by Dana Haynes
Kyrenia is on the north, on the Turkish side, and from its shore one can see Turkey on a clear day. It’s a small, provincial tourist town with a lovely old marina that houses a few dozen luxury sailboats, a semicircle of restaurants, hotels, and Russian casinos, plus a small commercial core, all hemmed in by the Mediterranean to the north and the craggy Pentadactyl mountain range to the south. A mammoth fortress overlooks the commercial bay and an identical, mostly unused bay to the east of the town—from the air, the two bays and the fortress look like a capital W, with the looming stone fort between the inlets. The bay to the west has a functioning seawall to protect the sailboats. The bay to the east does not, and is used mainly by local companies.
Companies such as St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking, which had purchased the rights to tie down a de Havilland DHC-6-300 Twin Otter seaplane in the lesser-used bay.
Thanks to the bifurcated nature of life on Cyprus since the 1974 civil war, tracking down information on a company based out of Kyrenia is difficult at best.
Plus, the island is known for its obtuse and opaque banking regulations. It had become a favorite haven for Russian mobsters hoping to hide money from their country’s crooked government.
Sauce for the goose … The murkiness of the Cypriot banking and business world worked just as well for Michael Finnigan and Katalin Fiero Dahar.
After visiting her friend in Berlin, Fiero flew commercial to Larnaca, Cyprus, the country’s only large commercial airport. Cyprus is a small country—the best method of getting from one city to the next is taxi, and the price rarely rises above thirty euros. St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking kept a Land Rover in a garage close to Larnaca, just past the salt marsh lakes with their massive flocks of flamingos. Fiero threw her overnight bag in the back and checked the lockbox to make sure she had euros for the Greek side of the island and Turkish lira for the north. She drove straight through, circling the capital of Nicosia, crossing at the UN checkpoint, and got to Kyrenia inside of two hours.
Bridget Sumner—wife of their pilot, Lachlan Sumner—ran the shop when the principals were away. Fiero got back to find everything tidy and a note from Bridget informing them that she was at home but could run back if needed.
St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking kept a suite of offices on three levels, perched precariously above a restaurant that overlooked the commercial marina. A flood of tourists—mostly Turkish and British—strolled the promenade below the oatmeal-colored abode. The office was set back enough to provide privacy from the people below.
Fiero showered and changed into raggedy cutoff jeans and a vintage Ramones T-shirt. She poured herself a vodka and sat out on their tight little balcony. She’d rescued two floatable cushions from a friend’s boat and used them as a seat on the balcony and a support behind her back. The Turkish restaurant below did the most amazing seafood, and the aromas of saffron and ginger floating up to their loft never ceased to amaze. The town gleamed, especially at night, with its combination of late nineteenth-century and prewar Romanticism. The great, rocky fortress loomed to the east, reminding the town of its Venetian and Ottoman history. The French House of Lusignan had ruled its slice of the Mediterranean from this island, back when its kingdom included Jerusalem and Armenia. Aphrodite had come from this oblong rock in the sea, if one believed that sort of thing. (Fiero sometimes did.) Pygmalion’s statue had come to life on this island. Othello had served here before his encounter with Iago. Or, so the story goes.
Fiero studied the files on the encrypted flash drive that Shan Greyson had given them. She sipped her vodka until the sun set, then went inside to pull on a ratty, stretched-out sweater, grabbed another bottle of vodka from the icebox in the staff kitchen, and padded back out to the balcony to sit on her cushions, reading now beneath the light pouring out of the office window.
She and Finnigan kept living quarters on the top level of the three-floor suite.
Her mother texted her from Madrid. Khadija Dahar’s birthday was coming up. There would be no good way to avoid seeing the family. No matter how much she tried.
She called it a night around one. She awoke at ten, threw on gym shorts and a jog top and shoes, and ran eight miles, east toward the town of Bellapais, doing the hill work that she preferred three days per week. Thanks to the elevation gain, her long, deeply tanned body was sheathed in sweat by the time she returned downtown. The village was coming alive, the air smelling of fresh shellfish and ground coffee. The midday Muslim call to prayer—the Zuhr—reverberated from minarets up and down the valley. The sound always reminded her of her mother, and of growing up in the Muslim quarter of Cádiz.
She showered and got a plate of olives, feta, and fresh bread from the restaurant downstairs, along with a beaten copper plate with a cup of good Turkish coffee and a sealed, plastic container of water; the way it’s always served on Cyprus. She recognized a happy sound and stepped out on the balcony to watch as the company’s de Havilland Otter descended from the skies, its twin Pratt & Whitneys purring. The Otter was outfitted with pontoons that summer, although she often was rigged in STOL—Short Takeoff and Landing—formation with a fixed tricycle gear. Fiero watched as the Kiwi, Lachlan Sumner, brought the plane in, as light as a love song.
Fiero retrieved her mobile phone from the desk in her suite and hit the number one speed dial.
Finnigan spoke up over the roar of the twin engines. She could tell by the audio quality that he’d taken the call over the Otter’s headsets. “Yo.”
She shielded her eyes and watched as their plane cruised beyond the great Venetian fortress, toward the lesser bay and out of sight.
“Smoke,” she said, watching. “Little fire. We need to get started on this.”
Finnigan said, “Agreed. Hey. It’s your mom’s birthday on Thursday.”
Fiero said, “Shut up,” and disconnected.
C05
Beirut, Lebanon
It worked like a charm. Jane Koury—Jinan, she reminded herself—flew from Gatwick to Ankara, then took a smaller plane to Beirut. Tamer Awad, a thirty-year-old photojournalist from the newspaper in Hama, met her at the airport. She’d purchased a hijab from a shop near Gatwick, and had gone to YouTube to remind herself how to drape it around her head and shoulders. She hadn’t worn one in ages.
“You look fine,” Tamer said. “How’s your Arabic?”
Jane laughed. “I’m Syrian, Tamer. I speak fluent Arabic.”
The journalist’s smile faltered. “What’s that accent?”
Jane blushed. “It’s Syrian.”
The guy laughed. He pointed to his Nissan Sentra, parked just outside the airport gates. “If you say so …”
C06
Kyrenia
Over a lunch of grilled lamb and salads with Turkish olive oil and lemon, the partners shared what they’d learned about Lazar Aleksić.
“What is this kid, nineteen?” he asked.
“He’s twenty-five.”
Finnigan just shook his head. “They get younger every year.”
“It’s not his youth that bothers me. His victims are underage. According to Shan, maybe as young as twelve or thirteen.”
Finnigan looked momentarily ill. “Selling them to pimps and whorehouses. But also private buyers. That’s just …” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Evil. I know.”
They ordered white wine.
Fiero nibbled on her lamb. She wore black, as always—a simple tank and matchstick jeans with suede ankle boots. She’d pulled her hair back in the Spanish style: parted in the middle and in a low chignon at the base of her neck. Finnigan also wore a standard outfit: 501s and a button-down shirt, untucked. His tousled haircut was a few weeks past its sell-by date. He hadn’t shaved since Bruges, but it all looked good on him.
Fiero pointed toward the laptop between them. “Aleksić grew up very rich. There are stories of his getting into trou
ble with the law in Serbia, in France, in Belgium, and his father bailing him out.”
“His father, who is director of a UN Middle Eastern refugee program.”
“Which means serious clout,” she added.
“What’s Junior been doing since he came of age?”
“According to Shan, he’s connected with Serbian mobsters. Whether Miloš Aleksić knows or not …” She gave a very Iberian shrug, conveying tons.
“Mobsters?”
“Formerly Serbian military. The same military that committed atrocities in the 1990s, during the Yugoslavian civil war. When the war ended, they turned to organized crime.”
The owner of the restaurant swung by the table with their wine. He didn’t mind Fiero Dahar—a half-Muslim woman—sharing liquor with Finnigan. Cyprus is a most secular country, even by Turkish standards.
“Who’re the victims?”
She took a moment to bring up a map of Europe and the Mediterranean. “Since the wars in Syria and Afghanistan, the refugee trail into Europe has looked like this …” She pointed to the screen. “From the Middle East, north into Turkey. From there, refugees take three routes. The middle route is Turkey to Greece, Greece to Macedonia and Kosovo, then on to Serbia and parts farther north, such as Hungary. Or, they head from Macedonia through Bosnia and Croatia, and on to Austria.”
Finnigan nodded.
“The northern route goes Turkey to Bulgaria to Romania to Hungary. The western route goes Turkey by boat from the southern coast to Greece, then across the Adriatic by boat to Italy.”
“So. The middle route.” He licked lemon juice off his fingers. “You need someone in Serbia to exploit the refugees.”
“Serbia or Kosovo, yes. Closer to Greece and you find too many observers. From the UN, from the media, from the Red Cross and Red Crescent.”
Finnigan thought about it a while. “In the Marshal’s Service, we liked to keep our eyes on the borders. Borders create bottlenecks. That’s where coyotes exploit victims.”
“Coyotes?”
“Colloquialism. Traffickers.”
“Ah. Anyway, I see your point. Does Aleksić make contact with his victims in Belgrade? Or where they come across the border, in Kosovo?”
“We need to connect Aleksić to his victims. We need to know where he gathers them.” He leaned back, sipped his wine, mulled over the problem. “Jeez, I’d love to put this vantz in prison.”
“Is vantz like coyote?”
“No, it means bedbug. But in this case, yeah.”
“To prey on little children, and on refugees …” Fiero’s eyes had taken on a stormy, slate-gray sheen. Her partner knew the warning signs when he saw them.
“We don’t get paid if Aleksić’s dead.”
She leveled that gray gaze on him for a while, and Finnigan held it, returned serve.
She finally gave him a warning smile. “I don’t kill everyone I meet.”
Finnigan signaled for the check. “Not for lack of trying.”
After lunch, he returned to their office over the town of Kyrenia, checked his watch, and did his calculations for the time back in the States. He called a few friends from the Marshal’s Service, from the DEA, and the FBI. He thought about it a while, then looked up a number for a guy who worked for the New York State Police, and who’d worked a number of cases involving the Little Odessa gangs in the US from the post-Soviet era. They hadn’t spoken in a while.
The state cop called him back inside of five minutes. “Finnigan himself calls me. I think wonders just ceased.”
Finnigan threw open the double doors to the narrow balcony overlooking the sailboats of the Kyrenian marina. The sky was crystalline, and Turkey shimmered near the horizon. “How’s it going? How’s Caroline?”
“She’s good. You still bumming around Europe, writing love ballads and reading Yeats?”
“It’s Keats this year, you soulless bastard. Hey, you know anyone who knows anyone connected to the scene in Belgrade, Serbia?”
The statie laughed. “You consulting on this thing, Mickey?”
“I’m asking.” He didn’t elaborate.
The guy said, “This a Saint Nicholas thing? I’m not as stupid as I look.”
“Don’t see how you could be.” Finnigan hadn’t realized that his old friends knew he was bounty hunting. But then again, this particular state cop collected knowledge the way some people collect stamps. There didn’t seem much point in denying it. “Yeah, it’s that. My partner and me are looking at a guy runs underage vics for whorehouses and private collectors. Guy targets Middle Eastern refugees.”
“Ah, jeez …”
“Yeah.”
Finnigan listened to the pause over the phone. Below their office, British expats laughed and strolled the curved boardwalk, on their way to one of the many casinos in town.
“You know who would know for sure, right?”
Finnigan said, “Let’s not get into that, OK?”
“How’s Paddy doin’?”
“Don’t know. Guy we’re looking into, he may be using ex-Serb military. Death squad guys from the civil war in the nineties. What I need is someone elsewhere in Europe who can point me to the receiving side of the network. I want to work it from that end, heading toward Belgrade.”
“Makes sense. Not a lot of Micks badging their way around Belgrade, I figure. Okay, I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks. This is a bad guy. Buys and sells children. Breaks up refugee families. We’d really like to put him away.”
“You maybe don’t know this, buddy, but St. Nicholas is gaining a reputation. A good one. I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks, man.”
He was about to hang up as his friend cut back in. “No problem. But call your old man. ’Kay?”
Finnigan got some laundry going and changed the sheets on both beds—Fiero treasured her privacy, but having a partner who did laundry? For that, she was willing to cut him some slack.
He took a look at whatever important papers Bridget Sumner had put on his desk. They involved Cypriot banking, and he understood absolutely nothing about them. Bridget left a Post-it telling him to sign them, so he did.
He checked his watch and realized he could get to the capital, Nicosia, for the ten-thirty English Mass at Holy Cross Church. The drive itself took less than a half hour on the small island. Finnigan liked to tell his friends and coworkers that he went to Mass so he wouldn’t have to lie to his mom about it later. But really, he went because it was a lifetime’s habit. And he enjoyed it.
He slept fitfully that night. The next morning, he again hustled around, cleaned his suite of rooms. He took out the trash. He scanned Facebook and Twitter. He contemplated cleaning out the fridge. He stared into it for a while and threw away some cheese. He said, “Oh, for God’s sake …” and broke down and called his dad.
It was a Saturday, and his father would be camped out in his lounger, beer at hand, watching college sports. Always college sports, regardless of the season. Captain Patrick Finnigan—Paddy to his old friends—couldn’t abide pro ball.
“Mickey! How the hell are you?”
Finnigan went to stand before the balcony again. A classic, wood-sided thirty-footer was making a spinnaker run toward the breakwater, the sun glistening off its deck, a long-legged girl in a huge floppy hat lying on a beach towel. “I’m doing good, Dad. What’s on the tube?”
“Baseball. Arizona, UC San Diego. Where are you?”
“Cyprus, Dad.”
“Sand, sun, and babes.”
Patrick Finnigan assumed that Cyprus, Coney Island, and Miami were interchangeable. Not that he could visit any of them. Not with the electronic tether in his ankle bracelet.
They talked about family. They talked about baseball and about politics. Patrick Finnigan couldn’t believe how much the politicians were screwing the country
; screwing the working man. As always. Michael didn’t think his old man had ever voted, but he’d served enough corrupt politicians over the years that he had a right to an opinion.
“Hey, Nicole is up for a promotion. How’s Sergeant Nicole Finnigan sound?”
His old man sounded so full of pride. His only daughter, wearing the blue. Finnigan said, “Well, she’s the smartest member of the family, so …” and left it at that.
When he’d left the NYPD, his two-years-younger sister had been just about to finish at the academy. Another Finnigan, walking in Paddy’s footprints. The day he handed in his badge, Michael had warned his sister about what she was getting into. It was the last time they’d spoken seriously.
“How ’bout you?” Patrick said. “You think much about getting a real job?”
“This job’s pretty real, Dad.”
The former captain laughed. “Jesus, you work in a goddamn cubicle, Mickey. Guys are out doing shit and you’re writing reports.”
Finnigan stared at the Eastern Med. “Something like that. It’s a job.”
He’d never had any intention of saying to his father, I’m a bounty hunter. Bounty hunting is illegal. And back in the States, as a New York cop and later as a deputy US Marshal, Michael Finnigan had had zero tolerance for the illegal activities that got his father booted off the force; that got him eighteen months in a federal lockup. Patrick Finnigan’s criminal nature is what drove Michael to leave the NYPD in the first place, and he hadn’t been shy letting his old man know that.