Okay, now I feel compelled to defend myself. When I wrote this story, I didn't realize the period of time that would elapse between one chapter and the following one. I just wrote it as if it had been a normal book. Of course that doesn't make things better for you, I understand that completely. I mean, it's not that I force you to read this. But of course it's important to me to know what you think about the story.

Oh, and by the way, Deanna, I'm pretty well versed with the numbers from 1 to 100, so it didn't elude me that most people obviously don't like the story. I was simply told that it'd be fair to those few readers to see it through until the end.

33 – CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – 1,112³³

José Sanchez was sitting in a café in downtown, Los Angeles. The small restaurant was well visited. Through the noise of the customers, the newscaster's words that came from the television at the upper room angle could be heard only sporadically. Sanchez however, wasn't at all annoyed by the chatter of the others. On the contrary, he was using the anonymity of the talking around him to bring order to his mind.

He was waiting for his contact. He didn't know the name of this person and they didn't know his real name, only his new one. Since it had been he who had provided him with it along with a new passport that had been inevitable. José had got the contact from one of his new colleagues who had initially needed the passport in order to remain 'legally' in the States. Sanchez didn't have that problem anymore, but the one he had with the Russian Mob wasn't really any more pleasant.

He looked nervously at the wall clock next to the television set. Five o'clock in the afternoon. The local news had just begun. His contact was late. However, according to Sanchez' information he was good. Good, but expensive. Yet, if you had anything to do with the mafia it was wiser to be concerned about quality.

He thought about Zita. He'd had to leave her. It had been difficult for him and they had exchanged endless vows of fidelity. But José had no illusions. They were young, he would be gone for a long time and there were many handsome men in Mexico. It was foreseeable how the whole story would end.

And still he'd had to go. He too, had looked for a pretext to go to the States and earn money. He had seven younger siblings. His father was dead and his mother well on in years. Everyone believed him when he said he was leaving his country to help his family.

Of course his family was important to him. If he had been content there even with the poverty, there might probably have been nothing to call him to the States. He had been fed up with it though. He was fed up with that whole miserable life, the drudgery, hard work for nothing, watching adults as well as children die in the streets whether it was of hunger or due to the drugs. He no longer loved his country, and finally had found it so repulsive that he had escaped to the USA almost in a flash, regardless of his lack of documents.

A little group of six or seven people left the snack-bar chattering loudly and laughing. Without them, the noise level subsided by half. With growing impatience, Sanchez cast another glance at the clock, but his eyes caught the picture of a young man.

José looked at the photo in detail and with a queasy feeling; the hooked nose, the slim face, the clear, blue eyes, the dark blond, short hair, and at the same time he tried to understand the information the female newscaster was giving. He knew this man, and he had a distinct feeling what this was about. And it didn't take long until he found his feeling confirmed: "The FBI continues seeking the public's assistance in the case of the abducted CalSci professor Dr. Charles Eppes. The two presumed culprits are known to the police. They are of Russian origin, have got a slight accent and are about one meter seventy-five and one meter eighty-five respectively. The agency is currently trying to find out the whereabouts of these two persons during the night of Sunday to Monday. Information can be given to any police station or by phone..."

The rest of her words were drowned out when two young men and a woman entered the café. But José had heard enough. So they still hadn't found that young professor. Bad.

José sighed and stared into the void. He didn't know what to do. He really had enough problems already; he didn't really need to worry about some kidnapped professor. Despite everything he still attached a certain value to his life, and that value was higher than that of the life of some complete stranger. And even if he went to the police – it wasn't even sure that his information would help them! Basically that was even quite improbable. After all the mafia had a lot of places they could hide a man. And maybe this man was already dead; one could never know. Would it even be any use? No, he would just endanger himself completely unnecessarily and nobody could be helped by

Probably. But what if...?

For on the other hand it was clear to him what this young man – if he was still alive – was going through right now. He knew this problem. He knew the fear and the hopelessness. He knew the longing for help, the hope for a helping hand, that something would happen, that you were rescued... Could he really do that knowingly to that man, to refuse him his help?

If he helped him, however, there was the risk that the mafia would take revenge on him. But hadn't they said in the news that morning that the FBI had broken up two local groups of the Russian Mafia? And still he couldn't be sure...

But if he helped the Feds, wouldn't they show their appreciation somehow? However, it would probably mean that they would also want him to make a statement against the mafia or be a witness in court. Of course, he had already heard of the witnesses protection programme – but hell, that was no life! Although the period he was living through right now couldn't be described as 'life-worthy' either.

José sighed deeply. He didn't know, he just didn't know what to do. Talk or remain silent? Be brave or cowardly? Stupid or clever?

The picture of the abduction victim came up on the screen. He was a handsome young man with dark curls and seemed nice. He was maybe around thirty, the same age as José. And in the same situation.

José sighed again, then, on the spur of the moment, slammed some coins on the table and then left the restaurant with determination. The more resolute he acted, the better he could hide from himself how insecure he felt with his choice of the stupid way.

0 – 0 – 0

Don sat at the short end of the table. "Aren't you getting tired of these stupid little games? You should know by now that you're only getting yourself into deeper troubles by that."

Ivanov's cool and scornful mask didn't slip for an inch. "Why should I? You too seem unable to learn that you won't get any information from me. If, however –"

"Dismiss that thought," O'Connagh cut him off. "The FBI doesn't make deals with criminals."

"Well – bad luck for you."

Don's hands clenched. He was just about to stand up, to beat the truth out of that bastard's mouth, but forced himself to remain calm. Don't let him provoke you... stay calm... But all of a sudden he wasn't sure if he had really managed to control himself, for he noticed a sudden movement in the room. The next moment he realized with relief that it hadn't been him who had caused this movement, but David who had torn open the door to the interrogation room and who now looked agitated at his two superiors.

"James," he finally chose his boss's boss to address, "we've got something that should help us along." Sceptically O'Connagh looked into David's flustered features. "It could be really important," David urged.

O'Connagh nodded and the three of them left the room, but not without the leader of the team turning around to Ivanov. "We're not done with you yet."

They had hardly closed the door when David started his report, "José Sanchez just called Colby. He's the witness against Kalinkov who went underground. He says he might know where Charlie's being held."

Four wide-open eyes stared at David with a spark of newly born hope. For some moments nobody said a word, and when Don broke the silence, his voice sounded unusually rough. "What are we waiting for?"

Some minutes later Don let his eyes wander in a frantic search across the nearly empty square until he finally spotted their witness. José Sanchez had left a short distance between him and the phone boxes in order to protect himself against the still stormy weather.

Don got out of the car and ran towards him. He, David, Colby and James had hurriedly come here with blue lights flashing, hoping that Sanchez had followed Colby's order and waited for them here at the public phone box from where he had called Colby's number. Don once again spoke a silent prayer of gratitude that it was standard procedure to hand a business card to each witness at the end of an interview 'in case you remember something else'. That set phrase could indeed make lots of things easier and faster.

Don didn't even waste a thought on a greeting. "You know where he's hidden?"

Sanchez seemed a bit intimidated by the four men in their dark suits. "No," he began, and Don thought somebody might have removed the ground from under his feet. He might have collapsed if their witness hadn't gone on at once. "Not know, believe. I know place where they hide men. Hide me too. But am not sure. They have more places to hide. I don't know."

Don's shallow breathing had accelerated, and not only because of his hectic movements. Tensely, he ran his hand through his hair. "Can you lead us to those hiding-places?"

"Think so. Most probable place is on beach. I see it when they let me go."

"Why is this hiding-place the most probable?" O'Connagh interrupted. "What about the other ones?"

"I was hidden four times. Every time other place, two times same, cellar of house. But I see man in television, picture of mafia-man. With this man I be in this place to hide me."

"Ivanov?" David asked hastily. "Do you mean Ilya Ivanov?"

Sanchez tentatively shrugged.

Colby pulled out a wanted person's photo from the inner pocket of his jacket, un-folded it and held it towards the Mexican. "Is it this man?"

"Yes! Yes, that is him! He me hide there!"

"Okay, let's go. David, Colby – you're following us. Don, you're coming with me, and you too, Mr. Sanchez. And now let's go!"

They hurried back to the two SUVs. With blue lights on they headed in the direction of the beach.

"What about those other hiding-places?" O'Connagh asked once more, this time more urgently. If this was going to be proved as a dead end or even a trap, they had to keep open every possibility. They mustn't waste time. They didn't have the time to be wrong. "Where are they?"

"In cellar of house. I be hide two times in same place to hide, in cellar of house, then one time other place, also cellar of house. One near Orpheum Theater and one near Stonewood Shopping Center."

O'Connagh and Don exchanged glances. According to their knowledge the big mafia had bases in both areas, although they hadn't found Charlie there. Sanchez' seemed to be telling the truth.

However, it was still too early to trust him. While over the radio O'Connagh sent one team to each of the two hiding-places to make them thoroughly search once more for Charlie, Don tried to gather more information from the man. "Why did they hide you away? Are you part of their organisation or not?"

Sanchez seemed truly aghast. "No! I not belong to mafia! Mafia bad mans, I not bad man, I –"

Don didn't have the nerves to let the Mexican drone out assurances of his innocence. "So, why?"

Sanchez flinched. Hesitantly, but willingly he gave further details. "I see how man kill other man. First man mafia. Tell me not to go to police. I say I not go to police, I never go to police, I illegal. Mistake to say. Man think I not defend me, and bring me to other man and this other men me give work. Bad work, do things against police. For example I must talk to people who want to come to USA from Mexico and other countries. When I not want to do, he me put in place to hide. And one time men from picture me put in hole. I be in hole for one day and one half before man from picture come take me out."

So that was it! Sanchez had watched a member of the mafia commit a murder and had been brought to the boss. The Mexican had had to do various jobs, for instance, make contact with those involved in people trafficking. And when Sanchez hadn't done as he'd been told, Bolshoyov had ordered someone to make him cooperate again, amongst them, Ivanov. And maybe Ivanov had brought Sanchez to the hiding-place where he now held Charlie. "What hole? What do you mean by that?"

In that moment Don would have loved to know more Spanish than the few words and phrases he did know. Their witness seemed to have difficulty in expressing himself understandably and in describing the hiding-place. "Place to hide is hole under... under stone. Cave, hole in cave. No light. And cold. And when sea comes, water comes in hole and even colder."

As if on cue Don shuddered. That didn't sound good. If he understood this Mexican right Charlie was in some kind of well that was flooded regularly. And if he had been in this well since the night from Sunday to Monday... then that made seven to eight floods!

Oh, Charlie...

Don's gaze wandered to the outside, across the sky where now the last remnants of the storm swam through the air. How much had his brother noticed of that storm? The question was important for two reasons; one, it could tell him how bad Charlie's situation was, and two, how bad he was.

The rest of the drive they were silent. All of them were much too tense to make sensible conversation.

"I think up there!"

O'Connagh followed the direction Sanchez told him. They drove along the beach. Sanchez had seemed unsure several times, but now new determination had entered his voice.

There were no houses here. The ground was too insecure; it was uneven and stony. Sand and scree alternated providing dangerous traps for the steps of walkers.

"Stop! I remember! Has to be somewhere here!"

The two SUVs came to a halt and the five men got out. Sanchez tried to get an overview. "There!" he then called, extending his arm to the right. He started running and the others hastened to follow him.

Five minutes later, after they had climbed down a little hill and were already standing in the sea water, Sanchez pointed towards a rock in front of them, and when he looked at it more thoroughly, Don noticed the dark opening. In front of them, there was a cave.

Without further hesitation he walked ahead. Three circles of torch light joined his, jumping across the walls and the ground of the surprisingly big cave, while they made their way on through the stony vaults. From above, this hiding-place couldn't be seen. If Sanchez hadn't come to them, they might never have found it.

Suddenly, the cone of light of one of the torches caught something that didn't fit into the general aspect; a metal plate in the floor. A sign that people had been here. And a clue that something might be hidden underneath.

Don's heartbeat accelerated. They were so close, so close... There couldn't be any doubt anymore, Charlie had to be here, they had as good as found him, he'd be with them within seconds...

The five of them lifted the metal slab and pulled it with a screech and squeak over the stony floor until the opening before them became visible. They picked up their torches again and shone them down to the ground of a nearly four meter deep well.

Don felt sick at what he saw.