Damage Time

by Colin Harvey

  "I said, you've been slow to visit my grandson."

  Shah smiled. "I guess I have, Ma'am." He held his hands open in a what-can-I-say gesture. "I've been… away. And maybe not as good a friend as I should. You visit every day?"

  "Every day," Mrs Trebonnet said, closing her mouth so tightly that Shah imagined he could hear the sound of jaws snapping shut. "Not like some of them, fair-weather friends. They come at the start, but they fall away. They don't think my eldest grandson he is going to come out of it. But I know he will." Her eyes glinted, her glare defying him to argue.

  Instead Shah pulled up a second chair from where it sat in the corner and perched on the edge of it on the opposite side of the bed. When he leaned forward, he could barely see the little old woman over the mound of Marietetski's body. "So what's the plan, Mrs Trebonnet?"

  "No plan. We just keep vigil till our love pulls him back from the edge of heaven."

  Shah said nothing, but leaned forward in an attitude of prayer. Instead of praying, he tried to empty his mind of all thought. It was scarily easy.

  The gloom thickened as the evening advanced.

  "Why aren't you out catching that Ripper Man?"

  Shah had done nothing but look at the latest victims all day, trying to find a pattern. A police-employed young woman; a mother of three; an old man. They seemed unconnected but for the fact that they lived in New York. Not quite once a week the Ripper had struck. But the only pattern was a lack of pattern. There would be months between attacks, then a whole cluster of them, as was the case now. "We're trying, Mrs Trebonnet."

  She snorted. "To try is to fail. Don't try, just do. That was how my John lived. Lives." Shah saw a tear trickle down her cheek. "This was his stepping stone to the Justice Department, maybe even Congress. It wasn't supposed to get him killed. Because he might as well be dead." She blew her nose vigorously. "I shouldn't say such tings, John. I'm sorry." She cleared her throat. "Sometimes the despair creeps up on me, catches me by surprise."

  "It does that," Shah agreed.

  That night whatever cyber-gods ruling the Web forgave Shah, or his visit earned him the karmic equivalent of a doggie treat. Or maybe just random chance caused the inside of his eyes to flicker with the results of his search.

  Streams of hits rolled down his inner eyelid, the closest matching one flashing at the 'top' of the circular list. Shah paid the fee, noting the properties of the copy for tomorrow when he would check whether those properties were faked, and dived in–

  In the darkness she's in your arms, nails digging into your triceps as you kiss her. She thrusts her tongue into your mouth. You've never drunk alcohol, but you've heard about the symptoms: clumsiness, wild mood swings, a sense of vastness – you've got it all. You're drunk on her. "Intoxicated," you slur, coming up for air. She kisses your throat, down in the hollow at its base. "Thass what I am. Intoshicated." You clap your hand over your mouth.

  "What?" she whispers, pulling your hand away.

  "Thin walls," you whisper back, giggling. "Don't want a Noisy Neighbor summons."

  "Sorry." She nibbles at your ear. You slide your hand up her thigh but she bats it away. "There's no rush. We have all night."

  Now, lying together, her leg wrapped around you, she answers a question you asked in the bar. "Most men just want to fuck me. Those who do want to talk usually go on about themselves, impressing me with their alpha-male boasts. If they ask about me, it's always clichéd questions like, 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a job like this?' Like this is by implication somehow unworthy of consideration as a nice job." She adds, "You're different."

  "Few sh-weeping generalizations there," you slur, echoing her earlier criticism of you.

  She digs an elbow into your ribs, but ignores the interruption. "When we met, you seemed genuinely interested in me, like you'd be interested in anyone. No subliminal desire to reform me, or save me, just natural curiosity. And you're not bad-looking, you know."

  You laugh. "Yeah, see the pretty young girls beating down my door…"

  "Lamp," she says. The bedside light's low glow is enough to show her features, but dim enough to airbrush out any distinctiveness. She studies you. "You're just that little bit too intense. It probably scares most women off."

  "But not you?"

  She shakes her head. "Nuh-uh. Not me. I don't scare easy, bud." She runs a talon down your chest, and kisses the curls that carpet it. "Lamp off." She carries on kissing your chest in the sudden darkness, running her nails down you, until your breathing grows ragged.

  You blank your mind so you lose control too soon, but your calm shatters when she takes you in her mouth. As you slide your hand down her side, she wriggles and the dress falls away. Her nipple is hard in your hand, and as you run your hand down further, she stops what she's doing, "Pete," she whispers. Your hand reaches her waist, and suddenly you feel–

  "Sharmuta!" you yell, pushing her away. "What the – you have a cock?"

  "I was going to tell you!"

  "You thing!" Rage possesses you. Gripping her hair in your left hand, you punch her with your right. She doesn't fight, but while you couldn't normally hit a defenseless woman, this is different. Only when your fist hurts so much you release her hair does she crawl away, sobbing. You hold your sides, shivering.

  Eventually she whispers, "I thought you were different."

  "Get out."

  The sound of rustling is followed by the click of the door, closing.

  XXX

  The sand is everywhere, in your nose, ears, and whenever you breathe through the gauze mask in your mouth. Only your goggles keep out the worst of it. You wriggle forward on your belly, the stony ground pressing through your fatigues.

  You think of Soudabeh, soft flesh and softer lips pressed against you in your marriage bed, and the rocks do not hurt quite as much, leaving only the pain in your heart and head.

  Only three weeks ago you stood with tens of thousands of other men, the women respectfully indoors as they should be, pounding your fist against your chest in your shared condemnation of the Great Shaitan's latest incursion. Not content with corrupting the people of the Gulf for over fifty years, their fleets now massed off the south Yemeni coast, readying to invade that pious land. They claimed provocation, and protection for their lackeys in the House of Saud, but everyone knows that Hitler claimed provocation too.

  For you the anger was a safety-valve for the grief that threatened to blow you apart.

  When you reported to the Bassidji Office you expected you would be fighting Americans, rather than crawling on your belly through the border with Turkmenistan. But it makes sense. The infidel cadre of Hindu, Sikh, Buddhist and atheists comprising the Pan-Asian Republic are now a greater threat to Pan-Islamic security than the Great Shaitan. "The brothers in Turkmenistan need our help," the officer at the briefing told your team. "Since desertification's set in, their government's increasingly propped up by the heathens. Our fellow Muslims need our help to overthrow their oppressors." For the Americans, it's all about oil. Their gas-guzzling lifestyle has finally caught up with them. Their oil addiction rendering their country as decrepit as one of their wizened alcoholics on the educational feeds about the perils of alcohol. Instead of broken veins and bloodshot eyes their country has a broken society and a blood-soaked history.

  You see the border fence through the swirling curtain of sand, and glimpse the figures of your two colleagues. Your bowels are like ice-water, but you breathe deeply for courage. Soudabeh would want this, were she alive. You only hope that your martyrdom will be quick. There are stories that the Pan-Asians have found a way of jamming detonators, although others whisper that the failures are more down to faulty detonators or even faulty willpower.

  You reach one of the myriad gaps in the fence – Iran's border with Turkmenistan is a thousand kilometers long – and wriggle through on your belly. "Are you all right, old man?" One youngster says.

  You nod, wanting no further conversation.

 
; You kneel, and pray towards Mecca and take the picture of you and Soudabeh from where it's secreted in your pocket. Lifting your mask for a moment, you kiss the picture and bid her farewell. "I'll see you soon, my darling."

  Then you walk onwards out of the sandstorm, toward the infidels, and beyond them in heaven, Soudabeh.

  XXXI

  Friday

  As morning sunlight streamed through the window, Shah rubbed grainy eyes and stood under the shower, turning it up to full blast. What disturbed him wasn't the revelation of Aurora's gender as much as his furious reaction to it. Why'd it bother you? Why doesn't it now?

  He parked the thought and dressed quickly. He left without waiting for Bailey, sending a message to her mailbox not to call round. He wasn't sure whether she would have after yesterday's furore.

  The morning was cool, limpid, but the heat was already building, drawing out the sickly-sweet smell of uncollected refuse. Shah walked quickly, grabbing a Danish on the way. He was entering the office when his eyepiece chimed.

  The avatar had the face of a blocky, heavyset man who looked like a weary bloodhound with five o'clock shadow. "You're Officer Shah?" The caller had a heavy Russian accent. "I am Pahlyuchenko, at the Russian Embassy."

  "Good morning," Shah said.

  "I have news for you, and apologies for taking so long. The request for identity only arrive this week, and it takes three days to get answers from my own bureau. Is same world over, nyet?"

  Shah took it as an apology. "Seems that way. What's your news?"

  "You have Jane Doe, you call her." An image of a bruised and battered girl on a mortuary slab appeared in Shah's vision; originally ID'd as Aurora Debonis, in error. She looked nothing like the girl he'd seen in the burn. Her hair was too short, but Shah recalled the tag about record tampering and incorrect DNA reconciliation. Pahlyuchenko continued, "We call her Natalia Sirtisova, according to her DNA. She is supposed to be in Vladivostok. Her brother Aleksandr is in US on student visa, but does not answer our calls to him."

  Shah was tempted to chew his ear for calling a dead girl's brother about a US investigation, but held his temper. Turf wars could wait until later. That the Russians had already checked with Vladivostok explained why they'd taken so long to get back to him. "Thank you sir," he said. "We'll take calling the brother from here as this is a criminal case, but we'll keep you informed." Shah cut the line before the Russian could argue.

  Ten minutes later Shah had a copy of Aleksandr's student visa and confirmation that Homeland had no immigration records for Natalia Sirtisova. Shah had a good idea why; Vladivostok was a gang-run war zone whose citizens would consider the US a paradise by comparison. Shah looked again at the picture of the brother, and rifled through pictures.

  Then he put in a call to van Doorn. "I need a warrant, and backup."

  The police wagon disgorged a SWAT team at the back of the showroom. "Ready?" Stickel asked, at the front. Her partner Martinez nodded, as did Shah and Bailey.

  As they strode through the doors Sunny Kotian yelled, "Now what?"

  Shah stood at the edge of the showroom transmitting the warrant while holding a hard-copy of it aloft. "Sunil Kotian, we've a warrant to search these premises and an arrest warrant sworn out for a supposed student who just happens to be one of your grease monkeys." He paused, shooting Sunny a bleak smile. "Our boys have this moment stopped two bolts of lightning at the back door. One of them matches the description of Aleksandr Sirtisova, named on the arrest warrant. The Homeland Department will be paying you a visit later on today about your employee screening." Shah waved the CSU forward, and walking away, ignored Sunny's protests while hiding his smile from the younger man.

  For the next half an hour Shah stonily ignored Sunny's long rant of protest as Bailey and the rest of the team went through every file they could access.

  Kotian senior arrived in a chauffeured limousine. As he entered the showroom, Shah took another call and waved Bailey forward. Shah called to Sunny, "We rushed a DNA comparison between the dead girl and the arrested guy." His expression turned suddenly bleak. "Sunil Kotian, I'm arresting you on suspicion of human trafficking. You do not have to say anything – oh, finish it, Martinez." When they led the still-yelling Sunny away, Shah turned to Bailey. "You go with him. I'll stay here."

  "We still can't tie Sunny to the dead girl's murder," Bailey said.

  "Not yet." Shah turned to the CSU and the accompanying detectives and said in a loud voice, "Make sure you put it back tidily. Don't leave the place a shit hole."

  One of the detectives gave Shah a hard stare, and raised his eyebrows. Shah winked at him, and the detective mouthed "OK."

  "Officer Shah, this persecution cannot continue," Kotian said.

  Shah said, "You seem to think that there's something personal about this."

  "Isn't there?"

  Of course there is, you fuckwit. Everything says that it was your dirtbag son that damned near burned my brain out. "I'm not the same guy you used to know, Mr Kotian. Everything that made that man who he was has gone, like you said the other day. There's nothing personal about this."

  Kotian nodded, watching Shah. Even knowing who he was, Shah could feel the man's magnetic charm tugging at his emotions. Hell, he probably is a nice guy – for a gangster.

  Shah strolled over to the gleaming limo. "You've been here a long time, Mr Kotian."

  "Sunny was born here," Kotian said. "So sad, what happened to his mother."

  "Accident?" Shah said, although he'd seen the file.

  Kotian shook his head. "No one ever caught the burglar. I think that it was at that point that we gave up believing in law enforcement, Officer." Before Shah could reply, Kotian said, "I'm sure that you're a decent man, but the system – well, it doesn't favor us, does it?"

  "Us?"

  "Entrepreneurs. Men who move between social stations, those who don't know their place." Kotian paused, choosing his next words. "I'm a Millennium Baby, Officer, as you'll know from your checking of my records. Do you know how it feels – not the abstract, but the reality of being born on January 1st, 2000?"

  It means no one ever said 'no' to you until it was too late. "I guess that it makes you sort of special."

  "I was always the center of attention." Kotian might have been bragging, but his voice was matter of fact. "Even after the death of my parents when I was twelve – especially after."

  Shah wondered. A lot of people seem to die around you, Kotian.

  "Do you know what my given name – Abhijit – actually means?"

  Shah shook his head. Guess I'm going to find out.

  "One who is victorious." Kotian laughed, opened a packet of pistachios and offered some to Shah, who shook his head. "What sort of nonsense is that? Pressurize your children to succeed, huh?" Kotian's head waggled in the all-purpose wobble. "But in some ways it worked. I had to succeed. So you know what? I got rich doing anything and everything – I'm not scared to get my hands dirty, if need be. Though I left it all behind when I came here, except for some of my wife's family. They followed me over. But new country, new start."

  "You left everything behind?"

  "I left behind any disregard for law."

  "With your family?" Shah smiled, to make it a joke.

  Kotian didn't laugh. "Already dead. All killed in the Bhangala Massacre. As I'd have been, had I not already left for Bangalore."

  Sectarian massacres weren't unknown, but to leave no survivors at all? That sounded like one of the reprisal killings he'd read about in India while reading up on Kotian. When someone wanted to send a fugitive a message. Life is cheap – if we can't get you, we'll get your family and friends instead.

  "You've done well," Shah said. "Two gorgeous wives."

  "And a complex web of family loyalties." Kotian sighed. "Family is a wonderful thing until they want something."

  "Why did you want to come over?" Shah said. "Life in PanAsia is supposed to be wonderful – or so I'm told."

  "If you're very ri
ch it is wonderful," Kotian said. "But parts of the subcontinent are no better off than here. They simply manage what they have better than Americans." He roused himself. "I'm not being very hospitable, am I? Would you like a glass of Chai?" Without waiting for an answer Kotian clapped his hands. "Serena!" He shouted several something in what Shah guessed was Indian, despite Shah's protestations.

  A few minutes later a young woman in traditional Indian dress appeared with a tray of drinks. Kohl-eyed, her sulky mouth was heavily lipsticked, and as she bowed, placing the tray of drinks on the table she gave Shah a look that he couldn't quite interpret. When she left Shah said, "You don't seem very concerned about Sunny. We're chatting while your son languishes in a police cell."