Midnight in Moscow, page 39
“They’re Norse, Tutonic, probably Germanic in origin, can be made of stone, wood or metal and they are used in writing, divination, and magic. They date back tens of thousands of years. Complicated to interpret, my dear, but I manage. Stacy loved to use them. She’d cast her runes daily. She was quite good with her translations too. Completely self-taught, as all the best are! She’d been a Viking in one incarnation,” the woman added with a note of seriousness.
Emily began to smile, thinking that surely this woman was having her on.
“I’m not joking, Amina,” Mrs. Fullerlove said, eyeing Emily quite intently.
“Amina! How did you know that?” Emily exclaimed.
“I’m a Psychic!” she laughed, “Let’s get back to why you’re here. I’m tired, frail and want to watch ‘The Sopranos’!”
Emily, who was rapidly developing a liking for Mrs. Fullerlove, continued her questioning, thinking that a Sopranos episode might be lightweight next to this drama.
“Stacy Marx wrote in her diary that you foresaw the death of her friend Alicia Snowden, the prison guard. I want you to tell me when you did that and exactly what you said.”
“Here’s what I know. Alicia was supposed to meet Stacy and didn’t show up. Stacy came to me that night and begged me to help her get out of town. She told me she could identify several people in a meeting in ‘Moscow Nights’, as well as what their names were. She also said they were dealing in drugs and terrible weapons to terrorists. I told her to contact a person I know in the FBI.”
“The FBI? You know people in the FBI?”
“I have read for Presidents, their wives, their whores, many politicians, four-star generals, diplomats and gangsters and all of them want to know their future. Yet none my dear, not a one of them, ever listen! Which is just as well or they won’t return. I just tell them what I see and feel. I am neither God nor Goddess. I gave her the name of a man who had been here last year. I gave it to her in confidence and I never saw her again after I read her cards and her tea leaves that day. But, and this is the important part…she already knew him. She told me she had worked for him before. His name was Steve Wayne.”
“What else did you see for her?”
“Life, not death, in another place. Alone, but in a strange way content because she knew it was the best thing in these circumstances. But outside of the psychic, I told her that in time she could contact me and that I would tell her family she was safe. I would tell them she was happy and they would think it was a vision. She lived a tragic life, never being what her parents wanted, addicted to drink, drugs and worst of all, money and power. The man who loved her the most treated her like a captured bird. Are you familiar with the story of Trilby and Svengali by George DuMaurier? He hypnotizes her and she becomes a famous singer with the voice of an angel, but when he dies so does her voice. She had such a relationship with this man, a notable Washington lawyer who has also been here. In her own way she loved him and he adored her, but he would not free her. So she kept trying to run away, but she couldn’t match the rich lifestyle he had shown her. So she would always return. It was her drug and sadly, his too.”
“Rather like Christina Rosetti’s ‘Gobin Market’, the classic addiction?”
“Precisely. I see you like literature, yet you teach such violent studies?”
Emily was slowly becoming unnerved.
“What happened then after you gave her the name of the FBI fellow, Mrs. Fullerlove?”
“I do not know in reality, but on a spiritual plane I have seen she is free and safe. But not for long, as he will come again to her and she will be destroyed by his obsession.”
“And what of the killers of Alicia Snowden?”
“I have seen that too and I know she was killed by our side!”
“What? Why? And how?”
“It cannot be proven. But I hear that girl’s voice in my sleep. She talks with me all the time.” Mrs. Fullerlove was very convincing and Emily in turn was becoming more and more uncomfortable. It was one thing to see the dead, she thought, but altogether another to maintain a conversation with them.
“Why are you shying away from me, Amina?”
“I’m skeptical of the psychic,” Emily answered, “So how do you know about my using the name Amina?”
“I’m seeing around you a woman, one who has been beaten very badly. She is tall and thin, with a hooked nose and beautiful eyes. She calls you Amina. She is a healer, and her message to you is that she watches over you and her babies all the time. She tells you to take care of yourself, to look behind you. She says you are in great danger as she was, but unlike her, you will survive capture. Her name is Ati…I’m sorry, she’s leaving me and I cannot get the last part of what she said. I hope I have been some help. You should go now. I’m very tired.”
“Mrs. Fullerlove, one more thing. Please describe for me if you can who killed Alicia Snowden.”
“I sense that he is a police officer or at least an enforcer of law of some kind. He has considerable authority. Prestigious. Tall, well built. He is a twin. He has black hair and a mustache. He reminds me of Adolph Hitler, but taller. He is close by. His energy is very strong.”
Emily got up to leave. Gorby sniffed Mrs. Fullerlove’s hand.
“He’s not long for this world, you know.”
“Yes, I feel that too. But I love him nonetheless.”
“You have the gift, Amina. You must use it or it will overtake you. It is possible to walk in both worlds at once you know.”
“I know. Perhaps I’ve always known and I thank you for your time Mrs. Fullerlove. May I stay in touch with you?”
“Probably sooner than you think, my dear,” the older woman said as she led Emily and Gorby to the door.
As soon as she reached her car, Emily Cowan left word with Yasmine Rabbani to find Fowler O’Rourke with all the information she had been given by Mrs. Fullerlove on the killer of Alicia Snowden. While Alicia’s body had been cremated, the cause of death was still ‘pending’ with the OCME in Maryland. There was still the possibility that the killer could be brought to justice.
She noticed a police car behind her as she drove away. It was following her from a reasonable distance and she had no reason to think the driver would flag her down. When she turned onto to the main road leading back to the highway so did the car. Emily noted her speed and remained well within 45 mph as required. Once on the highway she put her foot down, increased her speed to 55 mph and checked her rear view mirror once again. There was no one else visible behind her but the police car. It was a state police car, not county.
She picked up her cell phone and was immediately connected to Yasmine Rabbani again. “I think there may be a problem here. I’m being followed by a State Trooper. Get O’Rourke on this now. He’s signaling me to pull over. I don’t like this!”
A short, well built, black State Trooper swaggered towards her car and she knew by his manner this was no ordinary stop.
“Out of the car with your hands over your head. Visible. C’mon, right now! This ain’t no game, bitch!”
He leaned into her open window. He had the advantage. He stared. He was authority. He was intimidating and his hand was on his gun.
Gorby moved faster than she did. He raised himself up from the back seat and growled ferociously at the window she had rolled down. His body was contained behind the glass but his head was out and he was barking furiously and foaming at the mouth in anger.
“Down Gorby! Sit Down! Now, Gorby!”
The dog leaped up at the window again. Emily turned back to look at the officer in an attempt to get control of the situation. And in that instant she heard a shot, then a short howl of excruciating and terrified pain.
“Looks like it tried to attack an officer!” The trooper grinned.
“You bastard!” Emily screamed. She knew her dog was dead. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t accept this. Emily saw only his fur and the blood splattered on her window. She stopped breathing for a moment, aware only of the blackness of the world around her and the burning, rising anger within. Then Emily Cowan, stopped still, took a life breath and lunged at the Trooper, clawing his face, kicking his shins, spitting and screaming in perfect gutteral Arabic. It was her only language of anger.
“What the fuck!” came a voice from behind her. She was spun around and booted in the stomach. Two other hands pulled her up by her thick mass of curls and together they cuffed her and threw her into the back seat of the car. She felt a gun barrel hit her cheek. She could no longer hear the voices clearly. It seemed like she was miles away. She remembered vomiting, seeing blood and then she screamed and howled for her dog, for her life, for all the things she was and would become. She could see through her swollen half-closed eyes the other Trooper. Adolph Hitler! He had a thick black moustache.
Even through her blinding pain and anger, Emily vowed she would get them back for this. They had killed her dog, her perfect Gorby, her friend, her last link to the past. She threw up again, making sure that this time some of it landed on the officer in front of her.
Emily Cowan awoke in an isolated cell where she remained for what seemed like hours. She was offered no medical attention. Her pain however was secondary to her anger and her grief. Finally she was taken into a small dirty room which stank of stale cigarettes and old coffee. Her belongings had been taken from her and she had not been allowed to make phone calls.
When he entered the room she was surprised at how thin he was. He leaned over her. Despite his wiry build he was extremely strong and it hurt when he roughly yanked her arms, cuffed behind the back of the chair, presumably to make sure they were secure enough.
“My name is Eichmann. Your Maryland ID says you’re Emily Byron Cowan from Annapolis. Is that correct?” Before she could answer he continued, “You’re in custody because you beat up one of my men. Now Ms. Cowan,” he said, lengthening the title patronizingly to sound like ‘Meez’, “I understand your rage honey, but your dog did attack my officer.” He grinned slyly, “We’ve had a call from some hot shots here in town about you and my officers tell me that your cavalry is on its way. Looks like bail’s gonna be set. It don’t even have to go any further than this. But you see Ms. Cowan, I want you to take that little curly head of yours out of my town because, between you and me, there’s lots of places to hide bodies here.” He grinned again, clearly enjoying the moment and his power. “Bad things can happen to people in these mountains. They can fall, get lost, even kill themselves under pressure while in custody. Know what I mean? You be a good girl and go on back to Annapolis with your preppies and politicians. Keep out of things that don’t concern you.” He poked her in the back, “You got that?” then he turned away toward the door.
“Fuck yourself!” she said as loud as her swollen jaw would allow.
“Excuse me?” He spun around and slapped her viciously, knocking the other side of her face against her shoulder and the top of the chair. “You’ve got a foul mouth lady, an’ it’s high time someone taught youse some manners.” He walked around her and opened the door to the next office. “Ms. Cowan here tried to get up from her chair and hurt herself. Yew got that? Anyone got any wet towels out there?” he yelled to the officer on duty.
A dark complexioned female Hispanic looking officer came in and closed the door behind her. “It’s OK honey, just hang in,” she said, wiping Emily’s face as she put an ice pack on the worst of the beaten woman’s swollen cheeks. The woman kept looking behind into the other office as she whispered, “Some lawyer named Kropko is on his way here. My name is Ria Lopez. I’m not with the State, I’m local. Tri-county. I knew Alicia Snowden. I’m putting my card inside your jacket. Call me when you get back home. I’ll come down there. Do not, Ms. Cowan, come back here. That sadistic bastard means every word he’s tellin’ you.”
Within the next forty-five minutes Emily had been processed out, surprised to find the charges were being dropped. She was free to go with Pavel Kropko and left immediately for a doctor’s office that was mysteriously opened for her in the early hours of the morning.
Her car, Kropko explained, was at the Markov’s house and would be thoroughly cleaned in the morning. Gorby’s body could be sent down in a separate car or cremated here and the ashes sent back to her in a few days. As soon as she was seen by the doctor who would decide if she needed X-rays, they could make further arrangements. Kropko had called her husband and spoken to Haley. Dana Johnson was on her way with clothes and her son-in-law was making all other necessary arrangements. There had been several messages at the Markov home including some urgent ones from a Mrs. Rabbani.
Emily was found to have a hairline fracture to her left jaw and an oral surgeon friend of Pavel’s, who was called in on emergency to treat her, confirmed her belief that while hairline, such fractures were often more painful than a clean break. She was, he said, still a very lucky woman not to need complete wiring. Her facial bruising while unsightly was minor, her teeth thankfully appeared undamaged and through her Percocet haze, Emily was glad to hear that due to her excellent physical condition she would no doubt fully recover. She would, he emphasized, need to rest and for now sip energy drinks through a straw. Later perhaps she could eat mashed potatoes, oatmeal, elbow noodles or even spaghetti-Os. She would need physical therapy in the long term. He recommended continued medical treatment and gave her the name of a specialist near Annapolis. Pavel Kropko settled the charges immediately.
“I cannot, Mrs. Cowan, impress on you strongly enough,” began Kropko, after the doctor left, while Emily struggled to sip juice through a straw, “that you must leave Western Maryland. The tri-county task force is a formidable police department, not to be taken lightly. For your own safety, don’t return here.”
“So you’re saying I should forget this happened?” Her words were slurred, her pain was horrendous and the effort to speak was enormous.
“Not at all. I’m saying someone else needs to deal with this and not you.”
Emily’s son-in-law returned to the room where she lay resting on a comfortable chaise lounge. Emily tried to put the glass of juice on the coaster but instead just watched as it made a large stain circle on the beautifully polished table. The simple obliteration of the table’s elegant perfection suddenly reduced Emily to tears. “This is like my entire existence. No matter how I try,” she said with considerable effort as the painkillers took over, “something always destroys the surface.”
“Mum,” Idris said as he held her, “This is just the medication talking. You’ve been beaten up, you’re tired and hungry and I think you may need your jaw wired up so you don’t make it worse by moving it while you heal. At home you’d get better treatment. I think tonight you’ll have to sleep sitting upright.” He gently hugged her, “It’ll be alright. It could have been much worse, Mum. They could have killed you.”
“But my dog, Idris, my Gorby, my beautiful boy,” Emily sobbed, “What a dog. He was my protector. My poor Tanith, she’s lost her partner.”
Idris patted her shoulder reassuringly. “We can’t do anything right now but we will Mum, I promise. Don’t worry, just rest right now. As soon as you’re able to travel we’ll go home. That’s where you really need to be.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Valery Markov bringing in coffee for Idris and more fruit juice for Emily. “Your friend Dana Johnson is here. Are you feeling well enough to see her? You look awful, Mrs. Cowan, really! Our housekeeper has made purees for you. They’re packed and you can eat some when you get home, but if I were you I’d seriously think about leaving as soon as you can. Maybe tomorrow. I mean, if you want to stay here for a few days with Idris and Ms. Johnson, we can handle that. My parents are furious, I don’t mind sayin’. There’ll be hell to pay for this, Mrs. Cowan. My dad has political friends here and he’s a big financial backer to some very important people. I mean, we make suits for senators, you know what I mean? That Nazi bastard and his buddies will be run out of town.”
“Valery,” Emily had trouble with the words but had to continue, “Trust me, that Eichmann character owns this place. I can feel it. I know he’s the connection, the nexus between them all. He’s the one who sets things up.”
“No Mrs. Cowan, I don’t think so. He’s just a thug. A ‘mussor’, that’s what they call them in Russia. Just police garbage, nothing more. If he were connected to the ‘avtoritet’, we’d know.”
“Right now Valery, authority or not, it doesn’t matter. We just need to see Dana and go home.”
The door opened and Dana Johnson, larger than life burst in. She cried when she saw her friend. “Oh Girl, what did they do to you? Are you OK? What did the doctor say?”
Emily answered all of her questions, with Idris filling in when she lost her words and finally broke down in the sheer frustration of her situation.
“I have talked with a friend of mine in the FBI and it seems that this place is a hot bed for a lot of activity, from suspected jihadists around the Hagerstown area to the very strong possibility of what sounds like involvement of our very own Russian crime family with arms smuggling to Pakistan from Russia. They’re working on a bust as we speak.”
“Here?” said Idris, “In Hagerstown, just further down the road from this little place?”
“Absolutely. They’re getting very excited about it too.” Dana poured coffee for them both. “The thing is, how much can we tell them without treading on the steps of Shallal, Gluck and the rest of the cowboys back home?”
“What are you saying?” Emily began to cough, then cried with pain.
“There apparently are four so called covert operations going on simultaneously. None of them know about the other! All separate and completely independent.”
“This is obscene Dana, but so typical of the intelligence services,” Idris gulped down his coffee, “This would never happen in England. They work together for the most part. Not necessarily harmoniously, but at least they give some semblance of cooperation.”
