Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  As if to disabuse him of that notion, his phone rang. He checked the display. Unknown caller. Against his better judgment, he tapped the Reply button.

  “Vermeulen here.”

  “This is Igor Oserov.”

  Vermeulen waited for more, but apparently, Mr. Oserov thought his name alone was enough of an introduction.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Oserov, but I don’t know who you are.”

  “I’m the Director-General of the United Nations Office in Vienna.”

  “Oh, of course. Good morning, Mr. Oserov. What can I do for you?”

  “For starters, you can stop sullying the good name of the UN in Vienna. Then you can stop dragging a valued UN representative into disrepute with unfounded accusations. Finally, you can present yourself at my office in one hour and explain to me what in the world possessed you to start investigating someone under my authority without notifying me.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Vermeulen entered Igor Oserov’s office two and a half hours late. It hadn’t taken him that long to deal with his anger. In fact, he’d calmed down quickly. His tardiness was calculated. Ordinary lines of authority didn’t apply to OIOS investigators. How else could they investigate people who occupied a higher rank at the UN? So he’d talked more with Gaby, had breakfast with Tessa—sharing part of his croissant with Gaby, who was ravenous—and gone back to the hotel for a shower and fresh clothes.

  Oserov waited for him in his spacious corner office on the top floor of the central building in UN City. The windows on each side showed off Vienna at its best. The office was furnished with a seating area, modern paintings on the wall, and a large mahogany desk. The lack of any sign of work on the desk—he saw only a telephone—told him all he needed to know about Oserov. The man was punctilious to the extreme. And he was furious. Which was okay, because Vermeulen was calm.

  “Your blatant insubordination will be noted in your file,” Oserov said for an opening volley. His voice was strained. The man could barely keep himself from screaming.

  Vermeulen smiled. “My direct superior is Mr. Suarez in New York,” he said. “His superior is the Under-Secretary-General for Internal Oversight Services. Her superior is the Secretary General. I don’t see you anywhere in that line of command.”

  Oserov looked at him, dumbfounded. He swallowed several times. He was obviously not used to having someone talk back to him.

  “You …” Oserov rushed from behind his desk and stabbed his finger at Vermeulen, “don’t talk to me that way. Nobody talks to me that way, especially not some rogue investigator from New York.” When Vermeulen raised his eyebrows, Oserov continued, “Yes, I know about you and your checkered history with the organization. It will be my crowning achievement to see you fired in humiliation.”

  “First off, you can’t fire me, Mr. Oserov. Second, to get my superiors to fire me, you have to present cause, which you don’t have. So, I don’t see any need for threats. Can we discuss the real issues instead?”

  “Oh, I have cause. I have plenty of cause. Do you want to hear the charges before I forward them to the Secretary General?”

  Vermeulen shrugged.

  “First, you undertook an investigation in Vienna without notifying me. Second, you have no authorization from your superiors to investigate in Vienna. Third, you questioned a long-time employee without providing her with the necessary representation, which is in violation of the UN staff agreement. Fourth, you discharged a firearm in Vienna without having the necessary permits and authorizations, violating the host agreement with Austria and the city. Fifth, you assaulted a valued UN manager with that firearm, in violation of more rules and regulations than I can list here. That man has permanently lost the use of his hand. I’m sure he will sue the UN for damages. Is this enough, or should I continue?”

  Vermeulen sat in one of the chairs and crossed his legs. “You’ve been busy this morning, haven’t you? Trouble is, you haven’t got your facts straight. If you’d be so kind as to listen to what I have to say, you might change your mind. But I think you are more worried about protecting your image than actually dealing with the cancer that exists right under your nose at UNO City. I will file my own report. It will have a special section on the Director-General of the UN Office in Vienna shielding a sex trafficker. I’m sure it will do wonders for your career at the UN.”

  Oserov stepped back behind his desk. “Those are totally unsubstantiated allegations. I’ve known Mr. Kurtz for almost a decade. Under his leadership the internship office has grown dramatically and has offered young people a direct chance to work with the UN. I won’t stand by as you besmirch his name.”

  “Maybe you got a cut from his business. Or maybe free use of the women who didn’t quite make it into an internship. I should raise that possibility in my report.”

  “Your impertinence is outrageous. Don’t you dare drag me into your dirty business.”

  “My dirty business? I came here to visit my daughter, who is sick in the hospital. Merely a day after I arrive, the gangsters in the U.S. contacted Kurtz, who threatened my daughter.”

  “That’s laughable,” Oserov said, sounding less angry.

  “The car used by Popescu was registered to Kurtz’s UN office.”

  “I don’t know this Popescu. He probably took the car without permission.”

  “Forget it. Kurtz and Popescu are working together. They drove to the apartment building where I confronted them. I know because I followed them. My associate interviewed two of the trafficking victims, who said that Kurtz kept their passports and threatened them with deportation. I also spoke to four men in the apartment who had been lured to Vienna by Kurtz. Do you want me to continue?”

  Oserov mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “You are putting unrelated events together,” he said. “Kurtz had only just found out that some of the people he had invited to Vienna had been hoodwinked by gangsters. Popescu and his consorts are the culprits here. Kurtz is simply a victim of circumstantial evidence that Popescu created to shield his illegal activities. Had you paid any attention and had you informed my office of your activities, we could have told you.”

  “So now you do know Popescu? Then you must know that a prostitution ring was operating from the offices of the UN.”

  Oserov must have realized he’d said too much. “No, no. I have no knowledge of that. I’m saying that Kurtz was doing his own investigation of Popescu.”

  “That’s ludicrous. I saw them together. I saw Popescu give forged letters to Kurtz. There was no investigation. They were in it together.”

  “It can’t be true. You are making these things up to make me look bad, to denigrate the UN.”

  Vemeulen finally ran out of patience. He rose from the chair, put his palms on the mahogany desk and leaned forward. “I’m not worried about your image or that of the UN. I’m not in public relations. I bring perpetrators to justice. That’s my job. In the end, it comes down to one simple fact. Kurtz threatened to kill an innocent man to protect his racket. I prevented that by wounding him. That’s all. The image of the UN suffers more from cover-ups like the one you are trying to engineer than from my exposing a crook. As to your image, if lies are the only way you can maintain your good name, you haven’t got one. Good day!”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Camille Delano’s phone rang. Another call from “Private.” Unscheduled calls from management usually meant trouble. They had no reason to call if things were going smoothly. Her guys still hadn’t found Jackson. He was a loose end, and management didn’t like loose ends.

  Jackson had left town; she was certain of that. After the stunt he pulled—getting the liquor store owner to hold Gergi and Andrej with a shotgun until the police showed up—he’d better make himself scarce. Gergi and Andrej wanted blood after that embarrassment. It took the lawyers most of a day to get them out, and they still faced charges for concealed carry without a permit. A guy like Jackson probably had extended family somewhere down south, an aunt or a cous
in who’d put him up until better times. Still, it bugged her that he got away.

  She tapped the Reply button. Maybe management had good news for a change, like dealing with Vermeulen in Vienna rather than Newark.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Someone flew to Kenya using Abasi’s ticket and passport,” the familiar voice said.

  “What?” That didn’t make sense. “When did that happen?”

  “A couple of days ago.”

  “And you’re only calling me now?”

  “We weren’t exactly looking for dead people leaving the country. According to you, some local crook took Abasi’s money. Did he also take his papers?”

  Jackson? Would he have done that?

  “I assume so. He tried to squeeze Rosenbaum for money, so he must have found the address on Abasi.”

  “Stand by for a surveillance picture taken at JFK. See if it’s your guy.”

  She noticed the designation of Jackson as her guy and put the call on hold. A buzz indicated that a new message had arrived. She checked the photo. It was a lousy picture, but the man on it looked like Jackson. Who else would be using Abasi’s passport and ticket to fly to Kenya? The good news was that he was no longer her responsibility. But the downside was that she had to admit Jackson had slipped through her fingers.

  “Yes, he’s my guy,” she said after reconnecting the call.

  “Any idea why he’s gone to Kenya? From what you told us, he’s a local lowlife, no ambitions beyond hustling a few bucks for his meal ticket.”

  “That’s what the doctor’s description led me to believe.”

  “So you don’t think he’s going to make trouble for us there?”

  “I can’t imagine how. He knows nothing. He’s got two and a half grand in cash, an e-ticket, and Abasi’s passport. There isn’t a whole lot he can do with that. I’m thinking he decided to leave town after a confrontation with my guys. Maybe he felt called to the motherland. I have no idea.”

  There was a pause on the other side. She probably sounded too flippant. But she needed to project confidence. That’s what this game was all about.

  “We’re not so sure that he won’t be a problem. What if he finds Abasi’s family? Tells them what happened?”

  “I agree that letting Jackson get away was a mistake.” Eat a little crow, she thought. Let the man know that I’m aware of my shortcoming. “But I don’t think it will have long-term consequences even if he finds the family. Sure, they’re going to be upset. Can they do anything about it? No way. They’re poorer than dirt. Nobody will listen. Not to them and not to Jackson. The more I think about it, the better I feel. Jackson in Kenya is good news. There, he can yell until he’s hoarse. Nobody will hear it.”

  That was convincing, she told herself. A cogent argument presented in logical fashion. Management had to accept that.

  The silence on the phone told her that she’d been successful. They were thinking.

  “We agree with your reasoning … for now,” the voice said. “But we are not convinced yet that Jackson is completely out of the picture. Going to Kenya seems a big step for him. Get in touch with Nairobi and tell him all you know about Jackson. Who knows? He might run into him. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Will do,” she said and ended the call.

  Getting in touch with Nairobi meant speaking with Renko. She’d met him only once and knew immediately that he was a pig who thought he was irresistible. As with all pigs, it never occurred to him that that very assumption would be off-putting to ninety-five percent of the women in the world. Add to that his penchant for settling his affairs in the most gruesome manner possible and you had a man who was doubly dangerous. Not only was he liable to tell any whore about his dealings to impress her, he also left enough destruction in his wake to attract official attention that a more suitable method would have avoided.

  The last thing she needed was that animal giving her shit about letting Jackson escape to Kenya. She could already hear his words: “You let a two-bit crook get away and now I have to clean up your mess.” Never mind all the times she had cleaned up after him.

  Opening the freezer door of the refrigerator, she put three pieces of ice into a highball glass, grabbed the vodka bottle she kept next to the ice tray, and poured herself a drink. Better to have something to warm your belly before talking to that jerk.

  Once the vodka had taken the edge off, she dialed Renko. It rang for a long time. That was partly due to the relays that made the call untraceable. Finally she heard Renko’s voice.

  “Hello there, this is Renko. Talk to me.”

  She was about to tell him about Abasi’s passport when she realized she’d gotten his voicemail. She breathed a sigh of relief. Management policy was to never leave voicemails. They’d be stored somewhere, and that was just asking for trouble. She tapped the End button and finished her vodka.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The next morning, Jackson again had tea and white bread with the strange paste for breakfast. The whole proposition of having Wycliff show him this guy Renko was starting to sound iffy. Wycliff could just not show up. Maybe the threat of violence from Abasi’s family and friends wasn’t enough to keep him in line. Without Wycliff, he’d be in trouble. He wanted to scout out the AIDS testing place and Renko before making any moves.

  Anticipation. Get to know the territory. At ten, he arrived at the square where the carpenter had already set out his bed frames. Wycliff was waiting for him, half hiding in the shadow of a shack.

  Okay. One down.

  “We don’t go together,” Wycliff said. “Too much risk. Go behind me.” Jackson had no problem with that. Wycliff had come; no reason to assume he would ditch Jackson now. Community pressure did its job. If he had threatened Wycliff by himself, he’d be standing alone now. But Wycliff knew the people who’d beat him the day before. And he knew they’d find him if Jackson reported him as a no show. Maybe not today, but soon. Wycliff must’ve figured that Renko wouldn’t find out he’d squealed. Probably not a safe choice, if Renko was as bad as Wycliff had made him out to be.

  Jackson followed Wycliff at what he considered a safe distance. Close enough to make sure he didn’t lose him in the crowd. The paths were busy. People haggled over produce for sale at every corner; touts called out to him, displaying gaudy Chinese watches, top-up cards for mobiles, and cheap phones to go with them.

  More clearly than the day before, he noted that even though everybody was African, they didn’t treat each other as equals. It was an angry glance a man gave to another when they accidentally bumped into each other, a larger-than-necessary detour a woman made around a dark-skinned man. Some underlying tension that was almost palpable. Except for the folks so dark, their skin was almost blue—he’d dubbed them the Nubians—he couldn’t see any difference between the people he’d encountered. Yet he had a feeling that it wouldn’t take a lot for the tension to erupt.

  The burner phone he’d gotten in Newark didn’t work in Kenya. Something about a different system. He’d used one of the phone ladies who offered phone service to call Vermeulen the night before, but had only gotten voicemail. A local phone might be useful, if only to call Vermeulen again and the U.S. embassy the moment he’d found out what he needed about Renko. The prices weren’t too bad, but since he’d given the money to Abasi’s wife, he had to be careful with what was left.

  Wycliff kept going. He turned here and there. Jackson had lost any sense of where they were. He couldn’t have found his way back to the guesthouse if his life depended on it. It didn’t seem like the smartest move—following a crook to find an even worse crook, with all his money in his pocket, without a way to get home, without anything, really. He’d never felt so up in the air, so disconnected, so alone. The little coffee shop on Bleeker with Tami, the cute waitress, came to mind. She’d be sweet to talk to and get to know. She might even go out with him. As soon as this crazy thing was over.

  They’d reached the railroad tracks again. It was a dif
ferent part of Kibera, but Jackson relaxed a little. He could follow the tracks back to the big square with the bed frames, and from there, find the guesthouse. On the other side of the tracks, in a hollow, sat a large white tent. A white van with an air conditioning unit on its roof was backed up to one side. The opposite side was open, the tent fabric stretched high by two poles and held in place by guy-lines. The other sides were down and marked with the symbols of the sponsoring organizations. Jackson could make out a red crescent, a red cross, and several blue logos—one of which spelled UNAIDS. Women in white outfits sat at a desk under the canopy, processing the people in line. As Wycliff had indicated, the line wasn’t long. Whatever activity was going on inside the tent wasn’t visible.

  Wycliff stopped. Without looking back, he signaled with his hand that Jackson should stay where he was. Jackson stopped and watched. Wycliff approached the tent and walked right past the people in line. He said something to the nurses at the table, who nodded to him. Then he disappeared inside.

  A couple minutes later, he came out with a white man dressed in the usual safari clothing Europeans somehow thought was appropriate for Africa. It had to be Renko. They walked toward the end of the line. Wycliff seemed to be doing all the talking. They stopped. Wycliff looked in Jackson’s direction, searching. He found him, raised his arm, and pointed. Renko looked at Jackson with a stare that felt like a laser.

  Fuck! He’d just walked into the most obvious trap. How could he have been so stupid? Here he thought Wycliff was too scared to double-cross him. But the guy was a much better hustler. He figured that turning him over to Renko would leave his hands clean and save him from the wrath of Abasi’s family and friends. Jackson thought of running. But he knew it was useless. Wycliff would find him in no time. Despite his blackness, Jackson stood out. He was well fed and had decent clothes.

  Wycliff waved to him, motioning him to come and join them. This was it. Turn and run or face the music? Every muscle in his body said, “Run! You can make it, you can disappear.” But his brain knew better. Even if he could disappear for a while, what would he do to stay alive? No. There was only one way out of this. Face Renko and find out what the hell was going on. Whatever Wycliff had told Renko, it was his word against Jackson’s. He ambled toward the two men.