Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  The synchronized traffic lights turned out to benefit him, because Popescu had been forced to stop at the next one. Vermeulen got a green sooner and caught up. Popescu followed the beltway until it divided near the Vienna River. He continued along the southern lanes, leaving old Vienna behind.

  They passed a massive rail marshaling yard. Under the tall sodium halogen lights, stubby locomotives pushed railcars onto different tracks. Shortly afterward, they passed Vienna’s main railroad station. There, the beltway turned south and became a freeway. Popescu exited, continued east, and then took Simmeringer Hauptstraße south. They entered a low-rent district. The stately buildings of the inner districts gave way to workers’ housing, long blocks built without much adornment or beauty and interspersed with warehouses and light industrial buildings.

  They passed a vast cemetery that seemed to go on forever. An elaborate a sign at the entrance identified it as the Zentralfriedhof. That was followed by a large repair shop for the light rail system. A street sign indicated that they had left Vienna and entered one of the suburbs. Tucked between the repair shop, another light rail station, and a brewery lay several apartment buildings. Popescu parked in front of the second one. Vermeulen continued straight ahead, took the next right, and parked near a small hotel that had never seen better days.

  “What do you want to do now?” Tessa said, and yawned.

  “I want to find out what’s happening in that building.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The apartment building was a four-story stucco edifice. The plaster had broken off in many places, revealing scarred cement blocks. The front door led to a vestibule lit by a dim bulb.

  He tried the door. It opened. Inside, there were rows of mailboxes on the right wall. Above them were ringer buttons and dull aluminum grates covering communication devices that looked like they hadn’t worked in a long time. The cracked tiles on the floor were missing many pieces, making the ground uneven and easy to trip on. A gray steel door with cloudy safety glass led to the interior.

  “Look at all these names. There’s got to be whole clans living in each apartment,” Tessa said.

  Some of the names were unreadable. The others sounded Eastern European, but that was just a guess. It looked like the kind of place where poor immigrants lived, fifteen or more packed into subdivided apartments.

  “Apartments 1A and 1B don’t have any names,” he said.

  “What do we do next?”

  “I wonder if Kurtz is a slum landlord. This place sure looks like it.”

  “But why would he come here after you confronted him?”

  “Maybe this is where he keeps his victims until the paperwork is arranged.”

  “That’s a lot of apartments.”

  “Most are probably rented to immigrants. That makes it easy for him to put two or three units aside for his trafficking victims. Few would notice new faces and nobody would ask any questions.”

  He heard sounds from behind the interior door.

  “We’d better get out of here,” he said.

  It was too late. The door opened and two women came out. They were young, very young. Their hair was teased, their faces made up, and they wore impossibly high stiletto heels and skirts that barely covered their buttocks. Everything about them spoke of a night out clubbing, except their faces. Both looked glum. They brushed past Vermeulen and Tessa without a look or a nod.

  “Those girls are going to get a urinary tract infection in this weather,” Tessa said.

  Vermeulen could tell she was only half joking.

  “They didn’t look too happy, either,” he said.

  “I know. I think I’ll follow them. I have a suspicion.”

  “What kind of suspicion?”

  “I told you I’m working on a series on organized crime. That’s why I’m in Vienna in the first place. One aspect is sex trafficking. I just want to see where those girls are going.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “Aren’t you busy here?”

  “This neighborhood looks like the kind of place where a few neo-Nazis would be cruising the streets hoping to beat up some immigrants.”

  She frowned. “You think so?”

  “Looks like plenty of immigrants here. That often brings out the vermin, too. This isn’t the well-to-do, worldly Vienna.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  She turned and left. He wondered what to do next. The sight of the two women had startled him enough that he’d forgotten to catch the door. He rang the bell of a top floor apartment in the hope that someone would buzz the door open. Nothing happened. He rang the next apartment. The speaker above the button crackled with some incomprehensible sounds.

  “Ist Miroslav zu Hause?” he said, hoping an inquiry about a made-up name might do the trick. More sounds followed. He wondered if his voice was any clearer than what he heard.

  “Miroslav, bitte.”

  The door buzzed and he pulled it open.

  Inside, he smelled stale food and urine. To the left was a staircase that wound its way to the top floor. He heard a door open somewhere upstairs. With a loud thump, the hall light came on. Someone shouted something. He walked to the first step and glanced up. A man was leaning over the topmost banister three floors up.

  “Was wollen Sie?” he shouted.

  Vermeulen didn’t want to be shouting back since he didn’t know if Kurtz could hear him. He gave the man a thumbs up and turned back from the stairs toward apartment 1A and 1B. The man shouted another question. This time someone else responded. As far as Vermeulen could make out, he was telling the first man to stop shouting. The rejoinder had the opposite effect. Others joined the fray.

  Happy that he’d managed to divert their attention, Vermeulen followed the hallway into the building. The first two doors, across from each other, were labeled 1A and 1B. There were no name plates at either door. Another thump sounded and the hall light went out again. The shouting stopped. Vermeulen remembered these timed hall lights from the tenements in Antwerp where he had questioned suspects. He found a switch and turned the light back on.

  Stepping close to 1A, he put his ear to the door. No sound. None of the usual background noise that indicates an inhabited place. Not even a refrigerator humming. That apartment was empty. He went to door 1B and listened again. This apartment was noisier. He could hear a faint, monotone voice, like a radio or TV turned very low. And there were the other sounds of an occupied living space.

  He was tempted to knock, but he held back. What would he do when someone opened the door? Kurtz and Popescu might be inside. He was in no position to challenge them. If anything, this was the perfect place to make him disappear.

  There were two more apartments on this floor. Vermeulen inched down the hallway. When he passed doors 1C and 1D, he heard loud music coming from one door and the drone of a TV from the other. The janitor had left a bucket and mop near apartment 1C. With another thump, the light went out again. There was nothing else to discover back there. He was about to go back to the entrance when the door of 1B opened.

  Kurtz stepped into the slant of light that fell into the dark corridor.

  Chapter Forty

  Vermeulen inched backward, deeper into the dark. Popescu followed Kurtz into the corridor. They turned and spoke to someone in the apartment. Vermeulen couldn’t make out the words. He crossed to the other wall, which seemed darker, and stumbled over something in his way. The bucket. The mop clattered to the ground. Spinning around to run deeper into the gloom, he slipped in the puddle of water that had run from the bucket and landed on the hard tile floor.

  That turned out to be the least of his worries. With a loud thud, the hall light came back on. The men looked startled to see Vermeulen getting back to his feet. Popescu pulled a pistol from his jacket.

  “Mr. Vermeulen,” Kurtz said. “I don’t know how you found this place, but I’m glad you are here. It will make our next task so much easier.” He turned to Popescu. “Fetch him.” />
  Popescu raised his gun and advanced toward Vermeulen. Vermeulen looked back. There was no place else to go. His only hope was the timed hallway light. He walked toward Popescu, hands in the air. Just as he reached him, the light went out again.

  He lunged at Popescu, whose figure was outlined against the sliver of light coming from apartment 1B.

  “Licht! Mach das Licht an!” Popescu shouted and dodged Vermeulen.

  Vermeulen’s momentum carried him past the man. Popescu regained his footing and raised the gun again. This time, Vermeulen stood outlined against the slant. He dropped to his knees just as Popescu fired. The shot’s report echoed like thunder through the narrow hallway. Vermeulen launched himself at the feet of Popescu, who reacted too late. The two crashed to the floor. The gun slid from Popescu’s hand. Vermeulen’s head hit something hard, maybe Popescu’s knee. A shower of shiny stars crossed his retina. He squeezed his eyes together to stop the fireworks.

  Popescu recovered faster. Pushing Vermeulen down, he grabbed his throat with both hands. Having gotten his eyesight under control, Vermeulen found he couldn’t breathe. The guy may not have been tall, but he had hands like clamps. Vermeulen heard the blood roaring in his ears. He opened his mouth and gulped like a fish out of water. Having Popescu sit on his chest only made matters worse. With another thud, the hall light came on again.

  Popescu had held the gun with his right hand, so Vermeulen assumed that his left arm was comparatively weaker. He grabbed the man’s left wrist and dug his fingernails into the assortment of veins that crossed into the hand. Popesu screamed. The clamp around Vermeulen’s throat loosened. He sucked in air as fast as he could. Then he twisted Popescu’s left wrist slowly but inexorably clockwise. The motion forced it from his neck. Popescu must have realized that he couldn’t strangle Vermeulen with one hand. He let go of his neck and punched him in the face. A lightning bolt of pain shot from Vermeulen’s nose through the nociceptors straight to his spinal cord. It was way past the threshold his body considered acceptable. Tears began streaming from his eyes.

  The pain ignited a rage Vermeulen hadn’t felt in a long time. The surge of adrenaline gave him new strength. He pushed Popescu off, raised himself, and delivered a vicious kick to the man’s groin. He tasted blood at the corner of his mouth. The gun, a dull black Glock, lay against the wall. He picked it up. The light went off.

  Kurtz had run back into the apartment and slammed the door shut. Vermeulen stood in the dark. He inched his way along the wall until he felt the button. He pressed it and the light came back on.

  Popescu was struggling to his knees. Vermeulen helped by yanking him to his feet. With the muzzle of the Glock pressed against Popescu’s head, he pushed the man to the door of apartment 1B. He gave the door a hard kick right next to the lock. The old wood splintered like kindling.

  Inside were four men and Kurtz. Three men cowered in the right corner. The fourth one, the biggest, stood in front of Kurtz. Vermeulen only saw a sliver of the hand that held the pistol against the man’s head.

  “Drop the gun, Vermeulen, and let Popescu go. I will have no compunction about killing Milosh here if you don’t.”

  “Then you’ll go down for murder.”

  “That’s very unlikely. I’m not worried.”

  “I’ll make it my mission to make you worry about it.”

  “And do what? Kill Popescu and sacrifice Milosh here in the pursuit of your mission? I know you won’t do that.”

  Vermeulen swallowed. His father had always told him, never draw a gun unless you’re willing to use it. He hadn’t thought about that advice for a long time. Now it was too late. Kurtz had called his bluff.

  “But can you live with murdering Milosh? He hasn’t done anything,” he said, stretching out the conversation while his mind raced. He had to use the gun; it was the only option.

  “He’s just one of the dots we saw from the Ferris wheel. For me, he’s the cost of doing business. What is it the Americans call it? Collateral damage.”

  “And Popescu?”

  Kurtz shrugged. “He knew what he got into. But you aren’t going to shoot him. We’ve established that already.”

  “I’m not sure Popescu is quite as sanguine about this proposition,” Vermeulen said. “Your boss is ready to sacrifice you.”

  As long as he kept talking, there was a chance that he could find an opening. And he needed an opening. As it stood, the situation favored Kurtz. Big time. The three men in the corner were useless. He saw the fear in their eyes. Milosh, Kurtz’s human shield, didn’t look like he had any intention of fighting back.

  “Do you really think you could rile Popescu? Use him against me?” Kurtz said. His mouth formed into a sneer. “He knows, just like I do, that you will never pull that trigger. You’re not that kind of man. We established that at the Ferris wheel. So give the gun to Popescu and accept your failure.”

  Vermeulen needed an ally. Of the four men, Milosh seemed the only one who might hold his own in a fight. But the gun against his head canceled that. That left the other three. He pushed Popescu to the left. Kurtz followed suit by moving right, always keeping Milosh in front of him. That put Kurtz right between Vermeulen and the three other men.

  Vermeulen stared at the three men, moving his head almost imperceptibly to signal them to make a move. One of them nodded.

  Popescu saw the nod, too. “Vorsicht, hinter Ihnen, Herr Kurtz,” he said, warning him of the men behind him.

  “Oh, those three? They aren’t going to do anything. The only one with a shred of initiative is standing right in front of me.”

  Whether it was Kurtz’s taunt or the fight stimulus finally kicking in, Vermeulen would never know. In any case, the one who’d nodded took a step forward. Popescu saw it.

  “Er kommt wirklich,” he said, telling Kurtz of the approaching man.

  Kurtz couldn’t resist. He turned back. His hand with the gun turned with him. Vermeulen kicked Popescu in the back of his knee. Popescu screamed with pain. His knee gave out and he sank to the floor.

  Milosh saw his chance, spun around, and tried to grab Kurtz’s gun. Kurtz reacted too fast. He pistol-whipped Milosh. Blood poured from Milosh’s nose. He buried his face in his hands and dropped to his knees. That gave Vermeulen the opportunity he needed. He took a big step right, grabbed the Glock with both hands, aimed, and fired at Kurtz’s arm. Remembering his army training, he fired again, the insurance shot. Good thing he did. The first bullet missed, but the second struck the hand holding the pistol.

  Kurtz stood frozen as his Glock smashed against the wall. He stared at his bleeding hand, then at Vermeulen, then back at his hand. Blood poured onto the floor. It was a mess. That reality must have sunk in, because he let out a howl. It sounded more like frustration and surprise than pain.

  “Popescu, get a towel and wrap it around his hand,” Vermeulen said.

  Popescu roused himself.

  “Kill him!” Kurtz shouted. “I want him dead, destroyed. Do you hear me, Popescu?”

  Popescu limped from the kitchen with a dishtowel and reached for Kurtz’s wounded hand.

  “Get away from me with that filthy rag!” Kurtz was ranting now. “I want you to kill him, Popescu. I order you to kill him.”

  Popescu just slapped Kurtz. The look on Kurtz’s face was an ugly mixture of hatred and surprise. Popescu ignored it and wrapped the bleeding hand in the towel. He looked like he’d wanted to slap Kurtz for a long time.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jackson hadn’t slept well. Despite the jet lag and the long flight without real rest, he couldn’t get to sleep. There were the strange smells, the new sounds. There was the stagnant air inside the tin building. Most of all, there was the worry about what to do next. Now that he had a lead on Abasi’s family, the real question loomed large. Was he going to give money to them? If so, how much? Maybe he should forget the whole thing. Skip out early, find a travel agency, get a ticket, and go home. He’d have enough cash left to hole up someplace u
ntil the Broker and her goons forgot about him.

  That he was going back home soon was not a question. In just one day, he’d seen enough of Nairobi to know that he preferred Newark. This wasn’t even a short-term solution. Even if he kept all the money, he’d run out eventually. The only steady job he’d ever had was being a tout for doctors Patel and Mulberry. He was pretty sure there was no demand for those skills in Kibera. Which meant he had to hustle. But here, everyone hustled. He was competing with a half a million hustlers, and they knew their way around. He didn’t.

  He got up and looked for the bathroom. The woman was already up. She anticipated his needs and pointed him to a latrine behind her compound. There was no water. He realized why people here smelled. There were no places to wash. A trip to the Y was in order.

  The woman handed him a cup of tea and a plate with two slices of white bread covered with some strange brown paste. Jackson didn’t care. He was hungry. The spread was unlike anything he’d ever eaten. Like a mixture of bouillon and molasses. He couldn’t imagine any circumstances under which he’d get used to that taste. But it calmed his stomach, and the hot tea got his circulation going.

  In the middle of the breakfast, the man from the night before who knew Abasi came back. He’d decided to bring Jackson to the family. Jackson sighed. He went back to his alcove, closed the curtain, and counted the cash. Two thousand dollars and change.

  Decision time.

  He put a thousand dollars in one pile. That was the minimum he figured he needed to get back home. He put another hundred on the pile. Food, drink, and accommodation until he got his flight. Another hundred. That left eight hundred for the family. He took another C note. Who knew what problems he’d still have to face? Seven hundred. It was more than they’d ever had.