by J. R. Wolfe
“Did Jager explain what went wrong?”
“No. He told me that Thoms and Marsik needed help; otherwise, the PR will eventually find them.”
“Where was Portia when you talked to him?”
“She was with me, but she doesn’t speak Russian, so she didn’t understand our conversation.”
“Did you tell her what he said?”
“Yes.”
“You told her everything?”
“In summary. Jager didn’t tell me anything he hadn’t already told her, so, what difference does it make?”
“There was nothing else Jager said?”
Altan squeezed the steering wheel as if it were a soda can he was crushing between his fingers. Why couldn’t Riley answer his question rather than toss questions back at him? “I’ve told you everything,” he said flatly.
“Didn’t you press him for further information?” Riley asked.
“My CIA training doesn’t include raising the dead to life. Look, Jager knew too much. Maybe he’s credible.”
“Not necessarily.” Riley’s husky voice resounded with an irksome confidence. “Bovra Marsik won the Pulitzer Prize for investigative journalism, so he’s a celebrity of sorts. The abduction of his daughter made headlines in the European media for weeks. This Janson—”
“Jager. Stanislaw Jager.”
“Jager could’ve read about the kidnapping and created the fiction that Chessa Marsik was being held in the same prison as Thoms.”
“Perhaps. But why?”
“How do I know? Everyone wants attention. Maybe spinning tall yarns based on current news was his method.” Riley paused. “We should be thorough, though. We know Thoms didn’t survive imprisonment, but this information about Chessa Marsik is a potential lead we should follow. If there’s anything to it, we’ll inform our counterparts in Europe. Meet with Chief Horn and ask her to order a background check on Jager.”
“All right,” Altan said. “I’ll talk with her first thing in the morning.”
“Anything else?”
“Portia wants to meet with you tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“She wants to know if Jager could be telling the truth.” He swerved his Mustang onto a quiet Chicago street. His condominium was only a few blocks away.
“Just reassure Portia that our intelligence about Thoms’s fate is sound,” he said. “But you can’t show her the video of the execution.”
“We have to,” Riley said. “She needs to know that Jager lied.”
“Portia blames herself for what happened in Zimbabwe. If she watches the video, she might go over the edge.”
“It’ll be hard for her, but it’s better than letting her live her life believing a damn lie.”
“Don’t show her the video.” Riley was his boss, but not his conscience. Showing Portia the video was wrong, damn wrong. “It’s too disturbing. She’ll never get it out of her head. She’s having enough problems as it is.”
“Contact Chief Horn first thing in the morning.”
“I will, but, Riley—”
The harsh sting of a dial tone rang in Altan’s ears. He squashed down the accelerator as if it were a dead bug and rammed the Mustang into his reserved parking space, barely stopping before smashing the car into a concrete wall.
“Damn it. Damn it all.”
CHAPTER 4
The administrative assistant, a thin, tall woman in her early thirties, escorted Portia down a narrow hallway of the CIA building. The walls were bare and painted a sandy white. “Mr. Saxe is inside the conference room.” She stopped at a closed door. “He’s waiting for you.” Without hesitation, she pushed open the door.
Portia looked inside. The ceiling lights were dim, casting the room in a gray darkness. Riley sat alone in silhouette at a long table.
What was he doing? Portia turned toward the assistant to ask, but she was already halfway down the hallway and headed toward the elevators. Portia looked back at Riley. His attention was absorbed by a grainy color video playing on a large screen at the end of the room. The frame of the picture wobbled slightly but stayed focused on a horrifying scene—three prisoners in filthy cut-off pants, with burlap bags over their heads and their arms secured behind their backs, stood side by side in a clearing. Soldiers in green fatigues aimed machine guns at them. The prisoner on the far right sobbed while shouting in Shona. “Muuya!” he yelled. “Munyepi!”
The fright in his voice almost buckled her knees. She cupped her right ear with her hand at the sound of rapid machine gun fire. Thankfully, the video abruptly ended, and ceiling lights bathed the room in whiteness.
Riley stood. “Portia?” Surprise cloaked his voice. “No one told me you were here.” With commanding strides, he walked over to her. His face was unusually pale and chiseled with worry. “You’re covering your ear,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Her response was more practiced than true.
“I heard you needed surgery.”
“The procedure is scheduled for next week.” She slowly lowered her hand and waited for that nasty ringing to begin. Yet, nothing happened. She really was okay. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he said. “You had me worried.”
His words were wholly lost on her. Instead, she stared at the blank screen, unable to erase from her mind’s eye the image of the three prisoners. “Riley, who are those people in the video?” she asked, taking off her hooded rain jacket. “What did they do?”
“What did you see?” he asked.
“It was more what I heard. One of them spoke Shona. Are they from Zimbabwe?”
His thin eyebrows lifted. “Do you know how to speak Shona?”
“When I was in Zimbabwe, I learned a few phrases. That’s all.”
“Did you understand what was said?”
“No. Not a word of it.”
Riley’s six-foot-four body, muscular with robust, wide shoulders, relaxed, as did the tight line his lips had held. He motioned toward a sizable oblong table that had a cherry finish. It was the centerpiece of the otherwise plain conference room.
“Please take a seat, Portia,” he said, “and I’ll hang up your coat.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
He grabbed her rain jacket and, with long, confident strides, walked toward a coatrack that was tucked in the corner of the room. His attire, a smartly tailored blue suit, silk tie, and patent leather dress shoes, suggested he was a successful businessman rather than a senior official for a clandestine division of the CIA that gathered intelligence on terrorist organizations throughout the world.
Portia went to the table and sat in a gray upholstered chair facing a gigantic window. She looked outside.
Dark, bloated clouds roamed about the sky, inundating the city with sheets of heavy rain. Yet, the Sears Tower, with its two antennas aimed boldly upward, stood oblivious to the storm’s impressive power.
“What was the video you were watching, Riley?” she asked. “Can you say?”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, ignoring her question. He sat at the table across from her. “You look a little pale.”
“That footage was shocking. It reminds me of what happened to Imma.” Portia took a deep breath. What was she saying? If Stanislaw Jager had told the truth, Imma might be alive. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“I always have time for you.” Riley looked at his Rolex wristwatch. “You’re here early.”
“I couldn’t wait to tell you what happened last night.”
“Your message sounded quite important.” His almond-shaped eyes, which he must’ve inherited from his South Korean mother, narrowed. “I cared about Imma. She was a skilled and talented combat doctor. We owe her our lives.”
“I know you cared about her.” Portia stared at the thin scar on his cheek. He’d been seriously injured during a mission in Iraq when a roadside bomb exploded. Imma had treated him and saved his life. “That’s why I called you,” she said. “I
need your help. Imma needs your help.”
“Imma is—” Riley stopped himself from saying what was clearly on the end of his tongue: dead. He briefly lowered his gaze. “So, what’s happened?” he asked. “In your voice mail message, you said that you met someone last night who claims she’s alive. Who’s this person? Where is he?”
“His name is Stanislaw Jager. He’s in a coffin, I’m afraid.”
“Tell me what happened.”
She told Riley each and every detail she could remember about her encounter with Jager and what he’d said about Imma and the People’s Revolution. “Unfortunately, everything happened so fast,” she said. “I didn’t see the SUV’s license plate. Worse, I could only identify Jager’s attacker in generalities.”
Riley’s face remained composed, as though he’d just heard what was being served for breakfast. “He died at MetroSouth. That’s quite a coincidence, since Imma worked there when she was a civilian.”
“I suppose, but it was the nearest hospital.”
He nodded. “Did the police interview you?”
“Yes,” she answered. “They took my statement at the scene.”
“What did you tell them?”
“What I’m telling you now.”
“Do you know if the police have made any arrests?”
“Before coming over here, I called the detective handling the investigation, and he told me that neither the driver nor the heavyset man who tossed Jager into the street have been found. The detective also said they had no serious leads, so he doubts the case will ever be solved.”
He frowned. “That’s too bad.”
“Jager had a Polish passport.”
“He could’ve been using an alias.”
“That’s true. He spoke Russian, not Polish, to Altan.”
Riley’s dark eyes glistened. “How is Altan involved? Was he with you when Jager was struck by the SUV?”
“No,” she answered. “I asked him to join me at the hospital. That’s where he spoke with Jager just before Jager died.”
Riley didn’t respond, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. The handsomely carved features of his long face were perfectly set, as though he were waiting for his photo to be taken. Even his short black hair, slightly gelled, was flawlessly groomed, not a hair out of place.
Portia nibbled her lower lip. There was no way to know what was on his mind. He was slightly dangerous that way. “I Googled the name Chessa Marsik,” she said.
“What did you find out?” he asked.
“She’s a fashion designer from the Czech Republic, and she’s the only child of Bovra Marsik, an award-winning investigative journalist. Her mother, a former model, died of breast cancer several years ago. You must know who Ms. Marsik is.”
“Perhaps.” Riley’s lips were sealed as if glued closed.
“I don’t expect you to tell me confidential information,” Portia said. Yet, confidential information was exactly what she wanted.
He studied her for a long, unsettling moment. “I’ll tell you what I can. You may have already learned this from researching the Internet, but Bovra Marsik won the Pulitzer Prize for a series of articles he wrote on terrorist groups and, in particular, their involvement in illegal arms trafficking. About a year ago, the People’s Revolution abducted his daughter Chessa. They wanted Bovra to pay quite a handsome sum for her return. They also wanted him to stop prying into their illegal business activities.”
“I read that the PR had wanted him to pay a high ransom, but the negotiations broke down.”
“That’s right. They eventually beheaded her.”
“Are you sure she was killed? I thought there was no proof of her death.”
“It’s true that the PR didn’t videotape the execution like they’ve done with other murders, but our MI6 counterparts in Britain believe they’ve found parts of her body in a Dumpster in the south part of London.”
“That’s horrible.” Portia’s shoulders slumped. “When?”
“Recently, but the forensic tests haven’t been completed yet. We’re expecting the results any day now.” Riley flashed a sad smile. “So, I’ve given you some confidential information.”
“Not information I wanted to hear, I’m afraid,” she said glumly. “Where was Chessa Marsik held?”
“We don’t know. Our best leads suggested she was held in Syria for a period of time and later taken to England. The PR wanted her body to be found.”
“Is it possible that Chessa Marsik was in the same prison as Imma?”
“Our intelligence sources never suggested Zimbabwe as the location where she was detained. What Stanislaw Jager told you is pure fiction.”
“But why would he go to such lengths to contact me?”
“Very likely Jager was an outstanding con man. He probably created this elaborate story to extort money from you.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Think about it. He tells you that Imma is alive and on the run from the People’s Revolution with someone else who was actually kidnapped. Jager wouldn’t have known that Chessa Marsik had been killed.”
“Go on.”
“If Imma and Marsik had escaped and were hiding together, they’d need money. Jager probably planned to tell you that he had found them, and he was the only one who could contact them safely. He’d ask you for cash to help them, but, of course, he’d keep every penny, since they’re both tragically no longer with us.”
“That’s an elaborate scam.”
“All the better. That way he could’ve kept details from you, on the premise that it was too dangerous to tell you everything.”
“I suppose, but he knew something about me that only Imma could’ve told him.”
A brilliant flash lit his dark eyes. “What?”
“That I like chocolate chip cookies with white wine.” She took a deep breath. “That was the dessert Imma and I had for our—”
“Last dinner together.”
“How do you know that?”
“You mentioned it during your address at her funeral. Don’t you remember?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You remember the reporters at the funeral?”
“Of course.”
“Your remarks must’ve made it into one or more articles about Imma that were posted online. That bastard simply did his research.”
The weight of disappointment flattened her mood to a pancake. “So, Stanislaw Jager was a liar and an extortionist?”
“I’m only speculating,” he said, “but I’m sure that’s the case.”
“Why was Jager murdered?”
“He may have been a clever fraud, but he was also an unlucky one. He had probably swindled the wrong person, and paid the price with his life.” Riley’s smooth forehead wrinkled. “I’ll find out Stanislaw Jager’s real identity and what game he was playing. I’ll also talk to Altan. Don’t do anything hasty, Portia. Please be patient, and I’ll tell you everything that I find out.”
She began fidgeting with the ends of her wool scarf. “Do you think there’s any chance Stanislaw Jager was telling the truth?” she asked. “Could Imma be alive?”
“No.” He slowly shook his head as though the effort were agonizing. “I’m afraid not.”
Sadness misted Portia’s eyes. She needed to stop dreaming that her fiancée had survived, but how could she? Jager had renewed her faith that the impossible was possible.
“Are you okay?” Riley asked, watching her intently.
“I’ve been thinking about returning to Zimbabwe,” she said, wanting to focus on the future so she could stop sinking into an emotional hole that only made her thirsty for her favorite drink. “ZIRP has an upcoming medical mission to vaccinate children, and they need volunteers. They’re leaving in a couple months.” She wiped a single tear from her cheek. “The timing would be perfect, since I’ll be recovered from my surgery.”
“That’s a bad idea.”
“Why? I haven’t been
to Zimbabwe since—”
“You’ll snoop around, ask questions about Imma, and get yourself into trouble, maybe even killed.” Riley stood with a commander’s stance, his arms crossed and legs slightly apart. “Just be patient. Give me a little time to put this puzzle together.” An unexplained pain crossed his face. “We’ve been through a lot together. You know you can trust me.”
Riley was right. He’d been by her side in Iraq when she made the ill-fated decision to redirect a caravan of vehicles carrying a number of dignitaries onto a less-traveled road. At the time, the move seemed logical and safe, but it wasn’t. Three IEDs, all well-hidden on the deserted roadside, had exploded in twenty-second intervals with nails, bolts, and ball bearings that flew in every direction. After the first blast, she and three other soldiers sprang out of their Humvee. Lowering to one knee, she snuggled her trusted M16A2 against her shoulder, ready to fight, but the second explosion sprayed her with shrapnel. She lay dazed on the road with a deafening humming sound in her ears while sharp rocks stabbed her back. Riley stroked her forehead, telling her she’d be fine. He seemed not to realize he had burns on his chest and an ugly lesion on his cheek, nor did he seem to care that her decision to take a different route had been wrong. Dead wrong. Instead, he blamed the disaster only on the enemy.
“We’ve been through a lot,” Portia said, “but returning to Zimbabwe might do me good. I need answers about Imma’s fate that I can’t get here. Her body was never recovered.”
“Imma is dead, Portia.” Riley sat down again, his forehead creased. “She was killed.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Riley gazed upward, as if God had just spoken to him. “I’ll show you.” He grabbed a remote control device that rested on the table. “Don’t blame me for finally showing you this video.” His voice was low and rough with anger. “It’s for your own damn good. I know I told you that Imma’s execution wasn’t recorded, but….”
“Did you lie to me?” Portia asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“There was no reason for you to see it.”
“How can you say that? I’ve been holding on to false hope.”