“Is that why you didn’t deliver the tape yourself?”
“No. I cannot bring tape because I cannot leave club. They bring us. They take home. I am like prisoner. So I write note. But now, you see, I am gone.” She shrugged.
“What did you think I would do with it?”
“I want you to give to TV. Or police. After we talk.”
“Why?”
“So that—this will all stop.”
“What? What must stop?”
She lifted her chin and looked around, as if checking for potential pursuers. “I want to talk to you at club. But I afraid. No more.”
“Who were you afraid of?”
She was silent. Then, “Vlad.”
“Who is Vlad?”
She paused. “He was my husband.”
I sat very still.
“He was officer. In Russian army. Lieutenant.” A wistful look passed over her face. “But when Soviet Union fall, he—he is getting into pies.”
“Pies?”
She curled and uncurled her fingers. I shook my head. What was she trying to say?
She leveled me with an impatient look. “He get in things. Bad things.”
A flash of understanding passed through me. “He had his fingers in many pies.”
“Da. He is starting with drugs. Cars, vodka, girls. Then weapons, even diamonds.”
“And you went along?”
“What choice I have? I—we have nothing. No money. No food. Not even house. Vlad say we not bad ones. Real criminals in Duma and police, he say. And Kremlin.”
“But he’s still in Russia, and both you and Arin were—are here. How is he connected to Arin?”
“Arin’s father-in-law is Major General Yudin of the Vaziani base.” At my puzzled look, she added, “In Georgia. Where we is living. He and Vlad together do business.”
“Arin lived on the base, too?”
“Her husband is lieutenant like Vlad.”
“And her father-in-law was involved in criminal activities?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “They start before government fall.”
I frowned at the casual, almost offhand reference to such endemic corruption.
“Is Arin’s husband involved, too?”
“Arin’s husband dead.” She averted her eyes. “She has son, you know. Tomas.”
“I didn’t know.”
We were quiet for a moment. “Vlad and I apart long time now, but he leaving Russia three years ago. Rival groups too much—how you say—fighting in.”
“Infighting?”
“Yes. He go to Grand Cayman.”
I remembered what Frank said about parking money in offshore accounts. Grand Cayman was the mother of all havens. “Grand Cayman? Why there?”
“They have new partner. He and Yudin. An American. Very high up.”
“An American? Are you sure?”
She nodded. “When we still in Georgia, Vlad and Yudin is meeting with him. He—the American—get them into U.S. with good money.”
“Good money?”
“How you saying when you turn bad money into good?”
“Money laundering?”
She took another sip of her coffee and nodded vigorously. “Da.”
I drew in a breath. The pieces were falling together. “Do you know this man’s name, this American?”
“Nyet.”
“Mika,” I said, “have you ever heard the name Max Gordon?”
“No. Who is this man?”
“An American businessman…with ties to Russia and Eastern Europe.”
“I not know this man.” She leaned forward. “But I know Vlad. He is never giving up. And he never forget. He say he will rule world someday.” She paused. “He will kill me, you know.”
“Why?”
“Because I tell you these things.”
I frowned. “So why are you?”
Her eyes clouded. “He make bad my life. Kill my friend. Is enough.”
“He killed her?”
“She is coming to me from Cayman. She see Vlad. He want her. She tell him no. His men beat her. But she get away. Then find me at club.”
“But Grand Cayman is a thousand miles from here. He couldn’t—”
She snorted. “Vlad is powerful. He have friends everywhere. Even Chicago. He say kill, they kill. Like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I tell her to go to dentist, then go away. Far.” She looked down. “But is not enough time. They find her.”
I rubbed my eyes. An image of Arin on the tape came back to me, rising to greet her killers, her face hopeful, expectant. “If he’s that powerful, how come he hasn’t come after you?”
She gave me a long look. “He is.”
“He is?”
“After dentists killed, I go away. I know they come for me.”
I remembered Davis saying how she’d disappeared when she went back to Celestial Bodies. “You ran away after we showed up?”
She nodded. “Petrovsky help.”
“You’re both on the run?”
“Da.”
“But how do you know they’re coming after you?”
She put her cup down again. “Sofiya say,” she hissed. “She see Arin when she come to club.”
Sofiya. The head dancer. The madame. Sofyia and the Angels. “Sofiya knows Vlad’s men?”
“Everyone is knowing Vlad’s men.”
“Okay.” I let out a slow breath. “So how did you get the tape in the first place?”
She shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly. “The dentist…Russian who is killed…he is being my customer.”
“He was your—oh.”
She shot me a look that defied me to stand in judgment of her. “When Arin come, her tooth gone. She need help. I am sending her there.” She looked down. “I am not knowing they find her. Afterward, he and his sister is needing to go away. He very scared.”
“The dentist?”
“Da.”
“He had reason to be,” I said sadly. “Did he—was he the one who…disposed of Arin’s body?”
She nodded. “He must. But he doesn’t like. Last time he visit me, I tell him to bring me tape. He give it me. I give you.”
“I get it.” I sipped my latte. “But there’s something…well…Vlad is—was your husband. Why do you think he would kill you?”
She gave me a sad smile. “He kill anyone who stand in his way.”
“Why didn’t he kill you before this?”
“He is having no reason to kill whore.” She shrugged. “Until now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
She couldn’t move afterward. The pain was so total, so overwhelming, she wanted to surrender to it, let it swoop down and take her away. At times it did. She wasn’t sure if she’d fallen unconscious or slept. When she finally came to a sustained awareness, it was dark. For a moment she panicked, thinking she had gone blind. Gradually, though, objects materialized out of the dark, and she was able to discern shapes that were blacker than others.
She was in a room. On a bed. A bare mattress. No sheets or blanket. It was night, but a weak blue light filtered through the room. Coming from somewhere behind her. She tried to go toward it, but waves of dizziness rolled over her when she moved. She had to force herself to breathe.
She didn’t know how much time went by while she lay still and motionless. When the wooziness subsided, she mentally checked her body parts. Her limbs seemed to be intact, but a sharp, excruciating pain tore through her jaw. She wondered if it was broken.
Gingerly she felt around the bone. A large bulge that radiated fire protruded from what had been smooth contours of flesh. Her face must look like one of those topographical maps Tomas studied in school. But she couldn’t dwell on him now; she might fall apart. She pulled herself to a sitting position. More dizziness.
She concentrated on her breath. Hold it in. Let it out. Again. In time the room stopped spinning, and she leaned toward the light.
A window. And it was open! She lifted her hea
d. A languid, tranquil breeze wafted over her. The sky had cleared, and a pale wash of moonlight illuminated the room. Hundreds of stars pixillated in the heavens. They seemed much closer here than they did at home.
Slowly she got up and shuffled to the window. Why was it open? And why hadn’t they tied her down? She was clearly their prisoner. Had Vlad ordered them not to? No, Vlad was cruel. A man without compassion. There had to be some other reason.
She discovered it when she leaned her head out. Below her was a two-story drop to a large slab of bare cement. There was no landscaping around it, no furniture to act as a cushion. Her body would shatter on impact if she was foolish enough to jump. They knew that.
Past the deck was the beach. The property sat on the rim of a cove that was protected by a sandbar. Beyond it, the waves were treacherous and fierce, but they diminished to gentle swells by the time they came ashore. In the opposite direction was the forest she’d been driven through. For some reason it seemed thicker than it had a few hours ago. As if the vegetation was slowly proliferating, encroaching, turning the island into jungle.
She leaned her head out the window, trying to gauge how many meters it was to the forest. She couldn’t tell. She was about to stretch farther when the beam of a flashlight bobbed below. She ducked back inside in time to see a large man rounding the side of the house. A weapon was holstered at his side. Of course. There would be regular patrols. She wondered how frequently he made rounds.
She threw herself back on the mattress. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. She had grown up loved and secure. Met her husband in her first flush of womanhood. Moved with him to Georgia, certain they would lead a charmed life. Now, thirteen years later, Sacha was dead, and she was the prisoner of his best friend. Was that the sum total of her life? Did fate intend her to spend the rest of her life on this island?
No. That was unacceptable. She sat up. The hour seemed late. Perhaps, if they were sleeping.… She got off the bed and jiggled the doorknob. Locked. Her shoulders sagged. She lay back on the bed and stared at the wall, trying not to feel suffocated. She couldn’t give up.
She was still staring at the wall when she saw it. The faint outline of a door. Cut into the wall, it blended in so well she’d missed it before. She jumped up. The shape of the door was barely visible. More like a hairline crack. She inserted her finger in the crack and tried to pry it open. Nothing moved. Her finger throbbed with pain. She took a breath and tried her fingernails instead. Nothing. She bent down. The crack seemed to be wider near the floor. She lay down, slid the tips of her finger underneath the sliver of space, and pulled. After an excruciating moment during which she feared her fingers might be ripped from her hand, the door opened.
A closet. Filled with women’s clothing. Arin scrambled to her feet, frowning. Whom did these belong to? Did Vlad have a woman? She hadn’t seen a trace of one: no smudged lipstick on cigarette butts, no cosmetics or perfume lying around.
She slid the hangers along the rod. Nearly twenty dresses, skirts, and tops, most of them scanty affairs with no backs or sleeves. Why were they here, locked away in a closet with no handle? As she browsed, she noticed a white tag on one of the skirts. She moved to the next outfit and noticed another. Another on the next. The clothes had never been worn.
Why did Vlad have a closet full of new women’s clothes? Unless.…She lifted off one of the hangers and held a blue and green sundress against her body. Without trying it on, she knew it would fit her perfectly. He had bought them for her.
She shivered and put the dress back. He had planned to make her his prisoner all along! The proposal about siphoning stones through the Yerevan plant was a sham. He was going to keep her here. As his harlot. His plaything. A harsh sound escaped her lips. When had he intended to show them to her? Did he believe a closet full of clothes would compensate for her loss of freedom? That she’d allow herself to be dressed in his clothes like a doll?
And what happened when he tired of her, as he surely would? For Vlad, the pursuit was the game. Once he had triumphed, his interest would wane, as it had with Mika. And Sacha. And Yudin. Then what? Would he turn Arin into a common whore, too? Or a thief? She gazed at the clothes. She had a sudden impulse to set them on fire. Exorcize the evil. Watch the flames engulf them, swallow them whole, leaving nothing but a mound of clean, smoldering ash.
She was imagining a glorious conflagration when the idea came to her. She moved back to the window and looked down. It might work. She went to the closet, ripped the clothes off their hangers, and flung them on the bed. Then she started to tie them together, knotting them as tightly as she could. Blouses, skirts, dresses, pants, even halter tops. She remembered Tomas practicing knots in HASK, the national scout movement in Armenia. She couldn’t remember which knot was the strongest. She should have paid more attention. Then again, it probably didn’t matter. The rope was only as strong as its weakest link.
Gradually, she knotted together ten, twelve, fifteen pieces of clothing into a rope about ten meters long. She pulled on the knots to test them. They seemed to be holding, but she wouldn’t know for certain until she tried it. At which point it might be too late. But she had no choice.
She crept back to the window. It was dark and quiet below. No flashlights. No guards. Nothing but the thud of surf gently buffeting the beach. If she made it, she would sprint toward the thicket and make for the highway. Someone would pick her up. Back at the hotel, she would grab her passport. Then she would leave this evil place. She knew where she would go. But first, she had to escape.
Looping the clothes rope around the leg of the bed, she knotted it firmly, stretched it across the floor, and dropped it out the window. But as she raised the window, the glass squeaked against the frame. She stopped, her heart hammering in her chest. A minute passed. Nothing happened. She allowed herself a small victory breath. Then, grabbing the rope, she crawled through the window. For the first time in her life, she prayed to God, asking Him to keep the rope in one piece just long enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mika threw her coffee cup into a trash bin and exited the coffee shop. I followed her out, wondering how to get her and Davis together. I knew she wouldn’t go to the police, but if I could get her to come back to the house, maybe Davis would meet us. But Mika refused to come back, and she wouldn’t tell me where she was staying. The best I could do was extract a promise from her to call me the next morning. I wasn’t at all sure she would follow through.
I said good-bye and headed for the parking lot in back. I was anxious to finish screening the dub of the ground-breaking ceremony and get time codes for Dolan. The lot was separated from the building by a narrow alley, puny by Chicago standards. It seemed darker than usual as I crossed it, and I noticed the halogen spotlight attached to the rear wall of the coffee shop was out. That was strange. Halogen lights were supposed to last forever.
As I got within ten feet of the Volvo, two men leaped out of the shadows and surrounded me. One was big and burly, and I knew instantly that he’d walk with a limp, just as the one sneaking around my back would be smaller with lank, greasy hair. I tried to run, but the small man grabbed me and pinned my arms. Pain arced from my wrists to my shoulders. I smelled his unwashed hair.
I struggled, but he clamped tighter. I cried out. The big one growled. The staccato sounds reminded me what a guttural language Russian was. I heard a snarl in response, and the pressure on my arms tightened so much my knees buckled. I tried to sink to the ground, hoping to somehow slip out of his grasp, but the pressure of his grip was so strong, it kept me upright.
A pair of headlights flickered past on Central. “Stop!” I screamed. “Please. Help me!” The headlights kept going.
“Shut up.” The burly man planted himself in front of me and raised his hand as if he might strike me. Even in the dim light, I saw that his pupils covered the entire surface of his eyes, giving him a dark and empty expression. A sick feeling spread through me.
“Where’s Mika?
” I cried. “What have you done with her?”
He barked something to his partner, whose response was to tighten his grip even more.
“Help!” I winced and screamed again. I was desperate. “Someone! Call the police!”
A powerful blow caught me on the side of my head. I went down, my face slamming against the ground. Everything melted into dots. The dots started to spin. Then everything went black.
***
I thought I felt ice on my back as I came to. The feeling spread to my arms and legs. I opened my eyes gradually. I was lying on an expanse of hard-packed, frozen ground. I tried to wiggle my hands and feet, but they were bound, and even the slightest movement caused pain to radiate from the back of my head. I closed my eyes and started repeating the mantra I was taught in TM thirty years ago—it still helps me to relax. When most of the throbbing had eased, I cracked my eyes.
The moon, drifting in and out of stray clouds, cast wavering shafts of light over everything. As my eyes adjusted, a collection of dark, hulking shapes emerged out of the gloom. Immense, bulky machines. Bigger than cars. Some had hydraulic arms extending from their bodies. Others looked like huge shovels with giant teeth attached. One had a huge roller mechanism in front. The long arm of a crane snaked up from another. Scattered around the machines were various pipes and tubes, some iron, some concrete. All the steel made it seem colder than it was.
The night was peppered with arctic wind gusts, but a murmur of voices cut through the air. I rolled in their direction. A group of men was gathered near a trailer about thirty yards away. In addition to the two goons who’d attacked me were two other men. One was tall and slim; even in a heavy jacket, he moved with grace. The other, wearing an overcoat far too big for him, was small and chunky.
Max Gordon.
He was engaged in an intense conversation with the burly construction worker. I couldn’t understand what they were saying—they were speaking in Russian—but the man’s shoulders slumped. Gordon must have been reaming him out.
I called out, but something covered my mouth, and the noise came out as a groan. The men looked over. The tall, slim man started to gesture, but Gordon waved him off and came toward me. From my angle on the ground, his head loomed unnaturally large, giving him a queer, dwarflike appearance. The tall man followed him over.
An Image of Death Page 26
