by J. R. Wolfe
“How did they get beyond the prison walls?”
“Moyo bribed two guards who worked the night shift. They secretly escorted Dr. Thoms and Chessa out of the prison. A car was waiting for them. Moyo did not know that Dr. Thoms included Chessa in the escape. She told me that Chessa would join her, but Moyo didn’t know this. She told me not to tell him, not ever. I agreed because she was good to me.”
So, Imma was a knowing and willing participant in Stanislaw Jager’s scheme to free Chessa Marsik and dupe Moyo at the same time. That made sense. Imma’s compassion had no borders. “Do you know what happened to Dr. Thoms and Chessa after they escaped,” Portia asked. “Are they alive? Are they still together?”
“I don’t know,” Daya said, “but if they are alive and together, I believe they would’ve gone to London.”
A surge of excitement raced up Portia’s spine. “Why London?”
“Chessa told me that her father lived there. She very much wanted to be with him.” Daya’s petite body involuntarily shivered as if the chill of a snowstorm had embraced her. “When you go there, check the hospitals first. They both needed care.”
Portia’s throat scratched for a shot of vodka. She twirled her engagement ring between her thumb and forefinger. Poor Imma, she thought, what did those bastards do to her? “The conditions in prison must’ve been appalling.”
“I learned there are things worse than a beating or being killed,” Daya said, her voice as lifeless and flat as a board. “Only you and the other prisoners know the scars that can’t be seen, but we don’t talk about it. We all have those scars. The guards know what they do, but they don’t remember one prisoner from another.” Her face oddly brightened. “In my country, we have a saying—cowards have no scars.”
Daya no longer appeared frail. She now stood for who she truly was—a giant with a brave soul. “My friend,” Portia said, “you are certainly no coward. Thank you for the information. I’d like to give you—”
The front door of the school swung open. Portia whirled around and instinctively raised her arms, knotting her hands into tight fists.
Vincent rushed inside. Streams of sweat poured down his boyish face. “Miss Marks, the police are looking for you. I did not think they would follow us here. I am sorry. I was wrong.”
Tingles of fright electrified Portia’s neck. She clenched her jaw. “It’s all right, Vincent.” She grabbed several bills out of her messenger bag and handed the money to Daya. “This is for you and your boys. I also wish you a happy new life. Leave this one far behind.”
“Thank you,” Daya said. “I will try. Please say hello to Dr. Thoms and Chessa for me. Maybe I will see them again.”
“I hope so.” She looked at Vincent. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Are we going to the medical clinic?” he asked.
“Yes. After we pick up Altan, you’ll need to take us to the airport in Harare.” She started for the door. “We’re flying to London.”
CHAPTER 18
“Das ist gut,” a woman said.
“Thank you,” another woman said. “Those stitches look perfect. Practicing your German, are you?”
“Yes. I have a date tonight.”
Who was talking? Altan couldn’t tell. The room was pitch black, or were his eyes closed? His head felt as heavy as a boulder. He struggled to lift his right arm, but a sharp pinch in his shoulder caused him to stop. “Where am I?”
“You’re at the military hospital in Landstuhl, Germany.” Her voice was gentle and calm. “My name is Dr. Thoms.”
“You were in the field with us.”
“That’s right.”
“Why are you here?”
“It’s a temporary reassignment. I flew in with your group. Can you open your eyes?”
He tried, but his eyelids were glued shut. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You were in surgery for a little over an hour,” Imma said. “You have a severe wound to your chest caused by the shrapnel that exploded from the IED. We removed all of it. In a few weeks, you’ll be feeling great.”
That good news should’ve brought him relief, but he was too worried about the others. “What about my buddies? How are they?”
She didn’t answer.
“Dr. Thoms, how are—”
“My name is Dr. Mallen,” he said in a baritone voice. “You fell asleep after I gave you a sedative for the pain.”
Altan opened his eyes. He’d been dreaming. This wasn’t the military hospital in Germany, but the medical clinic in the south of Zimbabwe where Portia had dropped him off. He lay on a table covered by a thin orange blanket and wore only his boxers and wristwatch.
Dr. Mallen stared down at him with round grayish eyes. He seemed enormously tall with a wide face, big ears, and super long fingers. The San Francisco Giants baseball cap he wore looked two sizes too small. “Do you remember what happened to you?”
Altan thought a moment. “Yes. The police…I mean…I was shot in the leg.”
“You were lucky. The bullet only grazed the skin, but it did require ten stitches. I’m running low on supplies, but I’ll give you antibiotics that you’ll need to take once a day for five days. All I can give you for the pain is aspirin, but in a couple days you’ll feel fine. Keep the bandages clean and see a doctor in about six weeks to remove the stiches.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “What can I pay you?”
“Well—”
“Dr. Mallen,” a male voice yelled, “the police are here!”
“Damn it.” He looked at Altan. “Are they after you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to hide.”
Altan sat up straight and leapt off the table. As he landed, a sharp pain jolted up his wounded leg and he cried out. He bent over and placed his elbows on his quadriceps. “Where can I go?” he said between clenched teeth.
Dr. Mallen grabbed a cotton sack and handed it to him. “Your clothes are in here. Follow me.”
With Altan limping, Dr. Mallen led him to a closed door at the end of the medical clinic. He opened the door, which led to a small room filled with stacked storage boxes and cleaning supplies.
After rearranging the clutter, Dr. Mallen pointed toward a cramped open space he’d created. “Sit there,” he said. “I’ll position the boxes around you, so no one will see you.”
Perhaps the better move was to escape the medical clinic, Altan thought. He looked around. Dozens of people—medical staff, patients, and family members or friends—were frozen in place, watching him with mouths zipped closed and eyes stretched wide. He saw only one exit and that was the front door. He could open a window and slip out, but that would take precious time. Besides, he couldn’t run on his wounded leg.
“Thank you,” he said. “If they threaten any of these people, tell them where I’m hidden. Do you understand?”
Dr. Mallen answered by only closing his eyes and lowering his head.
With the bag in hand, Altan stepped inside the small room and sat down with his knees against his chest. Dr. Mallen arranged the boxes in front of him, creating a makeshift wall. He closed the door and disappeared.
Altan heard voices and shouts. He tapped a button on his wristwatch. The watch lit up into a mini computer screen. He placed the device near his mouth. “Jackie,” he said in a low, barely audible voice. “The house is burning. Please respond. The house is burning.”
CHAPTER 19
“I wish I could help you, but the police arrested your friend.” Dr. Mallen took off his San Francisco Giants baseball cap, which was smudged with a spot of dark blood, and wiped his long forehead with the back of his gigantic hand. He put the cap back on and slightly pinched the brim to ensure a flawless, curved shape. “He told me to turn him over, if they threatened anyone in the clinic.”
“And, of course, they made threats,” Portia said.
“Yes. That may be what they do best.”
A bony man no more than twenty-five years old with rounded shoulders and a s
lim neck stood next to the doctor. His lightweight cotton shirt and shorts were soaked with sweat. “All the supplies have been packed and are on the truck,” he said.
“Good,” Dr. Mallen said. “Tell the driver we’re ready to leave.”
The bony man nodded and disappeared through the front door into the night’s shadows.
“Did the police say why they arrested my friend?” she asked.
“Domestic unrest and violence,” he answered.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“The allegation means nothing. It was a legal basis for the arrest. That’s all.”
“You mean an excuse.”
“Yes.” He glanced down at his dirt-stained sneakers. “That is what I mean.”
“Which jail will they take him to?”
“Dear lady, I don’t think they’ll take him to jail, at least not right away.”
She squeezed her hands into fists. “How do I find him?”
“I wish I knew. He’s in significant trouble, I’m sure.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I overheard the sergeant asking him if he knew where Moyo Obatolu was hiding.”
She squeezed her hands even tighter. “What did he say?”
“He denied knowing this man, but that might have been a mistake.”
“Why?”
“He said there are harsh consequences for liars.”
Her knuckles turned white. Altan might not live through the night, and he could be anywhere. She extended her fingers and fiddled with the string of her safari hat. Could Moyo help her find him before it was too late? She turned toward Vincent, who stood beside her. “We must contact Moyo,” she said.
“That is not a good idea,” Vincent said.
“He can help Altan escape. He’s helped others.”
“Moyo is hiding from authorities. He will not want further trouble. Besides, it is too late for your friend.”
“He could still be alive.”
“The police who captured him are corrupt,” Vincent said without emotion. “Dr. Mallen is right. They will not take him to a jail. They want to know what he knows about Moyo. So, they will torture him, and they do not torture in known places.”
“We must find him,” she said. “We can—”
“Dr. Mallen!” A male voice said with the sharp tenor of urgency. “We are ready!”
She glanced around the room. They were the only ones left inside. The medical staff and patients were gone. A rusted cot, one of many that lined the gray walls, caught her eye. A bloody bed sheet had been haphazardly tossed on the dirt floor next to it. She took a deep breath. The overpowering smell of disinfectant charged up her nose. That sour odor was one she knew all too well from when she’d been hospitalized in Germany with Altan and Riley. Imma had treated her with the skill of an experienced physician and the care of a lover. “Why are you abandoning this clinic?” she asked. “There must be a lot of people who rely on your care.”
“I’m afraid your friend might say things under—” Dr. Mallen abruptly stopped, his chapped lips turning downward, as if he were pained. “I didn’t need to turn him over to the police. He walked out of the closet on his own when he heard the screams, but you never know what may happen when someone is arrested. He may say things that he doesn’t mean about me or about other persons he has spoken with at the clinic. It’s better that we move south. My patients and staff will be safer.” He didn’t wait for Portia to respond. He sped to the front door, abruptly stopped, and spun around. His head almost touched the top of the doorjamb. “Godspeed.” He vanished into the darkness with the ease of a ghost.
“I understand,” Portia said, more to herself than to anyone else.
“Altan is probably dead by now,” Vincent said. “I will take you to Harare. Let’s go.”
She clenched her jaw. Vincent might be right. Altan could be dead by now, but he might also be alive and in desperate need of help. But what about Imma? Searching for Altan would delay finding her. She twisted her engagement ring between her thumb and forefinger. Imma’s beautiful dark features, warm eyes, and shiny black hair flashed in her mind, as did the feel of her soft lips. Trust me Portia, she whispered as though she were there. Do what’s right and you’ll never go wrong. That was Imma’s favorite saying. “Do you know how to contact Moyo?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, “but Moyo will not want to help you. He has his own troubles.”
“We have to try to save Altan.” She and Vincent stood facing each other, his tall, pole-like physique towering over her five-foot-eight frame. “Imma has hopefully survived this long. So, if she’s alive, I have to trust she can continue to beat the odds.” She folded her arms tightly across her chest, her hands visible, and gazed at him with eyes as hot as burning coals. “You’ll contact Moyo. I’ll convince him to help Altan.”
His boyish face tensed. “Moyo ordered me to take you to Daya,” he said, “and I did. I’m willing now to take you to Harare for no extra cost, but—”
“This is about money?”
“My services are not for free.”
“Of course not.”
“I want to be paid, and you have paid me nothing so far.”
“That’s only because we need to reach a bank.”
“We’ll go to Harare. There are banks there.”
“There’s no time.”
“Pay me.” His voice shook with an angry urgency.
She unfolded her arms and dropped them to her side. Stepping back, she took a wide stance. This was a problem—a big problem. Walking away, though, wasn’t an option. He was too valuable. She’d have to play his game for the moment. “I’ll pay you triple what you originally asked,” she said, “if you take me to Moyo.”
“You’ll pay me five times and in euros,” he said.
“All right.” She didn’t like this at all, but things could always change. “It’s a deal.”
The high beams of a pickup truck sliced through the open front door. She whirled around to stare into an almost blinding stream of light.
Outside, four men, all armed with rifles and wearing blue uniforms and berets, jumped out of a truck and bolted inside the medical clinic. Three of the men formed an impregnable wall in front of the door. The fourth, short and muscular, with the air of an ill-tempered bulldog, stepped in front of them and placed his hands on his hips. He set his legs firmly apart. His gold police badge, which indicated he was a sergeant, should’ve been a sign of welcome assistance, but unfortunately it was the sign of the enemy.
CHAPTER 20
Jackie Horn sat across from Associate Deputy Director Riley Saxe at a conference table in a meeting room of the CIA building in Chicago, watching a live satellite stream of a single-story, red-brick home that was surrounded by a forest of old trees. While the broadcast, which was being shown on a large TV monitor, was grainy and black-and-white, two tall men in short-sleeved shirts and khaki shorts were clearly visible. They stood as lookouts on the front porch, holding rifles on their hips.
“How did we find Altan?” Saxe asked.
“He was wearing one of our GPS wristwatches,” Jackie said. “And he also has a miniature GPS system planted in the heel of one of his boots. My staff have been able to keep an easy eye on him.”
“How do we know the People’s Revolution is responsible for his kidnapping?”
“One of our local operatives was watching the medical clinic when the raid occurred; he took photos. Two men in the photos check out as members of the PR.”
“The police and the PR were working together?”
“Apparently so. Once Altan was escorted out of the clinic, they put a burlap bag over his head. The police left in a hurry, and the two PR members took him to this house.”
“Was he the only one kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“Do we know how his cover was blown?”
“Not yet.”
“Find out. What was his last report before the raid?”
Jackie
didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she twisted a gold pen between her slender fingers.
Looking down at a yellow sheet of paper on top of the table, she read the notes she had taken during her brief conversation with Altan. He had called her via his wristwatch, which was, in actuality, not only a GPS tracking device but also a miniature smartphone that used confidential and encrypted airwaves for secure transmissions to the home office. Even the nosy NSA wouldn’t have broken the encryption. Altan had given the pass phrase for immediate, life threatening danger: “The house is burning.” After that he’d spoken in a rapid whisper, yet calmly, like a reporter giving a nightly newscast. She captured what he said in short, choppy sentences and phrases.
Police at medical clinic looking to arrest him. He’s hiding in a closet. Wound painful, but superficial. Med clinic doc good. Needed ten stitches. Portia at refugee camp in Musina. Not alone. She’s with Vincent, one of Moyo’s bodyguards. Former prisoner at camp may know what happened to Imma and Marsik. He wanted her to wait until he could travel. Portia insisted on going.
The sadness in Altan’s voice haunted Jackie even now. I couldn’t stop her, he said. No matter what I told her, she wouldn’t listen. Whatever happens, Jackie, keep Portia safe and don’t let her blame herself if the police take me into custody.
Jackie looked up at her boss with the stony face of a detached professional doing her job. She could control her expression, but not the worry for Altan that reflected in her eyes. “He reported that his gunshot wound only grazed his leg,” she said. “The doctor at the medical clinic stitched up the wound while Portia went to a refugee camp in Musina to talk to a former prisoner who may know the whereabouts of Imma Thoms and Chessa Marsik.”
Saxe momentarily fussed with the knot on his blue silk tie, which was, as usual, already perfect. He looked up and stared at his chief. His thick eyebrows were set sternly apart and unflinching, yet his almond-shaped eyes were bonfires of anger. “If Altan’s wound wasn’t serious,” he said, “why didn’t he stay with Portia? Those were my orders.”