The Stolen Ones (23 page)

“I DON’T GET IT.”
Windermere leaned close to the computer, spoke into the microphone. “Why wait until now to phone this thing in? Why not talk to us when we saw you on the ship?”

On the computer screen, the witness’s image blurred and distorted. His voice cracked, cut out; the picture froze. Windermere felt her frustration mounting. Wondered why the hell she couldn’t conduct this damn interview on dry land.

The witness’s name was Raipul. He was the same short, bearded man who’d given her the side eye when she’d checked out the
Ocean Constellation
with Stevens the first time. He hadn’t wanted to talk then, but now, from a tenuous Skype connection somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, he’d found his voice.

“I wanted to be safe,” Raipul told them. “I needed to be absolutely certain. This ship—sometimes we don’t leave precisely on schedule. Sometimes we make extra stops. If I spoke before I was sure we’d left the United States, the people who did this could . . .” He swallowed. “I was afraid they would find me.”

“But not anymore.”

He shrugged. “I am at sea,” he said. “When the ship docks in Spain I will leave it and find another ship. Who will follow me? Not even the Federal Bureau of Investigation will know where I’ve gone.”

“So, okay,” Windermere said. “I guess that puts a time frame on our conversation. Why don’t you tell us what you know before we lose our connection?”

“You were asking about a box,” Raipul said. “A box filled with women.”

“That’s right,” Stevens said. “Did you see it?”

“We all saw it,” Raipul told them. “We all knew it was there. The women—we could hear them shouting for help.”

“But you didn’t help them.”

“How could we? We all knew who owned the box. We knew what he would do if we told about him.”

“But you’re telling now,” Windermere said. “Why?”

Raipul stared through the computer screen at Windermere and Stevens, and even across thousands of miles of shoddy satellite connection, Windermere could see the man’s eyes were haunted.

“I think about them,” he said. “The women. Even now, I think about them in that box. About how many more boxes there must be,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about them.”

“Us, either,” Windermere said. “So, okay, Mr. Raipul, what do you have for us?”

“I’ve heard stories,” Raipul said softly. “From the men in the harbors and the crew on these ships. They say a man named Dragon imports the women. That he operates with an American in Bucharest.”

And what?
Windermere thought.
We know all this already
.

“The American has a company,” Raipul said. “I have heard that the Baltic Treasures Trading Company is the trader of these women. They are not the people who put the boxes on the boat. But they are the people who fill them.”

LePlavy was hovering behind them, listening in. “Didn’t come up in any of my dealings with Interpol,” he told Stevens and Windermere. “I’ve never heard of that company.”

“They must be Mike’s cover in Bucharest,” Stevens said. “He loads them into the Dragon’s boxes, and sends them to Trieste.”

“Works for me,” Windermere said. “So what do we do with Mr. Raipul’s information?”

“I’ll get back in touch with Interpol,” LePlavy said. “Look for background information on this Baltic Treasures company. Maybe it leads us to this American, Mike. We can follow him to the Dragon.”

Windermere arched an eyebrow at Stevens. “You want to go to Europe, partner?” She turned back to the screen. “Mr. Raipul,” she said. “Stick around, would you? Don’t fall overboard or anything.”

Raipul’s image bobbed and crackled. Then the picture froze, and his voice came out as static. “I’m going to take that as a yes,” Windermere said, standing. “Let’s get to work.”

L
E
PLAVY CAME BACK
an hour and a half later, rubbing his hands. “It’s dinnertime in Eastern Europe,” he said. “I had to drag a bunch of people from their
ciorba
.”

Windermere studied the agent. “You don’t exactly look sorry about it.”

“Not at all,” LePlavy said. “Interpol Bucharest took a drive down to the Baltic Treasures Trading Company, had a look around the place. Apparently it’s an exporter of electronic goods, headquarters in Romania, offices all around the Baltic states.”

“Yeah,” Windermere said. “And?”

“And our European colleagues found a gentleman hanging around the Baltic Treasures offices,” LePlavy said. “Showed him a police sketch of the Dragon and the guy freaked out and started singing. Promised the Interpol guys the moon if only they’d protect his family.”

“Talk about world-famous,” Stevens said. “What did the guy have to say?”

“He said the company put thirty boxes on the
Ocean Constellation
the day they shipped the women, is what he said.”

“Thirty boxes,” Stevens said. “Jesus. All of them filled with women?”

LePlavy shook his head. “Nah. They were mostly filled with DVD players and textiles. It’s a volume game: send twenty-nine legit boxes and hope the last one doesn’t get picked for a random inspection, and if it does, put up a false front and hope the customs guys get lazy. Play the odds, right?”

“So we can lean on this guy,” Windermere said. “Maybe somewhere along the line he can lead us to Mike.”

“I figure we’ll let Interpol handle that,” LePlavy replied. “The guy had something else to say, though. Apparently Baltic Treasures sent another twenty boxes out a couple weeks back, about the same time a ship called the
Atlantic Prince
docked in Trieste.”

He grinned at them. “The
Atlantic Prince
calls in Newark this afternoon.”

“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

The Dragon gestured around the apartment. Catalina followed his gaze and wanted to be sick.

It was a beautiful apartment. The floor was rich dark wood, the kitchen marble and stainless steel, the ceilings high and the windows expansive. It was bigger than Catalina’s parents’ home in Romania, and the way the sunlight streamed in, it resembled a movie star’s home. It was an incredible apartment, and Catalina knew it was where she was going to die.

Park Avenue. A skyscraper in the clouds. Catalina thought about Irina, about her family, about Dorina and the other girls, and tried not to throw up. Tried not to cry. Tried to keep herself together in front of this awful, devil-faced man, who was leering at her and showing her around as though she were a houseguest, not a captive. As though he didn’t intend to cut her to pieces later with that knife on his belt.

Catalina let the Dragon lead her. He showed her the living room, the kitchen, a vast, well-stocked library, a couple of guest bedrooms. He showed her the master bedroom, a massive bed and a pile of more white powder on the bedside table. He led her back to the kitchen and fed her, gave her a ham sandwich, the first real food she’d consumed in weeks, and as she sat at his kitchen table and scarfed the sandwich down, he talked to her, asked her maddening questions about her childhood, about the town in which she’d grown up. What did her father do, he wondered. What kind of dog was Sasha? Did she share her sister’s appetite for adventure? Stupid, useless questions. As though she were trapped inside some kind of madhouse.

Which, she supposed, she was. This man was not normal. He was drugged-up and maniacal, toying with her like she was a mouse in a trap. Catalina pushed the sandwich away. She’d lost her appetite.

“What do you want with me?” she asked the man, looking him in the eye. “Why have you brought me here?”

The Dragon chuckled. “No time for pleasantries, I suppose,” he said. “Very well.”

He took the sandwich away from her. Motioned her to her feet. Catalina stood. Followed him through the apartment to one of the bathrooms. The Dragon stepped back and ushered her inside.

“You’ll find soap and shampoo in the shower,” he told her. “Clean yourself. Make sure you’re very clean. There’s a makeup kit on the counter when you’re finished, and I’ve chosen something for you to wear. When you’re clean and dressed, I’ll let you out again.” He smiled at her. “Then we can start our games.”

Catalina shuddered. Pushed past him and into the bathroom. The Dragon chuckled in the hallway. “Don’t try anything silly,” he told her. “I’d hate to have to hurt you before I’m ready.”

Catalina slammed the door closed. Felt around for a lock and found none, so she waited. Didn’t move until she heard the man walk away from the door.

The bathroom was huge. It was bigger than her bedroom in Berceni. A huge shower and a deep, luxurious bathtub. A window with a view of the city.

Catalina hurried to the window. Peered down at the streets and across at the skyscrapers around her. Everywhere she looked, she could see normal people going about their normal lives. And here she was, trapped in this madman’s apartment, destined to die.

The madman opened the door. “I don’t hear water running,” he said. “Come away from that window before I get angry.”

Catalina waited until he’d closed the door again. Then, reluctantly, she peeled off her dirty clothing. Ran the shower water until it was warm, and stepped into the spray and began to obey the man’s instructions.

TWELVE HUNDRED MILES AWAY
from her sister, Irina Milosovici crawled out of her little alcove.

She was very hungry. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, when she’d had lunch with the other women at the safe house. It had been more than a day now, and she was weakened by thirst.

And she was hot. It had been frigid at night, but now Irina was sweltering. Even in the shadows of her little cubbyhole, she was sweating. Fighting the empty gnaw in her stomach, the parch in her throat. The shame.

She’d given up too easily last night. She’d let the men scare her, and she’d freaked out and run away. At the first sign of a threat, she’d abandoned Catalina. She was a coward. Catalina was still out there. This was no time to hide.

Slowly, unsteadily, Irina pulled herself to her feet. The midday sun was blazing; it stung her eyes as she searched the empty street.

There were warehouses in both directions—blank, windowless buildings. Railroad tracks and parking lots and abandoned cars. In the distance, Irina could see the busy road she’d fled from the night before. The convenience store was up there somewhere. It would have men. Those men would have cars. She would try again to lure one of the men. Then she would steal his car. She would find a way to Clearfield, Pennsylvania, and she would search for Catalina.

Her stomach growled. She pictured the long rows of American candy bars and snack foods, the coolers filled with cold drinks. She would have to get food before she found a man. She would need energy for the journey ahead.

Squinting, shielding her eyes from the sun, Irina pushed herself off the dirty wall and started unsteadily toward the road, the spasms of traffic, the city.

STEVENS STARED OUT THE WINDOW
of the Customs and Border Protection helicopter as Windermere relayed instructions to LePlavy through her headset.

“Tell Interpol to work on that witness,” she told the Newark agent, yelling over the thunder of the rotors. “We need to know which of these twenty boxes is legitimate, and which aren’t. If there’s women on this boat, I want to find them.”

They’d left LePlavy to coordinate the investigation from land. Commandeered a CBP Black Hawk and flown out to meet the
Atlantic Prince
as she steamed into the Upper Bay. Stevens watched the big ship as she passed beneath the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge between Staten Island and Brooklyn: a thousand feet long, she was the same length and general dimensions as the
Ocean Constellation
, though her hull was sleek and black and somehow more foreboding.

There was no guarantee that any of the boxes stacked on the
Atlantic Prince
held women, Stevens knew. But if they did, it would break the case open.

LePlavy had a CBP tactical team en route to the
Atlantic Prince
on a borrowed Customs SAFE boat. “It’s fast,” he said. “Sixty miles an hour. They might beat you out there.”

“Good,” Windermere said. “I hope they do. Keep me and Stevens from getting shot.”

“Those traffickers aren’t going to want to give up their cargo,” Stevens said, watching the
Atlantic Prince
grow larger outside his window. “So let’s try and get the women out of the box before this ship docks.”

Windermere glanced across the helicopter at him. “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s try and do that.”

L
E
PLAVY CALLED BACK
just as Stevens and Windermere reached the
Atlantic Prince
.

“Got a box for you,” he told Windermere, reading a number off of a manifest. “Just like the
Ocean Constellation
, nineteen legit boxes, one bogey. Headed to a nonexistent company in Jersey City.”

“Get the ship’s crew that information,” Windermere said. “Tell them to find the box for us. I want those women out of there immediately.”

“Ship’s crew has been informed of your arrival,” LePlavy told her. “That CBP tactical squad’s nearly on-scene, as well. You probably want to wait for them, in case things get hairy.”

“Fine,” Windermere said. “But tell them to hurry.”

The CBP Black Hawk swooped over the bow of the
Atlantic Prince
, descended into a controlled hover ten feet above the deck. Windermere could see five or six members of the ship’s crew clustered below, ready to help bring her and Stevens aboard. The customs airman slid open the helicopter’s rear door. Gestured to Windermere,
Now or never
. Windermere looked at Stevens, who gave her a weak smile.

“We do too much of this cowboy shit,”
she told him, yelling over the wind and the howl of the engines.
“See you on deck.”

>   >   >

STEVENS FELT HIS STOMACH
drop out as he descended from the Black Hawk onto the
Atlantic Prince
’s bow. Wondered how a Minnesota state cop found himself in this kind of predicament all the time. Before he could come up with an answer, he was touching down on hard steel, and the crew of the
Atlantic Prince
was surrounding him, unclipping his safety harness, bringing him and Windermere on board the ship.

As on the
Ocean Constellation
, most of the crew didn’t speak any English. The first officer did, though, and he met Stevens and Windermere inside the ship’s accommodations tower.

“Your colleague onshore relayed your request,” he told Stevens and Windermere. “In general, it’s not possible to access the cargo during a voyage. But this box, luckily, is at the top of a stack. If you’re careful, you should be able to get up there.”

“Perfect,” Windermere said. “So let’s do it.”

They hurried out of the tower and back out to the cargo deck. Met the customs tactical team, four hard-looking men with assault rifles and combat-zone body armor. Windermere explained the situation.

“We have a box we suspect is full of women at the top of that stack,” she said, pointing skyward. “We need to get up there and get inside.”

The leader followed her gaze. The box was five containers up, fifty feet above deck, a hundred-odd feet above sea level. Stevens felt his stomach churn, felt suddenly aware of the motion of the waves against the ship’s hull. The swell was a light one, but there were no handrails up there. Any slip could be fatal.

“Maybe we should wait,” he told Windermere. “It’s a hell of a risk letting forty disoriented women loose up there.”

Windermere shook her head. “The longer we wait, the better the chances that the Dragon figures out what we’re up to,” she said. “We want to catch this guy, Stevens. We’ll just have to be really freaking careful.”

Stevens considered the stacks again. Weighed the odds. Figured he’d rather try and corral all those women than see the Dragon get away clean.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”