The Stolen Ones (22 page)

CATALINA STOOD IN THE CELL
with the rest of the young women and watched the silent man sleep on his couch. She could feel the iPhone in her waistband. She’d turned it off to conserve the battery. She had hoped that the silent man would stop for gas again, allow her to use the bathroom. She had hoped she would be able to send another message.

But instead they had arrived, here, in this dingy, dark little building, with these other girls Catalina didn’t recognize, and she had no idea where she was. Even if she could send a message, she couldn’t tell Irina anything useful. Anyway, who’s to say these other girls wouldn’t betray her to the silent man? Catalina had never seen any of them before. They might rat her out to survive.

She stood and watched the silent man sleep. None of the other girls met her eyes. None of them spoke. Time passed maddeningly slow. Catalina felt her frustration mounting.

You can’t just stand and wait here,
she thought.
You have a phone. Use it.

She welled up her courage. Found a pretty blond girl with pigtails standing at the back of the cell. The blond girl stood alone. Catalina watched her until she looked up. Catalina smiled at her. “Hello.”

The girl didn’t answer. She stole a glance at the sleeping man and then looked away again.

Catalina inched closer. Whispered. “Where is this place?” she said. “What are they doing to you here?”

At first, the blond girl didn’t answer. Catalina waited. The whole building seemed to go silent. Finally, the other girl replied. “You mustn’t speak,” she said softly. “They’ll kill us if we speak.”

“They won’t kill me,” Catalina told her. “They want me.”

The blond girl said nothing.

“Anyway, I’m not afraid of them,” Catalina said. “I have a way out of here. I just need to know where we are.”

The blond girl shook her head. “I don’t know where we are,” she said. “They took me out of the box and put me here. I don’t know anything. I—” She sobbed suddenly. “I miss my family. I just want to go home.”

The girl continued to cry. Catalina watched her until she turned away, wiping her tears with her ragged sleeve, pressing her face against the bars of the cell. Catalina looked around at the other girls.

“I need to know where we are,” she whispered to them. “I think I can get us out of here.”

Nobody said anything. Most of the girls shied back, their eyes darting away to check on the sleeping man at the other end of the building. Catalina felt the phone at her side like an itch, felt suddenly angry.

“Come
on
,” she said louder. “Why won’t you help me? I can get us out of here. I—”

“Nobody knows.” This was a beautiful raven-haired girl. She stood a few feet away from Catalina, watching her through eyes that were a shocking emerald green. “Nobody knows where we are. Nobody knows anything in this place.”

Catalina pushed her way over. “My name is Catalina,” she said. “I’ve been in a box for weeks. They killed my handlers yesterday, but I stole a phone. I can send a message for help, but I need to tell them where we are.”

The dark-haired girl studied Catalina. “Dorina,” she said. “That’s my name. I was put in the box in Bucharest. I don’t know when. I don’t know how long I was inside.”

“And they brought you here,” Catalina said. “When the box arrived in America, they brought you straight here?”

“It wasn’t far to go,” Dorina replied. “This building was maybe fifteen meters from where they took me out of the box.”

So I’m back where we started,
Catalina thought.
The East Coast of America. All of that trouble, and they brought me back here
.

“I don’t know where we are,” Dorina whispered, “but I think I know where we’re going. I overheard one of the thugs talking. He said we are supposed to go to New York.”

New York!
Catalina felt her breath catch. “Where in New York?” she said. “And for what purpose?”

“All I know is New York,” Dorina said. “Apparently there is a man there who wants us. That’s all.”

Catalina considered this. New York was a big place, that much she knew. Still, this information would help. At least Irina could tell the police where to start their search.

She reached into her waistband. Pulled out the phone. “I will send a message to my sister,” she told Dorina. “She escaped from the box. Maybe she can tell the authorities how to find us.”

“Hurry,” Dorina said. “Before the handler wakes up.”

The phone seemed to take forever to power on. Finally, the screen lit up. Catalina tapped on the Internet icon. Loaded the Facebook page. Was about to log into her account when she heard a commotion outside.

“Crap.”
Dorina grabbed Catalina’s arm.
“Hide the phone.”

Catalina jammed the phone into her waistband just as the building’s door flew open, blinding the captive girls with sudden sunlight. Catalina hid her eyes, blinking, saw nothing but brightness. For a long moment, nobody moved. Then Catalina heard soft laughter. Boots on the concrete floor. A man stood in the doorway, staring in at her.

He was tall and lanky, with a wiry black beard and wild eyes. He wore a long black leather jacket, and a wicked knife hung from a scabbard on his belt. He was the scariest creature Catalina had ever seen in her life, and he was looking at Catalina like he knew it.

“Hello, little one,” he told her, smiling at her through the bars. “I am the Dragon. You belong to me now.”

VOLOVOI AWOKE
to the Dragon standing above him.

“Wake up, wake up, Andrei,” the gangster was saying. “I’m ready to take delivery of my prize.”

Instantly, Volovoi was awake. He pushed himself to his feet, blinked a couple of times, surveyed the building, the Dragon with his leather jacket and his knife, the girls in their cell, a couple of foot soldiers waiting by the door.

“I’d heard you’d returned,” the Dragon said, smirking. “And clearly your mission was a success. When were you going to deliver my little beauty?”

In her cell, Catalina Milosovici stared out at the Dragon, her grimy face pale. Clearly, she knew what was coming.

Volovoi cleared his throat. “I wanted to finalize a few details first,” he told the Dragon. “A stolen car to get rid of, for one thing. And I had to secure the shipment of these other girls to your warehouse.”

The Dragon gestured to the couch. “And you had to sleep, of course.”

Volovoi cursed himself. “I had a long night with my idiots,” he said. “They did not go quietly.”

“I am glad you succeeded anyway, Andrei.” The Dragon slapped him on the back, so hard that Volovoi flinched. “And this is a fine collection of girls for my buyer.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Volovoi said. “I’ll have them in Manhattan this afternoon.”

“And your next shipment?”

Volovoi checked his watch. Almost noon. The
Atlantic Prince
would arrive with another box in a few hours. With any luck, the FBI wouldn’t find him before then.

“Three p.m.,” he told the Dragon. “I’ll process the girls here and have them shipped to the warehouse in Manhattan. They should be ready for the buyer and his friends by tomorrow, at the latest.”

“Tomorrow,” the Dragon said.

Volovoi shifted. “It is possible I could have them ready tonight,” he said. “Though it would be a rush.”

The Dragon waved him off. “Tomorrow is fine, Andrei,” he said. “Take your time.” Then he turned back to the cell, where Catalina Milosovici waited. “It will only give me more opportunity to enjoy my little prize.”

The girl’s eyes widened, and Volovoi felt his stomach turn. He knew what the Dragon did to his playthings. He’d heard the stories, and if they were even half true, Catalina Milosovici was in for a short, unpleasant future.

The Dragon seemed to read his mind. His wolfish grin intensified. “Open the cell, Andrei,” he told Volovoi. “Quit stalling, and let me take this one home.”

CATALINA LET THE MAN
who called himself the Dragon lead her out of the grungy building and back into the sunlight. It was hot outside, muggy and humid, a stifling day. In the container yard, a big American car waited, sleek and black. The Dragon opened the rear door.

“Please,” he said, ushering her inside. “After you.”

Catalina sat. The Dragon slid in beside her and sat close, one slick, sweaty hand on her leg. Catalina squirmed, tried to hide her revulsion. Gazed out at the little shack and wondered what would become of Dorina and the others.

New York
.

“Park Avenue,” the Dragon told his driver. “Let’s take my little one home.”

The driver shifted the big car into gear, and it idled away from the shack. Catalina studied the rows of containers. She couldn’t see the smelly car the silent man had brought her in, but there was a big truck backing up to the little building. The silent man would take Dorina and the others to New York, Catalina knew. She had to find a way to tell Irina.

And she would have to do it quickly. The Dragon was going to take her to his lair, and then he would do things to her. And no doubt he would want her to remove her clothing when he did them. He would find the phone.

The Dragon was eyeing her, talking to her. He had hiked up her large T-shirt and was touching her knee, seemingly oblivious to the filth that coated her skin. She hadn’t bathed since that awful hose on the docks. The Dragon didn’t seem to care, though.

“Have you ever been to New York, little one?” he was asking her. “It is the center of the world, the heartbeat. Millions of people. So much money. So much opportunity.” He smiled at her, another unpleasant smile. “Of course, you will not see very much of it. You will have to imagine what this place is like.”

He unscrewed a vial from around his neck. There was a little silver spoon inside, and the rest was white powder. He inhaled it through his nose, came up gasping and blinking.

He was distracted, had slid away from her to the opposite side of the car, focused entirely on his white powder and his vial. Now was her chance.

Catalina shifted her weight, slipped the thug’s phone from her waistband. Held it tight between her leg and the door, away from the Dragon’s eyes. She had no time for the Internet, for Facebook. She would have to type a text message and hope someone friendly received it.

It was excruciating work. The car sped over bumps and joints in the road, jostling her hands as she tried to type. The Dragon kept looking at her, fondling her leg as he talked to her. She had to wait until he turned back to his little vial again to even try.

Focus,
she told herself.
For Dorina and the others, if not for yourself
.

The iPhone didn’t have a Romanian alphabet. She couldn’t spell in English. She would try the best she could.

P-a-r-c-a,
she typed.
Park.
Each letter seemed to take a thousand years. The Dragon’s fingers crawled up her bare thigh, each skeletal touch a new torture. Catalina tried to ignore the man. She kept typing.

S-t-r-a-d-a.
Street.

B-a-l-a-u-r.
Dragon.

Close enough.

She wondered who to send it to. Choose a number at random? Or one of the thug’s contacts? She still didn’t know how to alert the police. Catalina scrolled through his contacts as carefully as she could. Could not find a number that appealed to her. Couldn’t make a decision, her heart pounding, the Dragon blathering on beside her.

Then she felt his hand on her wrist. “Why are you so distracted, little one?” he said. “What are you doing over there?”

Catalina froze. Dropped the phone to the floor of the car and kicked it under the seat. “Nothing,” she said, trying to match his smile. “I am not doing anything. Please.”

The Dragon studied her face. Catalina waited, didn’t breathe. Finally, the Dragon unscrewed his little vial again.

“You are a defiant little bitch,” he told her. “I could see it in your photograph. But we’ll see how brave you are when you’re alone with me.”

He inhaled from the vial again. Catalina watched him. Kicked around with her feet on the floor, pushing the phone farther beneath the seat, fighting the wave of sadness and frustration that threatened to overwhelm her. She’d failed to send her message. Failed to help Dorina and the other girls. All she could do now was pray that someone else saved the day, and quickly, before this Dragon man and his friends did whatever they were planning to do.

Prayer. As far as strategies went, it wasn’t a very happy one.

ZACH L
E
PLAVY HAD A CAR
waiting for them in the short-term lot outside Newark Liberty International Airport, a mean-looking black Charger with a ferocious low stance. “Swiped it from the motor pool,” he told Windermere, tossing her the keys. “Brand-new. Figured you guys might as well ride in style.”

“Damn right,” Windermere said, slipping behind the wheel. “Now, where are we going?”

LePlavy gave Stevens the front passenger seat. Slid in the back. “Nikolai Kirilenko lives in an apartment complex in Jersey City,” he told the agents. “We’ve had eyes on it since you called in, but he hasn’t showed up yet.”

“We need a search warrant for the house,” Stevens said as Windermere gunned the Charger’s big engine and squealed out of the lot.

LePlavy grinned. “Already done.” He produced a sheaf of paper from his suitcase. “I took the liberty of arranging a search and seizure while I waited on your flight.”

“Hot damn.” Windermere glanced at the warrant as she drove. “What about a map, LePlavy? You got one of those?”

>   >   >

NIKOLAI KIRILENKO’S APARTMENT
was a lonely bachelor special: messy futon, dirty dishes, pile of suspect laundry on the floor. There was nobody home.

“Doesn’t look like he’s been around for a while,” Stevens said, studying the film of dust that had settled over everything. “Maybe he’s out on another delivery.”

“I get the feeling these guys stay busy,” Windermere said. “Who’d want to stick around this place too long, anyway?”

Stevens saw her point. It was a hot, humid day outside, and even hotter inside the apartment; suffocating. The building was old, wasn’t air-conditioned, and Nikolai Kirilenko didn’t even have a fan. After five minutes in the place, Stevens could already feel the sweat beading at the back of his neck.

They poked around the apartment and found nothing of merit. An old snub-nosed .38 in a kitchen drawer. A couple bricks of cash in rubber bands in the freezer. Shady stuff, but nothing to point them toward the Dragon.

Then Stevens knelt down to check under the futon, a ratty old thing with a smell like dirty sheets and unclean hair. The futon’s base was uneven; Kirilenko had steadied it with a makeshift shim, a thin piece of plastic. Stevens slid it out from beneath the bed frame, let the futon sag as he studied the plastic. It was an ID, a union membership card.

“‘The Port of Newark,’” Windermere read aloud, when he showed it to her. “Somehow I don’t think this guy spent much time on the docks.”

“Doesn’t seem like he got much use out of his membership, anyway,” Stevens said.

“Probably a sham,” Windermere said. “Something to scare off the taxman. Dollars to donuts the guy never worked a day on the docks in his life. There’s nothing here, Stevens. Not until Kirilenko comes back.”

“If we’re waiting, let’s do it outside.” Stevens wiped his brow. “We could use a little fresh air.”

He turned for the door. Nearly ran into LePlavy coming in from the hall, his phone at his ear. “Got a witness for you two,” he said. “Some guy figures he might be able to help out with your case.”

“Well, hot damn,” Stevens said. “Can we bring this guy in? Where is he now?”

LePlavy chuckled. “You can talk to him, for sure,” he said. “Bringing him in might be a little difficult. Seems he’s a thousand miles out at sea at the moment.”