by Julie Hyzy
Though the thought process had consumed all of two seconds, I couldn’t believe it had taken me that long to remember to scream. “Help!” I shouted as loudly as I could, given my breathlessness. “Rape! Fire! Help!”
In the terror of the moment, I couldn’t recall which of those words was supposed to be the most effective at garnering assistance. I kept running, kept shouting.
The street remained dead as my shrieking pleas for help were lost to the wind.
Seconds passed like hours. I tried to make out the homes’ addresses as I raced by them.
There. Two houses away now. Short, white, rickety front fence. Address on the open gate. Maybe I could—
I caught the sound of his breathing a hard second before he pushed me to the ground. I skidded against the sidewalk, my left leg and elbow taking the brunt of my weight, as breath rushed out of me with a whoosh.
Instinctively, I curled up, protecting myself with my arms tight. Rolling to my back, I kicked at my assailant with my feet, knowing I was in a wholly vulnerable position. I had the presence of mind to keep screaming, “Fire! Rape! Help!” desperate to be heard.
The man leaned over me. Up close I saw that he wore a nylon stocking over his face, the way thieves in the movies often do. Smashed against the silky fabric, his features were unrecognizable.
When I screamed again, he grunted, but didn’t speak, smashing his hand against my mouth in an effort to keep me quiet. With his free hand, he grappled for my purse and tried to tug it away. If I hadn’t been wearing a cross-body version, he’d have easily been able to grab it and go.
I was still on my back, doing my utmost to scramble by using only leg power. I knew I should probably let him have the bag, but a white-hot anger flared in my chest and I stubbornly held tight.
He was so intent on getting my purse strap over my head that he resorted to using both hands, thus freeing my mouth. I bellowed again, doing my best to inch away, my hands scraping against the sandpaper surface of the pavement as I rolled to keep the purse out of his clutches.
When I landed a punch directly to his nose, he yelped. I had no leverage, so I was sure the blow did little more than sting, but it was enough to startle him. He tensed up, giving me the tiniest of openings. I grabbed it.
Ignoring the bite of the pavement against my knees, I scrambled away, stutter-stepping into a crouch. He lunged for me, but I jumped out of his reach. His momentum carried him flying past me, giving me a precious chance to run. Fully on my feet now, run I did, still screaming for help, plowing my way through panic toward Stephanie’s house.
I banged on her front door, spinning to see how close the mugger was, hoping she’d answer before he could tackle me again.
He was gone.
One hand against my drenched forehead, I leaned out, looking up and down the quiet street, breathing with such effort that I couldn’t believe no one could hear me. There had been no response to my pleas for assistance, and the man who’d come at me had disappeared into the gray night as quickly as he’d appeared. For all I knew he was hiding behind one of the massive trees that lined the road, but I wasn’t about to check to find out for sure. I decided that I’d call a cab for my return trip, no question about that. First things first, however. I needed to call the police.
Stephanie answered the door with an alarmed look on her face. “Ollie, are you all right?”
I was still hanging tight to my purse, like a toddler might cling to a blankie. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, and I willed my heart to slow down. It had no intention of obliging me. When I nodded to Stephanie to assure her I was fine, I wasn’t surprised to find that she didn’t believe me.
“What happened?” she asked, stepping back to allow me to enter. She leaned forward and checked up and down the street, the same way I had. “Did someone bother you?”
I nodded again, allowing myself a little longer to decompress. With one hand on my chest, I used the other to wipe the sweat from my face. “You didn’t hear me screaming?” Hip-hop music coming from Stephanie’s living room speakers provided my answer before she had a chance to reply.
“No; oh my gosh, no. What happened?”
My words came out fast and breathless. “A guy. Tried to take my purse.” Looking down, I relaxed my death grip on the bag, and pulled in a shuddering breath in an effort to calm myself. “I don’t carry a lot of money, so he wouldn’t have gotten much.”
“Let’s get you settled,” Stephanie said, shutting the door behind me. “You’re shaking.”
I didn’t want to tell her that shaking after an attack was normal for me, or that, based on past experience, this altercation had been fairly mild. The poor girl wouldn’t have understood.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. But I do want to report this to the police.”
She shut off her music as she led me through a tidy living room that looked like a transplanted IKEA display. Her furniture featured lean lines, sharp colors, and a television storage system built into the wall.
I used her landline to report the attempted mugging. The dispatcher efficiently took down my information and told me that she would send an officer as soon as one was available.
“You’re not hurt?” the woman asked, for the second time.
“No, just shaken up.”
“And nothing was stolen?” she asked, also for the second time.
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“We’re experiencing a high volume of calls tonight, some of which are more urgent circumstances. An officer will be out tonight, but I can’t promise that it will be soon.”
I sighed, even though I understood. “That’s all right,” I said. “I plan to be here for a little while anyway.”
Stephanie had her arms folded across her chest. “By the time they get here, the creep will have escaped.”
“I’m sure he’s long gone.”
“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to a chair at her kitchen table. The room was small, but updated in a spare, very modern style. Green glass door cabinets, stainless steel appliances, shiny black countertops. Except for a block of knives in one corner, there was nothing out. No coffeemaker, no utensils, not even dish towels. The place was Spartan and spotless. She either didn’t cook very often, or she was a master at hiding her tools. Based on her performance in the kitchen, I’d guess she ate out a lot.
“I’d never be able to identify him, other than by his clothing,” I said as I sat. The table, too, was shiny and black. The chairs, pristine white, were molded plastic on metal legs. Not particularly comfortable. “I almost wish I hadn’t bothered the police. This will probably be a waste of their time.”
“It’s worth it to have it on record. Do you want something to drink?”
I realized I was thirsty. “Water, if you don’t mind.” I dug the recorder out of my pocket and placed it in the middle of the table.
“I’m really sorry that happened,” she said as she filled a glass and brought it to me. “If you want, we can go over this recording another day. Or you can leave it here and I’ll let you know what’s on it.”
“No, I’m fine, really,” I said. “I’m here now; I’d like to get this done. Plus, it would be wrong to leave before the police get here.”
She brought out paper and pen, and took the seat opposite mine. “In case you want to take notes,” she said, pushing the instruments across the table. “Once I get a feel for their word choices and tendencies I can give you phrases to listen for, if you like.”
“That would be great,” I said sincerely.
“All right, let’s get started.”
I picked up the tiny device and rewound it to the beginning of today’s recording. “There are quite a few conversations on here,” I said, “but only a few of them seemed important enough to translate.”
“Important, how?” she asked. “I thought you didn’t understand the language at all.”
“I understand body language, and tone.”
“Got it.”
&nb
sp; I hit Play and the Saardiscan men’s voices immediately came through. I recognized Cleto speaking to Tibor. This was when I’d returned from visiting the refrigeration area.
Stephanie listened for a bit, then stopped the device. Looking up, she translated Cleto’s words: “I think the waitress in the hotel is attracted to you.”
She then went on to translate Tibor’s reply: “She is attracted to the fact that we are working in the White House. Nothing more.”
“I don’t know,” Cleto said. His voice held the playful, singsong lilt I remembered hearing this morning. “She seemed to pay you special attention last night.”
Tibor made a noise of dismissal.
Stephanie continued to translate Tibor’s words: “Why are these citizens so wild about this building, this residence?” he asked. “They find the president’s house exciting and exotic, but I cannot understand why. It has the right name. This is nothing more than a white house. Compared to the palaces our leaders live in, this is no better than a shack.”
Cleto chastised him, reminding Tibor that American officials weren’t revered the same way as leaders in Saardisca.
Tibor said: “The chefs in this kitchen are very loyal to their president.”
Cleto: “As we are to ours, yes?”
Tibor, sounding affronted, said: “You doubt me?”
Cleto: “No, my friend. But how will you feel if this new candidate wins the election?”
“She will not.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
Tibor didn’t answer.
Cleto: “What do you know about her?”
“She travels with her dog.”
“You have nothing more to add?”
“Should I?”
Cleto: “Do you keep dogs? I cannot abide them. They are dirty and smell bad.”
Tibor remained silent.
Cleto went on: “I have always hated dogs. Cats as well. Does the candidate’s affection for her mongrel make you believe she is more worthy? Have you, too, bought into the Western belief that filthy pets are to live indoors and be treated like people?”
Tibor surprised me by continuing to remain silent. Cleto’s opinions about the Americanization of Saardisca were similar to those Tibor held dear.
Cleto: “Have you nothing to add?”
Tibor: “You talk about dogs and cats and your hatred for them. What is there for me to say?”
Stephanie stopped the recording. “This is a whole lot of nothing.”
“Keep going, please,” I said. “A little bit more.”
The two men went on to discuss what I would call a lot more nothing for a brief period of time, before Cleto finally brought up Kilian’s name.
Stephanie’s eyebrows arched as she translated Cleto: “Poor Kilian,” he said. “What did you think about his plans to defect?” Even though I couldn’t understand the words until Stephanie spelled them out, I could tell that Cleto’s tone, while conversational, was almost too nonchalant.
I leaned forward. “What does he say?”
Stephanie was already listening to the next part. This time it was Tibor talking. “Kilian would never seek asylum here,” he said. “That is nonsense.”
Cleto asked: “Are you sure?”
“He was a proud Saardiscan. He would never relinquish his ties to his country.”
“And you?”
Tibor made a noise that led me to believe he was appalled by the question. Spluttering, he spoke fast, and Stephanie had to replay that section twice to get it right. I remembered this moment in the kitchen. I’d seen the anger on Tibor’s face, and I’d wondered what had put it there.
“How dare you?” he asked Cleto. “I have never given our leaders any reason to doubt my loyalty. How can you make such an accusation?”
Cleto’s voice became more soothing. “I make no accusation, my friend,” he said. “I simply ask the question. I know too well how tempting life in this country can be. Not all men are so strong to resist.”
Tibor: “And you? Are you tempted?”
We replayed Cleto’s answer several times but couldn’t make out what he’d said. He’d moved out of the range of my recorder.
More voices joined the chatter, along with the accompanying sounds of people moving about, utensils clanking into the sink, and generalized greetings.
“That will be Hector, Nate, and Bucky returning from the pastry kitchen,” I said, by way of explanation.
When she began translating again we listened as the Saardiscans conversed among themselves a bit in their native tongue. Nothing they said veered beyond polite chatter and good-natured ribbing.
We listened to a few more uninteresting exchanges.
“Here,” I said. “This is where I thought there might be something worth listening to.”
I recalled the scene in the kitchen that we were listening to now. I remembered how they’d been too quiet, too long.
I heard myself address Bucky: “I’m wondering if you and I should go over to Blair House today rather than wait. I’m really itching to get a closer look at the kitchen.”
We fast-forwarded through the discussion in English.
Silence again until Hector spoke to Nate in Saardiscan: “She talks about last-minute changes and how efficiently they work around them. What happens if one of these last-minute changes she speaks of prevents our goal?”
Nate answered: “Nothing will stop us. We will be successful.”
I sat up. Even Stephanie seemed startled. She stopped the playback and listened to it again. “Yes, that’s what they said.”
“Keep going,” I said.
Hector talking: “It is getting more difficult to plan with Tibor always around.”
Nate: “You are correct. And we can no longer freely converse because of Cleto.”
Hector: “It would be best if we were allowed unrestricted access to the ingredients, but one of them is always watching.”
My skin prickled. They’d had unrestricted access from the very start. Although there were never long stretches where they were on their own, we didn’t police them when they ran to the refrigeration room for an ingredient, or visited storage. We hadn’t started restricting access until after Kilian’s death.
That had been my call. Bucky and I hadn’t made a big deal out of it, but together we’d ensured that the men weren’t unsupervised when they were working with food. They’d noticed, which I supposed was to be expected. But I wondered why they cared.
Stephanie translated the next part. Even though they spoke in Saardiscan, I noticed that the men’s voices lowered as though to keep from being overheard.
Hector: “They promise my brother will be treated well.” Heavy sigh. “I can only hope that they keep their word and release him once this is over.”
“Complete your job and you will have nothing to worry about.”
“I do not understand why we are to be served as guests at this dinner. How are we to ensure the candidate’s dish contains the ingredient if we are not allowed in the kitchen?”
Nate chuckled: “We will have to create one of our own last-minute changes.”
Stephanie clicked off, staring at me. “What does that mean?” she asked.
“Nothing good,” I said.
We listened to a few more of their exchanges, but nothing more sinister came to light. Although I would have preferred to go over the entire day’s worth of Saardiscan conversations, Stephanie was getting antsy. Didn’t matter. I had enough to take to the Secret Service at this point.
“I’m sure Tom will call you in to go over all this, officially,” I said.
She nodded. “I imagine so. Is any of this admissible in court?”
“That doesn’t matter. These chefs are here as our guests. If keeping them away from Kerry Freiberg is what we need to do to ensure her safety, that’s what we need to do. Prosecuting them would be a nightmare. But if our people talk to their people, I’m sure justice will be served.”
“Let’s hope.”
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I was about to call Gav when Stephanie’s doorbell rang. “Speaking of justice being served,” she said, “it looks like the police finally showed up.”
I followed her into the living room and waited for her to unlock the door. The moment she did, two officers stormed in, nearly knocking the young woman to the floor.
“Hey,” I shouted. “There’s no emergency here.”
One skipped heartbeat later, I realized how wrong I was.
CHAPTER 27
These were no policemen.
They both wore panty hose over their faces the way my would-be purse-snatcher had, but this time recognition dawned. Their builds, their movements, and the sounds of their guttural exclamations—precisely the same as those I’d heard on tape moments ago—told me all I needed.
Alarmed, I backed up, preparing to run.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
Behind them, Stephanie stood, her hand against the wall for support. She stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
One of the intruders tried to grab me, but I ducked away. “Run,” I screamed to Stephanie. “Out the door. Get help.”
Either she reacted too slowly, or I’d shouted too late. The first attacker, who I recognized as the purse-snatcher, was Nate. He lunged at me as Hector turned for Stephanie. Her warbling scream shot chills up my back. I tried to sidestep Nate—to leap out of his grasp the way I had earlier, but he anticipated my maneuver. Seizing hold of my wrist, he spun me backward.
Stephanie’s home was not large, and as I wheeled my free arm to maintain balance, I crashed against a nearby table, knocking over a lamp and a handful of framed pictures.
My backside hit the corner of Stephanie’s television storage system, sending a hot zing of pain up my back and down my leg. But the anchored wall unit was just what I needed. Using it as a brace, I regained my balance. My right arm was still pinned in Nate’s grasp, so I swung my left fist at his head, putting as much weight into it as I could.
I connected hard. So hard that my hand hurt. I stunned him, but not for long enough.
I could hear Stephanie begging to be released, but with Nate blocking my view I couldn’t see her. I pounded another blow to my attacker’s face. This time it barely glanced his chin.
