by Glenn Meade
“How many do you have in your care?”
“Almost a hundred.”
“That must be difficult.”
“Not as difficult as it’s been for them.”
The handsome young man sucking his thumb sidled up to Kelly.
He gently took hold of the Irishman’s hand and rubbed it to his cheek, gazing up at him with a crooked but beautiful smile that brought out the tenderest feelings in Kelly.
He felt so overcome he cupped the young man’s face in both his hands. The brown eyes that looked back at him were remote, as if the mind behind them was lost in some other universe. Kelly felt a lump rise in his throat.
“Before I leave perhaps you’d allow me to make a donation to the convent, Sister?”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“About the records?”
“Please come this way.”
59
* * *
TENNESSEE
“You visiting?”
“Yes.”
“From up north?”
“Yes.”
“Get a lot of Yankees down here in fishing season.”
The elderly doctor slid the probe over Carla’s stomach, slippery with gel, as he examined the ultrasound screen. His smile was friendly but it did nothing to ease her heart-pounding fear.
Anxiety grew in her with every passing second. She could feel her pulse drumming in her ears.
Even the young intern looked worried. After he took the first ultrasound he called in his senior for a second opinion.
“Hill walking, you said?” the elderly doctor asked.
“Yes.”
“Better than jogging. You ever wondered why some joggers look so unhealthy?” The doctor had ruddy cheeks and a billiard-ball belly. “Some of them sure look like they’re on a mission to kill themselves.”
As he moved the probe over her stomach he watched the screen. When he turned back a moment he noticed some scars on her right side. “What happened here?”
“I was injured. There was an explosion.”
“How long ago?”
She explained.
“Describe your injuries, if you would.”
Carla told him.
The doctor felt her sides, and pressed her stomach. Gently at first, then more firmly. “Tell me if you feel any discomfort or pain.”
“No.”
“Now?”
“No.”
The man’s keen eye noticed the long-ago scars on her arm, and the fresh scratch marks on her right hand, in the valley between her thumb and forefinger. He examined her hand. “You shoot?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I’m a southerner. I’ve suffered a few pistol slide bites in my day. Happens if you don’t hold the gun the right way.”
“Is . . . Is my baby okay?”
“Ma’am, the ultrasound’s fine, the baby’s heart is beating. The hemorrhaging has stopped but there’s something not right, and that’s why you’ve bled.”
He wiped off the gel with paper towel, patted her side, and gestured for her to sit up.
“Give me a little while to check your blood and urine samples and we’ll talk some more.”
BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
Kelly descended a winding granite stairway to the monastery cellars, Sister Hilda leading the way. She carried a battery-operated lantern as they passed ornately gilded icons on the walls.
“Tell me about the convent and your order.”
“It was built in the fifteenth century by a Serb princess as a place of refuge and reflection, and also to help tend the local sick and destitute. Many of our nuns are nurses.”
They came to the bottom of the stairs, and a blackened, ancient oak door with a rusted lock. Sister Hilda inserted a key and pushed hard, and the door creaked open.
“Where are we?”
“This is where we keep our records, Mr. Kelly.”
The room they stepped into was large, with vaulted stone ceilings, the floor covered in terra-cotta tiles.
Around the walls, thick wooden shelves sagged with the weight of old ledgers and journals, and bundles of parchments with wax seals. Sister Hilda swung the lantern toward the shelves.
She removed a pair of reading glasses from under her robe and slipped them on. “The boy’s name and age?”
“Luka Joran. He was four years old.”
“That’s not a surname common to these parts.”
“His father was American.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“You’ve brought back a memory. It may be important.”
Sister Hilda turned toward a shelf, placing the lantern beside her. She plucked down one of the ledgers and started to flick through the pages.
“The only American we treated was a man brought here one evening with his young son, a small boy about that age. It was snowing, a cold night. I recall it well because both of them were in a bad way physically. And I remember the man’s nationality. We never got Americans in this area.”
“How do you know he was American?”
“His accent. He was from New York. I once worked there as a young nurse. The two of them were delivered here by car by a Good Samaritan.”
“Were they injured?”
She stopped on one of the ledger pages, and pointed to an entry. “It’s all here. The boy had suffered shell splinters in his back. They were significant, but they were operable. Also, they both had pneumonia.”
Kelly felt his heart quicken. “What else can you tell me, Sister?”
“The child’s name was given as Luka. I seem to recall that one of his eyes was unusual; it was milky, an ocular condition he suffered from.”
“Please continue.”
“There’s no family name recorded. I’m not sure we were given one. But let me see . . .”
The nun read the ledger pages, her finger on a line. “It says here David was the father’s name.”
“Can you tell me what else you recall?”
The nun peered over her glasses. “Only that the father was delirious most of the time, in a bad way with fever. But he never let the child out of his grasp for a moment. He clutched the boy’s hand even as they slept.”
“Anything else?”
The nun consulted the ledger again. “We treated them both as best we could. They seemed to respond. They had already started a course of antibiotic. We found some in the father’s pockets.”
“What age was the father?”
She looked back up. “Early thirties, I’d say.”
“Tell me exactly how they were brought here.”
“A man arrived in a car. He said they were in poor condition and begged us to treat them.”
“And?”
“We told him the truth. Our own patients were already dying.”
“Why?
“We had no doctor and precious few drugs and medicines. I told him the boy and his father might not live. I told him it would be better if he brought them to a hospital, where they’d stand a better chance. He said he couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The roads were blocked by troops and checkpoints. And he didn’t believe they’d survive a trip across the snowy mountains on foot. So he left the father and son with us.”
“You treated them?”
“As best we could. We even operated on the boy and removed most of the shrapnel. Things improved. But I knew neither would stand a chance if we couldn’t get them drugs. And then a miracle happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man returned two days later.”
“The Good Samaritan?”
“Yes. He looked like a corpse walking. He’s been wounded trying to return to us, and was shot in the chest and arm. We had to treat him.”
“Why did he come back?”
“To bring us drugs and medical supplies. Without them, most of the patients you saw today would never have survived.”
“What about the fa
ther and his son?”
“The father’s health was deteriorating fast. He needed proper hospital care. I told the man that.”
“And?”
“He said he’d try to take them to a hospital. We helped him place the father and son in his car and he drove out of here and I never saw the American or his child again.”
“The Good Samaritan, do you know who he was?”
“Yes, I recognized him. He was well known in these parts.”
“Who was he?”
“His name was Mila Shavik.”
60
* * *
CAPE MAY, NEW JERSEY
What I’m about to do may cost me my life.
Angel inhaled the cigarette and watched the smoke curl to the ceiling.
Lying on the bed, staring up, she knew by heart every tiny crack in the ceiling plaster. Every river and vein her mind conjured up whenever she lay next to Mila Shavik—her eyes open, her heart closed to any feeling except her disgust for what she was doing.
She thought: Carla Lane was right.
Hate.
Affection.
It was bizarre, but sometimes those two feelings expressed exactly how she felt about Mila Shavik.
The fact that there were times when her sentiment toward him bordered on a kind of fondness disturbed her. It disturbed her even more because she despised feeling anything toward Shavik other than hatred.
Stockholm syndrome might explain her contrasting emotions. For how could she ignore the times when Shavik was kind and considerate? When he stroked her hair, touched her face lightly with the back of his hand like a tender lover.
Yet she knew it was more complicated: intuition told her that Shavik bore a wound as gaping as her own. Anyone who was half human would always feel pity for another tortured soul. And wasn’t that really what she felt for Mila Shavik?
Not affection, but pity.
She no longer tried to fathom the source of his torment. It only distracted her from her purpose.
On the nightstand was an ice bucket filled with crushed ice. It held a bottle of Krug champagne, next to it two polished crystal glasses.
With shaking hands she popped open the Krug, and poured a glass of champagne. There were times when she felt as if she was defiling her mother and sister’s memory by being in the company of these murderous criminals.
But long ago she learned to disconnect her mind and her body—they didn’t belong to her when she was sharing a bed with someone. She learned to completely separate the woman in the makeup and wig from her real self.
Besides, sharing Shavik’s bed had a greater purpose.
One that would allow her to have her revenge.
If she didn’t blow it.
What I’m about to do may cost me my life.
For sure, and she knew it.
She crushed out her cigarette, rose from the bed, drew on her silk dressing gown. Moving to the window, she heard a car engine approach the gated driveway.
Fear surged through her body like a stab of electricity as the iron entrance gates swung open.
A black Mercedes with dark-tinted windows rolled up the driveway.
Mila Shavik had arrived.
• • •
The beach house on Cape May, New Jersey, had its own impressive grounds.
The swimming pool at the back overlooked Delaware Bay, a wrought-iron gate leading down to the sandy beach, the garden lawns well lit.
The cape had a Victorian feel to it, old turreted homes, restaurants, and yacht clubs, the upmarket neighborhoods a far drive from Jersey’s gritty districts infested by drugs and crime.
Angel heard the Merc stop out of view.
She heard the car doors clunk open and shut, the bodyguards climbing out, heard their footsteps enter the hall.
Could she do it?
This one last thing?
A gamble with death?
She had planned every detail. But what if she was caught? What if they tortured her before they killed her, the same ways they tortured her mother and sister?
In her mind, she never forgot the sound of their screams.
Her fear felt like an icy dagger in her spine. She poured the second glass of champagne.
Footsteps echoed out in the hall.
The door handle turned.
And there, in the door frame, large as life, stood Mila Shavik.
61
* * *
She forced a smile, made it look genuine. “Try not to look like you missed me.”
He came over, a briefcase in one hand, laid it down, and kissed her forehead gently. “I did.”
She handed him his champagne. He emptied it in one swallow, put down the crystal. “I wish I could stay but I only came back for some papers. Duty calls.”
“What duty?”
“Some work I have to finish at the club. Why don’t you relax and watch a movie? I’ll be back after midnight. We can have supper, more champagne.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, smelling the faint scent of his aftershave as her lips brushed his. He seemed distracted as usual, and when he drew back she looked into his eyes.
“You’re okay?”
He kissed her forehead lightly. “Just tired. Too much work. I need to get something from the safe before I go.”
He moved over to the dressing room, stopped in the doorway. “By the way, I have some family business to attend to tomorrow night.”
“You want me to stay in my own place?”
A faint smile. “I knew you’d understand.”
• • •
Five minutes later Shavik was gone.
Angel watched from the window as the tinted-window Mercedes drove out the front gates. The house sounded silent. No one home except the household staff, a Puerto Rican maid and her husband, the chef.
Angel made sure the bedroom door was closed, then took her Toshiba notebook from her bag as well as a notepad and ballpoint pen.
She stepped into Shavik’s walk-in dressing room.
The walls were covered in rich, ruby mahogany. Rails of suits, shirts, and casual clothes, neatly stored sweaters, racks of ties. A long mirror and chair.
She pulled apart a rail of suits, to reveal a mahogany panel.
A row of light switches nearby. One of the switches was false: she depressed the bottom right corner twice and the mahogany panel whirred open to reveal a wall safe.
Next, she positioned the chair under the smoke alarm in the ceiling.
She stood on the chair.
Yesterday, she replaced the smoke alarm with another just like it—except hers had a pinhead spy camera inside, pointed at the wall safe. She would replace the original when she finished.
For now, she twisted the alarm casing off the ceiling receiver, stepped down, and plugged a connector between the video camera and her Toshiba.
The video file downloaded.
She fast-forwarded, saw flickering images.
Shavik was onscreen now, his fingers punching the safe keypad. She slowed down the frame speed, observed each inputted number, and wrote them on her pad.
7
6
4
8
0
1
She unplugged the smoke alarm from the Toshiba.
She crossed to the safe. With shaking fingers, she carefully entered the numbers on the keypad. 764801. She touched the pound sign with a lacquered red nail.
A whirring sound erupted and the safe’s door sprang open.
Inside was a stack of money and a thick ledger.
“Find everything you’re looking for, sweetheart?”
Angel spun round, fear alive in her eyes.
Standing in the doorway was Arkov. Next to him Billy Davix, a weasel grin on his face.
Arkov lunged across the room and grabbed her savagely by the hair.
“Smart one, aren’t you? Never underestimate a woman, I always say. But we�
��ve been watching you. What are you up to? Answer me, before I break something.”
His face was screwed up with rage, holding back a balled fist, ready to strike.
Billy gave a hyena laugh, as if relishing what was about to come.
“You can go to hell.” Angel’s heart jackhammered against her chest but she stared defiantly at Arkov.
“Who do you work for?”
She spat in Arkov’s face.
He lost it then, rage erupting in him. He drew back his fist and punched her face, and there was a sickening noise like bone splintering before Angel passed out.
62
* * *
Shavik stood alone at the window smoking a cigarette.
The door burst open and Arkov came in, wiping his face with a paper towel. In his free hand he clutched the smoke alarm camera. “Billy took out the memory card.”
He tossed the alarm to Shavik, who examined it. “Where is she?”
“Billy dragged her down to the basement.”
“Did she talk?”
“She’s still out of it. I punched her so hard I broke her nose.”
“I thought I told you not to harm her?”
Arkov grinned. “She needs to know we mean business. Don’t worry, she’ll talk if she knows what’s good for her.”
He finished dabbing his face, and tossed away the paper towel. “I never trusted that tart—she tried too hard to get close to you. I was right to keep an eye on her. Clever, planting the camera, but not clever enough.”
Shavik flung the camera hard against the wall, smashing it to pieces.
“What’s she up to? What’s she after?”
“Not money. She never took the cash we left lying around. You think she’s working for the feds?”
“From the look on her face when she spat at you, it’s something much more personal.”
“You’re right.” Arkov cracked his knuckles, enjoying the drama. “Billy’s got a hypodermic full of scopolamine. If the truth drug doesn’t get it out of her, we’ll revert to the old ways.”