Lisette and the Cyber Geeks

by

Brian Sands

Verboten liebe, Heike Brentano, Bound Singers

Chapter Seven Official Courier

Neon glare from the hallway lanced into the dimly lit room as Jakes Bottomly opened the door and stepped inside.

"Now what the hell are you ...?" he began.

But he did not finish the sentence as Lisette, her eyes half closed and streaming from the sudden light in the dust-laden air struck with all her remaining strength. She was not quite sure what she was aiming at, but the thick bundle of bandes dessinées in her hands connected flatly with the back of Jakes’s head. The man dropped as though he was pole-axed, which technically was the effect. It was lucky for him that Lisette was half-dead on her feet with exhaustion, otherwise he might never have got up again.

The young woman staggered out through the doorway, casting the bundle of heavy comic books behind her and slammed the door shut. The bandes dessinées impacted on the man between the shoulder blades and ensured that he would stay semi-conscious for another minute. Lisette was glad when she heard the lock snap to. The keys were still in it and, with growing presence of mind, she took hold of them and wrenched sideways. A key snapped off in the lock. That will make it hard for the bastard to get out, she gritted.

Lisette sank down onto the chair recently vacated by Bottomly and lay back, gasping for breath. Her head was ringing. But the cleaner air in the hallway revived her quickly. My god, that was a lucky break, she thought. If I had been tied up in that room any longer, I’d be fainting from oxygen starvation.

She looked along the hallway. With any luck she would evade Miss Priscilla Moons and reach her car. On the other hand, she was not averse to a confrontation, in which case she would do the maximum amount of damage to the woman.

Her handbag lay conveniently on the floor near the pile of comic books. Lisette looked inside. The car keys were still there. Nothing had been touched. They obviously had not bothered to search the bag, although they were more meticulous over her car. No, she corrected herself, it was Jakes who searched the car. Miss Priscilla Moons obviously was not as careful as her minion.

Still feeling decidedly murderous toward the Moons woman, Lisette pushed herself to her feet with her handbag in one hand ready to use as a reasonably effective cosh. She began to walk quickly but quietly along the hallway, reducing the sounds of her heels by keeping on the balls of her feet. The main hallway that intersected with the one she was in was clear and inviting. She moved on towards the front room, but stopped short at the open doorway from where she had a view of the myriad of blooms on each table top. She had noticed a closed office door at one end of the room when she arrived, and hoped that now it was still closed, with the woman inside. And, when she peeped cautiously around the lintel, Lisette was satisfied that this was the case. The office door was closer to the main entrance however, so that part of her escape line had to be negotiated carefully. She slipped off her shoes, noting that they would make useful weapons in an emergency and, shoes in one hand and handbag in the other, she padded across the wooden floor. As she passed the office door, she heard the muted clicking of a keyboard.

All was clear on the stone porch. The only car in the area was hers, parked on the gravel drive under a shady tree. But the office window looked out onto the car park. That was how Miss Moons was so quickly prepared for her; she had seen her coming. Now she’ll see me going, thought Lisette so I’d better make it quick. If she gets close enough to use that dart gun on me I’ll be captured again.

Instead of dashing straight across the gravel of the driveway in her bare feet to the central lawn with its de rigeur ornamental fish pond, Lisette climbed cautiously into the flower bed from the top of the steps. She took a bearing along the front of the convention centre and walked away from the office window, keeping close to the wall. When she reached the side of the building where the flowerbed ended, she slipped her shoes back on and stepped rapidly across the driveway. She continued over the manicured lawn, keeping the small row of shrubs between her and the house until she was opposite her car. Then, brushing between two of the shrubs, she leapt to the door, opened it and slid into the driver’s seat. The motor caught on the first turn of the ignition switch. She backed out in a single gravel spewing half circle and was off down the driveway towards the gates like the proverbial bat out of hell. Lisette glanced in the rear vision mirror but saw no one. After that, she did not look back.

Lisette did not pause in her flight along the freeway and the city streets until she reached her apartment block. And from the parking bay she almost sprinted the remaining distance to the foyer with its newly installed security phone system that Don had insisted on since her burglary, and from there to the lift. She did not stop in her flight until she was leaning against the door of her apartment, on the inside. She was shaking like a leaf.

I mustn’t let Don know how this latest kidnap attempt has affected me, she thought as she took a long brandy and dry, with an appropriately large measure of brandy. She looked at her watch. It was still early afternoon. Her visit to the floral nursery, the blowing of her cover, her capture, taping up and incarceration in the storage room, and her escape had taken less than two hours.

With singular concentration, Lisette set about wiping all signs of the ordeal from her mind and body. The drink was for starters. There followed a long bath amidst layers of bubbles. An hour later, Lisette was sitting comfortably at her work desk as though nothing had happened. She had slipped on a casual pair of brown slacks, a black silk chemise - bought at the same time as the white one which now lay in the laundry basket dust streaked and sweat stained - and a light jacket that matcher her jeans. It was time to take stock.

*

There were too many puzzling features in this case. Instead of eliminating suspects she was finding too many! So far, every lead followed from the list recorded by Chérie Chalmers had uncovered nefarious people whose sole intention appeared to be to seize her, gag and bind her and carry her off. Lisette began to jot them down point by point with pencil and paper.

First there was the little spiv who called himself Doc. He was not on Chérie’s list but was working for one of the villains. Then there was the woman Vellum, her business partner Kidd, and their maid Sigrid, built like a tank. There was Priscilla Moons and her handyman Jakes. Whether the nursery owner Hoffnung was part of that gang she did not know. And she must not forget the unknown stranger who had knocked her unconscious, bound her and gagged her with her own pink silk scarf, before ransacking the apartment. That came to a total of seven, all undeniable criminal elements. The remaining name on the list was Miss Wimple, the manager of the municipal village library of Lower Bodley. That person at least seemed inoffensive. But then, the manager of a florist, on the face of it, appeared innocent too.

Lisette ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. Shall I phone the librarian? She looked at the wall clock. It was already four in the afternoon. No, best to leave that for tomorrow. She decided instead to make an early night of it. Making a brief phone call, she regretfully cancelled the evening dinner with Donald Caisson. She did not tell him about her morning adventure with Moons and Bottomly. It would only worry the man. And Don appeared to be preoccupied, saying something about following a new underworld lead. Lisette put down the phone, sat back, and heaved a sigh of relief. She strolled into the kitchen and prepared another long brandy and ginger ale.

She walked desultorily round the apartment, sipping her drink and wondering what to do on the next day. Lisette felt disappointed that Don had not made a more strenuous effort to see her that night. She was beginning to feel lonely for his warm company. In bed or out did not matter much, the way she was feeling right at the moment, but in bed definitely had its attractions. Was it too late now? Maybe I should phone him again? No. Lisette’s inherent - or was it inherited? - stubborness surfaced. She could not phone the man after so abruptly putting an end to their evening together. On the other hand ...

Lisette was eyeing the phone, and was on the point of casting pride to the four winds and picking up the receiver, when the security intercom buzzed. Maybe it was Don who had changed his mind and come over anyway. With hope in her heart, Lisette snatched the receiver from the wall bracket. There was a crackle as the connection was made, not very well, and a tinny voice asked, "Miss Lisette Ruisseau?"

"Yes?"

"Special courier from Revenue."

Lisette had received many of these before at her apartment, but she still went through the normal procedure.

"Okay, just a moment."

Part of the new and as yet untried security setup was a closed circuit television camera. Lisette switched it on and a slightly fuzzy image appeared on the small screen. It showed a foreshortened view of a man in the familiar uniform of Aardvark Security and Courier Services, or ASCS.

"Okay. ID please."

The courier held up a regulation green card for the TV monitor. At the same time, a broad face with close-set beady eyes flicked briefly across Lisette’s screen. The image jogged her memory but she could make no connection. It was a very ordinary face.

"All right. Come on up," she directed.

"Thank you, Ma’am."

The screen shut down.

Lisette waited, and about a minute later the chimes of her door sounded. I must really ask them to change that theme tune from Close Encounters of the Third Kind to something less clichéd, she thought. It’s becoming monotonous.

There was one more security step to take. Lisette walked to the door and looked through the fish-eye lens to see who was standing on the other side. She was greeted by the courier’s cap with its trademark slogan: "Aardvark Couriers. Let us do the aardvark for you."

Hmm. Lisette opened the door pen in hand for the signing of the receipt book. A clipboard was thrust under her nose. She bent her head to the page. It was blank.

"I don’t under ...?" she began, but when she raised her head she was confronted by two sights. The first was a large and very lethal looking revolver that was pointed straight between her eyes. The second was the George Bush mask the man was wearing over his head.

"Inside," came the order, muffled by the rubber mask. He pressed his way through and kicked the door shut behind him as Lisette stepped back. She raised her hands. It seemed the right thing to do.

"In there." The gunman gestured towards her bedroom. Lisette turned and walked through, closely followed by the intruder.

"Sit." He indicated the small wrought-iron chair in front of the dresser.

Lisette complied, making herself comfortable on the cushioned seat. The bogus courier stepped behind her and held the muzzle of the revolver against her temple.

"Arms behind, round the back of the chair."

Not again, thought Lisette resignedly. I’m getting tired of being told to put my hands behind my back. It always ends with having them tied there. With a gun at her head she had no option.

The man snatched something from the top of the dresser and Lisette felt a thin band of cloth being tied around her wrists. When it was tightened, she realised that it was one of her stockings. It was twisted three times around and a single knot tightened then doubled. She felt the remaining end of the stocking trailing across the back of her hand. The nylon’s texture was almost like that of silk.

Her captor knelt at her feet and swiftly tied her ankles together with the other stocking. Two turns, a doubled knot and it was done. Lisette would not be making any sudden dash for the door and freedom. He straightened up and faced her. He was a short, dumpy man. The thought crossed Lisette’s mind that of all the men who had tied her up over the last few days, Donald Caisson was by far the most handsome. The others were either built blimp shaped, like Mr Kidd, or they were thin and weedy like Jakes or the boy.

"Wh- what do you want?" she asked.

"I’ll ask the questions," was the terse response.

The man put the revolver away in his belt. Lisette sighed, but her relief was short-lived.

Stepping forward, the man raised a hand and slapped Lisette across her left cheek. It was not a hard slap. It sounded worse than it was, but it stung all the same.

"There’s more where that came from, a lot harder too if you don’t answer my questions. Do you understand?"

Lisette nodded. She was beginning to boil with rage, but having her hands tied behind her was a distinct disadvantage. She decided to do her best not to antagonize the man further.

"Take what you want and go, you common thief, you - you bully!"

This was a bluff, Lisette knew, and she privately acknowledged with chagrin that her outburst, at the same time, was hardly designed to humour her captor. But Lisette was fighting to contain her anger. Too much had happened to her lately, and she was becoming thoroughly pissed-off with being bound and gagged all the time.

More importantly, the fellow’s visit, she deduced, was not a burglary attempt. The whole approach to gain her confidence long enough was clearly well planned. The man wore the correct uniform for the courier firm that handled all Revenue’s internal and external mail. He obviously knew the right procedures to follow when making a delivery. And the most damning evidence of all was the green card for ID. Lisette had one herself. They were difficult to get. Employees had to be carefully vetted by Security, and not every Revenue employee had one.

Another thought hit Lisette’s stomach like a lead ball. It had to mean that there was a spy within the organisation, or at least someone bent badly enough to sell information. To get a card it had to be an inside job. No wonder the people she approached, who had all revealed themselves to be criminals, always seemed to have advance knowledge about her. My cover’s blown even before I start, she thought bitterly. That did not improve her spirits either, but she bit her lip and quelled the temptation to make another angry outburst. Instead, she looked up at the man and waited for his reply.

The rotund George Bush scratched his stomach and settled the revolver more comfortably in his belt. When the question came, it was short and completely unhelpful.

"Okay lady, where is it?"

I hate it when clients do this, thought Lisette. It was much worse when they were villains and she was at their mercy.

"Where is what?" she replied, not unreasonably.

"You know."

"No I don’t. I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. If you mean where’s my wallet, or where’s the rent money - third cookie jar from the left in the kitchen, by the way - why on earth don’t you say so?"

"Don’t play games with me!"

Lisette was playing a game, but not the one her would-be thief assumed.

"I’m not trying to be difficult,’ she added, with every intention to be as obtuse and difficult as possible, easy to do under the circumstances, "but if you can’t tell me what you want, then I’d say that communication has broken down badly. There are plenty of nice things for a burglar to take: the stereo equipment, the television if you have a large enough bag for loot, the microwave. So go ahead. You’ve tied me hand and foot. I can’t do anything to stop you."

George Bush shifted his feet, a movement that temporarily redistributed his avoirdupois, much to Lisette’s disgust. The man reminded her of someone she had seen recently, but memory failed her.

"Why don’t you take off that silly mask?" she added. "The fellow’s bad enough to see on television without having to look at a rubber facsimile in real time. I know we can’t tell the difference, but couldn’t you have chosen something more appropriate, like Mickey Mouse? I saw that on a heist movie once."

For a moment, Lisette thought she was going to be slapped again, but the man paused and appeared to consider her suggestion seriously. A few seconds passed, then the captor turned and snatched a long silvery hued silk scarf from the place where it hung at the head of Lisette’s bed. He walked to her and wound the bright cloth about her head and over her eyes. It passed around twice before being tightened and fastened in a double knot at the back of the young woman’s head.

"That’s a good idea, lady. It’s hot in here," came a muffled exclamation.

Lisette heard an unpleasant sucking noise and guessed that the rubber mask was being removed. For all that he’s bound me and acted rough, thought Lisette, he’s a klutz. It must be Bombadil "Boompsi" Kidd, or whatever that pet name is, she thought with a sudden intuition. But I’m blindfolded so I’ll pretend not to recognise him, even if his voice now gives him away.

It did. In what he must fondly have imagined were tough-guy accents to screen his real voice, Bombadil pursued his line of questioning.

"I repeat, where is it?"

"And I have to say again that I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please give me more information."

Lisette tensed herself to receive another slap, but Kidd must have had second thoughts. Instead, he said in what he thought were more reasonable tones, belied by the terse anger that underlay the words, "The disc."

"I don’t know about any disc. What sort are you talking about, a computer disc of some kind? There are floppies, zip discs, hard discs, or CDs, or discs for DVDs ...?"

"Listen," the man said through gritted teeth. Lisette’s chin was seized roughly and her head tilted back. It had to be Kidd, she thought, no one else could have such clammy hands. The man continued, "It’s the disc you took from Doc Legato, their courier. Now do you understand?"

Oh, thought Lisette. Oh yes, much more than you think dear boy. But aloud she replied, "I- I didn’t find anything except for a bundle of cash. Honestly." That part was correct as far as it went.

The grip loosened from her face and the man heaved a deep sigh.

"Well," he said slowly, "if that’s true, I have no further use for you. I can take permanent steps to stop you snooping ..."

Lisette’s heart went cold.

"But ... on the other hand, why make it easier for them? And anyway, you’re cute."

She heard once more the squelching of the rubber mask, being replaced this time. What does he mean by "their courier" or making it no easier for "them?" she wondered as fingers snatched at the knot at the back of her head. She blinked against the light as the blindfold came away. When her eyes cleared, the man was folding the silvery scarf into a square pad. Was he really Bombadil Kidd or his double?

He turned to her, the wadded scarf in his hand.

"Open wide."

If I’m being gagged, she thought, he’s not intending to question me again. But what is he going to do with me? Muffled words through the mask helped to answer her question.

"You’re a lucky young woman. I’m gonna leave you like this, with a warning, mind. Stop your investigations. The others won’t be nearly so forgiving. Write some sort of report to your superiors saying that you’ve come to a dead end, then take a nice long holiday away from here."

By now the scarf had been packed firmly between Lisette’s teeth.

"Bite on that," came the advice from the rubbery Bush, "But don’t try to spit it out."

The man searched Lisette’s dresser and soon came back with a flimsy silk neck scarf that he folded into a thin band. He pushed it into her mouth where it melded with the layers of the packing. When it was tied tightly, it pressed the gag deeper, a lot of it behind her teeth, and pulled against the corners of her mouth. The discomfort made it doubly hard to close her mouth or to work her jaw in a natural attempt to expel the gag.

Taking her under the armpits, the man lowered Lisette to the floor and arranged her on her side. She looked up at him, her smoldering anger mixed with relief.

"I think you will find it very difficult to get free. Stockings make excellent ties. But someone will rescue you in the morning. You will have an uncomfortable night, but the alternative would be far worse."

With those words, he turned on his heels and left. She heard the soft click of the main door to the apartment and knew that she was alone. Alone, and gagged and bound once again!

And a new villain was now added to what was already a very complicated equation. Lisette could not make up her mind whether her assailant was in fact the bumbling Kidd or someone very like him. The efficient way he ended her inconclusive quizzing, by gagging her securely, did not seem to fit the fat man she had met earlier in the company of Madame Vellum and Sigrid. And the more confident, masterful way he had spoken did not sound like Kidd at all. I’ll have a lot of time to mull this over tonight, she thought, if I can’t get myself untied.

There was nothing in the bedroom that might help her. The kitchen was her best bet. She visualised the set of stainless steel steak knives in their rack by the side of the microwave. She only had to get herself out of the bedroom and across the living room to the kitchen for that image of freedom to become a reality.

That procedure was more difficult than she expected. Lisette was very fit - otherwise her recent ordeal at the flower nursery could well have hospitalised her - but having her wrists tied together behind her back and her ankles bound side by side made movement across the room an awkward affair.

At first Lisette tried to wriggle on her stomach towards the bedroom door. But that way of moving was very slow and she was already sweating and breathing heavily through the gag before she had gone halfway. She rolled onto her back and sat up. Pushing with her hands against the floor behind her and pulling with her legs, her feet planted firmly on the floor, gained ground a little more quickly. But inch worming the distance in this way was still a slow business. Her wrists were burning because she was using her hands to push her body along, and the stocking was tied very tight, and the corners of her mouth itched ferociously under the scarf that held the gag in place. Apart from these discomforts, there were things she needed to do and she wanted out of her bonds as soon as possible.

When she reached the doorway, she saw with surprise that her mobile phone was lying invitingly at the centre of the polished wooden floor. The fat man must have placed it there on his way out, she wondered whether as a joke of some kind. The quickest way to get across was to lie on her side and roll over and over. It meant a rapid expenditure of energy balanced against a rapid gain. The more immediate gain won out, and Lisette put the idea into effect.

She was panting heavily when she reached her objective in what was only a few seconds of rolling. Turning over onto her side with her back to the mobile phone, she sought for it with her fingers. A couple of times she missed it and once it slipped from her hands. But at last she held it. Her sensitive fingertips caressed the buttons until she found the one that activated the mobile. She pressed. There was no dial-up tone. Lisette shifted herself around awkwardly so that she could see the display. There was no illumination on the dial. The mobile phone was dead!

Drat! Lisette allowed her head to sink to the floor. She closed her eyes and groaned. Up until now, she had not tried to call for help because the gag felt extremely effective from the moment it was put on her, but now she lifted her head, took a deep breath, and screamed in frustration. The strangled croak that was all the sound that came out surprised her, even though it was to be expected. Lying there in the middle of the wooden floor in the living room of her own apartment, Lisette felt totally alone.

Chapter Eight

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ã Brian Sands 2004