by J. R. Wolfe
“Yes,” Bovra said. “It’s in a liquid form that can be mixed in a drink or put in a syringe. I’ll inject the escort with it, and he’ll pass out like a little baby.”
“Look at you,” Altan said, gesturing at his face. “You’re in no shape to go to the auction.”
“He’s right,” she said. “Let’s call Imma and tell her to come to the apartment. We can regroup.”
“Impossible,” Bovra said.
“Why?” she asked.
“Imma left her mobile here by mistake. Unfortunately, there’s no other way to contact her.” Bovra’s eyes were blisters of pain. “You’re right,” he sighed. “I know I can’t go to Smyth Square, but you have to save my daughter, and the Duke and Duchess.”
“Agreed,” Altan said.
“Okay,” Portia said, “we’ll first find Imma and make sure she’s safe. After that, we should be able to convince the escort to go ahead with the exchange, even though Bovra isn’t there, since the People’s Revolution wants the data stick badly.”
“Once we have Chessa,” Altan said, “I’ll inject the escort with the drug.”
“Have you ever tranquilized a person before?” Portia asked.
“No,” Altan said, “but there’s always a first time for everything.”
“You’ll need to insert the needle into his neck,” Bovra said. “The sedative won’t be as effective anywhere else.”
“I’m still worried he could detonate the bomb before he passes out,” Portia said.
“If a cell phone is used to ignite it,” Altan said, “I have a solution.”
“What?” she asked.
“For the mission, I was assigned a cell phone jamming device that’ll block any frequency at a sizable distance. The device looks like a cell phone itself.”
“What if a timer is used to explode the bomb?” she asked.
“Riley was confident that the bomb is detonated by using a mobile phone,” Altan said.
“I guess that’s one less thing to worry about,” she said, suddenly assessing Altan’s appearance. His hair was tousled and greasy, made all the worse by unbecoming grayish stubble on his otherwise handsome face. His down jacket and turtleneck sweater appeared fine, but his corduroy pants were soiled with dirt and blood. She next evaluated herself. The front of her peacoat was sullied with blackish marks. Her blue jeans had somehow been torn and the hem was stained with deep red. Perhaps worse, a nasty muck of blood and dirt had burrowed underneath her fingernails. “We need to clean up,” she finally said.
“Go to apartment fifty-five,” Bovra said. “That’s where Chessa and Imma stayed. You can use one of their showers. Chessa and Imma kept a broad array of clothes and wigs. Maybe you’ll find something appropriate to wear for the gala.”
“Wigs,” she said.
“They never went outside without being in disguise. The PR or the police would’ve spotted them. So Robert gave them a beautiful and useful array of clothes, even perfume.” Bovra eyed Portia. “Chessa is about your size. Her bedroom is on the left.” He looked at Altan. “You can shower and change here. You’ll fit into one of Robert’s suits.”
Portia swallowed, the dryness of her throat calling for a shot of smooth vodka, but such indulgences would have to wait their turn.
CHAPTER 35
The living room of apartment fifty-five was a whitewash before Portia’s eyes. What held her exclusive attention was an eight-by-ten color photograph. She could hardly believe the photo’s somber image.
Imma, thin and gaunt, her black hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail, stood next to a man who was all too familiar—Stanislaw Jager. He wasn’t quite as Portia remembered him on that cold Chicago night, which now seemed a lifetime ago, but no doubt this man was him. He was about Imma’s height and had an angular face with sharp features, from his long nose to his pointed chin. His salt-and-pepper hair was shaven in a military cut, and he had long sideburns. His brownish-yellow eyes, so odd and transfixing, were animated with victory.
A stunning starlit night wrapped around them. The silhouette of a baobab tree loomed in the background, its immense trunk and numerous branches shaped like twisting roots. Imma always smiled for photographs, but not this one. Her beautiful face was as emotionless as a concrete slab. Yet, her eyes had an intense stare like that of a panicked animal being hunted. She stood straight and stiff as if the slightest breeze might blow her over. Her white tennis shoes were unlaced and dirty, and her clothes, a floral-designed top and lightweight pants, were soiled with smears of red clay. When had this photo been taken?
The stark reality and sadness of Imma’s ordeal wobbled Portia’s knees. The photo must’ve been taken somewhere in Zimbabwe, likely right after Imma’s and Chessa’s escape from prison. She glanced around the room, curious to see what gems of life, if any, liberation had provided.
Except for the photograph, the living room was devoid of any personal touches. The television, mundane couch, two matching armchairs, and coffee table could be found in any low-end hotel. The living room walls were painted a light blue and adorned with cheaply framed prints of London.
Portia sighed. This place was certainly better than a prison cell, but it wasn’t sparkles of a home either. Glancing at her wristwatch, she tried to refocus on the task at hand. Hours were still left until the charity event would start. Nonetheless, she and Altan needed to contact Imma and finalize their plot to outsmart the People’s Revolution. That meant not a minute could be wasted.
As Bovra had instructed, she rushed to the bedroom used by Chessa. Inside was a queen-sized bed that was perfectly made, with a fluffy comforter and soft pillows. The only adornment on the yellow walls was a framed black-and-white photo of Prague. On top of the pine dresser was a crystal vase containing artificial, long-stemmed roses. A framed mirror hung above the dresser; wedged in its corner was a wrinkled photograph of a handsome blond man smiling broadly and wearing a black suit and white tie.
Given the sorry shape of the photograph, Portia assumed that Chessa must’ve taken it with her everywhere. A boyfriend or fiancé perhaps? A close friend? Who knew? She focused on finding a proper wardrobe for tonight’s event.
Portia dashed to the closet and slid open the door. A deep gold satin strapless gown caught her eye. She checked the label—size six. So Chessa was her build, just as Bovra had guessed. Looking down, she saw a pair of gold high heels that matched the gown. Perfect. She snatched the shoes and closed the closet door. Like a messy thief, she then rummaged through the drawers and found undergarments that would fit her to a T and opened a closed door that led into an adjoining bathroom. She started to go inside to shower but stopped. She didn’t have time for this; but the urge to be close to Imma, even though she wasn’t there, overwhelmed her.
Whirling around, Portia strode to the bedroom Imma had been using and opened the door. As she stepped inside, her sense of smell was immediately deluged by a floral scent she knew well and relished—it was Imma’s favorite perfume and the one she had worn the first time they had made love. They had embraced under satin sheets in a room glowing in candlelight. For a dreamy moment, she could almost feel Imma’s wet lips pressed against hers. She took a deep breath. We’ll be together soon, Imma.
Quickly surveying the bedroom, Portia couldn’t help but notice that the walls, painted a soft green, were unadorned. The brass bed was covered with a white duvet, and draping the foot of the bed was a handmade quilt. The patchwork was a series of blocks displaying an African woman engaged in various forms of work—gathering water outside a hut, carrying a basket on her head, and feeding a farm animal.
The connection of the quilt to Zimbabwe was obvious but seemed strange, Portia thought. Why didn’t Imma want to rebel against any reminders of her nightmare there? She put the clothes on an armchair that was in the corner of the room. As if pulled by an invisible rope, she went to the closet and looked inside for no particular reason other than pure curiosity.
Neatly hung were a variety of dress pants, jean
s, corduroys, shirts, and tops. Imma had been a medium size, yet these clothes were slimmer fits for someone of a petite frame.
She swallowed hard. These clothes were disturbingly unfamiliar. She used to know the outfits Imma wore almost as well as she knew her own. This closet was the closet of a stranger. Only the scent of perfume was familiar. She closed the closet door and reminded herself that they still loved each other; Imma had told her so in their telephone conversation at the Tower of London. So focus and control were needed, not an emotional whirlwind that uprooted her better sense.
Portia stripped off her dirty, bloodstained clothes and dashed into the bathroom. Fresh towels were folded on a shelf. The shower was European in design—compact but spacious enough. She opened the glass door, stepped inside, and turned the water to warm. She stood underneath the showerhead, facing the wall. Her tense muscles should’ve been soothed, but instead they ached for movement, and she knew the reason why; an invisible clock was ticking in her ears. She grabbed the bar of soap resting on the ledge and began hurriedly washing. She reached for the shampoo, but her wrist was squeezed by a strong grip. A broiling fear scorched her mind and body, just as it had in Zimbabwe when the police sergeant had threatened to cut off her finger. She jerked her arm back, but she couldn’t free herself. Who was attacking her? Was it a member of the People’s Revolution?
“Portia,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s me, darling. Imma.”
“Imma?” she said. “It can’t be.”
“It is.” Imma released her hold. “I promise.”
Portia blinked hard and whirled around. Her vision was clear, but her mind doubted what she saw.
Imma was in front of her, naked, thinner than she’d been, but just as beautiful. Her short black hair was soaked, while water streamed down the curves of her body. Her eyes were moist with tears, yet sparkled with a deep happiness.
“Imma, it is you,” Portia said. “My God. It really is you. How—”
“I forgot my damn cell phone,” Imma said softly. “I returned to get it and found Bovra and Altan downstairs in Robert’s apartment.” She inhaled as though she’d climbed a long set of stairs. “Riley, that son of a bitch, killed Robert. Thank you for putting a bullet between his eyes.”
“He would’ve killed us.”
Imma nodded. “I couldn’t wait to see you. Are you okay?”
“I’m better than okay,” Portia said. “I’m with you.”
They embraced and melded together in a blissful union. Their kiss, long and deep, was perfect. Portia swirled in a dizzying satisfaction and desire, as they rediscovered each other’s bodies. Imma still loved her. Nothing had changed. They’d be together again and return to Chicago to renew their lives. She’d find something to do other than protection work, and Imma would be a physician again. This horrible ordeal was finally behind them.
Without warning, Imma turned off the shower. “Altan will be here any minute,” she said. Love shone in her eyes. “He and I can handle this. You don’t need to go.”
“What?” Portia felt as though she’d been slapped in the face. “I’m not staying—”
“I don’t want you to go. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
Portia gently held Imma’s face in her hands. “This isn’t like on the day of the raid, when you asked me not to leave the medical clinic. I didn’t listen to you then, and I should’ve.”
Imma lowered Portia’s hands and kissed them. “It’s in the past, my love. Besides, you left me to help others. None of us knew what would happen to me or to anyone else.”
“This time we know what’s being planned, and it could be horrific,” Portia said.
“Which is exactly why I can’t have you there.”
“No, I’m not leaving you again. I’m going to be by your side, and you can’t stop me. Remember what they say in Zimbabwe?”
“They say a lot of things in Zimbabwe,” Imma said. “Some true, some not true.”
Glancing down, Portia pointed to her upper arm. The welt from the whack the sergeant had delivered was still raised and darkly bruised. “They say cowards have no scars.”
Imma’s smooth forehead creased in sadness. “It’s true. Cowards don’t have scars. How did—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Imma nodded and extended her arms. Like Farai, her wrists were carved with painful-looking marks that must’ve been caused by handcuffs being secured too tightly. “It doesn’t matter how I got mine either,” she said. “I’m proud of my scars. So, I guess you’re going to go to the auction no matter what I say.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Portia said. “Not ever.”
“All right. I know better than to argue with you.” Imma kissed Portia with the tenderness of a caring lover and stepped out of the shower. Hurriedly grabbing a towel, she said, “Do you know what a koomkie is?”
Portia followed and stood next to her. “It’s a female elephant that’s used as a decoy to capture wild male elephants. What are you saying? Are we using a koomkie to fool the People’s Revolution?”
“Indeed we are. Her name is Altan. He told you about the cell phone jamming device he has?”
“Yes. He’ll use that to prevent the escort from being able to detonate the dirty bomb, but what’s the distraction about?”
“Altan will set off the fire alarm. In the chaos, he’ll inject the escort with the sedative, and we’ll leave with Chessa. Once we’re safely gone, he’ll summon security and identify himself as a CIA officer on a special mission. He’ll tell them about the dirty bomb, so they can find and disarm it.”
Portia’s breath locked. The sound of the fire alarm at the ZIRP fundraiser in Chicago blared with thunderous clarity in her memory. “The loud noise of the fire alarm might cause my bad ear to act up.”
Imma grabbed a bath towel from the shelf and handed it to her. “So that’s it. We can’t risk you having a problem. You have to stay here.”
She wrapped the towel around her. “Do you have earplugs?”
“No, but I think Chessa uses earplugs when she sleeps.”
“Good. I’ll put one in my bad ear. It’ll dampen the sound.”
Imma slowly smiled. “I should’ve known you’d find a way.”
She wanted to smile back, but she was too worried. “What about the warrant for our arrest?” she asked. “They’ll place Altan in custody.”
“He’ll sort it out,” Imma said. “He mentioned the name of a woman director at the CIA, who would help him.”
“Jackie?”
“Yes, I think that was her name.”
“If anyone can help Altan, Jackie will.” She shook her head. “Where’s your cell phone?”
“I put it on the dresser,” Imma said. “Why?”
“We only have two tickets to the auction. I’ll call and buy another one. We can pick it up at the will-call window.”
“Good. Now let’s hurry, my love. We can’t be late.”
CHAPTER 36
The domed corner rooftops of Smyth Square glowed a deep yellow in the darkness of the night. Sprinkles of cold rain dampened the narrow sidewalk. With umbrellas in hand, patrons of the charity Food for African Children Today scurried toward the gigantic, beveled front doors of Smyth Square. The men were in black and white tuxedos, and the women wore long gowns. The duke and duchess, though, hadn’t arrived yet.
Portia stood at the will call window, which was located in the high-ceilinged entryway of the building. Inside an inner pocket of her clutch purse was the USB flash drive containing the false schematics for the dirty bomb. Several yards away, Altan pretended to examine an oil painting of King Charles II of England, but, in actuality, he was watching her carefully. Imma had already gone through the security checkpoint to the King Charles Banquet Hall, and he wanted to make sure Portia successfully made it through as well.
“What’s your name?” the attendant at the will-call window asked Portia.
“Madison Walker.”
The a
ttendant slid the ticket underneath the glass partition. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you.”
Portia took the ticket and walked passed Altan, careful not to look at him. She made her way to the security checkpoint, where she joined a line of other patrons. Once she reached the front of the line, a tall security officer checked the inside of her purse.
It appeared to Altan that he unzipped the inner pocket and zipped it back. Altan wasn’t worried, though, since flash drives weren’t weapons or capable of being weapons, and therefore weren’t security risks.
With a nod of the head, the officer handed the purse back to Portia. Another security officer swiped her body up and down with a handheld metal detector. He also nodded and gestured for her to continue. From there, she went to the hall and disappeared with the crowd.
Altan ran his fingers through his brown hair. So far, so good. He reached in his pants pocket and took out the cell phone jamming device. It was turned on and working. He put it back in his pocket. Now all he had to do was make it through security.
He started toward the checkpoint, glad that his outfit not only mixed in well with the other men, but also allowed him to conceal the drug Long Night. Although it was a bit snug, he wore one of Robert’s tuxedos: a one-button, white jacket with black lapel, and a black bowtie and pants. The trench-style raincoat he wore had an inner zippered pocket in which he’d hidden a plastic syringe and the glass vial containing the sedative. To conceal the syringe needle, he’d lifted back the insole of one of his patent leather, ankle boots and placed the needle underneath it. Even if the needle were detected, he was confident that it wouldn’t be a problem, since many shoes had a steel shank in the sole. The only thing he regretted was that he wasn’t armed, but he had no choice. If he’d carried a handgun, security would’ve stopped him in his tracks.
Most of the patrons, except for a handful who were in the security line, were now inside the banquet hall. As Altan started toward the security checkpoint, he felt a strong hand squeeze the top of his shoulder. He turned around to face a giant man wearing a blue suit, starched white shirt, and red tie. He carried a folded raincoat over his right arm. His eyes, egg shaped with long eyelashes, had a manic shimmer.