by Lynda Filler
21
Kyrgyzstan
Z aria tried to keep count of the days she’d been incarcerated. She had no clock, no music. They let her out two times a day for the bathroom, but she needed to take a shower wash her matting hair. It was sticky from the painful and disgusting things the rough men did to her. She ached in ways she had never experienced before. One of the men got upset with her because she had started to bleed down there. She was so embarrassed. They’d thrown rags at her to stop her flow. She took turns washing them out and night and hanging the cloths at the head of her cot. Her clothes stank, and she was ashamed and afraid.
She ate the tasteless broth and chewed on the stale bread. She knew she must take nourishment to be healthy for the time when she would make her escape. She blocked her ears, so she would not hear the other children’s voices raised in pain. She drowned out their calls for help. Inevitably they would be silenced by slaps and loud male voices.
Zaria lay across the woolen military blanket on her cot. She pulled it up around her. It didn’t help. She couldn’t seem to get warm. Maybe she was getting sick. The grey cement walls held in the moisture of the storms and rains she could hear pounding on the outside of the building. Clusters of black molds clung to the rough-edged corners of the wall.
So far, she was alone. There was another empty cot in the room, but no one had claimed it.
She missed her family so much, but she would be brave. She wasn’t sure where she was, only that it was late at night two days after she was grabbed. They had kept her blindfolded when they brought her into this place. But the noises outside, the smells of wet, dusty streets, the sounds of trucks and automobiles told her she must be in a big city.
The men had stopped coming to her room after their boss had caught them. He was yelling at them not to damage the merchandise. She didn’t understand what that meant. She only hoped her parents would find her soon.
Only one small thing gave her comfort. She reached into the deep pocket of her mother’s old coat and pulled out the map she’d cut from her geography book. She carried it with her always.
But now, despair was setting in. No one had come to rescue Zaria. She was beginning to lose hope. Zaria was afraid she would never reunite with her family nor realize her dream of seeing the ocean with her family.
Still, she smoothed out the paper and imagined the dark, inviting waters that stretched forever and could take her by ship across continents where there was hope for a better life.
She finally nodded off to sleep.
The whimpering of children and the clanging iron door woke her from a nightmare. At first, she was disoriented and thought she imagined things. Two young children were standing near the door holding each other, frightened and crying.
They were pushed further into the room, and the door was bolted behind them. The smaller child fell to the floor scraping her knees and crying hysterically. The guard yelled out in Arabic for the children to stop crying or he would return and beat them.
Zaria moved quickly from her bed and lifted the little girl up from the floor. She was wearing bed-time clothing. She held her and whispered comforting words, sounds Zaria’s mother had murmured when she was a child. The boy stood in front of Zaria his eyes brimming with tears.
“We want our momma.”
Zaria’s heart was breaking. What could she say to comfort these children?
“I know.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped, the horror of their situation overwhelming him. Yet, he had to remain strong for his sister.
“What is your name?”
“Ali.”
Then Zaria looked down and watched the young girl fight as her eyes slowly succumbed to sleep.
“This is my sister, Fatimah.”
Zaria patted the space beside her on the cot and leaned back against the cold cement wall. The young boy pulled himself up on the bed and leaned back with her.
“Do you know when they will take us back to our home?”
Zaria held her breath.
“I don’t know. But until our parents come to get us, I will look after you.”
Ali tried to smile but he couldn’t.
“Where is your home? You sound different from me when you speak Arabic.”
“I live on a small island with a big ocean all around me.”
Zaria gasped. “Really?” For the first time since she was taken from her home, she smiled.
“Tell me what it is like at sea. I’ve never seen the ocean.” The boy and young girl, now awakened by their conversation, both spoke at once.
“Our island is so small we take a boat to go to school each day,” Ali explained.
Fatimah spoke up. “And we fish with our daddy for our supper!”
“Our Island is owned by a rich man who takes care of everyone. My mother says he is a great businessman. But I saw guns in his house. Fatimah and I think maybe he is a pirate!” At this, all three laughed.
For a short period of time, all three forgot to be sad and shared a universal love of the sea.
Eventually, a young woman and two small children huddled together on one cot fell asleep. Each was lost in dreams of a time before their worlds went dark and the life they knew ceased to exist.
22
Washington, D. C
“W
here did you find this?” Zach studied the ad for child prostitution. He felt ill. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of what man could stoop to, he’d seen plenty of this shit in the Middle East. But right here in Washington, DC, a first-world-country. He was disgusted and furious.
Zach motioned to the waitress to bring more coffee. It was going to be a long and painful night.
“First, I freaked out when he didn’t come home. It wasn’t like him. I went to the police. They asked me lots of questions about me, my life, and my relationship with my son. But I could tell they thought he’d just run away overnight to upset me. Single mom, too much discipline, whatever.” Katie's eyes teared up, but she remained calm. Zach focused on a tiny love tattoo on her index finger with the name Miguel. But this was not a time for softness. The body language of both men would have frightened anyone who understood the demeanor of lethal warriors.
“They told me to come back in a couple of days and file a report if he didn’t return.” She looked off into the distance, second-guessing every decision she’d made since she’d left home in her teens.
Zach gave Mike a look that said he sympathized with Mike’s anger but stay cool and don’t judge.
“I went back two days later. I was frantic by now. I couldn’t sleep or work. They must have realized then how serious this was. They told me kids run away all the time. He was twelve, he probably had a place to stay, or he wouldn’t have left. No bodies of any teens matching Miguel’s description had turned up at the morgue.” When she spit out the last word, tears ran down her face.
Mike was furious. Zach sensed his rage building. Zach kicked him hard under the chrome table. Mike nodded, and breathed deeply, and handed Katie a napkin. He was at a loss on how to comfort her.
“And what happened next?” Zach needed the details quickly and efficiently.
“They called a social worker, a woman, also Hispanic. She gave me more information. She told me things I could do, like posters, and ads in the paper with his description, even placing his photo on a missing children’s site. She also told me that almost five-hundred kids had been reported missing this year in Washington, DC. That’s a record she said. Like it was a competition amongst cities to see who could have the most runaway or kidnapped kids.” Silent tears continued to fall from Katie’s eyes. Zach cleared his throat. He couldn’t look at Mike, but he sure could feel the waves of anger flowing from his friend’s psyche.
“What did you do next?” Zach knew it was better for everyone if Mike remained quiet.
“I walked out.” Anger drove her on to finish.
“I came home. And I spent the next twelve hours combing the internet. I looked everywhere. I
learned about sex trafficking. I read that Washington, DC, the nation’s capital, was responsible for the largest percentage of sex trafficking in children in the United States of America! It made me wonder if the police were involved in covering it up.” Zach stared at Mike’s daughter. He could feel her fire building. She was her father’s daughter, ready to erupt at any moment.
“And then I found this. On a legitimate newspaper website. The old V. V. magazine has rebranded itself as BackStage. And they have personal ads for sex. And my baby’s picture was right there.”
No one spoke.
Minutes went by.
The waitress brought more coffee but left quickly.
Mike looked straight ahead. But Zach had worked Afghanistan with his buddy.
“Do you want to know something, Katie? Your dad and I stormed into the tunnels in the mountains of Afghanistan hunting the Taliban without thought to our own safety. We were scared but determined to fight for our country. And here we are in Washington, DC listening to a story of crime and corruption by an online periodical that our very own government allows to exist under the guise of Freedom of Speech.” Zach couldn’t look at Mike, he knew his buddy was ready to explode.
“I felt helpless too. So that’s when I called you, Dad.” Katie put her hand across the table. Mike took it.
“I did what my dad taught me to do when I got upset. I focused my anger and went digging further. I was furious to learn that the US government upholds the site’s right to advertise sex-for-money even when minors are involved. How is that possible?”
“What the fuck Zach!” Mike couldn’t hold back any longer.
“I’m with you, Mike. But man, we’ve gotta stay calm.” He looked into Katie’s eyes.
“Katie.” She looked down. Pain and guilt and all her own mistakes hung over her like a funeral shroud.
“Katie, look at me.”
She stared at Zach.
“Let’s go find your boy!”
She smiled through her tears.
Zach left money on the table and a hefty tip for the waitress. He imagined she didn’t get many in this neighborhood. His cell beeped a message.
“Okay, let’s head back to our hotel. I’ve got to get on my computer, we’ve got a message coming through from a contact in Europe.”
23
Dalian, Liaodong Peninsula, China
A Mercedes limousine and a Chevy Tahoe pulled through the security gates of a highly fortified freight yard and parked in front of Number 44 on the waterfront. The moon was absent. A chill wind blew through the corridor as one man and his team brandishing semi-automatic weapons descended from their vehicles. The group of six highly alert armed men slow-walked through the CRRC China Railway construction site at one a.m.
Everything was meticulously placed precisely where it belonged as would be expected in the premier rail car construction company in the world.
The guards and employees were aware that a VIP was present. They’d also been warned to stay out of sight. Anyone caught looking directly into the eyes of Bo Zedong was disposed of on the spot. Seaports teaming with sharks would welcome a tasty midnight feast.
Diesel mixed with burning steel, rotting fish, and old bodies permeated the warehouse space occupied by train number 7747. A team of experts studied the worn blueprints pointing out specific changes that needed to take place before the launch date.
“Oxygen levels must be precise. There’s no room for error. And the outer/inner shell must be sound tight, air-tight, and viable.” Zedong, a Chinese businessman in his forties, turned back to the engineer,
“We must meet the schedule!” Zedong’s demeanor suggested that he wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate everyone on the crew if his orders were disobeyed.
“Yes, of course, Sir.” The diminutive man in a spotless white lab coat bowed slightly.
“You understand the consequences of failure?” Zedong directed at the engineer in charge.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“The tests have been performed?”
“Yes, we’re unaware of any available technology that can match what we are doing here.”
Zedong motioned to a massive bodyguard, ominously looming less than five feet behind him. Zedong put his hand out, and a briefcase handle was offered.
“Second installment. Balance when we reach our destination with the merchandise in perfect condition.”
The engineer gave another more profound bow and stepped back from China’s number one crime boss. The group turned and keeping their weapons extended in a protective stance around their boss, they returned to their armored limousine.
24
Tel Aviv, Israel
S amaar, Luke and David flew into the Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv.
“I thought it would be years before I’d see this place again.” David smiled, but he could see that Samaar had gone operational and Luci was back. She was focused entirely on the mission at hand.
Luke could tell David felt right at home in the scorching heat. Luci wasn’t sure about being anywhere near the Mossad, but she had to trust that Luke had mended bridges when she busted the arms-for-drugs scheme between the CIA and the South American cartel. Luci had to assume they didn’t know that she now had a quarter of a billion dollars taken from the Swiss accounts of these illegal operators, thanks to Himanish. But she was nervous just the same.
They went through a quick diplomatic screening allaying all her fears. The Raven Group operated with impunity in Israel at the request of the Prime Minister, so there were no delays. They checked into the Hilton in the business district. They showered and changed and pretended to be tourists. Their next stop was an arms manufacturer they’d worked with in the past.
The President of the corporation was sympathetic to their cause but maintained that Israel was in a delicate position with various hot spots erupting around their borders. If weapons were left in the wrong hands, there could be an international incident.
Luke used his encrypted cell phone to place a call, and after a hushed conversation, he passed it to the arms dealer. Luke listened to several “Yes, sirs,” and everything was arranged.
They had no time for sightseeing. And as far as Samaar was concerned, Israel held only heart-breaking memories of her parents' death. She was morose and didn’t have much to say during their meeting. She just spoke up when it came to explain precisely what they needed.
They never returned to their hotel.
When their jet took off, they’d been in the country less than four hours.
25
Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
I vanov had left suddenly and had not yet returned from his latest offshore travels. Human trafficking was only a portion of his business empire. He was also responsible for the movement of cocaine, and he could get new psychoactive substances (NPS), including the latest synthetic opioids (particularly highly potent fentanyl derivatives) fast enough to feed the burgeoning market. He called instructions to his enforcers. Everyone was aware of precisely what was expected, or they would suffer the consequences.
The children were moved in the middle of a stormy night. More than half were from crime-ridden Kyrgyzstan with the remaining children spread amongst Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and as far away as the Maldives in the Indian Ocean.
Local buses with blacked-out windows transported fifty-eight boys and girls. The victims could hardly hold themselves upright; not only because of abuse but drugged food ensured the children were less active and therefore easier to control for this next part of their journey.
Most of the male children would be reported as missing by their parents. Many of the girls would not. Families would wait for the reappearance of their daughters pregnant with child. Even though bride kidnapping, ala kachuu, had been outlawed, the crime was never punished. Women were still considered to be at the mercy of the whims of their husbands. They were considered chattels, often times having a status no different from the family animals.
Some brav
e parents would make the trek into the city to request help for their missing children. They would sit for days waiting for news of their loved ones. But more than fifty percent of the population lived below the poverty line; if they didn’t tend their herds or work at their manual jobs, they wouldn’t eat. And of course, they had other children to consider. After days of pacing the halls of the police stations, they would give up.
Bureaucrats, not surprisingly, buried their consciences along with their missing persons' reports. They were rewarded with bribes, confident they too would be allowed to live another day. After all, they were doomed to live in a state controlled by some of the most dangerous and malignant criminals in the world.
The following day, an influential group of VIPs flew into Manas International Airport in Bishkek in a private jet registered to a company in Israel.
Two men and a woman disembarked carrying oversized canvas bags. They offered ID’s and explained they were from a multi-national Israeli weapons Manufacturer interested in opening an arms factory in the labor-rich-economically-poor Republic of Kyrgyzstan.
The airport customs had been told to welcome the trio who had appointments with the business community for noon the next day. They would start with lunch, then move on to discuss suitable locations, and precisely what kind of bribes would be required to run the deal forward.
After the initial reluctance of the Israeli firm had been defused by the Prime Minister, Luci went on to explain that kidnapping and crimes against children were involved. The Israeli company was entirely on board. They even made the necessary phone call to the Regional Economic Committee chairman who had approached them in the past to try to stimulate the economy of Bishkek. The immigration officials paid little attention to the heavily armed trio. Each weapon had been tagged as a “Sample” and stamped “For commercial purpose only” in Hebrew.
The twenty-five km drive from the airport to the center of the Bishkek was uneventful. The requisite secret-service, old school KGB-style surveillance preceded and followed them. Their rental SUV fit right in with the late model vehicles provided for the elite in this poverty-stricken Republic.