The Stolen Ones (27 page)

THERE WERE POLICE CARS EVERYWHERE.

Irina hid in an alley a few blocks from the convenience store. Around her were small one-story homes, unkempt lawns, rusted cars. Dogs barked as she passed their yards, growled at her when she hid. She’d dropped her stolen food in the parking lot and she was still hungry, and very thirsty. She couldn’t find a car to steal.

And the police cars were everywhere.

She’d fled from the sirens at first. There hadn’t been many. She’d seen one police car speed past, and ducked behind a parked car to hide until it was gone. She kept moving. Time passed, an hour or so. Then, suddenly, more police cars appeared.

They knew.

Irina huddled in the alley and debated her options. The police would take her in. They would arrest her for attacking the black man, for defending herself, or they would bring her to the FBI. They wouldn’t let her go to Clearfield, Pennsylvania, to find Catalina.

Never mind. Irina knew there was no way she would get to Pennsylvania anyway, no matter the situation. She did not know how to drive on American roads. She didn’t know how to read American maps. She was a skinny, pitiful little wretch and no man would let her into his car. Her whole plan was silly, and she would be better off at the safe house instead of risking her life on these streets. She should go back to safety. She knew this.

Still, she was afraid. The police officers were men. Maybe they were corrupt. Maybe they would take her for themselves, the same way the man at the convenience store had wanted to do. She crouched in the alley, paralyzed by indecision. She didn’t hear the police cruiser roll up.

A door slammed. A man’s voice, harsh. Irina looked up to find a young policeman approaching, his hand on his holster. He’d taken the black man’s side, she realized. He would not be her ally. He would throw her in jail, or worse.

Irina stumbled to her feet. She tried to run, her legs unsteady. The cop was on her immediately. He grabbed her shoulder, rough. Spun her around. She swung at him. Kicked. Twisted away and kept running.

The cop chased her. She could hear him behind her, yelling at her. Yelling into his radio. More sirens. More police cars. His footsteps. She ran.

At the end of the alley, another police car appeared. Squealed to a stop and two more cops piled out, two more men. She was trapped.

They came at her rough, like she was the bad guy. Like she was the threat. They swarmed her, and she fought them, fists and feet. They caught her arms, held her back, and still she fought, swearing and spitting, struggling as they dragged her out of the alley and toward the patrol car.

Then someone called out, and they slowed. Their grips on her arms loosened. Irina followed their eyes to a flat gray sedan parked haphazardly in the middle of the road. A man, blond and muscular and good-looking in a black suit, approached them. She recognized him. Agent Mathers.

Mathers gestured to the cops, and they released her. She was tempted to run. Tempted to fight. The FBI agent held his hands out, palms up. Smiled at her. A friendly smile.

Still, she was tense as he came near her. She was ready to run. Then he leaned in, looked in her eyes, and told her, in awful Romanian,
“I’m your friend. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She looked at him. He repeated himself, his accent atrocious, his pronunciation almost indecipherable. He smiled at her sheepishly, like he knew how bad he sounded, and Irina felt herself tense again as her body was racked with sudden, uncontrollable laughter.

LOLA ROSARIO
gave them an address, an old brick warehouse in downtown Newark, recently converted to lofts. The penthouse belonged to somebody named Andrei Volovoi.

“LePlavy says he’s Romanian,” Stevens told Windermere. “Immigrated to America about five years ago, no criminal record. No record of employment, either. LePlavy says from his picture he’s a ringer for the third guy at the container lot.”

“So he’s the guy who did Sladjan Dodrescu,” Windermere said. “Andrei Volovoi. How does he tie in to the Dragon?”

Stevens stared up at the apartment building, at the tactical team piling out of an FBI bread van down the block. “I don’t know, Carla,” he said. “Let’s get up there and find out.”

>   >   >

ANDREI VOLOVOI’S HOME
was one big room, granite and marble and exposed brick and beam, a large balcony with a view of the Manhattan skyline in the distance, a messy kitchen and an unmade king-size bed behind gauzy curtains. Empty food cartons everywhere, drug paraphernalia. Two girls on the couch, smoking a joint.

They spooked when the tactical guys burst through the door, huddled together and screamed and wouldn’t stop. Stevens braced himself, figured the women were some of the Dragon’s human cargo, felt a sudden excitement when he realized these girls forged a solid link between Volovoi and the skin trade.

Then one girl, a bottle blonde, looked him dead in the eye. “Please don’t hurt us,” she said with a Jersey Shore accent. “The drugs aren’t ours, I swear.”

Americans. Shit.

Turned out the women were Volovoi’s paid companions. Party girls. “He pays us to hang out,” the Jersey blonde—Carrie—told Stevens and Windermere. “Come around for the parties, flirt with his friends, you know, dance and stuff.”

“Sure,” Stevens said. “You know where he is now?”

“Andrei?” Carrie glanced at her friend, who’d so far stayed silent. “We don’t really ask questions. He’s not really the talkative type.”

“When’d you see him last?”

“God, like, a couple days ago, maybe?”

“But you’re still here,” Windermere said.

Carrie shrugged. “There was a guy here, earlier. Andrei’s friend, or whatever, just hanging around. You never know when the party’s gonna start, you know?”

“I guess so.” Windermere walked to the window. “We’re looking for a guy named Pavel Demetriou, calls himself ‘the Dragon.’ I don’t suppose you’ve heard that name before, have you?”

“The Dragon?” Carrie made a face. “Yeah, I heard it. He’s some big-time guy—like,
really
big. I think he was Andrei’s partner.”

Carrie’s friend spoke up for the first time. “I heard he’s the guy who made Andrei kill Bogdan and Nikolai.”

“Nikolai, like Kirilenko?” Stevens said. “Andrei Volovoi killed them?”

“That’s what everyone’s saying,” Carrie said. “They say Andrei killed them on account of they screwed something up on the job.”

“It’s shitty,” Carrie’s friend said. “I liked Bogdan. He was cool.”

“Bogdan,”
Windermere said. “Bogdan who?”

“BOGDAN URZICA,”
LePlavy told Windermere over the phone. “Another Romanian national, but this guy’s not as good as Andrei Volovoi at keeping himself hidden. He’s in the NCIC database with a pretty picture and a decent record, mostly grand theft auto and the odd assault charge.”

“Sounds like a real peach,” Windermere said. “Does this guy have an address?”

“Hoboken,” LePlavy said, “but Bogdan ain’t ever coming home. State police in Pennsylvania found his body outside a little town called Hermitage early this morning. Guess he’d crashed his Cadillac Escalade. Wasn’t wearing a seat belt, flew right through the windshield. Managed to get shot in the face after he landed. They used his fingerprints to identify him.”

Windermere pursed her lips. “Volovoi did him,” she said. “Just like the girls said. How far is Hermitage from the rest stop where Catalina sent her message?”

“About a hundred and twenty miles west, give or take,” LePlavy told her. “According to the state troopers, the Cadillac was stripped clean. No registration, no license plates.”

“What about the VIN number?” Windermere said. “Surely they can trace it.”

“They can,” LePlavy said. “It’s registered to ATZ Transport. Same shell company that leased the truck that was hauling Irina and her sister.”

“So we can tie this thing to the traffickers,” Windermere said. “That’s a start. Where do we go from here?”

“I’m glad you asked,” LePlavy said, “because here’s the punch line: Facebook came through on that message Catalina Milosovici sent to her sister last night, and apparently, she sent it from a cell phone.” He paused. “Bogdan Urzica’s cell phone.”

LLOYD HADN’T LIED
about his preference for blondes.

The little man surveyed the girls with satisfaction, muttering his approval. “Yes,” he told Volovoi. “These are perfect for our needs. My contacts will be thrilled with this quality.”

“You will buy them, then,” Volovoi said. “Two hundred thousand dollars apiece.”

Lloyd laughed at him. “Come now, Mr. Volovoi,” he said, pulling the girls closer to him. “Where’s your sense of salesmanship? Don’t I at least get to sample the wares?”

There’s no time,
Volovoi thought.
Purchase these women. Call your friends, and invite them here, too. One night only. Big sale.

Buy, before the FBI comes knocking.

But Lloyd wasn’t ready to buy. He’d pulled two blond girls from Volovoi’s lineup, a comely sixteen-year-old in a red dress, and a younger girl, her hair styled in pigtails.

“Yes,”
he told Volovoi. “All in good time. These are exquisite specimens, and they deserve to be appreciated.”

The girls struggled in his grasp. The younger girl began to cry.
Four hundred thousand dollars
, Volovoi thought, gritting his teeth.
I could get Veronika and Adriana out of the country with that money. Fly them somewhere safe, away from the Dragon.

“I believe there is a private room in the back,” he said finally. “Take all the time you need.”

Lloyd chuckled. “I certainly intend to, Mr. Volovoi,” he said. He led the girls down the hallway, toward the Dragon’s private room. Volovoi watched him go, realized once he was gone that his fists were clenched, his whole body tense. He exhaled. Forced himself to try and relax. Turned away from Tomas and the girls and thought of his nieces again, of a life without worry, a life without the Dragon.

Fat chance, unless he could sell these women fast.

“Fuck,” he said, reaching for a cigarette.
“Fuck me.”

WINDERMERE DROVE THE CHARGER
back to the FBI’s Newark office. If the rain had let up, it was only slightly; lights blurred through the windshield now that darkness had fallen, the wipers unable to keep up with the downpour.

“So, okay,” she said. “What the hell happened in Pennsylvania?”

In the passenger seat, Stevens turned away from the window. “The girls in the apartment said Volovoi killed Bogdan Urzica and Nikolai Kirilenko because they screwed up on the job. Bogdan’s dead. So we know Volovoi got to him.”

“And we know Volovoi made it home, because we chased him around Newark airport this afternoon,” Windermere said. “So chances are Nikolai Kirilenko is dead, too. But where does the Escalade come in? How come Bogdan wasn’t driving the container rig?”

“Who knows?” Stevens said. “Maybe something went wrong. Bogdan caught up to Volovoi’s plan and tried to escape. Then Volovoi caught up to him and finished him off.”

“And drove back to New Jersey,” Windermere said. “With Catalina, hopefully.”

“Catalina sent her message a hundred and twenty miles east of where Bogdan died,” Stevens said. “With Bogdan Urzica’s phone. I’m thinking there’s no way she gets her hands on it before this whole fiasco goes down with Volovoi, which means she sent the message after Bogdan Urzica died.”

“It makes sense to me, I guess,” Windermere said. “But so what? This is all ancient history, Stevens. How do we get our heads into the future?”

Stevens found his reflection in the window glass. “I just bought my daughter an iPhone,” he said. “We put one of those ‘Find My iPhone’ thingies on it—”

“Apps,” Windermere told him. “They’re called apps. All these smartphones are GPS-enabled.”

“That’s what I thought,” Stevens said. “So there should be a way to triangulate the location, right? If Catalina somehow still has the phone—”

“We can find her,” Windermere finished. “Good thinking, Stevens. Let’s hope she kept her little hands on it.”

“I GREW UP
in the home country a piece-of-shit nobody,” the Dragon said, his speech slurred from the wine and whatever else. “I made myself into a boss, do you understand? I killed and pillaged until I was a Dragon.”

Outside the apartment, the sky was nearly black, the rain and wind billowing against the apartment windows, so hard that Catalina wondered if the skyscraper would topple.

“New York,” the Dragon was saying. “This is where the money is. The power. If you become boss of New York, you are boss of the whole country. The whole world, even. Who can stop you?”

Catalina forced herself to look at him. Her head was foggy; she was light-headed from the wine he’d forced on her. But she had to think clearly. “The other girls,” she said. “What will you do with them?”

The Dragon stopped talking about New York. A smile slowly spread across his face. “Why do you care about the other girls?” he said. “Did you make friends, little one?”

Catalina didn’t answer. “I will sell them,” the Dragon told her. “My friend, Andrei Volovoi, perhaps you remember him. At this very moment, he is finding new homes for them.”

“What kind of homes?” Catalina asked.

“Good homes,” the Dragon said. “Rich homes. Your friends will be pets for wealthy men. Pretty toys. They will amuse their owners until they become boring, and then . . .” He snapped his fingers.
“Poof.”

Catalina didn’t say anything. She thought of Dorina and the others, all of them locked in apartments like this one, forced to entertain psychopaths like this one.

“They will kill them,” she said. “That’s what you mean.”

The Dragon smiled wider. “Their owners will throw them away like old, useless toys,” he said. “The men will buy new toys to replace them. I will sell them those toys. And I will become very rich.”

Catalina blinked her eyes, tried to force the fuzziness from her brain. There was no time for distraction. She had to stop this madman.

But what could she do? The Dragon would gut her the moment she made a move for the door. He was too strong for her. He had his long knife. There was no escaping this apartment, not while the Dragon watched her.

The storm crashed outside, lightning and thunder. The Dragon pushed himself from his chair.

“Enough talk,” he said, circling the table to where she sat. “It’s time to play now. Stand up.”

He held out his hand, waited for her to take it. She could see the knife at his belt, and wondered if she could take it from him before he reacted.

“Stand up, little one,” the man said, an edge to his voice and in his bleary, unfocused eyes. “Don’t make me wait.”

Catalina looked at the knife again. Knew she’d never reach it in time. Slowly, heart pounding, she took the Dragon’s hand. Let him pull her up and lead her out of the kitchen and down the long hallway, toward his bedroom.