Diana's Disciples

by Eddy Will

  Armed with the exterminator’s address, he left the motel room, snaked around the arguing couple and headed for his car. Sunset Boulevard was busy, cars crawling along, fast food joints bustling with patrons in search for a late night meal, long lines of dolled up boys and girls waiting to enter crowded and thumping nightclubs. But once he turned off the famous Boulevard, the city became dark and quiet. He followed the directions on his phone, crossing Melrose, Wilshire and Olympic Boulevard until he ended up in a quiet neighborhood with small bungalows and few street lights. He soon found the address, a small, old and tired house wedged between two apartment buildings. In stark contrast to the run-down home, a sleek, late-model white Cadillac SUV sporting custom rims stood on the cracked concrete driveway.

  Lights shined through mini-blinds of the windows facing the street. Someone was awake. Jack made out the erratic, flashing images of a television, frequently changing the amount of light seeping through the cracks in the blinds.

  He had to know. It was not a coincidence that Sergey Tarpov’s name was on the list of each divorce file in Ashley’s briefcase. It was possible that Tarpov had played an integral part in each divorce, he might even have been the cause, Jack thought as he stepped on the porch. Maybe he was the kind of man, who wealthy bored wives found appealing as a temporary distraction from their caged and monotone lives.

  Jack rapped firmly on the door. It was possible that Tarpov did not even live here anymore, or ever. He was about to find out. A gruff voice inside demanded who was knocking.

  “I have an urgent message from Todd Ashley,” Jack said. Mention of the lawyer’s name would determine if Tarpov was familiar with the attorney or merely with the divorcing couples.

  “Who is this?” the voice said.

  “I am Sam Silverman, an associate of Todd Ashley’s, and I have a message,” Jack lied.

  There was silence on the other side of the door. Then the lock snapped and the door opened several inches, enough for the man to look out.

  Jack was stunned. The man inside the house was the same man Jack had met at the Taco Bar in Huarez, Peru: the rough Russian with a crocked nose, short-cropped greying hair and cold eyes in the rear booth.

  “You?” the Russian said, his voice barely a whisper.

  Jack recovered faster than the stunned Russian. He slammed his shoulder into the door, smashing it into the Russian’s face. Tarpov stumbled back, holding his nose, and Jack pushed inside, moving on an impulse. The hard face of the Russian had brought back memories of his desperate search for Anna on the night of her disappearance and his intuition had connected the dots long before his brain would. Tarpov had been in Huarez on the day of the avalanche, on the day Anna had vanished, and Tarpov had been mentioned by Ashley in the files he had removed from his office. Tarpov was involved in Anna’s disappearance. Jack had no doubt. The Russian held the key. Gone were the doubts, gone were the searches for plausible explanations of implausible evidence. All this became clear to Jack in the blink of an eye, and that intuitive realization had propelled him forward.

  Jack rushed Tarpov and unloaded all his pain and frustration on the exterminator’s body, his fists and feet pummeling the Russian with the furor of wounded bear.

  The Russian ducked and blocked, but the advantage was with Jack. Tarpov stumbled and slid along the wall scrambling to get away from Jack’s punishing blows. Jack, in a blind rage, was unable to stop. Tarpov would pay for whatever it was that he had done. It was Tarpov’s screams that pushed through Jack’s raging mind, pleading for reason.

  “Stop, please stop. You are killing me,” the Russian shouted, on his hands and knees, crawling away from Jack’s brutal kicks. Jack stopped his assault as suddenly as he had begun and stood over the whimpering man, breathing hard, his fist clamped into tight balls. Tarpov slumped against the wall, sitting on the carpet, holding his busted nose, blood running in streams through his fingers. His terror-filled eyes stared up at Jack.

  “Mother of Mary,” he said, breathlessly.

  “Where is Anna?” Jack said, his voice menacing, his body ready to resume the assault.

  “I’ll tell you all I know,” Tarpov said, speaking through his hands. “But please, get me a towel or something.”

  Blood ran from the Russian’s face, dripping on his shirt. Jack located a kitchen towel on the couch next to a half empty pizza box. He tossed it at the Russian on the floor. Then he pulled up a chair and sat in front of Tarpov.

  “Alright, Sergey, talk,” Jack said, leaning in. Tarpov pushed the dish towel into his nose in an effort to stem the bleeding.

  “Your Anna was safe the last time I saw her,” Tarpov said, his voice muffled by the towel. And he continued to share what he knew: that a team had kidnapped Anna off the mountain, had caused an avalanche to cover their tracks, and that he and his partner had driven a heavily sedated Anna to the airport in Chimbote, Peru, where they handed her over to yet another team who carried her onboard a private jet, waiting on the tarmac. He told Jack that his instructions were to not injure the woman, to make sure no harm came to her.

  “That was a paramount condition,” Tarpov said, his Russian accent thick. “No bruises, no injuries, or no pay.”

  “Where is Anna now?” Jack pushed on, hiding his excitement.

  “That I don’t know, my friend,” Tarpov said. “I dropped her off at the airport, that’s all I know.”

  “I am not your friend, Sergey,” Jack snapped. “What about the aircraft. What do you remember?” Jack pushed.

  “It was a private plane, a Lear jet, you know, that’s all I know,” the Russian said, while nursing his shattered nose.

  “Who paid you?”

  “Todd Ashley. He always pays.”

  “What do mean, ‘he always pays’?

  “Once a year Ashley hires me to kidnap a woman and deliver her to a drop point. It’s always the same, just different places, different people,” Tarpov explained.

  “How long has this been going on?” Jack said, stunned.

  “Eight years,” the Russian said.

  Eight years coincided with Ashley’s case files, Jack thought. More pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

  “And what happens to these women?” Jack said.

  “I don’t know, I swear.”

  “How does Ashley pay you?” Jack said.

  “In cash, half before, the rest after, if all goes well.”

  “How much?” Jack said. He had to know.

  “Fifteen thousand dollars, plus expenses,” Tarpov said, proud of the amount he was able to command.

  “Your meal ticket is dead, Sergey, did you know that?” Jack said.

  Tarpov stared at Jack. He had not known.

  The Russian shook his head. “I am not surprised,” he said, “the lawyer liked playing with fire, he thought he was more than he was: a rich stupid attorney who should have stayed in the court room.”

  Jack ran the timeline through his head inputting the new information. Anna had been carried onboard a private jet about twenty-four hours ago. She could be anywhere in the world by now, he realized. But she was alive, and that was something he could work with.

  “Now what happens?” Tarpov said, still holding the blood soaked towel to his face. “Is this where you kill me?” he said without fear or panic.

  Jack considered the Russian’s words and the world in which the man lived. Wherever he came from, his life was cheap and he knew it. Jack studied the battered face of the Russian. He might still be in his forties, but his face looked twenty years older.

  “No Sergey, I am not going to kill you. What good would that do?”

  “I appreciate that,” Tarpov said, dryly and genuinely.

  Jack remembered the carry-on bag full of money he had pulled from the locker at Union Station.

  “Seeing that Ashley is dead, you are now without a job,” Jack said.

  “I will be alright,” Tarpov said.

  “I am sure you will be, but in the meantime you can work for me,
if you want,” Jack said, not sure if he were to regret the impulse.

  “Three hundred dollars a day, plus expenses,” the Russian said, unsurprised by the turn of events.

  “You stole my wife,” Jack said, “I’ll pay two hundred a day and you will be grateful.”

  “Sure. Who am I to haggle, right?” the Russian said.

  “Good. I have your number, I’ll call you. If you don’t answer, I’ll find you and kill you, got it?”

  The Russian rolled his eyes and nodded. Jack rose from the chair and left the house, without turning back. He drove aimlessly through Los Angeles. Anna was alive, but where was she and why had she been taken? To what end? For what purpose? The joy of learning that she had not perished in the avalanche gave way to a battery of new worries about her safety. And even though he had learned much and was now the employer of one Russian thug named Sergey Tarpov, he was no closer to finding Anna. Ashley had taken his connections to his grave.

  Jack found his way to a freeway and happy to just drive he headed east, the towering lights of Downtown glowing in the distance. He had checked one oddity of his list: the exterminator was not what he had seemed. He had been Ashley’s muscle to acquire women once a year as Tarpov had put it. For every divorce file in Ashley’s briefcase there had been a kidnapping with which Tarpov had been involved. The second oddity were the London-based phone numbers, one for each divorce file, but none that repeated. Those numbers had to mean something, just as the exterminator had meant something. Jack headed through Downtown Los Angeles on the 110 Freeway and turned onto the 101 which took him back to Hollywood. He needed to get back to the dingy motel room with the bickering hookers and stingy Johns, and grimy bedspreads and soiled carpets. He had sought out Sergey Tarpov on a hunch and had learned a lot. He was on a roll and London was next on his list. It was night in Hollywood, but tomorrow had already begun in London. He exited the freeway and turned west on Sunset Boulevard, where the nightly bustle showed no sign of easing: lines of cars shaking with thumping basses inched their way down the boulevard, the occupants whistling and hollering at young women on the sidewalk. Jack felt out of place and old, all he wanted to do was to get back to his motel room and continue his search for Anna by calling eight numbers in London.

  Chapter 29

  London, England, August 3, 2012, 7:32 AM

  The scent of freshly brewing coffee filled the bedroom and Maria Koshkova’s nose. But it was not the pleasant aroma that had roused her from a deep sleep. It was the intrusive chirping of the phone in her purse. Maria’s eyes snapped open and she shook the fog of sleep from her mind. She was not in her own home. This was not her bedroom. And then the memories flooded into her waking mind: the passionate embrace by the redheaded punk rocker, who, despite her young years, knew how touch her body, knew how to make her feel alive. The phone rang again. Maria sat up in her lover’s bed. The clattering of cookware and porcelain in the kitchen explained the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. Styx had boundless energy and appeared to be never sleeping. The phone rang again.

  Maria scrambled out from under the twisted sheets and fumbled through her purse. The display showed a Los Angeles phone number. Maria was instantly alert and awake.

  “Hello?” she said, sitting at the edge of the bed.

  “Maria Koshkova?” said a male voice with an American accent.

  “Speaking. Who is this?” she said, her eyes confirming that the bedroom door was closed.

  “The package has been dispatched. It should be of no concern to you any longer,” the man said.

  Maria stood. So, the lawyer with a dirty side business was dead. She regretted the fact that she would have to put in place a new acquisition team for future projects, but she did not regret that the arrogant Ashley was dead. He had caused her too much trouble and he was only as good as the last job, which had been a disaster for Maria. Just like Diana did not tolerate errors, Maria could not afford to either.

  “That is good news,” Maria said. “I’ll transfer payment as soon as I have confirmation,” she added.

  “Ms. Koshkova. This is your confirmation. And I expect immediate payment, if you don’t mind,” the man said. His voice was calm but firm.

  ‘Why do these thugs all think they are so tough?’ Maria thought. She could not stand the testosterone-poisoned posturing.

  “You will get paid when I have confirmation,” she said.

  “As you wish. I am sending confirmation right now,” the man said, “and then I expect payment in full into the agreed account within the hour.”

  A text message arrived. Maria stared at a photograph of one dead Todd Ashley sprawled on a porch in a pool of blood, a bullet hole in his head, his eyes frozen. Maria swallowed hard.

  “That was not called for,” she said, struggling to gain control of her voice.

  “You asked for confirmation beyond my word, and so I supplied it,” the killer said.

  Maria was furious. The assassin was using a disposable phone that would find its way into an anonymous trash can by day’s end. But she would now have to get rid of her own phone, too. The photograph was more than a liability, it was evidence, and it was a reminder by the killer that she was not beyond reach.

  “You will have your money. I will initiate the wire within the hour,” she said and disconnected the conversation. Maria headed for the shower when the phone rang again.

  “Christ,” she mumbled. The display showed the same Los Angeles area code. She punched the green button.

  “What is it?” she said, impatient.

  “Who is this?” the American voice said on the other end, echoing her tone.

  “It’s Maria, of course, who is this,” Maria said.

  “Maria who?” the American insisted.

  “Maria Koshkova, for Christ’s sake. Can you just get to the point,” Maria said, her confusion giving way to a flash of anger.

  “I need to talk to you about Todd Ashley,” the American said.

  Maria’s mind raced, the confusion complete.

  “Who is this?” she said, wary.

  “This is Sam Silverman from Todd Ashley’s office,” the American said.

  Maria was stunned. How could that be? All communications with the lawyer had been made directly with him. Never had associates been involved. Unless for some reason, Ashley was following up on his payment, which Maria had not sent and never planned to send.

  “Yes, what is it? I am a little busy right now and don’t have much time,” she said, her mind struggling to understand. The news of Todd Ashley’s death had not reached his office yet. That would make sense. It was, after all, -- Maria checked the time--, almost midnight in Los Angeles.

  She froze. Midnight in Los Angeles.

  “Who did you say you were,” she said, alarm bells ringing in her head. “And what do you do for Ashley?”

  “Sam Silverman,” the voice said. “And I wanted to ask you the same question. What do you do for Todd Ashley?”

  “I think you have the wrong number,” Maria said and hung up the phone. She was suddenly cold, her heart pounded in her throat and fear clasped its icy hand around her heart.

  Something had gone wrong. Again. She cursed the day she had hired Todd Ashley for what he had called Special Services. Her mind recalled the conversation, trying to remember what she had said, what she had given away. What did the American, who had called himself Sam Silverman learn? She had been duped, but how bad was the damage? What had Silverman been after? He had asked about her relationship with Ashley. It was the only direct question he had asked, she remembered, which means the call was likely a fishing expedition. Silverman did not know the connection between her and the lawyer. But he knew enough to place an international call late at night. But she had not told him anything. She had terminated the conversation before she had compromised her situation. Maybe it wasn’t all bad, maybe she had seen the trap in time.

  Chapter 30

  Hollywood, California, August 3, 2012, 11:42 PM

  Jack
Storm had struck gold. He stared at the phone, his mind on the abruptly ended call. It had been the last of eight calls he had placed to London. He had worked through the list of numbers which had in common only the same area code. The first three had been answered, one by a male and two by female voices and each one appeared genuinely confused about an American inquiring about a person by the name of Todd Ashley. The next four numbers had not been in service. It was the last call on his list that had gotten his attention. The person answering spoke with a British accent, but there was something else in her voice, a slight guttural slur of consonants that he thought to be Eastern European. And he had managed to get a name, Maria Koshkova. He had written the name on the legal pad in a variety of possible spellings. The woman had been confused, but not about the name Todd Ashley. There was a connection. After all, she had hung up on him as soon as his story fell apart. But she had said enough. Jack had a name to go with the phone number.

  But what was the connection?

  Jack drew a diagram on the legal pad. In the center was Todd Ashley. He drew an arrow down and wrote the name Sergey Tarpov, a man hired by the lawyer for the heavy lifting. In this case it was Anna Jaeger who had been lifted. He drew another arrow to the bottom of the page and wrote the name of his wife. It had all started with her. He drew an arrow from her name to Tarpov and another from Tarpov to Ashley. On the top half of the page he wrote Maria Koshkova followed by a question mark. Was the woman in London working for Ashley, like Sergey Tarpov, or was Ashley working for Koshkova? Was she the next step up or a step to the side or down? What was Koshkova’s role? Physically, she was the furthest removed.

  Jack picked up the phone and punched a local number.

  “That was quick,” the gruff voice of Sergey Tarpov said.

  “How’s the nose,” Jack said, feeling just a little guilty.

  “It’ll be even more crooked, thank you,” Tarpov said.

  “Who is Maria Koshkova?” Jack said, giving Tarpov no chance to prepare an answer.