Scaling the wall didn’t look like it would present too much of a problem. The building was made of brick and there were unintentional handholds and footholds just about everywhere I looked. I chose the path of least resistance, drew a breath, and started up.
Of course, everything is much more difficult to do in a suit and dress shoes. And climbing the brick wall of a hostel proved no exception. The soles of my shoes slipped on nearly every brick and my fingers were almost immediately covered in nasty cuts. My lungs burned like hell and my left forearm ached, but I continued up, trying futilely to extinguish the height-induced panic gripping my gut.
Once I reached the second floor, I balanced myself on a ledge and surveyed the boards. Plywood, I guessed. Attached to the window frames with thick nine-inch nails. The wood looked weather-beaten and would probably collapse under the strength of a good, solid kick. Gaining leverage to make such a kick, however, was an entirely different story. My best shot would be to rip the plywood from the frame in a single move, then hurl myself through the window, land with a shoulder tumble, and come up raising my Glock.
Only this wasn’t an action movie, either. And I sure as hell wasn’t Jason Statham. But I’d seen enough of his films to give it a go.
Chapter 39
It wasn’t the most graceful entrance ever made, but it certainly served its purpose: I was inside. I’d hit a bit of luck as well. Not only was there no one in the room I’d hurled myself into, but the door was closed, and it seemed unlikely that anyone had heard me enter. The room was empty except for two sets of bunk beds with bare, badly stained mattresses. Briefly I thought of Ana, bound and gagged on that filthy mattress in Chudzik’s basement, and I began to seethe. Finally, I made for the door, opened it slightly, and peered out into the dark hall. I didn’t see anyone, but I did hear some mumbled conversation, which seemed to be coming from the first floor.
Quietly, I hurried to a stairwell at the end of the hall. I pushed open the door, winced at the slight squeak, and squeezed through as small an opening as I could. I had switched off the ringer on my BlackBerry, clicked off the safety on my Glock. I was as ready as I’d ever be to head down the steps.
The closer I came to the first floor, the better I heard the conversation. By the time I reached the bottom, it was as if they were speaking right to me. A sliver of light peeked through. I looked down and noticed that the door was wedged open a crack with an old aluminum beer can.
I risked a quick peek. The door opened onto a large sitting room, possibly the hostel’s main lobby. Two large sofas—the kind you’d find in the common room of a college dormitory—faced each other in the center of the space and were surrounded by several beat-up chairs. From my vantage point I could see Ana and Pavlo seated next to each other, she leaning into him, he with his arm around her shoulders, his lips dangerously close to her left ear.
Holding my Glock at the ready, I pressed up against the door and listened intently. I heard Pavlo’s voice first.
“Come on, Ana. Listen to Marko. He has been in this business a long time. He knows what he is talking about.”
Ana said, “But Marko cannot even assure me which country I will be sent to. What if I end up somewhere I do not wish to be?”
“Ana, Ana,” said the man I assumed was Marko, “what did I tell you before? The most beautiful girls are taken to the most beautiful cities. And you are one of the most beautiful girls to walk through these doors. I have a customer driving in later tonight to pick up two girls for three months in Antalya; it is a wonderful city on the Mediterranean coast of southwestern Turkey. You will love it there. Three hundred days of each year are sunny. Three hundred. I guarantee, if we get you down to the pickup spot in time tonight, you will be one of the two selected.”
“Antalya,” Pavlo said with the same obnoxious laugh I’d heard at the club, “it even goes well with your name.”
“And what about the police?” Ana said. “I do not want to get into any trouble.”
Marko and Pavlo laughed simultaneously.
Marko said, “The Ukrainian police? Are you kidding me? You will see a police cruiser drive up to the beach tonight. The police will be there for one reason and one reason only. To collect their money.”
“It is feeding time for the police,” Pavlo added. “Like pigs at the trough.”
More dirty cops. No surprise there, or anywhere else in the former Soviet Union for that matter. Organized crime and law enforcement enjoyed a parasitic relationship in the former communist states, with organized crime constantly growing into a bigger, tastier host.
“And once you arrive at your destination,” Marko said, “you will have no worries at all. You will work in the lobbies and at the poolsides of some of the world’s most luxurious resorts. And these resorts, not only will they not shoo you away like flies, but they will lure you with honey like bees. These resorts, they need you there. You are why businessmen make reservations and continue to return year after year after year.”
“So you are saying, I will not be walking the streets like some common call girl?”
“Who knows what the future holds?” Marko said. “Who cares? After three months in Antalya, you may become homesick or feel like you have enough money to live off of for the next ten years, and decide to return to Bialystok covered in priceless jewels. Or you may get deported and then return here, ask to be shipped out again. You may find yourself on the streets of Paris or Madrid or Dublin. Is that so bad? Wherever you go, I promise your presence will be more than welcome, and you will make more money than you ever dreamed of.”
“Marko speaks the truth,” Pavlo said.
“Now come, Ana,” Marko said. “We have to get to the beach before my customer arrives. There will be at least two dozen girls there for the competition. But don’t be intimidated; you will be the prettiest girl there.”
“All right,” Ana said. “Let me just use the restroom before—”
“There is no time right now,” Marko said. “Let’s go. You can pee when we arrive at the beach.” He paused. “Pavlo, thank you for the recruit. I have called Yuri and he is sending two girls here as your commission. Spend as much time as you would like with them. Just return them in the same condition in which you received them, or you will have Yuri to answer to.”
“I can use one of the rooms downstairs?” Pavlo said.
“No,” Marko replied. “Use only the rooms upstairs. The rooms on this floor are where Yuri likes to break in new girls, and if he discovers that you put your dirty ass on his sheets, you will end up in hell with his cousin Osip.”
I heard two sets of feet walking away—no doubt Marko’s and Ana’s—and one set of feet coming toward me. I had a decision to make. Pull the gun on Marko now, before he could leave, or wait and follow him and Ana to the beach. To the other girls. To the customer. And quite possibly to Yuri.
I heard the front door open and close, then I felt pressure against the door I was leaning up against. I let the door give a bit, let Pavlo take a step or two in, then used my shoulder to crush him between the door and the doorframe.
Pavlo let out a scream and I promptly covered his mouth, hoping that Marko hadn’t heard the commotion. My worries were quelled when I heard an engine start up and a vehicle quickly peel away.
I slapped Pavlo’s face so that he wouldn’t pass out from the pain. From the way he was breathing, I guessed he had a few broken ribs. I hoped none had punctured his lungs.
Not because I gave a damn what happened to him, really.
But because I needed to know precisely where Marko was taking Ana.
This time, I had no intention of waiting on a text.
Chapter 40
Pavlo was kind enough to lend me the keys to his vehicle. He was fading into unconsciousness at the time, but I was sure I detected a bob of the head when I queried. Fortunately, Pavlo’s ZAZ was equipped with a GPS. Unfortunately, the female voice spoke to me in Ukrainian. I didn’t have time to tinker with the device to determine whe
ther I could switch the setting to English, so instead, I ripped the GPS off the dash and tossed it onto the backseat so that it wouldn’t distract me. From studying maps of Odessa back at the Mozart Hotel, I had a general idea of where I was heading: to a port off an unnamed beach on the Black Sea.
The spot was less than a ten-minute drive from the hostel, and when I saw it I realized Pavlo had been right in that the scene was unmistakable. Thirty or so stick-thin women, none older than her midtwenties, stood in a crowd on a pier next to a sizable boat. Despite the frigid air, none of the girls wore more than a thin dress. All their midriffs and legs were exposed. Each of the girls rocked gently in absurdly high heels and carried a smoke. I searched the crowd for Ana but couldn’t find her at first. Finally, after a few minutes, I spotted her off to the side, speaking with two other women, both of whom appeared to be teenagers.
I didn’t see any men at all and assumed Marko was on the boat. From the looks of things, it became pretty clear that was where I needed to be. These girls would be able to tell Ana only so much. I needed to speak to Marko. And, I hoped, to Yuri himself.
I parked Pavlo’s ZAZ well out of sight. I double-checked my Glock, then exited the vehicle and started toward the pier. I stopped when a pair of headlights came into view.
I ducked behind another car and peeked through its side windows. The headlights were coming from a police cruiser, with two cops sitting in the front seat. They shone a large spotlight directly into the crowd of girls, but the girls didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. In fact, many of them appeared to be posing in the glare of the spotlight.
A lone woman who’d been standing at the edge of the crowd sauntered to the cruiser. She looked slightly older than the others. When she reached the vehicle, the driver’s-side window glided down. She leaned in, spoke to one of the officers, then clearly passed something off to him. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but I had little doubt that it was an envelope filled with cash. Just as Marko and Pavlo had suggested back at the hostel.
It’s feeding time for the police, Pavlo had said. Like pigs at the trough.
Apparently satisfied, the officers extinguished their spotlight, rolled up their window, and slowly moved on.
I edged forward behind the row of cars. Less than two minutes passed before another set of headlights appeared. A new black Lincoln Town Car rolled to a stop before the crowd of girls. Unlike the police cruiser, this car garnered a significant reaction. The girls swarmed into the beams of light and exhibited their bodies with all the intensity of the dancers onstage at Palladium.
The windows of the Town Car were tinted, but that didn’t prevent a few of the girls from flocking to the sides of the vehicle, some lowering their tops, some raising their skirts, no doubt in the hopes of being chosen by whomever was seated in the backseat, leering out.
Finally, the woman who had presented the envelope to the police pushed her way through the throng. When she reached the rear window on the driver’s side, the glass glided down, and I saw a dark man in a gray suit and sunglasses greet her.
Negotiations were about to commence.
With everyone distracted, this was my chance to get aboard the boat. There was little cover except for darkness but that darkness was nearly complete. A sliver of moon sat high in the sky, throwing off little illumination on the starless night. Between that and my black suit, grass and sand to muffle my footfalls, I was pretty damn certain I’d make it just fine. If I was spotted, I’d duck behind the nearby retaining wall and ready myself for a firefight.
*
The boat was approximately sixty feet in length, with no one on the deck providing security. There had been no one watching the hostel, either, as far as I could tell. These men were either brazen or stupid or legitimately had little to fear. If I’d been a betting man, I’d have put my money on the latter.
Once I was aboard the boat, I glanced out at the crowd of girls. They continued to flaunt themselves in front of the Town Car, so I assumed the customer hadn’t yet made his selection as to who would accompany him to Antalya. Ana remained on the fringes, clearly not putting forward her best effort to be chosen.
I headed down the stairs to the cabin, my weapon drawn. There were lights on inside the cabin, the voices of carefree men carrying through the door. I pressed up against the door and listened. Surprisingly, I heard only two voices. I tried, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
I gave it a minute, then twisted the knob and it turned. For a moment I feared that the boat didn’t have anything at all to do with the sex-trafficking operation—that I was about to walk in and point a Glock at a pair of retirees from Bulgaria exploring the Black Sea.
But when I pushed the door open, I found two well-dressed men in their midthirties, staring back at me. They barely reacted at all.
I said, “Marko and Yuri, I presume.”
“I am Yuri Bobrovnyk,” said the blond man seated to the left. He pointed to the dark-haired man seated to the right. “This is Marko Dyachenko.” He lifted a brandy snifter and took a sip. “And you are?”
“I’m the man looking for Lindsay Sorkin,” I said. “The six-year-old girl abducted from her parents’ hotel room in Paris six days ago and dragged across the European continent by thieves and lawyers and gangsters and police.”
Marko chuckled. “That sounds a bit redundant. I do not see much difference between those four groups, do you, Yuri?”
Yuri smiled, shrugged. “I could not pick one or the other out of a lineup.” He looked up at me. “Would you mind not pointing that gun on me? I assure you it is not necessary. I am unarmed.” He turned to Marko. “Are you armed?”
Marko shook his head. “I am not armed.”
“He is not armed either,” Yuri said in his thick Ukrainian accent. “See? Neither of us is armed. We present no threat.”
I lowered the Glock a few inches, pointed it at the floor between them, ready to raise it if I glimpsed any sudden movement. I stood at an angle so that I could see if anyone was about to descend the stairs to the cabin.
“Thank you,” Yuri said. He had a smooth, clean-shaven face with a dimpled chin. “Now, how can we help you, Mr. Guy with the Gun?”
“Where’s the little girl?”
“Why do you think we would know this?”
“You’re a sex trafficker,” I said. “You peddle women.”
“Exactly,” Yuri said. “Women, not children. Tell me, Mr. Guy with the Gun, who wants little girls? Sickos, perverts. Why would I risk my business, destroy my reputation to deal with such deviants? The customers who pay me hundreds of thousands of euros to ship my women abroad would shop elsewhere. The police I pay off would stop protecting me. Some crazy man with a gun, someone like you, looking for his daughter or niece, would come onto my boat and blow my fucking head off. Why would I want that, tell me.”
“So,” I said, “you expect me to believe that if I went out there right now and talked to those young girls, I would hear nothing but good things about you and your operation. Is that right?”
“No,” Yuri said, setting his snifter down on a coffee table. “The girls who were not selected this evening will be very disappointed that they are not going to Antalya. Many of them stood out there in the freezing cold for several hours dressed in practically nothing, hoping to impress my customer. If you survey those girls tonight, most will probably express very little job satisfaction. But that goes for most businesses, no?”
“Most businesses don’t drug their employees,” I said, “or use violence when they don’t do as they’re told.”
“Drugs?” Yuri said with a laugh. Marko joined him. They looked like two partners who’d recently started a successful dot-com and were now basking in all its glory. “You think I provide these women with drugs? Heroin, cocaine, oxy, it is all expensive. Let them buy their own fucking drugs. I offer no health plan. As for violence, if I was prone to violence, right now I would cut out your tongue. My mother did not raise me to strike women. Nev
er in my life would I harm one of these girls.”
“How about men, then?” I said. “How about your cousin Osip?”
“Osip?” Yuri said, puzzled. “You know my cousin?”
“Holy shit,” Marko said to me. “You were listening in on our conversation at the hostel.”
“My cousin Osip,” Yuri continued, “is in Moldova recruiting women.”
“Not according to your buddy Marko here,” I said. “According to Marko, Osip’s rotting in hell.”
Marko smiled broadly. “What do you think Moldova is? Heaven?”
Yuri said, “My cousin Osip is a fuck-up. He screwed around with too many girls, passed around the crabs. So I sent him to Moldova. According to a study I read in a magazine, it is the unhappiest place on earth.”
“Actually, it was in a book,” Marko corrected him.
Yuri nodded. “Oh, yes. A book. What was it called?”
“The Geography of Bliss.” Marko turned to me. “Amazon. Currently under ten dollars U.S.”
*
Yuri didn’t bother with any threats, just asked that if I had any further questions about his business I contact him beforehand to set up an appointment. I had half a mind to pistol-whip the two of them and drop them overboard just to see how well they could swim.
Once I stepped off the boat, I turned the ringer to my BlackBerry back on. A few moments later, I spotted Ana. The crowd had thinned, but there were still a few girls left, smoking and engaging in conversation, perhaps waiting for another Town Car to arrive. Ana stood with two other girls, both thin as rails and scantily dressed. When she noticed me, Ana motioned me over.
“This is Mariya, and this is Lavra,” Ana said by way of introduction. “Girls, this is my friend Simon.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I told them, then turned to Ana. “I’m sorry, but we have to get going.”
“I understand.” Ana reached into my front pants pocket and removed a small wad of hryvni. She divided them equally and handed one half to Mariya and one half to Lavra. To me, she said, “I promise to pay you back.”
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 17
