Milena, or the Most Beautiful Femur in the World

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  Milena said nothing while the others went on speculating about her notebook and the Russian mafia. She couldn’t make Agustín and Olena fit together. And it distressed her to think of the consequences that alliance could give rise to. With mounting angst, she recollected the threats, the shattered walls, the bodies mowed down in the course of her flight. She thought of Vila-Rojas again and felt the air resist entering her lungs.

  Amelia’s phone rang. It was Jaime.

  “We need to meet. Vidal told me the girl was with you. We also have the info on Luis’s screen. My team’s decoded it, and I need to let you know what it’s really about. I suggest you all come to Lemlock, we’ve got the people you’ve been looking for.”

  “Let’s go,” Amelia told them. “Jaime’s got Bonso and the Turk.”

  In the car, she called Tomás and told him they needed to see each other at Lemlock. She wanted him at her side. Then she made another call, and this one filled her with well-being.

  “Claudia,” Amelia said. “Your father’s not in the black book. You can rest easy.” She hung up before the other managed to react.

  ‌65

  The Blues

  Thursday, November 20, 2:15 p.m.

  They met in Jaime’s office, though it made Amelia uncomfortable knowing that everything that took place there was being recorded. After what she’d found out, she was certain nowhere was private. At least she managed to convince Vidal and Rina to leave them alone. She had the feeling the Blues’ reunion would get rough, and she didn’t want more witnesses than necessary.

  As always, Jaime surprised them with the overwhelming amount of information he’d managed to bring together on the mafia and money laundering on the Costa del Sol. Tomás, Milena, Luis, and Amelia listened to him raptly.

  “This is the Americans’ file on Vila-Rojas,” he said, showing them a thick sheaf of documents in front of his chair. They were sitting around an enormous glass table that served as the Lemlock director’s occasional desk.

  Luis was uncomfortable as he observed the information flickering on the enormous screens around them, but he was still impressed with the technology in the large office. Tomás was uneasy, being the least informed of those assembled there, and the authority Jaime got from sitting at the head of the table irritated him. Milena looked at the extensive garden behind the sliding door on the rooftop terrace, terra-cotta colored and full of plants, an agreeable contrast to the cold, efficient feel of the industrial cement and glass elsewhere in the building.

  “The file brings together reports from numerous American investigative units on Vila-Rojas and the Russo-Ukrainian mafia in Spain, and includes data from the FBI, the CIA, the Department of the Treasury, and the NSA,” Jaime added proudly.

  He had reason to be proud: it wasn’t easy convincing Robert Cansino, the coordinator of US intelligence services in Mexico, but they’d been friends for twenty years, since they’d studied together in the interrogation seminars run by the CIA. It also helped that he’d passed off to Cansino a list of crooked Mexican judges that Lemlock had found on the drug cartels’ payrolls.

  “The death of Alexander Kattel, the former leader of the Russian mafia in Marbella, three years ago, led to a kind of split,” Jaime explained. “Yasha Boyko, his brother-in-law, inherited his position but had a shaky grasp on power. The widow, Olena Kattel, and her son, Boris, never fully recognized his authority. Almost from the beginning, they tried to boycott Yasha and sided with Alexander’s brothers, who ran the group’s affairs in Ukraine. Yasha’s response was to expand operations in the Mediterranean and the Americas to break away from his pro-Russian colleagues. If a definitive split took place, he would already have his own economic base.”

  “And that’s where Vila-Rojas comes in,” Luis said, annoyed at Jaime’s authoritative tone.

  “Right,” Jaime agreed. “That’s where Vila-Rojas comes in. The lawyer became the go-to guy for virtually all of Yasha’s new enterprises and, to a large degree, his face in the businesses where he deposited his laundered money. In the Americans’ reports, he shows up as a member of the board of twenty or so important European firms. Three of them move huge sums in public works in Mexico.”

  “And what about his relations with Moscow?” Milena asked.

  “This is where Luis’s work was important,” he responded, taking a brief bow toward the younger man. “Not even the Americans knew that Vila-Rojas had switched sides. Thanks to the report from Anonymous, we could see that Vila-Rojas had entered into communication with Olena and Boris’s people in Moscow.”

  “Since when?” Milena asked again.

  “Two or three months back,” Jaime responded.

  “Two or three months back… this past summer, then,” Tomás noted. “Just when the West decided to impose sanctions on Putin for supporting the rebels in Ukraine. I wrote an article about how the Kremlin wouldn’t refuse support to the pro-Russian militias in the war, but would have to use more subtle means. They tried to mask it as humanitarian aid, but Brussels threatened them with even-harsher sanctions. I suppose it was then that they looked for other ways to get the transfers through.”

  “Like the Russo-Ukrainian community in Marbella,” Amelia added.

  “But is Marbella really that important?” Luis asked. All he remembered of it from a brief visit was a marina and yachts.

  “Marbella is the Babel of the Mediterranean,” Tomás responded.

  “Babel, Las Vegas, the Cayman Islands, all wrapped in one,” Jaime said. “The society Gil y Gil ushered in is still unscathed. Arab sheiks, white-collar ex-cons from Northern Europe, Latin American cartels, mafias from the former Soviet Republics, elite global tourists looking for pleasure: all of them converge there. Millions of euros in real estate and tourist developments are visible, but there’s far more living and breathing underneath the surface.”

  “And how important is the Russian community in Marbella?” Amelia asked.

  “It’s huge,” Jaime responded. “There are thousands of Russian homes in the area, and they have extraordinary buying power. There’s a lot of millionaires, and among them you’ve got representatives of different branches of the Russian mafia. The biggest is the Ukrainian, and that’s why Moscow is interested in turning the area into a beachhead for infiltrating Western Europe.”

  “And the old guard, like the Kattel family, would have been the perfect link, but they needed someone like Vila-Rojas,” Amelia said.

  “Precisely,” said Jaime. “It’s not clear whether Olena sought out Vila-Rojas or Vila-Rojas went after Olena, but he must have looked at the matchup and decided it was time to change outfits.”

  “But Yasha?” Milena said. “He’s not the kind you can trick that easily.”

  “I guess Yasha was happy last February when the pro-Russian government his rivals supported fell. Maybe he got sloppy and thought his triumph was in the bag.”

  “If it’s like you say, and Vila-Rojas has changed sides, Yasha’s days are probably numbered,” Milena said. She imagined a long crane with a broken neck plunging toward the ground.

  “So what does all that have to do with Milena?” Luis butted in, putting his hand on top of hers.

  “Bonso confessed that five weeks ago, he got an order to get rid of her and any information she might have.”

  “Vila-Rojas,” Milena mused in a somber tone.

  “What’s important is what we’re going to do now,” Luis said.

  Tomás and Jaime looked at the Croatian. Her sunken chest and bent back showed what was happening in her mind: scenes of the nightmares that she had lived through in that closet ten years ago, plastic unrolled at her feet and Bonso’s two dogs, the conversation with Vila-Rojas on a yacht rocked by the tide the night they met, the iron complicity that she’d thought unbreakable after three murders, the orgasms they’d shared. And finally, the betrayal. The order Agustín had to have given to kill her.

  “And why the need to have her dead?” Tomás asked.

  “The black bo
ok,” Amelia responded. “I don’t know how or why, but it has the information on the operation Moscow was running out of Marbella.”

  “In the hands of the EU authorities, that would be enough to bring the whole thing down,” Jaime said.

  “Which means Milena is still in danger,” Tomás said. “It’s not just destroying the book, but her, too. Neutralizing Bonso or the Turk solves nothing. Salgado was right, there’s someone higher up on the chain that takes over.”

  “And?” Amelia asked. “We can’t just sit here with our arms crossed. We can hide her, change her identity. I know how to do it.”

  “Better yet, we can publish the information,” Tomás said with sudden enthusiasm. “When it’s public, she won’t be relevant anymore.”

  “And it will bring an end to a clearly illegal operation that is sustaining a ridiculous war,” Amelia added.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Jaime said with a smile, and turned to Luis. “Why don’t you take Milena out onto the terrace? I think a little air would do her good.”

  Luis understood that whatever Jaime was going to propose, he wouldn’t do it in his presence. And Milena was dejected. She got up when she heard Jaime’s request.

  “I need to see Bonso,” she said. She had to hear from the Romanian himself that the plan to kill her had come from Vila-Rojas.

  “Later,” Jaime said. “When the meeting’s over, I’ll take you to see him. He’s downstairs in a locked room.”

  “I’m not moving from here till I do,” she responded.

  Jaime considered the circumstances, picked up the phone, and ordered them to bring the pimp upstairs.

  When he arrived, the Romanian was flanked by two enormous men, or at least they looked enormous, given the prisoner’s diminutive stature. He seemed to have shrunk even more since Milena had last seen him. But nothing about him inspired tender feelings or compassion: too many years of abuse kept her from seeing him as anything but her implacable punisher. The others examined him, and felt a kind of disappointment after all those days of uttering his name with fear. Tomás had to remind himself that this insignificant-looking gnome was responsible for Emiliano’s death.

  Jaime dismissed the guards after looking over the table on the terrace where they sat their prisoner to make sure there was nothing he could use as a weapon. He assumed Luis was big enough to ward off any attack the man might try in the presence of his former slave. The kid stood three yards from Milena and Bonso, halfway to the now-closed sliding door that led from the terrace to Jaime’s office. He wanted to eavesdrop on the people inside, but he was also interested in the exchange between Milena and her pursuer.

  Once the Blues were alone, Jaime spelled out his plan.

  “Bonso will hand over the copies of the video to me, we have the DEA files on Vila-Rojas, and the black book will bring down Moscow’s operation in Marbella. That’s a mountain of reasons to get Vila-Rojas in here to negotiate. We give him everything in return for Milena’s absolute freedom. He acts up, and we publish everything.”

  “That’s a twisted way of helping her, don’t you think?” Amelia said. “Keep a war going on her behalf?”

  “You haven’t heard the second part of the plan. This is the really important thing. We now have the opportunity to use those laundered funds to help make our country prosper.” Jaime stood up and used his whole body to emphasize his words. “With his help, it’s possible to bring those flows of laundered money into Mexico in unprecedented proportions. If you think about it, it’s compensation for a country that’s been bled dry by the First World’s drug markets. I’ve got the necessary relations with leaders in the Mexican government who can divert that income into massive projects that will bring wealth and jobs to huge swathes of the country.”

  “Jaime, are you fucking nuts?” Tomás burst out.

  “Think out of the box, put your prejudices aside. Just imagine, for example, a continental alternative to the Panama Canal, an ultra-modern high-speed railway network over the Isthmus of Tehuantepec—a system that could move shipping containers at a low cost between the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. Fine, so some people in the Ukraine die,” he said, raising his hand to keep Amelia from cutting him off, “but remember the misery that lies between Puebla and Nicaragua and the economic boon a project like this could represent. Every day, Central Americans and Mexicans in the southwest die from violence and poverty. This could help change that. And it would only be the beginning.” Jaime examined Amelia’s face, hoping the arguments on behalf of the poor would have an effect on her.

  “Got it,” Tomás said. “So you want to turn Mexico into a criminal state tied to organized crime.”

  “Don’t be so hypocritical. Las Vegas is a city built on mob money; Switzerland’s prosperity comes in large part from money laundering; same with Gibraltar, Monte Carlo, and the Caymans—and the gringos let it all slide. In Mexico, we could go one better: it could be a landing zone for gray-market capital looking for flexible but responsible governance.”

  “And you think you can trust a person like Vila-Rojas, someone who just turned his back on his boss? That’s who you want to build up Mexico’s future prosperity with?”

  “Fine, maybe he’s not the guy for the job, but he’s a foot in the door.”

  “Enough,” Tomás said. “We’re publishing, and that’s that.”

  “Wait. Give me four days. Anyway, tomorrow’s Friday, that’s a bad day for world-shattering news. The weekend will take away the impact. Publish on Tuesday.”

  “What do you think you’re going to make happen in four days?”

  “Tonight Esteban Porter is flying from Mexico City to Málaga for a chat with Vila-Rojas. He’ll give him a preview of the DEA file we have. That should be enough to get him for a meeting in London the Sunday after. I’ll go there and we’ll have a little chat about international capital flows and setting up an operation in Mexico. With a little luck, he’ll hook me up with some of his acquaintances.”

  “Sounds a little rushed, no?” said Tomás.

  “It’s not like you give me more options if you’re planning on publishing. I’ll try my luck.”

  In fact, Jaime still hoped to talk to Claudia when he was back from London. She was much more realistic than her two friends. With the help of some cabinet minister, he might have a chance of convincing her not to publish for reasons of state security.

  Amelia was about to say something when a terrifying scream from the terrace brought them to their feet.

  Them IX

  We’re the cockroaches of the human race: disgraceful, bearers of all that is bad, objects of disgust. And like the cockroaches, we’ve been here since the beginning of time and we’ll still be here if humanity finally manages to snuff itself out. Deep down, a pimp is as indispensable as any other organism in the great chain of life.

  Every blessed day, millions of men go see some tramp to get serviced, and they want her to be healthy and clean and treat them right in exchange for their cash. They want to blow off a little steam and not end up in jail or called out or beaten up. Us, the pimps, the procurers, flesh-peddlers, what have you—we’re the ones responsible for making sure they get that service. We’re the true pros in the skin trade, even more than the whores, most of whom think they’re just in it for a time, even if they end up dying in it. We’re here to stay: misunderstood and hated, but always sought out.

  It makes me laugh when they call me cruel. Come on, that’s like criticizing a dog for wagging its tail. A kindhearted pimp would do more harm than good to a whore. There’s no room for heart here, it’s all hard and fast rules, and any transgression comes with a nasty punishment. That’s the only thing that keeps disobedience at bay.

  And let me tell you: being a pimp requires Spartan discipline in body and mind. You think it’s easy to hold back when one of the girls takes a liking to you? It happens a lot, you know, with the Stockholm syndrome and all that. You live around vice, but you can’t pick up vices. You have to be absolutely co
ld to keep your girls in line.

  Any pimp worth his salt is a master at mixing the right dose of terror with the occasional consolation. You need the gift of gab and real intuition to make a bitch understand that she has no place in the world besides whoring herself out for my benefit, even if other guys, ten or twenty a week, try and convince her otherwise. It requires restraint and special abilities to kill the hope in their soul without destroying their body.

  To sum it up, my friend, the next time you go to a hooker, take a minute to reflect and thank the pimp that made it all possible.

  Bonso

  ‌66

  Milena

  Thursday, November 20, 3:50 p.m.

  “Things aren’t looking good for you, Bonso,” she said once they’d sat down at the table on the terrace.

  “I’ve made it through worse,” he responded. But the rings under his eyes and his haggard face showed the trials he’d been through in the past few hours, maybe even days.

  “Well, the game’s up,” she said. “I don’t know what will happen with you, but you won’t see me again. The agreement from that night’s been revoked.”

  “Revoked? Why?”

  Milena thought he knew what the word “revoked” meant, but she wasn’t completely sure.

  “To start with, because Vila-Rojas ordered you to kill me, didn’t he?” She asked as if it were obvious, but she held her breath while she waited for the answer, her heart pounding against her chest.

  “Seems like a lot of people want you dead.”