by Ian Walkley
“Nice fish,” Tony mumbled.
Tally quickly recovered, pointed her knife at Mac. “You think we’ve beaten Al Qaeda? Afghanistan’s more dangerous than ever, even post Bin Laden. And I’m not an armchair critic. I know what the military does. It screwed up the soldier I went out with.”
Mac swallowed his mouthful of fish. “You sure it was the army that did that?”
Tally’s mouth dropped, and she uttered a spluttering cough. Her face and neck flushed and she glared at him like he was the guy who couldn’t find Obama’s birth certificate. For a moment, Mac thought she was going to storm out. Good. That would solve his problems.
Wisebaum almost choked. He pulled off his glasses. “Guys...”
But clearly Tally wasn’t about to let it go at that. She spoke softly, but with an aim as devastating as a sniper. “So, what’s the military done for you, Mac? Where are your friends? Has it helped you to buy a home? Has it helped you get a wife and family? Your file says your former fiancée dumped you while you were serving with the Rangers. Ended up marrying your brother. That must have been tough. Then, of course, there’s the Mexico fiasco. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised you accepted Derek’s deal to get you off the hook. Terribly sad about those two little Mexican girls who—”
“Enough!” Mac slammed his fist on the table.
Tally’s glass tumbled off the table and shattered on the floor. Several customers turned towards the source of the commotion. The bouzoukis played louder. Rosco and Tony sat like frozen Arctic explorers.
“See how easily he loses it, Derek? I can’t work with this guy.” She stood up and walked out.
There was a moment’s silence. Mac reached over and stabbed his fork into the carrots on her plate. “No point letting them go to waste.”
~ * ~
16
Sophia was alone in the cell, haunted by Danni’s screams. Bouts of trembling had exhausted her body, just as the gentle rocking of the boat served to disorient her. She pulled the sheet up over her head and squeezed her eyes shut, but the lights were bright and she couldn’t shut out the horrifying thought that whatever Danni’s fate had been, the same fate would soon be hers too.
Danni, where are you?
She tried to distract herself by thinking of things in her room back home: her favourite plush rabbit, Dodo, with some of the stuffing missing, but still taking pride of place on the top shelf; the gymnastic trophies from early high school, the photos of her friends stuck on the wall in a heart shape, the Jonas Brothers poster, the iPad from last birthday, the I’m Not Dead poster of Pink... She hoped her mother would interpret that as an omen and not tear it down.
How long had it been? Would they think she was dead? How long before they would give up on her? How long before dad drove her stuff to the Salvation Army? Wade would probably get her room and ruin it.
Stop it!
She burst into tears and buried her face in the pillow.
Danni, what did they do to you?
She had always thought of slavery as something they had done to black people hundreds of years ago. Yet, obviously these men were not ashamed to be buying and selling kids as though they were at a racehorse auction. Incredibly, she and Danni had resigned themselves to being sold. But at the end of the auction, they were still sitting on the beach with five other girls and three boys. The captives that had been sold had been taken into one of the other tents. Strangely, this made her feel even more worthless, if that were possible. Had they been considered undesirable? What was their fate to be?
Then they had come for Danni.
Danni had struggled and cried out in protest as they dragged her up the beach, staring back with eyes that seemed to plead: Why me? Sophia felt the full burden of guilt. Yet even then, she prayed they would not come for her.
But they had not taken Danni to the auction tent. They had taken her into another tent and she could hear some kind of announcement. Then applause.
Then the screams began. Danni’s screams. What were they doing to cause her such pain? She could only imagine the most horrifying acts of cruelty. They were torturing her, killing her slowly. The other girls, even two of the boys, were crying and trying to block the sound from their ears. Suddenly Danni’s screams became too much. Sophia retched up the little food remaining in her stomach, then collapsed onto the sand.
Some time later, men had come for them and ferried them back to the compound where they were locked in their cabins. At some point she must have fallen asleep, because she was shaken awake by a woman she had seen before, who smelled strongly of a spicy, earthy sort of perfume. A guard stood by the door.
“You will come with me,” the woman said firmly in English.
“No... Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking from lack of water.
The woman grabbed her arm and she held onto the bed sheets, whimpering softly as she was dragged onto the floor. The guard came in and pried the sheet from her hand.
“Please don’t hurt me... oh, God.” Sophia felt the warmth wash over her legs.
The woman stepped back and pulled a face, then spoke abruptly to the guard, who left, grumbling.
“Come, Sophia. My name is Rubi. You will not be harmed.”
Sophia did not believe this woman’s promises. She was one of them.
Rubi led her along a jetty out to the big boat. There was a gentle breeze blowing, bringing with it a burble of talking and laughter. There was some kind of party on one of the decks above. With no moon, the blazing lights of the Princess Aliya cast a muted glow across to the cliffs a few hundred metres away. As they climbed the ship’s external stairs, Sophia considered throwing herself over the side. But she was too scared to try, in case she succeeded.
The guard stayed outside as Rubi led her into a large cabin decorated in pastel colours, which she said was the women’s quarters. She opened the door to a huge bathroom where a steaming bath was waiting.
“Clean yourself thoroughly. And wash your hair. His Highness Sheik Khalid wishes to see you.”
~ * ~
17
Khalid, dressed casually in tan shorts and a white polo shirt, smiled at the girl called Sophia as she was brought in. Rubi straddled an ottoman across from both of them as he introduced himself in English and explained to her that he’d been educated at Oxford. He thought perhaps she’d be less afraid if she knew he was Western-educated. But her demeanour suggested that this wasn’t the case. She was visibly shaking, suggesting that his gentle approach was scaring her more. The girl was pretty, that was certain. The cotton abaya she wore was thin, and he admired her willowy figure through the cloth.
“Are you cold, my dear?” he asked.
She shook her head, but said nothing.
He invited her to sit. She remained standing. Defiance? Perhaps it made her feel more in control? He tilted his head. “Very well, stand if you wish.”
He glanced at his watch. He had less than an hour before Sheriti would come, and he would need to save his energies for her. And tomorrow he was flying out to visit his father in Dubai. Perhaps when he returned, the girl would be more cooperative. It was vital that she be in the best possible physical and emotional state and her organs not stressed when his father arrived for the transplant in a week or two, when he was well enough.
“I have told Rubi to look after you as she would a sister,” he began. He looked over at Rubi, who nodded and gave the girl an affirming smile. “If you promise to behave and comply with orders, and not try to escape or harm yourself, you will be well cared for at the resort.”
“Like you took care of Danni?” Sophia said. “I can still hear her screaming.”
Rubi spoke quietly to him in Arabic. “Danni was the one used in the ritual.”
He nodded, keeping his expression friendly so as not to give away his feelings. “Your friend has a good pair of lungs,” he said in English, and smiled. “But she is somewhat stubborn. Defiant. That is unacceptable to many in our culture.”
Sophia
frowned. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”
“She was purchased by one of my guests.” That was close to the truth. The girl had finally accepted conversion after almost an hour and, in accordance with the ritual, mercy had been shown. The Bangladeshi, Bashir Alsadh, had been willing to take her as a house slave.
“But the auction was over... They were making her scream.”
Khalid hesitated as he considered a plausible response, then gave a soft laugh. “The man who bought her is from Saudi Arabia. A Prince. He would not demean himself to bid at auction. Danni refused to dress in the traditional burqa, as he required. She struggled and kicked. She bit one of my men quite badly. And yes, she was beaten several times until she complied. She screamed.”
“She sounded like she was in pain.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps she was? I cannot say. As I said, she fought like a cornered cat. That was her choice, not ours. But she will be well treated in the Prince’s household.”
Sophia stared at him, her eyes narrowed, as though she didn’t believe his story. He kept his expression impassive. He knew from experience that his face was attractive to women, and this naive girl would not see through the confidence of a powerful man.
“Your doctor. He...” She swallowed, hesitating to utter the words.
“Yes?”
“He... he forced himself on me.”
“What?” he said, turning to Rubi who was shaking her head, apparently unaware of this. He rose to his feet, quick to sense anger. “You are no longer a virgin?”
She hesitated, now clearly petrified at the consequences of her answer, and pulled a face. “No... Yes. He... did it in my mouth.”
Khalid’s shoulders relaxed. He sat down again and laughed, waving his hand dismissively. “Come now, girl, you have never done that before?” He shrugged. “Well, you have teeth, do you not?”
She lowered her head and said nothing.
“Very well.” Khalid turned to Rubi and pointed at Sophia’s robe. Switching back to Arabic, he said: “Take her to the market in Kimba before she further inflames the desires of the crew. She must remain under close guard here until we return. Buy her some clothes and whatever she wishes, and put her in the secure wing of the resort. We’ll be back in a few days after visiting father. Then I will take another look at her.”
He turned to the girl. “Rubi will take you shopping for some nice clothes. Would that make you feel better, Sophia?”
“Can I call my mum and tell her I’m alive, at least?”
He almost laughed, but then decided to play along. It might make her more amenable later. “Well, how about this... You can make a video recording, and I will make sure it is delivered to her. But no saying where you are or who you are with, are we clear?”
The girl’s mouth turned up a little tentatively at the comers. “Thank you.”
Khalid smiled. “You will refer to me as Highness.”
Sophia hesitated, her lips pressed together, then muttered, “Thank you, Highness.”
~ * ~
18
Anastia Slabekova lay on a grimy rooftop in Sofia, Bulgaria, eight hundred metres from where her target was due to show. She was dressed in black leather and concealed inside a specially constructed canvas hide with an opening at the front. Her weapon was a Russian VSS silenced sniper rifle. This particular rifle had once been used by a Russian Army sniper in Chechnya, but she’d replaced the weapon’s original PSO 1-1 sight with a Zeiss Diavari telescopic sight. She would see the target’s head clearly as she blew a hole in it. It had a ten-round clip. She had loaded three but was intending to fire only one.
Her partner, Anton Nastayev, hadn’t warned her of any threats. His soft breathing sounded sexy through the Bluetooth headset. He was on the roof of a building that was closer to the target, but at a thirty-degree angle to hers, which would confuse witnesses as to the location of the shooter.
Her target was Viktor Rusolev, a notorious criminal who owned a chain of supermarkets and a number of flashy nightclubs that fronted for prostitution and drug distribution. He’d been implicated in an organised operation that was kidnapping girls and sending them to France, Britain and Germany as sex slaves. Previous attempts by the police to bring him into line had failed, and after the Interior Minister was recently blown up in a car with his wife and daughter, the Bulgarian Cabinet decided to authorise SANS, the State Agency for National Security, to eliminate the problem. And she and Anton were SANS’ contractors of choice, even if they were more expensive than their competitors. They had nineteen previous successes under their belt, as the newly democratic Bulgaria used them to clean out the stubborn elements of the corrupt post-Communist oligarchy.
Anton had discovered that Rusolev would be coming to his favourite club—one that he owned, of course—to meet a man known as The Frenchman. They knew that The Frenchman was already inside. Finally, after four hours of trying to keep warm, Anton’s calm voice spoke through her earpiece.
“This looks like him. Good luck, my darling.”
She didn’t need to reply.
A convoy of six black vehicles drove up fast. Bodyguards stepped out of the first two cars and the last two. Anastia saw a small movement from the gunman with a rifle on the roof of the nightclub. He’d been placed there to protect Rusolev and they could do nothing about him—that’s why she needed to succeed with one bullet. Between Rusolev getting out of the vehicle and entering the building, she’d have about eight seconds.
Two cars hadn’t opened their doors. Rusolev could be in either one. She shifted her aim to the rear door of one, then the other, knowing the bodyguards could not spot her inside the black hide. After studying the surroundings, the bodyguards gave the thumbs-up. One of them opened the rear door of the third vehicle. Three women appeared, under the influence of something, judging by the way they staggered up the steps. A man emerged with a woman on each arm. Ten seconds. The man had wavy black hair and was the right height.
Anastia eased pressure on the trigger. Something was wrong. It was the man’s walk. Not the confident swagger she was expecting. His eyes were darting around. A car horn sounded from the street below. The man glanced in her direction, revealing his face for just a moment in her crosshairs. It wasn’t Rusolev.
The decoy went into the club as the rear door of the fourth limousine opened. Two mountainous bodyguards emerged, followed by two women who were glammed-up like the others, but were walking sober. A third man, his head hidden under a fedora, emerged with a fourth man and woman in tow. Eight seconds. Two possible targets. Moving fast. Six seconds. The car horn sounded again. One of the men looked, the other with the fedora kept walking. Just before he entered the building he turned and raised his head slightly to speak to a tall bodyguard. They were his last words.
She squeezed the trigger smoothly. The nine-millimetre bullet was heavier than normal and the hardened tungsten core could penetrate body armour. It travelled at subsonic speed but carried considerable more impact energy than lighter, faster rounds. It entered Rusolev’s forehead above his left eyebrow. There was no sound of a gunshot. Just his head exploding. Blood and brain matter splattered everyone nearby. All hell broke loose. Wild gunfire opened up from outside the club and from the gunman on the roof.
Anastia pulled herself back out of the hide, hearing the muffled pops of Anton firing to cover her escape. She allowed herself a few deep breaths as she unscrewed the telescopic sight, leaving the rifle and the hide. She took off the medical gloves and scurried, bent double, to the stairwell. She knew that after emptying his clip, Anton would dump his rifle in the water tank and be out of the building well before the police arrived.
“Nice shot, darling,” Anton said to her a few minutes later, as she drove them to the airport. “How did you know?”
“His fedora. But your little trick with the remote car horn sealed it. The other guy looked. Rusolev didn’t.”
They laughed. It was a ruse they’d used before, to good effect.
> Anton checked the messages on his cell phone. “It would appear that Yuri has brokered us another contract. Urgent. But paying top dollar, my love.”
Anastia glanced at him and smiled. “No women or children?”
“Of course not, darling. Just some old Arab Prince.”
~ * ~
19
At an internet café in Nice, two blocks from the Chanticle Hotel where Boris Brazhlov was staying, Tally was passing herself off as a backpacker, wearing tight yellow shorts that showed she exercised regularly, and a too-snug white cotton T-shirt that rubbed her nipples hard. Her hair was frizzed with her natural wave. Over her shoulder was a North Face daypack that had seen good mileage on past bush hikes.
She had checked out the computers in this particular internet café a few days earlier. They were fast enough and could be secured. Importantly, it used the same telephone exchange as the Chanticle Hotel, so they would be able to make it appear as though Bogdan Brazhlov was transferring his funds using the hotel’s internet. And there was no CCTV.