CHAPTER THIRTY

Rachel got out of the police car, and saw the plane ascend into the sky, she felt as if – well it was only a temporary setback. The man they were pursuing was Russian and that would mean getting in touch with Moscow.

She went back to talk to the inspector who, with two of his men, was holding a rather burly man with Slavic features. "I'll need to know where that plane is going and get in touch with Interpol."

The burly man just spat.

"Sure and this blighter's a bit uncooperative," said the inspector, his eyes having a deceptive twinkle in them, "and I'm sure that if I were to make a call to the Russian embassy, it wouldn't be pleasant for him."

"I tell you nothing."

"Aye, and I'm Saint Patrick's great grandson."

"The prisons in Russia aren't that comfortable," said Rachel, leaning over the man. They were now in a room in the airport, waiting for the man's solicitor.

He soon arrived, and told the prisoner that he had better cooperate or he would be deported. The man swore in Russian, which the solicitor translated meant something physically impossible to do even by a contortionist. The prisoner also admitted that he could do gaol time in Irish prisons, standing on his head.

"We won't get anything from him," Rachel said and gave something to the inspector.

"Here's a photograph of a girl, Marissa Saretov and something else. If you permit, I can question him."

"No we'll use Constable Brian. We'll meet him at the station."

Constable Brian was a large man, red of hair, and probably had run several wrestling matches. He matched the Russian in size and strength.

"You can use Room two for the interrogation, constable."

"Yes sir."

Room two had the usual table and two chairs with the recorder. It also had a shelf on the wall with several books about police procedural, interrogation methods, and a large Oxford dictionary piled on top of other hardcover dictionaries.

"I no talk to you," said Vladimir glaring at Constable Brian who smiled as if the Russian was his best friend.

"Those medals are from serving in the Russian army. Only those higher ups get them, aye?" He looked at the note the inspector handed him. "Correct, Vladimir Petrochov?"

The man's silence gave confirmation.

"Aren't you wanted for various criminal activities in Moscow?" He leaned over the table, his right foot pushing it so it pinned Vladimir against the wall, but the former Russian army officer did not complain.

"I will be a hero. Moscow will be proud of me."

"Sure and I will gain sainthood. Are you comfortable?"

Vladimir grunted. "I am large man, like you Mr. Policeman. I need to breath."

"Oh sorry," said Brian who lifted the heavy table and moved it back. "Is that all right?"

"Da."

"I guess you're rather unsure about English. We do have a Russian English dictionary on the top shelf."

Petrochov sneered "You are fool, Irishman. I read little English. I see many books on top. You no meet one like me. You no understand me. I go now." He got up as if to leave, but before he did, Brian reached up, put his hand under the pile of books and at the same time, the shelf went way, and all the books fell on the floor.

"Oh the saints preserve me," he said in mock sorrow, "Aye and the chief told me not to lean against the shelf."

The Russian did not say anything. His face went white as he saw the constable pick up the loose end of the shelf, and hold it up, while putting his other hand over his mouth to stop a yawn.

"Are you all right?" asked the inspector opening the door and called back to two other policemen, both who looked as if they could win a brawl. "O'Leary, Cosby, Brian's knocked down the shelf again. Get a hammer and this time, make sure it stays."

The muscles of the two policemen bulged as they lifted the shelf up and attached it to the wall. They also had trouble with the dictionaries, which were quite heavy.

"Now," said the Constable with a smile as he leaned over the Russian, "about that plane."

A call to the airport showed that the plane, along with two others, was on the regular commercial flight for Istanbul. Rachel sent a fax of Alex's photograph to the Istanbul police headquarters as well as to Interpol and picked up the children at the police station who were rather upset that they didn't get a tour of the torture chamber or so where the police threw away the keys Rachel then called Jarod and Miss Parker on her cell phone.

She told them of the situation, leaving out the details as to who she was after, only that he had escaped to Istanbul, he was in the Russian Mafia, and they had faxed a photo to the Turkish police as well as Interpol.

"Any chance of getting whoever he is?" asked Jarod.

"This being the holiday season, I doubt it. There were extra flights booked. You should have seen the trouble we had at the airport. By the time, we found the flight he was on, it was about to leave and the airport security had us show our id before letting us on the runway. By then it was too late. The plane had just taken off, but we did get somebody."

"So I guess that means you'll be at the police station. We have to go to the hospital in the morning to see Sydney. You know about his high blood pressure. The doctor's think that he'll probably not survive past the morning, but we're hoping he's wrong. If you need help, Miss Parker knows Ukrainians and Russian. I do too, but someone's got to watch Jeremiah."

She whispered to the inspector who told her no, and turned back to speak to Jarod. "They said no. I'd guess it's because Miss Parker and you aren't in the police force."

"We're going to spend the night in a hotel near the hospital. Miss Parker tried to get a suite at The Bridge House, but with the tourist season, it's booked up. We tried others, but with all of us, and even with Miss Parker adding a few extra pounds or guinea to grace the desk clerk, they said no. I don't want any of us separate, but we got bookings on a hotel that's due for renovations. Right now, she's packing the Lysol, something about mice. It's not exactly four stars, but it'll do."

"All right, Jarod. I'll meet you at the hospital. What room is Sydney in, by the way?"

Jarod gave her the number and hung up.

Rachel turned to her children who were talking incessantly about the firing range and asking when could they get weapons.

"You have to go through special training," she said. "Didn't you learn that at school?"

Naomi shook her head. "No, all we had to do was to repeat 'We will rule in the kingdom of man' and read that chapter on the book about the Diaspora from Mexico."

"I'm sure you are taught more than that."

"We did learn about Sirius," said Charles in all seriousness. "Do you know that the planets surrounding it are all ruled by canine type intelligence?"

"Oh?"

"Yes, our mentor told us that there is another star nearby, which these canine intelligences are always attacking."

"I suppose it's called something like Feline," said Rachel with a smile.

Charles was rather disappointed that his mother had caught on to his jest.

"You said about your friends booking a hotel," said the inspector.

"I told them I'd meet them in the morning," said Rachel, "but it is quite late. Have you started to question our guest yet?"

"We're waiting for his solicitor. He should arrive in the morning and I want you to be there."

Rachel shook her head. "I'd like to, but I'm afraid I have to be at the hospital. A dying friend," She said no more. She didn't know Sydney, only by reputation and she kept her silent fear in her heart. Her own children had developed quickly, walking before they were five months old, talking in sentences when they were less than a year. Their childhood was so short and yet they did not venture far from her. When other children of the same age would try to run out into the streets, they stayed in the yard that surrounded the duplex where they lived. They would go with one of their own, an older Dominant male and or female, but that was as far as it went. It was as if they instinctively knew their time with their parents would be short and they needed to spend the most time with her. She felt sorry for Jarod who had been ripped from his own parents and his short childhood condensed even more.

David yawned and looked at his mother. He did not want to sleep. None of the children wanted to sleep.

The inspector had a house next to the police station. It used to be a cottage and s still called by that name. His wife made up two of the bunk beds for the children and after Rachel told them a story about her capturing some vicious criminals, they went to sleep. Most of it she exaggerated for their benefit with stuff such as "he had a claw instead of a hand" and "when he finished drinking, there was a red stain around his mouth," — at this, she would go, "Ooo," and the three children would listen wide eyed.