by J. R. Wolfe
She pointed at it. “What happened?”
“While you were in Musina,” he said, “the police raided the medical clinic and took me to a farmhouse where I was interrogated about Moyo’s whereabouts. There wasn’t much I could tell them, but they thought I knew more than I was revealing. The officer who interrogated me burned the back of my hand with a lit cigarette.”
“That’s horrible. How did you escape?”
“They were young and inexperienced.” He ran his uninjured hand through his hair. “I distracted one and grabbed his rifle. Before they knew what happened, I had—” He looked outside. “Let’s just say, they met the same fate as those bastards. I used their pickup truck to drive back here, hoping to find you.”
“I’m so happy you’re alive.”
“Me too.” He studied Vincent’s lifeless body and sighed.
“I wish we had time to bury him,” she said, “but someone may have heard the gunfire. We need to tie up the sergeant and get out of here.”
“You’re right.”
“We also need to leave Zimbabwe. I spoke with Daya Gumbi, the witness at the refugee camp. She believes that Imma and Chessa Marsik might be in London.”
He looked at her and half-smiled. “Then we need to get to the airport as soon as possible.” He handed her the rifle. “I can tie up the sergeant, or it’s your pleasure to kill him.”
She peered through the rifle’s sight. The small, boxy head of that son-of-a-bitch was clearly visible and clearly hers for the taking. With her forefinger, she gently stroked the trigger, careful not to pull back. What would the kick of firing this monster feel like, she asked herself. She continued to tease the trigger, but the image of a blood-soaked road in Iraq zoomed into her mind with awful clarity. “This isn’t my kind of pleasure.” She lowered the weapon. “Let’s tie him up and get the hell out of here. We have a plane to catch.”
CHAPTER 24
“Hey, stop!” A sizzling panic lit Imma’s cheeks. “Let her go, damn it. Help! Help!” She looked desperately around for someone to come to their rescue. Yet, the block was deserted. She took a step forward, but the muzzle of a handgun pressed against her back.
“No one will assist you, Doctor,” a man with a Middle Eastern accent said behind her. He then addressed someone nearby. “Put Marsik in the car.”
Within a split second, the two assailants whisked Chessa into a gray sedan parked nearby. The car rocketed away to an unknown destination, leaving just Imma standing there. An icy fear trickled down her neck. “Who are you?” she asked.
“You’ll know soon enough,” he said. Still pressing the gun against her back, he grabbed her upper arm and forced her to walk to a nearby alley that was cloaked in the blackness of a tomb. He smashed her face against the wall of a brick building and stood as unmovable as a boulder behind her. His rapid, hot breath weaseled into her ear, and the sweat of his hand sizzled her neck. “To see your friend again is simple,” he said. “There will be an exchange at Robert Montgomery’s fashion show on Friday night.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Bovra Marsik must attend the fashion show and bring the stolen flash drive. Ms. Marsik will have an escort. Give the flash drive to him, and he’ll give you Ms. Marsik.”
“I don’t know where Bovra is.” She wasn’t about to tell this brute the truth. Who knew what he’d do to Bovra? “You must believe me.”
“You know how to contact him, Doctor.” He pressed the side of her face against the wall. “Do you want your friend to die?”
“No,” she said.
“You know how to contact Marsik, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do it without delay. Tell him he will sit in row ten, seat twenty-five. You will sit next to him in seat twenty-six. Repeat.”
“What?” She was barely able to breathe or think. She reminded herself that the game this goon was playing was just that, a game; otherwise, she’d be dead by now. She just needed to play her own game. “I don’t understand.”
“Repeat what I told you now,” he said.
“Bovra must bring the data stick to the fashion show, and he’ll sit in row eleven, seat twenty-five, and I’ll sit in seat twenty-six.”
He slapped the back of Imma’s head. “Row ten, seats twenty-five and twenty-six. Repeat.”
“Row ten, seats twenty-five and twenty-six.” She took rapid deep breaths. Stay calm, she told herself. One, two, three…count…four, five…Stay calm…Feeling fear is worse than the fear itself. “Where will Chessa—”
“I told you. She will be there with an escort. She’ll be in a disguise, just as she is tonight, but I’m sure you’ll know who she is. If you follow my directions, he will give you Ms. Marsik. If you don’t follow my directions, she’ll die. This is all very simple. Don’t complicate things.”
“I understand.”
“The escort will ask her father if he knows the most famous woman in the world. He will say yes, my daughter, Chessa. The escort will say you are right, friend. He will turn over the flash drive, and the escort will give him Chessa. You see? It’s very simple.”
“What assurances do we—”
“None. You tell anyone else, she dies immediately.”
“I understand.”
He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “You remember the prison guard nicknamed Big Gun? He’s here with us, and he’d like to see you again. He said he misses you.”
Imma blinked uncontrollably while her lower lip trembled. Yet, she managed to keep her hands and body against the wall without collapsing. “You’re lying,” she said.
“If you and Marsik don’t do exactly as I’ve told you, you’ll meet him again, and he’ll kill you, but he’ll take his time with you first. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you? Not again?”
He twirled her around to face him. He should’ve been ugly and frightening. Instead, he was in his twenties with nice thick hair; smooth, brown skin; distinguished cheekbones; and beautiful, black eyes that would’ve made any mother proud. “You look pale, Dr. Thoms,” he said. “Now contact Mr. Marsik. You don’t have much time.” He pivoted and dashed toward a compact SUV parked at the sidewalk. He opened the passenger door and jumped inside, as though he were off to a party.
Gulping for air, Imma somehow willed herself to stand her ground in the alley and watch as the SUV sped away and disappeared. Without a second thought, she began sprinting toward Robert’s apartment complex. For the moment, running was her only choice.
CHAPTER 25
It was late at night in a darkly lit strip bar in Berlin, Germany. The steady blare of thumping techno music was almost deafening. The congregation of old and young men enjoyed a sensual show of naked female dancers twirling around dance poles, all in their early twenties with D-cup status and tight rear ends.
Bovra sat stiffly at a table, totally oblivious to the sexual tension that heated the room with raunchy desire and lust. His only interest was the chemist sitting across from him, Vasily Morozov.
Morozov’s elongated features, an extended nose, pointed chin and ears, and long neck, reminded Bovra of an eel. Worse, he was balding with long, stringy hair that fell above his shoulders. His sunken cheeks and downturned mouth made him even more unattractive. He must’ve known he was a bad sight, since he tried to feather his appearance with stylish, black-rimmed eyeglasses and a Versace shirt and blazer.
Morozov’s unappealing form, however, was a distraction Bovra easily shrugged away. He was the smart, rich, and powerful golden boy of the People’s Revolution who was working with a female chemist to devise the first effective dirty bomb. If they were successful, the world would truly be under the thumb of terrorists. Bovra had to expose their wicked scheme.
“You prefer English,” Morozov said, fixated on a dancer with long blonde hair. He took a swig of Beluga vodka and stared at Bovra, his dark rodent eyes glittering with a fiendish sparkle. “Fine with me. Russian draws too much attention around here.” He l
eaned forward. “I want Tonia tonight. You arrange it. I pay cash.”
“You said tomorrow night,” Bovra replied in his best British accent.
“I’ve changed my mind. Is that a problem?”
Bovra blinked hard. He hoped that the beads of sweat forming on his forehead wouldn’t give him away. Pimps never showed fear, and he needed to play his role with the confidence of a Jack Nicholson performance. He had certainly disguised himself for the part. A shoulder-length wig covered his short graying hair, and stunningly green contacts hid his bright blue eyes. A black beard and mustache, both painstakingly trimmed to perfection, were a far cry from his usual clean-shaven look. All he needed to do was convince this pervert he was an upscale businessman selling sex as easily as selling toothpaste. “Tomorrow night has already been arranged,” he finally said. “She has other commitments tonight.”
“My friend said you ran the best escort business in Berlin,” Morozov said, “and you’d arrange whatever I ask. This is what I ask. My plans have changed. I’m leaving Germany tomorrow, so I must see her tonight. I’m paying top dollar for her, so why does she care who fucks her? Money is money to a whore, right?”
“I’ll contact her and make the arrangements for tonight.” Bovra grabbed his cell phone and pretended to make a call. He had no intention of satisfying the chemist’s seedy desires. The fictional character he was playing was created purely as bait to lure Morozov into a meeting. “It’s me,” he said into the phone. No one, however, was on the other end of the line. “The plans have changed for tonight. Go to the club at eleven o’clock. There’s a client I’d like you to meet. He’ll make it worth your time. I’ll cancel your other appointment. Don’t be late. And, uh, thank you.” He ended the call and frowned, realizing that his politeness sounded naïve. Yet, what was done was done, he told himself. He only hoped that Morozov didn’t notice his misstep. “She doesn’t like to operate like this,” he said. “She prefers a set schedule.”
“You’re too nice.” Morozov shook his head in disgust. “Why give a damn what your whore likes? You lack balls, friend. Are you sure you’re in the right business?”
Bovra managed a stoic expression. “It’ll work to your advantage.” He pointed to the empty glass on the table. “I’ll freshen your drink.”
“Make it stiff.”
“Of course.” Ass was the next word that popped into his mind, but he fortunately had the good sense to harness his mouth. He stood, his sturdy, linebacker body towering over the other men. He made his way through the sweaty throng to the bar where he ordered two glasses of Beluga, one for himself and one for Morozov. As he returned to the table, he grabbed a glass vial from the pants pocket of his corduroys. The vial contained a clear liquid drug designed to loosen anyone’s tongue into telling the most intimate secrets. He poured the serum into one of the glasses and watched as it dissolved in the liquor, wondering if it would be enough to get Morozov to talk about the dirty bomb, so he could disappear and write his article. He reached the table and handed Morozov the glass containing the truth-telling concoction.
Morozov put the glass down and stood. “Let’s go outside,” he said.
“Don’t you want your drink?” Bovra asked, wanting this encounter to end sooner rather than later.
“In few minutes,” he answered, not caring that his English was less than perfect. “I need fresh air.”
“All right.” This wasn’t all right, not by a long shot, but Bovra didn’t feel leaving was a viable option. Finding out if Morozov had developed a nuclear weapon for the People’s Revolution could mean saving lives, a lot of lives. What else mattered? “I’ll take the drinks with us,” he said. “Fresh air will do me good too.” He grabbed the glasses and followed Morozov.
They went outside to a cramped alley that was between two long stucco-walled buildings. The alley was deserted and dark, lit only by a yellow glow emitting from outside wall sconces.
Bovra faced Morozov. “Here’s your drink.”
Instead of grabbing the glass, Morozov reached underneath his blazer and pulled out a handgun that had a silencer screwed on the end of the barrel. He pointed the weapon at Bovra’s forehead. “You are Bovra Marsik,” he said with irritating confidence. “You are an investigative journalist who wants to expose the secrets of the People’s Revolution. Do you think we are stupid?”
“You’ve got the wrong guy.” The sweat on his forehead was now uncontrollable.
Morozov shook his head with dramatic, unfelt pity. “We wanted to see how far you’d go. Now tell me who’s helping you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wrong answer. Give me names. Do you understand? I want names.” Morozov pointed the weapon to the ground and fired.
The gunshot sounded like the harmless pop of a plastic bag rather than the life-ending boom of an automatic. Bovra instinctively jerked his leg away and dropped the glasses on the pavement. The bullet struck an inch away from his boot. He slowly put down his foot and tried hard to stop the trembling of his lower extremities. Somehow, he needed to get out of this predicament.
Morozov’s eyes glistened with a disgusting delight while his thin lips were upturned in a cruel grin. The shot had been a warning he enjoyed. “Bovra Marsik, tell me who is helping you!” he said. “I will not waste more time.”
“I’m not a reporter,” Bovra said, his voice weaker than he wanted it to sound. “You must believe me.”
“One last time. Who is helping you? What is his name? Tell me now.”
Stanislaw Jager appeared from behind Morozov. He was large and powerful, dressed in a long, wool coat and refined hat. With eye-blinking speed, he tore the handgun from Morozov’s grip. He wrapped his arm around Morozov’s long neck and squeezed tight.
“You son of a bitch, Morozov,” Stan said in a Russian accent, “I’m the one who told Bovra about you.”
Morozov elbowed him in the stomach and spun free. Stan lurched forward with the power of a lion and punched Morozov with unbridled fury until Morozov fell on his knees to the pavement. Without hesitating, Stan grabbed Morozov’s head and twisted it to the side. Morozov’s neck broke with an unnerving sound like that of a tree branch snapping in two.
“We must go!” Stan shouted.
Bovra didn’t hesitate. They fled together into the underbelly of Berlin.
* * *
“Bovra, you must wake up. Bovra, wake up.”
He tried opening his tired eyes, expecting to see Stan. What was he thinking? He hadn’t heard from Stan in a long time.
“Bovra, wake up.”
He knew that Midwest accent well. “Imma?” He rubbed his eyes and finally popped them open.
He was laid out on a recliner in the family room of Robert’s apartment. The room was darkly lit, and the big screen television, which was showing a commercial for electric cars, was muted. Imma stood over him staring down, her green eyes misted.
“You must’ve fallen asleep watching the television,” she said in a sunken voice.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Chessa has been kidnapped again by the People’s Revolution.”
He leapt to his feet. “This can’t be.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago. We had left church and were heading here when they jumped us.”
“Those bastards. How did they find you?”
“I don’t know.”
“They want me to give them the flash drive in exchange for my daughter, don’t they?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He crossed his arms and looked down. “We have a big problem.”
“I agree. Let’s—”
“You don’t understand.” He stared at her, his blue eyes as dreary as an overcast sky. “I don’t have the flash drive.”
CHAPTER 26
“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Ms. Simmons.” Portia sat in an ornate armchair at a finely car
ved desk. Sitting across from her was the regional director for the Zimbabwe International Relief Fund. “I appreciate your courtesy and understanding. Locating Imma is very important.”
“Yes, we must find Dr. Thoms, no doubt.” The director’s British accent was unmistakable. “Please call me Samantha.”
Portia nodded. “All right. Thank you, Samantha. As I told your secretary, Imma is very likely here in London. I was hoping you’d help me search for her.”
“Of course, I’ll assist in any way I can.”
Samantha leaned back in a leather swivel chair and crossed her legs. She was in her late twenties, surprisingly young for a regional director’s post. Perhaps she had risen quickly in the ranks by wooing an influential ZIRP donor. She was, after all, something to behold, with long, shimmering red hair and an olive complexion that was creamy smooth, not a wrinkle around her piercing emerald eyes.
“This news is a complete shock, though,” Samantha said. “How did you learn about it?”
“Dr. Thoms sent me a letter saying she’d escaped. I went to Zimbabwe looking for her and discovered she’d gone to London.”
“When did you arrive here?”
“A couple days ago.”
“What have you done so far?”
“I’ve visited hospitals and medical clinics, but no one has seen Imma or recognized her picture.” Portia took a deep breath, not wanting her disappointment to show. “I’m determined to look everywhere, under every stone, until I find her.”
“Have you contacted the po—”
“Wanna nut?” The voice was high-pitched and comical sounding.
Portia whirled around, not sure what she’d see.
A parrot sat perched on a crossbar in a dome cage that was positioned in the corner of the room. He was strikingly exotic, with a brown head, large eyes, and a round, green belly. No pet could’ve been more fitting for the African decor of the office, which was decorated with hand-carved spears, shields, musical instruments, masks, and wooden animals.