by John Charles
Tatiana’s eyes looked over to me on the computer.
“Leave her alone,” I snapped.
Both men turned to the computer. The bald man spotted me first and then pointed to me as he said something to the other guy. They seemed to be discussing the situation. I was essentially watching them commit a crime, live.
I didn’t know what to do. I was brain dead. The bald thug walked toward Tatiana’s computer and bent down for a better look, his squared jaw and nose more pronounced thanks to the wide-angle lens of the webcam. His eyes studied mine for a few seconds until he finally said, “Who are you, huh? You think you can get away with what you are doing?”
Huh? I didn’t respond, but I’m sure whatever look I had on my face was diligently conveying cooperation.
“Where is the girl? The blond one.”
I knew I had to say something. Tatiana was in trouble. Where was Antonina by the way? Surely the noise must have woken her. Unless…
“Where is she?” the bald man shouted.
“Who? What blond?” They were talking about Natasha.
He turned around and kicked Tatiana square in the stomach with his black leather boots. She cried out in pain and curled up into a fetal position.
I had no choice. “I… I don’t know where she is. Some men picked her up that night and took her back to Ukraine. Look, Tatiana has nothing to do with this. I didn’t even meet her until the next night. Please don’t hurt her.”
He started to smile and chuckled a bit. His crooked teeth showed. His pale blue eyes were dead, without emotion. “You take something of mine. It hurt me. Now I take something of yours to hurt you.” And then he turned to Tatiana, grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked her to her knees.
Tatiana screamed in pain and fear.
He then made her face the computer, grabbing her chin to force her to look at me. “You like her, yet you can’t even protect her.” He ran his finger against her cheek and then leaned down, his mouth just inches from her face as he smelled her.
Tatiana was shaking uncontrollably. Her eyes were closed tightly. Her breathing was uneven.
He let his nose settle in Tatiana’s hair as he drew a deep breath. He turned to me. “You miss her?”
The other man behind them had a shit-eating grin on his face. I wanted so badly to smack the arrogance right off of it. The bald one got up from his knees and took a gun out from the back of his pants. He placed the end of the barrel against Tatiana’s temple.
“How much you miss her?”
I shook my head, wanting to say something—anything—to stop him, but nothing was coming out of my mouth.
“Nothing to say? You don’t care?”
“No. I mean yes, I care about her. Don’t hurt her, please. She’s not involved. You have to believe me.”
The thug lowered his gun and walked away from Tatiana. The other guy moved into position behind her and then put a bullet in the back of her head. Tatiana slumped forward and never moved again.
I was shell-shocked. I immediately switched off my computer. I could hardly bear to look at the scene any longer. He murdered Tatiana in plain view of me. He didn’t care that I witnessed the entire ordeal. I sat there, stunned. My vision blurred from the tears welling in my eyes. They flowed freely as reality set in. She was gone. I would never see her again. It wasn’t that long ago that I was lying in bed with her, looking into her brown eyes, warmed by her friendly smile. Now nausea was the only thing my body felt.
The ring of my cell phone cut through the grief I was feeling. I looked at the screen; it was an unknown number, but I answered anyway.
“Is this Darby Stansfield?” said the heavily accented voice.
27
Again the gravelly voice asked with a Russian accent, “Is this Darby Stansfield?”
My first response was to hang up—I was in no mood for games. What if this is one of the men who just killed Tatiana?
“Who is this?”
“Who I am is not important.”
“The fuck it isn’t. Either talk or I’m hanging up.”
“I call on behalf of Mr. Buchko in Ukraine. My name is not important. I will be only one contacting you.”
“How do I contact you?”
“You don’t. I will call you when we need to talk.”
This could be a legit call. It had to be, because he called on the cell reserved strictly for my Get Organized program. I remember giving Natasha a card when she asked for my contact details. She said her father would want to compensate me for helping her. It was all I had and I wasn’t really thinking when I handed it over. I don’t normally just give that card out. The main reason is it has the web address to my “Get Organized” website, where there’s a pretty good overview of what I do. The case study from my first client is on there. The only saving grace is that it’s password protected. You have to have a conversation with me to get the password. But still…
Yeah, I know it kind of defeats the purpose, but I can’t just have this information sitting around. The password is good for one hour and then the site shuts down and the password resets itself. The user must contact me again. It’s enough time for whoever is calling to get a good idea of what I can do before we meet or take it to the next step. So far, no one has called for the password.
“What is this about?”
“Mr. Buchko is grateful for your help to rescue Natasha. He understands you put yourself in danger to do this.”
“I’m just glad she’s home safe.”
“Mr. Buchko has other favor to ask. Of course you will be compensated for this task.”
Here I was still struggling to come to grips with Tatiana’s murder and these people, strangers really, are asking me to involve myself in something that’s obviously screwed up. I really didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with Mr. Mysterious. Who do these people think they are?
“Look, pal, you’ve caught me at a bad time. Tell Mr. Buchko I’m happy his daughter is safe, but I have much more pressing issues at hand than to do favors for him.”
What more could this man want? I helped save his daughter from sex trafficking gangsters and now he’s asking for favors? I just saw a woman get murdered no more than a few minutes ago. I have enough danger in my life right now.
“Mr. Stansfield, you are busy man, but Mr. Buchko is asking for favor.”
My emotions were getting the best of me. “Why would I want to volunteer to do something dangerous for a man I don’t even know? I’ve done enough already.”
“I assure you, there is no danger involved.”
I thought about Tatiana again. I needed to do something for her. Perhaps this Mr. Buchko could help me. “Tell you what, if Mr. Buchko can help me with a favor, I’ll help him, too.”
I proceeded to explain to the mystery man what had transpired in the minutes leading up to this call—what I saw on the Skype video feed.
“This is no good,” the voice on the line said. “I will dispatch men to the apartment immediately. We may not be too late.”
Hope. Maybe she’s still alive. It was only minutes ago… “But wait, what do you mean by no good?” I said.
“These men are still looking for Natasha. They are very dangerous, part of Russian Mafiya. Very important for you to help so Natasha not face the same fate as Tatiana.”
How is it that I end up in these situations? Why is this poor kid’s life suddenly resting in my hands? I sell wireless business solutions. I can hear Tav now. Don’t do it, Darb. Don’t get involved. It’s not your problem.
“What’s the favor?”
“He will explain to you himself. He flies to New York tomorrow. We will make ticket for you to New York and set up meeting.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s pull the party bus over for second. You said nothing about traveling. Why can’t you just tell me or have Mr. Buchko call me?”
“It is not how he does business. Mr. Buchko pays $10,000 for your time and expenses to meet him. If you accept offer, he pay
s an extra $30,000. Is this agreed?”
A bottle of Bulleit Bourbon sat on my kitchen counter, a gift from an old friend in Hong Kong. I opened the bottle and poured myself a generous shot, then another—and one more for good measure. This all seemed too much for one person to handle. I was still sickened and enraged by what these men had done to Tatiana, my lovely Tatiana. She was the innocent one in this whole ordeal, but she paid the price. The shot glass jumped when I slammed my fist down on the counter. Someone needs to pay for this—for Tatiana.
28
New York, New York
For a heavy-hitter, last-minute travel isn’t a problem. All I need to say is, “I have a strong lead,” and my travel gets rubber-stamped all the way up the totem pole. Not even the mongoloid, Harold, can mess with it like he did when I was a bottom-feeder.
United Airlines Flight 6 was due to land at John F. Kennedy International Airport at exactly 3:40 p.m. I slept on and off most of the flight. Having finished half of the bottle after the call last night, I didn’t bother sleeping before catching a cab to the airport. I’m surprised they even let me on the plane. The clothes I had on were wrinkled and I was sporting a good growth across my face. I didn’t care what anyone thought.
According to the chipper pilot, we were on schedule and would be on the ground in a half hour. I hoped so. I had the farts the entire trip and really needed an opportunity to let them go. My grandfather always followed up a fart with, “If they don’t pay the rent, I kick ’em out.” My guys had squatted long enough.
Just as the mystery man had said, a driver was waiting for me at baggage claim. I jumped into the Town Car and we sped off. The driver’s name was Igor—I got that much out of him. He wasn’t much of a talker. He had a pretty stern face. He wore the traditional black outfit, except he spiced it up with a black Yankees baseball cap.
“Where are we going?”
“Hotel.”
“What hotel?”
“Nice one.”
I gave up fishing for information. It was clear he wasn’t allowed to tell me anything. His job was to drive, no more.
The car stopped outside of the Four Seasons. “This is where you stay,” Igor said over his shoulder. “Someone will contact you soon.”
A doorman already had my door open. With nothing more to say, I grabbed my bag and got out of the car.
My room was pre-paid, a suite on the thirty-fifth floor in the tower. It had a killer view of Central Park. This is nice. I could live this way. If only everyone who wanted something from me took care of me this way.
I grabbed a Heineken out of the mini-bar and sat in front of the window to enjoy the view. It was nearing six and the sun was beginning to set. The colors were amazing, but I kept wondering what was next. What’s the plan, Mr. Buchko?
Just then the hotel phone rang.
“Darby Stansfield?” It was another mysterious Russian voice.
“Yes, this is he.”
“You will meet Mr. Buchko for dinner at The Plaza. A car will pick you up downstairs in half hour. Be on time. Thank you.”
And then the line went dead. Normally I would say that was a rude conversation, but all I could think was, why didn’t I get a room at The Plaza?
On the ride over to Buchko’s place, I had the same driver. Of course, Igor’s demeanor was the same. “I drive; you shut the hell up.”
When I got to The Plaza, two sides of muscle dressed in black suits were waiting for us. They approached the car and escorted me up to the room. Security detail.
Mr. Buchko was in the Royal Plaza Suite—the best of the best. I began to feel intimidated during the elevator ride. I knew absolutely nothing about this man, and so far I’d blindly followed every order he gave. It didn’t help that I was sandwiched between five hundred pounds of hired beef. What is it with Russians, the color black, and muscles? And what is it that Mr. Buchko needs me to do that requires so much secrecy?
The private elevator stopped and the doors opened into an ornate, rectangular foyer, which led to a much larger, more ornate, oval foyer. From there I was escorted into a study with cherry wood, paneled walls, and Victorian décor complete with oversized sitting chairs.
One of the chairs was already occupied.
29
Dressed casually in an Adidas workout suit was a fairly mild mannered looking man—the suite broke the color code. He had no muscular physique, no scars on his face, no menacing tattoos. He was clean-shaven. There was nothing about him that suggested power. He sat slouched, crooked in the chair. To the average person, he looked like a nobody. I was soon to learn that this assumption of mine could not be further from the truth.
“Hello, Darby,” the man said extending his hand. “My name is Valery Buchko.”
I shook his hand.
“Please, have a seat. Something to drink? Russian vodka chilled? It is the best.”
I nodded. Why I wasn’t speaking was just as confusing to me as it must have been to Mr. Buchko. A few seconds later, one of his men placed a cold crystal glass in my hand. I sipped the colorless firewater expecting the worst, but the vodka was smooth and velvety. He must have noticed the surprised look on my face.
“It’s good, isn’t it? It’s Belarusian vodka, filtered three times through birch wood, very good.”
I nodded and took another sip. “I’m sorry. Excuse me for not saying anything. I’m still getting used to the idea of being flown out to New York to meet someone I never met before.”
“I understand.”
“What is this about? So much secrecy,” I said, gesturing to the men outside in the foyer.
“It’s for my protection. I am high ranking government official in Ukraine. More precisely, I am the Minister of Finance.”
It all made sense very quickly. Mysterious men rescuing Natasha. Secret phone calls. No names. Bodyguards. Generous payments. This guy was the shit in Ukraine and I, Darby Stansfield, saved his daughter.
“My wife and I are grateful for your bravery in Minsk. Not many people would have helped if found in the same situation as you. You are the reason we have Natasha safe at home.”
“Well, what can I say? I try to do the right thing.” And maybe the right thing is about to turn into cha-ching! I started to internally hum “If I Were a Rich Man” from the musical Fiddler on the Roof. I couldn’t believe I was thinking about money at a time like this, but I was.
“My daughter speaks highly of you. She says you are a man of integrity.”
“That’s very kind. She only knew me for a few hours, though.”
“Are you not what she says you are?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that…I—Well, yes. I guess I am that man.”
“Very good.”
I was beginning to wonder where all this pleasant talk was going. Surely this man did not fly me out here just to tell me his daughter thinks I’m a good guy. It seemed like an urgent matter and now we’re making small talk.
“Mr. Buchko—”
“Call me Valery.”
Who calls the Minister of Finance by their first name? “Okay, uh, Valery. Why did you bring me all the way out here?”
“You are right to be curious. But first let us have dinner, yes?”
Mr. Buchko stood up and walked past me and into the foyer without saying another word. Well, this was stupid. Why not just spit out what you have to say, Minister? I followed him through yet another foyer and then into the main dining room. It was bigger than my apartment and much nicer. Holding court in the middle was a large wooden table that could easily seat eighteen people. Valery sat at the head and motioned for me to sit beside him.
“Will it just be us?”
“Yes, yes. Have you tried the lamb from here?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Very good. Very tender. This is main course.”
As much as I liked lamb, I would much rather have ordered for myself.
As we ate, he chatted on and on about his family. He and his wife, Irina, have been married
for twenty-five years. They have two other children, a son named Denis and little girl named Oksana. This was only semi-interesting to me. Thankfully, the food was awesome. I devoured every course and half of the vodka. For dessert we enjoyed a nice selection of sirok—small, chocolate-coated cheesecake bars with a center filling that came in several different flavors. The chef made them as a special request for Mr. Buchko. I tried each one.
The weather in New York was a balmy seventy-five. So it made perfect sense to retire to the private terrace and enjoy a snifter of brandy after dinner. Who cared about why I was there when there was a terrace and a bottle of brandy on hand. We indulged. But while I was enjoying my time, I was also eager to find out why Mr. Buchko wanted me in New York. “With all due respect, Mr. Buchko, I think it’s time you tell me why I’m here.”
“Yes. But what I tell you must not be told to anyone else. Is this understood?”
“Sure.”
“No one, until the time is right. I’m very serious.”
I could see this, as Mr. Buchko had leaned toward me, his eyes concentrated and focused. Social hour was over.
“We plan on taking down the gang that kidnapped my daughter and killed this other girl, Tatiana.”
It was a little shocking to hear him speak of Tatiana that way. As much as I knew in my heart she was dead, she had not been officially pronounced dead to me. I still asked anyway. “She’s dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I understand you cared for this woman?”
I swallowed. “Yes. What about her mistress, the woman who owned the apartment?”
“She is fine. She was out of town the night of the murder.”
“I see.”
“The Ukrainian and Belarusian governments are joining forces and are going after the gang. We have identified these men and are closing in on them. We expect our special forces to take them into custody soon.”
