Chapter 19 Wise Man's Words
*
Ramona could not believe it. Tears were welling up in her eyes and she had to bit her lip. She had her arms around the shoulders of Rodrigo and Pedro her two young brothers. The boys stood there transfixed and completely silent and stared at the two rooms that would soon be their bedrooms….their bedrooms: They could not believe it, too!
Aljosha Danilenko smiled. It was a honest and carefree smile. She liked it and Ivan had been formal: She was to have it. Not just rented out for her, but Sarnoff had ordered him to buy the flat from his own, personal money. Ivan –on occasions-was a man of rapid decisions and occasionally these decisions did not come from careful evaluation of a situation but straight from his guts. Danilenko shook his head. There were worse investments then 200 square meters, a garden and two garages in South Miami's Homestead Quarter. It was a part of Miami, where you could still find agriculture, fruit and veggie growers, young middle class families with small children who cared for a safe and healthy environment and coppers like Caine, who could not afford better, but wanted to life in a nice and peaceful place.
Ivan had been formal: he did not want his name connected to anything Ramona…he wanted her safe and well protected…he wanted this to look, as if Babushka Marja Fedorovna – the Snow-White of the Bratstvo- had just seen to the comfort and well-being of her beloved governess. They had excellent lawyers on the mob's payroll who'd fix that deal.
"Peter,.." He told the bear of a man, who stood a little away from them, careful to employ his angliscised name and speak English to him "You may wish to take Pedro and Rodrigo out for some ice cream, while we conclude with Mr. Franklin !"
Piotr the body guard beamed and bowed his head. Then he took the two boys hands and led them away. They were nice children and he loved nice children. One day, he would have boys of his own with a good woman like Ramona, teaching them to hunt, to fish and to take care of themselves and spoiling them rotten. Nothing to do with his own, bleak and tough Moscow childhood in a broken country without any law.
The boys chattered happily with the hulk, asking him, if he'd come and see their new rooms, telling him what they'd do in the gardens and that he needed to help them building a tree house.
Ramona was slowly recovering from her shook. , the owner of the house decided that this and sending off the children was an excellent sign. With the economy crisis that also struck hard real estate owners like him, a buyer, who would pay cash was God's gift. And as far as he could understand, this pretty young mother of two who had come with a very respectable looking business man, perhaps some kind of financial counsellor, not only could afford his house, but had the cash to pay for it. Heavens, the chick was pretty! Already the necklace around her neck was worth at least 5 grands and the small ear studs on her beautifully shaped ears where another 2 grands. The car in front, while not flashy, was nice, new and solid. And they'd come with a driver. Both boys well bred, clean and polite….he could hope for nothing better as a buyer. The neighbours would certainly take quickly to her little family.
Danilenko ignored Franklin and took Ramona's arm:" So you like it, Dear? It feels right?"
She beamed at him and nodded. "It is perfect, I do not know…"
Alexej chuckled and lifted his hand. "If it is perfect, than there is no need to talk. It's yours. I will see to the legal business and make sure that you and the boys move in as soon as possible." He gave her his most charming smile."Now off you go and find the boys and Peter. I will finalise everything and then find you."
She nodded, pecked a kiss on his check and went of after Rodrigo, Pedro and Piotr. She could hardly believ what was happening to her, also Mr. Alex had explained everything. They had had a very long discussion that afternoon at Marja Feodorovna's house. Mr. Alex had told her, that Mr. Ivan was a shy man who had had a very difficult and hard life and was a bit awkward, when it came to expressing his feelings. He had told her, that Mr. Ivan was very fond of her –very fond and that this flat was just peanuts for him….but to know, that she owned it simply made him feel much better. So he just wanted her and the little ones to be fine until he'd come back. Being at BunkerHill was just bad enough and –having seen were Ramona lived with Pedro and Rodrigo –felt even worse. He was upset to know, that every day she returned to a place where bad things could happen to her, while he was locked away and could not help.
Ramona had finally given in. It was true that her neighbourhood was a nightmare. It was true that she blessed Piotr and his colleagues, when they drew her home from Marja Feodorowna's, giving those rascals from the Latino gangs in her place hard looks and telling them to stay away from Ramona and the boys. But Piotr and his colleagues did not stand guard over the entry of Pedro's and Rodrigo's prep school. They were not always around and her little brothers often told her how frightened they were, when another shoot out between the gangs would leave another bloodied body on the street. This neighbourhood was different. It was closer to Marja Feodorovna's place, better, calmer and with no problems of THAT kind. People here were peaceful and lived peaceful lives. They'd enjoy it.
"So we have a deal !" Danilenko replied in excellent English.
"We have…" The owner smiled. " Miss Sanchez can move in immediately if she wants. You see: The place is pristine. There is nothing to do. Just put in the furniture, sign up the boys at school and enjoy!"
The Russian mobster nodded. He liked the place too. Lieutenant Horatio Caine obviously had a pretty good taste. He had seen the convenient shopping mall close bye, but it was not a sore onto the eye. He had seen the nice and modern medical facilities. The prep school was beautiful; brand new and appealing to children. The bus stop right in front of a gate with a security guy and electronic portico to check for mean stuff like knifes or guns. There was a park nearby, the beach hardly 30 minutes on foot away and the centre of 'Homestead' harboured many nice little shops and restaurants.
"We'll meet tomorrow at 8h30 precisly at Websters&Brooks downtown, ." Danilenko grinned. "I give you cash, you give me the keys right now. I want to see my friend move in immediately."
Franklin slapped the proffered hand. "You have a deal, !"
**
Tim Belkin was not a happy man!
His world had been reduced to 9 square meters. He could not even have a pee without watchful eyes on him.
He had no shoe laces, no bed sheets, no paper, no pencil…even his food was served together with a plastic spoon on a unbreakable plastic plate for toddlers. His drinks came in baby cups…no sharp edges, nothing….and always those eyes....
The guard in front of his holding cell changed every hour, but one thing did not change: The eyes of the guard were upon him 24/24 and the watchful creatures would neither move nor speak to him, while on shift. They just sat and stared.
Nobody had been rude with him. Quite the contrary! Nobody had been violent or abasing. They called him Sir, would change the telly channel as soon as he asked, brought him edibles and drinkables at demand and never invaded his personal space. They were perfect. Only he was tremendously upset: Tim felt like a rat in a cage!
"Hey, buddy!" He called out to his guard. " Where's my lawyer! What is going on! I've done no wrong!"
The French robot just stared at him unblinking. Then he smiled. Tim was mightily pissed.
"Get me a beer!" He shouted.
The robot nodded, whispered into his walkie-talkie and made a beer appear within seconds right inside a toddler's plastic cup. Robot passed it through the bars of the holding cell and smiled. His shift was over and another French robot entered the premises. It was female, this time. It smiled!
Belkin gulped his toddler's cup, realized that once again they'd given him alcohol-free and sank depressed upon his plastic covered mattress. He really wanted to strike out, hurl at these bullshitters and give them a piece of his mind…..but whenever he did, all they'd do was…..smile at him.
He had no idea, how long he'd been in his rat cage: One hour, one day, one months, one year….how should he know; light was always dim, but it never went off.
He felt completely disoriented and weak. The only visual stimulation would come from the telly set….but they had turned off the sound….he could watch, but would not hear human voices. It was sheer torment. He'd never been subject to more cruel treatment, not even during special forces training with the Russian Army a lifetime ago.
The French police officer who was observing Belkin on a computer screen smiled. There was no need to rough up a man to break him or inflict bodily harm to make him squeal and bend. It was sufficient to deprive a prisoner for a relatively short time span of all external stimuli and he'd go to pieces.
No national law, no international convention obliged them to have small talk with that rogue…… Some more hours all alone in this pristine, warm, comfortable cell surrounded by faceless and voiceless kindly shadows and that Russian bloke would be ripe for harvesting. He was already at the brink of a nervous breakdown! He did not understand what was happening to him….before the end of the day, he'd be completely distressed….
The officer lifted up the phone and dialled an internal shortcut. "He's surprisingly weak, Sir!" He explained, as soon as they were on line.
"He expected pain…" The voice on the other end of the line replied." And we did not give him, what he's expected and what he'd been able to cope with. Change his guard, send in an elderly officer, one whom you'd give your house keys and whom you'd have look after the children….cup of coffee, some chocolate…tell the man to talk with Belkin…"
The officer chuckled. "You are a cruel man, Sir!" He replied. "Hopefully, I will never ever be in trouble with you!"
"Hopefully not, my friend…" The voice said cheerfully. "Call me immediately, when our man is falling apart…"
***
Ryan Wolfe had found his cosy bed upstairs at Claire's and Paddy's.
He loved this place. Saint Nom la Breteche was the most beautiful living area on the outskirts of Greater Paris and Claire's house was situated in the most ancient and most beautiful part of that place.
Once upon a time, the park had been private and belonged to the Chateau de la Breteche, the Breteche Castle. But in the 1920ies the owners had been in financial trouble and had been obliged to sell off the dependencies.
Claire's grand-parents – the butcher and the village groceries maid – had immediately jumped on the opportunity. Even when times were hard, people had to eat – and had bought the place.
Ninety years of good money and good care had done wonders to the former barn and it was now the prettiest and largest private property on the 20 hectares of the Chateau's Park.
As it was his habit, he sat on the window sill and looked at the pond with its lavish sea roses in cream, pink and red. He loved the pond, even went swimming in it also Claire always chided him, that the water was not tidy because of the ducks and water chicken. But Ryan had never cared.
Miami had wonderful beaches and water of the colour of blue diamonds, but it was impossible to simply swim there without meeting sharks or even worse –madmen on speedboats, water scooters or other stuff. And he hated swimming pools. There was something unnatural about a swimming pool –chlorine and chemistry!
With Erica they had occasionally gone down to Ball Harbour Island, but he could not really enjoy a place where everything was about fashion and hardly anything about the ocean. Well, there had only been 10 shark attacks in Dade County, with the last fatality happening back in 1961, but Miami had a world reputation for nasty jelly fish and sting rays and if there was one thing in the world Ryan Wolfe hated even more the the idea of sharks, it were jellyfish!
As to his OCD, this might perhaps be single proof, he might not have been lying to H. some five years ago; Calleigh got crack-a-nuts over spiders! Valera could not leave a room without cleaning it. BoaVista seemed to have an obsession with showers and being proper herself and Delko....well Delko was obsessed with sex....
Ryan was not different from his colleagues. He too had certain obsessions: He would iron his shirts with amidone, could not cope with the death rising from their stretchers in the MDPD morgue and he hated jellyfish. And this was the one thing he loved about Claire's pond –although the water was habitually at a temperature that would even discourage a whale from the South Pole: There were absolutely no jellyfish inside....not even small ones!
Ryan shuddered when he thought of his childhood, their carefree adventures on the beach in front of JPs place at Crozon and the huge, glibbery, translucent and very cold thingy with tentacles that JP had dropped on his naked belly, while he had been drowsing in the sun…exactly the day after TF 1 had had the first part of 'Alien' starring Segourney Weaver on the telly screen.
They had been watching the program at JPs, because Clemence would not allow him to watch television at home….their whole bunch: JP, five years Ryan's senior, Maewyn, the boss of their little band of brothers, JP's sweetheart and the only one of age, Pierre-Louis, who was now a French Navy officer on the Jean-d'Arc, Louise, who had become an ophtalmologist at Brest –she had seen Ryan after he had gotten the blasted nail into his eye and saved his vision – Olivier, who had been working for Elf-Aquitaine as a security manager and was now somewhere down the Amazon River on three-master La Boudeuse to study climatic changes, Frankkie who was still a fisherman in Brittany and him, the baby of the bunch.
They had always kept in touch and close.
Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to die by the hands of whatsoever Belkin and leave Miami and the US behind. He loved France, loved his friends and loved his family!
He had inherited Clemence's villa at Morgat on the Crozon peninsula, also Paddy and Claire lived in there most of the time. He had enough money to do what he liked best and Brest –at 25 minutes from the peninsula and the beautiful white house on the cliffs – had the second crime lab of France, which was run by Claire's old buddy Professeur Daniel Clarys, an M.D and paleo-antrophologist of European repute.
Clarys would be happy to have him, even without Claire giving him the push up. Clarys had been already external examiner on Ryan's Master in Biochemistry.
The young CSI took a huge towel from a cupboard in his chamber and silently trotted down the staircase, through the house and back into the gardens. Claire and Paddy were asleep; Paddy happy to be allowed to mess with exciting stuff once again, Claire mightily pissed with the two males of the O'Briain family.
He was content not to be in the midst between these two very strong characters. It did not take a lot of imagination to divine what piece of mind Claire would have given his father as soon as JP, Delveaux and Serge Poniatowski had departed and him gone up to his room.
He chuckled evilly. Paddy could take it once in a while! His father was a wonderful man and he loved him dearly, but at 60 years of age he was also the most irresponsible, harebrained and carefree creature Ryan had ever met in his lifetime.
He closed the terrace door and enjoyed the wonderful summer night: It was warm, but not hot as in Miami and the humidity was decent. Over his head, stars were sparkling in the skies, untainted by the lights of Paris. Crickets were chirruping and the water chicken gave an annoyed 'pluck-pluck' when the potentially unfriendly and highly annoying two-legged bio-entity approached its territory.
Ryan dropped of his ample jeans shirt and light cotton trousers. Fortunately he and Paddy were about the same size and he'd fit into his father's stuff or else he would have come to the pond in Hugo Boss and blood-soaked Forzieri.
Occasionally he would regret that he could no longer share moments like this with Erica...but not tonight. He was happy to be on his own!
Part of himself still loved Erica and her many good sides, but another part told him, that the career management of a Miami-born 'Belle' in the show bizz would never ever agree with the family values and code of conduct of a French-bred Irishman. And it was impossible to built a longterm relationship on good sex and good fun only!
Ryan was fully aware of his shortcomings: he had spend 1/3 of his life in the US, but he had been born and bred in Europe. While he had good brains and an above-average IQ, he was simply not capable to admit that someone who pretended he'd love you, would put career in front of personal feelings and use someone else's personal feelings to simply further a professional career.
He was perhaps too petty-minded to get this greater picture….he'd never ever imagined to further his career at the expenses of Erica: Either you loved or you did not, but a job had nothing to do with personal feelings. Paddy and Claire were the best example for this: The former IRA terrorist and the French CSI!
Claire and Paddy never ever even talked about it….they simply lived together…happily: Him now teaching Celtic languages at La Sorbonne, her slicing up rotten bodies at Garches. They never ever talked shop….And this had been the very problem with Erica….she'd been talking shop while they were making love... He had always been incapable of talking shop or whatsoever, when with a woman…he was just a pretty normal male, who'd rather think of the she under or above him, then of his pay check and the CrimLab!
Ryan glid into the cool waters of Claire's pond, relishing in the fresh cleanliness and enjoying the feel of tiny little fish nibbling at the wet hair on his legs. He could smell the heavy scent of Queen of Prairies and blue and yellow wild irises and the moonlight was reflecting yellowish in the black surface of the small lake.
His killer ribs stopped aching. The water was very cold, colder then he'd expected on a Midsummer Night. It did him a world of good. No pain any more. No feelings…just deep and dark waters.
He turned onto his back and drifted over to his favourite root. Claire always chided that this place of the pond was really disgusting, since the water lenses grew there and all the toads eggs floated under the surface, but Wolfe did not mind. He liked toads!
Claire and Paddy had a tame toad going by the name of Trevor, who visited them during summer on the terrace. They'd caress Trevor and give him tiny nibbles of worms, when they had no guests watching. He had no problem with toads and their eggs. He found Trevor rather endearing. Ryan hooked his arm over the root and let himself drift in the cold waters.
Claire had told him a bit earlier that he'd keep the scars. It had not been a good idea to stitch up the worst reminiscences of his encounter with Dimitrij Belkin. In order to prevent scaring, wounds needed to be stitched up immediately! Ryan had not known this. Quite often he had been together with Marc, when his veterinarian friend had been stitching together a horse or cow. Ryan had grown up on the countryside and liked animals. His love of wildlife and domestic pets had been one of the reasons, why he had formed a solid friendship with Marc Gantry. Marc was the reason why he knew, how it was done…stitching up!
But Marc had never told him about timeframes. He stretched out his hand and touched the soft feathers of one of the baby water chicken who were drifting in their sleep upon the pond. They were not afraid of humans. Paddy and Claire fed them all the time and if you were careful you could lift them up and pet them. The water chick did not even lift its tiny red-beaked head.
He could not care less: What difference did it make in the end, if he had a scar or two or not? He just enjoyed being alive, be himself and be here –under the moon and the stars – in a dark, cool pond and far away from all the troubles of the world, feeling the water on his skin and watching the night. Tomorrow would be another day and he'd think about what he'd do and how and when and perhaps wait for another phone call from Frank…..just in case that H. might have come to his senses and done something reasonable.
***
Lieutenant Caine was tired. He yearned for a bed and some hours of sleep. Nine o'clock in the morning on the other side of the Atlantic was 2 o'clock in the morning at Miami.
And it had not been a quick phone call! His colleague from Paris had kept him on line for almost two hours. And while the intelligence he'd received on Sarnoff's mob had been absolutely exciting, the few, short remarks concerning CSI Wolfe had been a down turn. Horatio had never ever felt so humiliated…by a stranger he had never met and would most likely never met face-to-face. Just one sentence, but this had been enough!
This prefect of Paris Police Forces – Horatio had understood that the man was something like a super-Chief with powers over police, military men, civil emergency responders and internal security – had simply asked him, how he could not have seen that his CSI had been tortured!
Nothing else: Ten simple words in rather good English with a heavy French accent! "Have you not seen, that your officer has been tortured?" Nothing else. Just ten words! Ten words and a voice that said more then one thousand words…
Hoartio felt guilty; he had not seen; he had not realised. He should have! In the end, he'd asked his French counterpart and the man had grudgingly revealed what one of their MEs had seen, but the French prefect was completely unwilling to dwell upon the issue; all he'd gotten from de Kersausson was a word to the wise; that it may be simply the best to leave his CSI alone for a couple of days, because he was just a human being and needed time to cope with what had happened.
De Kersausson had cut the discussion on Wolfe short, telling him in detail, what the French IT wizards had found out and explaining to Horatio what they were planning to do next. He also told him that he'd call his MDPD boss and make things right –from a strictly legal point of view. There was nothing strange about police forces cooperating beyond borders when it came to dangerous criminals like the Russian mafia.
"We shall stay in touch, Lieutenant Caine!" De Kersausson had told him. "This may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to clean out some scum…and I'll send your CSI back as soon as he's up to it !"
As soon as Ryan was up to it?
Horatio had agreed with de Kersausson, accepted his lavish gifts and shut his cell close.
He was brewing himself a strong coffee, rejecting the idea of getting some hours of sleep because he wanted to be at the MDPD as soon as his superiors would start their week and pondering upon the French idea to set up Sarnoff with an arms deal that would leave the Russian mobster most probably dead by the hands of his own friends. The French idea was excellent, also it was completely ruthless and immoral. But he wanted to mull it over. Have a cup of coffee, shower, shave, dress, go to the MDPD, wait and see and ….mull it over.