Blood Trust jm-3

by Eric Van Lustbader

  At last Naomi dropped her gaze to the muzzle of the .25. “What do you want, Annika?”

  “Where’s Jack?”

  For an instant, Naomi’s mind went numb. When her vision cleared, she said, “Jack doesn’t want to see you.”

  “What are you, his mommy?”

  In an instant, the flash of anger was gone, but it had existed long enough for Naomi to realize that there was something powerful enough to crack Annika’s armor.

  “I know where he is.” Though she suspected it was both foolish and dangerous to lie to this woman, she’d had enough of feeling helpless.

  “Then you’d better tell me.”

  “What is that, a threat?”

  “Listen, Naomi, it’s already out that Jack killed Arian Xhafa’s brother.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, Naomi, I lie for a living. Jack’s in serious trouble.”

  Naomi’s heart began a trip-hammer beat. “I’m telling you I don’t know who Arian Xhafa is.”

  Annika stared at her for a long time, apparently trying to make up her mind. At last, she sighed. “I can only assume that he chose to keep you in the dark in order to protect you.”

  Naomi could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Her chest hurt with the desire for Annika to continue. The irony of her source being a professional liar wasn’t lost on her. In fact, it pained her.

  “Did he tell you he killed a man at the Stem?”

  How do you know all this? Naomi asked herself, but she was canny enough to intuit that Annika would never tell her. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, given what Jack had told her about Annika Dementieva, but she couldn’t help herself. This woman had a preternatural intelligence. A shiver of foreboding passed through her. She had the distinct sense Annika was three steps ahead of everyone else on the game board.

  She nodded. “A man named Dardan.”

  “Dardan is—was—Arian Xhafa’s brother.” Annika took out another cigarette, stared at its unlit tip. “Arian Xhafa is one of the most feared warlords in Eastern Europe. His power and influence are growing exponentially every day.”

  “Is he the head of the sex slave trade ring that ran its auction at the Stem?”

  “Ah, at least you know something.” Annika cut her eyes sideways. “Yes, Arian Xhafa is running young girls from Russia, the Baltics, Macedonia, Albania, all over Eastern Europe, in fact. He imports them into Italy, Scandinavia, and, of course, here in America. It’s a multimillion-dollar business, one that’s made easy by international law enforcement’s indifference. The girls are runaways, whores, girls sold into slavery to buy their family food and shelter. Whether they live in slavery or die of beatings, multiple rapes, AIDS, or a drug overdose, it’s of no concern to the police of any nation.”

  “But there are laws, some very new, specifically put in place to—”

  “Laws are only legislative pieces of paper, Naomi. They aren’t effective if they’re not enforced. These laws are not. In poor countries, they’re often ignored, even in the larger cities and particularly outside urban centers. In the more developed countries, there is a network of corruption among officials in law enforcement and government, fed by both greed and blackmail, that ensures the sex trade continues to flourish across borders.”

  Naomi sat back. She had read articles about the widening international traffic in girls and the growing worldwide alarm it was causing. But she’d also assumed—idealistically, perhaps—that the new laws enacted in many countries were having an effect. Frankly, it came as a shock to her that they might be largely ignored.

  “But this sex trafficking—”

  “Both those terms are misnomers,” Annika said. “What we’re talking about is slavery.” She slipped the cigarette back into its pack and her amber eyes lifted to engage Naomi’s. “Let me ask you a question. Have you any idea of the worldwide number of enslaved girls and women at this moment?”

  Naomi considered. “Hundreds of thousands, I would guess. Maybe a million?”

  “Twenty-seven million.”

  “My God!” The sheer size of the figure took Naomi’s breath away and made her feel sick to her stomach.

  “To put the figure in perspective, that’s the population of New York City and Los Angeles with nine million people to spare.”

  “That figure has to be an exaggeration.”

  “Really? One million children are forced into prostitution every year,” Annika went on. “And that’s only prostitution. To be enslaved can mean many things, not only in a sexual sense.” She flicked her lighter open, the reflection of the flame burning in her eyes. “But in all cases enslavement entails the breaking down of the individual through humiliation, deprivation, torture, and, yes, many times, multiple rapes. It relies, in any event, on the total dependence on the enslaver. This can only come about through the annihilation of hope.”

  Naomi realized that she had been holding her breath. Letting it out now seemed like only a temporary relief. “And this is Arian Xhafa’s business.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your interest in this?”

  “I’m a woman.”

  Naomi shook her head. “Please don’t mistake me for an idiot.”

  Annika smiled coolly. “My interest is in Jack.”

  “You betrayed him.”

  “Whether I did or not is no concern of yours.”

  “Jack is my friend.”

  Annika’s smile turned icy. “Oh, I can see that quite clearly.”

  Naomi looked away, stared at her hands on the steering wheel. “I don’t see how I can trust you.”

  Annika wiped the corners of the poodle’s eyes. “I imagine that depends on how badly you want to find Mbreti.”

  Naomi tried to make sense of the buzzing in her mind. “I want Mbreti.” She lifted her gaze, but found it difficult to stare into those extraordinary eyes without feeling intimidated, worse, somehow diminished. “What do you know about him?”

  Annika appeared to consider this for some time. Then she nodded. She waggled the barrel of the .25. “I’ll tell you as you drive.”

  Naomi fired the ignition and turned the wheel, checking traffic. When she pulled out onto the avenue, she said, “I drive better without a gun in my face.”

  Annika smiled and put the gun down beside the poodle. “What did Jack tell you about me?”

  “Enough to know that you can’t be trusted.”

  “No one can be trusted, Naomi. Not in our world.” She kept the enigmatic smile on her face. “Turn right here, then make the next left, then left again.”

  “The directions make no sense.”

  “I want to make certain we’re not being followed.”

  Naomi glanced in the rearview mirror. “Who would be following us?”

  “Peter McKinsey, for one.”

  Naomi took some time digesting this comment. Ever since she had recognized Annika Dementieva she had felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. “And if you go chasing rabbits, And you know you’re going to fall…” Grace Slick sang in her mind. And then the dormouse’s final warning, like the ominous tolling of a bell: Keep your head.

  Without missing a beat, Annika said, “How is Alli?”

  “You know Alli?” Stupid. Of course, Annika had met Jack in Moscow, had traveled with him and Alli to the Ukraine.

  Annika’s smile spread like melting butter. “Better than you do, my dear.”

  A shiver went through the pit of Naomi’s stomach. Annika might be lying—in fact, she probably was—but the thought that she might, indeed, know Alli so well gave Naomi the willies. That poor girl, she thought. All she has is Jack now, and that overbearing and thoroughly repugnant uncle. How awful if this lying murderer gets added to the mix.

  “Alli is with Jack,” Naomi said, more defensively than she had intended, “where she belongs.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Annika was staring straight ahead. “And where would that be?”

  Naomi ma
de no response.

  “Now that we’re in Georgetown,” Annika said, “you should know where to go.”

  Naomi glanced at her for a moment, then headed down toward the water.

  “You saw me follow Pete yesterday.”

  “I’m sure you saw him get into the boat.”

  “Roosevelt Island?”

  “It’s wilderness out there.” Annika pointed to the parking area of a building beside Tidewater Lock. “An excellent place for a rendezvous.” That smile again as Naomi pulled into a slot. “And secrets.”

  * * *

  FOR SOME time, Thatë watched the crew members playing poker in the rear lounge, but his mind was elsewhere. He was remembering in perfect detail Alli defeating Dennis Paull not once, but three times. He liked the way she moved, like a ghost or a drift of smoke. He’d never seen anyone fight like that—the sudden whirlwind moves fascinated him. Or maybe it was Alli herself who fascinated him.

  He cleared his throat, got up, and asked for a pillow and a blanket. One of the crew members put down his cards and opened an overhead compartment. The entire crew watched him while he pulled down what he wanted. He lay down across a row of seats some distance from them, pulled the blanket over him, and set his head on the pillow.

  He drifted on and off for perhaps an hour or so. When he opened his eyes, he saw a crewman sitting across the aisle, watching him. A handgun lay in his lap. He gripped it as Thatë sat up.

  “I need to pee.”

  “Go ahead,” the crewman said.

  Wrapping himself in the blanket, Thatë went forward up the aisle, the crewman following in his wake.

  So that’s how it is, he thought.

  The forward toilet was located almost directly across from the stairs leading down to the ground. He pulled open the toilet door. As the crewman stepped forward, Thatë threw the blanket over him, slammed his forehead into the crewman’s nose, and dragged him into the toilet. The entire maneuver had taken no more than a second or two. Thatë risked a glance to the back. The rest of the crew kept up their game of poker, oblivious to what had just happened.

  Ducking back into the toilet, he took the unconscious crewman’s handgun, set him on the toilet, and emerged into the aisle, closing the door behind him. He stepped across the aisle, went down the stairs, and was free.

  * * *

  ANNIKA BOLTED out of the car, and, cursing under her breath, Naomi hurried after her. Annika carried the poodle in one arm. There was no sign of the .25, but Naomi was certain she had it on her somewhere. Oddly, and rather terrifyingly, she seemed oblivious to the fact that Naomi was armed. Her absolute confidence exploded a depth charge into Naomi’s psyche.

  Striding out onto the dock, Annika set the poodle free. It immediately scampered to a section of the dock and jumped. Unconcerned, Annika walked after it. At the edge, she unzipped her boots and tossed them after the dog. Then she stepped down into a sleek, blue-and-white powerboat. Pulling out a key on a float ring, she started the engine, then cast off the bow line.

  “Cast off the stern line when I give the signal,” she said without looking at Naomi.

  Naomi stood at the stern of the boat. There was no point, at least at this stage, in pitting herself against the other woman, she told herself. Better to go along with whatever she had in mind, always remembering her service weapon, a 9mm Glock that, at this distance, could put a sizable hole in Annika’s head. She decided that would be a most satisfying outcome.

  “Now,” Annika said.

  Naomi slipped the nylon line from the metal cleat, then stepped on board. The moment she did so, Annika pushed the throttle and the boat nosed its way out of the slip, angling toward the thick greenery of the island. Naomi picked her way forward and stood beside Annika, in much the same position Peter had stood beside the unknown man yesterday morning.

  The trip took no more than five minutes. The sun was a hazy ellipse, partially obscured by a low-lying cloudbank. As was the case the morning before, there was no other boat traffic. The water lay serenely blank, an opaque sheet intent on keeping its secrets safe.

  Annika tied up the poodle, who obediently lay down, sighed, and went to sleep. They disembarked onto the island, Naomi in her sensible shoes, Annika in bare feet. The sun was fully up now and the day was growing warmer. Naomi noticed that Annika did not take off her raincoat. Possibly this was where she’d stashed her .25.

  Annika struck out to their left and Naomi followed. They skirted the shoreline, heading toward the eastern point of the island, but, almost immediately, Annika turned inland. Naomi tried to focus her mind on the island’s shape. There were no buildings, only a memorial to Teddy Roosevelt near the opposite shore. Otherwise, all was wilderness. They picked their way through the underbrush, beneath heavy branches. The smell of damp earth and decaying leaves was everywhere. The sky vanished; they were enclosed in deep, cool shade, as if in the shadow of a monstrous edifice.

  At length, they broke out onto a boardwalk of whitish planks, walking due south until Annika turned onto a right-hand branch. This took them on a short walk to a platform that overlooked a finger of muddy water and, beyond, a thick swath of uninterrupted forest that composed the bulk of the island. There was not a soul to be seen anywhere, no movement save for the twittering birds flitting from tree to tree.

  Looking around, Naomi could see nothing she would not expect to find on such an expedition. “This is where Pete went yesterday?”

  “Possibly.” Annika stared off to their right.

  Naomi followed her gaze, but could find no anomaly. “Who took him here, Annika? Who was driving that boat?”

  “I hope you’re not averse to getting your feet wet,” Annika said as she stepped off the platform onto a protruding root, and from there down into the water. The hem of her raincoat caused ripples to expand out from where she stood, knee-deep.

  Kicking off her shoes, Naomi grabbed on to the bole of the tree and swung down from the root, which was slippery, skinned now from Annika’s weight, to the water herself. As soon as she was down, Annika picked her way north, up the narrow channel. The bottom was soft and mucky, and mud squelched between Naomi’s toes. The water was surprisingly warm, thick as chowder. What was she stirring up with each footfall? she wondered. Tiny whirlpools of little fish and decayed leaves wove around her ankles, turning the brackish water ruddy. A sudden shadow overhead caused her to duck, and she heard a bird call, as if mocking her.

  “Come on!” Annika called from up ahead. “Don’t get lost!” Her voice was oddly flat, echoless, as if they had entered a strange and unknowable place where the natural laws of science didn’t apply.

  Naomi moved on, picking up her pace as best she could, but the footing had become unstable, the muck under her feet shifting and sliding as it deepened. Several times she stumbled and had to grab an overhanging branch to keep herself from pitching headlong into the water. She realized that the water was neither cold nor warm, but seemed to be the same temperature as her body.

  Up ahead, she could see a flicker of Annika’s raincoat, like the scales of a reptile moving slowly and inexorably toward its goal. Now she used the branches to drag herself forward, relying on her arms rather than her legs for locomotion, as if she were a chimpanzee.

  Maneuvering around a small bend to the right, she stopped. Annika was standing with one foot on the low bank. One leg was raised. The raincoat had parted, sliding off the knee, revealing a section of naked thigh. What did or didn’t Annika have under that raincoat? Naomi wondered briefly.

  “Closer,” Annika said, beckoning Naomi forward.

  When Naomi came up behind her, she saw that Annika had been digging in the muck. She had uncovered something. Stooping down, she cupped her hands and threw water on it. A pale and shining patch shone through as the mud and leaf detritus slid off.

  It was part of a hand.

  Heart in her throat, Naomi saw again the splatter of blood on the old wooden boards deep beneath the streets of Chinatown, and tears shattere
d on her cheeks. Annika moved out of the way as she crouched down, unmindful of the water and the mud. Using her bare hands she swept away more of the earth. The body had been buried in the V-shaped gap between two massive tree roots, a hammocky space.

  The hand was small, the fingers delicate, so Naomi knew this was a young girl. She dug almost frantically now, tearing a nail, then another, not caring. All she could think of was uncovering the girl’s face, as if she were still alive and, unburied, could be made to breathe again, to live, instead of being yet another victim of these slave traders.

  A brow came first, then the heartbreakingly beautiful swell of a cheekbone. She gasped to see the nose fractured, bruised and swollen to almost twice its size. At this point, the lack of decomposition brought home to her that the girl had been killed very recently, possibly within the last forty-eight hours, though only a coroner could tell for certain.

  This was all on the right side of the face. As she brushed clean the left side, her fingertips felt for the telltale fracture, this one of the left eye socket. And there it was, just as it had been with Billy and the two men in Twilight.

  “Same MO, same perp,” she murmured to herself.

  “That’s right,” Annika said from right behind her.

  Then an arm encircled her throat, the pad of a thumb pressed against the bone just below her left eye.

  And she heard Annika’s voice so intimate in her ear as the pressure increased.

  “This is how it’s done.”

  SIXTEEN

  “SOMEONE IS feeding her information,” McKinsey said in a hushed voice.

  “Naomi is a smart girl,” Henry Carson said. “I told you that from the get-go.”

  “Shit, she’s not that smart.”

  “It’s a mistake to underestimate her.”

  They fell silent as the huge door to the National Cathedral opened and someone entered. An older woman walked down the central aisle, crossed herself before sliding into a pew halfway down. Her hands clasped and she bowed her head.

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Carson’s whisper was nevertheless a harsh rebuke. “Find out what she knows.”