Milena, or the Most Beautiful Femur in the World

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  “What good is she to you? She’s a hot potato here in Marbella,” Bonso said, remembering what the Turk had said about keeping her in their possession.

  “That’s my business, not yours.”

  “You’re going to kill her, and then there goes my only proof that I had nothing to do with what happened to Boris.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Milena’s my property. I wouldn’t destroy what’s mine, right?”

  “Well, I don’t believe you,” Milena said, emerging from the shadows from behind Vila-Rojas, where she had heard these last words. “I don’t trust you.”

  “You stay out of this, you dumb slut,” Bonso said. It’s your fault we’re in the middle of this. This is men’s business.”

  Vila-Rojas looked at her, surprised.

  “I had a deal with you, and I’m still planning on keeping it, honey,” he said to her.

  “A deal? You motherfucking pig. You gave me two death kits. You wanted to kill me.” She looked toward the Turk, who removed the packet with the syringe from his pocket.

  “That dose isn’t fatal!” Vila-Rojas shouted, rolling up his arm and exposing the inside of his forearm. “Shoot me up!”

  Milena looked at him with curiosity. After what she’d been through at Vila-Rojas’s side, everything was confusing. She wanted to hug him and take refuge in him, but she also wanted to respond to his dare. In the end, she did neither.

  “Let’s call Yasha,” she said.

  “What? Are you crazy?”

  “He’s the only one who can guarantee my life. I have exact information about what’s being planned against him. He wouldn’t want me dead, I can promise that.”

  “I’ve got that same information,” Vila-Rojas objected, furious. “You’re the one who gave it to me. You’re completely expendable.”

  “You’re wrong. I have a lot more than what I told you. What they’re planning will wipe you and Yasha off the map. Believe me.” She wasn’t very sure of what she was saying, but her categorical delivery had its effect on the lawyer.

  “Call Yasha,” Bonso interrupted menacingly.

  The Romanian figured if what Milena said was true, the Russian boss was a better life insurance policy than Vila-Rojas. Deep down, he knew there was no hideaway that could keep him safe from the mob. The only possibility of survival was for Yasha to let them escape while pretending he was on the hunt for them.

  Vila-Rojas looked doubtfully from one to the other. Dealing with Yasha was a risk, but it might well be the safest bet. If the mafia captured Bonso, which was far from improbable, he would fess up and Vila-Rojas would end up rotting in the sea. It was better to bring Yasha in and let him hear it from the horse’s mouth. Anyway, eliminating Boris benefited him, and if the videos became public, it would hurt Yasha, too. Olena would think Vila-Rojas was working under his orders, no matter how much the boss denied it.

  “You better have something good,” he said before filling his lungs with air and typing a number into a phone Milena had never seen.

  Then he walked away a few feet and spoke for several minutes. He returned to Milena’s side and passed her the phone.

  “Your turn.”

  They listened to her speaking Russian. Bonso followed her words like dogs chasing birds flying by overhead in the vain hope that one might fall into their teeth. By Bonso’s face, it was clear he understood Milena’s mentions, in Russian, of Boris and other members of the Kattel family, but little else apart from the occasional word.

  When she hung up, they pelted her with questions, but all she said was that Yasha was interested in what she’d told him. She’d gone for broke in her conversation with Yasha. She’d revealed to him two key things: the plot Boris and his mother were hatching to overthrow him, which caught his attention, and the attempts of the visiting agents from Moscow to set up relations with the Russo-Ukrainians in Marbella, which he blew off.

  Five minutes later, the four of them twitched when Vila-Rojas’s cell phone made a strange noise that echoed through the domed ceiling of the warehouse. The screen briefly lit their expectant faces.

  “It looks like we’re free,” Vila-Rojas said with relief after a brief conversation. “He wants to see me in an hour to set up the details of your escape. For now, you need to leave the country. He wants more information from Milena, but he thinks it’s too dangerous to have her around. It’s enough for him if she ends up somewhere the Kattels can’t see her and he can get in touch with her by phone. You get to keep your lives and he’ll set you up in business on the condition that you become her protectors: that means taking care of her but also not letting her out of your sight. He needs her alive, in a safe place, and far away. If we comply with those conditions, we’ll all survive. When things die down, he wants Milena back here. He wants to know the details of everything Milena heard when she was with Boris. He had no idea the Kattels were plotting against him, not the ones here and not the ones from Ukraine.”

  “We’re going to be fucking babysitters,” Bonso complained.

  “Or cadavers. You pick.”

  “They’re going to put us in business? Because I only know one.”

  “Then that’ll be it. That way, it’s easier for her to go unnoticed. Besides, I don’t think Milena has another trade, either,” Vila-Rojas said. “Yasha didn’t say to treat her like a queen, you can put her to work, but no risks.”

  Looking at Vila-Rojas’s eyes, hearing the hard words that sealed her fate, Milena wondered again if the dream kit had been lethal. Maybe she had never meant anything to him. Maybe she had been a mere tool, and was now nothing but a burden he needed off his hands.

  She thought of the Arabs there in the back of the warehouse and wished she were one of them. She had seen their anguished faces, furrowed from uncertainty, but also from the hope of finding a different destiny. Besides, they had each other. While Vila-Rojas and the others conferred about their escape, she looked down and saw a fissure in the warehouse’s cracked and crumbling cement floor that ran all the way to the wall. She walked over it, as though she could fall inside and disappear once and for all.

  She was awakened from her stupor by a kiss on the forehead and the steps of Vila-Rojas moving away and getting into his car. She saw how the night swallowed the taillights of the Mercedes before the other men hurried to close the gate.

  ‌64

  Amelia and Milena

  Thursday, November 20, 10:15 a.m.

  When Amelia arrived, the four young people were already in the meeting room. After telling her boss about Luis and Milena’s sudden appearance, Alicia must have alerted Rina and Vidal, too.

  Luis and Rina were standing up next to the window, murmuring sweetly to one another while he stroked her cheek tenderly. Vidal and Milena seemed to have given their blessing to their friends’ affections, because, though their arms were still around each other, they had interrupted the embrace they’d greeted each other with to turn their heads ninety degrees to watch them. Amelia didn’t know which image was more moving to her.

  She was seeing Milena for the first time, and what she saw helped her understand the uproar the girl provoked. It was hard to stop staring at her face, not to mention her slender body with its statuesque balance. Amelia told herself that if ordinary humans had been stamped out by a machine, Milena would have been hand-finished and detailed.

  “Milena,” Amelia said simply, then walked over and embraced her.

  Amelia was a good hugger, the Croatian thought. She gave off a powerful, calming force, and for the first time in years, Milena recalled lying in her mother’s lap.

  When they pulled apart, the others came over to greet her, and they all brought each other up to date. Luis described what he and Milena had done from the moment they went into the forest. Amelia noted that his story didn’t flow as naturally as when he’d spoken to her before and that he chose his words carefully, omitting any mention of what he might have felt: cold, hunger, sadness, fear, desperation. His curtness must have been meant to conce
al what had actually happened between those two fugitives while they were on the run.

  She looked at Rina askance, but saw nothing beyond her absorption in her boyfriend’s story. Either her faith in him was blind, or she had decided that whatever had happened was irrelevant compared to the joy of having him back. Both possibilities struck Amelia as admirable.

  Vidal’s attitude was different. While Luis spoke, he stared at the tray of cookies next to the coffee, as if he couldn’t decide between one and the other. He listened to the story with either the impatience of a person who already knows what he’s hearing or the incredulity of someone doubting it. He would have liked to come right out and accuse his friend, make him confess what had really happened in that hotel room. But he avoided confrontation, telling himself that this was the wrong time to put on a spectacle.

  Luis looked worriedly at his friend’s face as he finished his story, but he was convinced that Vidal wouldn’t bring him any trouble.

  “So what happened with Jaime?” Amelia asked. “Any advances?”

  It took a second for Vidal to realize the question was for him, but he was happy for the opportunity to go over Lemlock’s achievements, even if he felt less responsible for them after his confession to Amelia. He told them about the capture of Bonso and the Turk and the interrogation taking place at Lemlock’s offices. This information stunned the others, and they didn’t speak as they tried to weigh the implications.

  “In the end, this doesn’t change anything that I wanted to propose to you, Milena,” Amelia finally said. “You can’t live running from what happened in Marbella, no matter what it was. Everyone has a right to a second chance, and you’d be surprised how many times we’ve found that second chance for women who thought they’d lost everything.”

  Milena wriggled nervously but held back.

  “We can get you a new identity and send you somewhere in Canada, Australia, or New Zealand, where your appearance won’t attract so much attention. There are international networks to support women who have been victims of trafficking, and they have very strict, professional protocols,” Amelia went on.

  Everyone looked at the Croatian’s face, expecting some kind of reaction. The PRD leader pressed on.

  “You don’t owe anything to the people pulling the strings in Spain, and even less to Bonso and the Turk. They took ten years from you, exploited you horribly, took away your youth. But you have another forty or fifty years ahead of you. What happens to those bastards after you’re gone isn’t your responsibility. It’s the price they pay for their crimes. You were a victim, nothing more.”

  Milena imagined herself in some village in the north of Canada, working as a cashier in a supermarket in the middle of nowhere with an apron with “Mary” embroidered on it. She didn’t have the energy to take the countless little decisions a life of her own would require. So many years subject to other people’s whims had caused the muscle of her will to atrophy. It would be so nice to stay with Luis and let him handle everything important. Even the months she’d spent under Rosendo’s protection seemed like paradise compared to what might await her in some backwater surrounded by pine trees. A blonde downing a bottle of whiskey in the solitude of her kitchen. Once again, the metro tracks looked like a good option.

  “Milena,” Luis said. “The future can be whatever you want it to be. We’ll visit you, we’ll publish your Tales of the XY Chromosome, and maybe you’ll go on writing. Or maybe you’ll decide to open a restaurant in Montreal. We’re still waiting to try your cooking, right?”

  Milena thought it over. Perhaps he was right. A depressed cashier in a logging town wasn’t the only possible future. But whatever happened, she’d always be looking over her shoulder.

  Amelia had wanted to offer a plan for Milena first, to show she was on her side, but she couldn’t go on ignoring the delicate matter of the black book.

  “It’s not just you they’re looking for, right? The people on your trail have torn up furniture and walls wherever they’ve gone. You need to trust us now: your secret has cost people their lives, and it could continue to do so. It affects everyone involved, and it’s obvious there’s more to all this than a couple of lowlifes trying to get back a runaway prostitute.”

  Milena looked down.

  “You don’t have to bear this alone,” Amelia added, and stretched out her arm to stroke Milena’s cheek with her palm.

  The girl began to sob, crossed her arms over her chest, and collapsed into Amelia’s arms. Amelia held her. She’d never been to the Adriatic, but it seemed to her that Milena smelled of the salt of cold, remote seas. Despite her physique, the girl emanated a fragility that Amelia found moving.

  After a while, Milena pulled away, grabbed her bag, took out the notebook, and gave it to Amelia. Then she crumpled into one of the chairs surrounding the long meeting table.

  The others walked over, but Amelia fended them off.

  “Give me a few minutes,” she said, then took her place at the head of the table and began to read.

  Luis, who already knew the story of Them, rushed to the computer on the other end of the table and began to type vigorously. He was impatient to see his email after so many hours, but he hadn’t wanted to interrupt his reunion with Rina or the meeting with Amelia.

  When he saw a long email in code from Anonymous, he smiled at Milena, but she didn’t react. The Croatian followed Amelia’s eyes while she flipped through page after page of narrow writing.

  While Luis and Amelia read in silence, Vidal looked at his phone. Rina stood up and walked behind Luis’s back, trying to see what he had on the screen.

  Amelia started flipping through the pages faster. The stories were affecting, and she could imagine the devastating consequences they would have for the people mentioned. She admired Milena’s powers of observation and her sensitivity as she recorded the pretexts these men offered to justify their actions. Was it really enough to whip the mafia into such a rage? Maybe one of the celebrities in those pages had found out what they contained and had paid the criminals to make sure the information disappeared. Probably no one but Milena really knew what secrets the black book held, but many were afraid of its potential revelations.

  Luis’s interruption showed her hypothesis was incorrect.

  “Vila-Rojas is a hell of a customer,” he said. “Between Anonymous and Bad Girl we almost have a complete account of what he’s been up to in recent months. You know he spent a few months in Moscow when he was twenty-two?”

  “How old is he?” Amelia inquired. “When was that?”

  “He’s fifty-three,” Milena responded, her eyes still pinned on Amelia.

  “It was in 1983,” Luis said, quickly scanning the text.

  “In the Soviet days,” Amelia said pensively.

  “So he speaks Russian?” Milena said.

  “He writes it, too,” Luis confirmed. “Anonymous translated some of the messages into English, but they said the ones in Russian were addressed to pages used by Kremlin intermediaries.”

  “What are we looking at here, Milena?” Amelia asked, holding up the black book.

  Milena got up from her chair, took the notebook from Amelia’s hands, carefully pulled away the endpapers and laid it on the table. All could see, in very small letters, a list of banks, account numbers, Russian names, and import-export businesses with transfer receipts.

  “What is this?” Amelia asked. “Is this what the people hunting you have been looking for?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Milena said. “It’s stuff that fell into my hands by chance and I held onto it because I thought it could be important, but I wasn’t completely sure. What I’ve been hearing about the crisis in Ukraine has made me think that yeah, maybe it is. The way they’ve been chasing after me proves it, no?”

  Luis thought they had confessed everything to each other during those long conversations in the half-light. He thought he had, at least. He shoved aside his growing resentment and concentrated on the monitor.

 
“The report I have here might be related to what you’re saying. It has more than twenty pages, with all the emails transcribed in it. From what I see so far, it shows an intense exchange of information between collaborators between Moscow and Marbella, between Vila-Rojas and someone named Olena. I’ll have to read it closely to confirm.”

  “What do you mean, Vila-Rojas?” Milena asked. “Olena would have ties to Moscow, but not Vila-Rojas.”

  “Well, the past few months, they’ve had a serious exchange going on. Olena Kattel, right?” Luis asked, reading directly from the screen.

  “Look,” Milena said, incredulous. “Vila-Rojas worked for Olena’s rival. Besides that, he’s responsible for the death of her son. How could he be her ally all of a sudden?”

  “The information is cut and dry…” Luis insisted, going back over the screen. “It’s about Moscow and money to support Ukraine.”

  “I can’t believe they would just talk openly about this stuff over email,” said Amelia.

  “It’s not so strange. Even lots of specialists think using the Darknet and digital cryptography make their communications impenetrable. But for a dozen or so hackers, there’s no firewall that can’t be breached,” Luis said proudly. “They didn’t even use any kind of code apart from initials. They thought their software guaranteed their security.”

  Now that Milena knew Vila-Rojas spoke Russian, it was clear he had understood the conversation she had with Yasha ten months before in the warehouse. The Russian boss hadn’t cared that the men from Moscow had visited Boris; all that mattered to him was the plot the Kattels were cooking up against him. But Vila-Rojas was a different story. During her time in Mexico, Yasha had called her about infiltrators his rivals had planted in his ranks and other things related to Boris’s uncles in Kiev. He had never asked her anything else about the information concealed in her notebook, though she had told him it existed. Vila-Rojas obviously hadn’t been so uninterested.