The Last Minute (45 page)

Gunfire. A scream downstairs. Nelly.

I rush toward the sounds, Nelly screaming my name and then a slicing boom of gun-thunder.

An awful silence, not even Zviman calling. Then he shrieks, ‘I’m upstairs help me, help me, grab this bitch! She’s stealing
my money!’

I run halfway down the stairs and in the den I see a man, thick-necked, cheap-suited, holding an assault rifle, hurrying toward
Nelly … who lies in a crimson spread on the imported Italian tile, holding the gun I gave her.

The thick neck looks up at me. He fires and the stairs erupt around me and I flee.

‘She doesn’t have a gun,’ Zviman screams, ‘shoot her.’

The thick neck thinks he has all the advantage now. So he charges into the hall. I’m in a doorway, the telescoping baton firm
in my hand, and I slash it down at the gun. The baton cracks his wrist but he keeps a grip on the rifle. I whip the baton
across his face, breaking his nose. He staggers back.

I drop the baton and grab the gun. We struggle for it. But I have not had fingers and wrists whipped five seconds earlier.

I work a finger on the trigger and slam the hot barrel into his chest, kicking him against the wall.

The gun shreds him. Loudly, redly, and before he’s dropping dead I’m running down the staircase.

I kneel by my sister.

Gone. Gone. I took my eyes off her for only a few minutes and—

I failed her. If I hadn’t bothered with stealing his money, ruining his business, exacting my revenge, if we
just got out
…

Slowly, I don’t know how much time passes, but I walk back upstairs.

Zviman is gone. A heavy smear of blood mars the wall and sill of one window. He’s gone out onto the roof. I go to the window
and the roof and the street and the yard are all empty. I pick up my knife and put it back in my boot.

I find Mercedes car keys in Zviman’s abandoned pants and I gather my sister in my arms and I drive the Mercedes from the house,
the empty grand home built on human suffering.

Nelly. I failed you.
Tu mori.

Lesson learned, Sam: saving matters more than destroying.

Sydney is a nice city. It has an endlessly beautiful harbor and excellent restaurants and the Australians are an astonishingly
friendly nation. I go for long walks along the Rocks, the ancient – by Sydney standards – stretch of bayline where the convict
ships dropped both anchor and prisoners, a miserable human cargo.

I am a miserable human cargo.

The breeze off the harbor is a near constant presence and I feel, standing still but leaning into the wind, as if I am running.

I am free, yet I am a prisoner.

I stop on my morning walk and across the stretch of water I watch tourists snap photos of the iconic Opera House. In a moment
I have to go back to the house. Aunt and Uncle grow concerned if I am gone too long. Neither has good English and I slowly
teach them. They are learning by watching Aussie soap operas, which are even juicier than their Romanian counterparts. I do
not want to risk hiring an instructor. People talk. And I know there is the possibility that Zviman, with his dicedsliced
penis, is looking for me and my family.

A well-dressed man, a bit younger than me, stands a meter away. He has dark, moussed hair, a quiet, composed face, gray slacks,
a bright orange shirt that looks expensive. Not a businessman type, not exactly. More like a young man who wants to be an
actor. He has a wry smile on his face.

‘A cool million,’ he says, as if speaking to the wind. His accent is British, educated.

I think he must be on a hands-free phone, or he is trying to impress me by randomly announcing a large sum of money. He looks
like any of the men who approach me on the nights when I wander to the nicer bars to escape the prattle of Aunt and Uncle.

So I pay no attention to him.

‘A cool million’s the price on your head. It’s a rather hefty incentive to find you. Just how you found Nelly. Usually such
fees are reserved for heads of state, or particularly annoying warlords in backwater lands.’

Now I jerk a glance at him, fear a hot lump in my throat.

‘Did you know,’ he blows out a plume of Dunhill smoke, ‘I’ve seen pictures of Zviman’s, um, tattered sausage. Most difficult
to get. Did you know he didn’t dare go to a hospital
to have your delightful mousetrap removed? Went to a very dodgy private clinic in Strasbourg, France, on a friend’s private
plane. I’m sure it was the longest flight of his life. I had to pay quite a horribly sizable bribe to said clinic for a singularly
unappealing photo.’ The young man gave a delicate shudder.

I don’t walk around Sydney with a gun but I still carry the telescoping baton in my jacket pocket. ‘You have me confused with
someone else.’

‘No, Mila, I don’t.’ He smiles. Not mocking. Friendly.

A million on my head. So I say: ‘I didn’t steal all his money, then.’

The young man clears his throat. ‘Zviman did more than sex slavery, love. He was, well, still is, one of the biggest smugglers
in the Mediterranean. Ordnance, drugs, military surplus. Even flowers and fish. You bloodied his nose and of course you bloodied
his privates, and smartly done, that, but he’s still operating. He runs with a dangerous crowd. You broke him, though, with
the theft. It takes money to run smuggling routes. So he’s gone under the radar, as they say. I’ve heard now he’s trying to
get into blackmail on a whole new scale, using computers to gather nasties about people. Blackmail’s all about information
and we live in an information age, don’t we?’

‘He sent you?’ If they can find me here, they can find me anywhere.

‘Ah, no. If his Tattered Dicklessness had sent me you’d be dead days ago and murking up the harbor, my sweet.’

‘I’m not your sweet.’

‘No, but a lad can dream.’ He gives me a handsome smile.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want you. I want you to do something constructive with all that grief and anger.’

‘I failed. My sister … ’

‘Mila.’

‘I failed.’

‘Mila. You are a schoolteacher from a little slice of nowhere, and you destroyed a major trafficking operation. You killed
them and you stole a huge chunk of their money. Do you know how rare honest daring has become in our overcautious world? I
want to toss diamonds at your feet, woman. You are incredible.’

I stare at him as though I would like to slap him. ‘My sister is dead. Your praise is smoke to me.’ Then I look at the cold
steel of the harbor.

‘What you did—’

‘What I did failed.’ I watch him. ‘All I got was money. Is that why you’re here? You want money for your silence?’

‘No. Not everyone would have sent
Rolling Stone
magazine that database of trafficked girls, who their buyers were, and a bank account where Zviman’s illicit money was. You
created quite a little tempest from the shadows there, love. Dictating that the cash go to the women who could be found. Very
generous. But you don’t need to buy my silence, Mila. I mean you no harm. All I want is to buy you the best lunch in Sydney.’

‘And a drink,’ I say. I can use a drink, I think.

‘Yes, love, what would you like to drink?’

‘I don’t have a favorite.’

‘You look like a Glenfiddich girl to me.’

‘That is what?’

‘Whisky.’

I cross my arms. ‘I have never tried it.’

‘And after I have introduced you to the delights of a fine whisky, then I want to offer you a job.’

‘I am in Australia under a false name, I don’t have a work permit, nice man. Sorry.’

‘You don’t need a work permit. If I could find you, so can Zviman. And with a million dollars on that lovely pixie head of
yours, it’s only a matter of time.’ He leans forward. ‘We can hide your aunt and uncle better than you ever could. We can
hide you. But I think you might go mad sitting around and reflecting about what happened to Nelly. You saved so many lives,
Mila. You did good. You could do a lot more good. Or you can sit around with your aunt and uncle, watching Aussie TV to teach
them English, and knowing that the man who destroyed your sister is still out there and is hunting you down.’ He risks a smile.
‘If you keep moving you’ll be much harder to find.’

‘What I did was crazy.’

‘Decidedly.’

‘I am only crazy when helping my sister.’

‘On Zviman, did you see a tattoo? A sun, in the middle of a nine?’

I close my eyes. Remembering seeing it on Zviman’s arm. ‘Yes. I saw it. It was ugly.’

‘You don’t know how ugly. I think that tattoo is a mark, one that says he owes allegiance to something more than his own criminal
ring. Something bigger, badder, than him.’

‘That is not my problem.’

‘No, your problem is that with a million-dollar bounty on your head, you are going to have every scumball hired killer hunting
for you. Dozens of them, Mila. I can help you. Hide your family where they will always be safe. But you can’t have
a normal life, not until Zviman and his bosses are put down. They won’t let you have a normal life.’

‘Who are you with?’

‘We’re the opposite of Mr Zviman and his friends.’

‘What are you? The police?’

He smiles.

‘The CIA?’

He smiles again, shakes his head.

‘The MI6?’

‘Oh, Mila, those are all so twentieth century.’ He laughs, and I decide I like his smile. ‘The Round Table is so much more.
Come to lunch with me. Let’s talk.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘You can call me Jimmy. And I’m going to be your best friend.’ He held out his hand. And I, after a careful moment of consideration,
took it.

I closed the file. Then I deleted it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to her.

‘I know you are,’ Mila said.

‘Remind me never to anger you.’

‘I have better control of my temper now, Sam. Yoga has worked wonders for me.’

‘Zviman is Nine Suns. That’s why you fight them.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Jimmy brought you into the Round Table, same as you brought me.’

She nodded. ‘Ivan was my first teacher; Jimmy my second. You’ll meet Jimmy one day. You and he will either like each other
or kill each other.’ She got up, walked to the window. ‘You can understand my feelings on what you’re going through with your
son.’

I stared at her back. ‘That you cannot save them.’

‘An innocent caught up in this world, the odds are not good. And for a while, I thought you were lost to us, Sam. I meant
what I said. They can control you forever with Daniel. They tried to control me with Nelly and you see what it got her. Dead.
I was going to save her, I had saved her, and I got her killed.’

‘You were alone. We have each other.’

‘I was stupid.’

‘But you had to try, Mila, same as I do. I can no more walk away from Daniel than you could from Nelly.’

‘You misunderstand me.’ She turned back to me, arms crossed. ‘The man that shot Nelly? He wasn’t even a guard at the house.
He worked at one of Zviman’s other brothels in Tel Aviv, heard about the shootings at Lucky Strike, came over to see if Zviman
was okay. He sees a girl with a gun and he shoots her dead. He was what you call the anomaly that cannot be planned for. But
such things always exist, they always come up. The unpredictable is what kills you. If I had been with her instead of stealing
his money … if we had just left the moment I had her … she would be alive. But no. I couldn’t just save her. I had to ruin
Zviman. Rescue
and
revenge, no. You cannot do both.’ She swallowed. ‘You want to get Daniel and bring down Nine Suns. You cannot do both.’

‘If I don’t they’ll never let me be. I am going to do both.’

She gave a long sigh. ‘And I thought I could still be your teacher. You know what? They are going to catch me one day. As
long as the million is hanging over my head, it will happen, Sam.’ She sounded resigned.

‘Not on my watch.’

‘I might as well help you if you will listen to me.’

‘How?’

‘Zviman had a Nine Suns tattoo on him, although when I saw it I did not know what it is. He is part of it. We must draw in
Zviman so he sees Jack is dead. We must convince him Jack is dead without killing Jack.’

‘What about the notebook?’

‘I find it fascinating that you never mentioned this red notebook when we first talked about the ransom.’

‘I didn’t know about it.’

‘But it makes no sense that you kill Jack but leave damaging evidence behind. What if he hid it, then you never knew it was
there. You think they would ask you to bring it to them after you kill Jack?’

‘They didn’t ask.’

‘No,’ Mila said, ‘they didn’t ask
you
.’

I glanced at the bedroom door. ‘Leonie.’

‘Perhaps. Maybe they told her to handle the notebook, same as telling you to handle the kill. Because no way could they trust
you with that notebook.’

‘She should have told me.’

‘It is only a theory.’

The bedroom door opened. Leonie stood there. ‘I have an idea on how to find Jack Ming,’ she said.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Then it’s her turn to go.’

‘I know I do not have a kidnapped child,’ Mila said, ‘but maybe you let me into your super secret club.’

‘Don’t you dare make a joke.’

‘I wouldn’t. I am helping you. It is decided.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Yeah, it is.’ I stood.

‘We’re supposed to work together,’ Leonie said. ‘Just us.’

‘I am curious as to your objection,’ I said. ‘If she helps us kill Jack Ming, what do you care?’

‘Is that what she’s going to help us do? I thought she wanted to bring Nine Suns down.’

‘The lives of your children trump my sense of revenge,’ Mila said.

‘Yes. We’re sticking to the letter of what was demanded of us.’ I glanced at Mila; she didn’t look at me.

Leonie and she stared at each other, taking the measure. ‘I am not comfortable with this, but, Sam, if you can control her
and make her useful to us, that is fine with me.’