Diana's Disciples

by Eddy Will

  Jack’s blood ran cold.

  They were after him. The night duty officer had been involved, but had changed his mind.

  Jack hurried down the sidewalk. He needed to get away. He ran along deserted streets, racing for the hotel. Jack forced himself to slow down and scan the street for anything suspicious before he entered the hotel. His eyes ran along a row of parked cars searching for the vehicle that did not belong, that looked out of place. He studied the lobby for signs of danger. He would not be surprised again for he was now convinced that someone was after him. The attack in the hotel room had not been random, the black Mercedes Benz SVU stopping at the police station proof.

  The lobby was deserted as was the reception. Jack hurried up the stairs, foregoing the elevator. He pushed open the door to his floor just enough to see the length of the hallway. It, too, was deserted. Jack’s heart pounded in his chest as he slid the keycard in his door lock. He had left the lights on when he left the room, the body of a dead man on his floor. He pushed open the door and stared in disbelief. Gone was the killer slain with his ice pick, gone was the mess the brutal fight had left in the room. It was like nothing had happened. Jack began to doubt himself and everything he thought to be real. Had he gone mad? Was the death of Anna too much for his mind, causing it to crack irreparably, losing the capacity to distinguish between what is real and what is not? It couldn’t be, Jack forced himself to think. He grabbed his bag and car keys and hurried from the room. He was suddenly filled with a sense of urgency he could not explain. Jack reached the staircase and froze.

  Hushed voices drifted up the stairwell and he heard heavy steps of men heading up the stairs. The elevator motor rumbled into action at the same time. It was moving up.

  ‘They are here,’ Jack thought and ran down the hallway for the rear emergency exit staircase. He entered the stairwell and pushed the door closed, leaving just a crack for him to see the hallway.

  The door to the main staircase flew open and a man dressed in black stopped to scan the hallway. His face hard, his eyes cold. Seconds later the elevator door opened and the man was joined by another. They exchanged glances and headed for Jack’s room. Jack ran downstairs. There was no time to lose. He did not know what these men wanted, but it was not good.

  Jack kicked open the door and found himself at the back of the hotel in a small parking lot. There was the black Mercedes Benz SUV parked in front of a fire hydrant. The car was clear of snow, it had only just arrived. Jack ran to his rental car and carefully worked the key so as not to disturb the thick blanket of snow that had buried the car. He slipped inside and pulled the door shut. He had cleared a small area in the driver’s window, giving him a view of the hotel. The exit door flew open and two thugs stumbled into the parking lot, struggling to keep their balance on the slippery surface. Their thick heads snapped in all directions looking for their prey. One of the burly men angrily punched holes in the cold air with his meaty fists, the other punched digits into a mobile phone. The men hurried to their SUV and when one of their jackets flew open it revealed a firearm on the man’s belt. The driver gunned the engine and peeled out of the spot, but he had miscalculated the icy conditions. The powerful vehicle fishtailed violently and crashed into a lamp post before the impatient driver regained control and left the parking lot.

  Jack waited before he started his car. He turned on Main Street, his mind racing to remember the way to Chimbote. Ahead, the Mercedes Benz SUV had slowed to study a pedestrian on the nearly deserted street. The driver made a U-turn to get a better look at the pedestrian bundled up against the freezing wind. A delivery truck rumbling on Main Street honked his horn at the Benz and was forced to swerve to avoid a collision. Jack turned off Main Street. He needed to get away from the gun-carrying thugs.

  Chapter 13

  London, England, August 2, 2012, 9:48 AM

  Maria Koshkova walked out of her small muse house off King’s Road in Chelsea. She struggled with her house keys and dropped them on the wet landing to her front door. Maria cussed under her breath. She was tired and she hated having to get up when she wasn’t ready for the day. The night with the redhead had been fun, but she had not had enough sleep. And she had a meeting with an important client, who prided himself in mystery for she had no idea who exactly she was about to meet. This was not unheard of in the world of high-priced art. Wealthy collectors might insist on anonymity to protect their privacy or to avoid the lime light. Styx had been gone before Maria was ripped from her sleep by the persistent digital chirping of her alarm clock.

  Maria fumbled with the obstinate house key until she managed to get the front door locked. The drizzle turned into rain, but her luck seemed to change for when she hurried down the steps a black cab pulled up in front of her house. She waived at the driver, the motion of her arm hampered by the weight of her handbag wedged into the crook of her arm.

  ‘Great,’ Maria thought as she climbed in. The driver moved the car before Maria had settled in. She called out the address on the North East side of Hyde Park. The driver nodded and turned on King’s Road. Maria pulled her phone from her purse but found she had no reception. No bars. She moved her hand around the cabin but still the cell phone failed to connect.

  When the cabbie reached Sloane Square he turned right heading southeast.

  “Excuse me, sir, I believe you have taken a wrong turn. Hyde Park is the other way, off Park Lane.”

  The cabbie did not answer. Instead a smoked glass divider, such as found in luxury limousines, rose from behind the front seats and separated Maria from the driver. Maria was stunned. At the same time a sharp clicking of the locking mechanism told Maria that the rear doors had been locked remotely. She yanked on the door handle to confirm her suspicion.

  “What’s going on,” she cried, banging her fist on the thick dark glass. The driver did not respond, nor did he acknowledge her. Panic rose inside Koshkova. She screamed at the windows, looking to get the attention of any of the thousands of Londoners crowding the sidewalks only feet from her new prison. Not a single person rushed to her aid, not a single person even turned their head. They could not see the woman nor hear her screams. The darkened glass was not only soundproof, but had Maria had a hand gun she would have realized that the windows were also bullet-proof. Koshkova slid across the bench from one side to the other like a trapped animal. The driver headed toward Parliament Square, an area of London fraught with security and security personnel, but not a single person knew she had been kidnapped in broad daylight in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world.

  Koshkova tried her phone, but she still had no reception. The cab had been outfitted with a jamming device that blocked all cell phone and internet reception. Koshkova sat back and forced herself to breath. Slowly and deeply. She struggled to get control of the panic that had grabbed her. Panic did not help, she kept saying to herself. She forced herself to assess her situation. She was trapped in an elaborately equipped vehicle with the appearance of an average London cab. Such a vehicle was not the car of choice for the average kidnapper or rapist. It was safe to assume that something larger was underway. It was conceivable that she was not in immediate danger. Then why was she terrified?

  The Tower of London loomed large and imposing, a grey sky mingling with the grey thick walls of the former prison. Despite the rain, scores of tourists lined the street waiting their turn to visit one of the more gruesome locations in London and indeed England. The cab driver made a sudden turn into a small access road leading to the River Thames. Maria forced herself to focus, to anticipate. She may be trapped, but she was not helpless. The driver pulled along the riverbank and stopped just short of Tower Bridge. The door on the side of the river swung open and a tall, powerfully-built woman, dressed in a black suit held the door handle and motioned Koshkova to step out and follow her.

  “What the hell is going on?” Koshkova said in angry protest. “You had better explain right away what this circus means or I’ll call the police”, she said, w
aving her cell phone in the tall woman’s face.

  Steely blue eyes looked down on her, the curly blond hair belying the power behind those eyes. The Amazon almost smiled as she pointed a large, black handgun at Koshkova’s belly, keeping the weapon out of general sight while at the same time making sure that Koshkova would not miss the signal.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Koshkova said, barely audibly. The anger ran from her eyes, replaced by sheer terror. Her lips quivered, unable to form words.

  “I am not going to kill you, please walk with me” the tall woman said and pointed to a long thin ramp leading to a motor boat, made of wood and beautifully maintained. The deck was covered by a roof, tinted windows kept out prying eyes. By the railing stood yet another tall woman, this one dressed in a crisp white captain’s uniform.

  Koshkova did as she was told and headed down the narrow and slippery plank, the journey complicated by seven-inch heels that did not belong anywhere near the maritime environment.

  The Skipper in the starched white uniform held out her hand when Koshkova arrived at the immaculately maintained vessel and helped her aboard.

  “Welcome aboard,” the woman said in a warm and pleasant voice. Koshkova knew better than to put stock in that first impression. “Please follow me,” the Skipper said and walked into the cabin. Just as the exterior, the inside of the cabin was luxuriously outfitted and meticulously maintained. Beautifully varnished teak furniture and brightly polished brass abounded. A table and two chairs took up the center of the surprisingly spacious cabin. A teapot, steam rising from the spout, and two porcelain cups and saucers had been carefully placed on the wooden top. Koshkova would not be surprised if the Queen of England were to step out of the forward cabin.

  “Have a seat,” the Skipper said, less an invitation, more of an order. Koshkova did as she was told.

  “Tea?”

  “Sure, why not,” Koshkova said, a thousand questions running through her mind. The Skipper poured the hot brew, the smell of Darjeeling rising into Koshkova’s nose. The Skipper smiled at her guest, then disappeared into a cabin further forward with purposeful strides, closing the door behind her.

  Koshkova was alone in the cabin, but the Amazon in the black suit with the black handgun was just outside. Koshkova saw her through the heavily tinted window. An arched display case contained a meticulously-built, scaled-down model of the HMS Victory, rigging, sails and all. Less than a minute later the door opened and a woman entered the cabin.

  Maria froze, her mouth open.

  “Diana,” the said, barely audible.

  “In the flesh,” the striking middle-aged woman said with a hint of a smile. “It’s been too long,” Diana said, working hard to remove the hard tone in her voice that was her default position. It had not been too long, Koshkova thought. She had not seen Diana since the woman had hired her five years ago. The rules had been unequivocal. Diana did not interact directly and certainly not personally with her employees; deniability being the main factor in the arrangement. Maria Koshkova had received her instructions and her compensation through third parties without exception. Koshkova’s job definition had been unusually simple. Procure talent as to the requirements laid out for her and she would be compensated generously. Failure was not an option. Neither were errors or delays. No discussion, no second chances.

  Diana was the successful mastermind of Okhota, a hunting game where the prey was human and the hunter a wealthy person capable of paying a fortune for the privilege. Koshkova did not know Diana’s real name, but she knew it was a stage name, one name, no last name, no middle name. Diana was the Roman goddess of the hunt and the Diana standing in front of Koshkova fancied herself in a similar position. Koshkova knew little about the woman, or her past and not for lack of trying. She had spent countless hours researching her new employer, because knowledge is power and Koshkova liked power almost as much as money. But the file had remained thin and in the end she had stopped caring. She was good at her part of the organization and Diana prompt at paying. It was Diana who had set Koshkova up with the gallery, paid for the business and helped her become legitimate as an art dealer: the entire venture being a front for Koshkova’s real job: to organize the apprehension and delivery of human prey, the specifics presented to her by Diana’s surrogates.

  It had been imperative to Diana that the two woman had no contact, ever. Yet here she was, standing tall and imposing in front of Koshkova, who was sitting in a small chair, holding a dainty porcelain cup and feeling like a fool. There was also fear. Koshkova knew very well that Diana was not to be disappointed. In fact, Koshkova’s predecessor had had shortcomings, the details of which had never been made clear, but the ambitious woman had eventually been found floating face down in the Seine, the victim of an apparent suicide.

  So, meeting Diana in person was not good news, no matter how civil her employer might be. It was a fact that one did not want to be on the receiving end of Diana’s arrows of anger.

  The self-proclaimed goddess elegantly sat at the table and studied Koshkova for a long time, at times forcing Koshkova to maintain eye contact for what seemed like eternity.

  “Tell me where we are with the delivery of the Statue of Artemis?” Diana said, her grey eyes steady.

  “She should be in Romania at this time, on route from Budapest to Okhoita,” Maria Koshkova said, referring to the estate in the Carpathian Mountains where the hunt would take place. Her words spilled out quickly, eager to please, eager to speak.

  “I am happy to hear that we are on schedule,” Diana said slowly. She sat upright, ignoring the comfortable seat back, her shoulder’s pulled back and chin up, as if a painter was about to eternalize the pose. Her grey eyes were underscored by very high and pronounced cheekbones, a straight nose and strong chin. Her thin mouth and bloodless lips the only reason her countenance could not be called beautiful but striking.

  Diana’s head turned imperceptibly to the right and the Skipper instantly placed a thin manila folder in Diana’s slender hand. She opened the folder and placed a single sheet of paper on the table and slid it to the center for Koshkova to see, but she would have to take it to read it, thus making it hers and her problem.

  “Tell me about this,” Diana said, her voice calm, like a mother who was carefully working at getting the truth from her wayward child.

  Maria sat up and looked at the page. It was a printout from an internet article, banner advertisements on all sides. She finally reached for the document and pulled it closer. Koshkova felt as if she pulled closer the poisoned cup she now had to drink.

  ‘Two U.S. climbers dead in Peru avalanche, one missing’, the headline read and Koshkova’s blood ran cold. ‘How could Diana have found out so quickly?’ Koshkova did not have to read the article to know the damning evidence it contained. Pulling the poisoned cup closer.

  Pleading ignorance was not an option, she figured, it would only make matters worse. Her mind raced for a plan of attack, while her eyes bought time scanning the damning article. ‘The distraught husband, Jack Storm, had been showing photographs in Huarez in a desperate search for his wife, Anna Jaeger, whose body had not been found at the end of the search, which was abandoned due to nightfall.’ The husband who should have been dead was alive and well and to make it worse, getting a lot of attention from the media which sensed a heartbreak story in the making. Koshkova finally looked up from the printed internet article and met Diana’s steady gaze.

  “I am aware of the situation,” she said, deciding on the head-on approach. She desperately needed to gain control of the conversation. “The problem is being rectified as we speak. I am expecting confirmation by day’s end,” she said calmly and confidently.

  “Rectified,” Diana said slowly, savoring the word.

  “I have no idea why Jack Storm was not on that mountain. He was scheduled to join the group as late as that morning. It’s not a problem that I can’t fix,” Koshkova said.

  “The last thing I want is a crazed husband running all ove
r the place wondering what happened to his wife, especially when there will be no body in the snow for anyone to find,” Diana said, her hands placed calmly in her lap. She was the picture of cool, Koshkova thought.

  “It’s handled, you don’t have to worry about it,” Koshkova said, wanting this conversation over and wanting to be gone from this boat.

  The vessel moved past a large iron gate, the dark waters of the River Thames flowing through the massive grates.

  “They call this gate ‘Traitor’s Gate”, did you know that?” Diana said, without looking at the storied water entrance to the Tower of London.

  Koshkova could not help but turn her head and look at the ominous steel structure sitting inside a thick stone wall, the space behind the gate hidden in complete blackness.

  “No, I didn’t know that,” she said, an uneasy feeling creeping into her heart.

  “Men and women, whose journey into the Tower of London was to be kept a secret would enter through that gate in a boat. Few of those passengers ever left the Tower alive, did you know that?” Diana pressed on, her voice still calm and devoid of all emotion.

  “Look, I’ll fix it, I promise,” Koshkova said. “I am almost sure, that it is already taken care of. In time they will find Jack Storm’s frozen body in the snow and it’ll be determined that the forlorn husband froze to death while in a desperate search for his missing wife. It’ll add to the tragedy for the media and case closed,” Koshkova said, pleading for her life.

  Diana smiled at the woman with an eerily disconnected energy and did not speak for a long time contemplating the information she had been given.

  Koshkova noticed her hands fidgeting in her lap and forced them to be still. She glanced out the tinted window, where raindrops pelted the glass and in resignation ran down the impenetrable barrier. The ominous Traitor’s Gate had slipped from view. Had the cup passed her by? The blond dressed in black moved past the windows to the bow of the vessel and then the side of the boat gently bumped against a small landing.