Poe (13 page)

He doubled over, coughing, and dropped the makeshift sap to the ground. She hooked it with her foot and hurled it across the room, out of reach.

She took a couple steps back, keeping her eye on the cop the whole time. He coughed once more, then began panting as he caught his breath. As soon as he was more in control, he tilted his head up and looked at her. There was fire in his eyes, an anger several times stronger than it had been when he’d entered the room.

The roar began, barely noticeable, at the back of his throat, then flew out of his mouth as he launched himself at her.

Alex had the fleeting thought that she needed to be careful not to hurt him too much, as it might negate whatever deal Stonewell had worked out to get her into Slavne Prison. Cops worldwide were rabid when it came to protecting their own, even when one of their own was a complete shit.

She dodged to the side, trying to get out of his way, but his shoulder still glanced against her rib. In a way, it was a good thing. The blow spun him sideways, and kept him from smashing headfirst into the wall and breaking his neck. It did not, however, keep his other shoulder from crashing into the cement and dislocating.

The cop crumpled to the floor in a howl of pain.

Alex rushed to the door, and started kicking it. “We need help in here! Hey! Anyone there? Help!”

When she heard several pairs of feet running toward the holding cell, she backed away and moved up against the wall to look as harmless as possible.

The door flew open and three cops rushed in. After a quick look at her, they noticed their colleague lying against the far wall. Two of them went to him, while the other approached Alex.

He said something to her in Ukrainian, his tone harsh.

“Don’t look at me,” she said calmly. “He did that himself.”

The guy rattled off at her again.

This time she just shrugged and looked past him at the others. They had helped their friend back to his feet, and were trying to find a way to get him out of the room without disturbing his damaged shoulder.

The cop standing in front of Alex said something to the others, and ran out of the room. He returned with his English-speaking colleague right after the injured man was led outside.

“What happened?” the cop asked, not looking happy.

“Your friend decided he wanted a little revenge.”

“But he was on the ground.”

“Again,” she added for him.

“Yes, again.”

“What can I say? He’s an idiot. Look, my hands are cuffed behind my back. He comes at me with a weapon and all I can do is—”

“Weapon? What weapon?”

She looked around, spotted the sap in the corner, and nodded toward it.

He walked over and picked it up. From the look on his face, she knew this wasn’t the first time he’d seen it.

He shouted something toward the door, then turned to Alex. “I will be back. Someone bring you towel now, for you clean up.” He left.

The promised towel showed up a few minutes later, but because of the cuffs, the cop who brought it had to wipe the blood from her face and hair. She had forgotten about the cut on her head and the towel was a red mess when he finished. He left for a moment, then returned with a piece of gauze that he clumsily taped over the wound.

When the English speaker came back, he looked her over, gave her a nod, and said, “Come.”

He was her only escort as he led her up a darkened stairway to an office on the second floor. The room was crammed with books and stacks of paper, with an oversized wooden desk dominating the center. There were three chairs—one for the old man sitting on the other side of the desk, and two, currently empty, for visitors. The cop motioned her into the far chair, and took the one beside her.

The old man behind the desk was wearing a black judge’s robe over a white-collared shirt and light blue tie. Hanging from a blue and yellow ribbon around his neck was a gold, multipointed starburst medal. The only hair he had were two tufts of white above each ear.

Since the moment they’d walked in, his gaze had followed Alex. Now his eyes were locked with hers. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act, so she decided to match him stare for stare. In theory, he was also in Stonewell’s pocket.

Finally he smiled and leaned back in his chair as he broke eye contact. He clasped his hands in front of his chest, his elbow resting on the arms of his chair.

“Welcome to Simferopol, Maureen Powell. I am Justice Gurka.” His voice was surprisingly devoid of any Ukrainian accent, and sounded more like he’d come from London than the former Soviet republic.

“Thanks,” she said. “I heard it was a friendly place. Haven’t been disappointed.”

A condescending smile. “Most people don’t get arrested so soon after entering our country.”

“So it’s my fault.”

“Does it really matter?” The judge leaned forward again and opened a large ledger in front of him. “You have been charged with violence against a person or persons and possession of a deadly weapon.” This was part of a prearranged story that connected the weapon in question—a knife planted in Alex’s backpack—to a recent stabbing in the city. The severity of the crime would give her a certain cachet in prison that she could use to her advantage if necessary. “Unfortunately,” the judge went on, “I will not be able to schedule your trial for several months. Which means that unless you can produce bail in an amount I have yet to determine, you will be a guest of the Crimean judicial system.”

“Looks like I’m shit out of luck,” she said. “Unless that bail is under a few hundred bucks.”

“Well, then, that settles that.” He wrote something in the ledger. “As much as I would like to house you in one of our local jail facilities, they are not meant for stays more than a few days.”

True or not, at least he was sticking to the script. “I understand.”

“We will have to transfer you to one of our local prisons. Yalta, I think. It will be better suited to your needs.”

“Wait. Yalta?”

“There’s a women’s facility just outside of the city. You’ll have a nice ocean breeze, clean air. You’ll enjoy it.”

The judge closed the ledger, and the cop stood up, ready to leave. But Alex remained in her seat.

“I think you and I should have a private conversation,” she said to the judge.

“That would be highly irregular.”

“Wouldn’t you say this whole situation is irregular?”

The judge regarded her for several seconds, then looked at the cop. “Please step outside.” The cop hesitated, but the judge smiled and said, “She’s handcuffed, and I’m behind my desk. There’s little she can do before you’d be able to get back in here.”

I wouldn’t be so sure about that,
Alex thought, and could see the cop was thinking the very same thing. But he nodded and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

“So, Ms. Powell, you have a problem with my orders?”

“We both know Yalta isn’t where I’m supposed to go.”

“Do we?”

If it hadn’t been for the knowing look in his eye, Alex might have begun to wonder if she’d been taken to the wrong judge.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Want?”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“Are you trying to bribe me, Ms. Powell? I can hardly be bought for ‘a few hundred bucks,’ as you say.”

“I’m sure they already gave you much more than that.”

The judge steepled his fingers and tapped them against his upper lip, letting out a low, quick laugh. “I’m afraid, my dear, that I find the…”—he paused, smiling as he leaned forward—“the
gift
your colleagues were kind enough to provide me isn’t quite as generous as it could have been.”

You son of a bitch
, she thought, but kept her tone neutral. “So you want more.”

Turning his palms up, he shrugged. “I’m only one man in a very powerful and unforgiving system, and I’m taking on a lot of risk. It seems only fair that—”

“Save it. You want more, I’m not the one you need to talk to.”

“No, but you can relay the message.”

“I’m not in contact with my colleagues.”

“Easily remedied.”

The judge opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a mobile phone. Disposable, most likely. Definitely not traceable back to him. He held it out to her, but she didn’t take it.

He frowned. “I assume you know what number to dial.”

When she finally moved, she snatched the device from his hand, making it clear she was annoyed. Moving the phone below desk level so the judge couldn’t see the keypad, she punched in the emergency number she had memorized before leaving DC.

It rang twice before it clicked and a female voice said, “Yes?”

“Omega twenty-four slash four,” she said.

“One moment.”

The silence lasted for nearly half a minute, then another click.

“Poe?”

McElroy.

“How you doing, Jason?”

“What the hell’s going on? Shouldn’t you be on your way to prison by now?”

“Just a little hiccup.”

“You got yourself in trouble
again
?”

Her eyes narrowed. Of course he’d heard about Odessa. “Actually this trouble isn’t mine. It’s yours.” She told him about the judge’s request.

“That son of a bitch,” McElroy murmured.

“I thought the very same thing.”

“Where are you now?”

“Sitting in his office.”

“He’s there
with
you?”

“Right in front of me.”

“All right. Good. You tell him that—”

“I don’t think so,” she said, feeling tired and sore and more pissed off by the moment. “That’s your job, not mine.”

She set the phone down and slid it across the desk.

“It’s for you,” she told him.

The judge let it sit where it was. “I’d prefer that you handle the details.”

“Like I told him, that’s not my job. You want more, you ask for it.”

The superior smile he’d been wearing disappeared.

He hesitated, then picked up the phone. “Hello?…Yes, I’m afraid the situation has…That’s right…Oh, I wouldn’t dare be so presumptuous. I think you can come up with a suitable number.” The pause that followed was longer than the previous ones. By the time it ended, the judge was smiling again. “Yes, I believe that will do quite well. Very generous of you, thank you.” His gaze flicked to Alex. “Not to worry, I’ll make certain she’s on her way the moment the money is transferred. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

As soon as he ended the call, he opened the back of the phone, removed the SIM card, and broke it in half. He opened the ledger in front of him again and called out, “Kaskiv!”

The door flew open and the English speaker reentered.

“I’ve just checked with Yalta, and apparently they are unable to take a new prisoner at this time. I believe there is room for her at Slavne. I have a call in to them now. As soon as I hear back and get the okay, she can be on her way. Please take her back to her cell.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alex rose and moved toward the door.

“Ms. Powell,” the judge said.

She looked back at him.

His smile had widened. “I do hope you’ll enjoy your time in our country.”

She was transported
in the back of a Soviet-era sedan that she was sure wasn’t long for the world. The entire drive to the prison was lined with farms and the occasional small village.

Nearly two hours after they had left the Crimean capital, her driver, a boyish cop who couldn’t have been on the job for more than a few months, turned left off the country road onto a narrow, tree-lined street.

Alex had a weird sense of déjà vu as they entered a wooded area, and approached a guardhouse that sat in front of an imposing gate about a hundred yards in. It reminded her of the entrance to the Stonewell facility.

Here, however, the gate was flanked on either side by not one fence, but two. The parallel barriers stood twenty feet high, the no-man’s-land between them wide enough to make it impossible for someone to jump from the top of one to the other. So while an escapee might get over the first fence, she’d never reach the top of the second before being seen, and probably shot.

Alex’s driver stopped next to the gate and lowered his window. The guard who stepped out of the building leaned down and looked into the car. His gaze lingered on Alex, a sneer digging into his cheek. He and the driver spoke for a moment, then he returned to the hut and the giant gate in front of them swung open.

There was a small rise in the road ahead, so Alex didn’t get her first view of Slavne Prison until they reached the crest. Satellite pictures were one thing, but seeing it in person brought only one thought to mind.

Hellhole.

If a group of buildings could exhale misery, those in front of her were doing just that. Gray and grimy and foreboding, the walls that surrounded the prison proper rose a good three stories into the sky. Centered along the front was the boxy and equally depressing administration building. The few windows that existed were small and dirty. Alex spotted a few places where other windows had once been, but had since been bricked over. Beyond the prison wall, she could barely see the tops of the identical buildings inside.

The road they were on led to a parking area right in front of the admin entrance. Just before the lot, another road branched off to the left, allowing access to the two buildings not within the prison walls. The two-story rectangular box was clearly a barrack. No doubt it was where the guards who didn’t have places in town stayed when they were off duty. The house, Alex guessed, was where the equivalent of a prison warden must have lived. It was only slightly less morose than the other structures.

Three uniformed guards were standing outside the administration door. As Alex’s driver pulled into an empty spot near them, they walked over. The driver made a motion for her to stay where she was, then climbed out.

She almost laughed. Where would she go? She was once again wearing handcuffs, her wrists in front of her this time, and there were no inside handles on either of the sedan’s rear doors.

After a quick conversation with the guards, her escort returned, fetched some papers from the front seat, and gave them to one of the other men. The documents were examined, heads nodded, and the back door of the sedan was finally opened.