by Eddy Will
Chapter 3
London, England, August 1, 2012, 9:18 PM
Maria Koshkova rose from the sleek modern desk made from plywood and steel, the product of a famous American furniture designer, and slowly walked across the acid-washed concrete floors of the art gallery. Rain ran in steady streams down tall store windows, pelting the glass with a steady and soothing prattle. Maria had turned off most of the lights illuminating the art work on display and for sale during business hours. But now there were more shadows than light. Maria’s long fingers brushed against the hip of the Goddess Diana, a granite statue in a modern, interpretative style. It was hard to tell which way was up on the piece, Maria thought, but the artist was popular and her work in demand, and so the piece was in Maria’s gallery. She strolled past three-dimensional art, a waterfall of paint dried instantly in mid flow, an over-sized capsule of Tylenol over six feet tall. Her spiked heels clacked on the hard concrete and tall ceilings echoed her steps. Maria stopped at the store front window and gazed at her reflection in the dark glass, the night outside turning the window into a looking glass. Maria considered herself beautiful in a very classic sense. And she had every reason to believe so. All her life her beauty had helped her along, made her stand out and compelled others to give her credit where maybe it was not due. Her most powerful trait though was not her beauty, it was her cunning which gave her a knack for making life’s challenges work in her favor. Yes, she had come a long way from the small Ukrainian village of Kubanka, some twenty miles north of Odessa. Her parents, were they alive, should be proud, although Maria had the nagging suspicion that her mother might have a few choice words for her, were she alive that is.
Maria Koshkova had locked the doors to the gallery at exactly eight o’clock as she does every night, but her work was not done. Procuring art, discovering new artists and selling their pieces at a handsome profit to image-conscious and well-heeled hipsters was what some might call her day job. It certainly was not her main income stream, but it served as an innocuous front for her extra curricular activities.
Pricing art is an art itself and it is virtually impossible to put a reasonable price tag on the purchase or sale of a particular piece. No one knows or can convincingly explain why a twelve inch plywood square painted red and covered with no less than four hundred coats of varnish sold for eighteen thousand dollars, but it did and quickly too. Thus, financial accounting for buying and selling art was nebulous at best and that suited Maria Koshkova just fine. It made it practically impossible to account for the accounting and very possible to move money unaccounted through the gallery. Her chosen field of work allowed her to travel across the globe in search of new art and artists creating the perfect cover for her frequent trips with a far different agenda.
Maria checked her small, diamond studded watch on her slender wrist as she has done every few minutes for the last two hours. Next she pulled the slim smart phone from the holster hooked to the thin black belt and checked the display just in case she somehow missed the call. Maria detested not being in control and she felt like a lovelorn schoolgirl pining for the voice of a special boy. But it was no boyfriend’s call she was waiting for with diminishing patience. There had not been a boy in Maria’s life since a brutish uncle forever dissuaded her from the male sex at the tender age of thirteen. She had learned to hate men and found solace only in her own gender. That, like her covert activities, however was no one’s business. She much preferred to remain at arm’s length and, if asked, few of her friends would actually know much about the woman they socialized with on a regular basis. They might refer to her as an enigma or a mystery, charming and easy-going to be sure, but nonetheless a mystery.
A couple, huddled under a large umbrella, hurried by the store front, the man’s arm protectively wrapped around the woman’s waist. Maria was startled as the couple broke into her reflection in the dark glass, breaking her image and interrupting her thoughts. Her eyes narrowed as the image of the man’s arm around the woman’s waist lingered in her mind and a dark shadow flashed across her pretty face making it just that much less pretty. The Ukrainian art dealer turned abruptly on her high heels and walked back to her office and her desk. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a drawer and lit up. Exhaling a long thin line of blue smoke she looked around for the ashtray. She was stressed and had every reason to be. Generally the procurement of talent each year was up to her, but this year the talent had been cast by the customer which made the procurement all the more dangerous and unpredictable. Her fee had been adjusted accordingly and she had agreed to the bargain against her better judgment. The green phone on the desk rang sharply, piercing the quiet. Maria jumped from the edge of the desk she had been leaning against. She picked up the old-fashioned receiver and listened.
“Good news Maria, I have found and secured the statue of Artemis and it is in perfect condition,” a male voice said thousands of miles away on the other side of the world. He was delivering a prepared script, every phrase carrying a specific message. ‘Good news’ coupled with the word ‘Maria’ indicated that the caller was speaking freely and communicating on a secure line. ‘Found and secured’ was code for the successful abduction according to plan and schedule. ‘Statue of Artemis’ referred to the subject. Every subject was given a code word with reference to the art world by which they would be identified. Names were never used, not even on secure lines. And “perfect condition’ is code, albeit a weak one, for the physical condition of the subject at the present time.
“Good news, indeed,” Maria Koshkova said into the phone, “when can I take possession?”
Replying with ‘good news indeed’ assured the caller of a secure line on Maria’s end.
“The statue will be hand delivered within twenty four hours,” the voice said.
“Wonderful. The Statue of Artemis. I can’t wait,” Maria said and placed the bulky retro receiver into the cradle. Old rotary phones were impervious to digital surveillance and a listening device such as a bug was easily found. Adding a scrambler to the phone protected the user from unwanted tapping, making the telephone from days gone by a safe communication device in the modern world.
Maria Koshkova exhaled a sigh of relief and extinguished the cigarette. The most dangerous phase of the mission had been a success. The abduction of Anna Jaeger had gone without a hitch.
Chapter 4
Huarez, Peru, August 1, 2012, 6:13 PM
Rescue crews had pulled the frozen bodies of Jane and Tom from their icy graves and Jack’s transceiver had gone silent. There was no additional body under the packed snow beneath them. Storm had held out the transceiver in his hand and walked in increasing circles around the location where he had found the bodies of Anna’s friends. The transceiver remained silent.
The sun had set some time ago and the evening had grown cold. The stocky rescue officer in charge caught up with the wandering Jack and urged him to take a break.
Jack understood he needed sleep for rest was a most powerful weapon. He also understood there was no realistic chance that Anna would be found alive. No one could survive twelve hours under the compacted snow. He nodded in agreement and followed the officer to the well-lit scene where the bodies had been found. Jack gazed into the dark, moonless night at the mountain he knew was there but could not see and thought of Anna. What terror she must have felt in her final moments. And his heart broke. He turned abruptly and stared at the two bodies tucked into black body bags.
‘As long as there is no body there is hope’, he decided and would hold on to that glimmer of hope for as long as possible. The black climbing rope that had tethered the climbers lay neatly coiled near the body bags. Jack picked up the end that should have been hooked to Anna’s harness and studied the clean straight cut that had severed her from the other two climbers. It was possible that the rope had been cut during the avalanche with such force on a rock or sharp edge that it produced a clean knife-like cut.
‘Possible yes, but likely not’, Jack Storm thought.<
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Rescue crews packed up their gear. Work lights went dark one after the other and soon the gruesome scene was plunged into darkness. Men carried the bodies of the dead climbers to waiting ambulances, their lights flashing in silence despite the lack of urgency.
Jack Storm stood alone in the cold night for a long time, unsure of where to go or what to do.
He found his way to the road and walked, his mind numb, the wave of reality pushing hard against his defenses of denial. Main Street was deserted, the night unforgivingly cold. The occasional pedestrian hurried from the warm comfort of a restaurant or bar to another well-heated place. Jack neither heard nor saw the car approaching from behind. The sound of the engine and the headlights should have caused him to notice, but he was oblivious to the outside world, the raging battle inside his heart all consuming. The harsh sound of the horn tore him from his thoughts. Jack jumped to the curb. A black Mercedes SUV accelerated past him. As the vehicle passed, the avalanche transceiver in Jack’s pocket sounded off at a loud and steady pitch. Jack stared at the flashing red light of the transceiver.
‘That’s impossible’, Jack thought. There was not a single person on the street and yet the transceiver had responded to a transmitter carried by a mountain climber in cautious preparation for an avalanche. The receiver must be malfunctioning, maybe low on battery? And then, as quickly as the transceiver had sounded off, it fell silent. Jack stood on the sidewalk as he watched the red taillights of the Mercedes SUV disappear from view. He scanned the deserted street but saw no-one. He shook his head, dismissing the cruel joke technology had played, taunting him. Where was Anna? She was not nearby and yet the receiver had promised him otherwise.
The false alarm gave Jack an idea. What if Anna had made it off the mountain but was lost? Maybe a head injury had given her amnesia, forgetting who and where she was. Maybe she was wondering the streets of Huarez, lost, dazed and confused. The chance was remote, but it was possible. A new purpose infused his step with a lightness and he hurried to his hotel, where he switched on his notebook computer and looked through dozens of photographs he had taken of Anna. He soon had the choices narrowed down to a handful of photos of a smiling Anna. The images were vibrant with life and energy and Jack had to force the dark thoughts from his mind. There would be time for mourning and pain later, a lifetime of time, but for now he would hold on to any straw he could grasp, no matter how feeble and small. He picked a photo in which she smiled at the camera, a twinkle in her pacific-blue eyes. Jack printed the image and headed out.
He started in the lobby, showing the photograph to the receptionist, the porter and guests leaving or returning to their hotel. He entered the hotel bar. The lights were dim, pop music wafted in between animated conversation and laughter, tall glasses of beer interspersed with dainty wine glasses littered the table tops. The place was crowded. Jack worked the room, showing Anna’s image, asking if anyone had seen the woman in the photograph. People listened patiently and respectfully and all declined. No one had seen Anna.
Jack stepped into the cold night in search for the next bar or restaurant. His eyes scanned the lightly populated street for his wife. He prayed for the transceiver tucked in his pocket to chirp again, to alert him that Anna was not dead and buried under a thousand tons of snow, but lost and wandering the streets of Huarez, her injured mind battling for a connection, for recognition of something familiar. The bright red lights of Tony’s Pizza and Pasta lit up an intersection. Jack presented the photo and his story to the maître d’. The middle-aged Italian studied the photograph for a long time. He finally shook his head with much empathy and invited Jack to ask his patrons.
Fifteen minutes later he was back on the street without a lead. No one had seen Anna. Music drifted from a small and casual Taco joint. He entered the darkly lit establishment and resumed his search. He started with the bartender, a tall and skinny man sporting a long thin ponytail. The man’s hands moved quickly as he polished glasses which he pulled from a dishwasher under the counter. An elaborate moustache filled the space between the bartender’s nose and lips. Jack flashed the photograph and spoke over the noise. The bartender’s hands never stopped moving as he tilted his head and studied the photograph sitting on his greasy bar counter. Finally he shook his head. Jack began working tables and booths. A French family had not seen Anna, neither had an apologetic local couple on a date. A waitress balancing a large tray of drinks navigated her fragile load around Jack, who moved to the last booth tucked into the back of the restaurant.
Two hard-faced men occupied the corner booth, busily tearing into large burritos, two bottles of beer on the table. One grunted in what Jack thought to be Russian. Cold, uninviting eyes stared at him. Jack held up the photograph and asked his question.
Both men froze in mid-bite and stared at the photograph. The man with short cropped grey hair and a crooked nose slowly shook his head, but did not take his eyes of the image of Anna in Jack’s hand. The other man, his blond hair stringy and unkempt, shrugged and looked at his English speaking companion, mumbling a question in their native tongue. The man with short cropped hair answered with a short grunt, then looked at Jack.
“Never seen her. Why are you looking for her?” His cold eyes darted from Jack to the image and back.
“It’s my wife and she is missing since the avalanche. I am thinking that maybe she is injured and doesn’t know who or where she is,” Jack said, as he had done dozens of time already.
“No,” the Russian said. “I cannot help you.” The blond-haired man placed his burrito on the plate and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ignoring the napkin on the table. His eyes bore into Jack with the cold detachment of a needle. Jack felt unsettled.
“Sorry,” Jack mumbled and headed for the door. He almost crashed into the waitress carrying a full tray.
“Sorry,” Jack said again and rushed for the exit. He had to get out of the place.
A cold wind snapped at his face as he stepped outside. He inhaled the freezing air and forced himself to relax. Digging his hands deep into his coat pockets he headed down the near-deserted street. He passed several bars, sounds of a busy night spilling out into the night. Jack was unable to shake the unsettled feeling in his gut. Something was wrong.
The Russians knew something.
The thought popped into his mind like a flash card. He stopped in mid step and turned back, his eyes honing in on the Taco bar a block away.
Jack hurried back, unsure of what he was going to do or say. He would find the words when it mattered.
The busy waitress snaked her way along the treacherously narrow path between chair backs, balancing another full tray of alcohol and food. Jack worked his way to the corner booth. The Russians had left, half-eaten burritos and unfinished bottles of beer evidence of their presence. Jack scanned the crowded bar but the Russians were gone. A hallway leading to the restrooms ended at the rear exit. Following an impulse Jack hurried to the back door and stumbled into a snow-covered parking lot. Tire tracks cut a chaotic pattern through the white blanket of snow. Red brake lights lit up at the exit of the parking lot. The car was a hulky Mercedes Benz SUV. Jack raced after the vehicle, kicking up snow until his feet found the tire tracks of the Benz.
“Wait,” he shouted, unable to control himself. It was the same car that had nearly run him over earlier. Jack’s eyes zeroed in on the brightly-lit license plate, his brain committing the digits to memory as his legs raced to catch up to the SUV. The car turned and quickly moved out of range. Jack ran after the car, unable to stop his legs, unable to command his mind. When he finally stopped running the black Mercedes was long gone.
Jack doubled over to catch his breath. He slowly regained control of his mind. He was convinced the Russians had information about Anna. Or had he snapped, the pressure too much, the loss too great, sending him into the comforting realm of madness? Jack refused to accept that option. He was on a trajectory from which he could not escape, nor wanted to. In his battered brain, it
was the most rational option, the only option that afforded him hope. Hope that, against all odds, Anna was not dead, hope that if he only found the way, he would see her again, hold her again and all this was just a nightmare that would have a happy ending. It was the only option for Jack. And so, yes, the Russians held a key for Jack’s quest for salvation, for turning back the clock, for giving him and Anna another chance.
Jack found himself back in the snow-covered parking lot of the taco bar, unable to remember how he got here. He entered the restaurant and elbowed his way to the bar. Jack muttered apologies in both English and Spanish as he pushed along the bar to get to the bartender, who was pouring four Margaritas. He caught Jack’s eye when he deftly placed the shallow glasses on a waiting tray, which was instantly swooped up by the waitress. He cocked his head indicating he was ready for Jack’s order, but then recognized the American from earlier.
“Any luck?” the skinny man said, while pulling empty bottles from the bar.
“Maybe,” Jack said, clinging to his fragile reality. “There were two men in the corner booth, do you know them?
The bartender’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jack’s face, before his glance turned to the vacant corner booth.
“No,” the bartender said. His long finger pointed to a red-headed woman next to Jack. She called out her order and the bartender went to work.
“Look, I am kinda busy right now, I am sorry,” he said.
“I got it,” Jack said, “I’ll have a beer.” He squeezed onto a bar stool and stared at the greasy bar top. He could not stop now. What else was he going to do?
The bartender plopped down a beer. “On the house, amigo,” he said and was gone again.
“Thanks,” mumbled Jack. He grabbed a small paper napkin and jotted down the license plate number of the Mercedes SUV. There had to be a connection. It was not possible that his beloved was gone. He could not allow that to be true. The care-free bustle of the bar washed over Jack like a wave, swallowing him up, swirling around, bits of laughter, conversation and music pushing into his ears. While hoping that Anna was not dead but merely lost, Jack found himself at the verge of losing himself.