Inhuman Trafficking

by Mike Papantonio

  “Doesn’t have anything to do with pajamas, does it?”

  “No, it’s an old abbreviation for parajumper. PJs are the special service arm of the Air Force.”

  “Funny, I’ve heard of Navy Seals, Army Rangers, Green Berets, and Marine Raiders, but I’ve never heard of PJs.”

  “I think most of us prefer it that way.”

  “So, your duties involved parachuting?”

  “That’s one important component of our duties, especially when you’re being sent out the chute at forty thousand feet in the air.”

  “I imagine so. I’ve never done any parachuting, but I have been a private pilot for more than a quarter of a century, and love to go wheels up. I guess I’ve always been more comfortable with the thought of landing on wheels, rather than landing on my feet. Are you a pilot?”

  “I’ve got my license for single-engine, but that barely qualifies as piloting, at least not compared to the kind of birds my former employer used to like to put me in.”

  The appearance of Carol and Jake at the door prompted Michael to stand up, but Deke motioned for him to sit back down.

  “I’d call this good timing,” Deke said. “Michael was just telling me about what he saw at the hotel.”

  With a nod from Deke, Michael began.

  “The Emerald Hideaway is a beautiful property, but it’s also kind of spooky. In fact, it reminded me of some American embassies I’ve visited where the compounds are secured by having one entry point so as to limit traffic.”

  Everyone listened to his detailed account. It took him about ten minutes to recount what he’d seen, with his listeners holding off their questions until he finished.

  “Do you think prostitution is currently taking place at the property?” asked Deke.

  “I don’t believe so. Or maybe I should say that nothing I saw suggested that, but my time there was limited.”

  “We’ll need to do a closer look to make sure. When you study our complaint against Welcome Mat Hospitality, you’ll read how we detailed telltale signs of human trafficking going on in their establishments.”

  “Such as?”

  Deke raised his hand, and used his fingers to count off some of those signs. “Paying in cash, insisting upon interconnecting rooms, entertaining visitors at all hours of the day and night, refusing maid service, and not bringing any luggage.”

  He ran out of fingers, but also added, “The women are forbidden to engage with staff, and they’re confined to their rooms.”

  Jake said, “We’ve even documented instances where staff was advised to ignore any noise complaints coming from rooms with women clearly being trafficked.”

  Carol said, “If you’re right about no sex trafficking going on at the Emerald Hideaway, why do you think security is so pervasive?”

  It was Deke who offered a potential answer. “It might go to controlling the H2B workers. We already know the employees are used for purposes other than hotel work. Karina told Diana she couldn’t talk because she needed to go work a booze cruise.”

  “Not just a booze cruise. A strip trip,” Michael said.

  “As good as the hospitality business is for laundering money, massage parlors and strip clubs are even better,” Carol said.

  “We need to look at the ownership of the Emerald Hideaway,” Deke said.

  “We’re on it,” Carol said.

  “And I’ll be seeing if I can pick up some leads on Karina,” Michael added.

  Deke said, “You might mention that to Diana on your way out. I don’t think she’s been away from her desk all day for fear of missing Karina’s call. I can certainly empathize. And speaking of which, anything new on Tío Leo?”

  Jake said, “We’ve been dovetailing with your reward message on the billboards by chumming the water and offering bounty money to Rodríguez’s known associates. If they tip us off to his presence, we’re promising a nice payday.”

  “Good,” Deke said. “And this time I promise I’ll let the cops do the takedown on him.”

  XVIII

  The violent storm that descended on Florida’s Panhandle and eastern coast, what the media called the “fall squall,” blew itself out over a period of twenty-four hours. In the wake of the storm was the usual litany of downed trees and upended boats. The saving grace was the fall squall’s coming and going as quickly as it had.

  For the second day in a row, Diana remained at her desk during her lunch break. Each passing hour of not hearing from Karina made her worry that much more. She had been the sharer of Karina’s distress, and its impact still haunted her.

  Because it was her break, Diana decided on the distraction of the radio. She tuned into WUWF-FM, the local public radio station at the University of West Florida in Pensacola. It was almost time for Terry Gross and Fresh Air.

  National news signed off, giving way to local news. Diana was only half listening, but then heard something that caused her hand to shoot out and turn up the volume.

  “. . . where the Coast Guard reported that the woman’s body was found. The victim was not wearing a life vest. Although it appears that she drowned, law enforcement is actively looking into her death. At this time, according to the Coast Guard and Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation, there are no reports of any recent boating accidents in the area. Although the victim has not yet been identified, local authorities are reviewing all current missing persons reports. Anyone who might have information as to the victim’s identity is asked to contact Detective Jeff Tanner at the Bay County’s Sheriff’s Office . . .”

  Without thinking about what she was doing, Diana wrote the name and number down, making the notations in the same pad where she had taken notes from Karina’s call.

  It’s nothing, Diana thought.

  Booze cruise, Karina had said.

  What were the odds? Those had to be common occurrences along Florida’s coast, right?

  We soon to go on boat, she had said.

  Was it her imagination now, or had Karina sounded as if she was dreading going on that cruise?

  Diana sent out a group text to Deke, Carol, Jake, and Michael. They needed to find out about the drowned woman.

  * * *

  The five o’clock meeting in Deke’s office made for a somber gathering. Jake directed his comments to everyone at the room, but mostly to Diana.

  “We’re by no means certain that the woman who drowned was Karina Boyko, but there are indications that she might be a Ukrainian national.”

  Diana’s sigh filled the space.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Deke said, his gentle voice meant to comfort Diana. To Jake he said, “What makes you think the victim is Ukrainian?”

  “After talking to law enforcement and asking about any identifying features on the drowned woman, I was told she had two unusual tattoos. Initially, the sheriff’s department wasn’t happy that I was at their office asking questions, but they warmed up to me when I said it was possible the victim was one of our clients. Because Carol and the Bay County captain have friends in common who vouched for us, he okayed the medical examiner’s releasing of the pictures of the victim to me, including shots of her tattoos.”

  In a slightly apologetic tone, Jake added, “I neglected to mention that we’d never actually laid eyes on Karina, but I did say our client was a Ukrainian national. That’s how we were able to identify the victim’s unique tattoos, one on her inner thigh, and the other on her upper right arm. I have those pictures on my phone.”

  He brought up the photos and extended the phone to Deke, who then handed it to Michael. When it was Diana’s turn, she shook her head, not wanting to see what was there. Carol reached for the phone, handed it back to Jake, and then rubbed Diana’s shoulder.

  “Tell us about her tattoos,” Deke said to Jake.

  “Ukraine was the key. That three-pointed tattoo on her thigh that sort of looks like a spear turned out to be one of the country’s most prominent symbols. It’s actually a depiction of an ancient trident, and a sy
mbol that comes from the Ukrainian national coat of arms. That particular trident, what Ukrainians call a tryzub, has been around for more than a thousand years.

  “The other tattoo wasn’t as easy to identify. I thought it looked like the kind of pattern you’d find embroidered on a shirt or dress, and I wasn’t completely wrong. The tattoo is a representation of a vyshyvanka, which is the traditional embroidery used in Ukrainian clothing. On special occasions in Ukraine, you’ll see women wearing outfits with that embroidery. Those who wear the vyshyvanka believe it affords them good luck and protection from evil.”

  “If only warding off evil was that easy,” Deke said.

  “It didn’t bring good luck to the dead woman, but the tattoo might be what allows her to speak from the grave. Every region in Ukraine has its own special vyshyvanka, with colors and patterns unique to the area. Although our victim’s tattoo doesn’t definitively identify her, it does offer us a map of what part of Ukraine she came from.”

  Carol took over the talking. “After Jake sent me the shots, I spent an hour looking at vyshyvankas. Although I can’t yet be certain, I’m pretty sure the tattoo pattern came from the Poltava Oblast region of Central Ukraine.”

  “Great detective work,” Michael said, “but where do we go from here in establishing the victim’s identity?”

  Carol directed her words at Diana. “We asked the Bay County Sheriff’s Department to float the name Karina Boyko through USCIS— US Citizenship and Immigration Services. They’re the governmental agency who maintains fingerprint and photographic records of H2B workers.”

  “What’s the ETA when USCIS will get us answers?” Deke asked.

  “Whenever you’re dealing with a bureaucracy, things take longer than you’d want.”

  “What about going through management or ownership at the Emerald Hideaway?” Michael asked.

  Carol said, “I already tried doing that. The front desk said there was no one in-house who could help me with personnel records, and directed me to the management company overseeing the hotel. When I contacted them, they kicked the can and stonewalled about giving out any information. Since they’re refusing to cooperate, tomorrow I’ll start my cyber-sleuthing with the State of Florida’s database of registered businesses. From there, I’ll be searching Bay County’s list of business licenses, and if necessary, Florida’s Division of Hotels and Restaurants. Within twenty-four hours I should be able to tell you the ownership of the Emerald Hideaway.

  “We will get answers,” she promised.

  The usually upbeat Diana had the last word, whispering, “Whether we like them or not.”

  XIX

  This place, thought Lily, was getting creepier and creepier. It was especially bad tonight. No one was in the compound except for her and Muscles. What was worse, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

  If only she could talk to somebody. The silent treatment she’d been experiencing was freaking her out. These days, no one even made eye contact with her except for the damn guards. And the one person she’d felt a connection to was no longer around. On the day after Karina had told her she would try and help, she had up and disappeared.

  When was that? It was at least three or four days ago, and maybe even longer. Time played strange tricks on you in this place.

  Something was definitely wrong. She wasn’t the only one who had the heebie-jeebies. On the night Karina didn’t come back, she had been waiting outside in the hopes of getting a private moment to talk to her. When the other women returned without Karina, Lily could sense their vibe was all wrong. They looked and moved like they were in a state of shock and just disappeared into their tin cabins.

  Since then, none of the girls had said a word to her. Not a single word. They hadn’t been talking much with one another either. Everyone was keeping to herself. The only one who seemed to have any inclination to speak was the girl who was always shooting her dirty looks, the one they called Oksana.

  Ox, thought Lily. Big, dumb ox. That’s what she thought of Oksana.

  Lily suspected the tension in the air had to do with Karina. She had tried talking to the girl they called Yana, catching her when she was standing off by herself. With no one in earshot, she’d said to her, “What happened to Karina?” The girl had recoiled, acting like Lily was coming at her with a weapon, and then she’d actually run away. What had scared her off like that?

  It was easy to be paranoid, Lily knew, especially with no one talking to her. But it also seemed to her like there was a lot to be paranoid about.

  Despite everything, she was feeling better physically than she had in a long time. Tío Leo had given her all the drugs she wanted, but it wasn’t like some act of kindness on his part. He’d supplied her with drugs because it made it easier for him to control her. Lily had known they were slow-acting poison, but at least they’d allowed some escape from her situation.

  Getting regular meals, sun, and exercise had lifted her fog, but it hadn’t made her any less anxious. Her guards were acting under the orders of this Vicky bitch, and Lily was sure of one thing: this Vicky was no social worker. She had seen how Karina had made a face when she spat out Vicky’s name.

  Her personal guard for the night, the big guy with the muscles, was watching her much more closely than usual. What was up with that? Normally he wasn’t so attentive.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  In a heavily accented voice he said, “Andrei.”

  “How about the two of us party, Andrei?”

  “No party.”

  Lily pretended to pout. Getting Muscles to like her might allow her the opportunity to use his phone.

  “Don’t be boring. The two of us could have a little fun together.”

  Instead of responding, Andrei checked the time on his watch. Then his gaze drifted toward the gate before returning back to her.

  Trying to seduce the guard was a nonstarter. Maybe he was afraid of the cameras in the compound. Or maybe it was her. It was like she was bad news that everyone knew to avoid.

  Screw that.

  Lily got to her feet and started walking. The only route available was to circle the compound. The space was enclosed by electric fencing and topped by razor wire. She walked the perimeter; Andrei trailed behind her. To play with his mind, Lily picked up the pace. He did as well. Where did he think she was going anyway?

  She came to a stop in the middle of a clearing. A light illuminated the area, showcasing Lily’s elongated shadow. Lily extended a tentative hand, formed her fingers into a shape, and a bunny’s head showed itself. She wiggled her fingers; the bunny’s ears began to move. When she was younger, one of her favorite games had been to make shadow figures. All you needed was a light like this one. She remembered a sleepover with her friends Brooke and Candy—how old had they been then? Maybe ten. The three of them had gathered around a book that showed them how to position their hands and fingers to make different shadows. For an hour or two, they had put on shows for one another. The other girls had particularly admired Lily’s bat; everyone agreed it was the best shadow figure. It had looked so real that Candy said she thought it was going to fly away.

  Lily brought her hands together, trying to remember how she had gone about making her bat.

  Her show was interrupted by bouncing lights, and Lily suddenly became aware of the sounds of an approaching vehicle. A large SUV with a camper shell, its headlight beams on high, was pulling up to the gate.

  Lily had been held long enough to know there was little traffic in or out of the compound. The gated private road made sure of that. Vans took the girls to their workplaces and then returned them. This wasn’t one of those vans. It was a vehicle she had never seen before

  This wasn’t usual.

  Lily reacted, but too late. Andrei had crept up behind her. She struggled in his grasp, but there was no escaping his iron grip. He pressed something foul-smelling over her nose and mouth, forcing her to breathe in. She grew light-headed, but before passing out, her strug
gles seemed to produce a new set of shadow images in the clearing.

  A spider was wrapping its prey as the insect wriggled. Then the struggle stopped. The spider secured its prey, and the shadow image faded to black.

  XX

  In the ten minutes he had been waiting inside the rental on a deserted cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Fort Walton Beach, no cars had passed by. The nearest streetlamp was far enough away that his vehicle was in darkness and out of sight of the closest residence. He had picked the spot for its privacy.

  Acar pulled up and a blond, mid-forties, well-dressed woman exited her vehicle and crossed over to the passenger side of his car. She knocked on the window before opening the door, then stood there with a fake smile. Was the bitch waiting for some kind of engraved invitation?

  Vktoria Yevtushenko Driscoll might have fooled Florida’s business community into believing she was a successful entrepreneur, but he knew exactly what she was. His intelligence team had compiled a thick dossier on Driscoll. Not having to worry about burdensome governmental regulations had made it easier for his people to turn over lots of rocks. And there had been plenty of dirt beneath them.

  “You screwed up big-time,” he said as she slid into the seat.

  “I did what?”

  “You heard me. You were paid a substantial amount of money to provide beautiful, compliant whores. That’s not what we got. So now, you’re going to be making it right.”

  “What happened was not my fault.”

  “Your whore drank too much champagne. She got drunk, slipped, and fell over the railing. Aren’t you responsible for your employees?”

  Vicky opened her bee-stung lips to voice her objections, but then under his hard gaze seemed to think better of it. “It was an unfortunate accident.”

  He knew Vicky didn’t want to openly challenge him. Things hadn’t turned out well for the last bitch who had done that. Taking it down a notch, he pretended to offer a carrot.

  “An accident, but one you’re going to have to make right. Your whore’s clumsiness makes potential problems for all of us, but especially for you.”