“They’re good. You liked them.”
“Don’t remember,” she said, frowning at the cakes on display. If Katy could go through life without eating so she could preserve her skinny thighs, she would, so I forgave her for saying that.
I peered inside. “Wish I could work here. I’d wash their floor if they’d let me in.”
“Who needs all this sugar and fat?”
“All our clients loved them, remember?”
She made a face. “I’m gonna gain ten pounds just by looking at these. How you stay so small with the sweets you stuff yourself with, I don’t know.” She sniffed as two thin European women walked into the café. “You and those French girls.”
“Small portions,” I said with a smile. Katy always complained about her hips, her thighs, and her waist, which was ironic because she’d been the prettiest girl at our Toronto high school. She was almost selected by a modeling agency and all the boys would have given an arm and a leg to date her. I worried on those days when she locked herself up in the toilet after supper. If I pressed my ears to the door, I’d hear her retching, but I never knew how to bring the topic up.
“Yeah, right.” She turned away from the coffee shop. “Oh my god, look!” Her eyes flashed. She’d caught sight of the shoe store next door. “Jimmy Choo!”
It was her turn to grab me and pull me away. She marched inside and toward a pair of four-inch black boots studded with Swarovski crystals. They had a sticker price that could have bought a used car.
“Can I try these on?” she asked the store attendant, who barely acknowledged us. Katy didn’t seem to care. She plopped down on the nearest bench with the boots in her hands and let out a happy sigh. This was her heaven. Mine was next door.
“Hey, Katy,” I said, “I’m going to check out some of the pastries, okay?”
“Join you soon as I’m done,” she said, but she was already lost among the crystals and plastic.
I felt goose bumps on my arms as I crossed the threshold of the café.
Chefs in Europe are like royalty. They usually come from regal lineages with noble blood and even nobler connections. They grace the covers of flashy magazines and hang out with fashion moguls and film stars. Chef Pierre, though, was an anomaly. He was the son of a coal miner from the south of Belgium who’d fought his way to the top, armed with his grandmother’s recipes, a whipping whisk, and a big dream.
His story had a happy ending when he finally made it big and married his true love, Andre from the Netherlands, in the biggest, fattest, gayest wedding of the century. In those snazzy magazine photos, handsome and buff Andre looked like he’d just stepped out of GQ. Next to him, plump Chef Pierre looked like a village boy, out of place in any high society club.
Like him, I was different. I didn’t fit anywhere. I was born in Africa but wasn’t truly African. My parents were from Asia, but I wasn’t truly Asian. I’d lived in Canada for the past three years, but I wasn’t really Canadian. I was a strange, mixed-up girl who’d been everywhere but belonged nowhere. And just like Chef Pierre, all I carried with me were a whipping whisk and a big dream.
I dreamed of the day when my cousin Preeti, Katy, and I would set up our own bakery in Goa near the beach among the waving coconut trees. With the first money I’d make, I’d return to Tanzania and visit my parents’ graves. That was my plan.
At the back of every Chef Pierre’s coffee shop was a rack that showcased his foodie magazines. I walked over to it and picked up the latest edition. Following in the tradition of Oprah, Chef Pierre’s magazine covers featured only him in his signature hat and apron, holding the pastry of the month. This month’s cover had him showing off a beautiful soufflé. The side caption read, “Perfect dessert for the perfect royal party.”
I picked up a copy and stepped up to the shelves. My mouth watered as I wondered which to try first. The éclair covered with dark melted chocolate or the cheesecake with fresh raspberries on top?
I’d been so preoccupied I hadn’t noticed the tall man in the black suit sidle up to Katy in the shoe shop next door.
Chapter Four
It was only after I paid for my order and sat down at a table near the window that I remembered. When I peeked into the shoe store, Katy wasn’t inside anymore.
I squinted through the café window. Where is she?
There. I saw her. Katy was near a recess in the corridor, standing with a man—a tall man with dark skin and a curly, scruffy beard. He was wearing a black suit and dangling a cigarette butt from his lips.
Who’s he?
For as long as I’d known Katy, she’d been a big flirt. While all the boys at school wanted to date her, she had eyes only for men. “Real men,” she’d told me. And no man was out of bounds: our teachers, the head of security, even the principal.
This thing she had for older men got her into hot water more than once and was one reason we were running away from Toronto. I watched Katy with this man now, their heads close like they were in deep conversation. The man’s hand was on the small of her back. He looks creepy. What’s she doing with him? She doesn’t even like beards.
With a start, I remembered she had the stolen money packet on her. Twenty thousand dollars minus an airline ticket. Blood money, Katy had called it.
I watched them with a frown on my face, recalling what happened minutes before leaving Toronto. We’d been waiting in the plane for it to take off when Katy’s phone rang. It should have been turned off and she shouldn’t have picked it up, but she did.
Dick’s voice came through loud, clear, and furious.
“You think you can get away with this?”
Katy’s face went white. My heart sank.
I reached for the phone, but she pulled away, giving me an I-got-this look.
“Oh hi, Dick.” Her voice was uncharacteristically calm. “How’re ya doing?”
I leaned in to hear.
“You frigging bitches!”
I glanced around, my heart beating a tad faster. A passenger in the aisle across from us had noticed Katy turn on the phone and was frowning at her, but no flight attendant rushed over to shut us down.
“I know you took my money, you little shits!” Dick’s greasy voice flew through the airwaves.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Katy said, her voice dripping with honey.
“I’ll call the police, you hear? Your fingerprints are gonna be all over it. They’ll catch you, you goddamned—”
I signaled to Katy to hang up. She ignored me.
“You’ve got bigger problems, Dick. I don’t believe you’ll call anyone.” she turned on the same voice she used on our most difficult clients at the bakery. “It was really nice to chat. You have a wonderful day now.”
“You damn bi—,”
Katy hung up and looked at me, her lips tight and thin. She looked vaguely satisfied. I could just imagine Dick on the other end, red-faced, swearing at the phone with the blood vessels on his neck about to pop. He wasn’t going to have a wonderful day.
The jet engine roared and the PA system crackled. “Cabin crew, please take your seats for takeoff and prepare for departure.”
I sighed with relief. Thank goodness we were leaving this city and this part of my life for good.
“We should throw that phone out,” I whispered.
Katy leaned in and whispered back, “I wanted to know how mad he’d get, knowing there’s nothing he can do about it.”
“You know this is dirty money, right?”
It had taken me more than a year to save up for my air ticket to Goa. I’d need more to pay off Preeti’s nasty husband and the marriage broker to let her go free, but when we dashed out of the bakery, I had to also think of Katy. Our two standby tickets to India had cost over two thousand dollars. The money we’d taken from Dick’s safe had already come in handy.
“This is back pay,” I heard Katy say, more to herself than me. “He owes us.”
Dick had gotten away with a lot, paying us ne
xt to nothing while we slaved away so he could visit strip clubs and gambling dens. Katy had seen this money packet go back and forth across the Canadian-American border many times. She’d thought it was to pay for legitimate supplies. It was only later she’d learned what it was really used for. Contraband. This was how Dick and Jose smuggled their money and their drugs.
How that packet got through the airport X-ray machine was a mystery. The only thing I knew was the last place Katy and I wanted to end up in was jail.
“Voilà, mademoiselle.”
I looked up, startled to see a server at my table. She placed a dessert plate embossed with Chef Pierre’s gold logo in front of me. On it sat a wafer-thin crêpe topped with cream and strawberries.
“Merci,” I said and picked up my fork, but my mind was elsewhere.
I looked back at Katy and the man in the shadows of the corridor. It was hard to see, but it looked like she was burying her face in his chest. I dropped my fork on the plate. Something wasn’t right. Katy was a flirt, but not that easy.
That was when I saw her move her shoulders like she was trying to wriggle out. I scraped back my chair, barely remembering to pick up my bag before I crashed through the café doors and ran out.
I could see them better now. Katy was trying to push the man away, but he kept pulling her in. He was using a handkerchief to wipe Katy’s face. Very strange.
“Katy!”
The man looked up and scowled. He pulled Katy away from the wall, and with that, her suitcase fell down with a clatter. I broke into a sprint.
“Hey! What’s going on?”
In half a second, the man had wrapped his arms around Katy’s shoulders and pulled her away. She hung, limp like a rag doll, and didn’t even look my way.
“Katy!” I was screeching now.
A few people shot me disapproving looks, but no one said or did anything. My heart was pounding. Do I call for help? Can someone get the police? Something stirred in the back of my mind reminding me of the stolen money and my fake visa.
The man in the suit tore out of the main airport doors, dragging Katy behind him. Whoever he was, he was fast and strong. Within seconds, the sliding doors closed and they were gone.
“Hey, come back!”
I ran outside, hollering my lungs out. I sprang across the road when a blue sports car zoomed by, missing me by two inches. Before I could react, a hand dug into my shoulder and pulled me to the curb. I looked up to the scowling face of an airport security guard.
“You wanna get killed?” he said.
“My friend...that taxi,” I spluttered, pointing to the disappearing car.
“The line’s over there. You’ll have to wait for a taxi like the rest of ’em, miss.”
“No!” I shook his hand off my shoulder. “It’s my friend. You’ve got to do something!”
“Just because someone jumped in line and stole a taxi doesn’t mean you get to do that too. I’m tired of people cutting in line.”
“I’m not cutting in line. That’s my friend, I tell you! He took her!”
“I don’t have time for games, okay?”
I felt my throat tighten. “But that man. I saw him. He, he kidnapped....”
The guard wasn’t listening anymore. A handful of college girls had just burst through the sliding doors. “Please get in line like everyone else, miss,” he said in a gruff voice before stepping toward the girls. “Taxi, ladies? The line’s over there.”
I looked helplessly at the road where the cab had disappeared, my legs weak and my breath shallow. What just happened? Who’s that man? Where’s he taking Katy? What do I...
Just then, a taxi screeched to a stop right in front of me. A man got out, threw money on the front seat and sprinted toward the airport doors, clutching his briefcase. Without a second thought, I jumped into the backseat and slammed the door shut.
“Oi!” I heard the security guard yell behind me.
“Go!” I yelled at the driver. “Follow that cab!”
Chapter Five
“What’s the rush, ma’am?”
The taxi hadn’t budged. The back door clicked open. I looked up to see an agent in blue, like the one I’d spotted walking along the terminal corridor earlier. He was towering over me now. The first things I noticed were the UK border agency insignia on his uniform and the black gun strapped to his belt.
My brain kicked in.
“Help me! A man took my friend!” I yelled, pointing at the road. “We need to catch him. They went in a cab. Do someth—”
“Ma’am, I’d like you to lower your voice.” He gave me a look that said he didn’t have much patience.
“But...but...” I stammered. “He took Katy. That man...”
“Your passport?” It was like he hadn’t even heard me. I stared at him open-mouthed.
He put out a hand. “Now, please.”
With trembling hands, I pulled my passport out of my bag and gave it to him.
“Hmmm,” the agent said, flipping through the booklet. I waited silently, but I could hear my pulse pounding. Didn’t he hear me? Will he do something? I noticed the taxi driver up front watching me through the rearview mirror. He winked when he saw me notice him. I looked away.
“Step out of the car, ma’am.”
“But....”
The agent moved a hand toward his gun belt. “This is not a request.”
I got out, my legs feeling like jelly.
“Follow me, please,” he said, signaling with his hand. “This way.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw the security guard watching with a self-satisfied sneer on his face.
I turned to the agent as soon as we were inside the terminal, away from the mocking eyes of the guard and the taxi lineup.
“Excuse me, Officer. I really need to talk to you.”
He looked at me, hands on his hips, his face impassive.
I cleared my throat and spoke in a low voice. “I need your help. My friend was taken.”
“Taken?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, this man took her. I saw him push her into a cab. He kidnapped her.”
“Is that right?” The eyebrow remained raised.
“Yes. Everyone saw it happening, even the taxi guard outside.”
“Hmmm...” He hesitated, surveying me from top to toe. “Let’s go into our offices and we’ll see what we can do about that, shall we?”
Without another word, he turned around and marched into the main thoroughfare.
I stared at him. If I ran out now, I wouldn’t get too far. I had no choice. I followed him, trying to keep up with his strides. A handful of people glanced my way curiously. I didn’t have handcuffs on, but I might as well have. I walked with my head down, wishing I could disappear through the floor.
We walked into a part of the airport I hadn’t seen before. The insignia on the agent’s uniform was plastered everywhere here, including on a poster about smuggling, which featured a photo of a woman in a solitary cell, her head buried in handcuffed hands.
The agent opened a door. “Step inside, please.”
I stepped cautiously into a stark room with fluorescent lighting and just enough space for a desk and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. It looked like one of those interrogation rooms in the movies where they browbeat you before they send you to the back to get strapped down and tortured.
I sat down with my bag on my lap. The agent closed the door halfway and pulled out a chair for himself. My throat felt dry and a nervous tick had started on my right eyelid.
He flipped through my passport again. “Hmmm,” he said as he found my Canadian immigration papers inside. He removed the staple, unfolded the document, and held it up to the light.
My heart sank. Mrs. Rao in Toronto had given me these papers, papers I’d later learned were fake. What do they do to people with fake immigration documents? Is it worse than smuggling thousands of stolen dollars?
“You don’t have the proper visa to enter the United Kingdom, you do r
ealize that?”
I gulped. “I guess so.” I wiped my palms on my skirt.
“Yet, you were ready to depart the airport and head into town.” He gave me a piercing look.
“I was trying to follow my friend. I told you, she was taken. We need to find her!” I felt my face go warm.
Ignoring me, he pulled out a yellow legal pad and pen from a drawer and started scribbling.
“What’s your final destination?”
“Goa.”
“So this is a layover?” he asked, scanning my ticket and boarding pass.
“Yes.”
“Are you traveling alone?”
“No, with Katy.”
“And Katy is?”
“My best friend,” I almost snapped.
“Does she have a family name?”
“McGregor.”
“She’s going all the way to Goa as well?”
“Yes!”
The agent didn’t look twenty-five. He must be new. Otherwise, why is he wasting all this time, instead of hurrying up and trying to find Katy?
“Where’s she now?”
I felt a hot flash in my chest. “I’ve been trying to tell you she got kidnapped just now!” I snapped fully this time.
He gave me a long stare, enough to make me wither in my seat.
I swallowed and mustered up my calmest voice. “It was a man in a black suit. He took her from the shoe store inside the airport, next to Chef Pierre’s café. That’s why I got in that cab. I’ve no idea where she is. I’ve no idea who that man was or why he took her but she’s in trouble, and you need to do something about it. Please.”
The agent sat back and stared at me for five full seconds. I looked nervously back.
“I’ve got some important questions to ask you,” he said, finally. “I need you to answer truthfully, okay?”
I swallowed.
“Okay?” he asked, with force in his voice this time.
I nodded quickly.
“What’s your profession?”
“Er, I don’t have one.”
The Girl Who Made Them Pay Page 2
