Yuri and Lin were in wooden chairs. Electrical wire bound their hands together behind them, and more wire bound their ankles to the chair legs. They looked painfully uncomfortable. Yuri’s nose was busted; dried blood covered the area around it. More blood ran from his hair. One eye was closed, just like Sylvia.
My heart broke when I saw Lin. They had struck her in the cheek. It was swollen and bruised, like a jellyfish tattooed on her skin. Tears ran down her cheeks.
A man wearing a Che Guevara hat rose from behind a desk. The edges of his nose were red from snorting drugs. He fidgeted as he moved, stared at me, disgust plain on his face.
“You think you can play games with me?” He took a knife from his belt. “I’m going to show you how serious I am.”
I made my voice even. “Before you do, I have a message for you. From O Mestre.”
He stopped, stared, still enraged, but I could see hesitation now.
“He’s a friend of mine. He wants you to call home.”
He screamed obscenities at me, but he didn’t move toward Lin or Yuri.
“Call home. Check on your family. Or O Mestre will make you sorry.”
“I ought to kill you, you imperialist pig. And your capitalist whore!”
“That would displease O Mestre. I can’t even imagine what he would do.”
The kidnapper looked away from me. He took a step toward Yuri and Lin, then seemed to reconsider. At the desk, he picked up the phone, dialed, and listened. Whatever was said on the other end scared him to death. He sank into his seat and nodded, as if the person he was talking to could see him. “Of course. My mistake—”
He stopped; apparently the line had gone dead. He replaced the receiver and shouted to his men to cut Yuri and Lin loose, as if it was all a big mistake they had made.
Yuri stood on faltering legs, bracing himself on the chair. But when they cut Lin loose, she just tumbled toward the floor. I lunged forward and caught her. If not for the warmth of her skin, I might have thought her dead.
I hoisted her up and carried her out of the shack in the favela, holding her tightly. I don’t think I really exhaled until the thugs let us out of the car at the bus stop. Lin could stand again, but she still held me tight.
Yuri hugged me too, an unusual show of affection for the man. “You saved us, William.”
“Just doing my job,” I mumbled.
“It was more than that.”
“You would have done the same for me.”
“Yes. I would have.”
Every three months or so, the Beagle docked at an island in the Pacific—the same island every time. I didn’t know its location; no one except the bridge crew did. But I knew it was west of Hawaii, south of the equator, and that it had been uninhabited when it had first come into the Citium’s possession. Everything was new here: the buildings, the port, the roads. There was no government save for the Citium, and no crime. No fear. Perhaps for that reason alone, the Beagle sailed for the island right after Rio. The entire crew was shaken, not just Sylvia, Lin, and Yuri.
Yuri and Lin had grown up in near-constant danger; he in Stalingrad during the German invasion, she in Hong Kong during the Japanese occupation. But I think they hadn’t experienced real life-threatening danger in twenty years—since their childhood. It scared them, though Yuri was stoic as usual. On the sub, Lin told me how he had fought them. He had been brave, but it was a useless fight. All the same, I liked him even more for it.
I don’t know the island’s official designation, but aboard the Beagle we called it the Isle of Citium, or simply the Isle. It had a deep-water harbor on its south side, with a massive seaport that was way too large for such a small landmass. Every time we docked, there was a cargo ship unloading supplies—building materials mostly, and some heavy equipment. The cost of building on the island was enormous, but I saw the logic in it. This place was completely off the grid and extremely hard to find. Most people don’t realize how vast the Pacific is. Every continent and landmass on the planet could fit within the Pacific. It’s larger than the Atlantic and Indian Oceans combined.
The Isle was the perfect place for the Citium to hide, and in August of 1967, it was the perfect place for our crew to recuperate. We unloaded at the port, rode the electric golf carts to the residential building, and retired to our rooms. The place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and offered privacy: every bedroom had its own bathroom and a small living room. After three months on the Beagle, it felt like a vast penthouse apartment. Being able to shower in privacy was a luxury. Sleeping without a person above and below you, and three more across from you, was refreshing—and quiet.
In my time in the field, I have found that a brush with death always changes a person. Some not permanently, but everyone temporarily. That was true for Yuri and Lin. Yuri turned inward. On the Isle, he poured himself into his work. He was more convinced than ever of its importance.
Lin changed in the opposite direction. She stopped working herself to the bone. In the cafeteria, she laughed more, stayed longer at the lunch table.
At our post-tour bonfire on the beach, I saw her have a glass of wine for the first time. She absolutely glowed in her black dress. To me, that night, she was brighter than the moon, and the tiki torches, and the candles in the glass vases that lined the long table. I couldn’t help staring at her. I tried to hide it less with every drink.
There were six people left at the table when she stood, said goodnight to the rest of the table, and looked me in the eye.
“Nice night for a walk.”
I stood and held out my hand.
Chapter 82