“I think we must talk with her, too,” the praporshchik whispered.
He started to pat William down, checking for weapons. He said something in Russian to the clerk. The clerk picked up the phone and dialed.
Outside in the parking lot, Demyan was smiling.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Alright,” said a voice. “That’s enough.”
William glanced around — he’d almost forgotten about the man in the trench coat. He was leaning against the front desk behind William. Thick black hair with swirls of grey, unshaven jaw, bright blue eyes. He stepped away from the desk towards them. The second cop took it as an aggressive move and whipped his gun out.
The man in the trench coat wasn’t a police detective after all.
The cops yelled at him in Russian, likely ordering him to stop moving, get his hands up. The man obeyed, and replied in a relaxed tone of voice. “Legko, it’s okay, okay . . .”
It didn’t satisfy the second cop, who kept shouting, gesturing with his gun gripped in both hands while the praporshchik grabbed William from behind and pulled him backwards.
The cop outside threw Demyan back into the vehicle.
Everyone was on the defensive. The praporshchik put William in a half-nelson. William could feel the man’s big belly smooshing against his back.
“Ne prinimayte eto blizko k serdtsu,” the man in the trench coat said. He slowly lowered one of the hands off his head.
The second cop yelled at him.
The man in the trench coat reached into his pocket. “Legko, legko . . .”
The second cop was frantic. He was going to start shooting, William thought. But then he realized the second cop seemed more scared than confident.
The praporshchik jerked William back further. He was trying to make the door, trying to get away. What the hell was happening? Then, the man in the trench coat held up a badge.
“Sledstvennyi Komitet,” he said. He waved the badge back and forth in the air. “Don’t take another step. And let the civilian go.”
Reluctantly, William thought, the praporshchik released his grip.
The second cop was still ranting and raving, but he was getting the message.
Sledstvennyi Komitet. William knew what it was — an investigative committee of the Russian Federation. The man was a government agent.
William stepped away and pulled himself together as the agent and the two cops continued to argue. The second cop at last put away his gun. He stared at William as he walked past, hate painted on his face. William watched him pass through the revolving front door.
The praporshchik followed, wagging his finger. “I’m not done for you, Mr. Chase.”
The agent sidled up to William and they watched the cops get back into their vehicles. William saw Demyan’s face for a second, frustrated, bewildered, and then he was gone.
William turned. “Thank you.”
The agent dusted himself off like he was getting rid of germs. “Come, step into my office.” He indicated the couches near the ferns.
* * *
His name was Pace Reznikov. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. In Cherepovets, you could still smoke in some places. Reznikov offered William a cigarette.
“Welcome to Russia,” Reznikov said. He laughed and it brought on a coughing fit. William lit up anyway.
When Reznikov had recovered, he shook his head and stared out through the glass for a moment.
“You had a close one.”
“How did you know?”
Reznikov nodded in the direction the police had fled. “I’m on this unit. Cherepovets Center, and on to the Sheksna suburb. I heard the call. Shots fired over by the academy.”
“So you know about the academy? Alkaev?”
Reznikov sat back and crossed his legs. He dragged on the smoke, coughed one more time, and squinted at William. “Of course. Everyone knows about it. It’s a school.” He held up his hand as if to indicate that was all there was to say.
“So you know what Alkaev does.”
Reznikov blew a plume of smoke and nodded. Then he fished something out of his eye with a finger.
William studied him. Beyond looking tired, like he’d been up all night, and older, over fifty, William thought he saw a veteran detective. Reznikov had been there and done that. William wondered if he would ever find that kind of peace.
“Yes, I know what Alkaev does,” Reznikov said. “But the school is voluntary.”
“Who would send their kids there?”
Reznikov scowled. “These are mostly street kids. Alkaev gives them a home. Gives them purpose. Direction.”
“He sends the women into the sex trade. That’s the direction.”
Reznikov nodded. “Mmhmm. Absolutely.”
“And how is that legal?”
“Legal? Well, what the women choose to do, if they leave the academy and take a job, you know, if they are working as an exotic dancer, or if they go to work for a brothel, that is their choice. Then, that work is illegal.”
“And they get punished, they go to jail for a night, and they’re right back out . . . I don’t understand. Then what do you do?”
Reznikov snubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table between the couches. He rubbed his jaw for a moment, his eyes wandering before they landed on William. “I am part of a federal anti-corruption bureau under Sledkom. You know what Sledkom is?”
“You work to combat corruption in the Russian police.”
“Correct.” He sat back again. He looked as comfortable as if he were home, lounging on his own furniture.
“You’re not telling me something,” William said. He felt the relief of Reznikov’s intervention fading, an anxiousness developing.
“Neither are you,” Reznikov said, and winked. Then he turned his head towards the bank of elevators deeper in the lobby. “You have someone upstairs? Girl?”
William leaned forward, putting out his own cigarette. “You’re anti-corruption. Okay. At what point do you intervene in this process?”
He turned his head slowly back. “I am intervening now, yes?”
“These girls are taken, beaten and brainwashed. I’ve seen videos of Alkaev slapping a young woman until she couldn’t sit up. This is the training. He’s got it all bungled up together with some hokum about spiritual awareness. It’s a fucking cult, and he’s grooming young women to be sex slaves.”
William stood up. He knew his temper was getting the better of him again, and he needed to walk away. He had this man to thank for his freedom — maybe his life. But the no-can-do attitude surrounding everything was going to break him in half. Too much bureaucracy, and nothing got done.
“Like my daughter,” Reznikov said.
The words caught William before he walked away. He saw the sincerity in Reznikov’s face, and the pain buried in his eyes. Not just a seasoned veteran, but someone with a personal stake. William slowly sat back down, listening.
“You have an expression. Yeah? ‘This is chess, not checkers.’ Of course it is immoral, of course it is deplorable. That Alkaev operates in this way, so close to their face they cannot even see, yes?” Reznikov stuck a hand in front of his nose to illustrate. “But Alkaev is not alone. He is protected by big network of organized crime, police, and government officials who take money, look the other way. This is how I must proceed. I must have names of the men and women who are engaging in the corruption.” He pointed at the ceiling. “That girl up there, maybe she sees something. Maybe she hears Alkaev talking on phone. She’s a witness to something, yes? And I can connect a dot to a dot.” He pointed his other finger then touched the tips together.
William understood Sledkom was looking for the Russian equivalent of RICO, a wide net cast to ensnare many criminals at once. But William was still conflicted. The young woman upstairs had clearly wanted out. They hadn’t gotten to her yet — she knew that real personal freedom was not part of Alkaev’s so-called school. Reznikov wanted the PJP to hand her over.<
br />
Maybe the PJP would be willing to cooperate, though. This was what they did. They prioritized the rescue of victims, but they also worked to build cases against traffickers. It was time for William to step aside, and let the PJP work with Sledkom. Maybe it wasn’t the way they’d hope to get things started, but the wheels were now turning.
“Let me call up,” William said.
Reznikov nodded. After a moment, he lit another cigarette and resumed staring out the window.
William dialed and waited for Hanna to pick up.
While it was ringing, he asked Reznikov, “What was her name?” He meant Reznikov’s daughter.
The Sledkom agent kept looking out the window at the lightening day. “Agnetha.” After a moment he spoke again. “It means ‘sacred, chaste.’”
CHAPTER NINE
He brought Hanna into his hotel room and closed the door. She had the case with her and set it down on the bed, then turned to William, hands on her hips.
“So we have to go,” she said. “We have to leave. Nel and Maritje are worried their whole operation here is blown.”
He couldn’t tell if she was on the verge of crying or throwing something at him. Maybe both. It had been a rollercoaster of a day and it was only seven a.m.
“Reznikov can help,” he said, throwing clothes into his bag.
“How? Who is he? He’s Sledkom? What’s he going to do, put us in the trunk of a car and spirit us across the border?”
He stood up and kept his voice measured, though he was simmering. “I don’t know yet. Maybe, yeah, he can get us out.”
William felt for the brass knuckles in his pocket. Reznikov had intervened just in time, before the Russian police had confiscated them. He tossed them in his bag and zipped it up. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Let’s just see what he says.”
“William — will you look at me?”
He struggled to meet her eyes.
“At this point our stipend will only last a couple days. Then we’re broke.”
“I’ll call Lazard.”
Didier Lazard was their benefactor of sorts, former head of the IMF and the one who’d given them the storage drive, which contained private information on large companies all over the world. It was information Lazard had amassed while head of the IMF, profiles on multinationals, shell corporations, offshore holdings, but also on sovereign states themselves. Which countries were really in danger of default? Who was crashing, and who was placing bets on who was crashing? It was a helpful cache to have, to say the least. And very dangerous.
But Lazard was sometimes unreachable for days at a time. And he wasn’t as interested in combating the sex trade as they were. In truth, they’d had something of a gradual falling out over the past year, but William hadn’t come to grips with it. Hanna knew it — he could see it in her face.
She was right — they had no place to go. Nel and Maritje might smile and promise to refer them to another part of the organization, but he knew it would just be talk. He’d drawn the attention of the Russian police, and thus, the Russian government. The PJP would have to maneuver to stay beneath the radar and protect themselves.
He banged into the bathroom to call Lazard, angry again. Mad at himself, mad at the PJP. He sat down on the lidded toilet and collected his thoughts. They couldn’t have known how seeing Alkaev would affect him.
Now they had to skip town, and Alkaev would go on grooming young women.
Lazard wasn’t answering. Big surprise. William resisted the urge to throw the phone across the bathroom. He stuck it back in his pocket and leaned on his hands. There was a soft knock on the door.
“Will?”
“Be right out.”
“He’s here.”
William got up, took a drink of water from the tap. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath.
Reznikov was standing in the room where he folded his hands and smiled politely.
“We’re all leaving,” he said. “I have a car arriving downstairs. I will take Klara and Nel and Maritje — very lovely women — to a safe house, and will ask Klara some questions after she has had a period to adjust.”
He gazed a moment at William, perhaps reading what he saw there. “I promise you she will be protected, cared for. She has been through an ordeal. But there are many more like her, and she can be . . . vital to them.”
“We understand,” Hanna said, coming forward. “I’m Hanna Becket. Nice to meet you.” She put out her hand and Reznikov shook it.
He stood looking between them for a moment that stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable.
“I have an idea,” he said. “I have a contact at customs. I will tell you where to go.”
Hanna looked dubious. “We don’t even have a destination . . .”
Reznikov nodded. He took a chair at the small table and pulled something from his pocket. He set the business card down and then looked at both of them. Sitting there, he suddenly struck William as old. In the lobby, he’d registered as experienced, but now he just looked worn out. He pointed at William with a slightly crooked finger.
“William, you may have helped us — Klara will be very important — but now you must go.” Reznikov plucked up the business card and held it in the air. “Book your flight right away. The Russian police are very unforgiving. They will be back to the hotel, they will be watching the airports — I only scared them off for a little while. But if you make it through — when you make it through — and you touch down at your destination, see this person. They will be awaiting your call.”
William stepped closer and took the card. The name embossed in gold lettering was Marshal Cohen, a hotelier in Roatán, Honduras.
Reznikov stood, wrapped his coat tighter, and headed for the door. “Cohen is a friend. Just called me this morning. And he’ll be able to pay you.”
William looked up from the card. “For what?”
“You once had a private ticket, yes?”
He meant working as a private investigator. “What makes you say that?”
“What I’m packing in my gut.” Reznikov patted his stomach and winked. Then he grew somber. “You’ll drive from here to St. Petersburg and get your flight to Central America. I don’t know exactly what Cohen has for you, but he has a contact with the Peace and Justice Project in Honduras. They’re looking for two very tenacious people. I think you’re the ones for the job.” Reznikov flicked his finger at them. “Am I wrong?”
William glanced at Hanna, who met his eyes, then looked away.
Reznikov opened the door. “God is mysterious, yes? Either this could be your answer, or your punishment.” He shrugged, smiled, and walked out.
PART TWO
Roatán, Honduras
CHAPTER TEN
The plane banked towards the Honduran coastline as William stared out the porthole window.
They’d left St. Petersburg at eleven a.m. the day before, and after picking up a couple hours crossing time zones, it was nearing ten o’clock in the morning. A thirty-three hour flight with stops in Moscow, New York, and San Salvador before arriving at the small city of Coxen Hole. The layover at JFK airport in New York had been the worst. Being in the States, even in an airport, had made him paranoid.
Hanna was asleep beside him. Below, the beaches of Roatán encircled the long, narrow island like white icing. As the plane descended, coral shapes emerged in the turquoise water. Roatán was thirty miles off the coast of Honduras. A tourist paradise.
Reznikov had been vague, hurrying them along, giving them instructions on how to get through customs and get out of Russia safely. He hadn’t elaborated on Marshal Cohen, his contact in Roatán. At one point, he made a cryptic remark about how complex problems were best attended by outsiders, and then he stuck them in the back of a Sledkom vehicle that had whisked them to the airport.
The pilot announced their imminent arrival, rousing Hanna from sleep. She stretched and looked around. When their eyes met, she didn’t smile. There’d been a ti
me when all they did was smile at each other. But it had been short-lived, and the realities of their lives — and his problems — had smothered their early spark.
They looked out the window as the green hills of the island rose to greet them.
* * *
The airport at Coxen Hole was called Juan Manuel Gálvez International, though it wasn’t nearly as big as it sounded. Many of the planes were narrow-body jets. A humungous cruise ship was moored offshore. William saw it as he exited the plane, a ship of several stories, a giant eye painted on the side, red lips on the bow.
The air was thick and hot. Quicksilver blazed off the tarmac. William and Hanna followed the queue of passengers towards customs. Most of their fellow travelers were from the States. They looked ecstatic to be in paradise, retired men in crisp white polo shirts, wives in flowing skirts. William looked at Hanna and plastered a huge grin on his face, like he’d been electrocuted by happiness. She turned away, but he caught her smirking.
The customs agent was a young woman, maybe twenty-five, in a dark blue uniform. She took their passports. “Any goods with you for resale?”
“No.”
A second agent checked through their bags. They didn’t have much — William had his duffel and a backpack. Hanna carried a small rolling suitcase and one other gym-sized bag which contained the storage drive. He watched as the second agent pulled it out, unzipped the case, looked it over.
“Any mission supplies?”
“What’s that now?” The question threw William.
“If you are bringing goods that are donations for mission’s efforts, you need a letter from your church stating that the items are not for resale but are donations for the poor.”
“Sorry,” Hanna said, coming forward. She pulled an envelope out of her pocket and handed it over. The female customs agent slipped out the document, gave it a glance, then wrote something on it and stamped it. She handed it back.
“Do either of you have more than ten thousand dollars U.S.?”
Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul Page 4