Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo

October 10

Kinshasa General Hospital, with two-thousand beds and more than twenty-two hundred employees, was one of the largest such facilities in Africa. But in a country devastated by years of civil war, where forty-five thousand people still died every month from disease, starvation, and violence, the facility still had trouble keeping up with even the routine daily cases.

Though one of its leading doctors was so dedicated to his patients he rarely missed a day’s work, he decided to call in sick for his afternoon shift. He’d awakened with a fever and chills, aching all over. But just as he reached for the phone, it rang. The chief resident asked him to report to the emergency room ASAP. Casualties were pouring from an overnight battle between the army and opposition groups.

Stifling a groan, he told the man he’d be there in twenty minutes.

Bogota, Colombia

October 10

“So where can a girl who likes girls go to get a drink?” Zoe asked Enrique as they left the Marriott. Her final stint as Skye Lines’ PR Director had been a successful, if tedious, affair. The Colombian VIPs had seemed enthusiastic about her father’s decision to begin the first direct flight from Britain to Bogota, and one of the local bankers he’d invited had promised to contact the home office about investing in the company. She’d managed to forego much of the usual leering and unwanted propositions from the men in attendance by choosing a more sedate and conservative ensemble than normal. Instead of her usual low-cut cocktail dress and stilettos, she wore a navy pantsuit with a beige silk blouse and pumps. Now all she wanted was to forget about business—and her future—for as long as possible.

“I don’t understand,” her bodyguard answered, keeping pace with her as she headed away from the building and toward a cluster of shops, restaurants, and bars farther down the block.

“A lesbian establishment.”

“I don’t know, Miss.” If Enrique was shocked he didn’t show it. He continued to walk beside her, seemingly engrossed in the mass of pedestrians around them.

She paused and glared at him. Why did so many people have to have everything spelled out for them? “Then why don’t you make some phone calls and find out?”

“Of course, Miss Howe.” He flipped open his cell and, after a brief conversation, turned to her. “There is a club called Margarita’s. This way, Madam,” he added, gesturing toward a street ahead that veered off to the left.

“Is your gender allowed?” Zoe asked. “Or is it for women only?” The bodyguard was necessary even if Colombia was much safer than in the past, but having to be shadowed throughout the duration of this visit seemed a bit of an exaggeration. Especially with her nerves on edge as far as her future was concerned. The last thing she needed was someone to inhibit the remains of her plush existence.

“I was told it was a ‘mixed’ environment.”

“Very well, then.” Zoe sighed. They walked in silence until Enrique pointed out an alley.

“It’s in here,” he said.

“You are to stay out of my way and be as discreet as possible,” she instructed him, brushing back her hair with a sweep of her hand. “I’m here to enjoy an hour of local entertainment and I don’t want you in my face. I don’t even want you in my peripheral vision.”

“I understand.” He paused outside the door, allowing her to enter alone.

Despite its less than auspicious exterior, Margarita’s was a lively and welcoming place. Brightly painted murals of musicians and dancers decorated the walls, and the booths and tables were comfortable-looking, a cut above many of the gay bars she’d frequented outside Europe. Salsa music boomed from the speakers, and the dance floor was crowded with gyrating bodies, mostly male.

A long oak bar lined the wall to her left. Behind it, three dark-skinned men were busily pouring drinks for the crowd. Zoe claimed one of the high padded barstools and ordered a gin and tonic. She considered trying something local, but decided she wasn’t in the mood for cultural experimentations. Right now she needed to hold on to whatever reminded her of better days.

Once she had her drink, she swiveled to watch the dancers. Many of the women present were dressed provocatively, in bright-colored dresses with slits up the side and plunging necklines. Most of the male couples were content to rub up against each other, gyrating in sync to the booming beat, but a few showed off their salsa moves in well-choreographed displays that looked like something out of a TV ballroom contest. Though she enjoyed watching them, Zoe had never been much of a dancer.

When she scanned the room for Enrique to make sure he wasn’t being obvious, she spotted a very cute woman about her age, alone at the end of the bar. Her eyes were dark, her hair long and wavy. Brunette, but then again, it was Colombia. Most, if not all, women here were dark. That suited her fine.

Zoe smiled at her in a way that nearly always got results, and before long the woman got up and came to stand beside her. Close up, the view did not disappoint. The stranger wore a bright yellow shift that hugged her soft curves, and the short hemline showed off long, shapely legs. “Habla Ingles?” she asked the woman.

“Yes,” the stranger replied, offering her hand. “My name is Jasele.”

She accepted it, caressing the woman’s hand with her thumb before letting go. “Zoe.”

Jasele shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as though not entirely comfortable. “You come here much?”

“You apparently don’t,” Zoe replied, smiling. Probably married, she guessed. “Or you’d otherwise know the answer.”

The woman laughed nervously.

“Unless, of course, it was merely an attempt at conversation,” Zoe added.

“Pardon?” Jasele moved closer, a quizzical look on her face. “I don’t understand.”

“I guess profound discussion is out of the question for tonight,” she mumbled, more to herself than her attractive companion. “But you know what? I’m not really in the mood for chatting anyway.”

Almost mechanically, the woman put her hand on Zoe’s thigh. “Do you want to dance?”

“I’m afraid I’m rhythmically challenged.”

Confusion once again darkened Jasele’s expression. “What?”

Oh, sod it. “No, I don’t dance.” She answered slowly and deliberately, as though talking to someone mentally challenged. Her mood had deteriorated within seconds and all she wanted now was a hot bath and a bed. It wasn’t until this draining exchange that she realized how tired and jetlagged she was.

Jasele’s face brightened. “No problem. I can show you.” She took Zoe’s hand and turned toward the dance floor.

“Thank you, but no.” Zoe resisted the gentle tug and remained where she was. “I think I’ll retire for the night.”

She thought the stranger would let go, but to her surprise, Jasele only tugged harder, practically pulling her off the stool. “Come. It will be fun.”

Zoe scanned the crowd and caught the concerned look on Enrique’s face. She dreaded him having to step in. “Okay. One dance.”

Jasele led her to the middle of the thick crowd of dancers, then looked at her curiously for a moment as though sizing her up. They were still holding hands. Very timidly, the stranger rested her other hand lightly on Zoe’s waist and began to move to the music.

It was awkward from the start. Despite her insistence they dance, Jasele kept Zoe at arm’s length as though she felt almost uncomfortable touching her, and she rarely met her eyes. There was none of the ease and open flirtation evident in all the couples around them. And despite her initial enthusiasm about showing Zoe some moves, Jasele danced almost perfunctorily. Something wasn’t right. Though Zoe tried to follow the stranger’s steps, their interaction was more an unbearable ordeal than fun. When the song was finally over, she quickly pulled away. “Thanks for the dance,” she said, turning to leave.

But once again, the woman grabbed her hand. “Drink with me.”

“Maybe another time. I’m really quite tired.”

“One drink. Please.”

Zoe checked her watch. It was eleven thirty. A nightcap might relax her enough to shut out the negative thoughts of her near future and get some sleep. “Sure, okay. One drink.” She started to head to the bar, but Jasele, who still held her hand, tugged her instead toward the rear of the club.

“This way. Better drinks in the back.”

Zoe allowed the woman to take the lead. “I hadn’t realized there was another bar there.”

“Bar, yes. This way.” Jasele maintained a firm grip on her as she led Zoe through the throng of dancers, down a hall past the toilets and into a dark, musty room. Once inside, her companion shut the door and switched on the lights. They were in the club’s storage room. The long, rectangular space was crowded with spare stools and tables, and boxes of liquor were stacked floor to ceiling with narrow aisles between.

Zoe was a bit surprised since Jasele had seemed so distant on the dance floor. “I’m flattered. But I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” she said, not unkindly. “I’m not interested.”

She started toward the door but the stranger blocked it by putting her body against it. Jasele had an odd expression—more challenge than seduction. Zoe wasn’t in the mood for this. “Please get out of the way.” Just as she was about to pull the woman to the side, someone from behind covered Zoe’s head with a black sack and roughly hugged her against him, pinning her arms at her sides.

“What the bloody hell? Let go of me,” she shouted, struggling to break loose. Whoever held her only gripped her tighter, nearly lifting her off her feet. He was incredibly strong. She fought against a rising panic.

A sharp rapping at the door broke the quiet. Then, Enrique’s voice: “Is that you, Miss Howe?” The most beautiful voice she’d ever heard.

“Help!” she screamed.

The sound of the door crashing open filled her ears, followed a millisecond later by a single gunshot.

As she was dragged away by her captor, she heard Jasele say, “Vámonos. Está muerto.”

Zoe knew enough Spanish to understand that Enrique was dead.

Chapter Five

London

October 11

Derrick Anderson-Howe reached for the photo of Zoe that sat on his desk, taken when the two of them had gone skiing one winter in the Swiss Alps. He’d reconsidered, several times, his decision to fire his daughter and cut off her funds. But now he knew he’d done the right thing. His bank had called this morning because of a number of extraordinarily large out-of-country charges to the company credit card, a routine check to guard against identity theft.

In one day in Bogota, Zoe had racked up nearly twelve-thousand pounds in purchases at several boutiques. Christ, she must have purchased a whole new wardrobe just to spite him. He’d immediately told the bank to cancel the card and send him a new one. Zoe’s hotel had been prepaid, so she was on her own to come up with funds for any further spending sprees in Colombia.

The buzzer on his intercom sounded; his secretary needed him for something. “Yes?”

“A call for you on line one, sir. The gentleman wouldn’t give his name, but he said it was urgent.”

“All right, Mrs. Winters. Thank you, I’ll take it.” He reached tiredly for the phone. “This is Derrick Anderson-Howe.”

“Listen carefully, Mister Howe. I represent the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. We have your daughter in our custody. The price for her safe return is fifty million U.S. dollars.”

Derrick sat upright in his chair. “What? Who is this?”

“We will be in further touch with you regarding the location for the exchange,” the caller instructed him.

“Wait!” Derrick shouted into the phone. “Let me talk to my daughter.”

As though the man expected the request, Zoe’s voice, angry and defiant, came on the line a few seconds later. “Just contact my father. He will give you whatever money you ask for.” Though obviously a recording, it was enough for Derrick to know that the call was authentic.

After another moment, the caller came back on the line. “I hope for her sake your daughter is right. Her life depends on it. Like I said, Mister Howe, we will contact you soon.”

“Wait! I can’t raise fifty million dollars,” Derrick shouted, “that’s—”

The line went dead.

“Wait!” he yelled again, clicking the button several times to make sure the call had really disconnected. “Jesus Christ!” He slammed the phone down, his heart booming.

Think. Stay calm. But the image of Zoe, surrounded by armed men ready to take her life if he couldn’t raise an impossible sum of cash, was overwhelming. He knew The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia was another name for the FARC, the guerrilla group notorious for taking hostages, and often killing them when their demands weren’t met or when rescue operations were attempted. Dear God.

“Mrs. Winters,” he barked into his intercom. “Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day.”

Derrick pulled out his BlackBerry and dialed the entry number for Chez Maurice. He used the name to cover the identity of an old school friend, Collier Morris, who worked for British intelligence.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 885