“Of course, I’m still here,” George croaked. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to see you.”
“I can’t say the same. We met before but it was a waste of my time. I asked for you to help me, but you fucked up and made it worse. I saved my daughter’s ass almost two years ago and all I asked for my trouble was some kind of . . .” He struggled for the right word.
“Détente?” George suggested.
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Burim snapped and regarded George for a moment with narrowed eyes. “But, yeah, something like that. All I wanted to do was get to know her a little bit, but she’s too high and mighty to have anything to do with me, being a doctor and all.”
“She’s in terrible danger.”
“That’s how it’s to be, huh? Every time she’s in danger I have to see you?”
“Listen, her boss in Colorado—”
Burim held up his hand.
“Stop right there. You need to go with my guy here. He has to search you.”
“Search me why?”
“You don’t like it, our conversation is over. You understand what I’m saying?”
George did as he was told. The thuggish-looking man with Burim took George outside and into the back of a blue panel van. Another man patted George down roughly and very thoroughly. As he ran his fingers through George’s hair for some reason, he winked. Was this the uncle Pia had told him about? When he got back to the table, George didn’t ask. Burim had finished his soda.
“Okay, college boy. Tell me the story.” He pointed to the chair George had vacated.
George laid out the whole tale, as much as he knew, emphasizing that Pia’s boss, Zachary Berman, had come on to Pia sexually. He explained that Pia had become convinced that something weird was going on where she worked at a research company called Nano, and had put herself in danger by trying to find out what it was. The only thing she knew was that it somehow involved the Chinese because she, and the other doctor friend, had had a run-in with a stricken Chinese jogger who was also associated with Nano. Then when she apparently found out what it was, she had disappeared. “She texted a friend to say she was on her way to his apartment to explain what she learned, but never showed up. Since then no one has seen her. Myself and this other doctor friend are convinced she’d been kidnapped by her boss.”
“When did all this take place?”
“A few days ago. Monday morning to be precise.”
Burim glanced up at his colleague. “Sounds like the same thing as two years ago. Jesus Christ, the girl is impossible.” The colleague nodded. Burim looked back at George. “My daughter reminds me of my wife. She was a firebrand, too. And that is not a good thing. She pissed me off big time when I was struggling to get started. Neither of them showed me no respect.”
“Pia’s had a hard life. She was in those foster homes . . .”
“Careful, college boy.”
George swallowed hard but continued. “Those places made it very hard for her to connect with people. She doesn’t trust anyone, including me. She doesn’t have many friends; in fact I only know of two, myself and this other gay doctor.”
“Oh, please!” Burim said, raising his hands above the table. “I don’t want to hear about that.”
“The point that I’m trying to make is that besides myself and this other doctor, there is no one else to sound the alarm about Pia disappearing. Listen, if you are truly interested in getting to know her, it’s going to take years. If that’s what you want, it’s not going to be easy. It was never going to happen overnight like you wanted. You’ll have to be patient.”
“Why should I bother?”
“Because she’s your flesh and blood. She’s family. That’s why you went to save her last time. That was a pain in the ass, too, I expect, but you did it. Pia’s not the kind of person to bow down and say thank you in a situation like that. She has a lot of pride; that must mean something to you. She wouldn’t speak to me or see me for almost two years after I tried to help you.”
“Is that right?”
“Absolutely.”
Burim nodded. “Flesh and blood. She looks just like her mother, you know.”
“Your wife must have been a very beautiful woman when you met her.”
Burim looked at George and narrowed his eyes.
“You still in medical training?”
“Yes.”
“You becoming a shrink?”
“Hardly. No, I’m becoming a radiologist.”
“Then how do you know all this crap about Pia?”
“You don’t have to be a professional to appreciate what she had gone through growing up. The fact of the matter is she’s had a hard life, but she’s a remarkable person: intelligent to beat the band and beautiful. A lot of men are attracted to her, including myself, if you want to know. I’m really worried about her. I and this other doctor tried to get the Boulder police involved, but they are content to sit on their asses. There is no specific evidence that Pia was kidnapped. In fact they think they have evidence that Pia drove away, heading east, perhaps in a nonrequited funk, which is ridiculous. But the bottom line is that they are content to wait it out, saying that in most instances like this, the woman reappears. But I’m telling you, she is not going to reappear. This guy Berman took advantage of her, I’m convinced. I’m sure he kidnapped her. He may have molested her. Raped her. He may have killed her. This is Pia we’re talking about. Your daughter.”
George paused—he hoped to hell he wasn’t pushing too hard.
“If this Berman guy did kidnap her, where would he take her? Do you have any idea?”
“Not specifically. But the other doctor I mentioned has a friend who works out at the Boulder airport. Through him we found out that the Nano jet, presumably with Berman aboard, took off the morning Pia disappeared.”
“Where did it go?”
“The flight plan was to Italy. One of Milan’s airports.”
Burim stared out of the window a good minute.
“Flesh and blood,” Burim said quietly. “You wait here.”
Ten minutes passed, and George started to think Burim had walked out on him. Then he was back.
“What makes you think she has been killed?” he asked. “Or put another way, what do you think are the chances she’s already been killed?”
“I don’t think she has been killed. I think she is being held prisoner someplace, I guess in Italy.”
“The trouble is there are no Albanian clans in Denver. But that’s not a major problem.”
“What about in Italy?” George asked.
“No problem in Italy. I even lived there for a time on my way here to the States. It’s where I met and married my wife. We have a lot of people in Italy. Hell, it’s only fifty miles between Italy and Albania.”
“I hope to God you can find her and quick enough to save her.”
“Shit! I already did this once,” Burim said. “I guess I’m gonna have to do it again. But she better show a bit more gratitude this time, because there is not going to be a third.” His thin-lipped mouth managed a ragged smile.
• • •
AT 11:10 THAT EVENING, Burim Grazdani sat in his premium economy seat in a British Airways Airbus bound for London Heathrow and looked at his watch again. His flight had been scheduled to leave five minutes before, but the flight attendants were still walking around checking passengers’ safety belts. Next to his house and car, this plane ticket was the most expensive item he had ever purchased legitimately, or semi-legitimately, since the name on the passport was not his own. Despite the price, he had been told by the booking agent he was very lucky to get even this ticket at three hours’ notice. There had just been a cancellation of a group booking and stand-by passengers had taken every spare seat but one. Burim booked the flight without even liste
ning to the price.
George Wilson had sat with him in the restaurant at the Vince Lombardi Service Area on the New Jersey Turnpike for another half hour. Burim told George he had done the right thing. The police weren’t going to help; and George couldn’t. He needed professional assistance with the resources of the Albanian mafia. Burim hadn’t used the word mafia. Instead he had said family, but George knew what he meant.
Burim asked George to relay the story to him a second time to be sure of the details. He took no notes, but absorbed the information easily—there really wasn’t much to go on. Burim asked George more about this Berman guy. George said he knew he was truly rich—he had a yacht, or access to a yacht, and, of course, the plane.
That was enough information for Burim. He dropped George at the railway station in Paramus, as George said he wanted to go into Manhattan to check on the condition of Will McKinley. Burim Grazdani made no more comments about the events from two years before in which he had been intimately involved, and which had led to McKinley’s injury. He had rescued Pia once, and he was prepared to try to do it again.
Burim drove back to his boss Berti Ristani’s place in Weehawken. Burim’s value as a trusted lieutenant to Berti had only increased over the years, and Berti was happy to help his friend. This was family, after all. On Burim’s behalf, Berti had made a call. In the world of organized crime, Albanian style, it always made Berti proud when he realized how far the tentacles of the beast now extended. As usual on a strictly business call, making even one phone call meant an elaborate charade. The Albanians had been burned by the FBI one too many times. Berti used a burner phone to call another one-use cell phone, which eventually led to a call back to a third phone, which Berti would use once, then throw, along with the first phone, into the nearby Hudson River.
Berti told Burim that he learned from his contact at a friendly family in L.A. that another family had numerous aviation interests around the country, particularly in general aviation at municipal airports and at the FAA. If you wanted to get something or someone into or out of the United States quickly, you could try to use a major hub, or go through a smaller link, like Teterboro in New Jersey, or Boulder Airport.
This was another area where civilians like George Wilson were fatally limited. They were incapable of thinking like a criminal. Burim had no doubt this rich creep had taken Pia out of the country. As Pia had done before, she’d stumbled across someone doing something he shouldn’t, and made a nuisance of herself. This guy Berman fancied himself as some kind of playboy, or so Burim quickly learned. Burim could imagine Pia resisting him, and the guy taking her away somewhere. He felt that familiar rage. When that happened, someone was always going to have to pay.
Then Berti had made another call, to someone outside the Albanian family, but with a connection, and with a favor to repay. Burim sat in Berti Ristani’s office for an hour, waiting for another disposable phone to ring. Berti constantly drank water and chewed gum. After a health scare six months before, Ristani had announced he was going to lose weight, and to his crew’s astonishment he had dropped fifty pounds and he was loving life.
“You know, if we was the police, the jails would be full,” said Berti. “We can find out shit fifty times faster than the cops can or the FBI.”
“Because we know all the criminals,” said Burim.
“That’s right! Perhaps I should go straight and run the CIA. Serve my country.” Berti smiled. “Having said that, I hope these assholes aren’t gonna let me down.”
“Berti, if I need to take some time over this . . .”
“Burim, don’t worry ’bout nothing. Anything you need. Hold on. This must be them.”
Berti took the call. It had to be the contact out west—no one else in the world had the number to this phone. Berti said nothing to the caller, but he spoke to Burim with his hand over the bottom of the phone.
“Yes, the plane belonging to Berman left Boulder that night, it’s confirmed. He was heading for Milan, Italy. That was the flight plan.”
Burim stood up.
“Wait, there’s more.” Berti listened.
“They know from a contact who was sitting in the tower when they were leaving. The pilot asked about another flight plan, for Stansted, wherever that is. Okay,” said Berti into the phone. “And thanks.” Berti ended the call.
“The pilot talked about a second flight plan they were going to file. He said they were going to turn right around and fly from Italy to Stansted, which is near London, England. That was the final destination.”
“Thanks, Berti,” said Burim. “Listen, I owe you.”
“Hey, it’s nothing,” said Berti. “We know people in London. There’s lots of family in London, and they can help you when you get there. I’ll make another call. I’ll have someone meet your plane with a sign that you’ll recognize. Just come back here safe, you’re valuable to me, you know that. And sort out the scumbag who took your daughter.”
• • •
FINALLY THE JETWAY retracted from Burim’s plane and the plane was pushed off from the concourse at Newark, with Berti’s helpful words resonating in his head.
59.
THE OLD VICARAGE, CHENIES, U.K.
SATURDAY, JULY 27, 2013, 1:15 P.M. BST
Pia couldn’t keep track of the days but she knew she hadn’t seen Berman in a long time. The only people she did see were the doctor and the same guard who never looked her in the eye. The slot in the door had been pulled back once and she could swear it was Whitney Jones standing out there, but she never came into the room. Pia’s arm was doing a little better, but she felt very dulled and listless. How long was Berman going to torture her this way? Her muscles felt flabby from lack of use.
It was on the sixth day since his last visit that Berman returned.
“What do you want?” she said. She thought she detected a slight smile on his lips, which just angered her that much more.
“How about a walk?” he asked as if this were the most normal thing in the world for the two of them to consider.
“If it’ll get me out of this room, sure,” said Pia. She had tried to keep flexing her arms and legs in basic Pilates moves but she knew she would be stiff if she walked any distance.
The guard undid the shackles that attached Pia to the bed and bade her to stand. She felt terribly weak, and her head throbbed, but she was able to remain upright if she placed her hand against the wall. The guard helped her to the door as Berman stood outside, where a walker was waiting for her. Pia felt better—perhaps half human, as she grabbed hold of the walker and shuffled after Berman.
“I am truly sorry about this, Pia. I only wish you had been more cooperative. You must realize I am laying a lot on the line keeping you here like this.”
Pia was alarmed—Berman seemed to be talking with a grave finality.
“Where are you taking me?”
“For a walk, I told you.”
A heavy door opened from outside and they walked out into the back garden of the vicarage. It was fifty yards long and shaded all around by thick woodland. A high wooden fence corralled the lawn, which was encircled by a path, with benches at all four corners.
“I want you to get your strength back,” said Berman. “Have you thought about our conversation? Did you read the material I left for you?”
“Of course I thought about our conversation. And I read the material. Sure, it’s very impressive. Nano in 2020 will be the biggest medical researcher in the world. But you’re neglecting some important aspects of your less than glorious past.”
“Pia, I implore you to look beyond that. The bodies you saw, those people were going to die anyway—pointless, anonymous deaths. I think of them now as pioneers of a kind. Because of their sacrifice, we will be able to make these incredible medical advances.”
“That’s ridiculous and you know it. It
’s not a sacrifice if you’re made to do it.” It felt good to be walking, so Pia pressed on. She wanted to keep this conversation going. Berman spoke again.
“Do you remember how excited you were when you first came to work at Nano? The enthusiasm with which you talked about your work was truly infectious. When you came over for dinner with that boy, you and I talked about the possibilities of what we are doing. And this is a whole new world of possibilities. A new frontier for medicine. It’s going to open up treatments and cures for thousands of maladies. And you know something else: it is going to save money. Nano is about to enter a new era. I’m done with respirocytes and athletes. We can move on to legitimate experimentation and development using animal models first and then humans. Can you imagine injecting a few cc’s of respirocytes into a drowning victim? Or what about people with debilitating COPD who can’t breathe enough to climb a single flight of stairs. They’ll be cured with respirocytes. The good we are going to do in the future will be a thousand times greater than any harm we did in the past. Ten thousand times more! We have no need for the kind of experimentation that was required to develop respirocytes fast enough for our Chinese backers. And to tell you the truth, on some level I now regret it.”
Pia glared at Berman.
“Bullshit. You’ll still do whatever it takes.”
“I see that you may not believe me, but it’s true.”
“You wanted to take shortcuts so you could save yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me about your mother, who’s living with Alzheimer’s. The literature you gave me focuses a lot on Alzheimer’s. You’re terrified you’re going to see signs of it in yourself and you’ll do anything to find a cure.”
“It’s not guaranteed that I’ll get the disease, but, yes, the chances are high. Both my parents struggled with it, and it was tragic to see my father go as he did. Now my mother is going downhill quickly. And I do have the gene associated with an increased risk, meaning I’m facing a double whammy. So, yes, I’m focused on Alzheimer’s research as well as infectious disease. Is that such a bad thing?”