Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  He put the thirteen hundred in his shoe and stuffed the rest in his pocket.

  The man took him deeper and deeper into the slum. As on the day before, Jackson saw how busy people were. Only the children lingered to steal glances at the stranger in good clothes. There was a feeling of tension in the air. The flow of people made it hard to sort out where that sensation came from. His guide acknowledged some passersby but actively avoided looking at others. Jackson started examining those the guide didn’t look at. He couldn’t tell how they were different. Some seemed to have darker skin. Was that it?

  As they walked farther from the road where the taxi had let him off, a new worry crept into his head. What if the man was just leading him to some spot to steal his money? There were few legal ways to make a living, and what easier way than to hit a rich American upside the head and clean out his pockets? He hadn’t said that he carried any money, but if Abasi had gone to America to make money, chances were good that Jackson was bringing some of that back.

  His worries were unnecessary. They rounded yet another corner in the maze that was Kibera and the man stopped and greeted a woman wearing worn but clean clothes. Her hair was short and brushed back. Her eyes were red. She had cried. She knew why he was there.

  “Good morning. Mrs. Abasi?” he said.

  She nodded. Tears began flowing again.

  “I have some sad news, Mrs. Abasi. Your husband Okeyo died in America.”

  The woman broke into a wail that made Jackson take a step back. He’d seen his mother and her sisters mourn at his grandma’s funeral, but it was nothing compared to Mrs. Abasi.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said.

  The woman held her head with both hands as if to keep it from blowing apart. Anguish and pain contorted her body, pressing, pushing to be let out in the open for everyone to hear. There was nothing he could do, or should do, until it had come out. She stomped on the ground. She arched her back and hollered at the sky. Neighbors came out. The women joined the wailing. They held her. There was no harmony to the crying. It wasn’t melodic in some National Geographic documentary sort of way. It was pain bursting out and it was ugly.

  He felt tears coming to his own eyes and was about to join in, but he noticed that the men stayed back and didn’t participate in the mourning. The raw energy of it struck him like a knife in the gut. It peeled away the layers and layers of cynical calculations that had accumulated during his adult life. There was no angle to exploit here. Or rather, he didn’t want to look for an angle. It was an entirely new feeling, and it was unsettling.

  The woman’s crying had ebbed to irregular sobs. All strength had left her body. If it hadn’t been for the neighbor women holding her up, she would have crumpled to the ground. Another ten minutes later, Mrs. Abasi stepped toward him and took his hand.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “It’s the least I could do.”

  She frowned and Jackson realized that she didn’t understand English. He looked at the man who’d led him here. He said something and the woman nodded. She motioned to her shack, pulled a creaky sheet of iron away, and went inside. He followed, as did the man who’d brought him. The rest remained outside, but they peered through the open door.

  The inside was dark and sparsely furnished. Two mats, neatly rolled up in one corner. A low table, a kerosene cooker, a small shelf with two bowls, two cups, and two plates. He figured the large plastic bag served as a wardrobe, since clothes were spilling from it. She sat on the ground and invited him to sit. He tried to sit down but didn’t know where to put his legs. So he just knelt on them.

  He took the envelope he’d used to hold Okeyo’s passport and the money he’d allocated to the family and gave them to her. She opened the passport and looked at Okeyo’s picture. Tears swelled up again. Her breasts heaved, but she sighed loudly and closed the passport. She looked at the money, folded it, and stuck it into her bra. That made him feel better. The wailing almost got him to add a few hundred to the envelope.

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  Jackson nodded and took her hand in his. He squeezed it gently.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She said something. The man translated, “She says, you no sorry. You no kill him.”

  Jackson’s ears pricked up. He hadn’t told anyone that Abasi had been killed. But he didn’t pursue it. No need to get more involved. He’d done the right thing, just as bloody Vermeulen and his grandma had told him. Now he wanted to get out of here as fast as possible.

  The woman and the man followed him outside. The crowd still stood there. Looking at the benefactor who’d come all the way from America. The woman blinked in the light, her eyes still red and swollen. Jackson heard her suck in her breath. He turned and saw her stare at someone in the crowd.

  She shouted something. The people standing there turned to a young man who stood out because he wore better clothes than anyone except Jackson. His skin was as dark as that of his hostess at the guesthouse. The young man turned to leave, but the people around him wouldn’t let him. The woman shouted louder. Hands grabbed the young man.

  Jackson looked at his guide. “Who is that?”

  “The man who promised Okeyo the money in America.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The neighbors didn’t hesitate. They went after the man who’d lured Abasi to America. Abasi’s wife joined them.

  “Stop!” Jackson said. “Don’t beat him.”

  Looking at the man on the ground with blood running down his face, he couldn’t help but see himself. A tout, who solicited clients for someone higher up. That guy didn’t have the wherewithal to get tickets, visas, and whatever else was needed to send someone to the U.S. Someone more powerful was above him. Someone Jackson wanted to meet.

  The beating stopped. The guy got up. His natty clothes were soiled and torn.

  “This man is not responsible for Okeyo’s death,” Jackson said. “Somebody in America is. There are people above him, people who only want to exploit poor people like yourselves. Let’s ask him who they are.”

  It was a new role for him, standing there, talking folks into something. He’d never done that, never been a leader. Doing his own thing was his usual mode of operation. But the people were listening to him, looking at him, waiting for his next command. Too weird.

  “What’s his name?” he said to his guide.

  “Wycliff.”

  “Do you speak English, Wycliff?” he said to the young man.

  Wycliff nodded.

  “I want to know who hired you to find people like Okeyo.”

  Wycliff looked at the people crowding him, saw the anger in their eyes. “A European.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Man.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Renko.”

  “Where do you meet this Renko?”

  Wycliff didn’t answer.

  “Listen, Wycliff, these folks here are ready to beat you bad. If you tell me all you know, I’ll try to persuade them to let you go. It’s your choice.”

  Wycliff wiped his face and straightened his clothes. Jackson saw fear in his eyes—something else, too. Something that told Jackson to be careful with this man.

  “I will tell you,” Wycliff said. “Renko calls me and I meet him at AIDS Clinic in Lindi. They test people at the clinic. But people don’t want to go. Why? You got AIDS, you gonna die. They don’t give medicine. People don’t want to know they gonna die. When they get sick is soon enough.”

  Jackson saw the logic in that. He’d seen that kind of fatalism in Newark, too. Without AIDS drugs, knowing you were sick didn’t make any difference.

  “So you bring him people?”

  “Yes, the clinic want to test people. I bring people there and they pay me a little. Renko is there. He sees all the tests. He finds someone healthy, he calls me to bring them back. I bring the person. He tells them they are going to America or Europe and get much money. Then he
pays me.”

  “Do you know what happens to the people he picks?”

  He shook his head.

  “You really don’t know?”

  Jackson wasn’t sure. He knew a hustler when he saw one, and Wycliff was a much poorer version of himself. It didn’t matter. He’d said enough. This Renko was piggybacking on some legit operation. That gave him access to data about patients, and he used that to select certain patients to send to the U.S. Those folks must have felt like they won the lottery. They got to go to America, and if the twenty-five hundred in Abasi’s pocket were any indication, come back with more cash than they’d ever had. Of course, Renko made a lot more than that. Another indication of how much money was involved in whatever this racket was.

  “Can you bring me to Renko?”

  Wycliff’s eyes grew wide again. He shook his head.

  “No, I no bring you to Renko. He’s very bad. Only sees me when he calls first.”

  Jackson felt the familiar buzz of discovering a new opportunity. Renko was like the Broker in Newark. Middle management, pulling strings locally. He’d blown it in Newark, didn’t get to speak to the Broker. Mostly because Vermeulen got to her first. This was another chance. Renko might be willing to talk business. But it was crucial that he do proper recon. Anticipation. This time he wasn’t going to walk into a trap.

  “Okay,” he said. “No meeting, but you show me where the clinic is. Bring me there.”

  Again, Wycliff shook his head.

  “No, no. I don’t do that. Renko kills me.”

  “He won’t know. Just show me the clinic. He won’t see you.”

  Wycliff looked genuinely scared. “He said to me, you tell anyone, I kill you.”

  “You already told me, Wycliff. He doesn’t have to know. Just show me who the man is. I’ll take it from there.”

  “No, Renko knows I told you. Who else tells you?”

  “Well, it’s your problem. Either you show me, or I let these people have at it.”

  Wycliff looked around. “You no understand. They nothing like Renko. He’s an animal.”

  “I’ll worry about that. You come tomorrow morning and show me Renko.”

  Wycliff looked dejected, but he nodded.

  “And don’t think you can skip out of this. These folks will find you. All they need is a word from me.”

  Wycliff nodded again.

  “Okay, folks,” Jackson said, turning to the neighbors. “Wycliff will bring me to the man who sent Okeyo to America. I’ll speak to that man and see what he can do for Okeyo’s widow.”

  The guide translated and the crowd nodded. They were satisfied.

  As was Jackson. It was the break he’d been looking for. If he played his cards right, he might get back to the U.S. without having to use his own cash.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Vermeulen had a lot to answer for. The Federal Police had taken over the case and were focusing on him first. He had seriously upset Austrian sensibilities by having a gun without a permit, firing it and wounding Kurtz, investigating without a license, and altogether playing the lone ranger. He was handcuffed and locked in an interrogation room at police headquarters. Popescu was elsewhere in the building, as were the four men who had been held in the apartment. Kurtz had been brought to a hospital to have his wounded hand treated. When Kurtz’s lawyer showed up, he more than made up for Kurtz’s absence. He made sure everybody at the police headquarters knew how prominent his client was. In the middle of the night, things looked bleak for Vermeulen.

  At three in the morning, Vermeulen finally had the opportunity to tell his story. Outside he could hear Kurtz’s lawyer shouting. Once Vermeulen told the police what happened, the tide turned in his favor. The captive men, and particularly an extremely grateful Milosh, eagerly testified that they’d been held in apartment 1B by Kurtz and Popescu for nearly two weeks while they waited for their visas to the U.S. When they were asked about that, all they said was that they’d been offered money to test a revolutionary new drug in America. It sounded farfetched, but it corroborated Vermeulen’s version of events.

  Then Tessa showed up. She’d followed the girls to the sleazy hotel and found out they were indeed prostitutes. She talked to them and found out that Kurtz held their passports and threatened to have them arrested if they didn’t play along. The accusation that Kurtz was involved in sex trafficking changed the direction of the investigation. Kurtz’s lawyer alternated between calling the claims an outrageous slander and invoking the stellar reputation of his client as an important member of the community. The louder he shouted, the less the police believed him.

  The final bit of evidence came from a sleepy Dufaux, who’d been yanked from his bed and urgently called to headquarters to confirm Vermeulen’s account of his investigation. He also verified that the license plate Vermeulen had seen at the hospital was indeed assigned to the office that Kurtz administered.

  It was seven the next morning when the Federal Police commander of Vienna finally let Vermeulen go. They gave him back his things. He was told not to leave the city and to remain available for further questions.

  Vermeulen and Tessa hurried to the clinic to relieve Marieke and see if Gaby had made more progress. Marieke had the drawn look of someone who hadn’t slept all night.

  “Where have you been?” she said. After looking at them, she added, “You look like you’ve spent the night in your clothes.”

  “We did,” Vermeulen said. “At police headquarters.”

  Marieke sighed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you are in trouble again.”

  “I wasn’t looking for it. How is Gaby?”

  “She slept through the night. What happened to you?”

  “We cornered the people who threatened Gaby. There was a little altercation, the police got involved, but I’m cleared, for now.”

  “For now?”

  “For good. The important thing is that Gaby is safe again. Those people are behind bars.”

  Marieke looked at Tessa, her eyebrows raised, looking for confirmation.

  Tessa nodded. “Things happened very quickly. I wasn’t present at the shooting because I was following up on a different lead, but Valentin’s been cleared and the bad guys are in custody.”

  “There was a shooting?” Marieke said. “Who shot whom?”

  Vermeulen hesitated. “I shot Kurtz in the hand. He was threatening to kill someone.”

  “And Kurtz was the one who threatened our daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m going to get some sleep now. Gaby hasn’t said anything or moved since last night. Call me if that changes.”

  She left.

  It wasn’t the reaction Vermeulen had expected. But he preferred it to another confrontation.

  “I’ll go and find some breakfast,” he said. “What would you like?”

  “Why don’t I go? I’m not sure what I’m in the mood for, but I know what you want.”

  “Am I that predictable?”

  “When it comes to breakfast, yes. Coffee and croissants.”

  “You got it. Thanks for making the run.”

  After Tessa left, he settled in a chair, put his feet up, and closed his eyes. What a night. He wasn’t sure if he was happy about how it went down. He needed more evidence to make a solid case against Kurtz. If Tessa was right, Kurtz could have been using the cover of the internship program to lure young women to Vienna on the pretense of working for the UN. Once they got there, he coerced them into prostitution. But the police had to get the women to testify, and that was the problem. Testifying would only be a prelude to deportation, so the women likely had disappeared already.

  The visa scam was still a puzzle. They had the letters that Frau Waldmüller gave to Popescu, who turned them over to Kurtz. The four men in the apartment were probably the intended recipients of the visas, but what for? He didn’t believe the drug testing claim anymore. Tessa was right. It seemed too expensive to fly people to the U.S. Pharma corporations didn
’t need to do that. And they certainly wouldn’t use illegal means to obtain visas. Unless the recruitment of the volunteers was subcontracted to some crook like Kurtz. Nah. It didn’t make sense.

  Worse, the letters hadn’t been used yet. So there was no evidence of fraud. The only person in trouble was Frau Waldmüller, who least deserved it. Not a good night. Not knowing the purpose of the visa scam left him restless. There had to be more to it. He’d put a stop to the Vienna operation. Suarez and Sunderland in New York would be happy about that.

  There was still Nairobi. How did Abasi and Odinga fit into this scheme? Was there somebody like Kurtz in Nairobi, doing the same thing? He took out his phone to call Bengtsson. The display reminded him that he still hadn’t listened to Jackson’s message. He had just tapped the keys to connect to his voicemail when the bed linens started rustling.

  Gaby’s eyelids fluttered, then popped open. She turned her head, looking around the room. When she saw him, she appeared puzzled for a moment, then smiled. Vermeulen stuck the phone back in his pocket and went to her side.

  “Good morning, sweetie,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Hi, Dad,” she mumbled. “Where am I? What are you doing here?”

  “You’re in a clinic in Vienna. You had a skiing accident and were in a coma for over a week. I came as soon as I heard.”

  She frowned, her brain visibly searching through the recesses of her memory, trying to reconstruct the past week.

  “Is Mummy here?” she said.

  “Yes, she just left. We’re taking turns sitting with you. Tessa is here, too.”

  Gaby closed her eyes again. Her breathing was more ragged now. The conversation must have exhausted her. The sight made his stomach tense. He’d come to think of her as a twenty-something bundle of energy who could manage a big division in her company and go hiking and skiing. What if the accident had put an end to that? What if …. He forced a stop to that train of thought. She’d opened her eyes and recognized him. She’d be well again. That was all that mattered.