Authors: Douglas Corleone
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Kidnapping, #Spies & Politics, #Conspiracies, #Crime Fiction, #Thrillers
Gone Cold (32 page)
“She asks to speak with him?”
“She often
demands
to speak with him. She has even threatened to kill herself if we do not allow her to contact him.”
I buried my face in my hands.
“But we will watch her, Simon. We will keep her safe, not only from others but from herself.”
I nodded sadly but said nothing.
After a minute, Ana asked, “What happened in that warehouse, Simon? You never told me.”
“It’s not important.”
She leaned forward and placed her hand on the top of my head. “If I ask you something, it means it is
very
important.”
I allowed a small smile and looked into her deep green eyes like I did the first time I saw her at her law firm in Warsaw. Like I did as we’d sat across from each other drinking coffee on the way to Krakow. Like I did as she’d persuaded me with physical force to eat pierogi for the first time in my life in Poland.
I thought back to that conversation.
“Well?” she said.
* * *
I step out of our cottage on a cold, drizzly morning to find a small crowd gathered in a circle nearby. Most of the crowd are women, many are crying, and one woman’s sobs are louder and more desperate than all the others put together.
Behind me, Ana steps outside, sees the scene, and immediately starts toward the crowd. I follow her. Together we skirt a pair of wild hens then slip through to the center of the circle, where a middle-aged woman kneels, bawling, while a young girl—no more than sixteen or seventeen—tries futilely to comfort her.
In Romanian, Ana asks one of the women in the crowd to explain what’s happening. Once she gets her answer, Ana turns to me and tells me the story, mercifully in English.
“The young girl,” she says, “her name is Katya and she is from our village. She just returned from Ukraine. Months ago, she and her friend Svetlana—the older woman’s daughter—were offered jobs as waitresses at a bar in Odessa.”
I already know where this is going but I tell Ana to continue as I process the information.
“Once they arrived, the girls realized there was no bar, only a brothel. Before they could even think, their passports were taken and they were driven to a cramped and filthy apartment in the city. The man who had offered them the jobs showed up with his friends and they raped both girls and beat them when the girls tried to stop the men from raping them again.”
I look at the older woman who is now clinging to Katya’s knees.
“Within a week,” Ana says, trying to keep the strength in her voice, “the girls were forced to service ten or fifteen men a day. Mostly businessmen and tourists, but locals too. Over those months one of these businessmen became Katya’s regular client and he fell for her. He purchased her from the pimps and bought her a plane ticket back to Chisinau and she hitched a ride from the capital very early this morning.”
“And Svetlana?” I ask.
“The man told Katya he did not have enough money to pay for both girls, only one. She did not want to leave Svetlana behind, but she had no choice. Svetlana’s mother is so distraught because Katya said that Svetlana had once told her that if they were ever separated she would kill herself. She thinks Svetlana will do it first chance she gets, which will be in a few days when the girls are supposed to service wealthy American tourists on a boat in the Black Sea.”
I take Ana’s hand and guide her to the center of the circle and ask her to translate for me.
“Tell her I’m going to get her daughter back to her,” I say.
Ana stares at me for a moment. A wall of water builds in front of her green eyes. But then she nods and turns to the woman and as she speaks, the large crowd finally quiets some.
When Ana’s finished, the mother looks up at me and rattles off a number of hysterical questions in Romanian.
Ana says, “She asks, How is this possible? When are you going to do this? She is poor; how much money will you need?”
“Tell her I’ll leave in an hour and I’ll be in Odessa by nightfall.”
“And the money?”
“I’ll make sure I’m well compensated by the men who took her daughter.”
Ana translates and the desperate expression on the woman’s face slowly morphs into one of hope. She tries to get to her feet but stumbles and slips in the mud.
Finally, Ana helps her up and the woman brushes herself off as best she can and stands before me, her mud-caked hands clamped together in front of her chest.
Only now do I realize just how small and frail the woman is.
After a moment, she removes from around her neck a stainless-steel chain with a charm the size of an American silver dollar. She opens the charm and hands it to me.
Inside is a picture of her sixteen-year-old daughter, Svetlana.
As I look at the girl in the photo, a lump forms in my throat. A slow burn begins at the base of my neck and quickly travels upward until I am almost overwhelmed by a familiar roaring in my ears.
Ana says, “She needs you to know that Katya told her there are lots of men guarding the girls. Lots of men with lots of guns.”
“Tell her it’s all right,” I say calmly. “Tell her I’m going to get her daughter home to her, whatever it takes.”
Ana translates then turns back to me. “Why, she wants to know.”
“Tell her this is what I do. What I
have
to do. Tell her I’m a professional.”
To Kelley Ragland, Elizabeth Lacks, Andy Martin, Hector DeJean, Paul Hochman, and everyone else at St. Martin’s Press and Minotaur Books, thank you for joining me in bringing Simon Fisk to life.
Thanks, too, to Robin Rue and Beth Miller and the entire team at Writers House for going above and beyond the call of duty.
Thanks also to Adrienne Sparks for assisting me with all things marketing.
To Joel Price, Dotty Morefield, Vincent Antoniello, Jason Quintero, Stuart Goldstein, and David Rosenfelt, thank you for your continued friendship and guidance.
And to my lovely wife, Jill, to whom this book is dedicated, my son, Jack Douglas, and my daughters Maya Kailani and Kyra Skye, thank you for your patience, understanding, and encouragement. As always, I couldn’t have written this work without your cooperation.
Finally, to my readers—old and new—I am so grateful for your support. To those who post comments on my Facebook page, follow me on Twitter, or contact me through my Web site, thank you for keeping me company these past twelve months. I look forward to chatting with you again soon.
DOUGLAS CORLEONE
is a former New York City defense attorney and winner of the MB/MWA First Crime Novel Competition. He now lives in the Hawaiian Islands with his wife and three children. You can sign up for email updates
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ALSO BY
DOUGLAS CORLEONE
Simon Fisk Novels
Kevin Corvelli Mysteries
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Contents
Part II: The Barons of Glasgow
Part III: The Lovers of Liverpool
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GONE COLD.
Copyright © 2015 by Douglas Corleone. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.