Cries of the Lost

by Chris Knopf

  A kick in the stomach came from another direction. I doubled up and prepared for more of the same.

  “I’m done, lads,” I said in my best impersonation of an East End Londoner, hoping Spanish guys wouldn’t pick up subtle tell-tales. “No reason to pile on.”

  I got one more kick, for good measure, but then things quieted down as they studied me in the dark.

  One of them pulled something that felt like a T-shirt over my head, which was then secured with duct tape around my neck. I was led into the kitchen and dropped down into a kitchen chair.

  “No offense, mate,” I said. “Thought the place was abandoned. Just lookin’ to cop a squat.”

  I heard the unmistakable sound of a shell being loaded into the chamber of a semiautomatic.

  “No call for the artillery,” I said, “I ain’t seen you, and got no reason to care you were ever here. Movin’ on soon as you let me go. With apologies. Wouldn’t like it myself ’avin’ some bloke disturbin’ me tranquility.”

  One of them said in Spanish, “Tell us your name and who sent you.”

  I shook my head.

  “Sorry, don’t know what you just said. Italian is it? Been to Rome for a bit of football. Nice city.” I felt the tip of a gun pressed against my temple.

  “Pushin’ that thing at me ain’t teachin’ me Italian. Shit, I can hardly talk English, me native tongue.”

  “Spanish,” said one of the men. “Hablamos español, estúpido.”

  “Okay, sorry. Never been to Spain. You speak English? If not, we gotta find somebody who can.”

  The gun was pulled away from my head, and they were silent for a while. I strained to hear sounds of movement.

  One said in Spanish, “What are we going to do with this idiot?”

  “How do we know he’s telling the truth?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Let’s start cutting his balls off with a steak knife. Maybe that will improve his Spanish.”

  “You’re sure you don’t know somebody who speaks English?” I said, slowly and loudly as if that might help them understand what I was saying.

  “Call Rodrigo,” one of them said. “We need instruction.”

  After a pause, I heard the other man say, “Rodrigo, we got a guy here who broke into the house. Anglo. Says he’s a squatter. No, he walked around, but didn’t see us. What do you want us to do?” After another pause, he said, “Okay. I know the place.”

  I felt two sets of hands pull me to my feet and direct me through the rear door. We crossed the garden, went through the big window of the building next door, then down two flights of stairs. At the bottom, we moved along what sounded and smelled like a rough, basement corridor. I asked them where we were going, but got nothing back.

  We climbed up another set of stairs. At the top, one of them held on to me with the gun stuck in my kidney while the other opened a door. A few minutes later they pulled me through into a space with a different acoustic signature—a bigger space. A car started.

  They both had me again, and with firm grips, taped my hands behind my back, then shoved me into the trunk of the car. It wasn’t hard to affect alarm.

  “Whoa, what’s this? You don’t have to worry about me. Just let me go.”

  “Shut up,” one said, and cracked me on the side of the head with the gun barrel.

  “Foockin’ ’ell.”

  The trunk lid slammed shut.

  Fear erupted in my mind and my heart tightened in my chest. I tested the tape restraints. My wrists were held firmly together, but I could partially move my hands and fingers. I thought furiously through several scenarios, none of them good, until I remembered the Swiss Army Knife in my left front pants pocket.

  The car moved aggressively as it left the parking garage and began maneuvering the Chelsea labyrinth; though after about ten minutes, it slowed to a halt, then moved slowly after that. London traffic.

  I twisted around until my hand touched the top of the pocket. I was able to pull out the fabric about a quarter inch at a time, bringing the knife along with it. This worked until the knife itself began to clog the hole, forcing its way back down again. So then I had to use a combination of pulling and holding that reduced progress to a tiny fraction every few minutes.

  The car took off again after a long delay, but soon after it braked, and the driver stood on the horn in obvious frustration. We crept forward again.

  My hand was nearly cramped into paralysis when I finally got the butt end of the knife between my thumb and index finger. The slick plastic and chromed metal surfaces caused the knife to squirt out of that tenuous grip, and I nearly lost it to my pocket again. I felt around the duct tape until I found some exposed adhesive, which I feebly tried to transfer to my fingertips. After several tries, they got sticky enough to allow me to gain a purchase on the end of the knife and pull it all the way out of my pocket.

  I rolled over on my back, as far as my twisted position allowed, and wedged the knife against the trunk floor. Then I paused to catch my breath, wiggle my hands to get the circulation going again, and think about the next step.

  The knife had one large and one small blade, and a pair of sharp little scissors, all neatly tucked away. I felt the exposed metal parts as I imagined how I could use a single hand to pull each into the open position. I started with the large blade, achieving little result beyond ripping off a piece of thumbnail.

  The car got underway again, accelerating briskly, making a slow turn, and then maintaining a straight course at far greater speed. We were on an M road, one of the UK’s four-lane highways.

  I transferred the knife from my right hand to my left, and using my left thumb, pried the scissors out of the slot. I turned the scissors toward my wrists and snipped my way through the duct tape at about a millimeter per snip. Once the tape was sliced through, it took only moments to wrench my wrists free.

  Life is a lot easier when you have your hands.

  I cut the T-shirt off my head, breathing deeply of the dank air in the trunk. With improved leverage, I was able to force myself over on my right side so I faced the back of the car. I put away the scissors and opened the small blade, which I rarely used so I’d always have one razor-sharp edge.

  Then the only thing to do was wait and try to visualize what could happen next.

  It took another half hour to find out. First the car slowed and curved down an exit ramp. At the stop, it turned right and moved at a slower pace. The sound of the tires moving over the road surface changed, rougher and noisier. Minutes more passed, along with several turns, both left and right.

  We left the road and jostled over a bumpy surface. I was doubly grateful to have my hands to reduce the battering inside the trunk.

  And then the car stopped.

  I arranged the T-shirt so it still loosely covered my head. I heard both car doors open and close, then the sound of the trunk lock opening via remote control. The lid lifted, introducing a blast of cool air.

  A single hand grabbed a handful of my jacket and started to pull. I yanked the T-shirt away and slashed across the man’s wrist with the small knife blade. He screamed “Madre” and let go, pressing at his wrist with his other hand, which held the gun. I grabbed the barrel and it went off, the bullet taking a piece of my cheek on its way. I stuck the little blade all the way into the back of the hand holding the gun, and pulled him toward the trunk. The gun came free, and still holding the barrel, I used it to club the guy in the face. He tucked in his chin as he pulled the knife out of his hand. His partner by now had a good hold on the back of the guy’s jacket, and when he yanked hard, they both stumbled back a few feet.

  I sat up in the trunk and started shooting. They spun away from me and went down hard, both screaming in Spanish. I got out of the trunk with the gun pointing at the writhing figures, barely visible in the soft light of the waxing moon. There were no other lights in view, and it looked as if we were in the middle of a grassy field.

  The one who first grabbed me had at lea
st one bullet in the thigh. He was trying to press his palm over the hole and stem the bleeding from his wrist at the same time. The other was shot in the gut. I stuck the gun barrel to his forehead and frisked him, finding a cell phone and a little snub-nosed revolver in his jacket pocket. The two men begged me to call an ambulance.

  “What were you going to do with me?” I asked in Spanish, picking up a shovel that was lying on the ground.

  “Just scare you. You don’t have to shoot.”

  “Scare me you did,” I said.

  “You are from Domingo Angel. You lied to us.”

  “Spare me the moral relativity, boys,” I said. “Who is Domingo Angel?”

  “We need a doctor.”

  “Tell me who he is or I’ll be happy to stand here and watch you bleed out.”

  That might have already happened to the guy with the gut wound. He’d stopped speaking and was lying still on the ground.

  “Domingo Angel. He is the VG, Los Vengadores del Guardia. Or they are him. But I’m telling you what you already know.”

  The Guard’s Avengers.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  The man laughed.

  “You really don’t know, eh Anglo? So who the hell are you?”

  “Who is Rodrigo?”

  “Go ahead and kill me. I tell you that and there’s no point in having a life.”

  “What does Rodrigo have to do with Domingo Angel and the VG?”

  “Go to hell. Back where you belong.”

  I traded car keys for the cell phone. Before handing it over, I dialed 999, the UK equivalent of 911. I listened to him tell her where they were. While the memory was fresh, I put the name of the town into my smartphone’s GPS. Then I drove away in their Alfa diesel, noting to myself that I could no longer claim to have never shot anyone with my own hand.

  I didn’t know whether they’d survive, or how I’d feel about the ultimate outcome, either way. They’d clearly meant to kill me, and deserved what they got. I could have finished them off, but decided to let fate sort it out.

  “OH, THANK God,” said Natsumi, when she answered the phone.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “The plan had a catch.”

  “What?”

  “Two big Spanish guys. I’ll give you the details when I get there.”

  She told me the name she’d registered under and the room number.

  “You’re not going to ask about my mother’s welfare,” she said.

  “Nope,” I said. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “That’s excellent,” she said, and hung up.

  The Hilton Hotel on Hyde Park had a lineage, via another hotel brand, which harkened back to a more confident Imperial time, and it looked it. I liked it for the location, which was about as central as you could get.

  I parked the Alfa in the parking garage, and once up in the lobby, called Natsumi’s cell number for a second time to be sure everything was still okay. Then I went up.

  When she opened the door, her hand went up to my cheek, dressed in gauze and white tape picked up along the way. I told her it was wide, but shallow. She pulled me into the room and shut the door. Then she held on to me for several minutes.

  “I’m sorry for what I keep putting you through,” I said.

  She shook her head, her face still pressed against my chest.

  “It’s what we are putting ourselves through. We’re together. Tell me what happened.”

  So I sat on the edge of the bed and did just that, sparing no detail. She listened with Asian reserve firmly in place, though she did say, “I imagined something just like that happening. Or tried not to imagine, but instead assumed you’d simply lost track of time.”

  “Which I never do.”

  “Which you never do. Are you sorry you had to shoot those men?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. So what do you think?” she asked.

  Before answering, I fell back on the bed, the ferocious physical and emotional strain of the last several hours finally starting to catch up.

  “Impossible to know with so little data, but we know some things,” I said, as Natsumi propped up my head with a pillow. “The boys had a Castilian accent, like mine, sort of the Queen’s English version of Spanish, which they probably noticed, and assumed I was from España. I can’t say how that might relate to this guy Domingo Angel. The house at number eight is accessible from the back via a long corridor and parking garage of the building it backs up against. This is why the neighbors thought it was abandoned. Inside it was set up as a temporary, or part-time, residence.”

  “A secret temporary or part-time residence,” said Natsumi.

  “Correct.”

  “Isn’t there a name for that kind of place?”

  “A safe house. Like the one they kept you in on Grand Cayman. A hideout, or clandestine meeting place, or both.” I propped myself up on my elbows. “Maybe they all are. All the coordinates. Safe houses distributed around the world.”

  “For whom?”

  I dropped back down on the bed.

  “Whom indeed, Florencia,” I said to the ceiling, “who were you keeping safe?”

  CHAPTER 7

  There were six apartments above the Chinese restaurant that fronted on the nearly vertical Calle Dulcinea del Toboso in the Lavapiés barrio of Madrid. Each had two windows with tiny wrought-iron balconies that looked out on the street, which was so narrow you couldn’t get back far enough to see if anyone could be standing there.

  A bank of buzzers was just inside the unlocked door at the foot of the staircase leading to the apartments. The five names listed were Zhu, Chao, Saliba, El-Ghazzawy and Santillian. The sixth buzzer was blank. I buzzed Santillian, who didn’t buzz back. So I went across the street and waited.

  I wore a phony beard, sunglasses and a black beanie. Natsumi was back at the hotel doing research on the other coordinates and worrying. Given what happened in the Caymans and London, a little separation anxiety was understandable. But it made little sense to have both of us casing the apartments, doubling our exposure.

  The trip from London was uneventful, which we made after holing up in the hotel room for a few days so I could search for news of two compadres with gun injuries found in a field in the middle of Surrey. With no success. I did a little better searching for Domingo Angel of Los Vengadores del Guardia. There was nothing on the VG, but there was a Domingo Angel who’d retired as a colonel about ten years before from the Guardia Civil, Spain’s national police service. There was little public information on his career—aside from the official, praise-drenched announcement of his retirement—though his last posting was running a comandancia, or provincial headquarters, within the Basque Country.

  I’d made one last visit to Spottsworthy Mews to retrieve whatever gear Natsumi had left behind, and to try to wipe the place clean of fingerprints and traces of DNA, probably a futile effort, depending on the skills and determination of anyone in pursuit.

  And who would that be, and why? I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. An excess of paranoia had served me well so far, and I saw no reason to abandon it now.

  I left the router with the video feed from the security cameras, since it was accessible through the Internet from anywhere in the world. The monitoring software would be doing most of the bullwork, so I could check it once in a while without a big time investment. At that point, no one had come to or gone from either our house or the safe house.

  Most of what I’d learned about video surveillance came from staking out another apartment, this one in New Britain, Connecticut. I wanted to replicate that approach on the Calle Dulcinea, but couldn’t see how, since it required a secure spot across the street, and that was unavailable. So I was reduced to the time-honored, if primitive, hanging around doorways, sitting at café tables and strolling nonchalantly up and down the street for as long as I could without becoming absurdly obvious.

  It took about two days, but I was rewarded one afternoon by the arrival of a C
hinese gentleman, who helped the cause by pausing at the door leading to the apartments to take a call on his mobile. This gave me time to come up to him in a casual, non-threatening manner. What I hoped was non-threatening.

  “Perdóneme, señor,” I said, when he snapped shut the phone. “¿Le puedo preguntar algo?” May I ask you a question?

  He stood his ground, but his nod was anything but enthusiastic.

  “Is the person Santillian who lives in your apartment complex a man or a woman?” I asked in Spanish.

  Suspicion itched at his eyes, but he answered, “Un hombre. Señor Nicho Santillian.”

  I smiled as engagingly as I could.

  “That’s good news. I represent the estate of his Uncle Esteban who died last month in New York City. He has an inheritance coming. According to the family, Mr. Santillian didn’t know of his uncle in the U.S. An old family squabble. With his will, Esteban hoped to make amends.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “I’ve buzzed Mr. Santillian’s apartment a number of times, but he hasn’t answered. If you could get a message to him, the estate has authorized me to provide a nice reward. Do you ever see Mr. Santillian?” I asked him.

  “Sometimes.”

  I handed him a card with my cell phone number.

  “Have him give me a call. And your name?”

  “Zhu,” he said, after some hesitation.

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” I said, putting out my hand.

  He shook it, loosening up a little, and we parted ways.

  Back in my old life, I had a sideline chasing down the beneficiaries of lawsuits, usually class actions, who were unaware of the successful proceedings. The law firms doling out the money could only hold unclaimed funds for a defined period, at the end of which they were turned over to the state. The lawyers hated to do this, so they paid me to accomplish the happy task of delivering windfalls to unsuspecting recipients.

  I’d never had an occasion when one of my targets didn’t at least agree to hear me out.

  OUR HOTEL in Lavapiés reflected the district’s ragged economic status and chaotic diversity. We were on the top floor in one of the residencial units, with a galley kitchen and second bedroom where I could set up gear and cruise the Internet at any hour, day or night.