∞
The sounds of the squealing rubber and whining motors receded and then died.
The fork floated in front of Kalia Slater’s lips, as she listened another moment, hoping to hear some sign that her rescue was imminent, or even just the simple sounds of everyday life from the outside world. When none followed, she pushed the utensil into her mouth.
Chewing, she surveyed the small room for the thousandth time: the swept dirt floor with faint lines in the soil like those in a Zen garden; the four, rough stone walls; the high window that, moments ago, switched from a gentle red to a blood-black; and the lumpy pallet where she had slept last night under a rough woolen blanket with one wrist handcuffed to its wooden frame.
Slater sighed, dropped the fork, and looked across the table. “After seven consecutive meals of rice, I’ve eaten enough carbs to fatten the entire student body of a French modeling school. Anything else on the menu?”
Only silence responded.
The grad student watched the man staring at her from his chair against the door. One of his hands remained constantly locked on a T-shaped Micro UZI lying across his lap. With the other, he was rubbing the dark stubble covering his face. Then he slid his fingers into his greasy hair and sighed. His hand flopped down and rejoined its mate on the machine gun.
He had said nothing during Slater’s presence, only occasionally rising for food and water for one or both of them, or to relieve himself in a bucket in the corner. She had no idea if he understood a single word that she said. But she would try again. She had to.
“Let’s start over. My name is Kalia. My friends and family are looking for me, and I would like to call them and let them know that I am OK,” she said. “Can you help me do that—”
A knock sounded on the door.
The man jumped up, whirled around, and lowered the UZI to his hip. Muffled words—in the language that Slater had heard at the mine and again when she was taken from her hotel room with the gun to her head—came through the door.
The guard responded in kind, lowered the gun, and then moved the chair. The door swung open. A second man, who could have been the gunman’s brother, stepped into the room.
The men chatted loudly for a moment, all the time watching her. Then they circled the table. Her muscles tensed, and Slater looked away, toward the open doorway.
The silvery purples and greens of a vineyard lay closest to the building. Then an empty ribbon of blacktop. And beyond, the darkening sea. Kalia Slater’s gaze rose to a half-crescent moon, which hung low with the bright point of a planet or star glowing alongside it.
Then the black hood descended over her head, extinguishing all light.
– 19 –
Wednesday, 11 July
London
Utley lifted his wineglass. He swiveled his wrist and watched the spinning gold liquid climb the crystal bowl. After a moment, the wine settled, and the glass met his mouth. The chardonnay’s oaken flavors mixed with the remnants of his last bite of pork belly. The pork’s thin, alternating layers of fat and meat had been as delicate as the pastry of a freshly baked croissant. And Utley swallowed slowly, not wanting to free the mix of tastes from his month.
After several moments, he sighed and pushed back his chair. Normally, he would curse the tentacles of old age for pulling him from a meal to use the loo. But this excursion elicited none of those resentments; rather, he felt quite ebullient.
Utley crossed the dining room and turned onto a short hall. An approaching man nodded as if passing any stranger in a confined space, seemingly preoccupied with his lapel buttonhole.
Without breaking stride, Utley nodded in return, acknowledging the signal, and then entered the men’s room.
White octagonal tiles covered the floor, and subway bricking clad the walls. The customary corner palm was somehow thriving on the dim, artificial light.
He walked directly to the second from last stall. Inside, his jacket landed on the door hook, and his trousers and shorts dropped to the floor. He slid onto the seat and immediately reached for the paper dispenser but then heard someone enter the restroom. He pulled back his hand and checked his watch.
After several minutes, he looked again at his timepiece. No need to appear rushed, he mused, finally reaching for the dispenser and unrolling some paper, which he discarded, unused, into the bowl. He reached again for the dispenser.
This time, his shaking fingers slipped between the paper roll and the dispenser’s casing. They slid upward until they stopped against a thin edge.
His shaking hand was causing more noise than he would otherwise want. But, he thought, should anyone hear these noises, he would only think him another old man fumbling to clean himself.
And, Utley nearly smiled, they would be more right than they could ever know.
He freed his hand and withdrew a sliver of metal and plastic, approximately a quarter the size of a postage stamp, pinned between two fingers.
His mobile slipped from his hanging jacket, and the tiny chip, into a slot on the phone’s side. Text scrolled across the mobile’s display.
How delightful!
Utley removed the chip, bit down on it, and dumped the mangled piece into the bowl. The metal slowly somersaulted as it sank. Then with a roar, it shot away, destined for the River Thames.
– 20 –
Wednesday, 11 July
Moscow
Nin Zanin’s polished red nails slid into the wavy salt-and-pepper hair, like scarlet snakes slipping down spring burrows toward unprotected, freshly borne prey.
“See, my darling, everything is unfolding as we knew it would, and the shipment is well on its way.” Nin’s hand was now fully submerged in her lover’s mane, with her fingertips caressing his scalp.
“Shhhh—we must hear this.” Sergei Sokolóv grabbed the remote control; on a flat-panel television affixed to the wall opposite his desk, the talking heads’ whispers became shouts.
“In London,” the newsreader continued, “against a backdrop of the ongoing plutonium investigation, the prime minister prepares to leave for the International Capital Forum, which he will attend this weekend in Madrid, along with other world leaders.
“The items high on the summit’s agenda include the urgent need for additional loans from Chinese and Middle Eastern sovereign wealth funds to stabilize the European financial markets, and the role of Russia in ensuring a steady supply of critical hydrocarbon products to Western Europe.
“The prime minister has called the lack of energy security the gravest threat facing continental Europe and says that Britain is fortunate to enjoy diversified energy sources. In what is almost certainly the prime minister’s final global summit—”
“Final without a doubt, wouldn’t you say, darling?” Nin said.
“As always, Nin is right.” Sokolóv wrapped his arm around her waist and slid her onto his lap.
“Though, I do wonder about one thing,” she said, as Sokolóv reached for a lighter.
The flame shot up. “And what is that, my lovely Nin?”
“The loose ends on La Palma. They have eluded our men twice now. Perhaps we should arrange to dispose of them once and for all?”
The cigarette end danced with the fire. “No, the men were rash to take the woman and chase the scientist. No need to attract any more attention to the island at this point in the game. They are scientists, not soldiers. They must be scared now. They will run back to America hoping—no, praying … praying is what Americans do—for the girl’s safe return.”
Nin frowned but said, “As you think best, Sergei.”
Sokolóv inhaled long and deep, and then exhaled. Smoke formed his words, “We are so close, my love, so very close to achieving our goals. We must be very cautious.”
Nin twisted her torso. Her lips brushed his neck. “Of course, Sergei, cautious, we will be.” Then the red lips scrunched into a pout. “It’s too bad the Ukrainian girls failed to appreciate our hospitality.” Nin Zanin sighed. “Alas, the young
are rarely good houseguests.”
– Part II –
– 21 –
Thursday, 12 July
Zaragoza, Spain
The Russian driver was furious. “The road signs were unhelpful,” he granted. “But other factors also played a role.” He pointed at an empty vodka bottle rolling around the passenger foot well.
“Regardless,” the other Russian retorted, “we can’t afford even a moment’s more delay if we hope to arrive at the instructed hour.” Then he suggested the driver shut up and focus on the road.
The driver grunted. He looped the truck onto the next exit and then charged back onto the expressway, now heading in the opposite direction. Still immersed in the argument, neither man noticed a silver Peugeot sedan complete an identical maneuver in their wake.
The truck exited at the proper junction, made several rapid turns, and eventually veered onto an industrial cul-de-sac. At the dead end, it pulled into a parking lot and stopped beside a bay door of a large, windowless warehouse.
The Russians checked their watches and instantly forgot their anger. The on-time bonus alone would pay for American-style braces for the driver’s son, and a seaside vacation for the passenger’s parents.
The warehouse door rose. Several men stepped out.
After a brief exchange, the Russians and the welcoming party began hauling wooden crates, one by one, from the truck into the warehouse.
As the fourth and final crate entered the building, the Russian driver raised a brow at his partner and tilted his head at the descending bay door.
“Perhaps they wish to keep the cooled air within the warehouse,” the other man whispered, as the metal sill clattered against the concrete floor.
“They can dance a waltz for all I care, just so long as they pay us first, so we can get to the whorehouse in Barcelona,” the driver whispered back.
Outside, several parking lots away from the warehouse, inside the silver Peugeot sedan, the only sound was the ticking of the cooling engine block. The two occupants watched the bay door close. A cellphone rang; they exchanged looks.
In the warehouse, the sharp crack of nails pulling from wood echoed. The warehouse men pulled off the crate’s top. The lead agent reached inside. A few feet away, the Russian truck drivers shifted to better see. The agent’s arm rose, and a glinting reflection caused the Russians to blink. Then the agent altered his arm’s angle, and the reflection died, revealing the crate’s contents: a large suitcase clad in brushed metal.
The Russians glanced at each other. They were both thinking the same thing: whatever that case held, whether money or drugs or God knows what, it was none of their business.
The warehouse agent set the suitcase carefully—gingerly even, the Russian driver thought—on the floor. A crowbar attacked the next crate. The process was repeated for each of the remaining crates, until four brushed-metal suitcases sat aligned in a neat row as if stowed in the checkroom of a modernist hotel.
The Russians shifted nervously while the warehouse men stood for several moments just looking at the cases. Then the lead agent turned to the truckers and nodded.
The warehouse men led the Russians to a nearby office.
The truckers entered. Cold clarity rushed them, as a hollow cylinder pressed into each Russian’s back: they now knew exactly why the instructions had ordered that they abandon their Makarov pistols on the airbase in Jince.
Their hearts beat wildly; their clogged arteries futilely shunted blood from their cirrhotic livers and ulcerated stomachs to their arms and legs; their lungs, hobbled by decades of cheap tobacco tar, desperately sucked up oxygen in preparation to either fight or flee.
But neither Russian had a chance to move.
Lead slugs tore through their shirts, past the sweaty skin, into the thick layers of fat and muscle. The bullets shredded the truckers’ thrashing hearts and then completed the reverse journey before finally exiting their chests.
The Russians slumped. The warehouse hands grabbed the collapsing truckers and, using the falling bodies’ momentum, thrust them forward.
The driver’s body landed slack on the cold cement. The passenger’s body hit the floor still violently thrashing. Then the oxygen and glucose stores ran out; the body stilled.
Muzzles pressed the Russians’ heads. Control shots—the punctuation marks to no alphabet other than assassinations in the victims’ hometown of Moscow—rang out.
As the echoes died in the warehouse, outside, in the silver Peugeot sedan, the driver lowered his cellphone and looked at his companion. “He’s landed.”
– 22 –
Thursday, 12 July
Madrid
Late-morning Madrid was ferocious. Even with the embassy’s triple-layer, blast-resistant glass, waves of heat radiated from the inner pane and beat against Sam Quick’s face. But she ignored the thermal assault; all she could see was Kalia’s face pressed against the rear window of the abductor’s car. Until finally she had heard enough.
Quick turned from the window. “So Inspector, what you’re telling us is still no ransom note for Kalia?”
The speaker of Davies’s desk phone responded, “Unfortunately, Dr. Quick, that is exactly the case. We have, however, finished recovery of the orange car that found its way into our lovely Atlantic. It was a rental stolen two weeks ago. Both occupants were male. Neither man carried identification. The driver was mangled beyond recognition; the passenger, more or less intact.” A pause was followed by the sound of swallowing. “And based on this man’s facial features, we believe that he was not local.”
“Let me guess, you think he was North African,” Quick said.
“Yes, Dr. Quick, the dead passenger appeared of North African extraction, possibly Moroccan.” A sigh came from the speaker. “I’m afraid all roads continue leading to the involvement of an African drug-smuggling ring in Manuelo Alcanzar’s shooting and Kalia Slater’s disappearance.”
“Inspector, anything new on LANDFALL?” Eric Hunt asked, sounding very much as if he meant every word printed across his black T-shirt, which read, “No, you can’t be my friend,” punctuated by a yellow smiley-face emoticon.
“The adjuster from a London-based insurance company is due to arrive today to inspect the vessel. Doubtlessly, LANDFALL will be deemed a total loss. My officers are still trying to contact the boat’s owners—”
Davies interjected, “We plan to visit their offices this very afternoon.”
Another sigh from the speakerphone. “I suppose speaking with the company’s representatives cannot hurt.”
A man entered and handed a folder to Davies, and Quick jumped in, “Thank you, Inspector. Please immediately contact us if any new leads arise.” Her finger stabbed the phone, cutting off Reyes’s reply. “OK, what do we have?”
Davies leaned back in his chair and thumbed through the printouts. “The boat is owned by a private partnership founded during late 2001. Spanish tax records list ‘oil and natural-gas exploration’ as their primary commercial activity.” Davies frowned. “The company’s only shareholders are a handful of private Russian corporations, all of which are wholly owned by one Sergei Sokolóv.”
“Sergei who?” Hunt asked.
“Suh-cah-LOFF. Aka, ‘the Falcon,’ as the name translates to.” Davies slid a photo from the file and handed it to Hunt.
“A face like raked ashes.” The grad student passed the sheet to Quick.
Davies continued reading, “Sokolóv is Russian born, birth year unknown but estimated circa 1950. During the communist era, he was a small-time criminal who ran brothels located in various major cities in the Soviet republics, mainly stocked by teenagers and young adults of both sexes from Eastern Europe and Central Asia—usually unwilling inventory at that.”
His brow rose. “But the recent decades have favored the Falcon: he is now one of Russia’s richest men, one of the mega-wealthy, post-Soviet industrial oligarchs. When the Soviet Union imploded during the ’80s, Sokolóv seized control of variou
s state-owned industries by either bribing or blackmailing the Politburo officials who frequented his brothels and were unwittingly filmed in compromising positions.”
Davies turned the page. “Sokolóv, using state loans, then extended his empire to include coal mines, chemical plants, and manufacturing facilities: first across the former Soviet Union and then the West. Purportedly, Sokolóv is now worth in excess of twenty billion-with-a-‘b’ dollars. And the Madrid firm is likely a shell corporation used to shield profits from the Russian and other tax authorities.
“This guy’s already a multibillionaire. I’m afraid Reyes might be right about us wasting our time on this lead.” Davies swiveled his chair toward the window, where Quick had returned. “What do you think, Sam?”
Looking out at the sluggish traffic, Quick silently computed the odds of a boat owned by an oil-and-gas exploration company and commissioned in the theft of an ALCHEMY expedition laptop being due to random chance. I’m all-in on this one.
Sam Quick turned from the window. “I think it’s high time we visit their offices.”
∞
The A340 glided. To the north, dry mountains squat against the horizon. To the east, the summer sun was racing for its zenith. To the west and south, the city rolled and stretched without end. Then the plane’s tires smacked the concrete, and the reverse thrusters sucked the scorching morning air, roaring in victorious arrival.
Inside the aircraft, the passengers stretched and yawned, running fingers through hair unsettled by the night flight, and gathering their tablets and noise-canceling headphones. In first class, a trio of young people stuffed wafer-thin, titanium-clad computers into sleek carrying cases.
To the other passengers, the threesome looked as if they had landed for a fashion shoot or perhaps to open an art exhibit. The two men were clad in blue blazers, with white cotton shirts open at the collar, and form-fitting jeans. A hint of blond stubble shadowed the taller man’s face, while dark shag carpeted the jowls of the shorter, heavyset man. Anyone looking at them might suppose them young men of means with wilder streaks, hinted at by the now empty holes lining their ears; certainly, no one would ever guess the existence of the tattooed mushroom cloud and exploding American flag hidden beneath the blond man’s expensive clothes.
The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1) Page 7
