As usual, I have no financial interest in any of the characters here.
Darkwing8 – enjoy your blueberries!
The Four Seasons in Prague is actually three older buildings united by one newer main building with over 160 guest rooms and suites. Nestled on the banks of the Vlatava River in architectural styles spanning several centuries, it boasts every amenity or service a modern traveler could desire.
Lest it sound like I'd been paying attention that afternoon when our taxi first delivered us to its elegant entrance, let me hasten to add that I gleaned this information from the helpful brochure I found in the drawer of the exquisite little writing desk in the room. I'd focused on nothing when we arrived but surviving another night with Jackson Rippner.
Our room was lovely, although its eleven-foot ceilings and a wall of large, many- paned windows spoke of Old World charm that reminded me strongly of just how far away from home I was. In another time, this hotel would have been a delight to explore, but on this night, I put the brochure away and reluctantly picked up my cell phone. Dad had called three times, each message revealing an increased level of panic. My mother had called as well. Apparently, Dad had called to enlist her help when he couldn't get me.
Jackson Rippner, fresh out of the shower and clad in black silk pants, loose black jacket and a vibrant blueberry colored silk shirt, watched me intently from a yellow ottoman.
Let me say here that I was under no illusion about my chances of getting out of this alive. I knew he would not let me live. He had lied to me about that before. True, I had beaten him at his deadly game the first time, but now chances were strong that I was looking at more than one adversary. This time I was likely to die, either by Jackson's hand or by that of another. My focus now was on doing everything in my power to secure the safety of my parents. I had to gamble that after all of this was finished there would be no need to take the lives of those I loved dearest in the world. And so, I had to go along now with whatever it was Jackson wanted me to do.
I pictured my father as I last saw him at the airport, happy and healthy. I set the phone down, looked at the gleaming glow of the hardwood table. Watched it grow blurry as tears formed in my eyes.
"Lisa." Jackson's voice was deceptively soft, like that of a mother lovingly waking a child from a lengthy nap. I heard the warning in it, though. I raised my chin and powered my cell phone on.
I can't bring myself to record that conversation here. Let me just summarize by saying I spun my worried father a wonderfully plausible story about a low battery and an inability to get away from the Lux New York long enough get another one. I convinced him, I believe, of my health and well-being. He agreed to make a reassurance call to my mother for me and returned to his TV and his Lean Cuisine, I believe, satisfied.
I powered my phone off, set it down lovingly, and fled to the bathroom, to the privacy of a long, hot shower.
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Rade Vaschenko entered my life later that night.
I first heard the name just before we left the hotel. Jackson decided I needed a little briefing before our late night meeting.
I had lingered in the shower long enough to draw my courage back around me and stave away, at least for a while, the overwhelming homesickness that threatened to paralyze me. I had cried, I had silently raved and ranted, and finally I had dried my eyes and dressed for the evening.
Whoever had shopped for me and filled my suitcase had got my size right, had even got all the necessary cosmetics in the brand I normally used, but I felt vastly underdressed in a short, stretchy little Prada dress that seemed to be the only suitable choice for the evening. I tugged at the straps and the neckline, and focused on the photo file Jackson pulled up on his laptop. I saw a man with strong Slavic features, shoulder length black hair, and an oddly radiant facial expression.
Vaschenko, Jackson explained, to me, ran most of the crime in Eastern Europe. His father had been a career KGB officer, and Rade himself had served in the Russian army. When the fall came, his father lost everything, went from being powerful to being nobody. Rade, used to the best of everything that ill-earned KGB money could buy, learned his lessons well. Fresh out of the military, he fully embraced capitalism, of the black market kind. His rise to success was meteoric, according to Jackson.
I picked up my shoes, studied the heel height suspiciously, and slipped them on. "And what exactly is your business with him?"
Jackson shrugged, "I have something to sell and Vaschenko can provide a steady market for the goods. My company has never done business with him before, but if this transaction works out well, we can set him up as a regular client. It will be a very profitable venture for both of us."
"What part do I play in this? You haven't told me yet why I'm here."
"Honestly? I don't know yet." Jackson began shutting down the laptop. "He's a client and I want his business. I don't question why he does what he does or wants what he wants. He wants you here and I made that happen. The white slave trade is very brisk here, though. Maybe you'd better hope that isn't what he has in mind."
I stopped fiddling with a shoe strap to stare, aghast. "You're kidding, right?"
"About the market? No. But I don't think you need to worry about it. As lovely as you are, Lisa – and by the way, you do look very nice in that dress – the market is mainly for poor Russian girls in their teens, usually without families who would bother looking for them when they disappeared. They're trained here and sold in western countries."
"Sort of like I have," I pointed out. "Disappeared, I mean. I guess I can take comfort in knowing I'm too old to be considered attractive enough to sell. Well, that's just a lovely business, Jackson. It shows great moral integrity. Is that the kind of trade you are doing with Vaschenko?"
"No, Lisa. I have my standards, low as they may be. I don't sell women." And having taken that moral high ground, Jackson went on to say, "Besides, while the money in the sex slave trade isn't bad, it's just really not worth the trouble."
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As the evening was segueing into the early hours of the morning, Jackson and I left the hotel and stepped into a taxi. Winter nights in Miami felt warmer than this damp spring night. Jackson had called ahead for the cab, so I didn't have long to shiver, and the ride through the city was a short one, ending on a street bright with light and scattered with late night pedestrians.
A brief dispute arose when the driver pulled to the curb and said firmly, "Twenty six euros."
Jackson, who had his wallet out, paused. "I was quoted five euros over the phone."
"Twenty six. You pay in koruna, I give you discount."
"Do you shake down all your customers like this? Do you know how unethical that is?" Jackson sounded offended. He went back to counting out bills. "I'll pay in euros, and I'll pay five."
"You will pay twenty six or we will find the police." The driver was adamant and sounded very smug.
"You do that. Call them." Jackson flipped open his cell phone. "Do you know who owns the club "Nespavos"? That's who I'm calling."
After a moment of silence, our driver said sullenly, "There is no charge. But please get out of my taxi now."
He roared away from the curb almost before we could shut the car door behind us.
We slipped into a steady stream of pedestrians walking alongside a tall stone building and rounded the corner. A dimly lit sign, black on white, read "Nespavos". Beneath it an industrial strength door stood open, spilling light, sound, and people out onto the sidewalk. Jackson gave our names to one of the bouncers at the door, who tapped briefly on a Blackberry before issuing a short burst of words in what I took to be Czech (but could easily have been German – I don't speak either one) to the other bouncer. A 'follow me' hand motion waved us in.
Jackson clamped a hand over my wrist and hauled me through a sea of smoke, flashing light, and pulsing techno beat. Laser bolts of colored light shot across the room like neon lightning strikes. An ocean of waving, undulating bodies parted around us as we forged straight through the dance floor. We passed through the crowd and came to a stop at the opposite wall. The bouncer pressed a button and brass doors slid open. We stepped into the elevator and the sound and light disappeared behind us.
Our ascent took us up two floors to a room overlooking the club below. Two men, both large, both blonde, and wearing exquisitely tailored suits, were waiting for us. Two other men sat at a chess table, temporarily diverted from their game by our arrival. A large desk sat in one corner of the room, and a leather sofa and matching club chairs formed a cluster on the other side. Classical music played softly in the background.
The blonde men were scrupulously polite, but before we were allowed further into the room, one of them patted Jackson down. This was something I'd never seen done outside the movies and the airport, but Jackson seemed to expect it. Thankfully, I was spared the pat down. My skimpy dress left little room for hiding weaponry.
Silhouetted against the glass wall looking out over the crowd stood a very tall man I guessed to be Rade Vaschenko, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture impeccably straight. One of the blonde guards approached and spoke to him quietly.
He nodded and after a moment, turned to greet us.
"Jackson Rippner." He clapped Jackson heartily on the shoulders. "Welcome! Welcome to Prague. And to Nespavos."
He turned to me and clasped both of my hands within his own. His hands were huge and his presence overwhelmed me. He seemed to radiate with vibrant energy and I made a firm effort not to shrink away. "And Miss Reisert, of whom I have heard so much. I am honored by your presence."
I managed a cool, "Hello."
"Miss Reisert, I look forward to the opportunity to speak with you at much greater length. I wish very much to hear how you foiled the invincible Mr. Rippner. But unfortunately that must wait." He lifted his chin and called out, "Katya! Katya, come here now, please."
A young Slavic woman wearing a very short skirt and a tank top emerged from behind the desk. She wasn't very tall, and an open laptop had hidden her from view. She slid across the plush carpet to stand close to Rade, who rested a large hand on her sleek black hair and stroked it, as one would caress a favored pet. "Katya, take Miss Reisert downstairs. She should enjoy herself while we speak of boring business matters."
It was clear to me that sexism was alive and well in the Czech Republic. I spoke up.
"If you don't mind, I prefer the music in here."
"Ah!" His dark eyes lit up. "You know Dvorak."
"Actually, yes. New World Symphony is one of my favorites pieces."
"Yes, yes! He blends beautifully the folk tunes of the Old and the New Countries, don't you think? You should come again here, to Prague, in the winter, Miss Reisert. October, I think. We have a festival of traditional classical music. You will come again then. We will go together. You are a musician?"
"No," I said. I felt a little off balance discussing music with a mobster. "I play piano. But not often anymore."
Jackson, who had been watching with what looked like amusement, raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm impressed, Lisa. I learn something new about you every day. Now go. Go with Katya."
"You should play," Rade said as Katya and I were entering the elevator. "A musician must play or she will wither like a rose without sun."
I was pondering this poetic allusion on the ride down when Katya spoke for the first time.
"You are with Jackson Rippner?" Her voice had no inflection.
"Not by choice, I'm afraid."
"He is good lover?"
My face flamed and I cringed inside. "Sorry. I wouldn't know."
Katya studied me with knitted brows for a moment, and then shrugged. I wondered if ennui was a permanent state of being for Katya. Her questions, though, brought to my mind the slavery trade Jackson and I had been discussing earlier, and I wondered if Katya was here, with Rade, of her own free will. I wondered if she was even familiar with the concept of free will.
Back on ground level, she asked, "You want something to drink? Absinthe, maybe? Czech absinthe is very popular here."
"Thank you, no. I'm fine."
She nodded and slid away from me into the masses on the dance floor. She began moving sinuously to the music, eyes half closed, lost inside her own world. She disappeared among the crowd slowly, as if quicksand had engulfed her.
I'm not generally fond of techno clubs like this. I preferred quiet jazz bars, but right now, the beat pulsed all around me and soon I found myself on the dance floor yielding to it. Within the buffer of moving bodies, I felt strangely safe, and with an unexplainable sense of relief, I closed my mind to everything but the music. I lost all sense of time and blessedly, place. Nothing existed for me but the music, the movement, and the exquisite joy of being alive.
As I danced, I threw off the chill of fear that had coated me for the past two days; I tossed away the dread, the fatigue, and was soon covered with a fine sheen of sweat. I felt strong, energized, and defiant. I felt up to facing anything.
Something inexplicable happened then. I don't understand why, and frankly, I don't wish to. Let me just say that I have no regrets.
One moment I was a blissful, solitary dancer, and the next I had gained a partner. Someone's hands were at my waist; someone's breath brushed my neck. We moved together, blended rhythms. At some point, I became aware that I was dancing with Jackson.
I didn't care. I danced anyway.
Ages later, it seemed, we left the dance floor and Jackson did a curious thing. He slipped his fingers under the thin straps of my dress and tugged gently upwards, deliberately straightening the bodice. His touch reminded me sharply of the scar I bore.
He leaned in close, and I drew in a sudden breath. All he did, though, was say into my ear, "We're leaving with Rade. He insists we stay with him."