by Don Bentley
“Do you think the police are here for some kind of raid?” Virginia said, ignoring my instructions to stay put by looking over my shoulder.
“I doubt it,” Oliver said. “Corruption is still the word of the hour here. More than likely, they want a piece of the action.”
“A bribe?” Virginia said.
“Or worse,” I said. “They could be hired help.”
“What do we do?” Virginia said as one of the policemen broke off from the group of partygoers he was questioning to head toward us.
“Stick with the plan,” I said, including Oliver in my answer. “They haven’t stopped anyone from entering the palace yet. We shouldn’t be any different. Play your roles and everything will be fine.”
“Promise?” Virginia said.
“Promise,” I said.
Opening my door, I climbed out of the Land Rover, and Oliver did the same. I purposely turned away from the policeman, as I waited for Oliver to interdict the Iraqi as was befitting a man of my station. Except that the policeman didn’t seem to be particularly impressed with my station. Ignoring Oliver’s attempt to engage him in conversation, he grabbed my shoulder.
Or at least tried to.
As soon as I felt his fingers gather the fabric of my shirt, I spun toward him, locking his wrist with my right hand and barring his elbow with my left. I pivoted, the centrifugal force of my small circle exerting tremendous pressure on his locked joint. His head slammed into the metal doorframe before bouncing back like a soccer ball kicked against a concrete wall. And then Oliver joined the fun, snapping a straight jab into the policeman’s temple.
The man crumpled, and that was that.
To his credit, the mercenary didn’t hesitate. Reaching down, he grabbed the limp Iraqi by his belt and shirt collar. I opened the passenger door, and Oliver heaved the man inside, onto the seat next to Virginia, like he was tossing a bale of hay. Then he unsheathed a hidden knife with a whisk of leather on metal.
“No,” I said, grabbing his wrist.
“No time to go soft, mate,” Oliver said, looking back at me with cold eyes.
“Cuff him, gag him, and take his pistol,” I said. “He might be a bad guy, or he might just be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, we’re not murderers.”
Oliver held my gaze for a beat and then shrugged his wide shoulders. “You’re the boss, mate.”
The knife went back to wherever it came from, and Oliver climbed into the backseat alongside the policeman. While he carried out my instructions, I took a minute to see what, if any, commotion our little altercation had caused. Fortunately, the answer seemed to be very little.
The courtyard was lit with streams of lanterns reminiscent of a movie set for Aladdin, but the sun had disappeared, and the moon had not yet risen. Outside the shallow pools of orange light, darkness reigned. The clump of people with whom the policeman had been standing was gathered beneath the largest cluster of hanging lanterns. I was betting that their ruined night vision hadn’t penetrated the shadows masking us.
So far, so good.
I heard the tailgate pop and then slam shut. A moment later Oliver joined me.
“He’s gagged and cuffed. I put him in the back and locked his pistol in the glove box.”
“Okay,” I said, looking at Oliver. “You ready?”
Oliver gave a quick nod, which just served to remind me how little I knew about the mercenary. If it had been Frodo watching my back, he would have responded with a quote from an eighties movie. Instead I got a nod and silence.
I guessed that would have to do.
“All right,” I said. “Please, ask the lady to join us.”
With another silent nod, Oliver walked to the other side of the Land Rover, opened the door, and pulled Virginia out none too gently by her arm. She had known this was coming, as had I, but the violence was still shocking. Virginia screamed, which was exactly in character, and Oliver responded by giving her an open-handed slap to the face.
The sound of flesh on flesh carried through the thin night air, and I ground my teeth. We’d all discussed the necessity to sell the act that Virginia was being trafficked, but slapping her across the face was a bit over-the-top. I tried to catch Oliver’s gaze to express my displeasure, but his dead eyes refused to meet mine.
No matter. I was steadily adding to the Devil’s butcher bill. Every hurt that Virginia suffered, every horror that had been endured by the girls on these premises, I would revisit on the Devil a thousandfold.
At least that was what I told myself as I followed Oliver and Virginia into the yawning, brightly lit gates of hell.
FORTY-NINE
Sorry for the delay, sir. Would you care for a glass of champagne while you wait?”
I nodded and took the offered drink from a tuxedo-clad waiter, more to blend in with the crowd and give my hands something to do than anything else. Though from everything I’d seen so far, the champagne was probably worth sampling. I’d found myself in quite a few dark places over the years, and I’d imagined that infiltrating a sex-trafficking organization would rank as one of the worst. But so far, the experience had been rather benign. The atmosphere inside the palace resembled an exclusive Vegas nightclub more than it did a slavers’ market.
After passing through an outer cordon of security stationed at the entrance to the palace, we reached a massive foyer, which could have encompassed my entire boyhood home with room to spare. The floor was marble, and the walls were paneled with cedar inlaid with gold. Glittering chandeliers hung from a black roof, their sparkling light resembling a galaxy of stars suspended against the night sky.
A bar ran the length of one side of the room while the other held a massive raised platform on which I assumed the auction would take place. The evening’s patrons stood together in clumps, making small talk as scantily clad women knifed through the crowd, carrying trays laden with food, drinks, and drugs.
The air was thick with the scents of tobacco, hashish, pot, and incense along with several exotic smells I couldn’t quite place. Soft music piped from hidden speakers competed with the sound of at least half a dozen languages. As I waited in the line snaking from the check-in desk, I heard bits of Russian, French, Spanish, and perhaps Mandarin along with Arabic and English.
I’d been expecting to see a gathering of local gangsters trafficking girls kidnapped from rural villages. Clearly, I’d underestimated the Devil once again. This was sex trafficking on a sophisticated, global scale.
“Hello, sir. Do you speak English?”
The question came from the man standing behind the check-in desk. Like everything else in the palace, his desk was understated but somehow still intimidating. It had been fashioned from a single piece of stone so dark that I would have thought it obsidian if not for the crisscrossing veins of sparkling silver.
Like his desk, the man behind it was dressed to impress but not overpower. Judged by its fit across his wide shoulders and narrow waist, the man’s suit was obviously handmade. But the fabric’s muted blacks and browns diluted rather than focused attention. Taken together, the man and the desk were impressive when viewed, but quickly forgotten when compared with the massive stage clearly meant to be the room’s center of attention.
“Of course I speak English,” I said, allowing just the right amount of disdain to slip into my German accent. Nothing says Eurotrash like German.
“Very good, sir. Will you be buying or selling tonight?”
“Selling. Unless of course the right something catches my eye.”
The man behind the desk nodded as his fingers flew across a computer keyboard. “Yes, sir. Let’s get your merchandise checked in first. Where is she?”
I snapped my fingers, and Oliver stepped from where he’d been standing behind me, Virginia in tow.
“What is her merchandise number?”
“Two eigh
t nine,” I said.
The man pursed his lips as he scrolled down his screen, then nodded. “Yes, I have her right here. Now, before you can check her in, I need to verify the merchandise.”
“Verify?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said with an apologetic shrug. “As you know, bidding has already begun. Before we accept her into stock, we need to confirm that she really is item two eight nine.”
“And how will you do this?” I said, the irritation coloring my voice not entirely pretended.
“I assure you it’s quite easy and causes no damage to the merchandise. We simply take a picture of her face, and then our algorithms compare her image with the image of item two eight nine.”
“And if your algorithms decide they’re not a match?”
“Then you are still more than welcome to sell your merchandise, but the bids for two eight nine will be negated. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir. But these are the rules.”
“Fine, fine,” I said. “Make it quick.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, but his pleasant demeanor went through an abrupt change when he turned to address Oliver. “Bare her face, and make sure she stands still.”
Yanking the niqab from her head, Oliver grabbed Virginia beneath the chin and turned her so that she was facing the camera.
“Good,” the man said after clicking a series of buttons. “Now, if you’ll just bear with me for a minute . . . Yes, the software confirms a match. We can now enter her into inventory.”
The man clapped his hands, and two helpers appeared. “If your assistant will surrender the merchandise to my associates, we will take it from here. A retainer of ten percent of the current bid, or one hundred thousand dollars, will be credited to your account.”
I reached into my suit jacket for my phone on the pretense of checking to see that the funds had transferred, while what I really wanted was an excuse to look at Virginia one last time. Our eyes met, and time seemed to stop. This was the moment of truth. We could have still walked out, and no one would have been the wiser. But once Virginia passed from Oliver to the two thugs, we were committed.
Her pale blue eyes bored into mine. She looked as terrified as I felt, but there was no sense of hesitation in her gaze. Only acceptance. I stared back long enough for her to give a barely perceptible nod. Then I withdrew my phone, consulted the balance of my newly established bank account, and confirmed that I was one hundred thousand dollars richer.
Then it was done.
“Okay,” I said, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “We’re all set.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said. “Here is your VIP lanyard. Enjoy your evening.”
I nodded and turned away from his desk to find only Oliver remaining. The two men had vanished as silently as they’d appeared, taking Virginia with them.
All in all, I should have been happy. Other than the slight hiccup with the Iraqi policeman, everything was proceeding according to plan. And the policeman had been less of an issue than I’d imagined. I still didn’t know what the police had been doing in the courtyard, but the Devil’s men were providing security inside the venue. If members of the Iraqi Federal Police had realized one of their compatriots was missing, they weren’t acting on the information.
Such was the reach of the Devil’s power.
Yep, so far everything had happened exactly as I’d envisioned, which was in itself cause for concern. The Devil had been one step ahead of me since Austin. What were the odds that I’d figured out a way to one-up him now?
I didn’t really want to know the answer to that question, but I had a feeling it was coming anyway.
FIFTY
What now?” Oliver said, looking from me to the crowd of buyers.
“We pay the kitchen staff a visit,” I said with a confidence I didn’t quite feel.
As per the instructions on the Facebook site, Oliver and I had both come unarmed. Or at least without guns. The carbon fiber blade Oliver had been ready to use on the Iraqi policeman still had to be on his body somewhere. The former Royal Marine had made a case for trying to conceal a pistol, but I’d vetoed the idea. The risk of getting barred from the party was just too great.
Rescuing Ferah and putting an end to the Devil depended on being able to get into the auction unmolested. Oliver swore up and down that the new composite-material pistol he’d acquired was undetectable, but I didn’t think the risk was worth the reward.
Of course, just because I wasn’t carrying now didn’t mean I intended to remain that way. No, I planned on having a gun in my waistband most ricky-tick. That was where Zain came in.
“They’re in there,” Oliver said, pointing to a service door at the far end of the room.
I nodded, but gestured for Oliver to wait as I reached into my pocket for the cell phone tethered to my miniature Bluetooth earbuds. Since we’d been surrounded by other partygoers from the parking lot until now, I hadn’t tried to raise Zain since his last, aborted transmission. However, now that we were going to leave the proximity of the crowd, it made sense to try to check in with the smuggler. If nothing else, I wanted to ensure that his men and our weapons were where they needed to be.
“Zain, this is Matt. You copy, over?”
This time, not even the electronic noise I’d heard earlier accompanied my transmission. An unnerving silence was my only answer.
“Zain, this is Matt. Do you copy, over?”
Nothing.
“Can you hear me transmitting?” I said, turning to Oliver.
With a frown, the bearded man shook his head.
“You try.”
Oliver reached into his right pocket before making a transmission that mirrored mine. I heard his voice because he was standing next to me, but my earbuds were silent.
“Anything?” I asked.
“No.”
Turning so that my back shielded me from the rest of the room, I pulled out my cell phone and looked at the display. No bars, no Wi-Fi service, and the Bluetooth was off-line. I cycled the device off and on with the same results. I might as well have been transmitting from a Faraday cage.
Not good.
“See if you have cell service,” I said, dropping the useless device back into my pocket.
Oliver pulled out his phone, fiddled with it, and then shook his head. “Bloody hell,” Oliver said, looking from his phone to me, “no signal at all. What does that mean?”
“Must be a jammer close by,” I said. “Military grade to be able to put out enough energy to blanket such a large area.”
“Why jam the cell service?” Oliver said.
I shrugged. “That’s the question. Could be the Devil doesn’t want any of his guests contacting the outside world until the auction is over. Or it could be something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like the operation’s blown,” I said. “Zain was trying to tell me something before his transmission cut out. Something about trouble.”
“I thought he was warning us about the Iraqi policemen,” Oliver said.
“Maybe. But did you think the policeman was hard to handle?”
“Not really.”
“Me either,” I said. “And I’d have to believe that Zain would come to the same conclusion. No, if the guy who engineered a prison break from a Quds Force installation was worried about something, I should be too.”
“So what next?”
That was the million-dollar question. Rolling up my sleeve, I checked the receiver strapped to my arm to see if it was still synced with Virginia’s transmitter. The tiny LED glowed a reassuring green, indicating that the devices were linked. Apparently, the frequency bands the jammer was blocking didn’t overlap with the proprietary waveform our covert communications set used.
“Virginia’s still good to go,” I said. “She hasn’t found Ferah yet, and she’s not i
n trouble, so we don’t abort. But we are going to take precautions.”
“We still grabbing the weapons?” Oliver said.
I eyed the service door, considering. “Yes,” I said, “but we’re not going in blind.”
I waited for a server to walk by, carrying an empty tray, and then snapped my fingers to get his attention.
“You there,” I said in Arabic. “I have a request.”
“Certainly,” the waiter said. “Would you like something from the kitchen?”
“No. I wish to speak to the wine steward. Bring him to me. Immediately.”
The waiter’s eyes snapped from my face to the VIP medallion hanging from my neck and back again. “Of course, sir,” the waiter said. “If you like, you’re welcome to come with me so that you can view our wine selection firsthand.”
“No, I would not like. I’m here to make a purchase, not tour the wine cellar. If you have a problem with my request, I can talk with the concierge.”
“No problem at all, sir,” the waiter said. “I’ll be back with the wine steward shortly.”
The wine steward in question, like several other members of the support staff, was one of Zain’s men. Once again, my intrepid little smuggler had proven that he was worth his weight in gold—even if he did occasionally turn me into a pincushion for tranquilizer darts. Zain’s solution for the inevitable security at the palace’s entrance was to use support staff to smuggle in weapons. Weapons that would be made available to Oliver and me once we penetrated the outer cordon of security.
Like all good plans, Zain’s idea was both simple and effective. As a major player in the criminal underworld, Zain had no trouble finding out who was providing support staff for the Devil’s event once he knew its location. After that, it was only a matter of getting some of Zain’s men hired on as well. Men who used catering cases outfitted with false bottoms to conceal the assault pack I’d requested.