“So you admit it. Of course it’s a bad thing, when you’re killing people in order to do it.”
“Ten people, perhaps, and they were criminals, convicted felons who were scheduled for execution. They would have died anyway if our program had not existed. And we didn’t intend them to die, that was not the goal. In reality all we affected was the date of death.”
Pia had promised herself that she would adopt a more conciliatory tone with Berman if she got another chance to talk to him. She had to give in, she saw that, or who knew what would happen to her? If she didn’t agree to Berman’s terms, there was no chance of her making it back to the United States. She even knew there was a deadline—the marathon at the athletics championships. But when it came to it, she couldn’t help herself. She found herself saying things she knew she shouldn’t. It was a bad habit, to say the least.
Pia suddenly felt physically exhausted but she wanted to keep walking. It had been almost a week since she had gone to see Berman at his house, as near as she could figure. It felt like ten years. Pia wondered: if she pretended to relent to Berman, would he take her home. Perhaps she could promise him the physical favors he so craved once they were back on American soil, but knowing him as she did, she doubted it very much. She knew she was powerless to do anything while she remained a prisoner here.
“How much longer are you going to keep me here like this?”
“How much longer are you going to resist the inevitable?”
“Perhaps forever.”
“I have said the consequences for you would be disastrous.”
“Can you at least get me a cell with a real bathroom? Or is that how your mother is, soiling herself in a diaper? You like the women in your life to be degraded, is that it, Berman?”
Pia steeled herself, ready for Berman to strike her. But he didn’t. Instead, he stopped walking. Pia looked at him and his face was thunder.
“You’re lucky you’re so pathetic yourself. I’m sure you are aware that I could have had my way with you if that had been my only intent. The fact of the matter is that I’m protecting you from our hosts, taking a risk, I might add, that their patience might run out. But that doesn’t mean I have to protect you forever. Think about your situation again. What are you going to do, climb that wall over there?”
Pia looked at the enclosure surrounding the garden. It was an impossibly huge fence, especially in her weakened condition. Even if Berman said to go climb, she wouldn’t be able to do it. Pia knew Berman was right. She was trapped with little hope of rescue. The only person who might guess that she had been abducted was Paul, and what could he do, especially since there was no way he could know for sure what had happened to her?
60.
LANSDOWNE ROAD, TOTTENHAM, NORTH LONDON, U.K.
SUNDAY, JULY 28, 2013, 3:35 P.M.
“You like watching this, Burim?”
“Under different circumstances,” Burim said. He was trying to be a good guest, but he’d been sitting here for hours watching the TV. Now the men were watching what looked like billiards. Burim could barely watch, and after his third beer, he turned down their offer of more. He needed to keep a clear head.
Burim knew what good fortune he’d enjoyed to this point. He had arrived at Heathrow, tired and disoriented, and was met by an unmistakably Albanian man holding a sign that read BERTY’S FRIEND. The sign was as redundant as it was misspelled—this unshaven, raven-haired thug was obviously the right man. He introduced himself as Billy and said he was going to look after Burim. Billy told Burim that Berti had called to say that the car Pia was using had been found in Iowa, but the police still weren’t treating her disappearance as suspicious. Burim said there was no way Pia was in Iowa. She had been on that plane to London from Italy. He was convinced.
After that, the men drove in silence to this terraced house in a run-down but functioning neighborhood in North London. Burim was bursting with questions, but he followed his driver’s lead and kept quiet.
Billy let Burim into the narrow home with lurid wallpaper and the smell of damp, and introduced Harry, a slightly older and better-dressed man.
“Billy and Harry?” said Burim in their common tongue.
“I know,” said Harry, “but the less we know about each other, the better, yes?”
“Agreed.”
“We have a room upstairs. It’s small, but you won’t be here long. Take a shower if you want. The water pressure is low, and don’t use all the hot water. You’ll need some clothes.”
“I’m fine. What are we doing about locating my daughter?”
“Of course. That’s why we’re all here. We have the picture that was forwarded, and the description. She is a lovely young woman. Which makes our job easier. The picture has been distributed to all our friends and associates. Who have their own friends and associates. They know there is a reward available. There is a reward available, yes?”
Burim nodded. He knew that question would arise, and he would pay. He just didn’t know how much. Burim struck that thought and moved on. “What about the Chinese? The plane that arrived at Stansted that fit the description was listed as a Chinese diplomatic flight.”
“It was,” said Harry. “Which makes us think that the contact in America may have been mistaken. We’re checking other airports.”
“But I know there was a Chinese connection with the case my daughter was investigating.”
“That’s right. But the reality is, if it was a Chinese government flight, our job is much more difficult. There are certain countries that are very hard to take on, and China is one of them. The triads here in London are a real problem—very powerful and impossible to infiltrate. So we’re hoping to find the plane in another location.”
“So what can I do?”
“Nothing. You have to stay with us while our people do their work. You don’t know London. It’s a huge city and you’ll only get in trouble. There are Albanian factions that we are not friendly with who we need to avoid. You know how it is. I’m sure it’s the same with you.”
Burim nodded. There was always a certain amount of factional warfare going on among rival Albanian clans.
“Have a beer and try to watch the snooker. It’s a cool game.”
Harry smiled and Burim shrugged. He’d play along, for now.
61.
PAUL CALDWELL’S APARTMENT, BOULDER, COLORADO
WEDNESDAY, JULY 31, 2013, 10:35 A.M.
George Wilson was amazed by Paul Caldwell’s ability to compartmentalize his life. Paul was going to work, doing night shifts, putting in long hours. Every couple of hours he’d call George to check in, but George never had anything to report. The police hadn’t called him back; Nano wasn’t responding to his emails. He still couldn’t find a phone number for Zach Berman, and Burim Grazdani had not been in contact, either.
George found that he was unable to concentrate on anything. After returning from a quick visit to Will McKinley in New York, where there had been no change, George came back to Boulder, where he spent his time pacing about Paul’s apartment. He had never been so depressed or frustrated in his life; he knew there was nothing he could do, and it was driving him crazy.
This day, he had checked in again with the Boulder police, who now were shunting his calls to a civilian liaison. Paul had come home and switched his attention to trying to find Whitney Jones and was working his way through the phone book in an attempt to locate a relative of hers. The same 411 operator that had come up with Mariel Spallek’s apartment had given him an address, but he quickly discerned it was the postal address for Nano, LLC. Perhaps the woman did actually live in the office. All the while, he cursed Whitney for being a Jones and not a Johansson or any other less popular name.
Then, as George was about to make a call himself, his phone rang. A stream of numbers appeared on the screen. More than the usua
l ten. An international call. It’s Pia, he thought hopefully, she’s safe. He picked up.
“Pia?”
“No names, remember.” It was a man’s voice, gruff and terse. It took George a second, then he placed it. Burim.
“Have you found her?”
“No.”
Burim was calling from a public place—George could hear voices in the background, and a public-address system sounded in the distance.
“Where are you?” George asked.
“Have you heard from her? If she shows up, or you find out something, you let me know, right?”
“Of course. Should I use the original mobile number I have for you?”
“Yes, but don’t say anything. I’ll call you back when I see you have called. So you haven’t heard anything at all?”
“Nothing, we’ve had no word.”
“Okay. In that case, I want you to get your ass over here,” Burim said.
“What?” said George. “Why?”
“Because I’m doing a lot of legwork, and you’re sitting on your butt in a place where we know she isn’t, okay?”
“You want me to help you?”
“Don’t get excited, college boy, I’m not offering you a job. This is busy work. But we should make the most of what we have. I know you’d be able to recognize her if we come across her. Now, get over here and I’ll call you in twenty-four hours, okay?”
“Where are you? Milan?”
“London? Come to London and contact me, and I’ll call you back.” Burim hung up the pay phone.
• • •
THE SEARCH FOR PIA had yielded nothing in London. Harry confirmed to Burim that, yes, the flight that came in from Milan via Colorado was an official Chinese government plane. Harry told Burim that no one he knew had any links to the Chinese crime syndicates, let alone the Chinese government itself. It was clear to Burim that he had received all the help he was going to get from the Albanians. The Chinese connection was like a metaphorical stone wall. But he knew he was welcome to stay as he continued the search himself.
Burim had taken to traveling around central London, looking in flophouses and cheap hotels, whorehouses and gentlemen’s clubs, showing Pia’s photograph around so much it had become dog-eared and stained by the dirt of a thousand hands. As attractive as Pia was, he thought she could be worth something in a drugged state, like a lot of other Eastern European girls and women. But he was worried that his hopes of finding Pia were fading at the same rate as her picture when his Albanian connections came up with zilch. When the picture became unrecognizable, he would know he had lost her. But his determination was strong. He would help her if she was in danger; he just needed something to go by besides the Chinese association, which had turned out to be a bust.
62.
THE OLD VICARAGE, CHENIES, U.K.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 1, 2013, 6:35 P.M. BST
When Berman came to fetch Pia, she was sitting on her bed, reading. There was also a night table with a small lamp. Berman had acceded to Pia’s request and got her a better room with a proper toilet. There was a single, small leaded-glass window less than a foot square high on one wall. When Pia had brought over the night table and had stood on it, she’d been able to see green trees and pastures. Best of all the window afforded Pia a chance to adjust her diurnal schedule. She now knew when it was day and when it was night. The shackles were gone but there was still a stout locked door and a twenty-four-hour guard stationed outside. Berman had found some old paperbacks for her to read, and he had made sure she was allowed to walk around the garden for an hour a day on a leash like a dog with the guard following her around. Carrots and sticks, thought Berman.
Pia felt strong and was coiled like a watch spring ready to unravel. But she maintained a cool and slightly pathetic demeanor and hoped that what Berman felt as concern for her well-being would not morph back to the lechery she knew he was capable of.
Berman sat down next to Pia. She stiffened as he placed a hand on her knee.
“How are you feeling?”
“I feel great,” said Pia sarcastically.
“You do have the books I gave you, and a bathroom. And you’re looking better. Much better.”
“I’m just about ready for the runway at the fashion show.” She was wearing a simple black T-shirt and black shorts with which she’d been provided.
Berman’s hand traveled up Pia’s thigh and she brushed it off.
“You don’t want to go there,” Pia said. “So please take your goddamned hand off my leg, you pervert.” Pia looked daggers at Berman, but he pressed his leg harder against hers. Pia squirmed and batted at Berman with her good hand. She restrained herself from giving him a sharp martial arts–style chop on the side of his neck with her good hand that might have brought him to his knees. The trouble was she thought it probably would also put her back in the basement. “Is this your new way of trying to talk me around? Well, forget it. It’s not going to work.”
Berman’s hand was on her thigh again, rising higher. Pia again slapped it away.
“Just leave me alone,” Pia yelled at the top of her lungs. The sudden, unexpected scream startled Berman, and he stood up.
“Okay, okay. That got my attention. I was just teasing you to see how you would react.”
“Well, now you know.”
“Actually I came here to tell you I have arranged a little treat. You and I will be taking dinner together in the kitchen.”
“How romantic,” Pia commented sarcastically. She had been receiving simple meals in her room now that the IV had been discontinued. “If you poison my dinner, I promise to eat it.”
Berman laughed. “I thought I’d stop by to give you proper warning. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up. I’ll be back in a half hour or so.”
True to his word, Berman returned when he said, and then led Pia out of her bedroom. She noticed the guard by the door, it was the one with the expressionless face: the one she had seen the most often. He followed after them. Otherwise they didn’t see another person in the large dwelling. The kitchen was below ground level and was dominated by a massive iron stove on which were several covered pots and pans. Pleasing aromas of cooking wafted through the room. A butcher block table fit in one end, and there were three chairs and three place settings at the table. The guard came into the room and stood to the side.
“Are we expecting someone else? Who is it—let me guess. Whitney Jones?”
“Not Whitney, she is busy. Another colleague said he might join us.” Berman busied himself by the stove. Pia looked at him while he worked. A few days ago she would have refused to sit at the table under any circumstances. Now it was apparent to her that she had to concede a little in order to survive, and she had to stop herself from making her customary sarcastic and insulting outbursts at Berman. Pia thought Berman was truly deluded. What a bizarre situation. He was fixing dinner as if the two of them were on a date.
“You’re probably fed up with soup,” he said. “So I made us a salad to begin.” Berman presented a plate on which sat a fresh-looking summer salad. “Some fresh bread?” he asked.
“Can I have a long, sharp butcher’s knife for the butter?”
“Alas, no. I’ll butter the bread for you. Come on, Pia! I’m making an effort here. I’m trying to establish a dialogue with you in a pleasant setting.”
Pia ate. The food was good despite the circumstances being so grotesque.
“I like to cook,” Berman said, trying to be conversational. “I don’t know if I ever told you that. I made some fish—trout. With almonds. I’ve practiced a couple of times this week as a break from the Chinese fare that’s the usual aroud here, and the dish isn’t bad. I’m eager to get your opinion.”
“Whatever,” said Pia. She was feeling dizzy again, and her patience with this charade was wea
ring thin. Dialogue, my ass, she thought but kept her opinion to herself.
“You want some wine?” said Berman.
“Why not,” Pia said trying to suppress the sarcasm in her voice.
Berman went to the fridge to fetch a chilled bottle of Chablis.
The door opened and a man entered. Pia noticed the guard stiffen and hold himself taller. It was obvious to her that whoever this person was, he was important. He was Chinese, about Berman’s age, Pia thought, maybe younger, but she couldn’t be certain. She knew she had trouble gauging Asian age with both men and women. The man had a pleasant, relaxed expression. He was wearing an expensive-appearing T-shirt, possibly made of silk, and stylish jeans. He sported a fashionable, Western-style haircut.
“Hello,” Jimmy said to Pia casually. He merely nodded to Berman. He didn’t introduce himself to Pia. Earlier he had told Berman not to use any names if he showed up at dinner.
Berman slammed the door to the refrigerator and then busied himself opening the wine.
From Pia’s perspective it seemed that Berman was demonstrably unhappy to see the man there, apparently wanting to be alone with Pia for the so-called dialogue he had in mind. She was glad to see the man whoever he was.
“Who are you?” asked Pia. What did this mean? Berman continued to be abrupt, with his throwing away the cork and slamming the cabinet door. He came over to the table and thumped the wine down on the table. Pia looked from Berman back to the sudden visitor. There was a tenseness in the air. If Berman was this man’s superior, he would have ordered him out, or so Pia surmised. One thing was for sure: she had to play this carefully.
“Ah, I see you are about to have dinner,” the man said. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” said Pia. “Mr. Berman here is playing happy family, and I haven’t talked to anyone else for weeks. We have an extra place, so sit down. So who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Of course I don’t mind your asking. And you won’t mind if I don’t tell you.” Jimmy smiled. He looked at Berman, who was exceedingly uncomfortable.