by J. R. Wolfe
Imma painfully rose from the scratched wooden bench, as though a nefarious disease crippled her. Her body, though, was fine. The problem was her emotional state, which was wrapped in a blanket of gloom. She wished the sermon had lightened her spirits, but it didn’t. She wished she could smile again, but she couldn’t. No matter how many times she had tried to show happiness, even amusement, her efforts felt shamefully fake and not worth the effort. She idly stared upward at one of the church’s many windows.
The stained glass of the window was a stunning portrait of Jesus. His big eyes were warm and glowing, and his arms were outstretched to give a tender welcoming hug.
She told herself she should feel a sense of calm and relief. After all, her fate, at least so far, had been glorious compared to those poor souls still languishing in that devil’s den called a prison. She was alive. Yet, the memory of a heavy-set female prison guard stealing her engagement ring flashed in her mind with upsetting clarity. Count to ten, she told herself, just start counting. One, two, three…But another monster crept into her inner world—the hard-hearted young guard who gleefully handcuffed her so tightly that her fingers went numb. The scars on her wrists were still ugly and plain to see.
Chessa squeezed her upper arm next to her. “Are you all right, doc?” she asked. “You look like your puppy was run over by a car.”
“The sermon was depressing.” Chessa didn’t need to hear about her vivid nightmares of prison life. She had her own. “We’ve been coming to this church for the last few weeks, but somehow I’m feeling more lost than ever.”
“You keep reflecting on the past.” Chessa’s arched eyebrows pinched inward, and her sky-blue eyes, which were usually bubbles of life, were stolid pebbles. “I’m having a hard time too.”
Imma swallowed hard. “I know.”
“Look at me.” Chessa seemed exceptionally tall in stiletto pumps and camouflage print leggings that appeared superglued to her slim legs. Her tapered wool jacket, trimmed in mock fur, gave her the air of a wannabe rock star. “I don’t feel like myself. My wig’s uncomfortable and itchy, and I hate being a brunette. My foundation is too heavy and yellow. The rose blush isn’t my color, and the dark red lipstick makes me look like a hooker.”
“You don’t look like a hooker,” Imma said, wanting to somehow lighten the dark mood she’d created. “You look á la mode.”
“I look á la bad.”
They both managed troubled, yet amused smiles.
“I’m not thrilled about my disguise either.” Imma pointed to her costume. She wore a ribbed slouch-style beanie that hid her short black hair, a thick wool coat that was two sizes too big on her slender frame, striped jeans that made her appear heavier than she was, and side-zipped jump boots that had a spit shine, square toe, and thick rubber outsoles. “But no one will recognize us, and that’s what we want.”
“You’re right, of course,” Chessa said. “Let’s go home. Robert said he’d make a late-night dinner of pasta and red wine.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
They entwined their arms and walked out of the church into the frosty night. It was relatively early, almost 8:00 p.m.
They hurried along the narrow London sidewalk toward Robert’s apartment complex, which served as their haven from the People’s Revolution. They passed restaurants, stores, and people, all nondescript and irrelevant blurs to Imma. Only Chessa was well defined and real, and not just in a visual sense. She had a matchless warmth and energy that surged with life. Their connection was simple enough to understand. They had survived the impossible together, and together they were fighting for their futures and their happiness.
“I’ve been thinking about Stan,” Chessa said. “I hope he’s all right. Father tried to contact him to let him know we made it safely to London, but he didn’t respond.”
“I’m worried about him too,” Imma said, “but if your father’s right, Stan’s simply hiding out from the PR like we are.”
“If everything had gone as planned, we’d be living normal lives, not this nightmare.”
“Portia and I would be married by now.”
“I’m so sorry, doc. I know you love her.”
Imma clenched and unclenched her jaw. “I’m looking for a way to talk with Portia.”
“You can’t be serious,” Chessa said. “That’s a bad idea.”
“Perhaps, but Bovra told me she’s in Zimbabwe looking for me.”
“Father told me that as well. He has sources everywhere.”
“She should return to the United States as soon as possible.”
Chessa’s gaze grew distant. “I think about Jon often, but I don’t dare let him know I’m alive. I couldn’t take it if the People’s Revolution used him to get to me.”
Her comment had the sharp snap of a ruler striking the knuckles of Imma’s fingers. She imagined Portia staring at her with those hazel eyes, a stunning concoction of golden brown and green, and sparkling with undying love. Imma couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her. “It was a big mistake for me to send that letter to Portia. Now, I need to convince her to return to Chicago.”
“Making contact will be dangerous for all of us,” Chessa said. “Let’s talk to Father—”
“I already have,” Imma said. “He was sympathetic, but he refused to help. So, I contacted MI6.”
“You what?” Chessa’s ocean-blue eyes dilated. She abruptly stopped walking. “Does Father know?”
“Yes.” Imma stood still and took a deep breath. “Bovra wasn’t happy about my decision either.”
“No, I’d think he’d be furious. We all agreed to remain in hiding for everyone’s own good—theirs and ours. How could you do this?”
“I love Portia.”
“That’s not a reason. It’s an emotion.”
“Of all the people on earth, you should understand that emotion. We had to conceal our feelings and pretend we weren’t human in prison, but we are human.”
Chessa remained silent, her expression as unidentifiable as air. “I’m surprised father didn’t tell me you had contacted MI6.”
“He probably hasn’t had the chance.” Imma clenched and unclenched her jaw again. She needed to gain control. “I just recently told him.”
“Who are you in touch with at MI6?” Chessa began walking again.
“They connected me to a special agent named Alec Stanton.” Imma scurried to catch up to her. They began marching side by side; the energy between them was as prickly as a cactus. “I’ve only spoken with him once.”
“Could he trace the call?”
“He could, but I called from a restaurant.”
“Does he know where we’re hiding?”
“No. He wanted me to tell him, but I didn’t. He promised he’d arrange a way for me to speak with Portia.”
“Will you rethink your decision?”
“I won’t place you or Bovra or Robert in danger. If the communication with Portia isn’t guaranteed to be secure, I won’t risk it. I promise.”
Chessa blinked hard. “Have I ever told you how my father met Stan?”
“No,” Imma answered, relieved by the change in subjects and not surprised. In prison, Chessa had proven to be a master storyteller, filling the lonely minutes with senseless banter that somehow gave color to the white cement walls of their closet-sized cell. “Are we okay?”
“We’ll see.”
Imma’s heart sank. She wanted Chessa to say yes, but her equivocal response was an obvious no. She refused to feel discouraged, though. Answers could always change with the right encouragement. Now, however, wasn’t the time to try. “Tell me how Bovra and Stan met.”
“Father was on assignment investigating the role of terrorist organizations in illegal arms trafficking,” Chessa said with the unemotional inflection of a newscaster. “Stan initiated the contact, because he wanted father to expose the full scope of the PR’s criminal activity.”
“Why?” Imma asked.
“Stan was a former K
GB agent, or what’s it called now?” She thought for a moment. “The FSB, Federal Security Service. That’s it. Anyway, he worked undercover for the FSB counterterrorism unit. He was a master of disguises, but somehow the People’s Revolution tracked down his family and murdered his wife and daughter in a car bombing. He quit the FSB and made it his mission to destroy the PR.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Initially, my father and Stan only communicated through messages written in code, left at locations Stan had designated. Father told me it was like playing a game of scavenger hunt. Eventually, he arranged for father to meet Vasily Morozov.”
“Who’s Morozov?”
“He was a chemist and explosives expert who worked for the People’s Revolution. Father paid Stan handsomely for any information he could provide regarding the PR’s activities, particularly in illegal weapons trafficking. Somehow Stan infiltrated their organization and learned that Morozov was working with another chemist, a woman I think, to develop a nuclear device for the PR.”
“A weapon of mass destruction?”
“No, not of mass destruction, but one that could inflict great fear and panic throughout the world and that would give the PR power and control. I don’t think Stan made many mistakes, but the meeting he arranged between my father and Morozov was a colossal blunder.”
“Why?” A sudden yank on Imma’s arm stopped her in her tracks.
Two men, both in long trench coats and wearing multi-print trucker hats and darkly tinted glasses with mirror-reflected lenses, stood on either side of Chessa, holding her arms. She struggled like a wildcat to free herself, but their grip was ironclad.
CHAPTER 23
The three policemen stood inside the medical clinic near the front door, pointing their rifles at Portia and Vincent. The sergeant walked forward, the sharp features of his boxy face taut.
“Sit down!” he barked at Vincent. “Gara, gara.”
Vincent didn’t hesitate. He walked backward, keeping his gaze pinned on the madman in front of him, and sat in a metal chair.
The sergeant threw an angry sideways stare at Portia.
Cold shivers ran up her neck. She silently swore at herself for not carrying her messenger bag inside the medical clinic. At the time, she had thought they would quickly grab Altan and immediately leave for Harare. What a foolish mistake, she thought. The bag held her Glock.
“You’re Madison Walker,” the sergeant said.
There was no use in lying about her alias, since that might only further anger him, and at least he didn’t know her real name. That brought some degree of relief, albeit slight. Her options were few for the moment except to create a charade about Madison and hope that he’d buy it. “That’s right,” she answered. “I wasn’t feeling well, so my guide brought me to the clinic for medical care, but we found it deserted.” She purposely trembled. “I’m ill. I have a fever.”
The sergeant shrugged and ogled her every inch from the wide-brimmed safari hat she wore, to her sleeveless top, knee-length shorts, and finally to her hiking boots. The three policemen flashed devilish smiles.
Portia’s skin crawled. “I really am sick. You don’t want to catch what I have.”
“I don’t believe you,” the sergeant said in a clear British accent. “Take off your hat.”
She removed her hat and tossed it on the floor. “I’m not well.”
“You look healthy to me,” the sergeant said. “Your guide is Vincent. He works for Moyo Obatulo.”
“I don’t know this man,” Vincent said.
“You can make this easy or hard,” the sergeant said. “It’s up to you both.”
“We’d cooperate if we could,” Portia said, “but I don’t know Moyo Obatulo either.”
“You have made your choice,” the sergeant said, “and it is a bad one.”
Before she could move, the sergeant grabbed a baton from his duty belt and swung it on her upper left arm. A sharp pain drilled into her bone and bolted throughout her body. She screamed and held the wounded area with a trembling hand. She gasped for air. Then she shook her arm. It wasn’t broken. Slowly, the pain began to subside to a manageable ache.
From his pants pocket, the sergeant pulled out wire cutters. He grabbed her left hand and placed the middle joint of her ring finger in the jaws of the cutters. “You don’t want to lose your beautiful gold ring, do you?” His voice had the ugly edge of a pure tyrant. “So now you will tell me. Where is Moyo!”
If she didn’t act quickly, she’d lose a finger. She glanced at the sergeant’s duty belt. His handgun was secured in a holster on the left side of his waist. If she could get him to release her hand, she could nab the gun and take control of this situation. The others were several yards away from her and wouldn’t shoot as long as she held him in front of her. “Moyo is expecting us.”
“Where and when?” the sergeant asked.
“In five hours at a hotel in Harare,” she answered.
He smiled, his coffee-stained teeth ugly. Releasing her hand, he said, “You’ve finally made the right choice.”
“I’m glad you think so,” she said.
She walloped his right knee with her boot. He dropped the wire cutters and hunched over. She reached to take his weapon, but he swiped at her with his left arm. Without hesitation, she seized his left hand by the fingers into a wristlock and then twisted his arm behind his back. She whirled him in front of her, so that he shielded her from the three police officers. He barked in pain and tried to grab his handgun with his free hand. She cranked his left hand even harder toward her, causing his wrist to bend unnaturally upward. She squeezed his upper right arm and yanked him back toward her. He again barked in pain.
The three policemen aimed their rifles at her, ready to fire when they had a clear shot.
“If they shoot,” she said, “they’ll kill you first. Tell them to stand down.”
“Stand down,” the sergeant said, his forehead etched in deep ruts.
“Tell them to put the rifles on the floor and go outside.” As she cranked harder on the sergeant’s left hand, she felt his entire body shudder. “Tell them.”
“Do it,” he yelled. “Do it now.”
The men slowly lowered their rifles to the floor and stepped back.
“Go outside,” she said.
They stood still.
“A little more pressure, sergeant,” she said, “and your wrist will snap.”
“Go outside,” he said. “Now!”
They walked slowly backward through the open door into the night where they disappeared from sight.
She swiftly released the wristlock and grabbed his handgun. He whirled around and clutched his left wrist. His boxy face was contorted with deep lines of pain. She took several steps back while maintaining a steady aim at his chest.
“Okay,” she said, “place your hands on top—”
The sound of heavy gunfire erupted outside.
She instinctively crouched down on one knee while keeping the handgun targeted on the sergeant. What was happening?
Bullets began to shatter the glass windows. The sergeant fell to the floor and lay in a curled position.
She crawled toward the far wall and tried to hide behind a metal chair. Vincent appeared out of nowhere and toppled beside her. He lay on his back with his eyes open.
Her right ear rang with the sharpness of metal striking metal. She clenched her jaw and tried to focus on Vincent. “Hey, are you okay?” She pressed her left hand against her ear while still holding the handgun in the other. “Please say something.”
Vincent was silent.
She looked in the direction of the gunfire. Nothing, however, appeared as it should. The room jutted in and out of focus with the malleability of Play-Doh. The sergeant’s arms were stretched above his head, but he dipped and bobbed like an uncontrolled marionette whose puppeteer was drunk.
She clamped her eyes shut and took long, deep breaths. Somehow, she had to gain control. But then, as qu
ickly as the assault had begun, the barrage of bullets stopped. A sweet silence smothered the room. She opened her eyes and demanded that the dizzy spell end. To her surprise, the ringing in her ear and the vertigo vanished.
A tall figure stood near the doorway, holding a rifle. “Keep your hands up! And kneel down.”
The sergeant fell to his knees with his arms still raised high.
The figure walked inside and looked around. “Portia,” he said. “Where are you?”
It was Altan. For a fleeting moment, a wave of relief rushed over her, but she was bending over Vincent and realizing that the worst had happened. His chest was a bloody mess. She felt his wrist for a pulse. There was none. She gently closed his eyes. “God bless you in your next journey.” Cupping her ear, she stood and wobbled over to Altan.
“Thank God you’re still alive,” he said. “Was Vincent killed?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
He lowered his head. “I surprised the police outside as they were getting weapons out of their truck. I tried to keep the gunfire away from the medical clinic, but it was impossible with the way they positioned themselves near the building.”
“Are they all dead?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant was motionless; his breathing heavy and labored, and his eyes narrow slits of anger. Without hesitating, Portia walked over and kicked the side of his face with every ounce of power her leg could muster. His head reeled and blood spurted from his mouth. He fell on his right shoulder, unconscious.
“Bastard,” she said under her breath.
“Are you okay?” Altan asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Altan’s amber eyes were fiery globes, and his brownish hair was an uncombed mess. The T-shirt he wore was caked in dirt, as were his shorts and boots. But what really troubled her was the white gauze that wrapped his right hand.