Poe

by Battles, Brett

  There had been no goodbyes, no “I have to go away for a while.”

  He was simply there one day and not the next.

  The army had said he’d gone AWOL, that he had sold secrets to some foreign organization. Her father? A traitor? Not a chance. He was a good soldier, a great one. Next to his own family, serving his country was the most important thing to him. He was no more a traitor than the commander of the joint chiefs himself.

  As the years went by, she held on to that thought even as her anger at him began to blossom.

  So many questions only he could answer.

  And now, here she was, riding in the back of a cab in the Autonomous Republic of Crimea, one step closer to getting those answers.

  When the cab reached the airport and pulled to the curb, Alex didn’t enter either of the terminals. Instead she made her way over to the small plaza between the buildings.

  It was 3:30 p.m. Her instructions were to find a red-roofed building, something that wasn’t hard to do. It came into view, just beyond the plaza’s diamond-shaped flower beds, the moment she turned the corner. Words in large Cyrillic type were displayed on white beams across the apex of the roof—an advertisement or perhaps an identifier of what was inside. The door to the building was to the right of center, flanked by a pair of windows.

  Alex walked casually toward the door. Twenty feet before she reached it, a voice yelled out.

  Though she didn’t understand the words, she recognized it as the very same thing the cop at the Odessa train station had shouted at her.

  She stopped and looked around, expecting to see the officer who had been bribed to take her into custody, but instead of one cop, there were five. All had pistols pointed in her direction.

  She immediately raised her hands in the air. “No need for that. I’m unarmed.”

  “Down on ground,” the one on the far left shouted.

  She dropped to the ground, her pack heavy on her back.

  “Arms, legs out!”

  She assumed a spread-eagle position. Apparently her contact had decided to make her capture seem more realistic than planned, and had involved some of his friends. As long as she got where she needed to go, that’s all that really mattered.

  One of the men—she couldn’t see which—approached her, and used a knife to cut the straps to her backpack so he could pull it off.

  “Hey! That wasn’t necessary,” she said. She didn’t really care about the bag, but a knife that close to her skin was not something she was fond of.

  The man dropped the backpack beside her, knelt down, cuffed her wrists behind her, and began a body search. As his hand slipped over her hip and between her legs, she squeezed her thighs together. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Putting on a show was one thing, but she was not about to put up with bullshit like this. She shifted her hips, moving from his touch. He grabbed her and dug his fingers into her thigh.

  That did it.

  In a sudden twist, she wrapped her legs around him and pulled him to the ground, rolling him onto his back. With an oomph he collapsed, and she dug a knee into one of his kidneys. “Don’t you ever do that again. To anyone!”

  “Step away!” one of the other cops yelled at her in English.

  She gave a parting shove of her knee to the downed cop and stood up, arms still cuffed behind her back.

  “I’m cooperating,” she said. “That son of a bitch just wanted a little more than I’m willing to give.”

  “You funny woman, huh?” the English speaker said as he stepped closer to her.

  By now quite a crowd had gathered, and what was supposed to have been a simple—and subtle—arrest was turning into a scene.

  “Do you see me laughing?” she asked.

  The cop said something to the guy on the ground, who grunted a response, and slowly rose to his feet. Alex eyed him warily as he gave her a once-over before leaning down and picking up her pack.

  “You come no problem?” the English speaker asked her.

  “Just tell me where to go.”

  “Car waiting.”

  They formed a rough circle around her, and pushed their way through the crowd to the road that ran in front of the terminals. There, three police cars were parked bumper to bumper. Alex was led to the one in the middle. The cop in front of her opened the backdoor, while the one behind grabbed the top of her head. He pushed her down and through the opening, but not before making sure the top of her head smacked against the doorframe.

  She winced as she fell into the seat, and felt blood start to trickle down her scalp. The pain of the blow grew like a wave. She gritted her teeth and shut her eyes to ride it out. Once she opened them again, the car was already pulling away from the airport.

  There were two cops in the car with her. The one who’d opened the door was sitting behind the wheel, and the English speaker was looking back at her from the passenger seat.

  “Apologies,” he said. “But appearances must be kept up.”

  So this was her contact. She glanced at the driver then back to the other man.

  He shook his head. “Only me. He not understand English.”

  Tempering her response so the driver wouldn’t wonder what was going on, she said, “And your friend back there. The one with the wandering hands. Was that for appearances, too?”

  There was a flash in the man’s eyes. Anger? Annoyance? It was hard to tell. “You should be very careful how you speak to me. You are in Crimean system now. I can be friend, or I can make problem.”

  Apparently he was a touchy bastard. And an arrogant one as well. But as much as she might’ve liked to slap the attitude right out of him, she knew he was right. She was at his mercy. He could easily forget he’d been paid to make all this happen.

  That was the kind of trouble that could lead to her being “lost” in his beloved Crimean system.

  Never to be found again.

  * * *

  THEY ARRIVED AT a big block of a building that screamed municipality. Columns and gray stone and wide stairs leading inside, it could have been picked up and plopped down in almost any country and looked at home.

  They parked behind the building and took her in through a basement door. The English speaker said something to his friends, then headed down an intersecting hallway on his own.

  The four who were left escorted Alex to an empty, windowless room that was clearly a holding cell. There she was left, her wrists still cuffed.

  Minutes passed. Five. Ten.

  When the door opened again, a single cop entered, only it wasn’t the English speaker. It was the son of a bitch with the wandering hands.

  Oh, joy.

  He was carrying a knotted sock full of coins or rocks or something equally hard and heavy. A sap, or this guy’s version of one, anyway. By the look in his eyes, he was anxious to test it out on her skull.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “Did you learn nothing?”

  He was only a year or two younger than Alex, and had that look of indignant self-importance that was so common among people her age who hadn’t yet tasted real life.

  Alex had never been cursed with that disease. Her real life began when her mother died, and continued on through Iraq and the occasional Maryland mean street. She was sure this idiot was used to getting his way, and after failing to feel her up, he now wanted to reestablish his perceived dominance to save face with his buddies.

  He took two steps forward, testing her, but she didn’t back off. He slapped the sock against the palm of his free hand, trying to intimidate her.

  Without warning, she dropped her head and rushed him, targeting his nose. He turned just enough that she ended up slamming into his cheek instead. She could feel the cut on her head open up again, but gave it no further thought.

  The jerk staggered to the side, the side of his face red from the impact. Before he could do anything else, she kicked sideways and caught him in the abdomen right below his sternum.

  He doubled
over, coughing, and dropped the makeshift sap to the ground. She hooked it with her foot and hurled it across the room, out of reach.

  She took a couple steps back, keeping her eye on the cop the whole time. He coughed once more, then began panting as he caught his breath. As soon as he was more in control, he tilted his head up and looked at her. There was fire in his eyes, an anger several times stronger than it had been when he’d entered the room.

  The roar began, barely noticeable, at the back of his throat, then flew out of his mouth as he launched himself at her.

  Alex had the fleeting thought that she needed to be careful not to hurt him too much, as it might negate whatever deal Stonewell had worked out to get her into Slavne Prison. Cops worldwide were rabid when it came to protecting their own, even when one of their own was a complete shit.

  She dodged to the side, trying to get out of his way, but his shoulder still glanced against her rib. In a way, it was a good thing. The blow spun him sideways, and kept him from smashing headfirst into the wall and breaking his neck. It did not, however, keep his other shoulder from crashing into the cement and dislocating.

  The cop crumpled to the floor in a howl of pain.

  Alex rushed to the door, and started kicking it. “We need help in here! Hey! Anyone there? Help!”

  When she heard several pairs of feet running toward the holding cell, she backed away and moved up against the wall to look as harmless as possible.

  The door flew open and three cops rushed in. After a quick look at her, they noticed their colleague lying against the far wall. Two of them went to him, while the other approached Alex.

  He said something to her in Ukrainian, his tone harsh.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said calmly. “He did that himself.”

  The guy rattled off at her again.

  This time she just shrugged and looked past him at the others. They had helped their friend back to his feet, and were trying to find a way to get him out of the room without disturbing his damaged shoulder.

  The cop standing in front of Alex said something to the others, and ran out of the room. He returned with his English-speaking colleague right after the injured man was led outside.

  “What happened?” the cop asked, not looking happy.

  “Your friend decided he wanted a little revenge.”

  “But he was on the ground.”

  “Again,” she added for him.

  “Yes, again.”

  “What can I say? He’s an idiot. Look, my hands are cuffed behind my back. He comes at me with a weapon and all I can do is—”

  “Weapon? What weapon?”

  She looked around, spotted the sap in the corner, and nodded toward it.

  He walked over and picked it up. From the look on his face, she knew this wasn’t the first time he’d seen it.

  He shouted something toward the door, then turned to Alex. “I will be back. Someone bring you towel now, for you clean up.” He left.

  The promised towel showed up a few minutes later, but because of the cuffs, the cop who brought it had to wipe the blood from her face and hair. She had forgotten about the cut on her head and the towel was a red mess when he finished. He left for a moment, then returned with a piece of gauze that he clumsily taped over the wound.

  When the English speaker came back, he looked her over, gave her a nod, and said, “Come.”

  He was her only escort as he led her up a darkened stairway to an office on the second floor. The room was crammed with books and stacks of paper, with an oversized wooden desk dominating the center. There were three chairs—one for the old man sitting on the other side of the desk, and two, currently empty, for visitors. The cop motioned her into the far chair, and took the one beside her.

  The old man behind the desk was wearing a black judge’s robe over a white-collared shirt and light blue tie. Hanging from a blue and yellow ribbon around his neck was a gold, multipointed starburst medal. The only hair he had were two tufts of white above each ear.

  Since the moment they’d walked in, his gaze had followed Alex. Now his eyes were locked with hers. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act, so she decided to match him stare for stare. In theory, he was also in Stonewell’s pocket.

  Finally he smiled and leaned back in his chair as he broke eye contact. He clasped his hands in front of his chest, his elbow resting on the arms of his chair.

  “Welcome to Simferopol, Maureen Powell. I am Justice Gurka.” His voice was surprisingly devoid of any Ukrainian accent, and sounded more like he’d come from London than the former Soviet republic.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I heard it was a friendly place. Haven’t been disappointed.”

  A condescending smile. “Most people don’t get arrested so soon after entering our country.”

  “So it’s my fault.”

  “Does it really matter?” The judge leaned forward again and opened a large ledger in front of him. “You have been charged with violence against a person or persons and possession of a deadly weapon.” This was part of a prearranged story that connected the weapon in question—a knife planted in Alex’s backpack—to a recent stabbing in the city. The severity of the crime would give her a certain cachet in prison that she could use to her advantage if necessary. “Unfortunately,” the judge went on, “I will not be able to schedule your trial for several months. Which means that unless you can produce bail in an amount I have yet to determine, you will be a guest of the Crimean judicial system.”

  “Looks like I’m shit out of luck,” she said. “Unless that bail is under a few hundred bucks.”

  “Well, then, that settles that.” He wrote something in the ledger. “As much as I would like to house you in one of our local jail facilities, they are not meant for stays more than a few days.”

  True or not, at least he was sticking to the script. “I understand.”

  “We will have to transfer you to one of our local prisons. Yalta, I think. It will be better suited to your needs.”

  “Wait. Yalta?”

  “There’s a women’s facility just outside of the city. You’ll have a nice ocean breeze, clean air. You’ll enjoy it.”

  The judge closed the ledger, and the cop stood up, ready to leave. But Alex remained in her seat.

  “I think you and I should have a private conversation,” she said to the judge.

  “That would be highly irregular.”

  “Wouldn’t you say this whole situation is irregular?”

  The judge regarded her for several seconds, then looked at the cop. “Please step outside.” The cop hesitated, but the judge smiled and said, “She’s handcuffed, and I’m behind my desk. There’s little she can do before you’d be able to get back in here.”

  I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Alex thought, and could see the cop was thinking the very same thing. But he nodded and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

  “So, Ms. Powell, you have a problem with my orders?”

  “We both know Yalta isn’t where I’m supposed to go.”

  “Do we?”

  If it hadn’t been for the knowing look in his eye, Alex might have begun to wonder if she’d been taken to the wrong judge.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Want?”

  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

  “Are you trying to bribe me, Ms. Powell? I can hardly be bought for ‘a few hundred bucks,’ as you say.”

  “I’m sure they already gave you much more than that.”

  The judge steepled his fingers and tapped them against his upper lip, letting out a low, quick laugh. “I’m afraid, my dear, that I find the…”—he paused, smiling as he leaned forward—“the gift your colleagues were kind enough to provide me isn’t quite as generous as it could have been.”

  You son of a bitch, she thought, but kept her tone neutral. “So you want more.”

  Turning his palms up, he shrugged. “I’m only one man in a very powerful and unforgiving
system, and I’m taking on a lot of risk. It seems only fair that—”

  “Save it. You want more, I’m not the one you need to talk to.”

  “No, but you can relay the message.”

  “I’m not in contact with my colleagues.”

  “Easily remedied.”

  The judge opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a mobile phone. Disposable, most likely. Definitely not traceable back to him. He held it out to her, but she didn’t take it.

  He frowned. “I assume you know what number to dial.”

  When she finally moved, she snatched the device from his hand, making it clear she was annoyed. Moving the phone below desk level so the judge couldn’t see the keypad, she punched in the emergency number she had memorized before leaving DC.

  It rang twice before it clicked and a female voice said, “Yes?”

  “Omega twenty-four slash four,” she said.

  “One moment.”

  The silence lasted for nearly half a minute, then another click.

  “Poe?”

  McElroy.

  “How you doing, Jason?”

  “What the hell’s going on? Shouldn’t you be on your way to prison by now?”

  “Just a little hiccup.”

  “You got yourself in trouble again?”

  Her eyes narrowed. Of course he’d heard about Odessa. “Actually this trouble isn’t mine. It’s yours.” She told him about the judge’s request.

  “That son of a bitch,” McElroy murmured.

  “I thought the very same thing.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Sitting in his office.”

  “He’s there with you?”

  “Right in front of me.”

  “All right. Good. You tell him that—”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, feeling tired and sore and more pissed off by the moment. “That’s your job, not mine.”

  She set the phone down and slid it across the desk.

  “It’s for you,” she told him.

  The judge let it sit where it was. “I’d prefer that you handle the details.”

  “Like I told him, that’s not my job. You want more, you ask for it.”

  The superior smile he’d been wearing disappeared.