“Now, Mikhail Petrovich, you must listen very carefully: we know that you have the day shift this coming Tuesday, May twenty-third, so exactly at four p.m., a white Ford Focus will be driven by a chauffeur to the East Gate where you are scheduled to work. There will be a woman named Julia Saparova in the back seat. You will let this car go through with its passenger and whatever it is carrying, after only a very superficial inspection. If you do this, as I said, your daughter will not be harmed and will be brought back to you. If you do not, or if at any time, you tell the police, your bosses, or anyone else--even your wife--about this approach, as I said earlier, your daughter will suffer the consequences. You need to email us a ‘Yes’ at [email protected] repeat, [email protected] tomorrow noon your time if you want your daughter to avoid a fate worse than death.”
The sound track ended with Nadia’s unearthly screams in the background, as the screen went blank.
Mikhail, sat there unmoving, with his face in his hands. He wanted to kill himself, but he knew that would not help. In his despair, he knew that the only hope for Nadia was if he followed the instructions the voice had given him. He, as a father had no choice. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t, even though he realized his decision could have terrible consequences for humanity.
Chapter 18
Julia was surprised and very glad to see Greg in the flesh, just as she had been with Anne back in the compound, albeit under different circumstances. The drugs had worn off, and the hospital rest was doing her a lot of good, although more than anything, it was being free and seeing her friends again that lifted her spirits.
“I am so happy that you found me. I was beginning to wish that I was dead.”
Anne stroked the Russian girl’s hair. “Yeah. You went through a lot, my dear.”
“Well, I’m glad that your boss called you to come help find me. And, that you came. And then you found and rescued me,” Julia said with a little laugh. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Yes, it was that call from my former boss at Interpol that brought us back to Vienna. Saying you went missing. Dreadful--”
“Just as with Adam,” Greg interrupted, “and since we had managed to track him down, Demeter thought we were the obvious ones to find you. You are in a similar position at the IAEA.”
“The idea was that it might be the same thugs wanting to steal more uranium,” Anne added. “And use you in some way.”
“Just like they corrupted Adam to help them.”
“Well, they certainly used me.”
“But, Julia, did you by any chance overhear any mention of another theft of nuclear material at any point?” Anne asked. “We didn’t tell you yet, but in Vienna we bumped into Brother Peter, one of the terrorists who was buying the HEU in Poti from the Polyakov gang. We were wondering if this was all leading up to another heist.”
“No, Anne, I certainly did not hear anything nor see any signs that that might be the case.”
“On another note, Julia, when we went by your apartment, your mother told us how you came to be at the Revuebar, but we don’t know exactly what happened. Nor, after that, how you ended up in that compound here in Hungary. Can you tell us, or would you rather not talk about it?” Anne was wondering how hard she should push her friend just yet. “It may bring back unpleasant memories, so...”
“It would help us understand how these gangsters work. And also, maybe cast a light on how extensive their human trafficking operation is,” Labrecque said, as he took a little notebook out of his pocket.
“I will tell you all I know,” Julia said, sitting up in the bed. “Maybe it will help put the horrors behind me.”
“Thank you.” Anne made herself comfortable at Julia’s feet. “But stop any time it is too painful.”
***
“Tuesday--it was a Tuesday, I think, ten or so days ago. Hmm, what day is it today? I don’t even know--I have completely lost track of time.”
“Today is Monday.”
“So it must have been thirteen days ago. I came home from work, around seven-thirty p.m. I think. My mother--she has been staying with me since the doctors in Russia told her she did not have much longer to live, and I wanted to see if we could find better care for her in Vienna, poor soul--met me at the door, all agitated.
“She said, ‘Julia, that nice man--that Hungarian physicist who came to see me in Ozersk--Adam Kallay, your friend, remember? Well, he called. Around six, thinking you might be home. He would like to meet with you tonight at ten p.m. at...here, I have it written down...some bar it was...The Revuebar Rasputin.’
“‘The Rasputin?’ I perked up, not having thought of my old workplace for quite some time.
“‘Yes.’ my mother confirmed. ‘What an odd name, for a meeting place. Ugh! That Rasputin, was a monk, but an evil one. Hmm. Maybe you should not go, and send a note asking to meet somewhere else.’
“I laughed at the very Russian superstition of my mother, but was surprised. And agitated. It did not seem right. Adam, how could it be? I asked myself. You, Greg, told me in Poti that he was dead.”
“Yes, we could not believe it either, when your mother told us that Kallay had called you. He is dead, for sure. I know. I saw him die with my own eyes. I felt for his pulse before I left him, but there was none.”
“We believe that someone must be impersonating him,” Anne added.
“Well, my first thought was that maybe Adam was not dead after all,” Julia countered. “Maybe he had gone into hiding and was now reaching out to me. Maybe he needed help. And he had been so good to me, so kind, that I could not leave him in a lurch. So I resolved to go to the meeting, in spite of my doubts. And my mother’s superstition, although, in the end, she did encourage me.”
“Of course.”
“I got to the Revuebar shortly after ten p.m. The front entrance--not the back where I used to come and go all the time--since I thought Adam would want to meet in one of the dark booths where he would not be seen, and from where he could see the action on stage. He always enjoyed that.”
Greg nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“I told the guard at the door that a Mr. Kallay was expecting me, so I was surprised when, after letting me in, he directed me with a smile to his colleague guarding the small door that led backstage. I breezed past the podium where my old friend Ginger was doing her solo act, and remembered the times when I was dancing to Scheherezade--my exotic dance act up on the stage.”
“You were amazing, I remember,” Greg could not keep from remarking.
Anne slapped her husband’s wrist. “Stop it, now.”
“I told this second guard that I was there to see Mr. Kallay, and he led the way through the door, saying ‘Come.’
“I followed the man along the dingy corridor I knew so well, from which opened the offices and dressing rooms, past the staircase to an upstairs I had never seen, and all the way to the back door where another guard was standing. The thug leading the way said to his colleague in Russian, ‘She come looking for Kallay.’
“They both started to laugh, at the same time grabbing me from front and back, forcing my arms behind me and clasping handcuffs around my wrists. I screamed and yelled ‘Let me go!’ but no one came to my rescue.
“‘Okay, baby, now you go see your friend, Kallay,’ the man who had led me to the back door said, giving my breasts a rough fondle.
“Ugh. They pushed me through the door and into the back of a SUV, and a driver and another guard materialized from nowhere. As the first brute closed the seat belt around me, he reached between my legs. ‘You’re going to have some fun with your dear friend Kallay where you’re going. Lucky guy. Such a lovely piece of ass you are!’ or something disgusting like that. The vehicle then sped away through Vienna and eventually onto the highway.”
“Toward Hungary? The compound?” Anne asked.
“Yes. After several hours, we arrived at that place. I was taken straight to the room where you found me. In fact, to the very bed, Ann
e, where you first saw me. Here, the guards opened the handcuffs, and released my right wrist replacing it with one of the iron posts at the head of the bed. They then left me fettered to the bedpost.”
“God, what creeps.” As he said this, Greg wondered how Julia could be so detached in the telling, although, clearly, the experience she had undergone had been emotionally extremely traumatic.
Could it be the drugs she had been given?
“I was left alone in the dark for I don’t know how many hours, so I managed to fall into a deep sleep. Eventually, I was woken rudely, by this fat little man, stark naked, without a hair on his body, straddling me and wildly ripping my clothes off. I tried to kick him and beat him off me, but realized that by then my ankles had also been chained to the bed, with my legs spread wide apart. It was only when he looked at me with a wicked scowl that I recognized the face--it was none other than that monster Hetzel. With dyed-blond hair, to look more like the Adam he was trying to impersonate. The same pervert, who had lusted after me back when I was dancing at the Revuebar, now had me in his clutches. Just like that, he had tricked me by pretending he was Adam Kallay. And I had fallen for it, stupid me.” Julia fought to keep back the tears.
“Julia. Julia. It’s okay. Are you still all right to talk about this?” Anne asked, now concerned about her friend.
“Yes. I want to tell you everything. This...this...Frankenstein did terrible things with me. The only way I was able to survive it all was to...to remove myself from my body, if you can understand what I am saying.”
“Yes, my dear, I can.” Anne, who had lived through being raped by Polyakov, fully empathized, with tears coming to her eyes. She held Julia’s hand between hers.
“Over the next days, whenever he appeared, the pervert alternated between telling me that he loved me and pleading with me to marry him, saying he would never release me until I agreed, and beating me and abusing me sexually. He took pleasure in hurting me, and--and sodomized me--several times.”
Greg had gone white as the hospital’s walls. “God! I will kill the bastard.”
“He would drug me, and I must admit, I gladly took the pills--they dulled the pain, and allowed me to escape the reality of what was happening to me. He would bring other girls--often young ones, Russians mostly--tell them to strip, beat them and force them to make love to me. As if that would please me, the deranged pervert must have thought. And then, he would push them away and rape me over and over again.” At this point, Julia could not hold back the tears any longer. “There was another room, but I don’t know--I don’t remember--I don’t--the drugs--it is all just a horrible haze now.”
“Julia, I will not rest until this guy is dead or behind bars for the rest of his life.”
“And then, Anne, they brought you,” Julia whispered between sobs, cuddling closer with her friend. “And you very cleverly told me not to let on that I knew you. You were so brave to lunge for the pistol and shoot the creep in the groin. Amazing, that you got us out of there in the ambulance. Thank you, thank you.”
“Well, I did it also to save myself. Those guys, you don’t mess with.”
***
After a moment or two of silence, Greg glanced at his watch, but thought there was maybe enough time to broach the other topic he wanted to discuss with Julia. “Julia, when we were in Vienna, your mother showed us a letter from her father, your grandfather, Efim Pleshkov--who had known my grandfather at Mayak, you may remember. The letter talked about the disappearance of her elder sister, Katerina. Your aunt. Apparently, she was kidnapped by Lavrenti Beria in Ozersk in 1950 and eventually sent to a gulag. I have the letter in my rucksack--Anne, it’s over on your side of the bed, by your feet--along with some other letters, Julia, your mother wanted you to have.”
“Yes, I know those letters. They were in that old tin box. The one from my grandfather in particular was pretty gruesome, I remember.”
“It talked of Katerina’s ordeal with Beria, that perverted deputy of Stalin who was the head of the secret police,” Anne said.
“Ugh! Now that you mention it, it is similar to what I have been through with this monster Hetzel. My poor aunt didn’t have you to help her get away though.”
“After Beria abused Katerina--and it would seem, got her pregnant--he wanted her disposed of, but his security chief sent her to some gulag, if I remember correctly,” Anne continued, as she pulled out a manila envelope from the rucksack, and then several letters from the package, handing them to Julia.
“Yes, and it was only after Beria died in 1953, six months or so after Stalin, that my grandparents found out which prison camp it was. My grandfather, I think, incorporated the letter that tells this, from a Gospodja Lenkova, into his letter.” Julia finally pulled out the yellowing pages from a tattered envelope. “Yes, here it is. She says that her husband, who it seems, was the head of security at Beria’s villa in Ozersk--you are right, Anne--took my Aunt Katerina to a corrective labor camp at the Gulag Chelyablag in Chelyabinsk. In defiance of the order from Beria, who wanted her killed. Disposed of--liquidated, as they would say.” And she looked up from the letter. “That was still in 1950, sometime in April probably.”
“Three years or so before the very same Beria started to dismantle the entire system of the gulags,” Greg pointed out.
“It was only after Beria died in the summer of 1953--so after that--that my grandfather felt able to start to look for Katerina. Before then, he was convinced it could have meant the death of all of them, as well as the Lenkov family, since Gospodin Lenkov had disobeyed Beria’s command. So he went to Chelyabinsk, made inquiries and searched all over for his daughter and for her child--at grave risk to himself--but found no trace of either. In fact, as he wrote in his letter, the corrective labor camps had been done away with in October of 1951, and any prisoners remaining then would have been transferred somewhere else in the gulag system. And if there were any files, as he said, they would have been taken to Moscow.”
“So maybe there is some record of her in the archives of the NKVD or KGB--or their successor, the FSB--wouldn’t you think?” Greg posited.
“Yes, well, just last year, when I was on a business trip to Moscow, I went to visit the State Archives of the Russian Federation--the GARF, as it is known by its Russian acronym--which is where most of the remaining gulag records ended up. But there was nothing about a Katerina Pleshkova in the files on any camp, let alone those on Chelyablag.”
“Perhaps they are somewhere else,” Anne suggested. “Those records, I mean.”
“Or, maybe it is that they have been destroyed. Liquidated, as you say. Just like many Soviet citizens were. Along with their entire life stories. As if they never existed,” Labrecque suggested. “We know that happened often there, and in the satellite countries.”
“Yes, you are right,” Julia agreed. “So maybe we will never be able to find out what happened to my Aunt Katerina. Other than that Lenkov took her to some camp instead of disposing of her. Away from that evil Beria.”
“At least that is something,” Labrecque said. “In fact, I remember reading somewhere that they found the remains of some of Beria’s young female victims in the basement of his villa in Moscow when it was turned into the Tunisian Embassy in 1958. They even discovered an iron door leading to his personal torture chamber. He was a real monster, as you say.”
Greg saw Julia wince at this comment from the French Interpol agent.
***
Labrecque’s phone chirped. It was Szekely, downstairs in the lobby.
“We’ll be right down.”
At the reception, Labrecque went up to two men lounging by the desk and introduced Anne and Greg, Szekely, the Hungarian police officer with him. “Lieutenant Peter Kormendi. Peter and I go back many years. He will work with us to catch these criminals.”
“Hello. George told me a little bit of what has been going on. Terrible. I cannot believe these Russian gangsters could operate a sex trafficking ring here, in Hungary. Right u
nder our noses.”
“Yeah, pretty brazen of them,” Szekely agreed.
“Where is this sexual deviant? I will take him into custody immediately,” Kormendi asked. “Registered as Adam Kallay, you say?”
As they left the reception area to go back up to the room occupied by Hetzel, Greg glanced at the clock: it was already eight-twenty-three a.m. He had not slept--none of them had--but the adrenaline kept them going. Good, he thought, at least the creep should be awake and finished with breakfast. When Greg entered his room with Anne, the Hungarian police officer and the two men from Interpol, the invalid turned pale and started to shake. He knew the game was up.
“Why, Greg,” he whispered, “I never thought I would see you again.”
“You have a lot to answer for, you fucking monster.” The adjective, for once, was appropriate, Greg thought.
“It’s not as it seems, Greg,” Hetzel whined.
Kormendi put handcuffs on him. “Okay, my friend, you are under arrest. You’re going to stay here until I can talk to the doctors to get you released from hospital and get some men over to take you to jail.” He got on his phone and Szekely translated for the others: “He’s just getting some local officers to come and guard Hetzel here as long as the doctors want him to stay. Then they will take this jerk and put him away. In the meantime, we’re going to go over to the compound to free those girls and arrest the other thugs. Peter tells me we will be joined there by some reinforcements.”
“We’re coming with you.”
“Yeah, that would be good.”
Twisted Traffick Page 11
