Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

A suite at the Fairmont would have seemed like heaven.

“You’re not married?”

I felt a sudden pain in my chest, the memory of Chinara’s last hours before the cancer robbed her of her dignity and I robbed her of breath and life. I suddenly realized with remorse that I thought of her less and less as time passed, that her face would become ever more indistinct, the way photographs fade in sunlight. I thought about lying to Jamila, thought of the respect I owed to Chinara.

“Not anymore,” I said and looked away to show that the subject was painful to me.

“You must be very lonely,” Jamila said, stroking my knee with a single white-tipped fingernail. Her cleavage seemed suddenly more pronounced, the shadow between her breasts darker.

“Of course, and I’d be honored to spend some time with you, once I’ve finished my business here.”

“I’m sure you have time for business and pleasure.”

I was pretty sure that Jamila considered pleasure to be her business, but all I wanted from her was information. And if I could get it simply by handing over a few dollar bills, so much the better. Love and lust sometimes lie, but cold cash never does.

“Let me explain, Jamila darling. My boss is a very rich, important man back in Kyrgyzstan. I can’t tell you his name, but you’ll have heard of him. He asked me to come to Dubai to find his fiancée. They had a stupid argument about where to hold their wedding, in Moscow or St. Petersburg, and she threw the ring back at him and stormed off. Her mother said her daughter had come here, and I was sent over. So I need to find her, or I’ll be looking for a new job when I get back to Bishkek.”

As a story it seemed pretty thin to me, but at least it had the virtue of touching on the truth in one or two places. It’s always easier to hide a lie among a few scraps of honesty.

“What makes you think she would come in here?” Jamila asked, not unreasonably. “If she’s got a rich boyfriend and she just wants to teach him a lesson?”

I looked around the bar and had to admit that Jamila had a point. Well-connected young women with rich and powerful boyfriends tend not to hang out in bars where people go to remain anonymous and the potential for drunken violence coils in the air like cigar smoke.

“She doesn’t know anyone in Dubai, and people in Bishkek have heard of this place. They know Kyrgyz ladies like to socialize here, and my boss thinks she might have come here to make friends.”

Jamila clearly didn’t believe a word, but the dollar bills in my wallet were singing an irresistible song.

“What’s this girl called? Maybe I’ve met her in here.”

I did my best to look shifty; Jamila was more likely to believe I was up to no good than fall for some love story out of a bad movie.

“She probably won’t be using her real name,” I said. “She’s from a well-known family, and she wouldn’t want people to know she’s broken up with her boyfriend. But I do have a picture of her.”

I showed Jamila the photograph I’d taken from Tynaliev, and she stared at it for a couple of minutes before handing it back.

“Impressive,” she said. “I suppose he paid for the boobs. Not as good as mine, mind you.”

“I didn’t ask,” I lied. “He’s not the sort of man to share details like that.”

“Well, if she’s dumped him, he can always give me a call. Since you don’t seem to be interested.”

She looked again at the photo, inspected it more closely.

“I think I’ve seen her in here a couple of times. Keeps herself to herself. A lot of the customers have offered to buy her a drink, but she just looks down her nose at them.”

I nodded; that pretty much fitted what I knew of Natasha.

“Let me make a phone call. And while I’m doing that, perhaps another drink? Thirsty work, talking to people. And expensive.”

Jamila squeezed my thigh as she slithered off her stool and headed for the door, her mobile already glued to her ear.

Unasked, the waitress brought over two more drinks, took the exact amount from the bundle of notes I presented to her, then waited until I handed over a tip. I don’t know how much I gave her, but from her scowl, she wouldn’t be giving up serving drinks any time in the near future.

Jamila returned and climbed back onto her stool, her hand once more squeezing my thigh.

“I made a couple of calls and found someone who thinks they might know where she’s living,” she said and gave me a mercenary smile. “The thing is, darling, they’ll probably want a little something for helping you. Dubai’s an expensive place. And I’ve been helpful too, and I’ve got rent to pay.”

Jamila pressed herself against my arm, took my hand and cupped her breast with it for a split second, her nipple visible above the thin material of her bra. I think I was supposed to go cross-eyed with desire. Instead I crossed my legs, turned slightly to face the door, slid my other hand into my pocket.

That way it was conveniently close to my gun for when Jamila’s friend came through the door.

He was slim, not tall, and not wearing what I’ve always thought of as pimp clothes. No leather jacket, no cowboy boots, no ornate wristwatch. Faded jeans, a white T-shirt that showed a flat stomach, narrow hips. He looked around, spotted Jamila, gave a wave and walked over.

Jamila gave him an impersonal businesslike kiss on both cheeks, then gave me a much more passionate and lingering kiss that aimed for my mouth but just missed.

“Mikhail, this is my friend Lev. He might be able to help you find your boss’s missing girl.”

Her sarcastic tone didn’t escape me; I just wanted to find out what kind of set-up I was walking into.

Lev shook my hand. His skin was damp with sweat, either from the heat or from wondering how best to empty my wallet. His grip was limp, almost boneless, and when he spoke, his voice had a flat, uninterested tone. He didn’t bother with the usual formalities but got straight down to business.

“She tells me you’re looking for a Kyrgyz woman,” he said, nodding at Jamila, who tightened her grip on my thigh. “My contacts here are excellent at finding people, particularly ones who don’t want to be found,” Lev continued. “But as you can imagine, it’s a specialist service. Which means it doesn’t come cheap.”

“I’m sure my boss will be willing to pay whatever he thinks reasonable,” I said.

“I believe you have a photograph?”

I handed it over and watched Lev study it. His face gave nothing away, no hint that he might have been involved in Natasha’s kidnapping. Not for the first time on this trip I would have liked to be in Sverdlovsky police station, down in the basement where even the most tongue-tied become eloquent.

“A striking woman,” Lev said and made to put Natasha’s photograph in his pocket. I put my hand out to stop him, took the photograph back.

“My boss would like everything to be very discreet,” I said. “So no pictures. All I need is an address, and I’m sure I can persuade her to return.”

“And if she doesn’t want to?” Lev asked, his voice as calm as if he’d been ordering a beer.

“Then I may have to call on your specialist services again.”

“For an additional fee.”

“Naturally,” I agreed, wondering which one of us was talking the most bullshit.

“Without the photograph, it may take a little longer to find your missing woman,” Lev warned. I knew that the price was going to rise, but that didn’t matter. I had no intention of paying anything anyway.

I reached for my wallet, but, as I expected, Lev held up his hand. “Not in here,” he said. “You never know who’s watching. Maybe even undercover police. And you did say you wanted to be discreet.”