It was unlikely that someone would accidentally stumble upon the dwelling. To do so, a person would need to make it past multiple anti-personnel land mines. If he did manage to do that without losing a limb or his life, there were well-trained snipers positioned on wooden platforms built on enormous ironwood trees populating the area. These men were handpicked for their ability to shoot the tail off of a rabbit from a hundred yards out. But if somehow, someone were able to bypass those sharpshooters, he would have only succeeded in coming face to face with a twenty-five-foot high concrete wall that encircled the compound. And if this person were truly determined and made it over that obstacle, well, he would then have the honor of being eliminated by the man who lived on the other side: the Black Wolf.
The original structure was a military bunker erected by the Russians in the Shaki-Zaqatala region, the most northern part of Azerbaijan, sandwiched between Georgia and Russia. The Wolf had the fortified building enlarged to suit his needs: a kitchen, additional bedrooms, a communications center, a gym/training center, and an armory were added. This was the Wolf’s new home. He’d spent most of his life in Tbilisi, Georgia, but as a native Azerbaijani, he knew he would always come back to his homeland.
The Wolf rarely left the compound other than to conduct business. His incarceration in Turkey was the longest span of time that he had been away since commandeering the building.
The Wolf had been back at his compound for only a day, and his men were eager to celebrate his return. Spread out over a rustic wooden table were chilled bottles of vodka, fresh black caviar from the Caspian Sea, lamb kebabs, mutton dolma, perfectly baked tandoor bread, smoked cheese, traditional Azerbaijan plov, and an assortment of pickled vegetables.
A muscular man in military fatigues sat next to the Wolf. He was clean shaven including his head, and he had a large squared-off jaw, a hooked nose, and a heavy brow that made his gray eyes appear deeper set then they really were.
His name was Vasili Ivanovich, and he had worked for the Wolf for nearly seventeen years. He was a Russian but was abandoned as a child in a Georgian orphanage. All of Ivanovich’s skills and education had been acquired from the Wolf, starting shortly after the two met when he was only ten and had tried to pickpocket the master assassin. The Wolf was impressed with the little boy’s tenacity and took an immediate liking to him. He became a younger brother to the Wolf and over the years, eventually his most trusted advisor.
The shot glasses were filled again with the clear liquor and raised in the Wolf’s honor. “To our leader, a brave man, a man who makes the impossible possible. May you live forever,” Ivanovich said in a strong, baritone voice. The group of ten cheered Ivanovich’s toast and added their own praises in a mix of Russian and Azerbaijani before clinking their glasses together.
“My brother, it is good to have you back home,” Ivanovich said under a chorus of song the men had begun.
The Wolf leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, content to enjoy his homecoming.
“If anybody else,” Ivanovich said with a wave of his finger, “had told me about this plan, I would have laughed in their face. But you are not just anybody.” He threw an arm around the Wolf’s shoulders and squeezed.
“Do not underestimate your contributions, Vasili,” the Wolf said. He then took a moment to look at his men. They were laughing and singing, drinking and eating. The Wolf chuckled over the irony in his most challenging contract: saving himself. It required him to remain jailed and alive until he was extradited; something he couldn’t be one-hundred-percent certain would happen. No easy feat in itself. He had to trust his loyal circle of mercenaries who, under Ivanovich’s command, were tasked to get him out of the country. But there were other elements to the plan, two things specifically that gave the Wolf an undeniable conviction that it could be done: a little girl and the skills of a certain assassin.
The Wolf filled two shot glasses with vodka and slid one over to Ivanovich. “Afiyët oslun!” he cheered. They both emptied their glasses and slammed them down on the table.
The Wolf rolled his shot glass back and forth with the tip of his fingers. “The girl assassin, what have you heard?” he asked.
“We believe she was able to exit the country.”
The Wolf nodded gently and pursed his lips. He already knew that Sei had escaped prison, but he didn’t think she had the means to get much farther. He had put too much confidence in Demir’s ability. What an incompetent fool. Two high-profile escapees.
“She’s much more resourceful than I had anticipated,” he said, licking his lips. “And the little girl?”
“She’s still in the same location. Nothing has changed.” Ivanovich chewed on his bottom lip before speaking again. “This assassin will start looking. This is a problem, no?”
The Wolf nodded in agreement. “She doesn’t worry me.”
“And the little girl? I should get rid of her?” Ivanovich asked.
The Wolf drew a deep breath and straightened his legs under the table. He had known Ivanovich long enough to understand the question was rhetorical. The little girl had served her purpose, but the Wolf underestimated the hold she would have over Sei. He hadn’t thought the assassin would blindly follow her emotions for a child she had never met. But she had, and that was an impression that stuck with the Wolf.
Ivanovich arched his left eyebrow as he anticipated an answer he already knew. He had hoped for an easier path forward, but that was never the case if one worked for such a man. “What is it? Tell me.”
“Bring the little one to me. Alive.”
64
Nearly three days had passed since I’d said goodbye to Kostas—the amount of time it took me to make my way to the building on Rue de Buci in Paris. It was early in the morning, around three a.m. The weather that night was cool, and a wispy fog moved gently through the city, dimming the moonlight.
I stood alone on the sidewalk, staring at the balcony on the fourth floor. About an hour earlier, I had sat on a bench thirty yards away, waiting for foot traffic in the area to cease. I had no key to enter through the building entrance, but that was a problem reserved for people who can’t climb.
It wasn’t difficult to see the path I would take. The building’s architecture was typical French nouveau. Every window had a decorative railing, and the façade had numerous reliefs I could use as hand and foot holds. The artisanal cheese shop on the ground floor had a large picture window enclosed in the masonry of the building that provided wide framing—the perfect starting point. It took minutes to make my way to the balcony, and even a shorter amount of time to make my way to the bedroom of Dr. Delacroix.
I stood at the foot of the queen-sized bed and watched the doctor’s chest rise and fall while he lay on his back, his hands clasped and resting contently on his stomach. He wore a sky blue cotton pajama top; a charcoal grey duvet covered him from the chest down. His sleep looked peaceful and relaxed, as if he had no worries. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. Delacroix lived a luxurious life, one I suspected he had acquired at the expense of others and certainly didn’t deserve.
He slept soundly and didn’t feel the weight of my body when I sat on the edge of the bed near his side. I rectified that when I clamped my hand tightly over his mouth. Wide eyes followed by a muffled scream were all Delacroix could manage as the situation unfolded before him.
“Shhhh,” I said as I pressed a lone finger against my lips.
The intensity in his eyes faded a bit, and I removed my hand.
“What are you doing here?” he blurted. “I told you everything.”
“I ask the questions. You provide answers and nothing more. Are we clear?”
“But I—”
“Was I not clear a second ago?” I asked with a firmer tone.
Delacroix lay quietly with shifty eyes that never settled on me longer than a few seconds.
“I’m not convinced that you’ve told me everything you know.”
“I have. I swear.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Would you have me spin a tall tale?”
I withdrew my knife and pressed it firmly against the side of his neck. Delacroix flinched as I kept the blade in place, and a trickle of blood appeared. “Sarcasm is not your friend right now.”
“But I’ve told you everything.”
I looked around his bedroom, “It would be a shame to see all of this disappear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you won’t collect a salary because you’ll be unable to show up for work at the hospital, thus being unable to pay for all of this, and it will disappear.”
“That’s preposterous. I always show up for work on the days that I’m scheduled. I have an impeccable attendance record.”
“If you’re not breathing you won’t.”
“Huh?”
“You do agree if you’re not breathing, there simply is no way you will make it to work, let alone out of this apartment or even this bed.”
Delacroix’s jaw fell slack, and his face grew white.
“Don’t worry. That’s all hypothetical. I based my conclusion on the off chance you would continue to say you know nothing.” I placed two fingers under Delacroix’s chin and closed his mouth. “Let’s start again. I need more information on the man who contacted you. Think. You spoke with him. You’ve met him.”
“Yes, but he always hid himself from me. I never saw his face.”
“There must be something about his voice or his mannerisms.”
“I suppose he sounded young in age, certainly not as old as I am. He didn’t have an accent like the men who showed up at the clinic, and his word choice suggested that he is well educated.”
“Was he short, tall, fat, skinny?”
Delacroix’s eyes shot up and to the left as he pursed his lips. “He was a little shorter than I. Maybe five foot ten inches. Seemed to be in good physical shape—an athlete, I would venture.”
“What makes you think that?”
“His shoulders were broad. And he moved easily, fluidly.”
“Any idea how he entered your apartment?”
“That I don’t know. Maybe he picked the lock, or perhaps the same way you managed to get inside.”
“Unlikely. Do you think it’s someone you met in the past? Any enemies?”
Delacroix shook his head. “None that I know of. And if you think I’ve done this on more than one occasion, well, you’re wrong. I’m not the monster you believe me to be. That man tricked me.”
I had to admit that I believed Delacroix wasn’t involved in a human trafficking ring, but I didn’t believe that he was the good doctor he presented himself to be. His lifestyle was too lavish. I might not have questioned it if he had his own practice and specialized in cosmetic surgery, but he was just one of many obstetricians in the city. A worker bee.
“What else can you tell me about his appearance?”
“It was dark in the apartment, but I presume he had black hair or, at the very least, dark brown. What little of his skin’s pigmentation I saw looked slightly darker than the average white person. I would guess his ethnicity to be mixed—Caucasian and something else, at the very least.”
“Anything else? Did he have any equipment or a bag with him?”
“No, but he was wearing gloves, surgical gloves. He’s obviously a skilled hoodlum.”
“You said he had pictures of your family? Did you ask them if they saw a man or came into contact with someone fitting his description?”
“That’s not exactly a topic of conversation one brings up around the dinner table. Besides, the pictures all looked as if they were taken from a distance using a long lens camera.”
“Do you still have them here?”
“He took them when he left,” Delacroix said, shaking his head.
“What about the envelope he left the money in?”
“Generic.”
“The staff that assisted you that day at the clinic, you mentioned that some of them had accents, Arabic. Are you sure of that?”
Delacroix’s bottom lip pushed up into a pout as he thought about my question. “Well, they had olive complexions, like someone from the Middle East. I simply assumed they were Arabic.”
Was the Wolf’s compound somewhere in that region? It was a large area to cover. I would have to at least narrow it down to a country.
“But the leader of the group, he had no accent,” Delacroix said.
“Any chance their leader was the same person who had been in contact with you?”
Delacroix again pondered. “Maybe. It’s plausible, except I received a phone call from him after the procedure to confirm that everything had gone as instructed. Why call if he had been there? It’s all a blur at this point. He kept our conversation to the point, never more than what was needed. But there was something about the way he spoke. He had a lisp.”
“That’s something big to overlook.”
“Maybe a lisp is the wrong way to describe it. He pronounced a word funny and I noticed it because he said it over and over. He kept telling me that he could always find me. His exact wording was, ‘I will find you,’ except you sounded more like chew.”
65
For the second time, I allowed a man who had wronged me to live. Delacroix had proven useful that night, and it seemed with every visit his memory sharpened. I couldn’t rule out the need to jog it once more.
The following day, I returned to my cottage. It felt good to be back in a familiar setting. I half expected to find my place ransacked, but everything remained exactly as I had left it. I also walked the entire property and found no signs of trespassing. Long was the only one I could confirm who knew where I lived, but even his presence would not have gone undetected had he a reason to return.
I spent the day sleeping, but it wasn’t without reservation. I didn’t know what had become of Demir or if he would continue to hunt me outside of Turkey. Another concern I had was the Wolf. Surely he hadn’t planned on me escaping, and he had to know that I would target him. I wasn’t sure if he saw me as a threat, but considering we shared the same profession, I had to also prepare for him going on the offensive and coming after me.
As much as I didn’t want to, locating my daughter meant returning to my old line of work and utilizing every contact I had to help with my search. I couldn’t do it alone. I was even prepared to take on contracts in exchange for information. Besides Tark, Delacroix, and the Wolf, who else knew about my daughter? What about the staff that showed up at the clinic to help with the birth? Did they have loose mouths? Could I get to one of them?
I went ahead and left a post on the Board that I was available for hire. I had decided right then I would follow up on every lead and not judge the contract itself, but whether the employer could provide information.
Offers for work came fast, but none of the people offering them knew anything of Tark, the Wolf, or had even heard of Delacroix. I even pushed for information on human trafficking rings specializing in children, but so far, nothing emerged. This didn’t deter me. I needed to play a numbers game. The more people I talked to, the greater my chances.
Later that evening, I received a message from a previous employer, a KGB ex-official. He had orchestrated a hostile takeover of an ore-producing plant in Kazakhstan right after the fall of the Soviet Union and became the CEO of the company and, in turn, a very wealthy man. Along with his success came enemies. He often hired me to get rid of problems created by his competition, mainly the competitors themselves, but on some occasions, it was a government official he had a falling-out with.
He had dealt with the Wolf in the past and might be able to provide information on his whereabouts, but it would come at price, one he didn’t want to waste on his current problem. He said he needed time to check on this information but made no promise that it would be relevant to my needs.
It was Friday night, and things usually quieted down o
n the Board at the start of the weekend. The underworld has a social life, believe it or not. I was content to stay put, maybe enjoy a warm bath. My socialite days were well past me, not for age, but more out of disinterest. Unless a job required it, I didn’t feel the need to squeeze into another black dress and strut around in heels.
Around nine, I got an unexpected ping on the Board from Feza, Kashani’s driver. Apparently he and Kashani had gotten separated before Demir’s men caught up with them. I gave him the number to a prepaid mobile phone I had picked up a few days earlier.
“Sei, it’s good that you made it out,” he said.
“I’m sorry about Basir,” I said. “I wish we could say the same for him.”
Feza grunted on the phone. He wasn’t the chatty type, but he did want to know if I had any plans on extracting revenge on Demir. I suspected Feza was really the one who wanted revenge. I had no desire to walk back into that hornet’s nest.
“Not at the moment.”
Feza grunted. “We are connected by this man. I will keep you posted.”
I sat in my office strategizing next steps. On numerous instances, I thought to contact Tark on the Board but had initially resisted. At that time, I hadn’t quite decided if it was advantageous to remain quiet. If he didn’t already know that I escaped from Diyarbakir, my postings to the Board were a giveaway. There was no surprise element playing in my favor, and waiting for Kostas to come through with information was a poor wager at best. Silence was no longer golden. It had become a roadblock.
[Anthology] Abby & Sei Thriller Starter Page 40
