by Jeff Abbott
“Almost, not quite. Zhanna. Try again.”
I said in Russian: “I hope this time I say your name correctly, Zhanna. Please inform me if I don’t.”
Her jaw dropped, then quickly her mouth closed. Her smile looked stung. Cori stared at me. Galo broke into laughter.
“Or,” I said, switching back to English, “I could just call you Z. That way we don’t misunderstand each other.”
Galo laughed again. “She didn’t tell me about him either. I guess she didn’t want to scare him off.”
“I don’t scare,” I said with a smile. But I could feel the shift. If Zhanna was on the attack, Galo would be on Cori’s side, even if he hadn’t been five minutes ago in the limo. Sides drawn. I wondered whether this family was in a permanent state of war.
Zhanna’s smile didn’t waver. “This one is younger than most of your conquests, Cori.” Her Russian accent was nearly gone, but I could hear the barest hint of it.
“Oh, like I have conquests, Z.”
Zhanna said, “I guess I should have said strays.”
“That’s what I am,” I said, meeting Zhanna’s gaze. “A stray.” I winked at her. “Don’t be all jealous, Z.”
My insolence nearly made her drop her false welcoming smile. She kept it in place, barely. I was unexpected. She didn’t like surprises. At least not right now.
Galo put a hand on my shoulder and steered me toward the house. “Welcome. We really don’t bite.”
“With everything going on between us, Cori, this was not the time to bring a guest,” Zhanna hissed behind us. She was bad at whispering.
“Now you all know what it means to be surprised,” Cori said with a hint of satisfaction. I pretended not to hear.
I followed Zhanna, with Cori and Galo, into the grand foyer of the big house. The burnt man would have smiled: the large stone entrance did look like it could be the doorway to a maze. Your brain sizzles when you enter the heart of darkness, the headquarters, the inner sanctum. You’ve made it this far, stepping carefully along in your dance of lies. I felt a bright chill climb my spine.
Four steps into the foyer I stopped as suddenly as if I’d wandered into a church service. On the walls hung three grand portraits—not photographs, but actual paintings, enormous yet delicate. Three beautiful women. The first was tall, dark, regal, riding a thoroughbred, eyes of black satin. The second was lovely, petite, a pale blonde standing in furs before an expanse of snow, eyes of sky blue. The third was a brunette with generous curves, impeccably dressed, with a bouquet of flowers in her hand, walking in a field. The loveliest of the three, which was saying a great deal. Her smile was warm. It was a face so much like Cordelia’s, I studied it.
The three Varela wives. I wondered if the placement of the portraits was intentional, or if this was just the expanse of wall that could hold the huge paintings. A reminder of loss, or a reminder of division. Odd that they would be displayed together. One had the sense of…trophies. I saw each of the three siblings, step and half, pause before their own mother’s portrait. A moment of homage, a moment of…missing their mother. My mom was still alive but we didn’t really talk. That was a shame, but I seemed powerless to change it. I knew it was a cheap excuse. At heart I was a disappointing son and I knew it. But with my parents’ work I had been in places where suffering seemed to hang in the air—coastlines ravaged by storm, villages abandoned during war, fields emptied by famine—and this house felt the same in some way, marred, ruined, by a deep well of tragedy.
“Your mom was lovely,” I whispered to Cordelia. She’d taken my hand and I wondered if it was for the charade or so we could give each other a boost of courage. We were in a very dangerous situation—clearly, from her warning—and we didn’t yet know how much we could count on each other. She looked at me and I could see fright on her face; she was deathly afraid here in her own home, and then she slipped the merry little mask back on with a smile. The meet my boyfriend, everyone, I’m so excited expression.
“Mum was,” she said. “She grew up near Canterbury, England. She was a model in London when she was young.” I glanced at Zhanna and Galo; they were still looking at their moms’ pictures. “All those were painted at Papa’s houses. Galo’s mom, here. Zhanna’s mom, painted when Papa had a house near Moscow, he had a lot of Russian business deals then.”
Zhanna glanced away.
“And my mother, well, not in England, but at Papa’s house in Johannesburg. When FastFlex started to grow, they were doing many flights across Africa.”
I thought of what Paige had said, the rumors that FastFlex and Rey Varela had flown all sorts of weapons and arms into those unstable countries. I wondered again if Steve’s path had ever crossed Rey’s.
“He doesn’t have those houses in Russia and South Africa anymore,” Zhanna said. “Just this one.”
Zhanna coughed and Galo turned away from the portrait, as if resisting the pull of the past. You couldn’t help but feel you were sliding under Rey’s thumb here. This display didn’t seem like a memorial.
We followed Galo away from the three portraits. Rey Varela was here. And I wanted to look in his eyes, see what I saw.
We walked into a large den. Magnificently furnished in what I’d call Grand Caribbean: dark woods, local art, a beautiful mahogany bar. I ran my hand along the smooth wood. Beyond the bar were family photos, less intimidating than the portraits. Galo, Zhanna, and one of Cori and her brother Edwin together, smiling, laughing, leaning on each other’s shoulders.
“Where is he?” Zhanna said. “He was here a moment ago.” She went to the windows. “Kent? Where is Papa?”
A fortyish man, dressed in a fine light suit and wearing dark sunglasses, came to the door. Then I noticed his thin white cane, gently moving in front of him. He was blind.
Zhanna touched his arm. “Kent, we have a guest. Cori’s boyfriend. He’s over by the bar.” She guided him toward me. And I noticed all the brittleness she seemed to show the world—in the nightclub, in the driveway—vanished. She looked at Kent with a real tenderness.
Kent smiled and said, “Well, hello, boyfriend.” He did not sound particularly surprised. He extended his hand.
I moved forward, took the blind man’s proffered hand. “Hello. I’m Sam Chevalier,” I said.
“Kent Severin.” He was balding, with light blond hair, a granite jaw, a strong face. His accent was soft, Southern. His handshake was firm. “A delight to meet you. Cori needs a boyfriend.”
“You’re funny,” Cori said. “Where’s Papa?”
“I guess he went upstairs,” Kent said. “He was certainly anxious to see you all…”
“Sweetheart, wait here,” Cori said to me. “I want to find Papa and talk to him about you first…it’ll be better that way.” And Cori left, and her brother and her stepsister followed her. Presumably to watch the fireworks if their papa wasn’t pleased to have a weekend guest. But I thought this was more for show.
“Have a seat, Sam,” Kent Severin said. “I’m also Zhanna’s boyfriend, by the way. She’s not good at introductions.”
Boyfriend? I thought. And where were you when your girlfriend was at the nightclub the other night? It didn’t seem like a brotherly/sisterly night on the town for Zhanna and Galo. I’d thought, mistakenly, that they were an arguing couple, ending a relationship. There had to be another explanation.
“I’m glad I’m a welcome surprise, at least to you,” I said. “I don’t mean to intrude on family time, but Cori insisted. I understand there’s some sort of family meeting.”
“Cordelia is good at getting her way.” Kent didn’t sit, but he lingered near the windows, and he completely ignored my comment about the family meeting. “I’ll save the interrogation regarding your career, your schooling, and your honorable intentions for when the whole family is here.” He laughed softly. “The Varelas are a demanding lot. Fiery. But they all love each other and they mean well.”
“I’m sure,” I said, “that Cori is worth any number of grilli
ngs.”
“She’s a wonderful young woman.”
“How long have you and Zhanna been dating?”
“Almost a year.” Kent leaned against his cane. “But I’ve worked for Rey for many, many years. I’ve known Zhanna since she was a teenager and a handful of trouble. I never paid any attention to her until a year ago. Life happens.”
“What do you do for Mr. Varela?”
“I give him advice,” Kent said. “Basically he brings me his problems—how do we expand our routes, how do we deal with troubling regulations, how do we improve security—and I help him find a solution.”
“And are Cori and I being here problems?” I might as well keep up the slightly callow persona I was crafting.
“You’re very blunt.” He kept the gentle smile in place.
“I can tell there’s a lot of tension between the siblings. I don’t want to add to it,” I lied.
“No, you’re not a problem. And Cori is a joy. It’s a misunderstanding between her and her father. Easily fixed.”
He kept the smile in place. “What do you do?” His curiosity seemed to burn in the air, despite his promise to wait and ask my particulars when the family was present.
“Same business as you. I give advice. Just on how to stay safe. I own a security company.”
“Interesting. You don’t sound old enough to be a former police officer.”
“I used to be in the military. Will that not be impressive enough to Mr. Varela?”
He ran a hand along his cane. “The kind of guys she goes for usually want to start solar-panel or granola or sustainable-farming businesses—often with Cori’s money. Security is a brave new territory for us with a Cordelia boyfriend.” He sounded cordial, but a hint of malice tinged the gossipy words. But then he laughed. “I’m a big Cordelia fan. We all are. She’s a genuinely good person.”
“So what is Mr. Varela like?”
“He’s very strong-willed. He’s…but you should know…ever since he got sick, I mean, it’s all been…different.”
I started to say, Sick? but Cori would have told a boyfriend if her father were seriously unwell. So I shut my mouth.
Zhanna raced back into the room. “Kent, he’s gone. Papa’s gone, we can’t find him.”
Kent pulled out a smartphone, said to the screen, “Call Rey.” He listened at the phone. “He’s not answering.”
I looked out the window. Steep hills and gulleys marked this side of the property, small trails winding down toward a crescent of shallow beach and a curve of a small inlet, stunningly blue. “Maybe he went to run an errand,” I suggested.
“He has people for that,” Zhanna said, clearly indicating with her tone that I was an idiot. “He has me. Maybe he’s having an episode…”
I didn’t ask what that meant; better to be seen as immediately helpful rather than inquisitive. “Is the property large?” I asked.
Zhanna took a break from her concern to smirk at me. “No, we built this huge house on a postage stamp.”
“Yes, Sam, it is,” Kent answered, more politely. “Hopefully he hasn’t wandered away. Let’s spread out, let’s find him.” Zhanna took his arm and hurried him out of the library, leaving me behind. “Wait here, Sam!” he called.
Presumably I was useless, as I didn’t know the property. Or I wasn’t trusted. He’d wandered away? Perhaps the sickness wasn’t physical.
I went to the French doors and then out onto a large stone patio. In the distance, past the hills, was a bright-blue smear of ocean. At one side of the patio were steps, winding down out of sight, to gardens bright with blooms. I figured I might as well help and I hadn’t seen anyone searching in this direction.
I headed down the steps.
20
AS I WENT down the stone steps I could see the chaos that was creeping into the garden beds—weeds, wild growth so heavy with blossoms that they bent under the weight.
The staircases wound away from the house, putting me out of sight of the Varela home. In the distance I could hear muffled cries that sounded like Papa. Cori and Zhanna, calling for their wayward father.
I stopped at the end of the stone stairs. The last few were broken, ending into soft grass and the more level stretch of the hillside. Another set of stairs on the opposite side of the knoll led down to the beach. Farther down the grass was a dense growth of small trees. He hadn’t come this way, at least. Unless he’d gone out into the wilderness, and with two of his children arriving, surely not…
Then I heard it. A cry. Soft, quickly muffled. For a moment I thought it a trick of the wind.
Caution kept me from calling out Mr. Varela’s name. The suddenness of the cry being stopped. Something was wrong.
I ran onto the grass. I moved away from the stairs leading to the beach toward where I’d heard the sound. The short trees grew thick here and the scrub was patchy, but I could see tracks in the dirt, two sets of prints, one dragging a foot, the other heavier. Heading downhill, threading through the trees, curving toward the neighboring hills and another stretch of beach.
I followed.
Forty seconds later I saw them, down the hill from me, weaving through the scrubby trees. An older man, in dirty white slacks and a torn guayabera shirt, being hurried along by a much bigger man dressed in camo pants and a dark-green shirt, shoulders thick with muscle, dark hair clipped short. Maybe thirty. He powered the older man—I recognized him as Rey Varela from Paige’s clippings file—down the hillside, the old man clutching at the scrubby, bent tree trunks. With one hand the bigger man guided Rey Varela; his other hand held a knife. No sign of a gun, but that didn’t mean anything.
I ran after them, at full speed. Only slowing to scoop up a rock because I had no weapon.
As I closed in on them, Mr. Varela turned, saw me, his dark eyes widening, and he cried out again. Moaning, talking, saying words I couldn’t make out.
Giving me cover to approach.
The kidnapper didn’t turn toward me, but he shoved Rey Varela and told him to shut up. At the last second he heard my footsteps, but I jumped and slammed my feet into the kidnapper’s back. He and Rey stumbled and fell as I rolled past them.
I saw the knife, bright steel, in the kidnapper’s grip. He let go of Rey Varela and scrambled back. I threw the rock, hard, he dodged, but it grazed his head, bloodying his hairline. He retreated back to where Rey Varela crouched and then he grabbed the old man by the collar of his ruined guayabera.
And then he smiled at me.
He slammed Rey Varela’s head into one of the small tree trunks. The old man fell to the ground, stunned. It was ruthlessly efficient. The kidnapper never broke eye contact with me. He needed the old man down and not escaping; there was a tree and so he used it.
My throat went dry. Odd he didn’t use him as a hostage, a shield.
“You’re not one of them,” he said to me, in a soft voice.
I didn’t know what that meant. Then he started trying to kill me. The kidnapper came at me in a feint, trying to draw me out into the open where I had no tree to shield me, where he could catch me and slice me open in clean silence. I dodged back. But retreating uphill is dangerous, especially when you can’t see a root or a stone or a patch of treacherous loose dirt that can trip you up.
I snatched another rock from the ground. It didn’t fit into my hand as neatly as the first one.
“Eddie?” Rey Varela called, dazed, his temple bloodied by the tree. “Eddie?”
The kidnapper ignored him and concentrated on me. He held the knife in his right hand and made a grab for me with his left. If he slowed me for one second, he could stab me or open my throat.
I parried, smacking his hand with the rock.
I wasn’t letting go of this stone yet.
The kidnapper reversed his hold and slashed with the knife, missing me, catching the air. When the knife swept past and his reach was to my left I drove the rock toward his throat. He stumbled back, surprised. I missed crushing the larynx but it hit him har
d and he grunted. But then I didn’t see his other hand jab toward my neck. He clawed at my throat and I swung the rock toward his head, hoping to shatter his eye socket or his jaw before he could stab me.
But the loose dirt of the steep hillside beneath both our feet gave way and I slid past him. The knife caught me along the shoulder, cutting through the light blazer into my skin, my blood bright against the canary-yellow shirt.
It hurt and I was on my back, the sky and the knife above me, and he reached for my throat. I could see my own blood on the knife’s edge and I hammered the heel of my hand toward his face. He blocked and parried me with his free hand, not risking me getting a grip on his knife, using sharp, sudden muay thai punches against me. Not what you expect to see in a street thug. I grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the knife and I sank my teeth hard into it. He screamed. He was bigger than me and ropy with muscle but as my teeth sank he dropped the knife.
It fell to the ground. He tried to grab for it and I used a sok ti elbow slash across his eyebrow, the blow cutting his flesh, bloodying him. He howled in rage and I slid away from him, dodging his grab as he tried to seize me. He forced his hand over the dropped knife before I could reach it.
Now I was the one in retreat.
I was still sore from chasing Steve’s killers and I ran toward Rey Varela, thinking, Get him up, get him out of here while the kidnapper’s down. It is always a different fight with a noncombatant in the mix. I reached for the old man, and the kidnapper was blinded by the blood gushing into his eyes but he heard my breathing. He’d recovered the knife and made another slash at me, opening my jacket’s back through to the skin. The pain was bright and hot. I whirled to face him.
His eyes and his nose were bloodied. He raised the knife again, telegraphing that he intended to slash, and I slammed my fist into his damaged face. Then into his guts and a kick into his groin. He stumbled back. I had him reeling. I just needed to grab the knife.
Then Rey Varela changed it all. Bloodied and confused, he bounded onto the kidnapper, a rock raised in his fist. The kidnapper slashed at him, and the old man cried out, dropping the rock.