She remembered her mother lying to the doctors, saying her daughter fell on the pavement outside their apartment, and in that moment she knew that’s how it always would be. Her mother would choose men “with a bit of money” over the welfare of her two daughters every time. And so on that day, with the doctors looking doubtfully at her mother, Chloe Philips changed her life for a new one—just not necessarily the better one she hoped for.
“That’s not true,” she said to the doctors. “Her boyfriend hit me with a pan. And it’s not the first time he’s hit me or my sister. Or done other things.”
After much debate and accusations, she and Mia were taken away from their mother that day. Chloe hadn’t seen her since. She didn’t know if that was true for Mia.
“Chloe. Wake up.”
Mia was younger and adopted from St. Vincent’s within four months of being accepted into its services. It was done quietly. No one wanted to have a scene with Chloe, who was about to lose her sister, and so when she woke that morning to find her sister gone, she was told the truth by one of the social workers who worked there.
Mia was adopted into a nice family. The same would happen for Chloe—they knew it would, but things take time for older children, even slightly older children. The important thing is that Mia went into a good home, but before she left, she wrote her sister a note on a piece of plain white paper. Chloe knew her sister didn’t know how to write yet and she also knew an adult’s handwriting when she saw it, even if they did try to make it look juvenile. “I’ll love you forever,” the note said. “Please don’t forget me. Love, Mia.”
Chloe tore the note in half and her stay at St. Vincent’s began its long stretch into self-imposed isolation, anger and loneliness. She began first grade in the fall. Her grades were low, but she didn’t care. The social workers at St. Vincent’s encouraged her to make friends and to try reach out to others during recess. iaybe music would suit her. Or dance. Chloe ignored their advice and drew inward. Sometimes, she wondered if she made a mistake turning her mother in the way she did. Which was worse? Being in an abusive family, or being here with no family? She wasn’t sure of the answer. It upset her that she wasn’t sure.
“I’m not asking again, Chloe. Wake up.”
It was a year later, one afternoon in September, that she met Carmen.
She was watching television with five of the other kids when Carmen entered the building. Chloe looked over at her and couldn’t help but stare. She thought she was seeing a movie star. Or maybe a model. The woman had that kind of presence. Long dark hair that shined as if it caught the light and tossed it back. Black leather pants and a form-fitting white blouse. Beautiful skin, tall and slender, and so, so pretty. For awhile, the woman spoke to two of the social workers. Chloe saw her hand them a check, she listened to their gracious gushings, and because the woman obviously knew she was being stared at, she looked over at Chloe and gave her a little wave. Chloe, oddly wanting to meet her, found herself waving back.
“Who is this one?” the woman asked.
The two social workers, each women, followed her into the living area. “This is Chloe,” one of them said. She mouthed, but did not say the word, disturbed, which Chloe caught, and which the woman furrowed her brow at, as if what they said was insensitive, cruel and inappropriate, which is it was.
The woman reached out a hand, which Chloe shook. “I’m Carmen,” she said.
“I’m Chloe.”
“So, I hear. You know, for a fall afternoon, it’s a lot warmer than I thought it was going to be when I got dressed this morning. Otherwise, these pants would have been history. I’m having an ice cream at the shop next door. Feel like joining me?”
Chloe, facinated, nodded.
Carmen addressed the two women. “The ice cream shop next door? I’d like to buy her a cone. Of course, I understand if you need to come along with us.”
“One of us does,” one of the social workers said. “It’s protocol. I hope you understand.”
“Of course.” She looked at Chloe and rolled her eyes so only Chloe could see. “So, how about a cone? I’m buying.”
It was the beginning of their relationship, during which time countless letters, emails and phone calls were exchanged. Carmen visited at least once a month.
As the social workers came to know Carmen and especially her money, protocols slipped. Sometimes, Carmen took Chloe shopping. Or they’d go to a movie. Another time it was just lying on beach towels and sunning themselves in Central Park in bikinis while listening to dance remixes on the radio. The one constant in their relationship is that they always found time to talk.
Sometimes it was just girl talk. Sometimes it was how Chloe needed to improve her grades at school. Sometimes Carmen would teach her how to deal with bullies. Sometimes they just laughed. As their relationship deepened, Chloe started to feel that even though she’d probably never be officially adopted, Carmen had adopted her. The enthusiasm she showed each time they met in person wasn’t faked. Chloe would have picked up on it. She would have smelled the fakeness just as easily as she once smelled the alcohol and pot on her mother and her boyfriend’s breaths.
They were friends—good friends—and through that friendship, Chloe started to think that certain things did matter. Receiving better grades was one of them. Carmen was correct. If she wanted a better life when she left here, she needed to go to college. Getting good grades was critical for that, so Chloe started to focus on her studies and her grades improved. As the years past, she started to allow people into her life, which Carmen urged her to do. She now had two close friends, Valencia and Shenika, whom also came to know and love Carmen. Things were better than they used to be. In a year and two months, when she turned eighteen, she knew she could leave this place and step into something better.
And that’s what she planned to do.
* * *
It was the slap across her face that jolted her awake.
Startled, she raised her cuffed hands to her cheek and blinked into the light above her, where a shadow of a man’s face was inches from her own.
“I told you to wake up,” he said. It was the Russian. “You’ve been down long enough.”
Her head hurt. Her cheek stung. She looked at the camera across from her and remembered. They wanted a video of her. Something about her crying out to Carmen for help. When she refused, they cold-cocked her. She must have passed out. Her head and her lips ached. She could taste blood in her mouth. What did they shoot on video? Obviously, it was of her passed out. But since she was unable to say what they wanted, what had they said for her?
Worse, what did they say on that video? If Carmen hadn’t received it already, she knew that soon she would.
And then she remembered what else they said to her. About Carmen being an assassin. Is that really why she was here? Clearly, they were using her to get to Carmen, but could it be true?
Was Carmen an assassin?
CHAPTER EIG
HTEEN
Aberdeen, Scotland
It was the older man who lifted his hand when he past the farm that made Liam Martin rethink his strategy and turn around. The idea came to him quickly, he thought it through quickly, and he acted quickly because he knew that he was right.
He drove back to the farm and pulled the MKX off the B979 and onto a long dirt road that was sided on the right by a weathered wood fence. In front of him, off in the distance, was a large white farmhouse that was likely more than a century old. From a distance, it looked in passable shape. But up close, he could see it was in desperate need of repair. It looked as if years had passed since it was freshly painted. The dark green shutters at the windows were faded, the front port sagged, a window was cracked and the roof was questionable at best.
Behind it and to the right were seven massive red barns lined in a row, one behind the other, as if they were oversized dominoes laid on their sides and ready to be shoved over, perhaps by a stiff wind. In his rearview mirror, he could see a tornado of dus
t rising up from the SUV’s wheels and announcing his visit. When he slowed midway up the drive and stopped, the dust rolled over the car to the point that for a moment, he couldn’t see.
When the air cleared, he looked out his tinted right window and saw hundreds of sheep being herded by several border collies and by eight men, one of whom was the man who waved to him when he drove past a moment ago and who looked at him now, along with the others.
Liam Martin stepped out of the car, his friendly face appearing above the hood before his hand went up and waved to the group, who started in his direction with curious but pleasant expressions.
“Hello,” he called. “Is this Kester Farm? Of the cheeses? I didn’t see a sign. If this isn’t it, I apologize for trespassing.”
The older man was closest and came forward with a businesslike smile. He was thin, black hair, pale complexion, eyes rimmed with fatigue but bright with welcome.
Liam knew what he was thinking. They made cheese here. Did they also sell it here? Was this person stopping by to praise them for their cheese? To buy some? Liam was certain this wasn’t the first time that someone had stopped by to sing their praises or to buy their cheese. And since it was their livelihood, anyone was a potential customer or already a loyal one. Best to treat them like a friend, particularly with a house in that condition.
“This is Kester Farm,” the older man said. He came around the MKX and shook Liam’s hand. “A’m Sholto Kester. Hou ar ye?”
The air stank of manure so badly that Liam was reminded of his own youth, when he was raised by his grandparents on a farm in Witney, where they raised cattle. When he was eighteen, seeing no life for himself on the farm, Liam went into the Marines, emerged as a Royal Marine and then was recruited for the darker career he enjoyed now.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “I’m a friend of Iver’s. He told me that if I ever was in Aberdeen, to drive by this way and have a look at where he grew up. We’ve been friends for a few years now. We did a deal together in New York.”
“Whit’s yer name?”
“Michael Blake.” It had been his alias for years. Not unlike himself, it sounded distinctly British. “So, this is where you make the cheese Iver talks so much about.”
“He talks about the cheese?”
“He does.” Liam looked around. “Beautiful land.”
“Thank ye.”
He was aware of the others walking over, including the old woman, who wore a pair of jeans, wellies and the sort of practical layering that wouldn’t hinder her work.
He wanted this over with and checked his watch. “I’m catching a plane in a couple of hours to go back to New York, but since you’re so close to the airport, I came by between flights to take a photo of the farm to show Iver that I’ve been here. Do you mind if I take a photo of you all?” He snapped his fingers. “Better yet, would you like to say hello to Iver yourselves? That would be brilliant. I have a small video camera and know that he’d be thrilled. Are you game?”
They all looked at each other and then nodded their agreement. They seemed interested in the prospect of saying hello to Iver, who visited only once each year and who rarely called and never wrote. They started to gather around each other.
Liam went to the rear of the MKX and pressed a button on his key to lift the back gate. Inside the small leather bag were three different video cameras. One was made for professionals, the other two were more pedestrian. He looked for the least intimidating of the lot—a white Flipcam—and came around with it, checking to make sure the battery was charged. It was. Better yet, the camera shot in 1080p.
“Iver rarely comes to visit, you know?”
It was Iver’s mother, now standing in the center, who made the statement, her brogue not nearly as thick as Sholto’s. He looked at her weathered face and saw that through the farm toughness was a trace of sadness in her eyes at the mention of her son.
“I’m sorry, he doesn’t,” Liam said. “Maybe this little video will make him feel guilty about that.” He smiled at her. “Maybe I can use it to persuade him to get on a plane and come home.”
“That would be good,” she said. “Been over a year now.”
“He won’t come,” one of the younger men said.
“None of you know that,” she said. “Pay attention. I’ve got something to say to Iver.”
That intrigued Liam. He pointed the camera at them, said “Go!,” and pressed the red button to record.
None of them smiled for the camera. They just stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder, each weary at the end of a long day’s work. Covered in dirt and manure, brown grass and mud stuck to the bottom of their shoes, Iver Kester’s family smelled like shit and looked worse.
They peered into the lens as if they were looking straight into Iver’s eyes. What Liam Martin saw was a mix of longing to see Iver again, and also anger that it had been so long since he’d visited.
Or, as far as he could tell, given them any financial assistance.
He was about to ask one of them to say something when Iver’s mother broke the silence. She stepped forward and held her hands out at her sides. “You should be here now, Iver. Take this man seriously and come home. Things aren’t good here. Things are desperate. We need you now. Not tomorrow. Now. Before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER NINE
TEEN
Liam Martin’s video of the Kester family was sent directly to Carmen’s cell—and only to her cell—via Spocatti, the moment after he received it from Liam and viewed it himself. He attached to it a note: “This should help,” he wrote. “Stay in touch. I’ll do the same.”
Carmen was sitting in one of the red chairs in Babe McAdoo’s gilded parlor and thinking about Babe’s love affair with Katzev and what that meant to her in this situation when her phone buzzed and beeped in her pocket. She removed it, clicked it on, viewed the screen. Babe and Jake turned to her in interest.
“It’s from Vincent,” Carmen said. “A video is attached. And a note.”
Once again, Babe and Jake got behind Carmen and they watched the video together. For the first time, they saw the Kester family and noted how weary they looked. No one in the video was smiling. The way it was shot made it look as if they had been forced to assemble, not gather naturally. One of the men fidgeted. Another stared at the screen in hostility—over what Carmen could only wonder. Still, she was happy to see that nobody here looked as if they were sending home a nice greeting to Iver.
“He met them,” Jake said. “I thought he was just going to photograph them from afar so Katzev would know that we had a man there who was ready to take them out if he didn’t release Chloe.”
“Spocatti chose him,” Carmen said, watching. “So, of course, he’s good. Pay attention.”
Next came the money shot, along with the unexpectedly perfect piece of audio that they could use against Katzev: “You should be here now, Iver. Take this man seriously and come home. Things aren’t good here. Things are desperate. We need you now. Not tomorrow. Now. Before it’s too late.”
It appeared as if they were being threatened when that wasn’t the case at all. They were just pissed off at Iver, who apparently lived his big life with little thought of assisting them.
“That must be Katzev’s mother,” Babe said.
Carmen nodded. “Likely.”
“How do you want to proceed with this?”
“We send it to Katzev,” Carmen said. “We threaten him with it. We tell him that if he doesn’t let Chloe go now, we will kill his family and send him a video of that, as well.”
“But what if he can’t stand his family and would rather see them dead than lose face now?”
“Do you know something we don’t, Babe?” Carmen asked.
Babe looked at her in surprise. “What does that mean?”
“It was just so declarative, the way you said it. I’m just wondering if you know something about Katzev that we don’t. You did mention meeting him once.”
Babe waved a hand. “Tha
t was twenty years ago.”
Carmen spun her web carefully. “How well did you know him? Was it long enough to give us insight into what he might do when we send him the video?”
“Twenty years changes all of us, Carmen. You. Me. Jake. Vincent. We’re all different. The person I was twenty years ago has radically evolved. Back then, I was a different person. The same is true for all of us. How can I tell you that the man I knew back then is the same man now when that can’t be the case?”
On the surface, it was a fair enough response, but Carmen didn’t overlook the fact that Babe still hadn’t answered the question. She didn’t say how well she knew Katzev. She didn’t say she had an affair with him. She chose not to divulge that information. Why?
“I didn’t realize that you knew Katzev,” Jake said, startling Carmen with the angry tone of his voice. It was clear by his tense expression that he felt he should have know this. That she should have divulged it. And he was right. “How did you meet him?”
Babe shrugged. “Too long ago,” she said. “I can’t remember.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jake said. “The fact that you know him certainly should have come up at some point since I’ve been involved in this. You’ve never once mentioned knowing him to me. I think it’s important that you knew him, regardless of how long ago it was. You know what the man looks like, for Christ’s sake, which neither I nor Carmen know.”
Carmen looked at Jake differently. He was genuinely angry, as he should be. She watched Babe take to one of the red chairs and sit down. She folded her legs at the knee and was a portrait of calm. “I met him through Jean-Georges,” she said.
From Manhattan With Revenge Boxed Set Page 17