Paradise Burning

by Blair Bancroft

  Things were not going as he had hoped, Karim admitted to the blackness around him. He had been a good officer. Strong and proud. Daring. Ruthlessly efficient. Yet when he had been offered an opportunity to come to America and make more money than he had ever thought of seeing in his lifetime, he had leaped at it, had he not? And become a keeper of women.

  The job did not sit well with him. Not well at all.

  Karim frowned. She had been a long time, his Nadya. After all, there was nothing at the clearing along the river but a dock far downstream and an occasional glimpse of a trailer peeking through the trees. No, trailer was not right. What was it the Americans called them? Ah, yes, re-cre-a-tional vehicles. Karim savored the English words. Recreational vehicles. A good thing, houses that traveled. If a man had one, it might be possible to lose himself in the vastness that was the United States of America. He did, after all, have a legitimate passport. That and a great deal of cash had been the price of his soul. His pride. And self-respect.

  To come to the United States, he had stooped about as far as a man could go. And yet, it was not enough. Somehow he must find a way to stay in this country. Not easy, not easy at all. If caught at what he was doing, the best he could hope for was a one-way ticket home. And a possible death sentence once he got there. So something must be done. And soon. A pity the Americans couldn’t stop staring at him. When he went to town, they either glared in open hostility or shocked suspicion, as if he had “Al Queda” painted on his forehead or was just descended from a spaceship. Truly, he must be the only Middle-Eastern male in Golden Beach.

  If they only knew. One wife—one American wife—was all Karim Shirazi asked from life. He had spent most of his early adult years fighting Iran’s mortal enemy, that mother of monsters Iraq, and now he wished only to live out his days in peace. Far from the firepower of whatever war was raging.

  Far from Nadya?

  What use did he have for a Russian whore?

  Softly, feelingly, he swore. She was special, his Nadya. In spite of everything, she maintained her dignity. She was intelligent, kind-hearted. A mother to the other girls.

  And, sometimes, even to him. Her jailer.

  But sentiment was for children and fools. To survive, he must remain the soldier, untainted by emotion. Powerful. Unswerving. Ruthless. His goal like a bright star before him.

  America awaited him. And he would have it.

  He’d heard there were many Persians in Los Angeles, men and women his own age who were a second generation of the old regime driven out by the Ayatollahs. (May Allah grant rest to minds that saw evil everywhere.)

  If he could find his way there . . .

  Once again, Karim glanced at the path to the river. He could see it now, a dark line penetrating a shadowed jungle, set against a sky that was no longer night. Wrapped in this special moment of peace, he watched as pink streaks added color to the eastern sky, as the charcoal jungle turned green and glints of sunlight sparkled off the morning dew. At moments like this he could almost like this godforsaken place.

  Karim swore softly. Nadya was stretching his patience. Too independent, his little one. The Russians were fools to give their women so much freedom. Though he had heard it was mostly lip-service. Russian women were free to work as long as they did all the housework and shopping, cooked the meals, and cared for the children. So perhaps Russian men were not such fools after all.

  Frowning, Karim shifted his weight to his other foot, pressing his back instead of his shoulder against the hard wood of the porch column. Although Nadya never gave herself to him in anything but resignation, she talked to him sometimes, lying warm and still in his arms, after sex. The men of her village had not appreciated her. They deserved to lose such a pearl. For the moment he, Karim Shirazi, would accept the gifts Allah had given. He had a passport, a job which paid a great deal of money. Hope for the future.

  And Nadya Semyonova.

  He should not have doubts. He was a very lucky man.

  Chapter Ten

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Mandy breathed as Peter turned the car into an opening in an impressive stone wall, drove down a private palm-lined road and pulled up before a five-car garage. “Claire and Brad live here?”

  “Palm Court,” Peter confirmed. “One of Golden Beach’s oldest and most impressive mansions. Inherited from the grandmother who also left Brad the land where he’s building Amber Run.”

  “Lucky Brad,” Mandy murmured, her gaze moving from the flower-bordered walkway up three stories of coral-pink stucco to a red tile roof.

  Set on a promontory that jutted out into Golden Beach’s upper bay, Palm Court boasted a pool and a private dock. Even in the short time she’d been in Golden Beach, Mandy had learned to recognize the architecture—Mediterranean Revival, a style that now defined Central Florida’s Gulf Coast.

  “Is that a banyan?” Mandy asked, gaping at a huge tree trailing vine-like brown strands from its many octopus-like branches.

  “Banyans, cane palms, oleanders, bougainvilleas. You name it, Palm Court’s got it. Brad works hard to keep it up.”

  “You might have warned me.”

  “And spoiled the surprise?” Peter grinned. “Never guessed your precious Bubba spends his nights in a castle, did you?”

  “Okay, so I’m impressed,” Mandy conceded.

  Peter shut off the idling engine that had been keeping them cool while they took in the expanse of Palm Court. “There’s a formal entrance around front, but like most waterfront homes, everybody just traipses in the kitchen door. Come on, Mouse, let’s find out what your Nadya said.”

  Wow! was the only word that fit the moment, Mandy thought, as a smiling Brad Blue led them through a state-of-the-art kitchen and across a room big enough to make the resident grand piano look like furniture for a doll’s house. It was once a courtyard, Brad explained, before his grandmother Whitlaw added a roof. He and Claire had their wedding reception here.

  Brad continued on into the less intimidating space of the formal living room, which was, Mandy guessed, a mere thirty by eighteen with a staircase on the long wall at the east end of the room. The furniture was elegant but comfortable. Lived in. The Palm Court inhabited by the Blue family was a home, not a show place.

  “Welcome!” Claire called as she came down the stairs. “Bubba’s tucked up, and Jamie’s in his room, hopefully reading instead of video-gaming, but . . .” She grinned and shrugged. “Please sit. Frankly, I’m as eager as Brad to hear your what your Russian girl had to say, but hospitality first. What can we get you to drink?”

  After settling next to Peter on one of a pair of matching sofas, Mandy set her frosty gin and tonic on the coffee table and opened the recorder case. For Brad’s benefit she briefly summarized her encounters with Nadya Semyonova, including Garrett Whitlaw’s information about the death of Wade Whitlaw’s old foreman and the subsequent rental of the line shack by his relatives. She ended with her meeting with Nadya that morning—the tears, the bruise, and, finally, the recording.

  As Mandy talked, Brad’s handsome face altered, from the subtle rise of one blond eyebrow to a frown that creased his forehead. Nadya’s bruise captured his complete attention and, suddenly, the developer of Amber Run transformed into a professional tracker who had caught the scent of violence, intrigue, and crime.

  At that moment Mandy realized most of the rumors about Brad Blue could be true. The man was scary. But so was Peter. And her father. She was accustomed to people who had experienced violence up close and personal. It was simply . . . odd, unearthing such a feral response in a man building houses in a Florida backwater like Golden Beach.

  “May I?” Brad reached for the recorder.

  “Please.”

  As he turned on the recorder, everyone leaned forward, as if close attention were enough to make the words comprehensible. Nadya’s voice, precise and clear in a language only Brad could understand, filled the room. Mandy’s heart rate soared. Now, at last, they’d know what was happening i
n the old house on the far side of the river.

  After only a few minutes, Brad paused the playback, his face grim. “I need a promise from you all,” he said. “Wade is never to hear about this. If he didn’t have an immediate heart attack, he’d go straight out there, shotgun in hand, and roust the lot of them. And get himself killed in the process.”

  “That bad?” Peter asked.

  “I’ve barely gotten started, but it’s going downhill fast.” Brad shook his head. “Looks like a bait and switch, a Russian wrinkle on one of the oldest games in the world. I just never expected to see it here.”

  “Tell us,” Mandy urged, seconded by Claire.

  “Your Nadya’s an excellent witness. Well-spoken, concise. She begins with her village in the Urals, not far from Yekatarinburg. She went away to college, but when she came back as a teacher, she found herself set apart from the others. Almost a stranger. Even the young men ignored her. She was too well educated. Too polished. Too well paid . . . until the economy fell apart, her salary was cut, then frequently not paid at all. It was obvious she had no future, so when she saw an ad in a newspaper offering jobs in foreign countries, she decided to apply. Anything was better than her present situation, and she’d always wanted to travel.”

  Mandy glanced at Peter, who nodded. He too was recalling Jade’s story about the modeling job in Rome.

  “Anyway,” Brad continued, “this agency was offering jobs as nannies, au pairs, waitresses, dancers. They would arrange visas, passports, transportation, etc. Nadya understood she would have to pay back the costs. Eight thousand dollars, they told her, but America was the land of opportunity, was it not? She was assured she’d be able to pay the money back within two years.”

  “And when she got here, they took her passport,” Mandy supplied, “and the only job available was prostitution.”

  “Right.”

  “I’d think you were all crazy,” Claire said, “but I read about the FBI raiding several brothels with Mexican girls as young as thirteen right here in Florida.”

  Peter ran an agitated hand through his short dark hair. “Mandy and I have been searching the world for evidence of forced prostitution, and here it is, right under our noses.”

  “Brad,” Claire demanded, “are you saying they’re running a brothel on Wade’s land?”

  “Well, let’s find out.” Brad switched the recorder back on.

  Five minutes later he had an answer. “There are eight girls,” he told them. “Three Russian, one Ukrainian, one Serb, two Mexican, and one Thai. Their security chief, Karim Shirazi, is Iranian.”

  The soldier. Marching purposefully down the driveway. How could she have missed the menace?

  “According to my sources,” Peter said, “Iran is very much involved in the Central Asian mafia, trafficking in both drugs and women. But, let’s face it, all that tends to get lost behind terrorism, arms sales, big oil, and the threat of nukes.”

  “Afraid so,” Brad agreed, “but Nadya’s problem we should be able to handle.”

  “You’re retired,” Claire snapped in far from her customary mild-mannered tone.

  Brad held up his hands, palms out. “I never said anything about charging in there, guns blazing. Wade, yes. Me, no.” He offered a lopsided grin to his wife, who was still scowling. “Now . . . back to Nadya. “There’s a guard, named Yuri Saltikov and a boss—known only as Misha—who comes by every few days to check up and collect his cash. And behind Misha, of course, is some form of international organized crime. In this instance, the big boss appears to be a Russian based in Miami.”

  “But why don’t the girls run away?” Claire demanded.

  “Several reasons. Their passports were confiscated—and may have been fake anyway. They don’t speak the language, and they’re afraid of being arrested for both prostitution and illegal immigration. And as if that weren’t enough, Nadya says the men told them their families back home would be harmed if they made any complaints. This is a very real threat. Each girl is required to give the names and addresses of her relatives before receiving her airplane ticket.”

  “Good God!” Claire breathed. Mandy and Peter nodded. Their research into international trafficking confirmed what Brad was saying. But in Golden Beach?

  “And then there’s classic physical violence,” Brad added. “The girls perform as ordered or they’re beaten, starved.”

  “I read about a case in Eastern Europe,” Mandy said. “A few years back a trafficker chopped off a girl’s head in front of the others. Since then, that’s been considered the ultimate intimidation. The girls do as they’re told, or else.”

  “And, of course, they never see enough of the money to get out of debt,” Peter added.

  “Exactly,” Brad agreed. “And if a girl actually manages to escape and find a cop who will listen to her, her only reward is being deported back to the poverty she was trying to escape. Only worse, because she is now damaged goods. Extremely damaged goods.”

  “You’ve got to get Nadya out of there,” Claire exclaimed, her fears for her husband seemingly forgotten.

  “No.” Brad’s handsome features were set in stone.

  “What do you mean No?”

  “It’s common sense, Claire,” Peter explained, taking Brad off the hook. “We’ve got a federal case here. Saving Nadya is only a small part of what has to happen now. We can’t go charging off on our white horses to rescue a Fair Maiden. Sure, we might save Nadya, but if she disappears, the bad guys will take off, along with the other girls. Poof. Gone. Into the wind.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s right,” Mandy said. “Every instinct tells me to go upriver tomorrow morning and haul Nadya into my boat, but this is a case for the FBI. We have to inform them, then do as we’re told.”

  “Yeah, right,” Claire snorted. “If I’d counted on the FBI, I’d be dead now.”

  “And without Doug Chalmers and the FBI Jamie would be dead,” Brad pointed out, soft and bland. Unanswerable.

  The room reverberated with unspoken questions. Jamie, Mandy thought, her darling Bubba’s older brother. Now there was a story even Glenda Garrison hadn’t passed along. A swift glance at Peter revealed that he was equally baffled. And curious. But this wasn’t the moment to pry.

  “Trafficking is big business,” Peter said. “Like drug-running, there’s major money involved. A few years back, when I was in Israel—where prostitution is legal—I talked to a brothel owner who paid five thousand dollars for a Russian girl. Since he could earn fifty to a hundred thousand a year off that girl, and he had maybe twenty girls working, he was making one to two million on an investment of a hundred thousand dollars. So even in little old Golden Beach we’re talking big bucks, which means good security and the will to protect their investment. The Russian Mafia is never to be taken lightly.”

  “Definitely a job for the Feds,” Brad concurred. “And, besides, I need to keep my happy home.”

  “You have any contacts at the local office?”

  “Doug Chalmers. Good man. A few years ago—before I met Claire—he was the agent who coordinated the search for Jamie when he was kidnapped. He’s not likely to be so busy chasing terrorists that he can’t spare time for your girls.”

  “Chalmers.” Peter nodded. “Do you make the call, or shall I?”

  “I will. And one more thing,” Brad added. “Nadya says that Misha, the boss, and the Russian goombah called Yuri are the bad ones. According to Nadya, the Iranian major has a few redeeming qualities. The concept of beating the girls, let alone head chopping, doesn’t sit well with him. He seems to be some sort of a straight stick who wanted to come to the states a bit more strongly than he cared about what he was going to do when he got here.”

  “Will he roll over?” Peter asked.

  “Hard to tell. It may depend on whether his loyalty lies with money, a valid green card, or with honor, but it’s a possibility.”

  “An honorable pimp?” Peter snorted.

  “Nadya said all this?” Claire a
sked.

  “She seems to be very bright, very thorough. And definitely describes the major in more kindly terms than the others. Although she admits Shirazi’s job has a few perks. Herself being one of them.”

  Mandy had to bite her lip to keep from bursting out with something stupid. Karim was as much of a pimp as the rest of them. Yet Nadya had shown only pleasure when he’d defended her from Yuri.

  So who was Mandy Armitage to be surprised by Nadya’s tangled emotions? She hadn’t set any sterling examples herself.

  “So what do I say?” Mandy asked. “I have to tell Nadya something. Give her hope.”

  “You’re going to tell her exactly nothing,” Peter snapped. You’re not going back.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I’m going back.”

  “No way.”

  “You’re not my keeper. I’ll go if I want to!”

  “Time!” Brad’s command cut through their quarrel. “Look, Mandy,” he said, “you say your meetings with Nadya have been pure chance?”

  Mandy had a few doubts about what had brought her to the river that morning, but she gave Brad a simple yes.

  “Then wait for the FBI to get surveillance in place. They can let you know the next time the girl comes to the river bank. Then you can take Peter with you. Leave him in the boat if you think the girl will spook, but I have to agree you shouldn’t go alone.”

  “How can the FBI watch a house in the middle of nowhere?” Mandy scoffed. “A little international prostitution isn’t important enough for the FBI to set up a round-the-clock camp where the guys are going to freeze their you-know-whats off.”

  Brad scowled. “You may be right. We might have to conjure a whiff of terrorism to get their attention.”

  “They could be running the brothel as a cover,” Mandy suggested, grinning.

  Peter choked, Claire giggled. Brad flashed an answering grin. “Good one,” he said. “Fortunately, Doug will take us seriously, and he’s already familiar with the area around here.”