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“The kidnappers are demanding a hundred thousand dollars,” says Palmer, “in bitcoin. Even if I had the money, I wouldn’t know how to convert it. What am I supposed to do...”
Yasira sighs. Dollars. Bitcoin. A ransom demand five days after Lena disappeared. Everything comes together to form a coherent picture.
“Mr. Palmer, listen to me. Unfortunately, it’s not unusual for false ransom demands to pop up for people whose disappearance has made headlines.”
“What?” Frank Palmer’s voice reveals his shock.
Yasira skims the email that Palmer has forwarded to her.
“I can’t be certain, of course, but based on the bitcoins and the unusual timing, I’m afraid we’re dealing with just such a false demand here. Someone is trying to exploit your desperation to rip you off.”
“How? Who could be so cruel...”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Palmer. The cruelty of some people appears to be infinite.”
“But are you sure? What if the demand is real?”
“I’ll forward the email to our experts,” says Yasira. “And you respond to the kidnappers now. Tell them that you are willing to cooperate. But demand a sign of life from Lena. If you get a response, get back to me immediately.”
“All right,” says Palmer and hangs up.
Poor man, Yasira thinks. She’d love to catch those fraudulent blackmailers and put them on trial for emotional cruelty. Damn internet. In the past, blackmailers still had to take the risk of a money handover. Back in the day, blackmailers at least had to face the risk of a money drop—one where you could actually catch them. Now these bastards hide behind bitcoins. What a rollercoaster of emotions that must be for Lena’s father.
The bath... Yasira takes off her bathrobe and gets into the still-hot tub. She takes her phone with her and calls Timo Schenk, who has taken over the first night shift. She forwards the ransom demand to him and requests that it be examined as soon as possible, both by the technical teams and the units specializing in kidnapping cases.
Yasira usually enjoys sleeping in hotels. This goes back to the days when Zara was little and every business trip promised nights without a crying baby. This night, however, is uncomfortable and restless. A pack of teenagers are rioting in the street. Or are they just rioting in her dreams?
Yasira wakes up the next morning feeling anything but rested. It’s still dark outside and she has no idea what time it is. A glance at the alarm clock tells her that she doesn’t have to torture herself with another attempt to fall asleep. It’s just after half past five.
Still in bed, she checks her emails. The first thing she picks out is the BKA experts’ analysis of the ransom demand. Conclusion: probably fake. Probably... Probably fake, probably Mali, probably Beck’s. Probably is not one of Yasira’s favorite words. She would love to hear someone say “definitely.” Just as she’s getting dressed, Frank Palmer calls. The blackmailers have answered. They have reiterated their demand, threatening to harm Lena, but they haven’t sent a sign of life. Because they can’t, Yasira thinks. She tells Frank Palmer that the experts have checked the ransom demand.
“The letter resembles other false claims in comparable cases.”
“There are comparable cases?” asks Frank Palmer.
Yasira wishes she could bite her tongue. That wasn’t worded well.
“The analysis concludes that we’re dealing with free riders who are trying to capitalize on your misfortune.”
“How certain are these experts?” asks Lena’s father.
“Definitely sure,” Yasira would love to say, at least to spare Frank Palmer the agony. But of course she can’t do that. So she says: “They consider it very, very likely.”
Frank Palmer snorts.
“Extremely likely,” says Yasira. “Almost definitely certain. I’d advise you to break off contact, but if you want to reply again, insist on a sign of life. I guarantee you won’t get one, because these blackmailers haven’t kidnapped your daughter. I can imagine that this is a tremendous burden for you. And as I said, if you want, we can provide you with a psychologist...”
Frank Palmer simply hangs up. Yasira doesn’t blame him.
On Yasira’s floor, in the hallway by the elevator, a miserable potted plant stands guard. The rubber tree—or whatever it is—gazes at her with a drooping head as she waits for the elevator down.
“Kill me,” the plant seems to whisper. “Please, put me out of my misery.” The hotel has few guests. Apart from Michael, there are only three elderly couples in the breakfast room. For vegetarians, these hotel breakfasts are often an extremely sad affair. Neither the pale slices, which any self-respecting cheese would deny kinship with indignation, nor the stale, kept-warm scrambled eggs are begging to jump onto her plate. Just at the sight of it, Yasira wants to vomit. So she chews on a dry roll while she waits for Michael, whose ambition seems to be to sample every item on offer at the buffet, to finally be full. Then they make their way to Lena’s school.
Yasira stares out of the car window into the dreary October gray. For Saturday evening, the AfD and co. have called for a major demonstration in Berlin, Michael tells her as they drive. And somewhere in North Rhine-Westphalia, a refugee shelter burned down overnight.
UNREMARKABLE
“Our school is one of the oldest in Germany, by the way!” the principal tells Yasira and Michael as he leads them through the corridors of an imposing brick building. An entirely irrelevant piece of information in the current situation, but surely something he tells all visitors. At the end of the hallway, he invites the two investigators into his office. “All of the parents in Lena’s class have agreed to have their children questioned. You can talk to them here.”
