Jet (13 page)

Hassan stepped out of the Range Rover, unruffled and unapologetic for his tardiness, and held the rear door open. Levi slid in, followed by Leo. They strapped in and soon were swaying down a mud road that ran north from the town.

“What’s beyond the outlying areas?” Leo asked as the driver shifted gears.

“Not much. Rebels, mostly. Villages, but nothing to them. Not someplace you want to visit,” Hassan said.

“And where are we headed?”

“We’ll be there soon enough.”

They turned off the road onto what appeared to Leo to be little more than a track leading through the trees, and his trepidation grew as the lights seemed inadequate to illuminate the way. Just as he was about to protest, the jungle gave way to a clearing, and they approached a gate, where a half dozen men brandishing AK-47s watched them near.

The driver waved at them and one of the men pushed the gate open. The truck continued for a hundred meters, and a colonial-style mansion rose out of the gloom. Hassan looked over his shoulder at Leo and smiled as the driver braked.

“We’re here. One of Abel’s cottages,” he said, referring to the warlord with whom Leo was brokering the deal.

“Some cottage,” Levi muttered in Russian. If Hassan registered it, he gave no indication.

More armed guards lounged on the veranda, their rifles held close, their eyes distrustful as Hassan escorted Leo and Levi up the steps and into the house. The interior was as opulent as the exterior, but with the same air of dilapidation. The furnishings were overly ornate, remnants of a colonial time long past.

“This way,” Hassan said, and led them up a polished wooden stairway to the second floor. Oil paintings of African dignitaries lined the corridor through which they proceeded to the rear of the house, where yet two more gunmen sat outside an oversized hardwood door.

One of the men gave Leo and Levi a quick and efficient frisk and then knocked on the jamb.

A voice boomed from inside. “Yeah. Come in.”

Abel, easily six foot six and three hundred pounds, stood behind an antique desk in a red silk smoking jacket and black trousers so shiny they gleamed in the light emanating from the crystal chandelier. Three stunningly beautiful young women were sprawled nearby on a pair of sofas, none older than sixteen, judging by their appearance, wearing satin shorts and flimsy halter tops, their ebony skin shining with the vitality of youth.

“Ah, you made it. Come. Sit. What can I get you to drink? Name it,” Abel boomed in accented English. His voice, like the man, was oversized, as though the room was too small to contain him.

“Vodka, if you have it,” Leo said. Levi shook his head.

“I have Grey Goose,” Abel said proudly. “Nothing Russian, I’m afraid. Hopefully that will do. You want it mixed with something or straight up?”

“Straight will be fine. No ice.”

The warlord snapped his fingers and one of the girls stood and sashayed to the rear of the room, where a bar glowed beneath another chandelier. The men’s eyes followed her, the appeal of her strut undeniable, and Abel smiled. “Perhaps once our business is done, you’d like to have a little party with my friends? They’re very hospitable, I can assure you.”

Leo didn’t respond, preferring not to anger their host, who had the reputation of a madman with a hair trigger for brutality. The ingénue reappeared with two crystal tumblers a third full of vodka and set them down in front of both men with a worldly smile before returning to the divan and her companions, who watched the display with indifference.

Abel held his glass aloft in a toast and drained half in a swallow. Leo did the same and set his down, sweating in spite of the frigid blast from the mini-split air conditioner.

“All right. You didn’t come all the way here to drink with me. I know you’re anxious to sample the wares,” the African said, with a lascivious glance at the entourage. “Do you need a loupe?”

“No. I brought my own,” Levi answered.

“
Bon
,” Abel said, and then slid a drawer open and removed a parcel wrapped in suede. He tossed it onto the desk and sat back with a grin. “That’s a sample. There’s more if you want to see it. Just let me know.”

Levi unwrapped the bundle and set six black velvet bags to one side before opening the first. A stone the size of his thumbnail rolled out, followed by nine more. He picked up the first and studied it with his loupe for several long moments, grunted, and set it carefully aside, and then repeated the process with the next.

“While your man is inspecting the stones, I’ll give you a tour of the place, eh? I bought it for a song and have had it renovated. One of the original colonial places, a French treasure for a prosperous merchant, built by French architects using local labor. Took three years to finish, and began deteriorating before the paint dried.” He shrugged. “Such is life in Africa. Intense, but short, for all but the most fortunate.”

“What happened to the owner?”

“He left shortly before the French officially cut us loose. Smart move. Things got progressively uglier after that.”

The home was huge: nine bedrooms, a ballroom, two dining rooms, and a kitchen large enough for an inn, all finished with elaborate flourishes fit for a royal palace. Two of the hostesses accompanied them silently on the tour, both texting furiously on the latest iPhones without pause.

When they got back to the warlord’s office, Levi was finished, a notebook before him and an unreadable expression on his face. Leo eyed him and he nodded.

“They’re as described.”

Levi’s tone told Leo that they were much more than simply acceptable, but he’d wait to have a discussion until they were well away from listening ears. Levi looked to Abel. “Are they all similar to these?”

The big man nodded and sat in his chair. “Yes. Best quality, no exaggeration.”

Leo nodded. “How soon can you have the shipment in Novorossiysk?”

Abel smiled broadly. “It’s already on its way. You said you had the weapons, so I took measures to speed things along. Scheduled to dock in four days, weather permitting. Will that suffice?”

Leo mirrored the smile and tossed back the rest of the vodka. “I have a function there in four days, so that’s perfect.”

“I know.”

Leo frowned, and Abel shrugged. “We have the Internet here – I saw the announcement of your charity gala on the web. Our little country may be primitive in many respects, but we have some modern conveniences.” He gestured at the young women. “The technology keeps improving with each new generation.”

The Russian nodded his head at the girls. “So I see.”

Moscow, Russia

Jet fingered her prison garment with distaste as she paced in the holding area where she’d been left before being assimilated into the general population. She’d overheard one of the guards saying the prison was overcrowded and complaining about a new, undocumented prisoner being added to the problem, and the response had been to keep quiet about it and find room in one of the community cells.

From what she’d been able to gather, the facility was a sort of purgatory, a halfway point for prisoners who’d been charged with crimes but not yet convicted, along with low-level petty career criminals. Although the majority were recidivists doing their time before being released to repeat the crimes again, many were simply accused, which to Jet was a ray of hope. A jail that specialized in minor offenses and the yet-to-be-convicted might have lax security, and she wouldn’t require much of an opportunity to use it to her benefit.

Everything she’d seen so far spoke to that impression, from the processing to the demeanor of the guards. There was a certain relaxed quality that she knew was at odds with maximum-security prisons that dealt with serious, violent criminals. While not the equivalent of the American Club Fed white-collar facilities, it was as close to a Russian version that she’d seen.

Two male guards came for her after an hour and handed her off to a female guard, who directed her to a large cell with bunk beds for forty-eight prisoners.

“Don’t cause trouble or you’ll be dealt with harshly. Keep your head down and things will be easier,” the guard advised her before pushing her through the door and locking it. She looked through the bars at Jet and pointed to a row of beds. “You’re in C-2.”

Jet glanced around at the other unfortunates and moved to the vacant bunk, her blanket clutched to her chest. C-2 was an upper bed, which was fine with Jet, although the woman in the lower bunk looked annoyed with her. Jet ignored her and climbed onto the slab, which was hard as concrete, sighed, and pulled the threadbare blanket over her legs. Engineering an escape with almost fifty inmates around complicated matters, and her brief optimism faded as she considered her surroundings.

The other prisoners kept to themselves, and Jet was fine with the isolation. She needed time to think, not build bridges with other captives, which would be nothing but a distraction. She had no idea how much time she had before the attorney’s brother came for her, but judging by what she’d gleaned, it wouldn’t be long, a day or two at most, so she’d need to move fast.

At dinnertime, the prisoners filed out of the cell and into the cafeteria, where slop was ladled onto plastic trays by other inmates with the monotonous regularity of an assembly line. When it was Jet’s turn, she asked the woman behind the pot what the substance was. The inmate, about Jet’s age with hair the color of wet pecans, rolled her eyes. “Stew. You don’t want to know what’s in it.”

“That bad?”

“Depends on how long it’s been since you ate.” The woman eyed Jet. “You’re not Russian.” Statement, not question; Jet’s accent gave her away – or rather, the lack of any. Her Russian was fluent, but absent any trace of local coloring.

“That’s right.”

“Where are you from?”

The woman behind Jet nudged her. “Come on. This isn’t a dating service. Move.”

Jet let it go, in keeping with her commitment to avoid trouble. Besides, the woman was right – the line needed to move if everyone was to eat within the allocated time frame.

Jet carried her tray to one of the metal tables and sat at the end. The other women gave her space, everyone seeming to have the same fear of conflict she did. Which made sense. Short-timers or those who hadn’t been sentenced wanted no part of anything that might cause the system to weigh against them.

She tried a mouthful of the stew and almost gagged. She’d tasted worse, but not for a long time. Whatever the meat was – most likely horse, by the tang – had turned or was on the brink of going bad, judging by the putrid flavor. She tore off a chunk of bread from the crust that accompanied her meal and studied the faint mold before dropping it back onto the tray in disgust.

The other prisoners didn’t seem to notice how foul the concoction was, spooning it into their mouths as fast as they could. What little conversation was hushed and between bites, and Jet couldn’t make out much.

A shadow fell across the table and Jet looked up. It was the woman who’d been serving the stew. She sat down across from Jet and eyed her portion, and then Jet’s. “And they wonder why prisoner suicide is so high,” the woman said with a wry smile.

“It’s inedible,” Jet agreed.

“Probably true. But it’s the only game in town.” The woman took a spoonful and made a face before swallowing. “You’re a new arrival? Me too.”

Jet didn’t answer, preferring to push her gruel around on her plate. The woman ate some more and tried again. “I got here a few days ago. Have they assigned you to a work detail yet?”

“No.”

“What are you charged with?” The woman leaned forward. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Failing to blow Putin.”

The woman laughed so hard she spat pieces of stew-soaked bread back onto the tray. “Ha! Very good. Caught me completely by surprise.”

“What about you?” Jet asked.

“Treason. Terrorism. Take your pick. I don’t think they’ve figured out exactly what to charge me with. Everything in the book, more than likely.”

Jet studied her face. “Really? What did you actually do?”

“I blew Putin.”

Both women laughed, drawing stares from the other inmates. Jet got herself under control as the woman hid her smile with her hand. “They say I was conspiring to buy weapons. I’m innocent, of course.”

“Of course,” Jet agreed.

“And you? Seriously.”

“Murder. But they have no proof.”

“Really? Boyfriend? Husband? Another woman?”

“I’m innocent too.”

“This prison is filled with the innocent.”

“At least us.”

“Right.”

They ate in silence, Jet forcing herself to choke down some of the slag, if only to keep her energy up, holding her breath with each mouthful and rinsing it away with her metal cup of water. A whistle sounded from where the guards were leaning against the cafeteria entrance wall, and one of them called out, “Five minutes.”

Jet pushed her tray away. “You want mine? I can’t eat any more of this.”

“Don’t blame you,” the woman said, and pulled the tray toward her. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

The inmate took the hunk of moldy bread and sopped up some of the brown mystery sauce. “How long until your trial?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’m going to get one.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Really? Why not?”

“I haven’t been charged. This is completely illegal.”

“They’re holding you here without any formal accusation of wrongdoing?”

“You heard me right.”

“Bastards. This country’s out of control. A small group runs it like it’s their private club and does whatever it wants.”

“Same as most places,” Jet agreed.

The woman finished Jet’s meal and stood. “We have to take the trays back over there and then line up on the other side of the room.”

Jet followed her to where three fatigued women were hosing off the remains from the plates and scrubbing them with wooden-handled brushes. They set their trays down and moved to where the inmates had begun forming a ragged line. When they took a place at the end, the woman leaned into Jet and whispered to her, “My name’s Yulia.”