Chapter 6: The Risk

Her head buzzed and whirled, like a computer being switched on, waking up from sleep mode. She couldn’t feel her body or sense her immediate surroundings. She remembered her name and every new thought opened new pathways of awareness. She sensed there was light, although her eyelids were glued shut. With grueling willpower and concentration, she was able to open them, but the light burned and she immediately closed them. She also sensed that she was lying on her back, but didn’t recognize on what or where. Her body was numb, anesthetized, disconnected from her brain, not responding to her commands to stir. She wanted to speak, but couldn’t. She fixed her mind on her index finger, trying to click an imaginary mouse. In an instant, every cell lit up in an explosion of energy, rebooting her body and bringing back each segment of her memory.

It was almost 8 a.m. She had overslept and missed her morning jog and the opportunity to explore the green forest. This rarely happened to her and everything felt unreal. She remembered going to bed early, although she couldn’t remember when and how. Her stomach protested like a hungry bear awakening after long months of hibernation. She picked herself off the bed to get dressed and go have breakfast. Her muscles worked, but every movement drained whatever energy was there.

As she went to change her blouse, she noticed that she was wearing it inside out. Was it possible that she left her room the night before in that state? Maybe that was the reason why that strong, mysterious man looked at her with such intent. Stranger yet was when she removed her jeans to discover that she was wearing her panties backwards. “This can’t be,” she said out loud, entirely confused and boggled.

Even though she was still tired, Clara spent the rest of the morning trying to understand what was happening to her. Nothing came to mind. It was as if her memory from the night before had been wiped completely clean. Frustrated, she decided to get out and take a walk around downtown. Exercise and a wholesome meal was the best recipe to recharge her batteries and refresh her memory.

At the city park overshadowed by the imposing university, Clara wandered aimlessly in front of several kiosks when the headline of a magazine for teenagers caught her eye. Warnung! Date-Rape Drogen, die neue sexuelle Belästigung!

She knew enough to piece together the words, warning adolescents about the dangers of drugs used at parties, bars, and other encounters, slipped into drinks for the purpose of committing rape and other acts of sexual abuse without the consent and knowledge of the victim. She remembered a lecture at the police academy about such drugs. However, since they were not classified as narcotics, they were not on the radar of her division at the Federal Police.

Nevertheless, she recalled some of the major effects and believed that the symptoms she felt right after drinking the tea the previous evening and when she awoke this morning appeared to be identical. Who would want to drug her? Was she sexually abused during the night? Her blouse and panties certainly indicated that someone had messed with her.

Suddenly, a light came on in her mind. It was the tea! The drug had been slipped into the tea! There was no other explanation. And, this was probably how they did it to Rebeca. There was no doubt in Clara’s mind. She had to come up with a plan to find the answers to all her questions in the hope that they would lead to finding her sister.

Clara returned late to the pension and, when she entered, found Alesa who had just finished having tea and was going to her room to pack her belongings. She had passed all her exams and was returning the next day to her town to spend the summer with her family. Clara wished her all the best and went to her room to change clothes and return downstairs.

At quarter to nine, the same time as the evening before, she entered the dining room and was glad that she was alone and the last one waiting for the evening tea. When the Russian woman appeared, Clara promptly told her that she wanted to try the English tea again, but with extra sugar cubes.

As soon as the woman placed everything on the table and returned to the kitchen, Clara removed from an inner pocket of her denim jacket a small, empty plastic bottle of Coca-Cola. She poured a sip of tea in her cup and the rest in the bottle. She quickly returned the full bottle to the inner pocket and simultaneously removed a store flyer from KiK, pretending that she was looking at a special offer on clothes. No one saw the ploy and she continued with her act of drinking tea and pouring herself a second cup, like she was playing a girl’s game practicing good manners and etiquette.

It didn’t take long for the brawny man with the shaved head to make his entrance from the kitchen and take a seat behind the reception counter. Once in a while, Clara would observe him from the corner of her eye to make sure that he was watching her. She remained calm like a duck, seeing that her act was progressing as planned. However, the bottle with the hot tea was beginning to scorch the side of her breast. She stuffed several cookies between the bottle and the lining of the jacket to shield against the burning sensation. Quick thinking and resourcefulness in unexpected, dire situations had always been one of her strong points.

Taking her time, Clara pretended like she was taking the last sip of her tea and delicately dabbed her mouth with the cloth napkin. When she stood up, she rubbed the palm of her hand across her forehead feigning dizziness and letting the flyer fall to the floor. The whole time, the man kept his eyes on her, not even concealing his gaze. Clara focused her attention on what she had to do to keep up with her act. Slowly she walked towards the stairway, teetering at times and holding onto chairs and other objects to add a little drama to her supposed malaise.

“Hhuua!” she exhaled upon reaching the stairs, hesitating for a second before climbing very slowly, mentally counting every step of the way.

Before she went to her room, Clara made a fast detour to the bathroom to pour all the tea down the drain. She looked at herself in the mirror, proud of her performance, but, at the same time, knowing that the more difficult and eventually dangerous part was still to come. She was sure of herself that she could face the situation alone. She had already worked covertly on many police missions and with success, although there was always a backup ready to give her support or come to her aid. She knew the risks. She also knew what was in play.

More than an hour had passed since Clara lay on the bed. It could have been more. She wasn’t sure. She wanted to lift her arm to see the time on her watch, but was afraid to move. Someone could be watching her through the hidden camera on the light switch. She tried to sleep to pass the time, yet she was anxious for the show to begin and nervous not knowing what to expect.

Her nose was itching, her back aching, her mind wanted to scream to escape the boredom. She was about to give up on her action. Suddenly, the hum of the elevator broke the silence. This could be the moment, and she focused on relaxing every muscle in her body, her respiration, and even her mind.

She waited for the door knob to turn. Nothing happened. But, when she heard the tinkle of the small bell which she bought that afternoon and tied to the key, there was no doubt that someone was sneaking into the room. She sensed the weight of the look of someone standing next to her bed. A large, rough, calloused hand touched her left arm, slid down, and securely grabbed her wrist. Clara was certain that the hand belonged to a man.

With one rapid, simple movement, the man pulled her up in a sitting position and slung her over his shoulder. He was strong and agile and, before heading for the door and out into the hallway, adjusted her body, leaving her arms and head dangling behind his back. All hallway lights were turned off, with the exception of the light at the head of the stairs. However, it was enough for Clara to take a peek at her watch before the brute stepped into the elevator. It was five minutes to midnight, five minutes for the madness to begin.

Clara felt the elevator going down and after several seconds stop with a loud thud, announcing their arrival. The man opened the door and turned to his left, giving Clara enough time to see that they were in the cellar of the pension, filled with old barrels, crates and shelves, an industrial size washing machine and clothes dryer, but no torture paraphernalia.

To their immediate left, there was a heavy metal door, the type that sealed off a war bunker, which creaked painfully on its hinges when the man pulled it open. The door led into a long, narrow corridor with a low, arched ceiling. It looked more like a tunnel, badly illuminated; the air stuffy and moldy, smelling of cave mushrooms. The man closed the door behind him with a loud bang that could wake up the dead. It sent chills along Clara’s spine.

Even though hanging upside down, Clara trusted her good sense of direction and perceived that they were walking along a slight decline in the direction of the house to the rear of the pension. Some fifty paces later, they arrived at another metal door which led into the cellar of that house and a much wider corridor, illuminated with red lights. The temperature was cool and the air damp with a strong smell of wet diapers.

When they reached a stairway at the end of the corridor, Clara heard the dragging of chains, the echo of iron doors from cell-like structures, and the muffled cry of women coming from the dark depths of the cellar. It was enough for the hairs on her neck to bristle. She prayed that Rebeca was in this building, but not in this dungeon of terror.

The stairs led up to the ground floor where the atmosphere was completely different. They arrived in a large room, richly carpeted from wall to wall, illuminated with soft recessed lights, and furnished with various thick leather couches and chairs. A fancy bar, well stocked with expensive liquor, occupied a privileged position in the room, where well-dressed men were drinking, smoking, laughing, and discussing a soccer game playing on an enormous television screen. It looked like an exclusive club for rich tycoons.

The man carried Clara up another flight of stairs away from the festivities of the playboys and far removed from the cries and stench further below. The stairway was curved and elegant; the steps carpeted; the handrail made of mahogany and the bannisters of wrought iron; all in tasteful shades of masculine temperament and virtue. The second floor was lined with six rooms facing an open rotunda that looked down to the bar area.

They walked past two closed doors. A red door hanger hung from the first door handle that read “STAY OUT.” It was short and gruff, typical of macho speech, and seemed quite obvious that someone did not want to be disturbed.

At the third door, they entered a large suite with thick carpet, a comfortable sitting area with sofa and two chairs, a mini-bar, a console with several controls, and a large king-size four poster bed, stylishly lathed. Behind the couch was a large window draped with heavy, luxurious royal red curtains, however, the glass was completely blacked out so that no light could penetrate or escape. Soft, relaxing background music filled the room; the sensual masculine fragrance of musk permeated the air.