by Shamim Sarif
“You said you would help me.”
“I need time,” Hala replies. “To plan things.”
The next part doesn’t translate well, but Omar’s asking her something, insistent, pressuring her. Hala rushes him off the phone and hangs up.
I sit back and stare at the screen for a bit. Then I go and boil the kettle for tea. I don’t know what to think about that little exchange. If her voice wasn’t so stressed, I’d chalk it up to a million and one meaningless things. Maybe it’s all fine. Maybe what’s bugging me is that, once, if there was anyone she would have confided in, it was me.
I stand up and stretch and put Hala out of my mind. Keeping the lights off, I glance out of the window as I close the curtains. The gallery is dark now, with only picture lights illuminating one or two dramatic pieces of photography. A few people come and go on the street, and at a café across the way four men sit outside smoking and talking. The summer night air is cool. On a motorcycle, it’ll feel colder. So I put on my leather jacket before I go out.
My first stop is one of Belgrade’s trendiest bars. My remote snooping around Paulina’s phone has yielded the fact that she’s meeting some friends there tonight. Since this is a relatively small city, and since the cool places to hang out are mainly in one tiny section of it, I don’t think it would be weird for me to bump into her there.
The place is filling up by the time I arrive. I install myself at the impressive bar, featuring a wall of mirrors, which gives me an excellent view of the whole place, including Paulina’s table, which is perhaps the largest in the room. She is sitting with three other people—a young couple holding hands and a man who feels a bit older but who I can only see in profile. Since I’d rather engineer this whole meeting to look completely random, it’s better not to rush things, so I order a sparkling water and exchange a few words with the two young guys standing next to me. Just to blend in. They speak good English, and are funny and easy to talk to and the conversation flows so well that when I feel a delicate touch on my back—it literally makes me jump.
I turn on my seat to find Paulina standing there.
“It’s Jessie, right?”
She looks incredible. A crimson shirt, faded jeans, a slim gold chain around her neck. I nod, and her face lights up in this big smile, like I’ve made her night by just existing. She reminds me who she is and where we met. I pretend to remember.
“Of course,” I say. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“Are you on your own?” she asks, with a quick glance at the young men who were talking to me but who are now mostly just staring at her. I assure her I’m alone and we go through this little charade where she asks me to join her table, and I tell her I couldn’t possibly intrude, and then she insists.
I follow her over there.
“Jessie, meet Leka and Maria, friends of mine who just got married. . . .” The couple wave at me and kiss each other.
“They’re still in that romantic stage,” Paulina says, smiling at me.
Both Paulina and I look away from them, to the older man. He is lean, his suit perfectly cut, his hair sprinkled with flecks of gray that bring out crisp blue eyes. I feel my stomach drop. Holy crap, I wasn’t expecting this.
“Papa, this is my friend Jessie,” Paulina says.
I shake hands because it’s an automatic reflex, but I am so surprised I could fall over. I look down at the manicured fingers of Gregory Pavlic, clasping my hand in his own. He looks much better than his photos. He’s also smaller than I expected, with a refined appearance. Not the muscle-bound towering hulk that I had imagined, working his way up in the world from those despair-soaked high-rises.
“Good to meet you,” he says in heavily accented English.
I smile politely.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“London.”
“Holiday?” His blue eyes never waver from mine. Cold. Of course.
“Yes.”
“Why Belgrade?”
Good question, Gregory. Because I want to crush you and your filthy business activities over the course of the next few days.
“I promised myself to visit every capital in Eastern Europe before I turn twenty-one,” I lie.
Already bored with me, he moves aside to offer me his seat, and I slide into the booth. Then he nods at all of us and says something in Serbian, taking his leave. The young couple urge him to stay, but he declines. Thank God.
“My father just came to have a drink with me,” Paulina explains, for my benefit.
“I never see her,” says Gregory.
“Except that we live in the same house,” says Paulina dryly.
Gregory says something affectionate to his daughter in reply, and his hand comes up to caress her hair gently. She pulls away, very slightly. Is she repelled by him or just embarrassed? Gregory turns and walks away, preceded by a bodyguard in a black suit. In his wake trails a headwaiter, hurrying to keep up. I watch as Gregory reaches the door. A coat is produced, and cash tips are handed out before he exits into, I assume, a waiting limo. When I look back at Paulina, her eyes are on me.
“Your dad seems great,” I say. “What does he do?”
“All sorts of businesses. I don’t keep track.” She takes a breath in as if tired suddenly.
“What about the gallery?”
“That’s mine,” she says. “I always wanted to have my own thing.”
But using his cash, I think to myself.
“Why?” I ask.
She hesitates. “Parents put pressure on you. And my father is powerful. I want some independence.”
“The gallery seems to be busy,” I say encouragingly.
“It’s mainly coffee. The art sales make the real income. But Belgrade is limited for that. Not like Moscow. Or London.” She’s trying to bring me into the conversation, but that mention of Moscow has me on edge. I have to try hard not to jump straight onto it. Instead, I leave a small silence, like I’m interested, but not that much.
“What do your parents do?” Paulina asks me.
I take a moment to erase Kit from my mind and replace her with someone imaginary, based on Li.
“My mother made money in technology. She’s retired now.”
Having seen just a little bit of Paulina’s high-end world, I decide she might feel more comfortable knowing I’m used to wealth and privilege, not overwhelmed by it.
The other couple surfaces from their endless kissing, so Paulina turns her attention to them. There are a few minutes during which we all chat together and order more drinks. After that, I steer the conversation again.
“You mentioned Moscow. I’m thinking of visiting . . .”
“It’s great,” Paulina says, smiling. “I’ve been there twice this year already. But for work, mainly.”
“What work?” I ask, wondering why she’s being so open about it.
She looks at me, surprised. “The gallery,” she says.
I listen as she continues.
“I’ve been working with a few art spaces in Moscow, getting them interested in the young Belgrade photographers I show here.”
“Good idea,” I say. “How is it going?”
“Really well. They already bought a lot of artwork at really high prices. I mean, they are good pieces—but sometimes the Russians have more money than sense.”
I smile, and Paulina holds my look, like we’re sharing a joke. As I take in her open gaze, part of me is totally relieved. That there is a real, honest explanation for those trips to Moscow and for all that money in her account. And that she’s clearly working to earn her own living, away from Gregory’s businesses. Paulina is beautiful and self-assured and perfectly turned-out but despite all that, I can’t help but like her. Part of me is relieved that she seems to be, as Thomas put it, squeaky-clean. I look around the bar, trying to stop myself from just staring at her. Because she is pretty amazing to look at.
“Popular place,” I comment.
She nods. “Belgrade is small. There are ma
ybe two places where anyone who’s anyone goes for drinks. And this is one of them.”
We talk for a while longer, and as Paulina speaks, she leans in to me, to be sure I can hear her over the loud music that pounds in the background. She’s very close, and the warmth and the scent of her are making me forget what I was doing here to begin with.
Maybe a little abruptly, I excuse myself and head to the bathroom, fighting through the ever-growing crowd. I take my time in there, calming down, giving myself a moment to get centered again. Exiting the toilet stall, I wash my hands and check myself in the mirror. Be charming, Jessie. You’re in control here. And remember who she is.
The door of the bathroom opens and, just my luck, Paulina comes in. I smile. So does she. I wait for her to go into a stall, but she doesn’t. She just stands next to me.
“What is it?” I ask, a bit thrown.
“Are you okay? You got up so fast.”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
She’s standing a bit too close to me. Not too obvious, but a tiny bit inside my personal space. Not that I mind it. At all.
“You always answer a question with a question,” Paulina says, her eyes smiling.
“Do I?” I ask, and we both laugh.
The bathroom door opens again and, it’s weird, but we both step away from each other. Like we were up to something, even though we weren’t. The woman who comes in walks straight to the stall at the end and closes the door. I look at Paulina. She is touching up her lipstick, now. But her eyes meet mine in the mirror and she smiles.
The breeze is cool, verging on cold, but it feels good to be outside and alone as I get onto my motorbike. I made myself leave the bar after another twenty minutes; I have a task to complete tonight and hanging out over drinks with a girl I can find nothing incriminating on is probably not a good enough reason to skip it.
The bike handles reasonably well, and anyway, I’m not trying to break any speed records. I just want to drive out to where Gregory has his horrible trafficking operation. A few cars come and go through the tower blocks of New Belgrade, but there aren’t many people on the street except a couple of women who hang around in short skirts and makeup, looking for passing trade. I’m almost relieved to get past the high-rises, and then a small area of suburb, and onto an open road with nothing on one side but scrubby wasteland that becomes more thickly wooded as I ride.
There’s something soothing about the dull roar of an engine. I ride the motorcycle at a steady speed and the noise washes my mind clean. It’s a moment of release. For a few moments I forget about Paulina. I forget about Ahmed and what happened in Africa. And I stop worrying about what will happen this week. Then the red line on my phone’s map shifts to show an imminent left turn, and I slow the bike so I can find the turnoff. When I see it—a thin trail of gravel—I slide onto it and drive through the woods slowly, weaving past potholes.
At a small break in the woodland, I stop the bike and swing down off it. Ahead of me, a brick wall towers above the trees. A few security lights are perched on top of the bricks, nestled in among barbed wire. From this angle I can only see the top floors of the abandoned hospital rising behind it. Dark windows that you can’t see into, and an aura of despair.
On foot, I track back to the main road, from where I came. Behind me, there’s a sound and I spin around quickly. But it’s nothing. The woods are full of creaking, cracking twigs, and the rustling of small animals. But now I can hear something more—an engine, coming down the road toward me. I stay back, well hidden, and watch it as it passes. White, no markings—standard supply truck. I make a mental note of the make of the vehicle and watch as it goes all the way to the end of the road.
I made sure to wear the zoom contact lens we used in Cameroon, so with just a couple of blinks I can get a much better look at what’s happening without having to get too close. The truck stands there, waiting, by a massive metal gate. As it opens, four men come into view, hanging around, watching, cradling automatic weapons in their arms. Just like that, not even trying to hide them.
But then, who would they be trying to hide from? There’s nobody out here, and the police probably know enough—or are paid enough by Gregory—to keep well away. I try to get a glimpse of what’s behind the gate, but I can’t see much except a lit-up loading bay and a greenish light in a corridor. The place looks huge, and I wonder how many women Gregory has in there. And what he releases them to? A life of slavery, to be used in whatever way yields him the biggest profit.
I’m walking back to the bike as quietly as I can when I hear something else. From above, like a bird. But it’s nighttime, and it feels weird that there should be a bird rustling up there. I look up and it’s too late. Something big and heavy falls onto me, and I crash to the ground.
8
I HAVE A MOUTHFUL OF dirt. Damp earth and pine needles. I fight to twist my way out, but my attacker has legs on either side of me and an arm on my head, and I can’t move. Feeling paralyzed sets me off into panic, but somewhere in my head, there’s a sense of the familiar. The look of the hands that are grasping mine, the scent of the person on top of me. My brain makes a connection. I stop resisting and wait, suddenly realizing who it is. Slowly, Hala releases the pressure of her arm, so I can move my head to look at her.
“I missed you,” I say.
My face hits the dirt again. Okay, maybe there was just a hint of sarcasm in that comment.
“Let go of me,” I try, but it comes out a garbled mess with my mouth against the forest floor. But suddenly Hala’s grip softens again, and it’s almost easy for me to twist and cuff her off me entirely. I sit up.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, spitting a few times to get rid of the dirt in my mouth.
“I just landed a micro drone on that van,” she says.
I get it now. She’ll get a camera the size of an insect right into the middle of Gregory’s facility and get video footage of what’s happening inside. And all by remote control from her phone.
But even as I catch a glimpse of Hala’s screen, the picture from that drone cuts out. All she has is lines of static, no video at all. She looks at me, alarmed.
“They must have a scrambler,” I say.
She nods, and I hurry to follow her, because she’s already taken off, heading toward the hospital.
“What are you doing?”
“Is that it?” Hala asks, ignoring the question, and pointing to an antenna that’s perched high on top of the wall that surrounds the place.
“Probably.” We’ve dropped our voices to a whisper, because we are close enough now to hear the low sounds of the guards talking on the other side of the wall. I’m thinking about how we can jam the signal on the scrambler or, failing that, try to get the drone out of range, when I see that Hala is already scaling the wall, finding tiny foot- and handholds in the crumbling brick.
“Are you nuts?” I hiss in a whisper that she can’t hear, because she’s already twenty feet up. It’s breathtaking to watch, but I also feel like she’s climbing to her death. Those guards are right there, on the other side, decked out with machine guns. A laugh bubbles up as they tease each other about something.
Hala’s at the top of the wall, hanging there with ease, like she’s relaxing on the beach. But she can’t reach up and disable that scrambler without the guards seeing her if they so much as glance up. She looks down at me. I spread my hands. Like, what does she want me to do?
Hala takes a small ball from her jacket and drops it down to me. It’s a tiny smoke ball that disintegrates after use. So it leaves no trace, not to mention being environmentally friendly. Okay, not a bad plan. I take a few paces back, then run and fling the ball over the wall as hard and far as I can.
Hala peers over, and I stand below her, waiting. Then—there’s some commotion. The guards must have noticed a stream of smoke issuing up out of nowhere and they head toward it, their voices receding from us. Hala shoots me her happy look (almost indistinguishable from a frown on anyone
else) and swings herself onto the antenna, hanging off it while she opens a panel holding wires. Using a cutter, she clips them, then rips out the electronic board inside for good measure.
The antenna creaks and buckles from her weight but, lightly, Hala jumps back to the wall and starts to descend, the worn bricks crumbling under her feet. She falls the last few feet and I help her up.
We run back into the trees and crouch together to check the screen on her phone. The signal is back and, for a moment, Hala pilots the drone deeper into the hospital till it reaches a ward. Old metal beds, torn curtains, and women lying there, some on drips. It’s like something out of a horror movie.
But now, I’m getting a weird feeling from Hala herself, like she is watching me as much as the footage. I don’t feel good about it.
“Why did you jump on me when I first got here?” I ask her. She doesn’t reply. And in my gut, I know the answer.
I take off. Run for it, like crazy. I glance over my shoulder to see where Hala is—and I stop running. Because she has a gun out. And it’s pointed at me. I’m speechless. Almost.
“You must be joking,” I say.
Hala doesn’t answer, but she has enough grace to look a little bit sheepish.
“Put it down,” I say. But she doesn’t.
“It’s only tranquilizer darts,” she says.
Like that makes it much better. That I’m staring down the barrel of something that won’t kill me, it’ll only sedate me as if I’m a mad dog. In a way, I’d like it better if it were a real gun because the chances of Hala shooting me dead are zero. But with this thing, who knows if she’s stressed enough to go ahead and pull the trigger?
“Hala?” I ask. “We’re friends, right?”
Her dark eyes waver. But she doesn’t look friendly, only angry.
“I have orders to bring you in if I find you.”
“So you just do what you’re told, no matter what?”
