Allegiance Burned: A Jackson Quick Adventure

by Tom Abrahams

  “Not someone,” she says. “Nobody made that decision for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I made the decision.” Her eyes are trained on mine. She’s not blinking. “I had him killed.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The look on my face must say more to Bella than any words I could articulate. After telling me that she had Dr. Wolf killed, she looks down, shoulders hunched, chewing her finger. The silence between us hangs in the air like the smoke from unfiltered Russian cigarettes. I rub a burn on the arm of my chair, not sure what to say.

  “You really killed him?” I blurt out.

  “I said I had him killed.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Mack,” she says dispassionately.

  “Mack? The same Mack who gave you a blank hard drive?”

  “That Mack.”

  I rub a circle around the burn hole on the chair and sigh.

  “What was that for?” Bella stops chewing and looks up at me, shoulders still hunched.

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”

  “Shakespeare? Really? Now who’s judging?”

  “I’m not judging. I’m observing. And it’s not Shakespeare. It’s Sir Walter Scott.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Why’d you kill him?”

  “I’m not happy about it. I feel guilty. I…I…couldn’t control him,” she says. “And this process, this neutrino process, it can’t get into the wrong hands. It just can’t.”

  “Who are the wrong hands?”

  “Wolf had two legitimate buyers. One of them, we now know, was Liho Blogis. I don’t know who the other one was, but I suspect it was someone who was sponsored by the Iranian government.”

  “Why do you suspect that?”

  “There were a couple of emails that traced back to a server in Tehran,” she says. “It stands to reason—”

  “Who told you about the emails?”

  “Mack.”

  “Mack again, huh?”

  “What is your problem with Mack?” she asks. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m not getting at anything, Bella. I just find it odd that Mack would give us a blank drive. It calls into question everything he’s done.”

  “Maybe,” she admits. “But Mack is guy who my father trusted for decades. My dad helped pay for some of his wife’s initial cancer treatments. Mack killed a man because I asked him to do it. He’s loyal. We can trust him. This hard drive thing was a mistake. There’s bound to be some reasonable explanation.”

  I check that nobody is listening and lower my voice again. “What did you hope to gain by killing Wolf if you knew that he’d already split the process?”

  “Again, Jackson, I was neutralizing a threat. I thought it better to have him dead than selling valuable information to the highest bidder.”

  “And the process?”

  “I didn’t know for sure,” she says. “Mack suspected he may have broken it into pieces and hidden them separately. We weren’t one hundred percent on that. We didn’t know definitively what he’d done until the night he died.”

  “The night you had him killed,” I correct.

  “Says the man who put bullets into three people in a public park,” she says, her eyes narrow.

  “My point exactly.”

  “What?”

  “You did what you thought you needed to do in the interest of self-preservation,” I explain. “So did I. I’ve done it dozens of times since I fell into the mess. I’m sure I’ll do it another dozen at least. The bottom line is, we’re in this together. I’m going to do what I have to do to keep us alive, even if that means killing the man sitting right next to you. Stop wallowing in it. What’s done is done. Got it?”

  She nods.

  Bella’s still hiding something. She didn’t seem fazed when I called her a liar. She never countered my assertion that the neutrino process is about more than submariner communication. The truth drips from a stubborn faucet where she’s concerned. She’ll tell me eventually, when she has no other choice. That moment hasn’t come yet, but it will. At least I’m figuring out who she is: a beautiful, intelligent woman who operates on ruthless instinct. She’ll flirt with you as she’s jabbing a stiletto into your neck, and I’ve been a fool to think otherwise.

  Bella is Charlie without the red hair or the sniper rifle.

  “Now that we’ve established that we’re both cold blooded psychopaths,” I turn on the hibernating Blackberry, “I’ve got some phone calls to make. We need to find out where to go next.”

  ***

  “Привіт,” the voice answering my call is full of phlegm. He says hello as if it hurts to speak. “Chernobyl алкогольний напій.”

  Chernobyl Liquor Store?

  “Привіт,” I ask. Do you speak English.

  “Yes,” he says, stretching the word into the two syllables. “I speak English. Who is this I’m speaking with?”

  “My name is Eugene Curtis,” the name on my lone remaining passport and ID. “Is this the Chernobyl Liquor Store?”

  “Yes it is,” he drawls through the phlegm. “What do you want now Eugene Curtis? You call a minute ago from this number.”

  “No,” I say, “that wasn’t me. I’m looking for something special that only your store would be able to give me.”

  “What is that?”

  “I want whatever Rudolf Gamow would order,” I say.

  “You want Nemiroff Honey Pepper Vodka? Very hard to find. I have bottles for you. Good price.” He clears his throat.

  “Is that what Dr. Gamow would buy?”

  He clears his throat again, more forcefully. “You say Gamow? Dr. Gamow who works here in the decommissioning laboratories?”

  “Yes. That Dr. Gamow.”

  “Sorry,” he says as though he’s not, “I cannot help you, Eugene Curtis.” He hangs up.

  “We’re going to Chernobyl,” I tell Bella.

  “Chernobyl?” she asks. “As in, the nuclear disaster Chernobyl?”

  “That’s where we’ll find part of the process.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s in a liquor store.”

  “They have liquor stores in Chernobyl?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I’ll call my pilot,” Bella says. “What’s the nearest airport?” She pulls her phone out of her pocket.

  “No. We can’t take your plane. I guarantee it’s still being watched. We need to fly commercial to Kiev. I know the situation there is…unstable politically, but it’s the best route. We can get a driver there who’ll take us to Chernobyl. It’s maybe a couple of hours on a lot of unmarked roads.”

  “Commercial?”

  “Do you have another fake ID?” I pull her duffle bag from my larger pack and toss it at her feet.

  “What’s wrong with Jane Smith?” She reaches down to unzip the crumpled bag. “I only used it once.”

  I find my Eugene Curtis passport and driver’s license and set them on the table next to my chair. “Yeah, but you used it to check in to the hotel. They’ve got your photograph on file there now. Don’t think the police haven’t already gone into the hotel looking for clues. There’s a good chance we’re both on surveillance video too. You can’t use that passport at an airport.”

  “I don’t have another one,” she says. “I’m a one-fake-ID-at-a-time kinda girl.”

  “Great.” Not great.

  “What do we do?”

  “I know someone. He’ll work fast, but he’s not cheap. I’m guessing you won’t have Mack kill him if he asks for an unreasonable amount?”

  “Not funny.” She zips her duffle with the kind of force that tells me she wishes part of me were stuck in it.

  I pull out my burner phone and, after I locate the number I need, dial my contact. It rings three times before he answers.

  “Wolodymyr,” the man answers.

  “Wolodymyr, my friend. It’s Jackson Quick from A
merica. How are you?”

  “Jackson Quick from America,” I can hear his memory wheels spinning through the phone. “Jackson Quick...”

  “It’s been a while since we spoke. The last time I talked to you was maybe five years ago. You were working at a dumpy mail order bride business.”

  “I’m still at the dumpy mail order bride business,” he says without amusement. “You insult my business?”

  “I’m sorry, Wolodymyr, I—”

  “Ha! I joke with you, Jackson Quick! Of course I remember you. How could I forget you? Many nights with good talks and vodka. Many nights, yes?”

  “Too many.”

  “You ready to marry?” he asks. “I find good girl for you, Jackson Quick.”

  “Not today, Wolodymyr, thank you. I do need your help though.”

  “Of course. What can I do? What do you need?”

  “I need some… paperwork.”

  “How many people?”

  “One. But I need it immediately.”

  “Not a problem, Jackson Quick. You come by dumpy mail order bride business.”

  “Okay,” I laugh, “remind me where it is.”

  He gives me the address and hangs up.

  “We need to go,” I tell Bella. “Grab your bag and follow me. We’re getting you a new identity and then we’re catching a flight to Kiev.”

  “Did you say something about mail order brides?” She pushes through the hotel exit and into the glare of the sunlight bouncing off of the Black Sea, two or three steps behind me.

  “Why?” I ask without turning around. “Are you interested?”

  “Not funny.”

  “None of this is funny.” I start my march back toward the Potemkin Stairs and the city of Odessa.

  ***

  “This is it?” Bella cranes her neck to read the sign above the cracked, peeling yellow wooden door. “This is where your guy works?”

  “Did you expect the Ritz?” The sign reads Американська краса.

  “What does that say?” she mouths the word phonetically. “Ah-me-pu-ka….”

  “American Beauty.”

  “Like the movie Alan Ball directed,” she says.

  “Alan Ball wrote the screenplay,” I correct her. “Sam Mendes directed.”

  “Whatever.” She tries the handle on the door. It’s locked.

  “Push the button on the right,” I tell her. She presses it and there’s a high-pitched tone.

  “Jackson Quick?” The voice sounds like its coming from the bottom of an empty oil drum.

  “Yes,” I say it louder than I probably should. “It’s my guest and me.”

  “Wait for the buzz,” he says and there’s a loud magnetic hum.

  The surprisingly heavy door clicks open and I swing it wide past Bella. She steps inside and I follow her into a dark hallway. When my eyes adjust, I remember where I am.

  We’re standing in a narrow corridor, its plaster walls peeling off their pale green paint. Flecks of the paint decorate the concrete floor like confetti, especially where it meets the walls. Above us, there’s a caged light dangling from a thick electrical cord that disappears into the asbestos ceiling.

  On the wall to our right is a large framed black and white photograph of Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space. He’s wearing a spacesuit, a white helmet emblazoned with ‘CCCP’ above the visor, his face expressionless.

  It seems so random in this space, the only photograph on the walls of the hallway. It’s without context, without reference. It’s very Ukrainian, though Gagarin was Russian.

  We walk past the photograph in its gilded silver frame to the end of the corridor and a single door. On the door, there is the same red, white, and blue sign we saw outside, Американська краса. Before either of us can knock, the door opens, the sign flapping against it, and Wolodymyr emerges into the hall.

  “Jackson Quick!” His arms are open, ready for the traditional hug as he wraps me into a bear hug. “Good to see you, my American friend.”

  “Good to see you too!” I slap him on the back in the most masculine way possible. “Thanks so much for helping us out.”

  “Is this the friend?” His arms open for Bella. She offers her hand, and he quickly adjusts to shake it. “A pleasure to meet you, friend. Come in, come in.” He ushers us into his office.

  “What’s with the Gagarin photo?” I ask as Wolodymyr bolts the door behind us. “I don’t remember seeing it the last time I was here.”

  “Oh,” he laughs, “it is signal for business partners. If Yuri is on wall, how you say, ‘Coast is clear.’” He smiles and waves his hand like a baseball umpire signaling a baserunner is safe.

  Bella’s standing in the corner near the door, not comfortable enough to step farther into the large euro-modern office.

  “Laika the dog.”

  “A dog?”

  “Laika was the first animal in space,” I explain. “She was a stray.”

  “From Moscow,” Wolodymyr adds. “Without her there would be no Yuri.”

  “What happened to her?” Bella asks.

  “She died,” Wolodymyr shrugs. “Overheated.” He points to a photograph in a frame identical to the one hanging in the hallway. It’s hanging askew on the wall.

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Let’s talk about why we’re here,” I say. “We need new papers pronto.”

  “All business today, Jackson Quick.” Wolodymyr claps his hands together and rubs them like Mr. Miyagi fixing Daniel Russo’s injured leg. “I like all business. Let’s get you new papers pronto.”

  He glides across the floor to a chrome and glass desk at the far end of the room. There’s a large Macintosh computer and wireless mouse alongside a thick stack of manila folders. Wolodymyr plops into a lime green, ergonomic, molded plastic chair and spins around to face the monitor. Behind the computer desk, there is a wall painted bright green.

  “Come here, Jackson Quick and friend, come here.” He waves us over with a cartoonish gesture and begins typing on the silver keyboard.

  A variety of images are on the computer screen. There are images of photographs and documents, and at the center of the screen a round, pale face is smiling back at me. The woman has shoulder length blonde hair, large eyes, and a soft spray of freckles across her long, thin nose. She looks like she could be in her late teens.

  “Who’s that?” I nod at the screen and rest my hand on the back of Wolodymyr’s lime green chair.

  “A client. She’s happily married now. Living in St. Paul, Minnesota I believe. Her new husband is doctor.”

  Bella stands next to me behind Wolodymyr. “Is she a mail order bride?”

  “She has American husband,” he says. “She wanted to live in America. He wanted pretty young wife. They both happy.” Wolodymyr holds up his hands, fingers intertwined. “Everybody is winner.”

  “Why does she have fake documents?” Bella steps to the side of the chair and leans in to look more closely at the images on the screen.

  “Not everybody is angel,” he says, his fingers pecking away on the glowing silver keys. “Are you angel, Jackson Quick’s friend?” He stops typing and looks over his shoulder at Bella.

  Bella glances at him and then over to me. I can tell she’s unsure of Wolodymyr and his black market business. “Nobody’s an angel.”

  “And that,” he smiles, “is why business is always so good for me. If everybody was angel, nobody need me.”

  Wolodymyr moves his hand to the wireless mouse, manipulates the images on the screen and then rolls back in his chair. “Okay, time to take photograph of Jackson Quick’s friend.”

  “My name is —”

  “I don’t need name,” Wolodymyr holds up his hands. “I don’t want to know name. Only name is one I give you. It keeps everything clean, yes?”

  “Yes,” Bella nods. “That’s fine.”

  “So then,” Wolodymyr directs Bella to the Chroma key green wall behind the computer, “walk over here.
Stand against wall. No smile. Look at camera here on table and I take photograph.”

  Bella walks around the desk, adjusting her top and bushing her hair off of her face. She looks at the wall for a second before turning toward the camera.

  “On three, I take photograph.” Wolodymyr, palms the mouse to control the camera. “One…two…three,” he clicks the mouse and the computer screen fills with a photograph of Bella. “Is good,” he says. “Come back over here. We finish quick.”

  Wolodymyr manipulates the photograph, altering the background, changing the color of Bella’s shirt, tinting her hair a lighter shade of its natural color. He erases the faint stress line running across her forehead.

  “I make you look a little younger,” he says. “Fresher for photograph.”

  “Fresher?” Bella fidgets with her hair and folds her arms. “What does that mean?”

  “No offense.” He saves the changes to the photograph. “I need you to look a little different.” He clicks the mouse and the photograph becomes a black and white image.

  “You can’t look like you took the picture today,” I put her hand on her shoulder. “That’s all he’s saying.”

  She nods.

  “I am thinking Swiss…” On the screen, Wolodymyr opens an image that resembles the identification page for a passport. The background is mottled pink and blue. On the top of the page and in the middle it reads Scheiz, Suisse, Svizzera, Svizra, Switzerland. “What languages do you speak other than English?”

  “I’m pretty good with French,” she says, “and I am street-fluent in Spanish. Why?”

  “French is good,” he says. “Italian is good too. Same with German. You are from Switzerland now. You need to speak language, yes?”

  “I don’t speak Swiss,” she says. “And I certainly don’t look Swiss. I’m not tall, pale, and blonde.”

  “Swiss is good because they have four official languages there,” Wolodymyr slides Bella’s picture into the passport page. “German, French, Italian, and Romansh.”

  “Romance?”

  “Ro-MANSH,” he corrects. “Excuse me my English. I still practice. “Romansh is old language. Comes from Latin and is mixed with German. But you okay with French. “Also,” he begins to enter a false passport number in the upper right of the page, “nobody checks Swiss much. You could be from part near Italy. Not everybody looks like Abba. It’s best. Yes?”