Girl from Nowhere

by Tiffany Rosenhan

  “When Bekami left, he’d order the others not to touch me, not to sell me, no matter what price was offered. Bekami would say reverently, Cash does not compare to what she can offer us …

  “It sounded like they were holding me hostage as revenge … or blackmail. Farhad and the others tormented me. They’d sit around me eating, feeding me nothing. They’d touch my face. They’d joke in broken French about hurting me. In Chechen, they graphically described what they would do to me once Bekami let them …

  “In the late afternoon heat, they’d smoke and discuss their plans: blowing up the Köln Cathedral, bombing the Chunnel, burning down the Rijksmuseum. They were envious of the notoriety of other terrorist groups, but mostly, they were obsessed with a singular weapon they simply did not have.

  “Farhad was eager to get rid of me. He’d concluded my father must be a foreign spy—a fantôme maybe—or even CIA; he worried a military team might come for me and they’d all be killed. I hoped he was right.

  “Later, Bekami returned, desperate this time. Your father is Kent Hepworth, isn’t he?! he shouted in English, shoving a photograph of my father in front of my face. I shook my head, denying it in French, I don’t know that man!

  “Farhad was belligerent; he didn’t want me in the apartment when he could ransom me for ten thousand euros. We need the money, he’d plead. Bekami kept explaining I was worth much more than ten thousand euros.

  “Farhad wanted to torture me until I gave Bekami answers, but Bekami refused. So Farhad pulled out a rusty knife and put it next to my throat. I’ll never forget the sound of his voice, like coarse salt on a shiny stone: Tell us who your father is or I send him your head. I spat in his face. So, Farhad sliced my neck.”

  I touch the scar directly beneath my chin.

  “A car accident?” Aksel remarks in a low voice.

  I grip the chocolate chiffon gown drowning my legs and take a deep breath.

  “Farhad had loosened his grip on the knife, so I grabbed it; he lunged for me and I swung the knife, cutting him from his forehead to the bottom of his cheek.

  “I ran past Bekami and the others, through a kitchen and into a hall. I ran down the nearest staircase, circling until I reached a pair of turquoise doors on the ground floor.

  “Outside, the sun hit me in a blinding flash of light. My head pounded in the bright sunshine. Blood trickled down my neck and onto my clothes. My legs were weak. I wanted to stop. To collapse. But I ran.

  “A scooter revved up behind me—Bekami. But I was more agile on foot. I darted into one alley, then skidded into another, narrower alley. Behind me, Bekami couldn’t turn the scooter fast enough; he had to loop one hundred and eighty degrees before turning after me.

  “The alley intersected a souk. I entered it through a spice stall. Inside I stole a scarf from a vendor and wrapped it around my head to cover my hair. My navy school blazer was soaked in my blood, so I slipped it off and grabbed another scarf, covering my shoulders and holding the ends together in my fists.

  “Bekami drove up behind me, plowing people aside on his scooter. My only choice was to run faster. I emerged from the souk on a café-lined street; I saw the dry cleaners that serviced my uniform. I knew where I was—five hundred meters from a diplomatic mission.

  “Although the embassies are in Ankara, hundreds of kilometers away, the consulates are in Istanbul. And many of these are even bigger, and more heavily guarded. The Slovak Consulate was closest. I knew this because my father’s friend Jozef worked there. Only a month before, we’d met him nearby for lunch …

  “People at the cafés stared as I ran past. I was wearing my oxford school shoes; my shirt and skirt were ripped and filthy; my matted hair flew like a dirty broom behind me. I was fast. But Bekami was faster.

  “Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him drop the scooter and sprint after me. He shoved an old woman to the pavement; her groceries rolled into the gutter.

  “I reached Sultana Park, situated between me and the consulate. It’s small—surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, with openings on each corner. I had already passed the southeast corner, so I jumped onto a bench and hurdled the railing. I cut through the wooded park and exited at the northwest entrance. Bekami chased me like an attacking dog. I could hear him panting.

  “I ran along the building’s east gate, knowing the guards wouldn’t be able to see me until I was practically in front of them. Bekami was closing in on me, his footsteps like a dark rhythmic drumbeat welcoming me to hell.

  “Rounding the corner, I screamed I was a citizen—Som Slovák! Open the gate! I’m being attacked! I cried. I shed my scarves as I reached the boxwood hedge.

  “No alarm sounded. I couldn’t tell if the soldiers heard me. I was about to run headfirst into a wall of iron posts … Two meters away they glanced at each other … as if they weren’t sure whether to believe me … Som z Bratislavy! I shrieked. I’m from Bratislava! The gate slid open. I ran through. It snapped shut behind me.

  “I passed the first soldier and collapsed against the second. The stunned soldier placed me behind him. Panting, I turned—Bekami stood on the other side of the gate, heaving. His eyes were wild. His hair had come loose from its knot. His hands were coiled around the bars like he intended to break them.

  “The soldier raised his rifle. In Turkish, he ordered Bekami to back away from the gate. The second soldier kept me tight behind him, barricading himself between me and Bekami. The gatehouse radioed Turkish police—orange alert—potential terror attack.

  “Bekami still clung to the iron posts. I will find you, he sneered at me in Turkish, and my knife will cut deeper. You will never escape me, fahişe.

  “I stepped out from behind the soldier. Not before I tell my father everything I heard, I said to Bekami in Chechen. Your names, your families, the villages you come from. The attacks you are planning and how you’ll do it. You are right about only one thing—my father is dangerous, so now it is you who should be afraid. My father will find you, every one of you, and he will kill you.

  “I’ll never forget Bekami’s look of astonished rage. He never considered I spoke Chechen—why would he? I can’t imagine what went through his mind—he knew what they had carelessly discussed in front of me.

  “From the gatehouse, I ran straight to Jozef’s office. He went pale when he saw me. He called in a military medic who didn’t ask questions, just stitched me up. Jozef kept me sequestered in his office until my father arrived.

  “We left Istanbul under heavy security that night. We met my mother at the airport and traveled straight to Head Office of Counter Intelligence Europe, Berlin.”

  Aksel’s eyes flash at me, horrified. He draws his hands over his mouth.

  “It was in Berlin that my father told me who had betrayed us. Who had betrayed me.”

  Aksel stares at me intensely.

  “It was that nice old man from outside Ankara, my driver. He must have also been surprised … when the ‘hummingbird’ got away.”

  After a heavy pause, I continue, “He was the first.”

  “The first what?” Aksel asks uncertainly.

  “The first one my father found.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “Inside the Bubble, I told my debriefer every detail of my kidnappers I remembered: eye color, hair length, accent, favorite brand of cigarette, every scar, piece of jewelry, conversation …

  “Bekami said my father had foiled an attack in Albania—I assumed Bekami wanted revenge. Based in Istanbul, Bekami and Farhad’s cell was affiliated with a larger separatist organization—the Chechen Nationalist Front, CNF for short.

  “CNF claimed to want the peaceful establishment of an independent Chechnya, but the plans I overheard indicated warfare. Farhad’s job was to develop a transnational network capable of executing attacks; Bekami’s job was to acquire the weapons.

  “Though I told the man inside the Bubble everything I remembered, I understood little—why did they think I could help them get their weapons?

&
nbsp; “After three days of debriefing, we left Berlin. For eighteen months, we stayed off the grid. On the move. But no matter how covertly we lived, Bekami’s men were always one step behind, or occasionally one step ahead.

  “We’d been at our safe house in Tunis for seven days when my parents left me alone for the first time in months. Minutes later, the door creaked open. Someone stepped inside the flat. I hid behind the fridge.

  “I heard those uneven footsteps, his jagged, wheezing breath. I watched his lace-up boots cross the tile floor, each footstep one cadence off because of his limp.

  “Then, right before he entered the kitchen—two pops! He slumped to the ground, dead. He was the last of the kidnappers my father captured or killed—Ilyas Farhad. Across his face, from his brow to his chin, was the scar I had given him.

  “The following day, we left North Africa and flew to America. My parents told me they could retire now because it is over. Over. My kidnappers are dead. Bekami is imprisoned in Libya. CNF fell apart after my father decimated their leadership …

  “Bekami can’t be in Waterford. Farhad’s Chechen cell isn’t in Waterford. I shouldn’t still be afraid …”

  My voice dries up. Aksel’s face has been growing more vehement as I speak. I can hardly bear to see the way he is watching me—like I am contaminated by it all. By Farhad. By Bekami.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s my—”

  “Stop that!” Aksel stands. “Stop apologizing! This is not your fault! Do you understand? Your kidnapping—what they did to you? None of it is your fault!”

  “Except it is!” My dress cascades to the floor in glistening waves as I stand. “I left school—I disobeyed orders! I put my parents through hell. I will always be afraid! Traumatized. Tainted. It’s who I am—”

  “No, it is not who you are!” Aksel roars. He takes me by the shoulders, swiveling me to face him. “You’re not defined by what others did to you, Sophia!”

  He bends his head down until our foreheads meet. Gently, he holds the back of my neck with his hands, his thumbs resting on the skin behind my ear.

  “Those men, Sophia?” He pauses. “Bekami? Farhad? The others? They took twenty months out of your life. Don’t give them the satisfaction of taking another second. You can’t control a lot of what has happened to you, but you can control that. And it doesn’t matter what Bekami wanted from you, because you are strong, Sophia, the strongest person I have ever met, and no one …”

  Aksel touches his finger to my chin. I look up at him. Firelight sparks in his eyes. “No one can defeat you unless you give up.”

  Aksel strokes my hair. His voice is both fierce and calm. “Farhad is dead. Bekami is in prison. Your father certainly won’t let anyone near you, Sophia, and I swear I’ll die before I let someone hurt you.”

  “Don’t say that,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes closed, remembering the man with the curly hair and hazel eyes. “Are you forgetting what just happened?”

  “I’m saying it because of what just happened,” he declares. “You are not alone, Sophia.”

  “You can’t …” I don’t finish my sentence.

  Eighteen months of tears pour out of me in a torrent of memories I can no longer dam.

  Aksel’s arms lock behind my back. We sink to the floor in an entwined heap of limbs and chiffon.

  My tears wash over Aksel, soaking his shirt, seeping into his skin, and connecting my past with his future.

  After a time, the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and Aksel’s steady breathing as I burrow myself into his chest.

  Warm and safe, I neither know, nor care, how much time passes. All I know is that I would trade every day of my life without Aksel for just one more day with him.

  CHAPTER 36

  Aksel shakes my shoulder. Rubbing my eyes, I look around. The room is dark. The fire is out. He is sitting beside me, his back against the sofa. I am curled next to his warm body, my arm draped across his torso.

  Suddenly, Aksel springs to his feet.

  “What?” I sit up, alert in an instant.

  Aksel’s eyes find mine. “Not sure.”

  I glance at the large windows overlooking the snowy meadow. Lanterns hang from the cedar shingles, lighting the deck in a soft luminescent glow.

  “I’m going to check outside.” Aksel is still wearing the crisp white shirt and black suspenders of his tuxedo. He takes his parka from the back of the couch and heads toward the front door.

  “Sophia,” he says, turning around.

  Something isn’t right.

  Aksel’s body goes rigid. Solid as stone.

  I hear it in the distance. A crash. The grating sound of metal smashing metal.

  Aksel looks down at his phone, vibrating in his hand, alerting him. “The gate has been breached,” he utters.

  A siren goes off inside the house.

  Instantaneously, Aksel runs toward me. He picks up his rifle and seals it in his left hand. He pushes his SIG into my right hand.

  Standing, I shake my head. This isn’t happening.

  Nonetheless, the SIG molds into my palm, comfortable and familiar.

  I exhale. This is happening.

  “It takes twelve seconds to reach the house,” he murmurs, looking defiantly out the back windows, steeling himself.

  He is right.

  CHAPTER 37

  The lights inside the house go out with a snap.

  I grab my satin clutch, retrieve my Ladybug, and slip it down the top of my shimmering bodice.

  Aksel pulls me to the library.

  From the dark room we can see into the night. The night-vision video on Aksel’s phone shows movement surrounding the estate—green figures encircling the house, blocking our exits. I step over to the window.

  Two shadows move below us, descending to the lower deck near the mudroom door. Silently, I unlock the window and push it open. It is an angled window, and the hinge halts at six inches.

  But we don’t need six inches. One will do.

  I motion to Aksel. He walks over, threads on the silencer, and thumbs off the safety.

  We glance at each other, luminous eyes meeting in the moonlight.

  He kisses me hard, and I know, with this one, simple kiss, that Aksel is different. Dangerous.

  Not to me. To them.

  We are in this together.

  He fires twice.

  Two down.

  Running low, we dart back into the great room.

  A sound from the foyer causes both of us to turn our aim.

  I catch Aksel’s eye and pivot, going back-to-back with him.

  Facing the windows in the great room, I halt—for one everlasting second, I watch four figures, silhouetted in the moonlight against the snowy meadow, approach the deck.

  One of them throws a grenade. It arcs toward us—

  “Aksel, get down!”

  Crash!

  The floor-to-ceiling glass windows shatter. The trim erupts in bright flames, splintering shards of wood across the room.

  We throw ourselves to the floor. Aksel turns midair, landing on top of me, shielding my body.

  Boom! There is a deafening gunshot to my left, another shot to my right.

  A sharp piece of glass strikes my leg like shrapnel. I push my hand to the wound.

  Through the shattered glass and flames engulfing the woodwork, I see shadowy figures, blurry and smudged in the smoke, moving in.

  Aksel props his rifle against his shoulder. He slides the barrel around the sofa. Angling the weapon, he fires twice.

  Both bullets hit a man’s chest. His knees buckle and he drops. Aksel moves the rifle 15 degrees and hits a second man in the thigh. Aksel curses below his breath, adjusts his angle, and pulls the trigger again. This time he punctures the man’s neck. A geyser of blood sprays across the foyer.

  Four down.

  Together, we crawl across the glass-strewn floor. It smells like aluminum and burning cedar. A shot whistles past my ear. A bullet lodges into the pillar
behind the fireplace, narrowly missing Aksel.

  We take cover behind an antique marble-top dresser.

  My dress is slick with blood.

  Aksel hovers over me, firing his rifle.

  A man cries out in pain.

  I swipe Aksel’s loose tie from his neck and knot it around my thigh.

  Shadows move among the billowing smoke, surrounding us.

  One figure is getting bigger. Closer.

  Aksel switches his rifle to his right hand and reloads.

  I lean around Aksel and shoot.

  Five down,

  Suddenly, the mudroom door opens—Bang!

  Direct gunfire bombards us. Behind me, an oil painting drops to the floor, breaking the frame; the flat-screen TV mounted above the fireplace crashes onto the flagstone hearth.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Covering our heads, we dart from the room.

  We are back where we started, in the entrance to the library. A blast hits the woodwork millimeters from Aksel’s shoulder.

  Above us, an antler chandelier plummets.

  Behind us, books tumble off the shelves in a cascading wave as gunfire ricochets around the room.

  Another grenade rolls in. It explodes as we dive from the library.

  “Stun grenades,” I murmur, rolling onto my stomach. Between my thigh and the explosion, I’ve lost my SIG.

  Scanning the rubble, I get to my feet.

  Aksel fires back from behind the wood pillar in the hall.

  Another blast hits the front door, blocking our exit.

  “To the kitchen!” Aksel yells.

  Aksel covers us with his Remington as we maneuver through the great room and into the kitchen.

  Because of the house’s elevation, the kitchen windows are two stories high—inaccessible from the deck.

  A man wearing a black mask turns the corner. Aksel takes him out point-blank.

  Aksel plows through the kitchen, tossing aside barstools. He slides the doors shut, jamming the lock into place.

  Footsteps beat down the hall to the other entrance. Aksel races to seal it off too.