Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (37 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

ADX Florence, Colorado

Tuesday, February 8

“Tell me, Ms. Fairfax. Why should I agree to answer your questions?” Vladimer Stollen, who’d been born in Chalinda and lived in Praptan until the 1986 nuclear disaster, spoke English with a heavy accent that indicated Russian—the native language of Chalinda—was his first and primary language. His thinning, close-cropped black hair was peppered with gray. His orange jumpsuit, the standard uniform of inmates at ADX Florence, Colorado, cast a yellowish pall on his pale complexion. He was middle-aged, thin, pale, and clean-shaven. He was unremarkable looking, but for the intensity in his ice-cold-killer blue eyes. All of that intensity was focused directly across the table, at Samantha.

Impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit, Brier sat to the right of Stollen. Deep creases and dark circles around Brier’s gray-green eyes indicated that his life, now marred by the murder of his wife, had become hell. Now, he was doing his job, letting his client have his say, and giving Samantha a steady, wary look that told her she was on her own. He had, after all, opposed her request for the interview. The ITT lead prosecutor from the United States, Benjamin McGavin, sat to Samantha’s left, not at her side but in a chair at the head of the table.

Samantha focused on Stollen.
Please. Please God. Make this monster of a human being say something helpful. Please.

And help me focus, because whenever I blink, I see Ana.

Photographs of Ana, some alone, some with Zeus and Theresa, others with Zeus alone, had been continuously streamed onto a monitor in the Black Raven hangar for hours overnight. The memory of her sweet voice, overjoyed at telling her daddy hello, in the video conference that Zeus had with her just a few days earlier made the photos all the more poignant.

And I see Zeus.

Jenkins had given her the grim news about Agent Martel, sharing with her the demand of the terrorists. He didn’t know, or wouldn’t tell her, whether Black Raven—whether Zeus—would comply. If it was just a case of trading himself for his daughter, Samantha knew unequivocally that of course he would comply. But handing Barrows over to terrorists—that was the sticking point. Her heart torqued tighter in her chest, while her stomach twisted with fear.

Stop. Focus.

The interrogation room had a dingy white tile floor, walls that were painted an even dingier white, no windows, and one stainless steel, rectangular table. Six matching aluminum chairs were bolted to the ground. Cameras and recording devices watched them, unblinking, in one corner of the ceiling. A television monitor in the opposite corner showed Judge O’Connor, wearing a black robe, reading through a stack of papers as he waited for this interview to proceed. There was one door.

Two prison guards, along with security—including Agents Jenkins, Miles, and Deal—were in the hallway outside the door. Four other Black Raven agents—new members of her protective detail—were strategically placed throughout the prison. Samantha wore a wire, and had an almost-invisible Black Raven audio feed in her right ear, concealed by her hair. Gabe was listening. He’d break in with questions for her to ask Stollen, if and when anything Stollen said became relevant to the Black Raven planned mission into Praptan.

“Yesterday evening Mr. Brier presented the terms of the deal I’m offering you. You informed him you would talk.”

She glanced at Brier. He was a formidable opponent, but he didn’t deserve what had happened. He’d long been a defender of people such as Stollen. Brier’s advocacy had ensured that even the worst of the worst received trials that were fair and that the justice system operated in a manner that actually did justice. For all of his hard work, due to his spotlighted presence at the busy intersection of justice and terrorism, terrorists had murdered his wife. Presumably the same terrorists who had murdered Patricia Devlin and who had now kidnapped Ana.

Whether those terrorists were related, in any way, to Stollen, the client who Brier was now defending, was anybody’s guess. It was a crapshoot of horrors, and the dice were rolling as unpredictably as ever.

Samantha was guessing yes.

Praying for yes.

Brier obviously didn’t think so, because he wouldn’t be there, facilitating an interview that would earn Stollen a measure of freedom. At every chance he got, Brier argued that Stollen—who’d been imprisoned seven years earlier—could have no bearing on any crime after he was imprisoned.

The burial of Madeline Brier, who had been murdered five days earlier, on Thursday, had been early Monday morning. Memorial services for Patricia Devlin, who had been murdered six days earlier, on Wednesday, had been on Saturday evening. As of Tuesday morning, both men had returned to work. Judge Devlin was now in London, and Brier was in Colorado.

Please God, let this monster tell me something that gives us a real break. Something that helps us find Maximov. Helps us find Ana.

McGavin sighed and shifted in his chair. He gave her a glance that indicated he was worried they were all wasting their time. It was the argument that he’d made in opposition to the motion to interview Stollen, and Sam had responded by arguing that covering every known base should not be considered a waste of time. Not when the stakes were this high. Her argument had persuaded the judges.

Dragging her eyes back to Stollen, she said, “I flew halfway across the world because you agreed to talk.”

“And I am talking to you.” Stollen leaned forward, as though enjoying their not-quite conversation. So far, Samantha had asked questions, and Stollen had not provided answers.

Chains looped through manacles at his ankles and wrists met in a lock at his waist. His hands, clasped together due to the tightness of the chain at his wrists, were on the stainless steel table that separated her from him. As he leaned forward, the chain slid along the edge of the table with a grinding, metal-on-metal sound that resonated through the small interrogation room.

“So I’m fulfilling my end of the bargain. I’m here. My mouth is moving. Give me a good reason why I should answer anything, baby doll?” His gaze travelled slowly from her eyes to her mouth, to her neck, and down her chest, where they lingered as he spoke. “Start again, slowly, and do your best to persuade me. Tell me the details of the leniency package.”

Clear, cold, and calculating, his eyes provided a direct route to 2009. On a beautiful spring day, he and Vasily Maximov—Andre Maximov’s son—had terrorized the world by almost succeeding in orchestrating a hijacking of Northern Lights flight 875. News shows had played endless footage of American fighter pilots shooting missiles into the civilian aircraft, an act that had stunned the world. One hundred forty-three souls—the number of innocent people aboard the aircraft—were sacrificed that day to avoid the civilian aircraft suicide crash into the United Nations headquarters, which would have killed far more. The footage from that day rubbed raw wounds from September 11, 2001, and reignited the ball of emotion-driven fury and fear that had been hoisted upon Americans with Osama bin Laden’s attack on the twin towers.

Acutely aware that she was negotiating with the devil, Samantha allowed herself to return his gaze, forcing herself to focus only on the flesh, bones, and brain that made up the man. Not on anything he stood for. Not on any act he’d done. Not on her own memories of that day that were forever etched in United States history, where the military had been forced to kill one hundred forty-three innocents, because of this monster.

Focus.

If he knows something that will enable us to find Andre Maximov, you damn well need to know it.

Now.

But her mind and her thoughts were scattered across time zones. While it was 10:15 a.m. in Florence, Colorado, where she was conducting the interview of Stollen, in London, where Judge O’Connor and others from the ITT proceeding were listening to the interview, it was 4:15 p.m. ITT proceedings for Tuesday, February 8, had ended. It was 12:15 p.m. in Miami. Sixteen hours and twenty minutes post-kidnapping.

Don’t think about it. Focus on the task at hand. Focus.

Calmly, as though she had all the time in the world, and wanted nothing more than to be sitting in the sterile white room with a convicted mass murderer, Samantha gave him a stony look, preparing, once again, to play his game and present the deal she was offering in the best light possible.

Be persuasive.

Persuasion took skills, from word choice to tone inflection to body language, and she was damn good at persuasion. God knew she had persuaded herself of enough in her own lifetime, just as right now she was persuading herself that she didn’t love Zeus, that she needed to live her life without him, that her mind and heart weren’t locked in a silent scream of anguish for the nightmare he was suffering.

Don’t think about Zeus.

Don’t think about how not having him at your side has created a void that you never imagined possible.

Don’t think about the hell he is going through.

Task at hand.

She delicately cleared her throat and pushed some of her hair behind her left ear. She’d used a curling iron in the bathroom of Raven One, to make her hair a soft distraction for the monster who’d seen precious few women in the last seven years. Other than that, she’d dressed conservatively in a burgundy suit with a cream colored turtleneck. She’d put on makeup, but not much. Now, she was glad her suit was conservative, because Stollen’s roaming, lingering eyes gave her chills.

“Listen closely, because I’m not repeating this. Upon your information producing the apprehension of Andre Maximov, you will immediately be released from ADX Florence to a private residence in the United States. You will be under house incarceration for life, but the premises of your incarceration include an extensive property and access to the outdoors.”

“The house is on a small island. You will be its only inhabitant. You will be able to walk along the coastline. You will have freedom to manage your days as you see fit. You can sleep outdoors in a hammock, at night, under the moon and stars, or on long lazy afternoons.” When he met her eyes, she gave him a soft smile as she ignored her churning insides. “Can you visualize that, Mr. Stollen?”

He drew a deep breath and nodded, matching her smile with a slight softening of his lips.

“On top of that, you will have Black Raven security protection for life.”

She paused to let that thought sink into his murderous skull.

“Take it or leave it, Mr. Stollen. For a man who has spent most of his days in solitary confinement in this prison”—she gave him an arched eyebrow look of soft, feminine wonder—“I’m surprised you’re even hesitating.”

“Will I have access to news?”

“Yes.” Samantha leaned forward on the table, putting herself a few inches closer to him. “You will have access to news via television, three newspapers of your choosing, and five magazines of your choosing. No access to computers, internet, or telephones. But still…imagine holding the remote control in your hand. For hours.”

On her left, McGavin cleared his throat as he swallowed a chuckle.

Stollen gave her a full smile, revealing white teeth kept healthy, Samantha knew, compliments of U.S. taxpayers and prison dentistry. She wondered, for a moment, if yanking teeth—without novacaine—out of convicted of mass murderers would be a deterrent to crime.

Focus.

“Access to books?”

“Yes. Ten a month. More if wanted. Subject matter of your choosing.”

“Access to women?”

“No,” she said.

“I need pictures.”

She paused. “Of?”

“My new home.”

She shook her head. “I have them, but right now they’re just photographs of a house and scenery. It isn’t yours yet.”

“It will be. Pictures, Ms. Fairfax.”

Reaching into her briefcase for her laptop, she gripped it, pulled it out, stood, and moved to his side of the table. She opened the laptop next to him, sat in the chair next to him, and flicked her hair back behind her shoulders. Resting her hands on the keyboard, she opened his file, and started clicking. Images appeared on her screen—a quaint, wood-framed house, with a porch overlooking a deserted beach. A fireplace on the interior, with large windows in the living room and kitchen. A wooded path. Foamy waves crashing against rocks.

“Where is it?” Stollen asked. He’d asked the question before, and she’d told him she couldn’t provide an answer. Geographic details that were too particular to any given region had been deleted through photo-shop. The location could have been anywhere.

“Precise location is a need-to-know basis. I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “And you also will never know. For now, all you need to know is that the self-contained island has a house on it, and you’ll be able to walk along this beach”—she clicked to the photo of the beach, and the wooded path—“and through the interior area at any time you choose.”

He sat back in his chair, with chains rattling as he placed his hands on his lap. “Ask your questions, Ms. Fairfax.”

She opened the file of recent drone footage of Praptan, the haunting footage that Black Raven had acquired and shown to her, and played it. “This is what Praptan looks like today. If Maximov were hiding in Praptan, Chalinda, where would we—”