Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  It also didn’t help that the good doctor had lost it completely when Vermeulen showed up at his door. It only made the man more suspicious.

  The waiter brought the coffee and the cake. She poured cream into the cup, added sugar, and stirred. The coffee was nice and hot. It did what the vodka didn’t do. She picked up the fork and carved a piece of cake. But then she put the fork down again. Instead, she took her phone from her purse and dialed the number on the card. Maybe his office would tell her where Vermeulen had disappeared to.

  A female voice answered, “Good afternoon. Office of Internal Oversight Services.”

  “Good afternoon. Mr. Vermeulen, please,” the Broker said.

  “I’m afraid he’s not available at the moment.”

  “Hmm, that’s too bad. Is there a number where I could reach him? He asked me to call back with some information he was looking for.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry, he didn’t leave one.”

  “He said it was important. Maybe you have his cell number?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t give that out.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “It’s hard to say. There’s been an accident in his family. He had to go to Vienna on short notice.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry to hear this. I’ll try again later.”

  She took another sip of coffee and ate a forkful of cake. It wasn’t as good as what she’d had in Europe. Too sweet and not chocolaty enough.

  It had to be Vienna, Austria. He wouldn’t go to JFK to fly to Vienna, Virginia—or any of the other Viennas in the U.S.

  She dialed another number, this one much longer. She knew it by heart. A man answered after the second ring.

  “Yes?”

  “I want to return an item. It doesn’t fit.”

  “What’s the order number?”

  “HTL83974002.”

  “One moment, please, while I connect you.”

  She listened to several clicks. Her call was being routed through a series of exchanges in at least three countries. That made tracing it impossible. Muzak played for several seconds. Another click, then another male voice came on the line.

  “Talk to me.”

  She knew this voice well.

  “I need international assistance. One of my prospects has gone to Vienna, Austria.”

  “Particulars?”

  “Vermeulen, Valentin, male. Try hospitals. A relative has had an accident.”

  “Desired outcome?”

  The Broker hesitated. It would be best to eliminate Vermeulen. Even better if that happened outside the country. But she wasn’t sure how much he’d shared with his colleagues. Killing him only made sense if he’d kept things to himself. Otherwise those who also knew would be warned by his death.

  “Surveillance for now,” she said. “Find out who he talks to.”

  “Covert?”

  “No. Let him know someone is watching. It’ll force his hand.”

  “Electronic means, too?”

  “If you can.”

  “Consider it done.”

  The Broker put her phone back into her purse and concentrated on the cake. It wasn’t very good. In Vienna, there’d be Sachertorte. That alone was reason enough to go to Vienna herself. But such a trip would require approval from the higher-ups. The operation was strictly compartmentalized. Besides, she didn’t need extra attention at the moment. She had a mess to clean up. Afterward, there could be a trip. If it was still necessary.

  She sipped her coffee. It was getting cold. She put the cup down and got up, leaving half the cake. It just wasn’t worth the calories. Her phone rang. She answered.

  “We have a picture of Jackson. Video footage from a bodega where he bought his phone.”

  “Good work. Find him. Highest priority,” she said.

  Once Jackson was dispatched, she’d go to Vienna.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The morning sky over Vienna was leaden. The few pink fringes in the east didn’t stand a chance against the gunmetal clouds racing across the sky from the west. The Airbus A330 yawed in the crosswinds, and a sudden drop jammed the meager breakfast offered to Vermeulen by the cabin staff back into his throat. Since his booking had been last-minute, he ended up wedged into Seat 41D between a hyperactive toddler and an overweight priest, complete with black suit and clerical collar. The flight took almost nine hours. The movies were mediocre and the jumpy boy kept him from sleeping most of the flight. His iPod and the Clash were his salvation.

  Waiting in line for the passport control, he thought about how Odinga must have felt, standing in a similar line at JFK. Vermeulen had never fully appreciated the privilege of being able to go anywhere in the world. With his Belgian passport and his UN authorizations, there was no place he couldn’t visit and only a few that required him to obtain a visa beforehand. How easy it was to forget what privilege felt like. The thought of the Odingas of the world queuing at ports of entry, always in fear, always just a suspicious glance away from arrest and deportation, filled him with anger. It was profoundly unjust. But then he remembered the deep-seated suspicion against foreigners he’d seen in West and Central Africa, mostly aimed at fellow Africans, and he wondered if his musings were just another manifestation of his privilege.

  “Wie lange bleiben Sie in Österreich?” the officer asked.

  German wasn’t Vermeulen’s forte, so he replied in English. “A week, maybe two, I don’t know. My daughter was in a skiing accident and is in a coma.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of her misfortune. As a Belgian national you may stay here for ninety days. If you need to stay longer, you can apply for a residence permit. It’s not a problem.”

  Vermeulen took his passport and walked through the customs area toward a large sliding-glass door. Those ahead of him activated the door, and he could see throngs of people waiting. Marieke would be among them.

  His legs slowed as he neared the sliding door. It wasn’t a conscious action. To the contrary, he was eager to get out into fresh air after spending the last nine hours breathing recirculated oxygen. But another part of his body remembered the pain from nine years ago and was reluctant to encounter it again. He stopped in the middle of the walkway and wondered if his body was wiser than his mind. Another passenger bumped into him and propelled him toward the door. The man apologized and rushed past. Vermeulen smiled. When your body and your mind are at odds, a push from a stranger could be the best way forward.

  Marieke was waiting for him. He recognized her despite the fact that she’d changed her hair. The long 1970s mane was gone, replaced by a short bob. Her face was more drawn, her cheekbones more pronounced, her lips tighter. A profound sadness radiated from her pale blue eyes. Was it Gaby’s accident? Or was her life so difficult? He knew that she worked in a social service agency, a job that could wear out even the most contented person.

  She saw him, and her smile wiped the sadness from her face. It was the smile he’d fallen in love with, the smile that used to speed up his heartbeat and make him behave like an idiot. Now it just reminded him of the day nine years ago when he’d packed his bag and left for New York, of the emptiness inside he’d felt for so long. How could they have screwed things up so badly?

  She stepped forward and reached out to give him a hug. Dropping his bag, he put his arms around her. Unsure of what to do, he held her lightly, the kind of embrace one reserves for distant relatives. But Marieke pulled him close and he let go of all the stupid hang-ups that clogged his mind. They hugged like a couple who hadn’t seen each other in nine years, desperate to squeeze away the wall between them. No words were necessary.

  “How is Gaby?” he said after an eternity.

  “She’s stable. Her body is functioning well. It’s just her brain that hasn’t recovered from the impact.”

  “Let’s go and see her.”

  As he said these words, he glanced over her shoulder and saw a face that shouldn’t have been there, that couldn’t have been there. A face that shou
ld’ve been far away. Somewhere in Africa. It had to be someone else. But it wasn’t. The cinnamon skin, the titanium glasses, the thin braids held together by a rubber band—there couldn’t be another woman like her. His arms dropped to his sides. He looked at Marieke and then back at the familiar face. There was no doubt. It was Tessa Bishonga.

  Instant panic made his forehead damp. He pushed away an errant lock of hair. Did Marieke know of Tessa? His daughter did; he’d introduced them a year ago when he was recovering from an injury he’d suffered at his assignment in Darfur. Tessa, a Zambian freelance journalist, was there covering the conflict. They’d become lovers, and had maintained a long-distance relationship ever since. They’d last been together three months ago when Tessa came to Manhattan on an assignment for Al Jazeera.

  He shook his head. Why was he getting hot under the collar? He hadn’t done anything wrong. He opened his mouth to launch into an explanation, but Marieke put her index finger on his mouth.

  “No need to explain. I met Tessa yesterday. She showed up at the hospital. She told me she knew Gaby. I told her what happened and we started talking. It’s okay.”

  As quickly as his body had tensed, it relaxed again. The air suddenly felt cool on his forehead. He shivered involuntarily.

  Tessa planted a kiss on his cheek. “Sorry that the circumstances are so sad, but I’m glad to see you,” she said.

  “And I you.” He kissed her back.

  “Let’s go. We’ve got a taxi waiting,” Marieke said.

  They squeezed into the back of the Mercedes, Vermeulen sitting between his ex-wife and his on-again-off-again lover. The cab wound its way past the glass fronts of the airport. The tower, which stood apart from the departure/arrival structure, looked like a twisted piece of white licorice, keeping watch over a parking lot. The foliage was surprisingly green for the time of year. Did spring come earlier in Austria? Maybe the Danube mellowed the climate.

  The cab merged onto an expressway that led through a surprisingly rural area. Freshly plowed fields extended on both sides of the road. The bucolic idyll didn’t last long. A huge refinery took its place, and soon the road wove through the suburbs of Vienna. The expressway ended near a river, and the cab took the road along the southern bank.

  “Is that the Danube?” Vermeulen said.

  “No. It’s the Danube Canal. The river is larger and farther north,” Tessa said.

  They passed another industrial area and a large cloverleaf interchange. Then the city of Vienna swallowed them. Five- and six-story buildings lined the motorway, many with red tile roofs. Most seemed to be residential. The occasional office structure, often modern with glass façades, interrupted the nineteenth-century feel of the city. They crossed the canal, passed a large light rail station, and came to a stop in front of a concrete structure the size of a city block.

  “That’s the hospital,” Marieke said. “They specialize in accidents and they have a famous trauma unit.”

  “That’s great. Gaby is lucky to be here. No, what I mean is that I’m glad they know what they’re doing.”

  Marieke just looked at him and shook her head.

  Vermeulen gazed up at the façade. It was modern and rational, promising competent care. He hoped that the promise held true when it came to his girl.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gaby’s face was pale. She lay in the hospital bed, motionless. Someone had raised the top section so that her upper body was elevated. An LCD screen attached to a stand beeped monotonously. Several lines in white, green, and red told the story of her condition. The chopped-off sine curve presumably represented her heartbeat; the rest was a mystery to Vermeulen. A drip bag containing a clear liquid was attached to her arm. Her chest rose slightly with each breath. Seeing her like that, Vermeulen slumped. His stomach turned into an empty hole, filled with fear. Tears ran down his face. He bent down and kissed her cheek, which felt soft and warm.

  “There was nothing she could have done,” Marieke said. “Some idiot cut her off and she hit a tree. The ski patrol caught the guy and the police are talking to him.”

  That news made him stand up again. Anger replaced fear.

  “Are they going to lock him up?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What? Isn’t he liable? If she dies, that’s manslaughter. “

  “Calm down. She isn’t dying. The prognosis is that she’ll wake up soon. The coma is just the body’s way of shutting down all unnecessary systems to let the brain heal. Her insurance will take care of it.”

  “Who is he? He should come here and see what he did.”

  Marieke sighed. “I don’t know his name, and I don’t want him here. What good will it do? Let’s focus on Gaby.”

  He swallowed hard. She was right, of course. And he knew better than to fly into a rage. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “Sorry, it’s just so sad to see her lying there. I can’t bear the thought of her not waking up.”

  “Do you think I could? But that’s not the prognosis. She will wake up. Let’s focus on that.”

  He swallowed again. They assumed their old roles too easily. Only an hour after meeting again, they were at each other like in the old days.

  “Listen, Marieke, you’ve been here for days. I’m happy to take over so you can take a break. Go out, get a change of clothes.”

  “I don’t have any place to go. I just camped out here on the cot.”

  “You can use my room,” Tessa said. “I’m staying at the Hotel Amadeus. There’s an easy subway connection. Take the U6 to Spittelau, then change to the U4 to Friedensbrücke. I’ll write down the directions.”

  Tessa took a piece of paper from her notebook and drew a map. She handed the sheet to Marieke with her key.

  “Rest a little, take a bath, make yourself at home. You have our numbers?”

  “Yes, thanks so much. This is very nice.”

  Tessa gave her a radiant smile.

  Marieke took her bag. “It’ll be just a little while. I’ll be back after lunch,” she said.

  “Take your time,” Tessa said.

  “I’ll call you if anything changes,” Vermeulen said.

  “How did you end up here with Gaby and my ex?” Vermeulen said.

  “Gaby and I have stayed in touch since last April. We text each other, so I knew she was going on a skiing vacation.”

  “You’re in touch with my daughter?”

  “Sure, why not? We enjoyed each other’s company in Düsseldorf.”

  “How come I don’t know about this?”

  The idea of his lover and his daughter texting felt weird. He didn’t know why.

  “Probably because you didn’t ask. Besides, why does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems odd.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Not sure I like you talking about me.”

  “Give me a break, Valentin. Don’t you think we have other things to talk about? You’re not that important.”

  The verbal jab hit home. He winced.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “I don’t talk about our relationship, or what passes for one.”

  Another jab.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t see each other very much anymore.”

  “I know. Between your work and mine, there’s little time.”

  He didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. She had asked him to visit more often, but he never could get away. Or so he thought.

  “We could make time. There are plenty of occasions when we’re close enough that a quick flight wouldn’t be out of the question.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is that all? Hmm?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  Tessa looked at him, fixing her eyes on his. He looked back. They held each other’s gaze for a minute.

  Tessa relaxed. “I’m sorry. I do love you, and I wish we could be together more. That’s all. Seeing each other twice in
a year isn’t enough for me.”

  Vermeulen couldn’t quite sort out if she blamed him or was just stating a fact. He decided to opt for the latter. He pulled her close and held her without saying anything. It turned out to be the right choice.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I’m working on a piece about organized crime, and the UN Office on Drugs and Crime is headquartered here. It took me a while to organize an interview with the director. When I finally got an appointment, I told Gaby. She was coming to ski in Semmering, an hour south of here. When I got in, I called at her guesthouse. Imagine my shock when they told me she’d been brought to the Trauma Center in Vienna. I came here and ran into Marieke. It was a little odd at first, but we both cared about Gaby, so that worked out okay. Although I did have to contain myself when I found out you were coming.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. Is she going to be okay?”

  “According to the doctors, yes. Marieke isn’t just saying that. They have experience here with skiing accidents. It’s just a question of time. I don’t know if she knows we’re here, but it can’t hurt. If we take turns, someone can be here all the time.”

  He liked that plan. “I need a place to stay.”

  “You can share my room. Al Jazeera’s paying for it.”

  “If Marieke is going to use it, too, it’s not a good idea.”

  Tessa frowned. “You’re probably right. I don’t think she’s eager to pay for a hotel in Vienna.”

  “I’ll get a room. Later.”

  They settled in the chairs and looked at Gaby. Nothing had changed. Her face was blank; her eyes remained closed. Not even a flutter of the lids. The only thing moving was her chest rising and sinking with every breath.

  “What are you working on at the moment?” Tessa said.

  “The strangest case. It started with a man from Kenya who’d gotten a visa with a fake UN letter.”

  He filled her in on the details of Odinga—the death of Abasi, the sad face of Luca in the York County Prison, the unhinged surgeon Rosenbaum, and Jackson, the small-time crook. He reserved the end for the Broker, whatever her name was.