Tracks (9 page)

He was out the door.  She
hurried to stay with him.

“Book into the Bailey’s Hotel
on Gloucester Road,” he said walking briskly, “I’ll get in touch with you
there.”

He stopped and turned to
her.  “This is where I disappear. Make sure this is legit and limit our
acquaintance to
yourself
for now. Good day, Ms. Li.”

He shook her hand again and
disappeared along the grassy path.  

*****

Peka caught up with Natasha
the day following their meeting at the UN, at a deli in the East Village, her
regular lunch hangout.  She was not surprised.  Sitting on a barstool
sipping lemonade with her back to the entrance, she saw him approach in the
overhead mirror.

He slid an envelope along the
bar and took the stool next to her.  She nodded politely and took out the
contents; a single sheet of paper with the Romanian UN delegation logo and a
short notice by the Romanian ambassador assuring the US State Department will
have his country’s full cooperation on the unfortunate matter of the “Flesh
Trade” of young girls happening in his own country.  Ms. Natasha Usher
from the Center for Missing Children was the only person copied.

“Hard to believe it is we who
have to twist your arms to resolve this matter,” she remarked, eyeing Peka
accusingly.

“Some people would rather
whore than starve,” he answered evenly.

“Would you?” she shot back.

“Depends on the
circumstances,” he replied coolly.

“Would you send your
daughter?” she added vehemently.

“Look lady, none of us think
it right. No one in his right mind would overlook such horrors. It’s chaos over
there now. 
Total anarchy.
  The system has
collapsed.  People are desperate.  They do whatever they can think of
to survive and crime is a very big part of that.”

She eyed him again
suspiciously, unyielding.

He lowered his tone. 
“The government has little control, Natasha.  Most officials are crooked.
They also do whatever they can to survive.”

She sighed.  There was no
point arguing.  It would take decades for Eastern Bloc countries to
recover after the communist regime’s collapse.  Some may never recover,
she thought sadly, reflecting on her own country of birth, Russia, whose
problems were mounting.  She often wondered what had happened to her
father.

She had not heard from him or
of him since his failed attempt to kidnap her, an event she still vividly
recalled.  She was convinced her mother had had no word as well, though
she suspected her mother would not inform her if she did.

She eyed Peka again. 
“You Romanian?” she suddenly asked.  “You don’t look it.”

“My mother is.  My father
is Croatian.”

Natasha nodded.  That
explained his blonde hair and distinct features.

She got up to leave. 

“Meet me at JFK.  We’re
flying Tarom,” she said, handing him an envelope she fished out of her bag.

“Tickets are inside.”

He slid off his stool, took
the envelope and bent to whisper in her ear.  “My sister is one of those
girls we’re looking to save.”

She turned to him, stunned,
but he was out the door before she could respond.

Sam took an Iberia flight, New
York JFK to Madrid.  El Chino met him at the gate at Barajas.  He had
taken an earlier flight from Barcelona, following the Carlos Rio trail. 

Sam was surprised to see him.

“Change of plans, Sammy. 
They never made it to Barcelona.”

“What happened?”

“They did not arrive,”
  Ortega
admitted. “I waited around then I checked the
passenger lists on the train. 
Nada.
  I
finally called the travel agency direct, making up I was some distant relative
looking for the family.  They confirmed the family ordered tickets but
never actually used them.  It was too late to stop you from coming over.”

“So are we
back
to square one?”  Sam asked, disappointed.

“Not quite,” Ortega said, a
mischievous smile spreading across his face.  “I got friendly with the
travel agent.  She’ll see us if we hurry.”

They hurried through
Immigration and Customs to a waiting taxi and sped on the M-10 to the M-30 via
Castalena to Cuzco Plaza where they entered Sunshine Travel, a colorful agency
on the ground floor of a high rise building on the northern side of the
roundabout. 

Julia, the agent, a striking
tanned brunette, dressed minimally, as if just arrived from a Caribbean cruise,
welcomed them to a back office where she shut the door behind them and planted
herself on the edge of a desk facing them.  El Chino introduced them both
and went on to explain the purpose of their visit, in Spanish, translating to
Sam intermittently.

Carlos Rio was eleven when he
disappeared from his home in Madrid a year before.  His case reached the
Center six months later and was immediately embraced by Ortega who knew the
family through mutual friends.  Carlos Rio’s parents, Jose and Louisa,
separated and went through a long custody feud which ended in the mother
receiving custody and the father weekly visiting rights.  Being a devoted
father, Jose Rio kept his visiting rights to the letter, demanding his rights
be kept precisely as instructed by the courts.

Mother Louisa, who in the
midst of pursuing a new life and possibly a new partner, had sent the boy to her
parents in Segovia for a spell, forgetting her ex-husband’s meticulous devotion
to the
boy
.  When his time came and the boy was
gone, Jose threw a fit and drove to Segovia to retrieve the boy from his
ex-in-laws.  When he arrived in Segovia, the boy was not there. 
Actually, his belongings were there, but the grandparents were at a loss as to
where the boy was.  Jose initially thought they were taunting him but
later, with the police present, realized the grandparents were as terrified as
he.

The boy, Carlos Rio, had
disappeared.  He had been at the house the night before, then, in the
morning, went for a walk and never returned.  Jose had arrived that same
day at noon finding the grandparents worried but still hopeful.  They had
split up looking for him in playgrounds, nearby shopping centers, and in the
city center, but he was nowhere to be found.  Jose accused Louisa of a
conspiracy to keep the boy from him, but the investigation could not support
his claim.  Jose Rio was never convinced and kept watch on the family,
especially his ex-wife.  Six months later, the boy still missing, and no
progress with the investigation, the case reached the Center for Missing
Children in New York, where Ortega first became aware of it.  The name,
Jose Rio, rang a bell.  He was a building contractor who had built several
hangars in Barajas airport and became quite friendly with the local police
force Ortega had been a part of.  A mutual friend, police sergeant Alonso
Ferrer
, suggested he contact the Center having been aware
of El Chino’s success in tracking the Ricardo boy a few years earlier. 
Jose Luis Ortega convinced his partners to take the case and had been at it for
the last six months.  He was convinced, as was Jose, that the mother was
involved, and employed a local detective agency to follow her around.  The
agency had gotten him the information of the planned trip to Barcelona.

Ortega briefed the travel
agent, leaving out most particulars, trying to avoid staring at her long brown
legs, bare to her thighs, showing underneath a tight black mini skirt.

“We need to know how many
people were in the Rio party and whether or not the boy was with them.”

“May I see your credentials?”
Julia asked in fluent English, spreading her legs just a little wider around
the tip of the office desk.

Ortega showed her his Spanish
police credentials and that seemed to do the trick.

“There was an under-aged child
in that party,” Julia recalled, “but I could not tell if it was a boy.  Of
course they could have given a false name.”

“First initial, which is all I
ever need, was H. Rio,” she said and turned on the table, stretching to reach
the desk drawer on the other side.  The men swallowed hard, exchanging
glances.              

She managed to open the drawer
and grab a printout of the train tickets, which she handed Ortega, an
apologetic smile on her face as she straightened her almost non-existent skirt
over her thighs.

The itinerary included four
names,
the only full name showing belonged to Louisa Rio,
with her Madrid address.  The other initials M. and R. stood for Maria and
Reuben Rio, her parents from Segovia.  Initial H. remained a mystery.

“Can we talk to the delivery
boy?”  Sam asked, speaking for the first time.

Julia looked him over. 
“I suppose,”
she
said, “when he’s around.”

“When would that be?” 
Ortega pressed.

“You can wait around here for
a few hours.  He’s usually back by day’s end.  Or you can come back
tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

“How
early?”
 

“Eight is a good time,” Julia
said, sliding off the desk.  “I must be going now.  I got clients
waiting.”

She kissed both men, each on
both cheeks, rubbing her firm breasts against them, and led them back to the
front office.

“We’ll wait for the boy,”
Ortega said in Spanish.

“Suit yourselves, there’s coffee
in the corner,” Julia said, blew them another kiss and slipped out the door.

The remaining two agents, both
ladies, laid upon them a forced smile and resumed their work.  Sam and El
Chino poured themselves coffee and slumped into adjoining guest sofas to wait.

The delivery boy, Javier,
appeared two hours later, promptly at five.  Sam was napping by
then.  They cornered him in the back office.

“Describe the Rio party you
delivered tickets to at the Eurobuilding three days ago.”  Ortega
commanded in Spanish.

“I had a guy ask me about
them,” Javier said.

“I know,” Ortega said. 
“Now describe them to me.”

“Are they in some kind of
trouble?” the boy inquired stubbornly.

“No trouble.  We just
need to find them.”

“They were two old folks, a
nice lady, and a boy,” Javier said.

“Did you see the boy? 
Can you describe him?  How old was he?” Ortega asked, taking a photo from
his shirt pocket and handing it to Javier who studied it for a long moment.

“He was in the shadows. 
I did not pay much attention.  The woman took the tickets and gave me a
nice tip.”

He looked thoughtful a moment,
looking at the photo in his hand again, then added, “He was not big. 
Might have been twelve or thirteen.
  I did not see his
face.”

“Did you notice what he
wore? 
Anything special?”

“I think he wore a hat. 
I think it’s why I didn’t see his face.”

“You sure it was a boy?”

The boy hesitated then
nodded.  Sam and Ortega exchanged glances again.  The resource had
been exhausted.  They thanked him and went out into the street.

“He’s with her.  I know
it,” Ortega said, flexing his hips in the middle of the street.

“Why did they cancel the trip,
is what I want to know,” Sam mused.  “They didn’t even ask the travel
agency for a refund.”

“They may still,” Ortega
pitched in.

“Make sure we know about
it.”  Sam said.

“Anything for another look...”
Ortega remarked.

“She may eat you alive,” Sam
observed drily.

They halfheartedly cackled at
one another.  In truth they had reached another dead end.

“Have you checked the
Eurobuilding?”  Sam asked.

“They have no record of any of
them.  The lady is smart.”  Ortega said.  “It was just a
rendezvous place.  They left the same day they were supposed to go to
Barcelona, only they went somewhere else.  I got no one on them now. 
Jacobo and his people were expecting them on the train.”

“We need a big break here,”
Sam commented.  “Where’s the father?”

“Business
trip to Palma.
  He won’t be back for a while.”

“Let’s eat,” Sam suggested.

Ortega bowed his head and
signaled for a taxi.  Dead ends and disappointments were an everyday
occurrence in their line of business.  They had learned to live with it
but they could never afford to accept it.

The Air France flight to Tel
Aviv was delayed.  Black Jack and Christine had time to catch up as they
waited around the business lounge an extra two hours.

On the flight they both slept.

They reached Tel Aviv late
afternoon, proceeded to rent a car and began the long haul to Eilat.  A
fairly decent, two lane
highway
took them south to
Beer Sheva, capital of the Negev, where they checked into a roadside motel and
spent the night.  In the morning after a hearty breakfast, they veered
east to Dimona and down along a sloping scenic route to the Arava, a long flat
desert plateau spread between Israel’s Judea Mountains and Jordan’s Red
Mountains.

They reached the picturesque
tourist town of Eilat by the Gulf of Aqaba at noon and stopped for lunch then
continued to the border crossing at Taba.  The line of cars waiting to
cross the Egyptian border took the rest of the day to manage.  The
Egyptian immigration personnel and Army officers were in no hurry to let people
in.  Each car had to be searched, marked, and given Egyptian license plates
to be placed over the Israeli ones.  A fee had to be paid for both
passengers and cars not to mention the routine border proceedings of visa
approval and passport stamping.  At least four different venues had to be
visited and revisited in order to pass the checkpoint and be able to drive to
the Sinai.    

It was evening when they were
finally let through. They carefully drove the next sixty kilometers to Nueba in
darkness aware of the local habit to drive without headlights at night for long
spells “in the interest of saving energy”.  Mainly a Bedouin village,
named Neviot in the Israeli occupation days, Nueba offered an array of tourist
attractions such as diving,
sailing,
reef snorkeling,
a market, shops, restaurants and decent accommodation along its enchanting
coast.  Jack and Christine checked in at the Hilton, a beach resort a few
kilometers north of Nueba and dropped exhausted in their rooms.

 A bright caressing sun
woke Christine up early.  As tired as she had felt the previous night, she
could not resist the tranquil beach looking so peaceful and inviting from her
bedroom window.

A bathing suit was one item
she had not packed so she threw a long white negligee over herself and eagerly
walked to the beach.

The resort was arranged in a
semicircle facing the beach.  The two-storey sandy colored buildings were
curved encompassing three swimming pools with manufactured waterfalls and
adjacent jacuzzis, three restaurants, and several bars and kiosks located by
the pools and beach area.    

At six thirty in the morning
there wasn’t a soul around.  The waterfalls made a trickling sound,
soothing to the ear.  The beach bar had stacks of plastic easy chairs
piled around it and the bamboo sun sheds were empty.

The repetitive sound of the gentle
waves stroking the sand drew Christine to the water. She walked along the shore
digging her bare feet in the sand.  She reached a small wooden pier
standing a few meters over the water and climbed it.  To her surprise, a
dolphin popped up with a cheerful cackle just as she peered over the edge of
the peer, two smaller dolphins tagging along, welcoming her to their
midst.  She waved at them and they appeared twice more.

 She looked across at the
looming cliffs creating a large perpetual gorge around the incredible
blue-green shades of the peaceful waters of the Gulf. Then she turned and
looked at the Sinai to the west.  The Santa Katarina ridge looked imposing
over the desert terrain, the morning shades making their might even more
distinctive. She suddenly felt majestic, in tune with the world, something she
had not felt since her father died.

A man was staring at
her.  She had not noticed him, though he was only a few feet from the
pier, rooted in a crouching position.  She knew she was only half-decent. 
Her breasts were showing through the flimsy negligee, her bare legs to her
knickers, clearly visible.

She hesitated, not sure if she
was arousing or offending the man. Dressed in Bedouin robes and a kafiya, his
black eyes kept probing her, twirling his big moustache with one long brown
finger, content in his place.  She looked back momentarily but even the
dolphins had deserted her.  She carefully descended the wooden pier steps
and headed back toward her room.  The Bedouin remained in his place, only
his eyes followed her.  As she reached the enclosure of one of the
swimming pools, the Bedouin no longer visible, she noticed a stack of clean
towels ready for use.  On a whim, the frisky morning air prickling her
body, she stripped naked and jumped in the pool swimming hard for the first few
minutes to ward away the cold.  Aware that any wakeful tenants in the
building above could get a clear look at her nakedness, she next skipped into
the
jacuzzi
where the water
felt much warmer.  She turned the timer and let the bubbly currents
massage her body. She drifted for a few minutes thinking of the kidnapped boy,
Ibrahim El Shara, and his mother Clair being held a prisoner.  She
secretly blamed herself for the blunder and for not paying closer attention. 
She wondered what lay ahead for her and Black Jack.

She was startled for a second
time that morning by a skinny teenage boy who joined her in the
jacuzzi
.  Unabashed, he
smiled at her as he stripped to his bathing pants and hopped in.  She
smiled back and stepped out, walked to the towel stack and wrapped
herself.  The boy was attentively watching her as she picked up her
garments and walked to her room.

Black Jack joined her for
breakfast at nine.  The breakfast room was a spacious hall with large
windows facing the beach, aligned with spreads of fruits, vegetables, scrambled
eggs of all sorts, omelets, rolls, croissants, cheeses, cold fruit drinks and
hot beverages.

“What have you been up to?” he
asked smiling, seeing her energized.   

“Morning swim,” she answered,
biting into a buttered croissant.  “I hope I won’t be reprimanded.”

“For
what?”

“Stimulating the local
population,” she chuckled.   “You forgot to tell me to pack a bathing
suit.”

“What did I miss?” he asked
delightedly.

“Nothing you haven’t seen
before, Jack.”

He laughed heartily and went
to fetch breakfast.

“Where
to next?”
Christine asked when he came back, his tray
stacked with plates, a colorful mix of fruits and vegetables, omelet and toast,
the Egyptian waiter straggling behind with a mug of steaming coffee.

“We go to Dahab.  We
should get there by noon if we leave at ten.  I’ve arranged to meet a
local attorney who claims he can get us in to see Clair.”

Christine sat back, sipping
her tea.  “How high is the fee to get her out?”

“The bribe you mean?” Black
Jack snorted.  “It depends how many we need to bribe.  I’d say it’s
at least the local police chief, the jail master, an Army officer or two, and
the judge.”

“That’s our entire budget,”
Christine remarked.

“Nah, relax Chris.  US
currency goes a long way in these parts.  The lot of them can live on a
couple thousand bucks for a full year.”

“Do we stay here or move
there?”  Christine asked.

“We may as well move,” Black
Jack reasoned. “We need to stay as close to Clair as we can.  Place has a
similar feel but is much larger and more commercialized.  We should find
similar accommodation there without too much trouble.”

“I sure hope so,” Christine
said.  “I was beginning to grow attached.”

“This place is awesome.” Black
Jack said.  “People don’t know it until they get here.  Then they
don’t want to leave.  But it’s all along the coast to Sharm el
Sheikh. 
The scenery, the coral reefs.
  It
gets even better.”