The Collector

by Scott Wittenburg

At 8:00 PM, Alan hopped off the subway and ascended the stairway to the street. After a full afternoon exploring Manhattan and shopping for a couple of dog toys for Pan, he had eaten a light supper then gotten prepared for his return to Stokley's Pub. He had decided to dress a little more casually than before—replacing the khaki Dockers, loafers and button down shirt with jeans, sneakers and an OSU sweatshirt. He wanted to blend into the scene as inconspicuously as possible.

  He had purchased a couple of items at Radio Shack plus stopped off at an ATM to withdraw a hundred dollars cash before boarding the train to Queens. He had brought along the tiny voice recorder, his iPhone and a Swiss army knife. Alan had never owned a gun in his life except for the .22 single shot rifle he'd had as a kid. He had since become more liberal in his views and didn't believe in handguns, period. He was pretty certain that he was the only PI in the country that didn't own one. His pocketknife was the only weapon he ever carried and it had in fact come in quite handy on occasion.

  It was still blustery and there was a threat of showers as he made his way up Steinway Street. There was nevertheless quite a bit of pedestrian traffic on the busy thoroughfare in spite of the darkness. He hoped he wouldn't have to wait long before he could go into Stokley's since the place would no doubt be livelier than it had been earlier. If luck was on his side, Tommy will have left by the time he got there.

  He approached the pub at a tentative pace, just in case Tommy suddenly came out of the bar and recognized him. His plan was to hang around near the front of the place and peek through the door when someone entered from the street. With luck, he might be able to see who was working the bar in that brief moment the door was open. If that idea didn't pan out, he would have to either simply wait it out until he actually saw Tommy leave or take a chance and go inside just long enough to confirm that Tommy was gone and Vik had taken his place.

  He reached the travel agency next door to Stokley's and pretended to be looking at the travel posters. He didn't have to wait long before somebody came from the other direction and walked right up to the entrance of the bar. Seizing the moment, Alan sidestepped the travel agency storefront and stood directly behind the man as he opened the door. He had just enough time to glance back to the bar and see someone other than Tommy working behind it. Tommy was nowhere in sight.

  The infamous Vik had apparently begun his shift in relief of Tommy.

  Alan caught the door before it closed and stepped inside. It was immediately apparent that the place was much more crowded with no less than a dozen patrons scattered around the place. To his surprise, there were even a couple of women hanging around. They didn't appear to be prostitutes and were simply chatting and drinking like everybody else.

  Before heading back toward the bar, Alan made sure he didn't see Tommy or any of the other men he'd seen earlier. The coast looked clear so he walked over to a stool at the bar and sat down. He observed the man who he assumed to be Vik as he chatted to a couple of patrons sitting near the end of the bar. The man was incredibly fat, to the point of being mortally obese. He was totally bald, wore a dirty white sleeveless T-shirt and looked to be around forty-five or so. To say that Stokley's owner looked intimidating was a gross understatement.

  Vik suddenly glanced over at Alan and did a double-take. Shit! Alan thought. Tommy had tipped him off about his earlier visit! This would screw up everything . . .

  The man turned and said something to one of the men at the bar then walked directly toward Alan.

  "Help you?" he said.

  "Yeah, a Rolling Rock if you got one."

  "No problem," he replied.

  Alan breathed a sigh. Maybe he was safe after all.

  Vik returned with a Rock and set it down in front of him. "Four bucks."

  "Okay," Alan replied. Before he reached into his pocket, he looked Vik directly in the eyes.

  "Have you seen Natasha around?"

  Vik held Alan's eyes and seemed to be in thought for a moment before he glanced around the bar. He finally replied after what seemed like an eternity.

  "Why are you looking for her?"

  "I borrowed seventeen bucks from her and want to pay her back."

  As soon as it came out, Alan realized that he'd forgotten to say "the other day." Would that minor slip blow the whole thing?

  Vik glanced across the room at a neon wall clock. "She'll be back in a few hours—at least that's what she told me."

  "Damn, I don't have that long to wait. Would you mind giving the money to her when she gets back?"

  Alan reached into his pocket for the wad of cash. He realized that his hands were clammy.

  Vik's eyes bored into Alan's as if he was contemplating whether or not to follow through with this charade. Finally he said, "Sure, no problem."

  Alan smiled and pulled out the cash. Then he handed it over to Vik.

  "Thanks a lot."

  "My pleasure," Vik replied. He took the money and stuffed it into his pocket then lumbered along the bar to wait on another customer.

  Alan took a monumental gulp of ice cold Rolling Rock. He'd done it! Another swig later, he stood up and headed over to the jukebox.

  As he flipped through the selections, he glanced around the place wondering who else was waiting in line for Natasha. Which of these guys look like they're paying for sex tonight? It suddenly dawned on him just how surreal the whole situation seemed—to be killing time in this Queens dive until his number came up in order to spend some quality time with a bona fide slut, for lack of a better word. On one hand it was ludicrous while on the other it was downright depressing. To think that this woman spent her days and nights having sex with scores of strangers was not only difficult to conceive but a bit disgusting. And to think of the potential for the spread of diseases—AIDS, the clap, syphilis, etc, etc. Why on god's green earth would any woman subject herself to such an existence? And why would anyone be willing to pay for something so—risky and impersonal?

  Alan shook his head and decided to cease pondering the concept of prostitution and to focus instead on what he was there for: to meet with and question the mysterious Ellen in order to try and save her little sister. The reality of the situation loomed large—that the woman he was about to meet might not even be Ellen. This was his greatest fear at this stage, for if she wasn't Ellen, he would have to cling to the hope that the woman knew of Ellen and would be able to tell him where he might find her. Very weak odds of that, he knew, and if that fell through he would be right back to square one on this case.

  Alan selected a couple of moldy oldies then went over to an empty table and sat down at it. As he sipped his beer, he observed the customers and began wondering how many were aware that they were in a whorehouse. He began studying the two women he'd seen earlier. They appeared to have all come together and were now sitting at a table with a couple of guys that were around their own age. Were these guys former tricks of Natasha or did they just happen to blow into this place to hang out with these girls?

  He watched Vik as he tended the bar, wondering if he would get some kind of cue that it was his turn to go upstairs. Everyone had seemed to know the pecking order earlier and he wondered now if the guy who had tipped him off had forgotten that little detail. If so, he might be screwed.

  His concern mounting, he decided to keep a very close eye on the restroom area in order to figure out what prompted the next person in line to make his move. In order to do that, he had to know when the guy before him was finished.

  He checked the time and saw that it was nearly 8:30. If the scheduling was done on a half-hour basis, then it may be close to time for the next john to go up. He realized that he needed to be able to see the third door, so he went over to a table that afforded him an angle of view. He didn't have to wait long before a man came out through the door. Instead of coming out to the bar, he went into the men's restroom. A minute or so later, he came out and walked toward the bar. Alan noticed the guy wait around long enough to get Vik's attention then he gave him a nod that wa
s barely perceptible. Vik acted like he never saw it. It was at this time that Alan took out his iPhone and pretended to be making a call but actually was taking a quick shot of Vik with the built-in camera for future reference.

  A few minutes later, Vik went over to a table across the room to clear off the bottles. On his way back to the bar, he stopped at one of the tables and said something to a man sitting there. Then Vik returned to the bar.

  Alan noted the time and waited. Sure enough, exactly ten minutes later, the man got up and headed toward the restroom area. He glanced behind him on the way into the foyer before stepping over to the third door and opening it just long enough to pass through it.

  So that was how it went down. Vik would come over and give him his cue and tell him when to go plus what to do when he came back down. Simple enough.

  Alan finished his beer and ordered another one. He found himself getting antsy as the next hour seemed to crawl by. Finally, at 9:45, Vik came out from behind the bar again and headed straight over to him.

  "Ten minutes, you go. Don't let anyone see you go through the door. If anyone asks where you’ve been, tell them there’s a private back room poker game going on. You have 30 minutes—no more. Come to the bar and nod when you're done."

  "Okay."

  He was in.

  Ten minutes later, Alan stood up and headed toward the restroom. No one was behind him so he went over to the third door and entered the storage room area. He walked determinedly back to the doorway leading upstairs and pulled the curtain aside. As he ascended the stairs, he could hear his heart thumping hard in his chest. The moment he had been waiting for had finally come.

  As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked in either direction, unsure which way to go. To his left he saw nothing but a table against the wall where the landing ended. To his right were two doors. The furthest one was wide open and led to a room shrouded in darkness. The first door was closed but there was light coming out from under it.

  He stepped over to the door and started to open it but decided to knock instead.

  "Come in," he heard a woman's voice say. She had a thick accent that he couldn't immediately place.

  Alan turned the knob and opened the door. The first thing he noticed was how bright the room was, which surprised him. Then he observed a small unoccupied room devoid of any windows or furnishings other than a chair, a beat-up wooden nightstand and a queen size bed covered by a sheet and a rumpled cheap bedspread.

  "Just a minute," he heard the woman's voice say from behind what he assumed was the bathroom door. A moment later, the door opened and she came out.

  "Hello," she greeted with a weak smile. Alan's heart sank at what he saw.

  Natasha had shoulder-length blonde hair and wore a sheer pink teddy, garter stockings with high heels. Both of her eyes were puffy and swollen; the left one was black and blue. Her frail arms had several bruises on them as did her thighs. There was a scab forming in the corner of her mouth where who ever had ravaged the rest of her body had decided to smack her face around as well.

  In a word, she looked pathetic—a poster child for abused women.

  "What's your name?" she said, continuing to stand before him, straining hard to appear upbeat.

  "Alan," he replied absently. "And you're Natasha?"

  "That's what they call me."

  She came over and placed her hands lightly on his shoulders. "So what can I do for you today, Alan?"

  Her delivery sounded more like an automated message than a question. Like reaching Customer Service at the phone company.

  Alan looked into her vacant eyes, unable to answer for a moment. In them he could almost see the pain and suffering the poor woman had endured. She seemed an empty shell—a torn and tattered body without a soul and without hope. These things were so obvious that Alan wondered how anyone could even think of touching this fragile creature for fear that she might break—

  He swallowed hard and nearly lost it altogether. He thought back to what Beth had told him and he now saw her words in a different light: “Most women aren’t prostitutes by choice, Alan. They are often either tricked into it or so desperate for money to pay off their drug habits that they have no other choice."

  This woman clearly wasn't doing this by choice.

  Alan pulled himself together. "I just want to talk to you."

  She looked at him suspiciously. "The last man who told me that had something else in mind."

  Alan had no idea what she meant by that. He said, "Seriously, that's all I want to do. Surely you don't have a problem with it."

  She removed her hands from his shoulders. "No, I don't. You're paying so why should I care?"

  "Exactly. First of all, I wonder if you could tell me your name. I mean, you said that Natasha is what people call you. But what is your real name?"

  She looked at him strangely. It was a mixture of suspicion and apathy. "What difference does it make? Natasha, Kathy, the woman of your dreams—it can be whatever you want it to be."

  "You don't understand—I'm not here to play games with you. I am here to find somebody in particular. Whose name happens to be Ellen. Is your name Ellen?"

  She suddenly looked fearful. "Are you the police?"

  "No, I'm not. I'm a private investigator. My name is Alan Swansea. I'm trying to find a woman named Ellen who has a little sister that may be in some kind of trouble."

  Her eyes came alive instantly. "This can't be so! You got my message?"

  Alan was elated—he had found her!

  "Yes, I got it! Or rather my friend got it and forwarded it to me. So you really are Ellen?"

  "No, my name is Elena—Elena Nazarova," she replied. "Have your found Polina?"

  Alan realized what must have happened: instead of dropping the l in her haste to sign her name in the email to Beth, she had apparently ran out of time to add the a at the end. Elena, not Ellen.

  "I'm afraid not. Not yet, anyway. I need to talk to you about her. You say her name is Polina?"

  "Yes, she is only a little girl, thirteen years old. I am so afraid for her—I don't know where they took her. We were separated and—"

  "Whoa, slow it down a little! Before we talk about your sister, let's talk about you. For starters, tell me about yourself and why you are working in this place."

  Like flipping on a switch, Elena's demeanor immediately hardened. "I don't want to talk about me. I just want you to find Polina and make her safe. Please, I—"

  Alan raised a hand in protest. "Elena, I will be frank with you. As much as I am determined to find your little sister, I am not going to move forward with it until you first explain how you came to be here . . . and why you are doing what you are doing. I also would like to know why you have bruises all over your body. Who did this to you?"

  She spun around and froze where she stood. She said nothing. Her shoulders began to heave. Alan approached her and gently touched her shoulder.

  "Take your time, Elena. I can wait."

  She slowly turned back around, a tear running down her cheek. She looked past him, focused somewhere over his shoulder as she began to speak in a dull monotone.

  "Viktor did this to me. But it is not the first time. He has hit me over and over for as long as I've been here. Sometimes I have deserved it. Sometimes I haven't."

  "What could you have possibly done to warrant these beatings?"

  "Not following directions, disobeying him. But I don't always mean to—sometimes it is just so hard to—to cope."

  Alan couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  "You are making it sound like Viktor owns you—like you are his slave. Surely that isn't the case here."

  She nodded. "But yes, it is that way. He bought me. Now he owns me."

  She said it so matter-of-factly. Alan was reeling.

  "He what? Bought you? That can't be possible!"

  "Oh, but it is true. Viktor has a lot of money and paid $5,000 dollars for me. Please, can we talk about Polina now?"


  Jesus! he thought. Was he really hearing this? Beth had told him how pimps ran their hookers' lives but this was way over the top! This woman was standing here telling him that she had been bought and paid for by this Viktor character, like a head of cattle at market—

  Then he recalled something else Beth had said, something he hadn't given much thought to at the time: "Did you know that human trafficking for the sex trade is one of the fastest growing crimes in the world right now? The victims are literally modern day slaves who have been bought and sold just for sex—it’s a horrible reality that very few people are even aware of.”

  Before he could say anything, Elena sighed deeply. "I am very tired. Can we please sit down?"

  "Sure," Alan replied. She went over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Alan brought the chair over and sat down in it.

  "I will tell you how this all happened if you promise me that we will talk about Polina when I'm finished. You only have twenty minutes left. If Viktor comes up here, we will both be in much trouble."

  "Don't worry about Viktor, I'll take care of him." He spoke it like a tough guy, not really thinking it through.

  "Please, we can't take any chances. We do not want Viktor to find out we are talking like this!"

  "Okay. . . you've got a deal."

  "I am from Russia—St. Petersburg. A year ago I was living at home with my parents and Polina. I was a student at university taking law courses and Polina was in school, too. Everything was fine, although we had little money. And then one day my father lost his job. There are such few jobs in Russia now and the economy is very bad. Mother has a nerve disorder and unable to work. My father spent every day looking for work until he had a heart attack and died a month later. I quit school and searched for a job to support my family but had no luck.

  "Polina wanted to quit school and look for work too so she could help bring some money in. I wouldn't let her. I told her to stay in school and somehow I would find some work and handle everything. Two months passed and I started roaming the streets looking for discarded food and clothes for the three of us. It was so horrible! I finally let Polina go along with me, but there was little to be found. There were hundreds of people just like us looking for food all over the city.

  "Then one day I read that some job recruiters from Moscow were looking for young women interested in getting employment in the West as waitresses, models and so on. There were even jobs available in America. I'd heard about these so called job recruiters before and knew that most of them were not legitimate. But the ad insisted that this was not a hoax and guaranteed to find you work. I met with them and they sold me on what ended up being nothing but false promises. That's when I made the two greatest mistakes of my life.

  "Not only did I allow myself to get taken in by this, but I let Polina talk me into letting her go with me! She pleaded and pleaded with me, promising to go to school when we got settled in wherever we ended up. She wanted to leave Russia so badly, but I told her that mother needed her at home. Mother however insisted that we both go. She said that she could stay with her brother's family in Moscow and that she would be fine. So after I was sure that mother was settled into place at my uncle's, Polina and I joined the other girls bound for a new a life.

  "It didn't take us long to realize what a mistake we had made. We were crammed into trucks then smuggled across the border into Ukraine and eventually all the way to Germany. That's where I got separated from Polina—they took all of the younger girls somewhere else. We were handed over to a different group of men who took us to a house and threw us into a tiny room. They raped us repeatedly for a week and beat us if we refused to comply. They gave us very little food and we weren't even allowed to take a bath.

  "One day we were led to a large room and told to take off all our clothes. Then a man came into the room and walked around looking us over and touching us, telling us to do this or that. He did this in order to make his choices of where we were to be sent to. The man was a Russian-American named Yuri from New York and he promised me a great job at his restaurant if I would be his sex partner. As if I had a choice? He arranged to get a fake passport for me then took me with him to New York City. He had a very big house on Long Island. He treated me not bad from the start and never let me out of the house. It didn’t take very long to see that I wasn’t there to work in his restaurant but to clean his house and give him sex. I resisted and he beat me often. After a while things got very bad and he started beating me up all of the time for no reason. I think he hated me. He eventually grew tired of me and sold me to a business partner of his. That person was Viktor. And that is how I got here."

  Alan was appalled by her story. What Beth Lindsey had told him was apparently as real as real could be. Elena was living proof of it.

  "So how long have you been here?"

  "Nearly five months."

  "And you live in this room?"

  "Yes, most of the time. Twice a week he lets me stay in the other room down the hall. There is a shower there and a more comfortable bed."

  Alan looked around this tiny drab room and thought, what a rare privilege that must be . . .

  "Do you ever go out?"

  She shook her head.

  "No. In all of the time I've been here, I've only been out two times. And that was last week."

  "What about food? I mean, you look much too thin, if you don't mind my saying so."

  "I get very little to eat. Viktor or Tommy bring me up crackers and cheese twice a day. And beer. Sometimes I get a hamburger when Viktor's in a good mood, which isn't very often."

  "Are you addicted to any drugs?"

  "Not any more. I was forced to use drugs for a while but Viktor decided he didn't like the way I acted on them. He said I was not as good at giving sex, so he quit giving them to me."

  Alan almost was afraid to ask the next question.

  "How often does he beat you, Elena?"

  "As I told you before, whenever I do something wrong. He beat me much the first few weeks. He told me that he needed to break me in. He showed me how to act with the men and I was not very good at it. So he would beat me until I got it right."

  "You said that you were outside last week. That must be when you sent the email from Starbucks."

  "That is right. Viktor let me go out to get more business so I took a chance to get on the internet and try to save Polina. He caught me . . ."

  "Is that when he last beat you?"

  "Yes. And I am very afraid for Polina and my mother now. He threatened to harm them both if I did anything wrong while on the street. I thought I could get away with it because Tommy was working that day and doesn't pay as much attention as Viktor. When I saw him standing there in front of the bar after I ran back from the coffee shop, I knew I was going to pay for it."

  "How can he harm your sister and mother? Does he know where they are?"

  "You must understand this. Yuri has a lot of friends here and back in Russia. If Viktor wanted to find out where mother lives, he would ask Yuri to have somebody search for them— and he probably will do that now. I think both men know where Polina now is because Viktor told me last week that she is being sold again soon from the man who has her now. You must find her before it's too late!"

  "I'll find her, Elena. I promise. I'll get the authorities in here and bust up this whole goddamn operation!"

  "No! You can't do that!"

  Alan was surprised by her protest. "What do you mean? I have enough evidence to put this Viktor prick away for the rest of his life! All I have to do is blow the whistle on him!"

  Elena shot up off the bed, knelt down before Alan and put her hands on his knees. Her eyes were pleading.

  "You mustn't do that! The others will find out and murder my family!"

  "What do you mean—'the others?'"

  "Viktor’s business partners. This is how they are able to do what they do. They are all part of a gang and look out for each other. How else do you think they could have taken me and the others
all the way out of my country to America? They have connections. There are even policemen who come here!"

  Shit! Alan thought. This is getting worse by the minute.

  Alan said, "I'm not so sure about all of this. Maybe these gangsters aren't as powerful as you think they are. And a couple of local cops on the take can't stop the feds from busting this joint."

  "Alan, you must believe me. They are powerful. I've seen them operate. Please promise me you won't go to the police!"

  He shook his head. "I can't promise you that, Elena. I'm sorry."

  "Then you will be the reason my family gets murdered."

  Alan was having trouble wrapping his head around all of this. Could her family be threatened if they busted this place? He doubted it seriously. On the other hand, he couldn't be sure. The best way to treat this, he decided, was to take it one step at a time. He needed to find out more about the Russian Mafia or whatever this gang was and how long their arms truly were.

  "Listen, Elena. What you're asking me to do is impossible. But I can promise you this: I won't do anything until I've had a chance to sort all of this out. In the meantime, why don't we just get you out of this place and let Viktor figure out how he's going to find your replacement?"

  "No! I cannot leave! That would be as bad as you going to the police."

  "But don't you want to get out of here? Wouldn't it be worth the risk? That bastard may kill you anyway if you stick around much longer—if one of your johns doesn't kill you first."

  "You don't understand. It is not so bad for me. All I want is for my family to be safe. Please find Polina. That is all I ask."

  It took all Alan had to refrain from pushing the issue any further. He looked at his watch and realized that they only had precious few minutes before his time was up.

  "Okay. So what can you tell me about Polina? Do you have a photo of her?"

  She nodded, stood up and went over to the nightstand. She opened the drawer, took out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. Alan unfolded the paper and took a look at it. He immediately recognized the painterly photo of the four ballerinas that had been displayed on the Degas clone's website.

  "Which one is she?"

  Elena pointed at the girl in profile in the foreground.

  "There she is."

  "She is very pretty."

  He noticed the URL at the bottom of the paper and recognized it to be the same one that was linked in the email.

  "How did you get this?"

  "Viktor gave it to me last week. He told me that Polina has been modeling for the man who took this picture. But he said that soon the man will not need her anymore so he is letting her go. I am so afraid that she will be sold into prostitution, Alan! Viktor told me he was certain that she would be since she is so young. And now that I have messed up, he said he would see to it that she would be!"

  "We aren't going to let that happen, Elena," Alan assured her. "What about the other girls pictured here? Were they sold to this man, too?"

  "I think so. One of them looks just like a girl who was with us when we were smuggled out of Russia."

  Is it possible that all of these girls were sold as slaves? Alan wondered. If so, than this case was becoming much bigger than he could ever have imagined. And the implications were staggering . . .

  He had to find out where Polina was being held. But he was no closer than he had been before.

  "Is there anything else you can tell me about Polina, Elena? Do you know if she's in the States or somewhere else?"

  "I don't know. She could be anywhere! There were many rooms with women in them at the house in Germany. The women were split into groups and each group was to be taken to a different place. Some to other parts of Europe and some to the States. But since Polina and I were separated, I don't know where her group was sent."

  "The man from Long Island—the guy who sold you to Viktor? You said his name was Yuri. What is his last name?'"

  "Popov."

  "Do you remember the name of the town where he lived on Long Island?"

  "No, not exactly. It was Hampton something—no, I think it was East Hampton."

  "And what is Viktor's last name?"

  " Skipetroff"

  "And Tommy?"

  "I think it's something like Greidner—Greidner or Greiner."

  "Do you have any idea where Viktor lives?"

  "Near the ocean, I remember that. Not very far from the city. Brooklyn, maybe."

  "What about the men that smuggled you and Polina out of Russia? Do you remember any of their names?"

  "No last names—they were all very careful about that. I remember the first name of the recruiter I talked to in Moscow. It was Luka. And there was another man in Germany whose name was Sergei. That is all I can remember right now."

  "Okay. Is there anything else you can tell me that may help me locate Polina?"

  She thought a moment then shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not."

  "Do you know if there is a computer anywhere in this place? One that Viktor uses for the bar business?"

  "There used to be one, but not any more. He had a computer downstairs in the kitchen when he first brought me here. That is how I found the website I posted the e-mail to. One night I went downstairs and got online while Tommy was working the bar. I searched abused women websites and tried to post something on one of them but it wouldn't work. All of a sudden Tommy came in and caught me. He told Viktor about it and he took the computer away after that. Then when he gave me this picture of Polina last week, I memorized the website address written at the bottom and had also memorized the abused women website I was on before. I barely had time to write the email before the man at the coffee shop spotted me on his computer— I am so happy that your friend sent it to you!"

  With this, she threw her arms around Alan and gave him a hug. All he felt was skin and bones as he embraced the emaciated woman. It broke his heart to think that there was nothing he could do about getting her out of this godforsaken hellhole of a place.

  At least for right now, that is. But later on . . .

  He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and said, "Can you tell me your uncle's address in Moscow?"

  She looked at him, confused. "But why?"

  "Maybe someone can keep an eye on your mother. I can't promise anything, but there's a possibility."

  She beamed. "Yes, of course! Thank you."

  Alan opened his contacts and touched the plus sign. "What is it?"

  She started to recite the address but the words were impossible for him to spell out, much less understand.

  "You know how to use one of these?" he asked.

  "Yes, I think so."

  Alan handed his phone to her. "Type it out."

  She took the phone as if it were a precious stone and stared at the screen. Once she got the hang of the tiny virtual keyboard she started pecking out her uncle's address. A moment later, she handed the phone back to Alan.

  He glanced at it then closed the app, pocketed his phone. He pulled another cell phone out of his other pocket and handed it to Elena.

  "I want you to keep this. I've turned off the ring tone so it won't make a sound whenever you get a call. All incoming messages will go straight to voicemail so you can listen to them whenever it's safe to. I will call you as soon as I have any news about your sister. You may also hear from Beth Lindsey, my friend whose website you sent the email to. I've also programmed my cell phone number into the phone. All you have to do is turn on the phone and click the "send" button twice. I want you to call me if you ever need me or just want to talk. Do you think you can do that, Elena?"

  She opened the phone and studied the keypad. She had an odd expression on her face when she looked up at Alan. He couldn't read it, but he hoped to hell it meant that she would comply.

  "Why are you doing this, Alan? Nobody in this country has ever cared about me. It makes me feel . . . very happy."

  Alan smiled. "I am doing it because I genuinely care about you, Elena.
And since you refuse to let me get you out of this dump, this phone is the next best thing. Do you know of a good place to hide it?"

  She nodded and stood up. She went over to the nightstand and opened the top drawer, then glanced over and gestured for him to join her. There was a sly grin on her face.

  Alan went over and looked inside the drawer. He saw an unopened box of Trojan condoms and a few individual packs scattered around, a vibrator, a jar of Vaseline and some other sort of lubricant.

  "This doesn't look like a very safe place," he said.

  "Oh, but it is—watch this."

  Elena pulled out the drawer as far as it would go. Then after she removed all of the items away from the back, she stuck her hand inside. Alan watched as she dug one of her fingernails in under the wooden board backing the drawer near the middle and pulled up and out on it at the same time. The wooden board swiveled outward on hidden hinges located on either side of the drawer, revealing an area that was large enough to store the cell phone.

  "Wow, that's very cool. How did you find out about the secret compartment?" Alan said.

  "By accident the other day. I was looking around for my fingernail file and noticed that it had gotten stuck in under the wood. I discovered that the wood moved up a little when I tried to pull the file out. I pulled up and it opened."

  "Do you think Viktor knows about it?"

  "No, I doubt it. Besides, he is probably too fat to get his hand all the way back in there!"

  Alan laughed; and then Elena laughed too. It was a strange and wonderful sight to see her laugh, and it was at that moment that Alan got a glimpse of a girl who had once had a happy normal life until her freedom had been brutally stripped away from her. Only to be subjected to an existence that could only be described as a horrible living nightmare—

  He had to get her out of here . . .

  "Only turn this on when you need to. You don't have a charger for it." Alan said.

  "Okay," Elena said. She carefully stuck the phone into the hidden compartment and moved the board back into place. She closed the drawer and looked over at him.

  "Thank you so much for this. Please find Polina, Alan. It is all I ask of you."

  "I'll find her, Elena. I promise." An unlikely promise he could keep, but his heart was in it.

  He took his iPhone out of his pocket again.

  "Do you mind if I get a picture of you? I will need it."

  She hesitated a moment, then said, "I look so horrible! Is this necessary?"

  "Afraid so. I'll make is quick and painless."

  She nodded regretfully and stood by while Alan pressed the camera mode icon. He quickly composed a shot and touched the button. He viewed the image, re-composed and shot again before putting the phone back into his pocket.

  "See, that wasn't so bad."

  Just then they heard the door open. Alan spun around and saw a man enter the room—

  It was Viktor!

  "Your time is up!" he shouted angrily. He gaped at Alan and Elena, then glanced over at the bed, which was still for the most part made up.

  "What is happening here? It doesn't look like there has been anything going on," he said suspiciously.

  "I am sorry, Viktor. We both lost track of the time."

  "Doing what?"

  "What do you think? I gave him a blowjob!"

  Viktor lightened up a little but remained leery. "You know better than going past a half hour. You're five minutes late!"

  "I am sorry, I won't let it happen again," Elena said.

  "You'd better not. And don't let me ever see you back here again!" he snapped, glaring at Alan. "I'm not sure I trust you, either."

  Alan wasn't sure what to say. All he knew for certain is that he didn't want to rile up Viktor any more than he already was.

  "I'm sorry, Vik. It's all my fault—I was having a hell of a time getting it up and got carried away, I guess."

  "Tough shit! You can scram now and don't ever let me see you again. Natasha, you need to hurry up for your next appointment. You've got five minutes!"

  Viktor continued standing there as Alan realized that he was going to stay put until he left the room. He cast Elena a brief glance that said, "I'll keep in touch," then nodded at Viktor as he passed by him and left the room.

  Returning to the main floor of the pub, Alan's thoughts were on Elena as he silently prayed that Viktor didn't beat her to a pulp after what had happened. He blamed himself for letting the time slip away and his guilt was palpable.

  He glanced over toward the bar on his way out, wondering who was covering for Vik while he was upstairs. He saw that one of the men he'd been chatting with earlier was now behind the bar taking drink orders. Alan decided that the man was either a relative of Vik's or owed him a pint of blood to earn that kind of trust in the prick's well-oiled flophouse.

  Alan stepped out onto Steinway Street and breathed in a lungful of fresh air. He had a lot of work to do and very little time to do it. He glanced back at Stokleys' Pub on his way to the corner and made a vow that he would see that Elena was freed and Viktor, his cronies and his godforsaken brothel go down before this was all over.

  He took the tiny voice recorder out of his pocket and switched it off, not missing a step as he continued walking south toward the subway station.

 

  CHAPTER 17