Дэвид Балдаччи - The Forgotten

But then he might surprise himself.

The thing was, though, Puller didn’t want it to come to that.

Mecho was not his enemy.

Lampert stared dully at the photo.

“Uh, am I supposed to know this person?”

“Her name is Rada. You took her from a village in the Rila mountains in Bulgaria. Her and many others. That was my village.”

Lampert looked at Puller. “Is he serious? You think I’m going to remember someone like that?”

Puller stared stonily back at him. “Wrong answer, Pete.”

Mecho again lifted Lampert up off the sand, held him up with one arm, cocked his other arm back, and hit Lampert so hard that several of his teeth exploded out of his mouth. He flew backward five feet and landed in the sand. He hit so hard on his cuffed arms that he popped both shoulders out of their sockets.

Screaming and crying in pain, he tried to wriggle away.

“Shut up,” said Mecho.

“Oh God,” screamed Lampert. “Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

Mecho kicked him in the gut.

“You don’t remember her? You don’t remember Rada?”

“Oh God.” Lampert was spitting chunks of teeth and bloody gums from his mouth and rolling all over the sand.

Puller knelt down next to him, cut his bindings, and with two firm, quick thrusts popped both shoulders back in place.

Lampert lay there crying quietly and gasping for air.

Mecho stared down at him, his hands balling and unballing. His huge chest heaved with every breath.

Puller rose and looked at him. “How is this going to play out?” he asked.

“He is coming back with me.”

“He’s in my custody. He’s wanted for crimes here.”

“He is coming back with me,” Mecho snarled.

“Mecho, we’ll make sure this scum never sees the light of day.”

“He took everything we had. I made a promise.”

Puller drew out his sidearm and pointed it at Mecho. He had no bullets left in it, but Mecho didn’t know that.

“The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you, Mecho. But I’ve got a job to do and I plan on doing it. This guy was responsible for my aunt being murdered. He’s going to pay for that.”

Mecho eyed the gun and then turned to look down at Lampert and held up the photo once more. “Tell me where she is. Tell me now.”

“I don’t know where she is,” Lampert sobbed through his broken and bloody mouth. “I swear to Jesus.”

Mecho grabbed him, jerked him up. “You do know. You will tell me.”

“I don’t. I don’t know, damn it.”

Lampert fell over on his side crying when Mecho let him go.

Mecho looked down at the photo and, as Puller watched, tears slid down the big man’s face. His body began to tremble.

Puller looked out to sea, where Lampert’s yacht was visible. All that money. Based simply on misery. Based simply on greed. Based simply on destroying people’s lives for cash.

He glanced back at Mecho and holstered his weapon. He gave a long sigh. What he was about to do flouted every rule in the book that had guided him for most of his adult life.

“How were you planning on getting him out of here?” he asked.

Mecho glanced up at him. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“I have a friend. He pilots a cargo ship. He will take us back home. No questions asked.”

“Where and when?”

“Tonight. From Port Panama City.”

Lampert had stopped crying and was listening intently to this.

Through his busted mouth he stammered, “You… you can’t be serious. You’re not going to let him take me to… to Bulgaria.”

Puller glanced down at him. “Why not? You’ve been there. Had a good trip, right? Got everything – correction, everyone – you needed, right?”

“You can’t.”

“You sure about this friend, Mecho?”

“I am sure.”

“What will happen to Lampert back in Bulgaria?”

“We have justice, just like you do here.”

“Do you have the death penalty?”

“We have worse.”

“Worse? Like what?”

“He’ll get to live. In a part of Bulgaria that no one would ever choose to live. He will get to live there for the rest of his life. And he will be busy every minute of every day of every year until he drops from being worked to death. We Bulgarians are relentless when it comes to people who hurt us.”

Lampert struggled to sit up, blood pouring from his mouth. “For God’s sake, Puller, you can’t let this happen. You’re a cop. You’ve got a duty. You can’t let this guy take me. He’s a foreigner. He’ll be kidnapping an American citizen. I’m a taxpayer. I pay your damn salary. You work for me.”

Puller ignored this and said, “And your friend is doing this for free? Why?”

“Not exactly for free. I promised him something, but I don’t know how to get it. I’m not even sure what it is.”

Mecho described his friend’s request. Puller smiled and glanced at Lampert. “That’s okay. I know what it is.”

Mecho looked surprised but also hopeful. “So you can get this thing?’

“I can get this thing,” said Puller.

Panama City, Florida, was known to generations of college students who invaded the town for spring break.

Port Panama City was a port with easy access to the Gulf along a nearly nine-mile-long channel.

Ocean liners disgorged tourists.

Cargo ships brought products to America through here and took American-made products to the rest of the world.

It was a busy place, even at night.

Puller stood on the dock holding a box and eyeing the Cyrillic writing on the side of the steel-hulled cargo ship as cranes lifted metal containers onto the ship, stacking them on top of each other.

As he continued to watch, a large wooden box was carried on board. There were two men carrying one end and one man carrying the other.

The one man was Mecho. He was cleaned up from his fighting, his wounds bandaged and mostly hidden under his clothes.

For those who looked closely, and no one did, the wooden crate had two holes for air drilled in it.

Inside the box was Peter J. Lampert. He was bound, gagged, and drugged.

He would wake up in about six hours.

By then the cargo ship would be well out in the Gulf. It would make its way around the southernmost tip of Florida and then begin the long trek across the Atlantic. The cargo ship would plow along at an average speed of ten knots. Seventy-six hundred nautical miles and a month later it would arrive in Bulgaria.

Once Lampert touched Bulgarian soil he would never leave it.

The crate secured on board, Mecho came back down the gangplank followed by a heavyset man who looked strong as a bull.

His thick-veined neck was the size of an average man’s thigh. His sleeves were rolled up and revealed forearms knotted with cords of muscles. He wore a skipper’s cap, and a cigar stuck out from his mouth at an angle.

They reached Puller and stopped.

Mecho introduced the man as his friend and the cargo ship’s captain.

The captain looked at Puller appraisingly. “Mecho tells me you have something for me.”

Puller held out the box. “Ten bottles.”

The captain lifted the top of the box and looked inside it.

His smile was wide and immediate.

Puller handed him the box and the captain thanked him and carried it back on board ship. Mecho looked at Puller.

“So what is this thirty-year Macallan?”

“It’s a scotch. Actually a very good scotch.”

“And it is thirty years old?”

“So they say.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Let’s just say that it was another opportunity for Peter Lampert to make restitution.”

Mecho’s jaw slackened in surprise. “You took it from his house? Weren’t the police around?”