The Spirit Survives

by Gary Williams Ramsey

  He went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. When the steam rose from the hot water, he got in and washed off the smell of Leah. His wife was expert in smelling the scent of a woman on him. He went to his closet and dressed in his white dinner jacket, black cashmere and wool slacks, and a pale blue dress shirt. His wife always liked to pick out his tie to wear to these formal political affairs, so he waited on that.

  There was a knock on the door and he answered it. Bern was back to clean up the mess and get the girl. Sergey once again gave him instructions about the disposal of Bo Lopez’s remains and the delivery of Leah to his man in Houston. After experiencing her body, he was sure that she would bring a premium price. Of course the Arabs would have to get a sample before buying her. His man in Houston was an expert in drugging the women to a point that they did not resist sex. He was tempted to keep her for himself, however, his mistress and his wife would have to be enough for awhile.

  He gave his extra key to Bern and left the apartment. He could not be late for the dinner with the mayor.

  On the drive back to his home, Sergey considered what he had to do next. The information he received from the FBI woman, Bastone, and Bo left him no choice but to assassinate Elasar Fernandez and Perez Salazar, the leaders of the Selazar cartel in Houston. He was hesitant to kill Flores, the head of the Flores cartel in Chicago because the Mexican was in his home city, but his honor was at stake. It could not be known that these men were implicated in killing his daughter and went unpunished. He would do what he had to do to avenge his beloved Veronika.

  The bloodletting would start in two days. The treaty between the drug cartels and the Russian Mafia had been violated. Anger once again filled Sergey Inavova’s heart. He yearned to destroy them just the same way he had massacred Bo Lopez, but that was unworkable. He would figure out a way to make them suffer, be violated, and send the clear message: The Russian Mafia and Sergey could not be insulted without an extreme price to pay.

  Chapter 71

  Late August and early September are the muggiest days in Houston. Sometimes when you just open your car door and get out, you are virtually covered with perspiration. The long-time residents don’t seem to mind, but new people to the area are astonished at the heat and humidity. It’s even stranger when you pass a team of Mexicans doing landscaping and yard mowing. Their heads are totally covered with hats, and they wear long-sleeved shirts and long pants to protect themselves from the blistering sun. They eat bananas and drink a lot of water, but somehow keep going fifteen hours a day.

  This hot afternoon was one of those intolerable days as Viadislav Lenechka sat at Ellington field, a small airport south of Houston, in his black Escalade waiting on the private plane coming from Chicago. Lenechka, known as Cheche, had worked for Sergey for eight years.

  He was a handsome man and gifted with the ladies, but like most Russian Mafia men, he had a mean streak if any woman didn’t follow his orders exactly. His present position with Sergey was running the sex slave trade in Houston. While building up this business, he established contacts in the Arab world where oil rich Arabs had an insatiable desire for young American women. They were willing to pay whatever was asked if the woman was sexy enough.

  Cheche also had established a chain of policemen whom he bribed weekly to protect him and warn him of pending raids. He was excited to get this white piece of female meat from Sergey because it gave him a chance to distinguish himself in Sergey’s eyes. He would sell her quickly and at a very high price.

  He watched as Sergey’s private jet landed and Bern and two associates exited the plane. Bern was carrying a large container and one of the other men had a beautiful woman by the arm. She was blindfolded and her hands were taped together. She seemed to offer little resistance.

  Cheche got out of his Escalade and waved at Bern. He had worked with Bern on occasion and was fully aware that the man was Sergey’s right hand. Bern smiled and walked over to him with the other men following.

  “How’s it going?” Bern greeted him.

  “Great. What’s in the container?”

  “Just some trash Sergey wants me to dispose of,” was the reply. Cheche knew better than to ask further questions.

  “Here is the merchandise Sergey wanted me to deliver,” Bern said as he grabbed Leah’s arm and jerked her forward. “She looks like a nice piece to me and Sergey said to tell you that he took a sample and it was hot as hell.”

  Cheche looked at the woman standing in front of him. She appeared tired and had a slightly swollen lip, but he could still recognize her elegant beauty. He ran his hand over her breasts, she flinched but said nothing. “Nothing fake about these tits,” Cheche said with a laugh, “I’d like some of this myself.”

  Bern smiled broadly and copped a feel for himself. “Man, that’s good stuff. We’ve got to drive to Galveston to dump this trash. Did you have a car delivered for us?”

  “Right over there by the hanger.” Cheche took a firm hold on the girl’s arm. Bern and his associate left and Cheche open the door and put the girl in the passenger side of the front seat. “Sit still, baby, and I’ll take real good care of you.”

  Leah said nothing. She appeared to be in shock. Her beautiful eyes stared forward and were glazed over. Cheche looked into her eyes and saw nothing but a blank stare. There seemed to be no working brain behind her eyes, and he noticed a slight twitch of her lips.

  Cheche had purchased a nice condo south of the city in the Clear Lake area of suburban Houston. His condo overlooked the calm brackish waters of Clear Lake. He drove from Ellington field to his condominium, glancing at the girl regularly. She just sat there as if in a trance. It took him about twenty minutes to get to his condo. He grabbed a blanket out of the back seat and put it around Leah’s shoulders, got out of the SUV, and walked around to the passenger side. He pulled her from the car and carefully arranged the blanket to hide her taped hands. No one was around as he walked her to his condo.

  * * *

  Next door Bea Morgan peered out her window at him. She was afraid of the Russian ever since he moved in two doors down from her. Bea was seventy-two years old and skeptical about any man since she had been scammed by a Russian three years before. He took most of her savings and now she was forced to live on social security. Her silver-grey hair outlined a once pretty face, now wrinkled by the ravages of time. She felt hatred toward Viadislav even though they had never talked. She raised her eyebrows when she saw him remove the girl from the car with the blanket over her shoulders. She thought she saw something in the girl’s mouth that looked like a gag and the girl stumbled as Viadislav walked her to the door of his condo. She sensed that he was up to no good and decided then to watch him carefully. Maybe he was doing something illegal, like taking a prostitute to his room. If she saw anything else odd, she would call the police and maybe get him removed from the building. She hated those shit-ass Russian men.

  * * *

  The girl almost fell as the Russian pushed her through the door. Cheche sat her on the couch and fixed himself vodka over ice. He sipped the drink thinking that he might sample this piece himself. If Sergey could do it, then he could do it too.

  Chapter 72

  Rex returned my call within ten minutes. He was skeptical about the information I’d received from the anonymous female caller. He said that he would pick me up in thirty minutes and we could plan our next actions. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to think. I ran the contents of the call over and over in my head. On the last call, I thought I had detected a faint Indian accent in her voice. It was certainly the confident voice of a professional. I had no idea why she was giving me the information, but it was the only thing I had to go on. I remembered that Rex was wary of talking about Sergey Invnova because of the Russian’s stature in the community and his political connections, but I decided to insist that we go to meet him and ask about the matter.

  I finished my coffee, put the cup in the sink and went to the lobby to wait for Rex. He arrived pr
ecisely on time and pulled his car in the driveway at the front of the main entrance. I got into his car and he pulled out of the entrance drive, went to the nearest empty space, and parked.

  “What makes you think there is any credibility in these phone calls?” he asked.

  “She was right about Bastone, and it’s the only thing I have to go on. I did detect a negligible Indian accent in her voice in the last call and the confident manner in which she spoke tells me she’s a professional. Her voice is cool, precise and believable.” I noticed a startled look in Rex’s eyes as I finished my statement.

  He quickly recovered and sat quietly for a moment. “It’s going to be a tough job to approach Sergey Ivanova on this. You know the man recently lost his daughter, and he is a powerful political force in this community.”

  “I saw Bo Lopez murder her,” I reminded him. “I believe it was more than just a rape. We know that Lopez and Alverez were contract killers. There must have been a hit put on Ivanova’s daughter. If that’s the case, he’s is involved in criminal activity. The facts tell me that Bastone and the girl were working for him to try to find the killer. I guarantee you Bo Lopez is dead and Ivanova had it done. We have to check him out, Rex. Leah’s life depends on it.”

  “Okay,” Rex replied, “I’ll get you his address, but I have no grounds to get a warrant.”

  “I just need to talk to him. I think I’ll be able to tell if he’s hiding anything.”

  “If I go with you to his home, it would be perceived as a police matter. I’ll get you his home address, but you’ll have to go there alone. Are you okay with that?”

  “Just get me the address and drive me to the nearest rental car agency. I’ll take it from there and keep you informed.”

  Rex made a call to his office and within minutes had Ivanova’s address. He drove me three blocks to a Hertz car rental office and left me there. I could tell he was very apprehensive about this approach, but I was gratified that he had enough confidence in me to trust me with it.

  Hertz placed me in a maroon Ford Focus, and I left to find Ivanova’s home. I was dressed in a sweat shirt, jeans and running shoes, not exactly dressed for the ritzy section of town. As I approached the Gold Coast area of Chicago, the sad memory of the last time I saw Leah crossed my mind. We both were stressed from the move and the delay in getting our furniture. I was also depressed and second guessing myself about leaving a job that I loved and the city that I cherished. We had an insignificant disagreement, which caused me to decide to take a few days to “get my mind straight.” That decision changed the course of our lives and may have cost Leah her life. Everything that was happening to her was directly my fault.

  I turned on Harborside Way and watched for house number 710. The second house on the right had a beautiful brass column beside a long circular driveway that had 710 embossed on a plaque, below the house number and the name, “Ivanova.” A gate secured the driveway with a speaker box on the right side. I drove up to the box, pushed the button and waited.

  A deep voice with a heavy Russian accent responded, “How can I help you sir?”

  “I’m here to talk to Sergey Ivanova,” I replied.

  “I’m sorry sir, you are not expected,” was the reply and there was a click as he disconnected the speaker.

  I waited a moment and pushed the button again. The man answered with agitation in his voice, “Go the hell away or I’ll send the security guard to remove you.”

  “Listen to me, you tell Mr. Ivanova that I witnessed his daughter’s murder, and that I have some new information for him. My name is Ben Harris, and I saw Bo Lopez pull the trigger. It will be in Mr. Ivanova’s best interest to talk to me. There was silence on the other end, and then I heard the faint voices of two men talking.

  “This is Sergey Ivanova. Come to the front door.” I heard a buzz and the gate opened. I drove to the front of the house, exited my car and went to the front door. The home was a beautiful architectural structure of modern design. It was beige stucco with black marble accents around the windows. The front doors were oak with stained glass. There were two large sago palms in black marble pots on either side of the door. I pushed the doorbell and waited.

  A bulky man with black hair and a scar on his right cheek opened the door. He looked at me without smiling and beckoned me inside. He must have been at least six-feet-four inches and about two-hundred-fifty pounds. His shaved bald head glistened in the light. He looked menacing to say the least. “Sergey is waiting on you in the library,” he murmured in his heavy Russian accent. “Follow me.”

  I noticed what appeared to be an original Pablo Picasso hanging on the wall in the elegant foyer. I followed the big Russian through a doorway to the right and entered the library. Sergey was sitting behind a large mahogany desk. He had some papers spread out in front of him. He was a tall striking man, handsome and muscular. He leaned back in his black leather executive chair and said in perfect English, “Please sit down, Mr. Harris. Viltor, you can leave us alone.”

  There were two black leather high-backed chairs in front of the desk. As I walked to the desk, I looked around. Two of the walls had bookshelves from the ceiling to the floor. Most were filled with leather-bound books; I would guess author-signed first-editions. In the corner of the right wall was a small built-in mahogany and glass bar. The other wall was filled with assorted plaques honoring this man with community service awards. In the middle of the plaques was a picture of Mr. Ivanova standing with President Bill Clinton, shaking hands. It was signed, “Thanks for your service to the community, Bill Clinton.” More than likely the thanks were for a generous political contribution.

  He noticed me looking at the wall of plaques and said, “America has been so good to me and my family. I am honored to give back to the community.”

  I just nodded and walked to the chair on the left and sat down. “Mr. Ivanova—”

  He interrupted me. “Please, call me Sergey. May I call you Ben?”

  “Of course, Sergey,” I replied. “First let me offer my condolences on the loss of your daughter. I can only guess how great the loss is to you.”

  “She was the pride of my life,” he said in a low, tired voice. “I will never get over losing her.”

  “Sergey, since I was the last person to see her alive, I wanted to tell you that something else has happened of which you are probably unaware. I know the police are searching diligently for the murderer, Bo Lopez. I’ve been in constant contact with the highest levels of the Chicago police on the matter, since I am the only living witness. Lopez kidnapped my fiancée to try to silence me, but the situation was interrupted by a man named Marino Bastone and a woman who has not been identified. They left me for dead and took Lopez and my fiancée, Leah Hamilton. Later Bastone was found dead, shot in his car near Lookout Mountain where your daughter was killed. I am as interested as you are in locating Lopez, because I think if I find him, Leah can’t be far away. I came here to ask you to help me with this search,” I lied.

  The tall Russian sat quietly for a moment, then got up and walked to the bar. “May I get you a drink?” he asked.

  “Bourbon and water, thanks” I replied.

  “Will Gentleman Jack be okay?” he asked.

  “In that case, make it on the rocks. Gentleman Jack should never be diluted with anything but ice.”

  He opened the small refrigerator under the bar and filled a glass with ice and poured the amber liquid over it. He took a bottle of chilled Diva vodka from the refrigerator and poured a glass about half full with no ice. He walked back to the desk, handed the bourbon to me, sat down, and took a drink of his vodka. He put the glass down and looked at me thoughtfully. “How can I help?”

  “Do you know Bastone or Lopez?”

  “No!” he said emphatically.

  I decided it was time to lay my cards on the table. He was playing the innocent victim, and I needed to shake him up. “Sergey, I received a call from an anonymous woman. She revealed to me that you knew Bastone, tha
t you had my fiancée here in Chicago, and that you were going to send her to Houston to be sold as a sex slave. If that’s true you must also have Bo Lopez. If so, the police need to deal with him. If you have my fiancée or know where she is, you damn well better give her to me now before I give you more trouble than you can handle.”

  Sergey’s eyes darted to the wall and back to me. His face reddened and his eyes bulged.

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” He was nearly yelling, “You come into my home and accuse me of that. Who do you think you are talking to?”

  “Listen, I just related to you what I was told,” I said calmly. “I’m not threatening you, I’m promising you. If Leah gets hurt, and you are involved, you’ll be better off dead when I finish with you.”

  He leaped from his chair and approached, glaring down at me. I thought he was going to take a swing, but he just yelled, “Get the hell out of my house before I hurt you badly. I will not be threatened and accused by anyone!”

  Viltor came rushing into the room, I guess as a response to the yelling. “Throw this son of a bitch out of my house and do it now!” Sergey yelled.

  I got up from the chair and looked him in the eyes, “Remember what I said. If Leah is harmed in any way, I will hold you responsible.”

  I began walking toward the door. Viltor grabbed my arm. I stopped and turned. “Take your hand off me, or I’ll break it,” I said calmly.

  He held on and attempted to shove me toward the door.

  I grasped his wrist suddenly and forcefully and twisted in a direction that was not natural. I felt the ligaments tear and heard the snap as the bone fractured. Viltor screamed and fell to the floor holding his broken wrist. I proceeded to the door, let myself out, got into my car and drove off. Rex was going to be angry, but I had to shake things up.