by Keith Yocum
Agata nodded and spoke quickly to him. She rushed over, gathered the robe off the floor and put it on Judy. She led her to the bed, gently pushed her down and pulled up her sleeve to expose her pocked arm.
“You must eat more,” she whispered. “You like ice cream? I get ice cream, yes?”
Judy could only concentrate on the black bag the man was unfolding; the syringe was the only truth in the world at that point. Nothing held more clarity for her than the syringe as she watched the tube being tied to her bicep. The needle hurt a little as it navigated around some damaged tissue, but the pain was just fine. The plunger drew in some blood then was pressed down, and she waited.
Her mouth fell open as oceans of pleasure flooded her brain, and she floated to the place that no one could bother her. No one.
✦
Dennis mailed the postcard before he boarded the plane and spent most of the six-hour trip to Heathrow going over his notes on Judy’s disappearance. His research on police jurisdictions in London was more complicated. The City of London, which actually encompassed only a 1.1-square-mile area in the center of London, had its own police force. Dennis had originally spoken to two constables from this force, presumably because Judy was assumed to have disappeared in that part of London.
The larger area of London was policed by the Metropolitan Police Department, with a separate police structure.
Langley’s refusal to allow the London police to interview Dennis had complicated his approach to finding Judy, since he could not go to them directly. His plans to find her — Dennis would not entertain the prospect that she was dead — rested on two people: the first was Freddie’s mysterious NSA employee, and the second was a distant acquaintance from MI5 named Ian Fletcher-James.
MI5 was the closest equivalent to the FBI, and MI6 was similar to the CIA, but there were many overlapping responsibilities regarding terror investigations and surveillance of suspects. From earlier work with both MI5 and MI6, Dennis knew they were beset with precisely the same internal tensions and ridiculous layers of authority as the US security organizations, only their mutual distrust seemed more refined due to their charming Downton Abbey British accents.
✦
“It’s a bit complicated, Dennis,” Ian said. “You do realize that there was an investigation, and it stopped with you. The Australians are very angry, as you can imagine. They think you might have had something to do with her disappearance.”
“Yes, yes, I know that, Ian. I don’t care what they think. I’m trying to find her. I think — I know — she’s alive. Can you help me with a few things?”
“It depends,” Ian said, sipping his coffee. They sat inside a small coffee shop two blocks from Paddington Station. “What can I possibly help you with? It would be difficult to get my hands on the investigative reports without leaving my fingerprints, as it were, all over it. Surely you can see that I’m limited in this matter?”
“Can you at least ask someone to summarize the report? Even that would be helpful.”
“Well, I’ve already done that.”
“What did you find?” Dennis said, taking out his notebook.
“You’re not going to write this down, are you?”
“No,” he said, putting the notebook away. “Of course not.”
“Right. From what I understand, your friend Judy left for a jog during the early evening hours and was never seen again. Because it was at night, and there were so many pedestrians and heavy traffic during the London rush hour, they have very few hints of her presence.”
“I thought London was one of the most heavily monitored cities in the world with closed circuit TVs?”
“Ah, well, that is technically true, but what is not well known is that many of those cameras are not functioning. They’re too expensive for the city to maintain, so only a modest percentage are active. And they do apparently have a snippet of video of you and this woman Judy walking down the alley outside the hotel. You both had your heads down. And that is it, really.”
“That’s it?”
“Please remember I did not see the report, Dennis. This was a verbal explanation from someone who had seen the report. This person said there might be additional footage of her, but it’s murky and not reliable.”
“Jesus, you’d think they’d have more than that.”
“And, well, there were the blood-stained tissues the hotel maid mentioned. And the fact that you apparently went through all of her belongings.”
“I’m getting nowhere,” Dennis said, looking around the coffee shop.
“Sorry, but it was the best I could do on that one.”
“And my Ukrainian friend?” Dennis asked.
“Well, that’s more up my alley. Pavlychko has completely gone to ground. I’m surprised, frankly. We typically do a good job of monitoring people like him.”
“How did he get away?”
“Appears there was a side door leading to the pathway through some private gardens and out to the street behind. Our guess is that he and his girlfriend just slid out one evening.”
“Did you go through his place?”
“Of course. And you’ll be interested to know there was a trace of radioactivity in his kitchen.”
“Shit. Have you turned that info over to the folks at the London station?”
“Of course. Didn’t you know that?”
“No. When was it turned over?”
“Perhaps a week ago. They didn’t share that with you?”
“No.”
“I see. Very odd. This whole thing with your fellow Arnold is quite the talk in our circles.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“Haven’t the foggiest idea. I mean we knew he was of that persuasion, but in the current climate that’s no longer a leverage point for an intelligence agent.”
“What do you mean leverage? What are you talking about?”
“Arnold.”
“What about Arnold? What do you mean persuasion?”
“I mean he was gay, of course. He was quite public about it. You can do that these days. It’s not the Cold War any longer, when gays were blackmailed for being, well, gay. The London station certainly knew; we all knew. It’s not such a big deal any longer if you come out.”
Dennis concentrated on holding his paper coffee cup steady, though he could feel his fingers itching to crumple it in one huge stroke and throw it against the wall.
✦
Dennis walked for what seemed like miles in the cool December air, past busy Londoners taking lunch breaks. Quite a few were smoking cigarettes in hunched, furtive groups outside pubs. He was angry and knew by painful experience that he should not talk to anyone until he calmed down and developed a plan.
Arnold was gay, but that was not in any report that Dennis had been given. Presumably Freddie had not seen it either, or he would have mentioned it. Those strange text messages that Freddie’s beta program had turned up between a “maybe Arnold” and his lover were now clearer.
The agency was hardly pristine in its treatment of LGBT employees. But President Bill Clinton’s executive order in 1995, which stated security clearances could not be revoked or denied based on sexual orientation, had opened the door to a more open era. Dennis knew several, mostly younger LGBT employees and could not have cared less about their sexual orientation. The only contempt he harbored was for employees of any orientation that were cheaters and thieves. And liars.
As he stalked the cool streets, he could not understand why the agency had left out the fact of Arnold’s sexual orientation; it was a fact, not an accusation. No one was supposed to care about sexual orientation, of course, but when a senior operative went missing, you would look for all leads, including girlfriends. Or boyfriends.
And there was the additional information that Pavlychko’s house had traces of radioactivity. No
one had forwarded that information to him; Chandler had even made the case that Freddie’s death probably had absolutely nothing to do with the Ukrainian, which was now fully refuted.
Dennis stopped at a street corner and started to cross when an automobile horn roared to life in front of him and tires screeched. Someone yelled, and he looked to his right, where a taxi driver was gesturing wildly at him.
Damnit, he thought. You friggin’ idiot. You’re not in the States; they drive on the left here. You’ll get yourself killed before you even find what happened to Arnold. And Judy. Where the hell is poor Judy?
He waved apologetically at the taxi and stepped back onto the sidewalk. He stood on the street corner and took a deep breath; the car horn had been a welcome clarion call. His natural hunter’s instinct had been distracted by new information on Arnold, but in truth he didn’t care at all about the guy. Judy was his mission. Find Judy.
He crossed the street, now looking carefully to his right, and sauntered past shop windows and bundled pedestrians. He had slipped into a kind of cruise control and was refocused on Judy. He simply prowled, looking for inspiration. He could feel something emerging; a hint, a wisp of a lead perhaps.
Dennis often took long walks in shopping malls or crowded city streets to clear his head and wait for some inspiration to solve a problem. It was never a perfect tactic, but allowing introspection and intuition to go to work was often effective.
He smelled food and found himself in a dimly lit pub. Scanning the plastic-coated menu, his eyes fell to something he’d never seen before. He put his finger on the word: “Boerewors.”
Dennis pointed to the word and asked the bartender, a young man of about thirty with long brown hair, “What is this? I’m not familiar with this food.”
“Ah, that’s Boerewors. It’s sausage. Best sausage you’ve ever had. From South Africa. You want an order?”
But Dennis was already halfway out the door into the brilliant glare of a December sun in London.
Of course! he thought as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
CHAPTER 17
I’m not supposed to be talking to you, unless it’s on the record and being recorded,” Clive said.
“I could give a shit what you do with our conversation,” Dennis said. “Broadcast it on the BBC or whatever you have there. I was just hoping you could help me with a couple of questions about Judy.”
“No, mate, can’t help you in any way, and you’ll need to call me back on my work line so I can record the conversation. And we have the ABC, not BBC here.”
“What happened to Voorster, the South African gangster who escaped a couple years ago when Judy busted that ring? What happened to him?”
“Dennis, you’re not hearing me. I can’t talk to you like this—”
“Judy told me that he hadn’t surfaced. Is that true?”
“I told you before that we think Voorster is dead,” Clive said. “There was one nonconfirmed match on a passport, but we don’t believe it. He had many partners in his drug business, and they were not happy when it all came tumbling down. Forget him.”
“I think Voorster had something to do with Judy’s disappearance, but I’ve racked my brain for how he would know Judy was in London, and all I come back to is Phillip.”
“Her husband? That Phillip?”
“Yes, of course. I know he’s in prison there, and all I can think of is that he found out Judy was visiting London. And then Phillip told someone.”
“Wait, Dennis, you must be joking. How would Phillip know that? And even if he did find that out, how would he communicate with Voorster?”
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Dennis said. “Like most prisoners, I would think Phillip has some telephone privileges. And that after finding out about Judy’s London visit, he communicated with someone during one of his weekly calls.”
“But London is a very big city, Dennis, and even if I follow your theory, it’s not possible that Voorster would know where Judy was. Surely you must have thought of that?”
“Of course, that’s why I need your help.”
“Bloody hell. Judy warned me about your persistence. Can’t say I like it much.”
✦
“You must eat,” Agata said. “Please eat the ice cream. You must not lose weight. It is bad.”
Judy half-heartedly ate a spoonful of the chocolate ice cream, though her teeth were beginning to ache. All she knew was her bed, the cracks on the ceiling, Agata and the injections. She could no longer muster the enthusiasm to fight back or even complain. Earlier during her imprisonment she had begged Agata to help her escape, but now she did what she was told.
So she silently ate the ice cream, coaxed by a nervous Agata sitting next to her on the bed.
There were footsteps from the hallway, and Judy stopped eating, turning her head reflexively toward the door. She felt her stomach swoon a little at the thought of another glorious injection.
The small man walked in first, and Judy locked her eyes on the black bag that held the precious implements.
But it was the second man that startled her; she was confused initially, because he was new. He had dark brown hair, a long face and small nose. He was perhaps in his late thirties or early forties. Judy could feel Agata tense as she got off the bed.
There was something familiar about the stranger, but as much as she wanted to investigate his features, Judy found her gaze focusing on the black bag.
“Are you ready for your little gift this afternoon?” the small man asked, waving the bag.
Judy nodded, but she grew wary. He had never acted like this before when it came to injections; he rarely spoke and simply relied on Agata to tie off the tube on either arm. Now he was acting odd. The stranger leaned against the wall with his arms across his chest, watching carefully.
“Before you get your free gift,” the small man said, “first you have to earn it. That is the way it will be in the future. You must prove your worth.”
Confused, Judy shot Agata a glance, but the young woman looked away.
“Come here,” the man said.
Judy got up off the bed and walked slowly over to him.
“Get down on your knees,” the man said as she approached.
Judy did not like this idea, and she resisted.
He waved the black bag into her face. “You want me to go away?”
“No,” she said.
“Then get on your knees.”
She slid down, and her bony knees dug into the cement floor. She sat back on her haunches and looked up at him, half expecting to get slapped.
Instead, he put the bag under his left armpit, and using both hands, he pulled down the zipper on his pants.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Pull it out. You know what you need to do.”
Judy rolled back on her heels. She looked back at Agata, but the young woman would not look at her. She turned back and shook her head at the man.
The man pulled up his zipper and said, “That is too bad. Let’s go.” Agata rushed by with the ice cream container. Judy, who was still on her knees, watched them leave. They slammed the door behind them.
✦
This time the choral music seemed morose. The night was gloomier than he’d anticipated, and the misty, cold rain had reduced the volume of tourists.
Dennis sat farther back in the public section of the Evensong at St. Paul’s and tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for the service to end. He pulled his raincoat tighter around his chest. He decided not to scan the visitors looking for his nameless NSA contact, since it was not important. Dennis had followed the instructions about a postcard and expected to be contacted much the same way as last time.
At the end of the service he sauntered back to the painting. He lit a candle and waited, but his contact never appeared. Finally, he was approached by a docent and t
old that the cathedral was closing for the night.
He went outside and stood under the covered entrance to stay out of the rain. Looking around the steps, he saw very few people.
Damnit, he thought. Did I mess up the postcard process? Where the hell is he?
After fifteen minutes Dennis walked across the street to the hotel bar where he had first met the NSA employee.
Dennis did not see his contact sitting at the busy bar, but he managed to grab a stool. He asked the bartender for a menu and then ordered a hamburger and a beer.
“You an American?”
“I guess so,” Dennis said warily.
“Name isn’t Dennis, is it?”
“What if it is?”
“I have a message for a Yank named Dennis who might be stopping by. I’ve been given a couple of quid to deliver a message.”
Dennis absently pulled at the hairs of his new gray-blond beard and thought a little about this. “Who did you say gave you this message?”
“Another Yank. Don’t know his name. I mean, if you’re not Dennis, no worries, mate.”
“I am Dennis.”
“Well, here you go then,” the bartender said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded drink napkin.
Dennis looked around the bar and opened the folded napkin. In block letters he read: Next time lose tail. Flush down toilet now.
The bartender brought Dennis his beer, and he took a sip. Standing up, he found the men’s room, went into a stall, tore the napkin into pieces then flushed it away.
Back at the bar, Dennis wondered who would have him under surveillance. London police? Australian Federated Police? The NSA? CIA? The Ukrainian?
He desperately needed this NSA employee to find Judy, and being followed was yet another obstacle. Dennis ate half his burger before he bolted back to his hotel. If he was being tailed, he did not notice, nor did he care much. He needed to send another postcard immediately to resume contact with the only person he felt could help him find Judy. While he convinced himself that she was still alive, the fear was sinking in.
