State of Emergency (13 page)

“His daddy's with the Venezuelan government,” Thibodaux said. “Everyone knows Iran and half the other bad actors in the world are allied with Venezuela. Maybe they're trying to get in good with Junior. He is a damned arms dealer after all. Maybe they're just some of his regular customers.”

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “Or maybe they're sniffing around for the bomb.”

“Seems like Zamora's more interested in beatin' up women and ridin' fast bikes.”

“And now that's exactly what he thinks of me,” Quinn said.

“Lucky us,” Jacques muttered. He stared into the thick tangle of foliage. “You find out who the freckled gal is?”

“A Russian,” Quinn said, rubbing his jaw again. “And she was
nyet
too happy with me for breaking up the fight with Umarov. Could be SVR tailing Chechen terrorists. Whoever she is, she knows how to scrap.”

“Maybe so.” The big Cajun raised a thick eyebrow. “So, you gonna tell me what you meant about Mar del Plata?”

Quinn turned toward the pool. “I told Zamora I happened to be entered in the same little motorcycle race he is.”

“In South America?”

“Yep,” Quinn said.

“When?” A look of dread crossed the Cajun's face.

“It's still a week out.” Quinn kept walking.

“Whew.” Thibodaux smirked. “A whole damned week. That's not so bad. I was afraid you were gettin' us in over our heads.”

“There is one thing.” Quinn stopped, turning to face his friend. “When my brother and I rode it in Africa it took us over a year to get ready. This particular race runs over five thousand miles through the deserts of Argentina, Chile, and Peru—”

“Hells,
l'ami
!” Thibodaux spat. “You're as crazy as Zamora.”

“Maybe.” Quinn shrugged.

“Seriously, a week?” Thibodaux said, the timing finally setting in. “Are you shittin' me? That's right after Christmas. Camille is gonna cut my cojones off with a butter knife.”

“Come on, Gunny, this is the kind of race where you mark all your gear with your blood type—just our kind of thing.” He stopped a moment, wiggling his jaw, then adjusting his belt. “You were right about that redhead's tail end, by the way.”

“Crazy?” Thibodaux gave him a big grin, nodding.

“As a loon. How could you tell?”

“Well,
l'ami
—” The big Cajun looked around before leaning in closer. “Don't tell her I said this, but from the angle I saw, that redhead looked an awful lot like my Camille.”

Quinn chuckled, moving again.

“Speaking of crazy,” Thibodaux said, walking beside him toward the riotous sounds around the pool. “You think he has it?”

“I do,” Quinn said. “But the question is where. I have an idea I want to run by you and Ronnie that might help us find out.”

 

V
alentine Zamora lazed in the deep end of the swimming pool listening to the young Chechen in the black T-shirt whimper like a stomped puppy. His slouchy friend Umarov had disappeared, leaving the poor man to take the full brunt of the Venezuelan's rage.

Cathy floated to his immediate right, a milky white thigh grazing his. Her makeup had washed off, revealing the dark purple bruise under her eye. Her pale body shook as if she was about to freeze to death—but Zamora knew better.

Bulat Daudov lay on his stomach to Zamora's left, close enough to reach out and slap. Tied belly-down to a heavy lounge chair with nylon ratchet straps, the Chechen's chin hung off the end of the seat facing the pool. His legs were bent at the knees, secured to the back so his bare feet faced upward, naked and exposed to the night sky. His eyes were rimmed in red. Snot hung in strings from his nose to the tile.

On the far side of the pool, the Yemeni, Farris bin Ushan, stood fidgeting, sucking on his bottom lip. His face had gone pale.

Zamora leaned against the wall, arms stretched along the cool edge. He sighed, waving a fat cigar as he considered his big toe floating just above the surface. Blue shadows from the underwater lights danced across his angular face. Dear, devoted Monagas was at the head of the lounge chair, a three-foot length of bamboo cane in his fist.

The rest of the grounds were deserted. Zamora had announced the end of the festivities shortly after Veronica Garcia had gone, and his guests had departed obediently.

Zamora blew a cloud of smoke across the rippling surface of the pool. He sniffed, tapped a bit of ash into the pool, and then gave Monagas a nod.

An instant later the stiff cane whistled through the humid air. A ragged scream spilled from Daudov's throat a half second before the bamboo slapped the bare soles of his feet. Monagas delivered three more blows, sending the young man twisting and thrashing to escape the torment.

Bastinado, or foot whipping, was a favorite form of torture among many cultures. The multitude of nerve endings combined with the small bones and tendons in the bottom of the feet made for a perfect target with maximum torment. The Iranian secret police were particularly fond of such beatings because they left few outer signs of trauma.

Cathy tried to swim away, but Zamora grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back. He wagged his finger in front of her face, chiding, then turned to stare at the moaning Chechen.

Across the pool, the big-eared Yemeni gulped, but said nothing.

“Oh, my dear Bulat,” Zamora sighed. “Monagas has not even broken a sweat. He relishes bastinado the way some love baseball. I do believe he could go on all night. Unfortunately the bones of your poor feet cannot.”

Striking like a snake, he grabbed the Chechen by the forelock and lifted his face to look at him eye to eye. His voice was low and soft, almost sweet, belying the ferocity of his movement.

“Tell me, where is your friend Akhmad Umarov? I saw him here with you tonight.”

Bulat coughed, gagging on his own words. “My . . . brother . . . will kill y—”

Zamora nodded again, bringing a whistling swat from the bamboo rod.

The Chechen screamed, jerking against his bonds.

“My brother,” he said, panting. Blood dripped from his mouth where he'd bitten through his tongue. “We want what you have. . . .”

Zamora snorted. “I know that. You may proceed, Monagas—”

“Wait!” the Chechen panted, clenching his jaw in anticipation of the next blow.

Zamora raised his hand.

“Yes, my friend,” he said. “You have something else to say?”

“I don't know where Umarov is,” Bulat sniffed. “My . . . brother sent us. . . .” His words came in broken stops and starts. “I . . . I mean we . . . we were to find where you have it . . . then kill you.”

Zamora snorted, chewing on his cigar. “And how is that working out for you, my friend?”

The Chechen seemed to know that he was as good as dead. His body deflated as the will drained out of him. He turned his head to face Zamora, cheek against the bar of the lounge chair.

“I tell you the truth,” he whispered. “My brother will kill you—”

Zamora grabbed the Chechen and dragged him into the pool. The long chair planed in the water, hanging on the surface for a long moment, before shooting at an angle toward the bottom like a torpedo. A line of silver bubbles trailed in the flickering blue light.

“There now.” Zamora puffed on his cigar, blowing a cloud of smoke into Cathy's horrified face. “My mother says one must periodically cut the head off a servant for the others to see. What do you think of that, my darling?”

He may as well have been swimming with a wet loaf of bread for all the excitement Cathy offered. Shaking like a naked fawn, her chin hovered just above the water. A lock of wet hair hung like a piece of dead seaweed across her face. She was too lazy or terrified even to brush it away. It took all his self-control to keep from shoving her head under and holding it there.

Instead, he turned to look at Farris bin Ushan. “Come join us,” he said, flicking his hand to motion the Yemeni into the pool.

Ushan was in his mid twenties, with short, dark hair. His black suit pants and a white long-sleeved dress shirt were wrinkled, as if he'd slept in them.

“His face looks too sweet to be that of a ruthless terrorist.” Zamora nudged the girl with his elbow. “Do you not agree, my darling?”

“I . . . I shouldn't be here.” She tried to swim away again, but Zamora grabbed her ankle, tugging her back. He gave the inside of her thigh a cruel pinch between her knee and her groin. She cried out, but sadly, and went completely limp at his touch.

Zamora beckoned the young man closer with his cigar.

“I am sorry about her.” He looked over at the quivering girl. “
As-salamu alaikum
, Farris. I hope your stay in Florida has been a pleasant one.”

“
Wa alaikum as salam
.” Ushan nodded, putting his right hand to his breast. His eyes were fixed on the body of the dead Chechen at the bottom of the pool. “Most enjoyable.”

“Join us,” Zamora said again.

“I do not swim.” The Yemeni swallowed. His face twitched as his nervous smile grew larger.

Zamora's face darkened.

“Get in the pool!” A cloud of cigar smoke erupted with his snarl, enveloping his head.

Ushan complied, walking down the steps fully clothed. His white shirt clung to his skinny chest.

“See?” Zamora smiled sweetly again. “The water is really quite nice. Come and let us talk.”

The pool grew deeper as the Yemeni sloshed his way toward them. Three feet away, only his head remained above the surface. He smiled, fanning his arms to keep his balance. Water sloshed at his absurdly large ears.

“I have no wire.” He sputtered. “Your bodyguard already conducted a most embarrassing pat-down.”

“Indulge me.” Zamora gestured toward the body of the dead Chechen at the bottom of the pool. “You no doubt understand that I would kill you very slowly if I suspected you were an informant.” He took another puff of the cigar.

“I am no informant!” Ushan said, forgetting to raise his chin. He took in a mouthful of water.

“I believe you,” Zamora said. “I could not help but notice you looking over some of the women here tonight.”

The Yemeni shook his head. “Surely you are mistaken,” he stammered.

“Perhaps so,” Zamora said. “But I think not.” He grabbed the tremulous Cathy by the arm and shoved her through the water toward Ushan. “You may consider this one a gift. Call her a consolation prize for not being able to pick up a better one at the party.”

Cathy's mouth hung open. She blinked wide doe eyes. “Why?”

“Why not?” Zamora said.

The Yemeni licked his lips. “I may keep her for the entire night?”

“You misunderstand me.” Zamora waved his hand. “I do not want her back.”

 

 

Five minutes later saw Zamora standing naked in the middle of the great room, toweling himself dry. He saw no reason to go to his bedroom. All the members of his entourage had long since passed out in the cabanas. The entire villa was his suite.

He stepped into a pair of purple silk sleeping shorts, glancing up at Monagas.

“Make certain you tell the idiot to kill her when he is finished.”

“Yes,
patrón
.” Monagas lips turned up in a crooked smile. “Should I take care of him as well?”

Zamora fluffed the towel through his hair. “I am inclined to say yes, mainly due to his ears.” He sniffed. “Do they not seem excessively large to you, Monagas?”

The boxer nodded, his crooked lip turned up in a slight smile, scarred hands folded in front of his waist. “Indeed.”

“I do not trust him with those big ears. He hears too much and may decide to inform. And yet, it is his people who want the device . . . We had best wait on that,” Zamora said. “The Chechens are angry that I did not sell Baba Yaga to them. I do believe the fool Bulat on that account. They will try to kill me for it. I would very much appreciate it if you would stop them from doing that.”

Monagas smiled. “Of course.”

“And you may go ahead and take care of Umarov. I doubt Rustam Daudov would trust that idiot with any details, but see what he knows before you kill him.”

“As you wish,” Monagas said. “May I ask a question,
patrón
?”

Zamora nodded.

“Do you still plan to go to Argentina, considering the work that must be done on the device and the problem with the Chechens?”

Zamora slumped in a plush, high-backed chair. “Absolutely,” he said. “I have been planning my entry into the Dakar for many years. The professor has some work to do to make Baba Yaga viable again.” He giggled, taking another cigar from a silver case. “I don't know about you, but I don't want to be anywhere near him in case he makes a mistake. What good is an investment if one does not live to spend the profits? Anyway, the race will be great fun, you will see. It will be like a carnival, especially if Mr. Jericho Quinn is there.” Zamora bit the end off the cigar and spit it on the floor.

“I do not like him,” Monagas grunted, stooping to pick it up.

“I haven't decided if I do or if I don't.” Zamora smiled. “But he has pleasant taste in women, doesn't he? See what you can find out about him.”

His thoughts drifted to Cathy for a moment and he gave a long sigh, overcome with melancholy. Not for the stupid brunette, but because he wished he'd not been so hasty to leave Lourdes Lopez in Idaho. He felt the overpowering urge to call the fiery woman. He glanced at his watch and cursed. It was nearly midnight there and she would surely be sleeping . . . or torturing Pollard's wife. In either case she would not want to be bothered.