Free Borderline by Liza Marklund

number. His boyfriend took the call and received a short, concise message, in East African English, that Alvaro had been kidnapped and that he would be released in exchange for forty million dollars.’
    Annika gasped. ‘Forty million dollars? That’s … what? In kronor? Quarter of a billion?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    Her hands started to shake again – alien hand syndrome the whole damn time. ‘Oh, fuck …’
    ‘Annika,’ Halenius said. ‘Calm down.’
    ‘Quarter of a
billion
?’
    ‘It looks like there might be a number of different motives behind this kidnapping,’ Halenius went on. ‘There’s the political aspect, as indicated by the video, and then there’s the demand for money, which suggests a standard kidnap for ransom. You’re right about the second being preferable.’
    ‘But a quarter of a billion? Who’s got that sort of money? I certainly haven’t.’
    Kidnap for ransom?
    The words triggered something inside her, but what? She pressed her shaking hand to her forehead and searched her memory. An article she had written, an insurance company she had visited during her first year as a correspondent, in upstate New York: they were specialists, K&R Insurance – Kidnap and Ransom Insurance …
    She jumped to her feet. ‘Insurance,’ she yelled down the line. ‘The department must have insurance! Insurance that will pay out the money and everything’s sorted!’ She was practically laughing with relief.
    ‘No,’ Halenius said. ‘The Swedish government has nothing like that. On a point of principle.’
    She stopped laughing.
    ‘Insurance of that sort offers a short-term and dangerous solution. It increases the risks and drives up ransom demands. Besides, the Swedish government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.’
    She could feel the ground opening beneath her and struggled to cling to the doorframe.
    ‘But,’ she said, ‘what about me? What do I do now? What happens next? Are they going to call me as well, on this number?’
    ‘That would be an excellent starting point.’
    She could feel panic rising and her field of vision shrank. She heard the under-secretary of state’s voice from a long way away.
    ‘Annika, we need to talk about your situation. I know you don’t want me in your home, but right now I think that would be the most straightforward solution for you.’
    She gave him the code to the front door.
    * * *
    The Frenchman was protesting again. He was shouting relentlessly to our captors, and ordering Catherine to translate his words into Swahili, which she did in a subdued voice with her head lowered. Now he wasn’t just raging about the wound to his head, but also our sanitary predicament. None of us had been allowed to go to the toilet since we were captured two days ago. Urine and excrement were stinging our skin and making our clothes stiff.
    The German woman was crying.
    I could see irritation and anxiety rising among the guards. They were nervous each time they opened the wooden door of the hut, and would explain quickly and angrily that they didn’t have the authority to let us out. We had to wait for Kiongozi Ujumla, the leader and general, but we had no idea if this was one person or two, but only he/they had the right to make decisions about prisoners, they said. (The prisoners were us,
wafungwa
.)
    When I heard a diesel vehicle pull up outside I actually felt relieved. The Frenchman fell silent and listened, along with the rest of us. We could hear muttering.
    The sun was going down. It was almost completely dark inside the hut.
    It seemed an extremely long time before the door was opened again.
    ‘This is completely unacceptable!’ the Frenchman cried. ‘You’re treating us like animals! Have you no decency?’
    The black silhouette of a short, thick-set man filled the doorway. He was wearing a turban on his head, a short-sleeved shirt, loose trousers and heavy shoes.
    His voice was high, like a young boy’s. ‘You no like?’ he said.
    The