Walking dead ak-7

by Greg Rucka

  Never mind the fact that I would be paying Arzu for three lives, putting money into his pocket for trafficking in slaves.

  We'd pulled up outside the hotel, Arzu letting the engine idle. I unfastened my seatbelt.

  "You want a wire transfer or cash?" I asked him.

  "Cash is best, if you can do it."

  "You'll have the other girl by tomorrow?"

  "Sure."

  "Call me when you're ready," I told him. "I'll have the cash."

  He nodded, wished me a good night, and I got out of the car and headed into the lobby. He hadn't asked for any money in advance, and I understood that was because he didn't actually need it as security. Even if the deal we'd made fell through, he'd easily find another buyer.

  A guy like Arzu would always find another buyer. The Zorlu had a bar off the lobby, done up like an English pub, and I went inside and ordered myself a whiskey, a double, neat. I hadn't had liquor in almost five years, since before I'd taken up with Alena, and I'd never been much of a heavy drinker prior to that. In Kobuleti, we would occasionally share a bottle of wine, but even that was infrequent.

  When my drink came, I slammed about half of it back, then took the remainder more slowly. By the time I'd finished, it had been twelve minutes since Arzu and I had parted company.

  I paid and headed back into the lobby, checked with the concierge for the phone number I wanted, and then assured him it was not due to a problem with the Zorlu that I wanted it. Then I went outside, and pulled Vladek's BlackBerry from where I'd been carrying it in my jacket pocket. His SIM card was still in it, and I liked that irony.

  I called the police. I spoke only in Russian. I gave them the address of the apartment building I'd left less than an hour earlier, and I gave them Arzu Kaya's name, and I told them there were two other men there, and that they were armed. I told them about the three women. When they asked me, I told them my name was Vladek.

  Then I hung up, popped the battery out of the BlackBerry, and pulled the SIM card. I broke it between my fingers, tossed it in the gutter, then went back inside and up to my room. Packing took all of four minutes, and within ten I'd checked out and was on the Dnepr. I headed to the Trabzon airport in search of another hotel, thinking about Tiasa, wondering how in the world I was going to find her in Dubai, if she was even in Dubai. Thinking about the three women I'd seen, and the little help I'd been able to give them.

  It wasn't enough, not nearly enough.

  But it was the best that I could do.

  CHAPTER

  Ten I called Alena from Ataturk International Airport just before ten the next morning, which put the clock approaching noon back in Kobuleti. We had long ago worked out a communications protocol to follow if we were separated, a system that had one or the other of us checking in every third day at a prearranged, but shifting, time, so we would know when to expect the call.

  I was calling early, for two reasons. The first was that I'd be in the air en route to Dubai when the scheduled time came. The second was because I missed her.

  The phone rang three times before she answered, saying, "This is Yeva."

  "It's me."

  "What's happened?"

  "No trouble, I'm just going to be in transit later, thought I'd get the call in now." I listened to her exhale. "Nothing to worry about."

  "Transit. Not coming home?"

  "Heading to Dubai," I said. "We're going to need a new motorcycle, I had to leave the Dnepr in Trabzon."

  "Dubai. You have a location?"

  "No."

  "Where'd the information come from?"

  "The guy who moved her."

  "He gave you specifics?"

  "I was loath to question him directly."

  "That was probably wise. Turkey is not Georgia."

  "How're things there?"

  I heard the hesitation before she answered. "We're fine."

  "Miata's taking care of you?"

  "I'm taking care of him. How are you?"

  "I've been better," I said. "I've been a lot better."

  "Then maybe you should come home."

  "I can't, not yet."

  "After Dubai, then."

  "Depends on what happens."

  There was another silence, and then Alena asked, "Have you really thought this through?"

  "Probably not," I admitted.

  "Perhaps it's time you should."

  "Just say what you want to say."

  "Don't be angry at me. If you do not consider these things, I must."

  "I'm not angry at you. I'm tired and I'm frustrated, and neither of those things are your fault."

  "If you find nothing in Dubai. What then?"

  "I keep looking."

  "Yes, but for how long? Another week? A month?"

  "As long as it takes."

  "It might take never."

  "I'm going to text you a couple of numbers," I told her. "I should be reachable through them if something comes up. I should get any messages you leave me. Otherwise, expect me to call according to schedule."

  "Come home," Alena said again.

  "I'll call you in a couple of days," I said.

  She was saying something as I hung up, but I missed it, hearing her too late, already killing the connection. After lunch, I hunted up a place to plug in the laptop, then paid the fee to get online. I did some quick research on Dubai, using my David Mercer Amex to make a reservation at the Four Points Sheraton on Khalid bin al-Waleed Road. I booked for three nights, to make it look good.

  Then I put my last clean SIM in the BlackBerry and dialed up an international dating service based out of London. The service was called Singles Internationale, and you could hear the "e" they put on the end. The recorded greeting was by a woman with a sophisticated English accent, and I bypassed her as quickly as I could, navigating the menus until I'd accessed the mailbox I wanted. It was for a fifty-seven-year-old bi-curious divorcee from Bristol whose username was "Alone amp; Anxious," a profile that I was reasonably certain didn't get a lot of hits. I left my current number, asking for a call back. Then I hung up, stowed the laptop, and found myself an unoccupied corner of an empty gate to wait. I'd barely had time to start counting takeoffs and landings when my phone rang.

  "Michael?" Nicholas Sargenti asked.

  "Hello, Nicholas. Thanks for calling so promptly."

  "I do hope you weren't waiting." He spoke in English, his accent slight, an odd mixture of French monotone married to Italian lilt. "It is only that the service notified me of the message in the box a few minutes ago, and I thought it best if I waited until I was somewhere quiet before returning your call."

  "Not a problem," I told him.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm traveling on business, heading to Dubai. I'm meeting a couple of colleagues at the Four Points Sheraton on Khalid bin al-Waleed. David Mercer, Danil Joshi, and Anthony Shephard."

  "David Mercer, Danil Joshi, and Anthony Shephard," Sargenti repeated, and I knew he was committing the names to memory rather than writing anything down. "You've spoken of Mr. Mercer before, but these other two, this is, I think, the first mention you've made of them, Michael."

  "Danil's a Georgian," I said. "I think he's from Tbilisi, but I'm not sure, to be honest. Anthony's out of Montreal."

  "Hmm. Have you known them long?"

  "No, not long at all. Anthony gets around, though. Danil's not much of a traveler."

  "I see. Both gentlemen are aware they need an entry visa to visit Dubai, I take it?"

  "Anthony's already taken care of his. Danil might have some difficulty, being from Georgia."

  "I'd think he can get in on an EU provision. I'll look into it, if you'd like."

  "That would be very helpful, thank you," I said.

  "And you're meeting them when?"

  "My flight doesn't get in until after midnight, so I doubt I'll be seeing them until late tomorrow. Morning of the day after at the latest."

  "If either of them needs my help, I hope you'
ll consider mentioning my name."

  "Goes without saying. There's one more thing."

  "Of course."

  "Elizavet talked to you about freeing up some funds. If you can earmark two hundred or so for this trip, that'd be great."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Shouldn't need more than that," I said.

  "No, no, that will pose no problem," Sargenti said. "What did you say about Elizavet?"

  "You saw her last week."

  "We spoke, yes. I've seen neither of you since we were in Prague together, at the end of March."

  "Sorry," I said. "I meant call, not saw. Jet lag, you'll have to forgive me."

  "Of course. I remain, as always, at your service."

  "Which we both appreciate."

  "Please give my regards to Messrs. Mercer, Joshi, and Shephard. I hope your business with them brings much success, Michael."

  "Yeah," I said. "You and me both."

  I hung up, went back to watching the planes taking off and landing. It was a bright day outside the airport, a vivid blue sky and heat distortion rising off the tarmac. After a while, I swapped out SIM cards again, and then sent a text message to Alena's mobile, with the phone numbers I'd promised. Less than a minute later, she sent a reply.

  RECEIVED.

  That was all. That was all there should have been. Certainly nothing more, certainly nothing sentimental. Certainly no explanation as to why she'd deceived me about meeting Nicholas in Tbilisi, where she'd really gone, what she'd really done. No justification for lying to me. At twenty-three minutes past midnight, after ninety minutes in line, I cleared customs and entered the United Arab Emirate of Dubai.

  CHAPTER

  Eleven The second night, for nine hundred dirham, I brought a hooker back to Danil Joshi's room at the Marina Palais Royale Hotel, which was as luxe an establishment as the name implied. I walked her openly past the security guard at the door the same way I'd seen countless other male guests do. We didn't touch, and we kept a reasonable distance between us, and no one looked at us twice, even though everyone on the staff knew what she was and my intentions with her, and never mind that sex outside of marriage was against the law. I was a business traveler, she was my guest, and in the end, weren't we only helping the economy?

  Her name was Kekela, which means "beautiful" in Georgian, and it suited her. She was tall, almost Alena's height, tanned and fit, with black hair that dropped in a glossy cascade to only a few inches above her hips, held away from her face by a pair of pearl-inlaid hair clips. Her features were sweet, even innocent, and she knew how to apply makeup for best effect, highlighting her cheekbones and drawing out her auburn eyes so they shone with anticipation and passion.

  Once inside my room, Kekela went straight to the couch, kicking off her high heels on the way. The shoes were black and shiny, part of her nightclub ensemble. I fixed the locks on the door, and when I turned around again she was already lounging, one long leg extended on the cushions, the other curled beneath it. The pose made her skirt ride up, revealing the top of one stocking and the elastic from the garter belt that held it secure. The stocking was black and sheer, the garter belt black and lace. With her right hand she pulled the clips from her hair, tossing each onto the coffee table, while her left worked the buttons on her blouse, unfastening them one after the other. As I watched, she teased her top open. Her bra matched the garter belt.

  "I'd like something to drink, Danil." She spoke in Georgian, using the same husky register that had made me strain to hear her in the club. "What do you have to drink?"

  "Vodka?" I asked.

  Her smile, like everything else she did, sold me even more promise.

  I opened the minibar and got out the two tiny bottles of Grey Goose, cracked them and poured them together into a glass, seeing her watch me in the reflection off the dead television screen. The act stopped when I wasn't looking at her, the eagerness and accommodation turning dull, but she was very quick, and it was right back as before when I returned to her and put the glass in her hand.

  "You're not drinking with me?"

  "I don't drink much."

  I took the chair nearest where she had been resting her head on the armrest of the couch. She pulled from the glass, half of the alcohol vanishing, then lowered it and ran a finger around its rim, meeting my eyes as she did it. As innuendo, it should have been absurd and ineffective, but she gave it as much commitment as Bacall had ever done for Bogie, and I was surprised at its effectiveness.

  "How old are you?" I asked.

  "Twenty-two."

  It was a lie, but it was to be expected. Every prostitute I'd spoken to had claimed to be twenty-two, even the ones who'd looked forty, the same way every bribe in Georgia and Turkey had been fifty euros. In Kekela's case, though, it didn't appear to be a big one, and I couldn't imagine her much older than twenty-six.

  "Where're you from?"

  "Mtskheta."

  "Where's that?"

  An eyebrow rose slightly. "The mountains. North of Tbilisi, on the river."

  "Right," I said. "That's right."

  "You work in the capital?"

  "Used to. Since the war I've been in Batumi most of the time."

  She nodded slightly, slowly, then finished the rest of her drink and set it on the coffee table. The glass met the glass without a sound. She straightened up on the couch, ran her hands through her hair, stretching to give me the show as she brought up her arms. The movement caused her blouse to open wide, and her breasts strained against her bra. Even at two in the morning it was still almost 35 Celsius outside, and humid, and the air conditioner was running, keeping the room cool, and it was that rather than arousal that had turned her nipples hard.

  Kekela held the pose for a beat longer than she needed to if she had been merely stretching, once more boldly meeting my eyes. Her mouth opened slightly, the start of a naughty smile.

  Then she froze, and her arms came down, palms planting on either side of her on the cushions, as if preparing to spring. The performance mask disappeared, too, and her jaw set. The warmth in her eyes died.

  "All right," she said, and the husky tone had gone the same way of the warmth, her voice turning hard and climbing half an octave higher. "What is this?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "What the fuck is this?"

  "I don't know what you mean, Kekela," I said.

  "I mean you keep looking in my fucking eyes. You don't look at my legs. You don't look at my tits. You don't look at my ass. You look me in the goddamn eyes."

  "Well," I said, "you've got very pretty eyes."

  She snorted. "Are you going to fuck me or not?"

  "I'd rather talk."

  "I don't do talk." Kekela pushed off the couch and onto her feet. She began buttoning her blouse. "I do oral. For extra, I let you cum in my mouth. I do anal, I do threesome, I do ass-to-mouth and I do ass-to-cunt, I do just about anything you can think of."

  Her blouse was closed. I hadn't moved. She scooped her two hair clips from the coffee table with one hand, then fixed a glare on me.

  "But I don't. Do. Talk."

  I stayed exactly as before, not moving, presenting no threat, unless she took the slight smile I had on my face as one. She turned from the hips, locating her shoes, then snapped her attention back to me, as if expecting that I'd have tried something in the second she'd looked away.

  When she saw that I hadn't, she added, as if I was an idiot, "And you're not from Tbilisi."

  "No, I'm not. If you want to leave, you should. I won't keep you here against your will."

  "I am going to leave."

  "It's just that you're from Georgia," I said. "And I was hoping that would give us a connection, no matter how small. Hoping that the language would give us a foundation of trust."

  Suspicion danced on her face. "Why?"

  "I need help."

  "You need help?" She snorted at me again, much the same way Alena did when she felt I was being unreasonably dim-witted. "Fucking obvi
ous, you need help."

  I shrugged.

  "You're paying me nine hundred dirham because you need help?"

  "I can pay more."

  I expected greed, but what I saw on her face then was curiosity, instead. She looked me over, this time much more thoroughly than she had at the nightclub, then gave the room another survey. It was a very nice room. Considering how much I was being charged for it, it damn well better have been.

  "What kind of help?" Kekela asked.

  I indicated the couch. Her mouth drew tight, nearing a scowl, and she snorted yet again. Then she sat back down, this time at the opposite end. Her feet stayed on the floor.

  "What kind of help?" she asked again.

  "I'm trying to find a girl," I said, and I told her the story of Tiasa Lagidze. "The ratio of men to women in Dubai, right now, at this moment, is three to one," Kekela told me over a late breakfast at the pool bar. "That's a lot of men looking to get laid."

  She was feasting on a plate of fresh fruit and yogurt, washing down bites with her second mimosa. We were speaking in English and Georgian alternately. Her English was very good and barely accented, and when I'd asked her about it, she'd explained that it was the lingua franca of Dubai. It was almost eleven in the morning, and hot, already nearing 40 degrees Celsius. June marked the beginning of the off-season, the weather cruel enough to send even the most die-hard hedonists running for milder climes. Only a dozen guests moved around in the pool, and beyond it I could see perhaps half that number playing along the shore. The water of the Gulf and the water in the pool were almost the exact same shade of impossible blue. Almost everyone I saw was Caucasian-European or CIS-though two were Chinese. The service staff at the hotel, on the other hand, was almost universally Southeast Asian or Filipino. Of the few guests I was seeing, the majority were female, uniformly young and beautiful. There were no kids.

  Kekela followed my gaze, then forked another piece of mango. "You're wondering if the women are all prostitutes."