On the Heels of Evil

by D. E. Daum

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  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: D. E. Daum

  On the Heels of Evil © 2008 D. E. Daum

  eXcessica publishing

  All rights reserved

  On the Heels of Evil

  By D. E. Daum

  Prologue

  Omsk, Central Russia

  June 19, 2010, Secret Nuclear Storage Facility near the Kazakhstan border

  Six armed men followed Captain Yigor Romanov as he barged into Bruzonavich’s office. He smiled when, as he walked impudently up to the Colonel’s desk, he blanched. This is going to be amusing, interrogating this traitor.

  Colonel Bruzonavich’s eyes bulged at the sight of the haughty intruders. Trembling with obvious fright, he scooted his chair back and before Romanov could utter a word, he reached a shaky hand in the center drawer.

  Romanov’s eyes widened as the Colonel extracted a nine millimeter automatic and promptly introduced the barrel into his mouth. Panicked, the Captain leapt across the desk to stay his hand but was too late. The large picture window behind the Colonel shattered, accompanied by a loud explosion. Shards of glass shot outward as blood and gore painted the wall, partially opened drapes and what little glass remained.

  * * * *

  Captain Romanov strode up smartly to General Dushinsky’s desk and looking straight ahead saluted. “Captain Romanov, reporting as requested, sir.”

  Dushinsky noticed a bead of perspiration trickle down the Captain’s left temple and cheek before he turned slightly and his right hand furtively smudged it. Dushinsky tried unsuccessfully to hold back his smile at the officer’s discomfort. “At ease, Captain. Have a seat, please.”

  Romanov reclined onto the offered seat. “General, I had no reason to believe he would take his life. We were only going to ques—”

  Forcing his lips to behave, Dushinsky’s smile evolved into a tight line. He raised a hand. “Captain please, say no more. No one is blaming you. However, you realize, your fault or not, this will not look good on your record. You would have been better served to apprehend him on a trip to the restroom or as he was leaving for the day.”

  Romanov’s eyes refused to meet the General’s gaze as he nodded.

  He decided to give the Captain a tiny bit of encouragement so he let one corner of his lips to curl. “Fortunately, you have an exemplary record until now, so I feel you can overcome this incident. Tell me, what have you found out?”

  The Captain who was sitting stiffly in the uncomfortable chair, hands folded on his lap, surreptitiously swatted at another bead of sweat. “Regrettably, not a whole lot. There are a total of three nuclear devices missing, not one as we originally believed. Five million American dollars were wired into the Colonel’s Swiss account in February and another ten million in May, leaving us to suspect the Colonel delivered one and later two more devices to the buyer.”

  The General already knew this. “Yes, but who is the buyer?”

  Romanov shrugged and finally met his gaze for a second before moving on. “That is the question, isn’t it? There was apparently a romance going on with a tall blond, possibly foreign, woman, named Erika. She spoke Russian, but the people we interviewed said she had an accent.”

  Dushinsky sat up, elbows on his desk at these new revelations. “What kind of accent?”

  The Captain waved a hand as if to brush away the question. “I wish I knew. One thought it was Dutch, another said German. Two interviewees thought it might be Israeli and another said Czech. The only thing they agreed on was she was gorgeous—much too pretty for the Colonel.”

  General Dushinsky leaned back and rubbed his chin. “Did his wife know he had a lover?”

  “No, Yalena says not. It was a total surprise and I believe her. She did mention something interesting though.” Romanov glanced at Dushinsky. “In May, about a week before the ten million dollar wire transfer, he brought a man home for dinner. He introduced him as John Smith from Birmingham, England. What’s curious is since the Colonel didn’t speak English, he and the Englishman conversed in German. She said for a second language, he spoke it amazingly effortlessly.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “She doesn’t know. She doesn’t speak German.”

  The General rose and began pacing. “Hmmm. We have a beautiful blonde with a Dutch, Israeli, German, Czech accent and an Englishman who speaks German. Is there anything else?”

  The Captain watched his movement with concern. “I’m afraid not.”

  Letting Romanov know he could be a friend, he flashed a half smile. “Well, let me know if you find out anything else. Please hand me the deceased’s banking passbook and information.

  Captain Romonov, returned the smile. Taking a deep breath he reached in his briefcase and handed over the requested documents.

  Standing slightly to his left, Dushinsky offered his hand. “Thank you. That will be all, Captain.”

  Still smiling, The Captain rose, wiped his sweaty palm on his uniform trousers and shook his hand. “Thank you General. Are we going to notify the Americans and Europeans about the bombs?”

  The General quickly returned to his stern face. “Of course not. If you say anything about this episode to anyone, you will find yourself up North—way up North with a view of the Artic Ocean! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Book I

  Betrayal

  Chapter 1

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  January 16, 2010, House of Saud Hospital

  I woke in excruciating pain, suffering the worst hangover of my life. A thousand drums pounded in my head—, which felt like a cantaloupe that had been run over by a garbage truck. Opening a single eye, there was only blackness.

  What the hell? Something’s covering my eyes. Am I blindfolded? My body ached too. I tried to lift an arm in vain. It wouldn’t budge. I could move my fingers but not my arm.

  “Ummpphh.” I tried harder, still to no avail. Then, I realized my wrist was somehow secured. I closed my fingers together and jerked upward twisting my wrist, in hopes of pulling it through the restraint. It didn’t work. I summoned all my remaining strength and tried once more to lift my wrists. No use.

  My feet wouldn’t move either—toes yes, feet no. Confusion crashed in on me with a wave of nausea. I was tied down.

  Captured? Terrorists?

  They got me? Racking my brain about recently captured journalists, I couldn’t remember hearing about it happening in Saudi Arabia…

  I lay silently contemplating what to do when I heard voices. A male and a female, speaking in Arabic. Immediately, I stopped moving and pretended to be unconscious, listening to them talk.

  After a minute, they stopped talking. I sensed someone to the left of me. I felt a damp cloth wash across my forehead. It helped my headache, but only temporarily. When the cloth was removed, the chaos in my head returned.

  Some
one new entered the room. A new voice spoke in Arabic. I didn’t understand a word except for ‘Rhamsy and Mrs.’ He said ‘Mrs. Rhamsy’ I don’t know what else he said, but I heard Rhamsy, the name of my bodyguard and Mrs.

  The female spoke in Arabic. Another word I know—‘doctor.’ Is the new voice a doctor?

  I became aware of someone on my right seconds before I felt strong fingers closing on my right wrist, and spoke in Arabic.

  My mouth felt like sandpaper. I forced my lips open and breathily requested, “Wha-a-ter.”

  The one to the left—the female said something, and then placed a straw between my lips. “I sucked the liquid down greedily.

  The man (doctor) spoke in English. “Why did he ask for water in English?”

  The woman also in English; “He does that sometimes. We spent several years and graduated from college in America.”

  “That’s enough water. He’s only supposed to have ice chips.”

  “I’m Sorry.”

  The straw was taken from my lips and something cold placed on my chest, causing me to jump. “Wha-a-ter. Mo-ore.”

  The man; “Your husband seems to be recovering nicely. That was a major operation he went through. I’ll return before I leave the hospital.”

  Husband? Operation?

  A tender hand slipped pieces of ice between my lips and added more seconds later.

  The woman; “Thank you doctor.”

  When I finished the ice, I dared to speak. “Where am I? Am I a prisoner?” The fear that I felt ratcheted up as the strangeness of my raspy voice startled me. “Who-o are… you people?”

  Soft fingers rubbed my immobile hand. I felt another hand calmly push my head back and stroke my forehead.

  “You are in a hospital. You must stay calm.”

  “Who are you? Why am I blindfolded? And tied down?”

  “I’m Mariam, your wife. Ahmed is here too. You are not blindfolded. The doctor put bandages over your injuries and restrained your hands to keep you from removing them.”

  She spoke with an accent. I tried to think. Mariam? Since when do I have a wife? And who’s Ahmed? I have no wife. There’s something I’m missing. What? What am I fucking missing? I’m either insane or in a nightmare.

  Abruptly, I racked my body from side to side, ignoring the pain. “I’m not married lady and who the fuck is Ahmed.” My foreboding deepened as words came from my mouth, but didn’t sound like me. I strained to loosen the bonds

  More footsteps. Loud and hard this time. A cool uncaring hand on my wrist. The man was back. He spoke, but I couldn’t understand a word. Arabic. I only knew enough of the language to get by. “Speak English so I know what the hell you’re saying.”

  “I said, settle down. I could hear you clear down the hall.”

  The woman responded. “Saleem, what is wrong with you? Why can’t you understand Arabic?”

  “Saleem? What’s wrong with me? Are you kidding me? What’s wrong with you? I’m KELLY—Kelly Rogers. Saleem’s my bodyguard.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re confused—”

  “Sweetheart? I’m not your sweetheart. I don’t know who the hell you are. Don’t touch me. My name is Kelly Rogers.”

  The doctor spoke, “Kelly is dead. Blown up in the same explosion that almost killed you.”

  Once more I tried to free myself moving violently in all directions, until I felt sharp pains in my chest. In pain and out of breath, I asked, “Explosion? What are you talking about? I’m not dead. I’m right here. Take off these friggin bandages. You’ll see.”

  The woman; “Maybe it’s best if you rest and heal. I’ll come back later.”

  “No, wait! I’m sorry. You’re the only one I can understand. Tell me. About the explosion, please.”

  “The doctor speaks English. You will be fine.”

  “Doctor, would you please talk to him…in English.”

  “As you wish.” Businesslike the man’s voice spoke up, “Mr. Rhamsy, you are in the House of Saud Hospital. There was an explosion, which killed your associate and almost killed you. In fact, your heart stopped twice and you were resuscitated. You were so to speak, brought back from the dead. The worst seems to be over and you’re recovering nicely, but we must be careful. Exhibitions of rage like you just exhibited could throw you into cardiac arrest.”

  “Pffft. What do you know? You don’t even know what patient you have. My eyes. What about my eyes?”

  “A mere precaution. The flash of the blast may have damaged the corneas, but I don’t think so. I covered them to protect them from further light. I’ll remove the bandages in a few days.”

  “Untie me then.”

  “No, I can’t. You must stay calm. We cannot risk you removing the bandages.”

  I heard them move away. They spoke softly in Arabic. Were they purposely speaking in Arabic so I wouldn’t understand?

  Someone approached me again. Soft lips pressed against my cheek. “Saleem, the doctor is going to give you a sedative so you can rest. You’re suffering from shock. When you wake up you will probably remember. Your brother and I must leave for a while. We have been by your side since you were injured. We will return soon, after we have rested.”

  I screamed. "How many fucking times do I have to tell you? I'm not Saleem. I don't have a wife. My brother is in Oakland. My name is Kelly Rogers. K - E - L - L - Y," spelling it out for them. Footsteps again, in my direction. Heavier steps.

  "Mr. Rhamsy, I'm going to give you a sedative now. The best thing for you is to rest and heal."

  "I don't want a sedative. I want answers. What's wrong with my voice? Why do you keep calling me Rhamsy? Saleem?” The sting of the needle penetrating my arm made me jump. “Answer me...why..." I got no further as I felt myself sink into oblivion.

  * * * *

  In the hallway outside Saleem’s room, Dr. Mysari shook his head. “Mrs. Rhamsy, I’m afraid your husband is still suffering from shock. He’s very confused. What he needs is rest.”

  “I know. How could he possibly believe he’s someone else?”

  “That certainly is strange. It may be attributable to a phenomenon called survivor guilt. Unknowingly, he may feel guilty since he survived while his associate was killed. This may be a method of keeping the deceased Mr. Rogers alive. This should all pass with time and rest. I suggest we keep him sedated.”

  “Doctor, I’m not in favor of keeping him sedated all the time. Only a last resort, as necessary to calm him down. Please contact me when he wakes up.”

  “As you wish. Mrs. Rhamsy. Don’t worry. Your husband will be fine.”

  * * * *

  I looked over at my guide/bodyguard, Saleem. Can he be trusted? Saleem was tall for an Arab, probably six-three, maybe two-twenty and all muscle. He was around twenty-five and had the boyish good looks of an Arab playboy. Saleem spoke fluent English, Farsi, German and Russian. He had attended UCLA on a wrestling scholarship and had a degree in political science. He claimed to be a progressive, but who knows? In twenty-first century Saudi Arabia, progressive Arab seems to be a contradiction in terms.

  “Humor me, Saleem. Tell me once more why we need to meet this guy.”

  Saleem flared his nostrils with apparent annoyance. “I told you he’s a member of ‘The Sword of Allah’ and he’s afraid for his life. The guy’s trying to get out. He’s got information to trade to the CIA for protection.”

  Saleem was sure that I worked for the CIA. Probably because Saleem himself had applied to join, but was rejected. Saleem’s brother, Ahmed, was a hard-line extremist, a mullah at that. When I looked Saleem up a couple of months later, he probably figured I was tied to the CIA. I guess he can connect the dots. That was more than some could do.

  “You know I can’t promise him something like that. I’m just a newsman. I write a column for the Tribune. Why don’t you believe me?”

  Saleem still seemed dubious. “Fine, but I know you have pull with your government. I’ve seen you at work, like when you helped my sister’s husband.
”

  Why did Saleem seem so jumpy? “That’s different; my uncle’s brother-in-law is a congressman from California who happens to be on the Intelligence Committee. I don’t like to do it, but I can get a favor now and then as long as I don’t abuse it. I’m not a spook.”

  We arrived at our destination, a popular cafe. Saleem stated, “It’s nice weather for this time of year. Let’s sit outside.”