Diana's Disciples

by Eddy Will

  Chapter 5

  London, England, August 2, 2012, 12:42 AM

  Maria Koshkova walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped high around her head. A thick cloud of steam followed her through the door giving the impression of an apparition: a goddess walking out of the foggy forest. Maria smiled at the young woman tucked into the sheets of her large bed. The woman was skinny, her spiked hair dyed bright red. Maria gazed into the large brown eyes of the woman, who called herself Styx and whom she had met performing with a retro punk rock band at a trendy club in Hackney. It had been a week since Maria had Styx in her bed. It had been hectic and stressful and Maria had had no time for fun. But now the cat was in the bag, her assignment almost accomplished. It was merely a matter of transporting the ‘Statue of Artemis’ also known as Anna Jaeger to its final destination and Maria’s job would be done. She would be one million dollars richer and that was all that mattered to Maria Koshkova. Money. To the Ukrainian woman money was the only measure of success and happiness. Diversionary activities such as Styx were merely that, diversions. But what a delicious diversion, Maria thought, as she slowly walked across the plush carpet, giving her punk rock lover ample time to appreciate the impending treat.

  “Whatever made you so beautiful?” Styx said, pouting at the perceived injustice of nature.

  “I made a deal with the devil, love,” Maria said with a gurgling chuckle.

  “I am sure you did,” Styx said, “what was the bargain?”

  “Bargain”, Maria said, not following.

  “You said you made a deal with the devil. A deal has two parts, right? So, what’s the price you have to pay the devil for making you so beautiful,” Styx said, her slender body wriggling under the sheets.

  A shadow flickered over Maria’s face. Her Eastern European roots did not afford her the lightness of Western culture and for a moment her mind contemplated the comment as if it was a serious question, deserving a serious answer.

  “I am just kidding”, Styx said. “So, are you just going to stand there and show off, making me feel pathetic and ugly, or are you going to ravage me?”

  Maria smiled again, the shadow gone. “I would never ravage you. You are much too precious to ravage,” she said. Again, she missed the playfulness of her girl toy. Maria had been ravaged at a tender age and there had been nothing fun or playful about it. It had been the most horrific experience of her life, an experience that had shaped the rest of her life.

  “Not ravage, but I will enjoy you like the yummy cupcake that you are,” she said.

  As she climbed into bed her cell phone rang sharply in her purse. Maria froze, listening to the incessant, invasive ring. Her eyes shot to the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was well past midnight. Any call at this hour was bad news. Something was going wrong somewhere and there was no way she could ignore the caller. Not for Styx, not for anyone. That was part of the deal with the devil.

  “Let it go to voicemail,” Styx said, seduction in her voice. “It can wait till the morning, surely”.

  “I am afraid it can’t,” Maria said, all sensuality gone from her voice. She dug in her purse for the ringing phone.

  “Hello,” Maria said as she walked to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind her, leaving the punk girl alone.

  “We may have a situation,” the male voice said from three thousand miles and five time zones away.

  “You are not supposed to call me on this phone” Maria snapped. “It’s not secure, you idiot.”

  “You want me to hang up or do you want to hear the news, it’s up to you,” the male voice said; his voice calm but the undertone icy.

  “Go ahead, Todd. What went wrong?” Maria said, knowing she was breaking protocol.

  Todd filled Maria in on the Russians’ encounter with Jack Storm at the Taco bar in Huarez.

  “Those idiots were to drive straight to their destination, without so much as stopping for a piss,” Maria said, wishing she was clothed.

  “Spilled milk, I say. What do you want me to do about Jack Storm, if anything?” Todd said.

  “Maybe he’ll settle down and be the grieving husband. Maybe we don’t have to do anything?” Maria said, already knowing Todd’s answer.

  “It’s your call,” Todd said, calm and in control. He was a professional and calm under fire. He did not particularly like Maria. In his opinion she was too volatile, ruled by rising and falling estrogen levels. But she paid well, very well.

  “What would you do?” Maria said.

  “Eliminate the potential. No chances. Make it look like a suicide. ‘Bereaved husband tragically takes own life’,” Todd said.

  “Get it done” Maria said. She wanted the problem gone.

  “There will be a surcharge, of course,” Todd said. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “You are a bastard,” she said, as she did every time when Todd named his exorbitant prices.

  “You’re too kind. It shouldn’t be much of an operation. Storm is half out of his mind,” Todd said.

  “Make sure the statue stays on schedule. There must be no delays,” Maria said.

  The kitchen door creaked open enough for Styx to peek through. She smiled and raised her eyebrows in a question. Maria raised her index finger stopping Styx at the door. She had not heard what Todd had said.

  “I understand,” she said, not having heard a word. Styx tiptoed into the kitchen despite Maria’s protestations, smiling mischievously. She would not be made to wait any longer. The punk girl sunk to her knees in front of Maria and put her hands on the woman’s hips. With a sudden jerk she pulled Maria toward her open mouth.

  Maria gasped, but bit her lip hard.

  “Say again, Todd,” she managed to say, struggling to wiggle from Styx’s surprisingly strong grip.

  “How do I get in touch?”

  “Only call me on the green line from now on. This was a one time deal,” Maria said, her mind struggling to focus, while her body demanded she drop the phone into the sink.

  “There may be unforeseen situations that I’ll need to run by you sooner rather than later,” Todd said.

  “Handle it, Todd, I got to go,” Maria said, fighting to control her breath. She disconnected the call and slid the phone far across the kitchen counter.

  Her hands grabbed Styx’s thick red hair and Todd, Jack Storm and Huarez all faded into to a thick fog of desire.

  Chapter 6

  Huarez, Peru, August 2, 2012, 12:22 AM

  The Taco Bar had emptied out with the exception of a young couple huddled in a booth with apparently no place to take their mounting affection. The bartender had turned off the music some time ago, signaling that it was time to go. The fast pace of his moving hands cleaning, drying and storing glasses had not slowed since Jack had first lifted himself on the bar stool.

  The printed image of Anna lay on the bar top, neatly arranged. Jack had been moving the photograph back and forth all night seeking to find the perfect place, struggling to create order where there was none.

  The lovers in the booth untangled their limbs and disappeared into the night. Jack was the only customer.

  He slid form the bar stool, his body ached from a tough day. He tucked the photograph into his coat pocket, bid the bartender good night and stumbled into the night. The streets were deserted. An icy wind blew relentlessly. Jack pulled up the collar and quickly crossed the street heading for the hotel. The lobby was deserted, the receptionist had vanished. Jack climbed the stairs foregoing the elevator, grateful for the exercise.

  He slid the keycard along the slot in the door lock and the small light turned from red to green. He entered the room and froze. He was sure he had left the lights on, but the room was plunged into darkness, the blinking neon sign outside the window blocked out by heavy curtains.

  Jack felt his way to the nightstand and the bedside lamp on top of it. The entry door fell shut, cutting off the little light spilling in from the hallway. He felt a rush of air and l
ong-forgotten training from another life took over. He spun toward the bed when the sudden collision with a heavy body rattled him hard. The quick spin lessened the assault, for his attacker did not anticipate the sudden move in the dark. Jack twisted his torso and slammed his elbow into his attacker’s body. Bone crashed against bone, Jack had hit the head of his attacker. Distant memory fragments of combat training flashed in his mind. Jack rolled across the bed, seeking distance from the attacker. He landed on his feet and flipped on the bedside lamp.

  “You,” he said, gasping for breath. The blond-haired Russian from the Taco bar held a long knife. He leapt over the bed, the deadly blade leading the attack. Jack jumped aside and gave the blanket on the bed a hard pull. The assassin stumbled backwards and fell off the bed, his body hitting the floor hard. Jack’s pain and stress found release in fury and anger. He charged the killer, throwing his weight on the man on the ground. The Russian was fast. A quick roll and Jack crashed on the carpet. The Russian used the advantage and attacked, grabbing the back of Jack’s coat. The sharp blade arced in a half circle. Jack saw death slicing through the air. He raised his arm, a desperate move to stop the deadly projectile. The Russian’s forearm crashed into Jack’s arm. Jack stomped hard on the killer’s foot and punched his elbow into the Russian’s gut. The killer grunted in pain and released the back of Jack’s coat. Jack spun and faced his killer, grabbing the wrist holding the knife. He stepped back and swung the surprised Russian as if in a dance. He released the man and sent him crashing into the television armoire. Jack stormed after the killer, but the Russian tucked his knees to his chest and shot them out like battering rams, catching Jack squarely in the chest and sending him flying. Jack spun and twisted hoping to land on his hands and knees. Instead he crashed hard on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. Stars flashed in his eyes and all went black. He felt the crushing weight of the killer on his chest. His sight returned to see the flashing blade come down on him. He pulled his arms inward, blocking the deadly strike, his hand shot up, fingers frozen in a claw and punched the Russian hard in the nose. Cartilage crushed as blood spewed from the killer’s face. The Russian screamed in pain and rage. But his powerful arm found its way to Jack’s throat and pushed hard, choking off the air to Jack’s lungs. Jack kicked and bucked in panic, fighting to get the killer off him, struggling to keep the knife from piercing him. Lack of oxygen blurred his vision and Jack would not last much longer. He saw the image of Anna smiling at him and he knew he had been right. There was more to the Russians in the corner booth. If he gave up now, no-one would ever know and whatever was happening to Anna would be lost forever. Jack roared in rage and desperation, his free hand grabbing at anything within reach. His hand found a handle. He had to act now, before his breath was gone and the long knife cut through his heart.

  The Russian pulled close, the blood from his shattered nose dripping on Jack’s face. He felt the killer’s nicotine breath on his face.

  “Let it go, Jack Storm,” the Russian said in a thick accent. “Let it go.”

  Jack slammed the ice pick into the Russian’s neck. The killer’s eyes registered confusion and his grip loosened. Jack sucked air in big gulps. The ice pick stuck out straight from the Russian’s neck.

  The Russian sat up and dropped the knife. Blood poured from the killer’s mouth and he slumped backwards, pinning Jack to the ground. Jack kicked his legs and wiggled out from underneath the dead Russian. He struggled to his feet, still sucking air to fill his depleted lungs. He was shaking and battered, but he was alive and the killer was not.

  “You let it go,” he mumbled at the corpse on his hotel room floor.

  Chapter 7

  Beverly Hills, California, August 2, 2012, 10:31 PM

  Todd Ashley stood at the large window of his law office on Rode Drive and looked down at the well-lit, deserted street known for its expensive high-end shops and wealthy customers. It was far less known for the small but successful law firm at 300 Rodeo Drive. As a practical matter the majority of clients walking through the doors of Ashley, Ezra, Gold and Winchester were rich men in imminent danger of losing half their fortune to aging wives who had been traded in for younger and less demanding women. It was a dirty business and Todd Ashley knew there were no winners in divorces, except of course the lawyers. He also knew that most aggrieved wives deserved every penny they demanded but it was a cruel world and he was not going to change that world, so he might as well profit from it.

  In many cases his legal counsel was not limited to filing papers and motions. Well-heeled clients often required additional evidence to support their cases, such as surveillance and information collection that crossed the lines of privacy protection acts. Even entrapment projects were not beyond Ashley’s purview. Of course, none of these less than ethical activities would ever be traceable to his office. Ashley had spent resources and time to build a network of underworld connections that he could tap as needed. On a handful of occasions Ashley had facilitated the artful elimination of persistent wives whose cases would have likely prevailed in a court of law. And he had made sure on two occasions that cases were dismissed due to the lack of a living plaintiff. These additional services were not cheap, but then again Ashley did not accept clients with modest means.

  It were these Additional Services and his impeccable integrity that had connected him with Maria Koshkova. The art dealer, as she had introduced herself, was not in need of the best divorce lawyer on the West Coast for she was not married. But she required discreet services, the likes of which Ashley could provide. It doubtlessly was more pleasant doing business with a well-respected attorney-at-law than an underworld thug. The London-based client was the first to whom Ashley only supplied Additional Services without actually providing above-board legal counsel. He did not need the money, he had enough for several lifetimes of excess. The truth was that he was bored with his job and doing shady business gave him the excitement he missed when separating wives from their deserved settlements. He fancied himself a man who could walk in all circles of life and a lawyer by day and criminal by night fit that description well.

  Ashley had learned that setting up illegal wire taps or entrapping a soon-to-be ex-wife with the pool boy gave him an adrenaline rush that no court proceedings ever had. Soon he craved more daring adventures and the Additional Services grew in scope, daring and criminality. Although Maria Koshkova was not asking for the moon, merely two to three kidnappings per year of mostly younger and athletic females, often from less privileged neighborhoods where questions were asked with less persistence. Ashley had never asked what happened to these women. He did not particularly care. Koshkova would handle all the leg work, providing a detailed dossier of the prospects. It was Ashley’s job to facilitate the abduction and the transport to a private plane. His fee was exorbitant, but it was not about the money, it was about the thrill, the thrill of breaking the rules and getting away with it.

  The current mission, however, had been different, more challenging. The prospect had not been from an under-privileged neighborhood of a poor part of the world. And she had not been entirely unknown. Anna Jaeger was a U.S. citizen and well known in the mountain climbing community. The abduction, the ‘grab’, had to be carefully planned, leaving no open-ended questions. In addition, Jaeger was married. The husband had to be neutralized.

  Ashley had been fairly proud of his scheme to combine these ingredients into one infallible mission: a mountain climbing accident in the form of an avalanche that would kill the husband and in which the body of Anna Jaeger was never found, because she would be plucked from danger before the deadly avalanche was activated by human design. Except the husband, Jack Storm, had not participated in the climb. And now said husband wandered all over town looking for his wife’s ghost. Loose ends. It was always the loose ends, Ashley thought.

  He walked to the well-equipped office kitchen and made another cup of coffee from a one cup system his partners had bought recently. Insert Espresso Pod, press button and vo
ila, a four dollar cup of coffee in the comfort of your office. Ashley dug his hands into his linen pant pockets and watched the machine do its magic.

  He would not leave his office until he had heard from his men in Huarez. He was nothing if not diligent and thorough. There was no wife waiting at home and so it did not matter where he spent the night. Ashley chuckled to himself. Yes he was good-looking and could be charming and he did have girlfriends, but he did not want to get married, ever. Besides, what woman in her right mind would marry the most successful divorce lawyer within a thousand miles?

  Despite modern technology he only trusted the special phone on his desk, which had a blocking device that made tracing calls to his office impossible. It was equipped with a scrambler, which made listening in on his calls impossible and it had a recording device attached to the phone, which allowed him to document all conversation for later review, either for clarification or for insurance purposes.

  Ashley carried the hot cup displaying his firm’s logo back to his office. It was the only one in the building still lit, evidence of hard and dedicated work for passing pedestrians. His large glass-topped desk was neat and mostly empty, three telephones, a note pad and a black Mont Blanc pen the only items on the glass top. Ashley preferred his desk clean, it made an orderly impression on prospective and current clients. He did have in fact another office next door, a windowless room no one but he and his secretary ever saw. It was here that the real work happened. Two wooden desk contained stacks of files and documents, book cases filled with law books and binders and cardboard boxes brimming with files all at his immediate finger tips. That was next door, however. His official office was exactly the opposite. Here, the walls were not crammed with book cases but tasteful and expensive artwork, paintings from modern local artists and ancient, long dead ones adorned the white wall of his spacious office. And, of course, the window wall behind his desk with a grand view of Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills and Los Angeles. On a clear day clients could see Santa Monica and Downtown at the same time.