Deliberate Harm

by J. R. Wolfe

  “You like seafood,” Mai said.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Chocolate?”

  “Of course.”

  “Dancing.”

  “If the music is right.”

  “You like me to—” Mai half-smiled, her eyes lighting up with a wild fire. “Cut your hair.”

  “You have a way with shears. What else do we have in common?”

  “We’re attracted to each other.”

  The image of Imma’s hooded face, her body falling to the ground in a dead heap, snapped into Portia’s mind with bitter clarity. With her left thumb, she twirled her engagement ring.

  Mai watched her closely. “You can’t forget about your fiancée, can you? You still wear the gold ring she gave you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Portia said, meaning it. “If I tried to tell you what I saw last week, what I felt, it would be impossible.”

  Mai squeezed Portia’s left hand. “Imma wouldn’t want you to live your life as if it were always filled with the pain of her death. You have to let her go.”

  Mai’s words had a sharp truth that punched Portia in the stomach. She closed her eyes and tried to force the memory of Imma’s dead body out of her mind. She struggled to breathe, as though her lungs had shrunk to the size of a pea. She reached for the chardonnay and guzzled with an overwhelming craving. It wasn’t a cure, but a stopgap that prevented her from breaking down. For now, that was the best she could do.

  “You said I focus on the hard parts of relationships.” Portia put down the empty glass. “That’s not entirely true.”

  “If that’s not true, why don’t you show me?”

  “How?”

  Mai folded her lips inward and gazed at her for a long time.

  Portia’s heart pounded. Don’t think. Just be in the moment, and don’t think. She kept her eyes on Mai and opened her mouth slightly.

  Mai smiled and slowly began caressing Portia’s breasts. She ran the tips of her manicured fingernails down Portia’s stomach to her hipbone where she stroked Portia’s skin with a fiery control.

  Portia’s heartbeat quickened. Don’t think. Stay in the moment.

  “Just try a simple approach to life,” Mai said in a hushed voice, “that allows you to let go of the hard things and hold on to the soft things. You might like it, and your doctor Imma would want it.”

  Mai didn’t wait for a response. She stood and slowly unbuttoned her pink blouse, never letting her dark brown eyes stray from Portia. With an unhurried pace, she slipped off her blouse and dropped it to the hardwood floor. Her five-foot-five body was curved in all the right spots. Still taking her time, she unfastened her black bra. Her breasts were small but perfect. She cupped them for a brief moment.

  “May I join you?” Mai said, pointing to the table.

  A surge of desire electrified Portia. She took a deep breath, rolled on her side, and lifted the sheet. Don’t think. Don’t think.

  Mai didn’t hesitate. She glided like a feather onto the massage table, so that their bodies pressed against each other. The sizzling warmth of her skin almost made Portia jump out of hers.

  “I should take off my jeans,” Mai said.

  “Not yet,” Portia said.

  They wrapped their bodies tightly around each other, their lips drawing closer.

  Portia tried hard to think only about kissing this exotic woman, but suddenly Imma was gazing at her with compassionate eyes, the kind reserved for angels. Portia immediately drew back.

  “What’s wrong?” Mai asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Portia said, hopping off the table. “I can’t do this.” She grabbed her pink robe and struggled to put it on.

  Mai watched her silently. Only the downward curve of her lips hinted at her disappointment. She jumped to her feet and quickly dressed. With lightning speed, she folded the massage table and placed it in a carrying bag.

  “Come by the shop tomorrow,” Mai said, her eyes red with obvious hurt. “You still need a haircut.” She headed for the front door.

  “Just…please—” Portia tried to step forward, but her legs were strangely heavy. Was it the wine or guilt or regret that tethered her to one spot? She wasn’t sure, but whatever the emotion, it didn’t matter. “I’m so sorry. I just need a little more time.”

  Mai’s shoulders trembled, but she managed a half-smile. “You also need a haircut,” she said. “Just come to the shop tomorrow.” Her wrinkled brow cast her beautiful face in a sad glow. “I want to see you.” She turned and dashed toward the front door. As she walked past a half-moon shaped table in the hallway, she looked down. Three weeks of unopened letters were scattered on top. “You should open your mail,” she said over her shoulder. Without missing a step, she disappeared through the front door.

  Clenching her jaw, Portia snatched her wine glass and marched through the candlelit living room to the kitchen. Should she switch to vodka? It wasn’t worth the effort. She grabbed a bottle of Rutherford from the refrigerator and opened it. She filled the glass to the brim as though the alcohol were milk. After taking a long guzzle, she returned to the living room, opened the curtains, and peered outside.

  The sky was a canvas of swirling blacks and grays, dotted with fat clouds. No doubt another rainstorm was on its way.

  Portia walked over to the fireplace and turned on the gas. She nestled into her favorite cozy chair and watched the twirling orange and yellow flames.

  Despite her focus, Portia found the quiet of the room unsettling. She absentmindedly sipped the chardonnay. Maybe she should turn on the television, but there was nothing she wanted to watch. She looked at the bookshelf, which had a medley of mystery and suspense novels from the classics to the modern, but she had already read them all. She could call Mai to apologize, but what would she say? That messy conversation could wait. She sat straight and looked into the hallway. The pile of unopened mail she’d been disregarding stared at her.

  Portia placed the wine glass on top of the coffee table. Reading bills and advertisements would be better than going crazy. She slowly stood and ambled over to what she hoped would be a much-needed distraction. She grabbed the stack of mail and returned to the chair, plopping the assortment of envelopes, catalogs, and magazines on the coffee table. Trying to muster enthusiasm, she began ripping open the envelopes. What she saw wasn’t a surprise: a Macy’s bill, a MasterCard bill, and a phone bill.

  “I’m late on all of these,” she said out loud to no one but herself.

  A wrinkled white envelope, daubed with grime, caught her eye. She set down the wine glass and picked up the unclean post.

  Portia’s name and address were handwritten in smudged ink. The first letter of each word was capitalized and squiggled at the end. The following letters were jotted in lower case with a slight bend to the left and were almost perfectly aligned and shaped. The envelope had a Zimbabwe stamp in the upper right-hand corner, indicating it had been mailed thirty days ago.

  This must be from a ZIRP volunteer she’d met. She carefully unsealed the envelope, removed a folded piece of paper, and began reading.

  My Dearest Portia:

  I escaped from prison and, by some miracle, am still alive. I wish I could tell you more, but there are so many lives at stake. In the end, the details don’t matter anyway. What I want you to know is that I think about you every day and miss you every minute with all my heart. I can’t tell you where I am or when I’ll truly be free. It’s too dangerous.

  The raid on the medical clinic and my arrest seem centuries ago. I’m sure your life has changed, so I won’t ask you to wait for me. Just know I love you and always will.

  Yours forever,

  Imma

  Disbelief and shock clouded her vision. Then a spark of excitement ignited her thoughts with mind-bending brightness—Imma had survived. Stanislaw Jager had told the truth.

  She took a sobering breath. Imma couldn’t be alive, she thought. There was the video of her execution that the CIA confirmed was authentic. So who w
rote this letter and why? She closely analyzed the handwriting again.

  The note appeared to have been written by Imma, but it was impossible to tell with any certainty, since the script was jagged, as if composed on a rough surface, and the message was undated and contained no unique details.

  Jager could’ve written this, Portia thought, since everything about Imma’s ordeal had been well publicized after her arrest and execution, including her heroic exploits as an army physician in Iraq and her volunteer work for ZIRP. Even their engagement to marry had been reported. Yet, how would Jager have known Imma’s handwriting?

  She remembered that Imma had written numerous patient progress notes at the medical clinic outside Harare. Those could’ve been recovered during the raid on the clinic and used by Jager to forge her handwriting. Riley had guessed that he was a con artist. Perhaps Riley was right. Jager could’ve created a wicked ruse so that she’d send him money to help Imma, but he would’ve extorted every penny.

  Hot anger splashed over her. She started to tear the letter in half but stopped and tried to think rationally. Riley should know about this. He could have the handwriting analyzed and perhaps find out Jager’s true identity. She placed the letter inside the envelope, and tossed it on top of the coffee table.

  She knew she should let go of Imma once and for all and move on with her life. Calling Mai would be a start in that new direction. Instead, she finished drinking her wine and went to the kitchen for vodka.

  CHAPTER 7

  A Mozart ringtone, with an orchestra of trumpets, violins, and horns interweaving into a rollercoaster of notes, blasted into the still night. Altan Boyer kicked the black satin sheets of his king-size bed with distinct annoyance. He opened his sleepy eyes and gazed at the Timex clock on the marble-top nightstand.

  It was 2:30 a.m.

  Altan rolled to his side, picked up his cell phone, and looked at the phone’s screen. “Riley,” he said, “I tried to meet with you yesterday. They said you were busy.”

  “I was.”

  Altan sat up straight and tucked his pillow into the small of his back. He leaned up against the intricately carved walnut headboard and pulled the comforter over his waist. It was too early in the conversation to let his boss piss him off. “I talked to Jackie yesterday,” he said, “and she hasn’t heard any word yet regarding her request to downgrade or eliminate the security hold on Stanislaw Jager. It’s been over a week. You need to take this up the chain of command.”

  “I already have,” Riley said in a stiff voice.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  Altan rolled his eyes. “So what did you find out?”

  “Our plans have changed.”

  “How?”

  “Your mission to Spain in two days has been redirected to a more urgent matter, code-named Operation Fox Hunt.”

  “All right.” Altan slid his hand through his thick brown hair. “And what about Stanislaw Jager?”

  “Jager is related to your new assignment,” Riley said.

  “Related? But he’s dead.”

  “Jager was a former agent for the Russian Federal Security Service who worked counterterrorism. He spoke many languages fluently and had a gift for disguises.”

  “Why did he quit the FSB?”

  “Several years ago he was working on a case involving the People’s Revolution. His cover was blown, and the PR attempted to kill him by blowing up his car. Instead, they blew up his wife and daughter. After that, Jager worked independently, and always covertly, using various aliases.”

  “What do you mean he worked independently? What was he doing?”

  “He infiltrated several terrorist groups, including the People’s Revolution, and gathered intelligence on his own on their activities, which he shared with various agencies throughout the globe including us, MI6, and FSB. He’s credited with preventing numerous terrorist attacks.”

  “He was a hero.”

  Riley paused. “Jager may have told Portia the truth. Dr. Thoms could be alive and on the run from the PR with Chessa Marsik. The PR is bent on kidnapping Ms. Marsik again.”

  A jolt of excitement surged through Altan. Wearing only striped boxer shorts, he jumped out of bed and began pacing the hardwood floor. “I thought Marsik’s body was found in London.”

  “The forensics results were a surprise,” Riley said. “It wasn’t her. They matched the body to a young woman who’s been missing for several months. Her case has nothing to do with Chessa Marsik or her father, Bovra.”

  “But don’t we have the video of Imma’s execution?”

  “We’re trying to piece together how we were fooled by one of our most trusted informants, but our best guess at this point is that Jager was involved.”

  “Why would he help them escape from prison?”

  “We’re only guessing, and I hate—”

  “Guessing, I know.”

  “We believe that Stanislaw Jager was one of Bovra Marsik’s covert sources for his articles and blogs concerning the connection between terrorist groups and illegal arms trafficking. They became friends.”

  “So he broke Chessa out of prison because of his friendship with her father?”

  “His friendship with Marsik probably played a part, as did his disdain for the People’s Revolution.”

  “And why did he include Imma in the escape?”

  “We have a source who’s told us that Dr. Thoms and Ms. Marsik were celled together. That’s the only connection between them that we know at this point. Hold on. I have another call I need to take.”

  Altan shivered in the cold of the early morning. He stopped pacing and grabbed the plush cotton robe he had haphazardly thrown over a chair before he went to bed. Shrugging it on, he went to the window and opened the blinds.

  His fifteenth-floor apartment overlooked Chicago’s skyline. The skyscrapers and multistory buildings glowed with white and yellow lights that should have energized the night. Instead, a parade of heavyweight clouds stomped along the sky, ready to pelt the city with an onslaught of rain.

  “Still there?” Riley said.

  “Yes.” Altan continued to watch the impending storm. “So we don’t know why Jager helped Imma to escape along with Chessa Marsik.”

  “What matters is that Dr. Thoms may be alive and free, and if so, she’s more than likely in hiding with Ms. Marsik. If that’s the scenario we’re dealing with, she’s in grave danger.”

  “What about Bovra Marsik? Where’s he?”

  “He’s gone underground as well.”

  “Do we have any idea where?”

  “He may be anywhere, but most likely he’s somewhere in the UK. Unfortunately, his daughter and Dr. Thoms, if they’re alive, may still be in Zimbabwe.”

  “That means they’re not only on the run from the People’s Revolution, but the Zimbabwe authorities.”

  “That’s why we don’t have any time to waste. Your part of Fox Hunt is to go to Zimbabwe, find them, and bring them in, but that’s only—”

  “When do I leave?”

  “In forty-eight hours.”

  “Why not sooner?”

  “You’ll need to convince Portia to go with you.”

  Altan’s jaw dropped. He turned away from the window and stared at his bedroom, his mind a whirl of disbelief. Riley is crazy, he thought. Portia could be killed. He walked over to a leather armchair that was near his bed and sat down, trying to figure out how to convince Riley to rethink this preposterous scheme. Absentmindedly, he turned on the floor lamp.

  The poster-size print of an ancient globe, which hung on the wall over the headboard of the bed, was bathed in a soft, white light. Africa, however, shone brightly.

  “Portia can’t go to Zimbabwe,” Altan’s voice was higher pitched and stronger than he would’ve liked. He was risking offending Riley, and he needed to be diplomatic and firm right now, not an emotional lightweight. “I mean, I can handle this mission without her,” he said.
“It’s too dangerous for an untrained civilian.”

  “Portia may be in civilian life now,” Riley said. “But she’s no civilian, not with her Army special agent training. She could easily learn to work covert operations for us.”

  “She has Ménière’s disease these days. It’s an ear condition that causes her to have vertigo. You should’ve seen her at the ZIRP event when the hotel’s fire alarm went off. She was so dizzy she was incapacitated.”

  “We have a field agent in Harare who’ll get you whatever you need. He’s one of our best undercover officers. You’ll know him as Freestone.”

  “What am I supposed to tell Portia?” Altan asked, unimpressed. “Am I supposed to expose my cover?”

  “No. She already knows a lot, thanks to Jager, but if for any reason she’s captured or arrested, the less she knows the better for her and us. So, continue to let her think you’re an interpreter for the CIA, nothing more. Tell her that you asked a friend who’s an analyst at the CIA to look into Stanislaw Jager as a favor.”

  “Portia will wonder why the People’s Revolution is involved.”

  “Our clever girl already knows the backstory. She researched Bovra and Chessa Marsik and saw the video, so their involvement won’t come as a surprise to her.”

  “She’ll want to know why I haven’t told you about the findings of this analyst.”

  “If she asks, just tell her that despite the new evidence, I still don’t believe that Dr. Thoms or Chessa Marsik are alive.”

  A quiver of unease shot up Altan’s spine. His sturdy shoulders slumped. He resumed his back-and-forth march along the hardwood floor. There was no good reason to put Portia in harm’s way.

  “We’ll use all our resources,” Riley said after Altan had been silent for too long. “But I think Portia has the best chance of being successful.”

  “Experienced operatives give us the best chance for success.”

  “If Imma is alive, she’ll try to make contact with Portia. I’d bet my life on it, and when that happens we’ll find not only our doctor, but Chessa Marsik, and Marsik should lead us to her father.”