Midnight in Moscow, page 21
Twenty four hours later Jurka, exactly as she had been described, tall, willowy and beautiful, now equipped with a British passport in her new identity arrived at the D’Aboville house and was warmly greeted by Yacouta, who fussed over her like a mother hen. It took less than an hour for her story to be completely corroborated; her memory was excellent and her attention to detail amazing. Tony Shallal and Monnie D’Lamrow were convinced that with such recall her life was quite surely in severe danger.
“When is the next, and I hate to say this, ‘delivery’ to be made?” inquired Shallal of the girl sitting in front of the elaborately carved fireplace, now holding a glass of good wine and completely at ease.
Jurka stared intently at the handsome older man and poured herself another glass. “What’s in it for me?” she replied, gulping her wine and refilling once again.
“I just gave you a passport and I can fly you to England or America to safety in hours. I would think that was adequate,” Shallal responded in a slightly angered tone.
“Look Meester, I don’t vant your fuckin’ passport. I vant my own. I vant to go home to Zadar, to my family, to be myself. I’m supposed to meet my mother in France in two days and then meet with some book guy, how do you call it, a ghost writer? Then I’m free of all of you. You are all the same, all of you, whoremongers!” She was crying now. “You manufacture your stories, talk us into jobs that don’t exist because we’re victims of war or poverty and lack, how do you say, opportunity? And then we end up whores. So now I am a whore and I will be well paid and it will be on my terms not yours. Here’s vhat I vant, OK?” Her voice had moved up an octave and she stood, now staring directly into his eyes, her hands on her empty wine glass.
“I cannot make deals with you, I work for the British Government,” Shallal lied deftly as his position required, “I can pass on your requests to my superiors but they make the decisions, not I. As for your family, they are not safe in Croatia, not now that you have escaped. You would do well to listen to what I have to offer.”
“No!” Her voice was shrill now. “Here’s vhat I vant and with vhat I have to tell you vill make it happen. Guarantee me $50,000 pounds in twenty four hours and one million after I get to America, Britain or anywhere I’ll be safe with my family. I vant a house paid for, school as a hairstylist paid for and the rest my family brought to me as soon as I have finished telling my story and am safe. Not a lot, James Bond, eh?” She was matter of fact, unsmiling and displaying absolutely no fear.
Monnie intervened. “Jurka, we can always send you back to the Israelis. They’d love to talk with you again. Why are you treating us this way? We are trying to help you get back and punish the people responsible.”
“Punish who?” Jurka responded lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke in the face of her detractors.
“No, no, no! I will not have this!” Madame D’Aboville stepped across the room and snatched the cigarette from the girl’s mouth. “You might be a whore, honest, abducted or otherwise, but you will not disrespect my house by smoking those vile things. Furthermore my dear, you will not talk to my houseguests that way.” The older woman, now quite angry, stood in front of the girl. “Let me make this clear to you. In five minutes I can summons my houseman, who in less than six hours can drive you back over the Negev desert to the Israeli border and drop you off without papers. This time you won’t get out, you’ll be killed because that’s what happens to people without papers. So listen to what the gentlemen and your benefactress Miss D’Lamrow have to say and comply. I have limited patience, Mademoiselle. I am an old woman, notoriously bad tempered and getting very impatient. So, as they say in American films, humor me.”
“Shut the fuck up.” the girl answered, surprisingly somewhat calmly, “I’m not an idiot.”
Within seconds, Yacouta D’Aboville, a spry woman despite being in her eighties, appeared to fly across the room with an agility that shocked everyone present and smacked the girl across the face. “How dare you use such words before me in my home. I am old enough to be your grandmother! I concede,” she stated firmly, “You had no choice in your profession in order to survive, but I have accorded you respect and you will not, and please do not misunderstand me, disrespect my generosity.” The older woman then rubbed her right hand with her left, smoothed her white hair, turned and walked back to her drink as though nothing unusual had taken place.
The girl stroked her red, smarting cheek then laughed, without remorse but with a newly found respect for the older woman. “I am sorry for my language, but I am not stupid. I know what could happen to me and I have enough information to help you, even perhaps to stop all of this. But I will not tell you what I know unless I have security and a way out.”
“Look Jurka,” Shallal began again, “I can get you to a safe house in England or America in twenty four hours. Your family can follow you there perhaps in three days and I can make sure you have a certain amount of money, perhaps fifty thousand pounds in total, but it will be paid in increments as the government doesn’t work that fast. The choice is yours. As Madame has said, we can send you to the border in less time.”
“Arrange the money and I will talk,” she said, scratching her head nervously and looking around for another glass of wine.
“Here my child.” The older woman carefully passed her a glass of chilled wine and a placed a Dresden china plate filled with food on the highly polished occasional table next to the overstuffed chair. The girl looked at her with gratitude, sighed deeply and then broke down into gut wrenching sobs. “It is the first time in years that anyone has given me any respect as a human being or done anything for me that was gracious or kind. I am sorry. Look what I have become. I went to University. I had an education.” She was shaking as she spoke.
“Oh my poor girl,” The older woman sat down beside her. “You have seen so much cruelty.” She smiled down at her and looked at Shallal and Monnie D’Lamrow. “These people can help you, they have so far. Tell them what you know and at least try to stop this from happening to someone else. You cannot save all of the girls crossing the border. There are thousands, but perhaps you will save the next batch of them from going through what you did.” Madame D’Aboville placed her arms around her and held her closely, as in between sobs Jurka began to tell what she knew.
“You have about two weeks before more girls arrive in this city,” the girl began. “I can show you where they will come in. About two hundred miles of desert runs across the border of Israel. It is very difficult for the border guards to protect the area and many of them are paid off anyway. They are coming in from Moscow to Cairo on two small private aircraft. There will be two sets of eight girls and their escorts. The handlers hold their passports. Their flight plans are approved legally and they will walk through the immigration and customs check. It is all prearranged. Sometimes they are checking as musicians en route to Dubai, or a theater company entertaining the embassies all over Saudi. They will stay here twenty four hours, nothing more. Late in the night they will be taken into the desert by three or four Bedouin tribesmen. It will be a horror story for them.” The girl quaked in Yacouta D’Aboville arms, crying once more as she continued her saga. “Although the very young children will be untouched by the tribesmen, as they would be shot by the leaders and handler if they attempt to ruin the merchandise, you understand? They go to private owners, not to an auction.
The older girls however become literal test beds for anyone who wants them. The call handler is named Musa. He also administers the tranquilizers to keep them docile and easier to manage. He works with the Russians and they are a little afraid of him. He has very big connections with an arms dealer working the markets in England, America and Russia. There is also a man they talk about called ‘The Yemeni’. He’s a big shot and the arms are for him, but I don’t know his real name. I did see a photograph though. I might recognize him again, he is very tall and thin with kind eyes. The very young girls are special order and are from all over the world. It’s like a catalog for the perverse. I have seen it in the nightclub where I worked. There’s a man they talk of named Borodin in Russia, he is English and very rich. He is like a god to them, he is so powerful. He knows a lot about Bedouins, and speaks Arabic and Russian like a native. Before this I was a linguist so I know the difference. I have heard this man. I have also seen him once.”
“Would you know him again?” Shallal asked her.
“Yes, of course. I was close enough to smell his cologne,” she replied.
“Did you service him as well. I’m sorry, I must ask,” Shallal continued.
“No. He likes only the very young. I was unsuitable.”
“What? How did you learn that?”
“Mr. spy man, pay attention. I just said I was a linguist. I have a brain. I can also crack their feeble attempts to speak in broken language codes. You know, start a sentence with an English word, continue it in German or whatever. I know he speaks beautiful classical Russian. Not many do. His Arabic seems as good.”
And with that she related her experiences from the moment she had furrowed like a rat inside a tunnel under the Israeli border until she was picked up in the raid at ‘Moscow Nights II’. She had no problem being filmed by Shallal. It would be slightly edited by him and a copy sent by courier to both SIS London and The ISIS Project in Maryland.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Eastern Shore, Maryland
Myron Gluck took the call from Emily Cowan who was in Germany. He was to arrange for accommodation for Jurgen Wenicke, who would be arriving the following day. Gluck was a little surprised to hear later from his superiors in Washington that Cowan’s daughter Haley and son-in-law Idris Farrukh’s arrival was also confirmed by Tony Shallal, along with a female Israeli reporter and two other women traveling under assumed names who would be in town as well and would spend some time at the compound. So far, the names of other conference invitees that appeared on his computer screen under the acronym MIM were listed as:
Liam Nevan, J.D. Consultant, Non-U.S. Citizen, a Washington D.C. resident with special status as an international lawyer and founder of ‘Nevan International Security’ under special contract to the Federal Government.
James Weldon Jackson, PhD – Veteran US Army, Former CIA and current Chair of Criminal Justice Department at a local college, specializing in counter-terrorism.
Susannah Malek, Ph.D. M.D. Criminal profiler and consultant to Aspen Medical Center Psychiatric Services.
Dana Johnson, J.D. International Lawyer, Private Practice and Professor in International Law with emphasis on Immigration.
Frank Pezzone, Former hacker turned computer specialist and expert in cyber crime, money laundering and asset searches. Owner of ‘Single File Inc.’
Sinead O’Malley, B.A Fine Arts, B.A. Criminal Justice. Sculptor and forensic consultant whose specialty is in facial reconstruction, post mortem scull reconstruction, image modification and age progression.
Lt. Colonel Fowler O’Rourke, Maryland State Police, Commander of Homeland Security and Investigation Bureau. On special assignment and finally,
Detective Peter Kowecki, Homicide Anne Arundel County Police Department investigating the murder of the man identified as Hans Jurgen Freitag, arms dealer and trader otherwise known as ‘The Orchid’.
The best in their field, Gluck mused as he checked the list with their formal bio’s once again. Except for the two cops, they were all strangely connected to each other and most of them had worked a few years ago on the counter-terrorism taskforce known as The ISIS Project. The group had been invaluable tracking Osama bin Laden’s assets and organization. Several countries besides the U.S were represented, the Republic of Ireland, The United Kingdom, Israel, even the Germans who had this Wenicke guy on his way, all working together as a team. A pretty damned phenomenal level of cooperation, Gluck thought as he envisaged the data this group could gather, disseminate and bring to the table.
The phone rang again. This time it was Tony Shallal, confirming his arrival from Cairo late the following evening and affirming that he was bringing with him three people to be housed temporarily at the compound. Gluck took their names and waited for the security cleared data to come through. He stared at the screen of his new laptop, his eyes tired from continued focus on the larger than usual glossy widescreen display. He’d purchased it because of its seventeen inch size making it the best for mobile gaming which was how he usually spent each and every weekend. His video espionage games could be put on hold for now. Finally he was a player in the real world of crime and terror.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Cape St. Andrew, Maryland
Emily Cowan arrived home to Cape St. Andrew eighteen hours later, unannounced, dead tired and with aching feet and back. She was greeted at the door by her two Saarloos Wolfhounds, Gorby and Tanith. The dogs, her champions and the only breeding pair in the Washington area greeted her with their usual snorting and sniffing. They seldom barked and rarely became excited, they were happy to see Emily and showed it by gently nipping and nuzzling her. Gorby was eleven years old, a little stiff and a direct descendent of a dog Yuri that Emily found shivering next to his owner’s dead body in the nineteen seventies. Yuri, who became Emily’s protection dog had been bred with a German Shepherd, their puppies had been bred back to other Saarloos dogs of which Gorby and Tanith were the offspring. The breed had just been officially registered in the mid-eighties and now Emily was considered a champion breeder in the Mid-Atlantic region.
The dogs were huge, standing between 27 and 29 inches at the shoulder. They resembled timber wolves and combined both the natural the intelligence of the wolf with that of a German shepherd. They had shown Emily they could assess a situation with amazing clarity and while well-disciplined, they had proven not the most open to K9 training because they were highly independent and strong willed. They accepted Emily as the Alpha of their pack and adored her and the children. She seldom allowed the dogs free run of the house and was therefore surprised to have them greet her at the door. Obviously, Harrison had let them in. She called his name and heard his footsteps coming down the oak staircase leading to the open spaced living room which faced Emily’s perfect view of the Chesapeake Bay.
“Ah, you’re back my dear. I’m glad to see you. Why didn’t you ring me? I’d have met you at the airport.”
“Frankly Harrison,” Emily stroked Gorby’s ears as she answered him and did not look up, “I didn’t know if I was coming back at all. And I’ve no idea how long I’m going to stay. I just don’t know anything anymore. We need to talk before I go to ‘The Farm’, as there’s no time limit set for how long I’ll have to stay. I’m working on a new project with Shallal and the ISIS group. They’d like you to consult. I would prefer you did not. I should tell you, I no longer trust you, don’t want to share my bed with you...”
He interrupted her well rehearsed speech. “Stop Emily, this is ridiculous! I went out to dinner with a colleague. We talked for a long time, I’d had too much wine and didn’t want to drive home. I dozed off on her couch. Nothing more.”
“Harrison I need to get settled in. We can discuss this tomorrow before I leave for ‘The Farm’.”
“No, Emily. If you want me to leave now I will. But only for a while. I must remind you that this is my house, as it was before we met. I am an old man, too old to settle somewhere else. If you don’t want to share my life, then you, not me can leave. This is my home, as it has been for fifty years.”
Emily was transfixed with shock. Harrison had never made such a distinction before. They had always been co-owners. Together. A unit!
“Are you denying that there’s something going on between you and Allison Hunter?” Her tone was shrill and direct.
“No I’m not.” He looked directly into her eyes unblinking and deadly serious. “We work together, have a great deal in common and are exceptionally good friends.”
“But I’m your friend, or at least I was.”
“Emily will you listen to yourself? This is ridiculous,” he said, trying to not to shout in his own defense, “You’re pushing sixty years old and you sound like a child. Don’t you have friends of the opposite sex that you spend time with or care about? Why should I not have the same privileges in our marriage as you do? As long as you have known me I have been faithful to you with, I might add, considerable temptation in the past twenty six years! I have never let you down Emily, never! Allison and I have a very rare and unique relationship. For me it is professional, confined and asexual, and our marriage is not at risk. But I will not take orders from you as to whom, what and where I can or cannot see and do at the age of seventy-two. Good God woman, it’s bloody obscene! Have you gone quite mad or are you just postmenopausal?” He placed his hands squarely on her shoulders.
“Harrison, you’re a lying sack of shit!” She shrugged his hands away. “I can tell from your careful bloody phrasing that something has gone on and because I know you so well. I concede that maybe you haven’t slept with that stick-figured bitch but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to. Nor does to it imply that she didn’t give you an opportunity and that possibility is completely unacceptable to me.” She noticed his look of absolute incredulity, knew immediately she was right and she burst out laughing at his expression.
