

  "Why would you take my brother to Sweden?"

  Sander demanded. "That's stupid!"

  "We didn't," Krug responded. "We don't know

  anything other than the fact that it's definitely the van that

  you saw take your brother. We know this from the number

  plates. We caught them in security footage from the blast

  site, and at both ferry terminals. The van's stolen. We also

  know that a translator who was entrusted to help us

  defuse the hostage situation is working with whoever did

  this."

  "You mean, Jannik is—they have taken my brother

  from us?" Sander whispered, just before he collapsed.

  "IT'S BAD... REALLY BAD," I spoke into the phone. "We

  don't know why, we don't know who—we don't know a

  fucking thing," I said.

  "Tell me every idiotic detail you can think of,

  Johnnie. Don't leave anything out," Marge Stuplemann

  said. Marguax Stuplemann—Marge to everyone who

  knows and loves her—was my first boss at the CIA Field

  Transport Center in Denmark. Now she coordinates the

  schedules of all of our intelligence assets. She sets it all up,

  and then my team and I physically move the assets into

  place, and exfiltrate them when their work is done. If there

  is anyone in this big world who can help us, it's Marge

  Stuplemann.

  I took her through every step—from the time we

  left our place near Odense, until the moment I thought to

  call Marge. I swear I didn't leave a single thing out. Not

  one friggin' detail.

  "Is there anything you can think of that I'm not

  seeing, Marge? None of this makes any sense. None of it!"

  "Okay, boyfriend, first off, how's our little Sander

  right now?" she asked.

  "He's completely gutted. He fainted and they've got

  him on a bed with some ice packs. I don't know what we're

  gonna do, Mags."

  "Well, first we're gonna keep our shit together.

  We'll get to the bottom of this and get your baby home.

  Where are you?"

  "We're in Flensborg at the central police

  headquarters," I told her. "Next thing I gotta do is call

  Pokey's folks and break the bad news. From there, I don't

  know," I admitted. "I just don't know."

  "Keep it together. If you go down, Pokes and the

  kid go down with you, got it?" she scolded. "I'm serious as

  a Big Mac heart attack. Don't let us down, Johnnie."

  "I won't. I promise. I'm here."

  "I know you are. So it's time to get to work."

  SANDER AND I CAUGHT the next ferry to Sweden. He

  laid his head against the car window, his usually bright

  eyes instead casting a gaze of despair.

  He held my hand and wouldn't let it go for

  anything. Even as we drove onto the ship, he wouldn't

  relinquish his grip at a critical time when I really should

  have used both hands on the steering wheel. I now know

  that I can drive and maneuver a car within the tight

  confines of a ferry parking lane one-handed, but I wouldn't

  have let him go for all the tea in China. Whenever Sander

  Lars Hansen is hurting, you can bet that I hurt twice over. I

  can't stand it.

  "Sander, baby, what would you like to do?" I asked

  gently. "Would you like to go upstairs and rest in the

  cabin, maybe have a bite to eat? You have to eat

  something."

  "Can I just stay here?" he asked, his eyes red and

  moist from steady off and on crying for the past three

  hours.

  "Sure, babe. But let me get you a sandwich or

  something. I'll bring it back and we'll stay right here

  together, okay?" My love just nodded his head, agreeing to

  whatever I'd said. I don't know if he'd even registered a

  word of it, and I don't blame him one bit.

  I kissed him gently on the cheek and told him how

  much I love him. He managed a tiny grin, but I know he

  just did that for my benefit. The day I can stop him from

  thinking first about everyone else before he takes his own

  needs into account, a Republican will be born who

  possesses compassion and a soul. Some things just aren't

  meant to happen.

  "Be right back. I promise."

  When I reached the top of the stairs and emerged

  onto the main deck, I found a relatively quiet spot on the

  leeward side of the ship and called Marge. She picked

  up—as Marge usually does—on the very first ring.

  "We're on the ferry," I began. "Sander's below on

  the car deck. He wants to just stay there, and I'm gonna be

  with him, so there's no signal. But I'll come up at, say,

  between ten and twe
nty minutes after the top of each hour

  in case you need to get hold of me."

  "Sounds good. I'll be leaving for Malmö about an

  hour before you're due in," she said. "Since you left

  Flensborg I've been floating some scenarios."

  "Yeah? Tell me," I said.

  "Don't get too excited yet," Marge cautioned, "but I

  think all the parts fit, so hear me out."

  "Go ahead!"

  "So first thing I wonder is why do our guys target a

  kid? I mean, it's not like he's a pop star or royalty or

  anything, and his folks certainly aren't rich. It's not like

  they've snatched a Heineken or a Rothschild, right?"

  "Right..." I agreed.

  "Except, in a way they have."

  "What?!"

  "So why take him to Sweden? Especially when they

  gotta know they'll be seen at some point. I mean it only

  took, what, twelve hours before the cops got a bead on'em.

  Also, the ferry's a slow-boat way of getting anywhere,

  right?" she said. Of course I agreed. Like we all thought

  from the beginning : none of this makes any sense at all.

  Marge continued: "So I asked myself, why Sweden?

  And then I thought, What's next to Sweden?"

  "Finland?"

  "Finland! And to the right of Finland we have...?"

  "Oh, shit! Russia!" I exclaimed. "Fucking Russia!"

  "Fucking Russia. And as we'll both agree, you and

  Sander are probably not very high on anybody's Christmas

  list at the Kremlin after that business in Belgium," Marge

  said.

  "But these guys were supposed to be Arabs. I mean,

  the guy who held Jannik hostage was your average, run of

  the mill jihadist with a dynamite vest and everything," I

  explained.

  "You do recall that the Kremlin's middle eastern

  section ran your fake spy, right? And the Ruskies believe

  that revenge is a dish best served cold. So, what if this was

  just a way to kill a couple of birds with one stone? They get

  to revenge their failed attempt to fuck with the Iranians,

  while helping their camel fucker friends exact some jihad

  in the name of good old Allah. In our world, Johnnie, two

  and two usually adds up to four."

  "Fuck me..." I whispered absent mindedly.

  "No thanks. But I'll let you buy me dinner when

  this is over," Marge chuckled.

  "Oh! You know I didn't mean..."

  "At ease, skipper! I know! I'm just fuckin' with ya.

  So is the chase on?" she asked.