Mystery Writers of America Presents Vengeance Page 16

  “Please, go with Lily to the back.”

  He lifted his hands, angry. Mama Tusani took his hands and continued smiling for anyone watching.

  “Please, it is important,” she said in a tone quite unlike her smile.

  He finally understood and got up.

  The girl pulled him toward the curtain, giggling, clinging to him, rubbing his chest. He couldn’t make himself play the part. To the rest of the crowd, he must have looked like a sixteen-year-old being dragged to his first sexual encounter.

  They moved past ill-fitting doors through which unrestrained—and obviously faked—sounds of various stages of ecstasy could be heard. She pushed open the last one and pulled Vermeulen into a cubbyhole. The smell of sex and cheap perfume was overpowering. A filthy bed—reflected in a cracked mirror on the ceiling—took up most of the room. The couple next door was hard at work.

  She sat on the bed and smiled. The door opened again and Mama Tusani slipped in. She whispered something to Lily, who began moaning loud enough to compete with the couple next door.

  “You are here to stop the gun smugglers, no?” Mama Tusani whispered.

  Vermeulen stared at her, speechless for a moment.

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Mama Tusani knows everything. When the men come here, they drink and talk. My girls tell me what they hear.”

  “Yes, I’m investigating the role of UN troops in illegal arms transfers.”

  “The plane that came today, it carried guns.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, the pilot was here earlier. Every time, he comes here right from the plane. He brags to Lily. Says he can fool UN asshole in his sleep.”

  Lily nodded and smiled at him as she continued moaning.

  “Why are you telling me?”

  Mama Tusani looked at him. He felt her gauging his character. “My girls, they have a bad past. It’s the war that made them so. They have no home to go back to.”

  “You seem to be doing all right.”

  Her face hardened.

  “You think I like this life? I had a hotel once. The war destroyed everything. Yes, I run a whorehouse. But I keep the girls safe. And they earn some money.”

  Vermeulen felt a pang of shame.

  “The guns make the war go on,” she continued. “We want no more war. We want our lives back.”

  She stared into his eyes with a force that made him squirm. “The pilot, he’s a bad man,” she said. “He should not walk on this earth. Now go and do your job.”

  She turned toward the door. Lily simulated the sounds of the final stages of orgasm. At the door, Mama Tusani stopped.

  “Go out the rear. The driver will take you back to the hotel.”

  VERMEULEN DIRECTED THE driver to the airport instead. The guard gave him an inquisitive look, but Vermeulen forestalled any questions by flashing his OIOS ID. The guard was appropriately awed—he even saluted.

  Once they were inside the airport, it took Vermeulen a while to get his bearings. Twice, he pointed the driver in the wrong direction. The man, of course, knew the way and got them to the cargo area.

  He got out of the car. A solitary lamp on a post cast a milky light. Contrary to the major’s assertion, there were no guards. A simple padlock kept unauthorized people out.

  He circled the fence, looking for a good spot to climb over. He grabbed the wire mesh with both hands and tried hoisting himself up but realized he was fooling himself. The fence was seven or eight feet high. The days when he could tackle anything that height were long gone.

  Back at the padlocked gate, he thought about Mama Tusani’s words. She was the first person in a long time who actually wanted him to do his job. Everyone else wished he and his investigations would just go away. Even those who had no stake in whatever swindle he was digging up feared that his reports would cast them in a bad light and upset the routines they had grown to like. Everybody had an interest in keeping the status quo.

  He examined the padlock again. It was solid. The fence posts didn’t move when he pushed against them. The latch was fastened to the post with large screws. He tugged on it. It didn’t budge. A metal rod might be strong enough to force the latch open. He thought of a tire iron and turned toward the Citroën.

  The driver tried to be helpful, but the trunk was empty, no spare tire and definitely no tire iron.

  Vermeulen rifled through the contents of his pants pockets and found his penlight, his lighter, and his pocketknife. The small blade doubled as an emergency screwdriver.

  He tried the first screw. It was fastened tightly. He twisted the knife with both hands. The handle dug into his palm. The screw budged a half a turn. He stopped and repositioned the knife. After five minutes, he had removed the first screw. Sweat streamed down his forehead.

  The driver observed him for a while but then must have decided that breaking and entering were not his cup of tea. He and the car disappeared.

  By the time there were two screws remaining, the knife had scraped his right palm raw. In anger, he kicked the gate. It creaked, and the latch rattled. He aimed carefully and put all the force he could muster into the next kick. The gate sprung open with the sound of screws being wrenched from wood.

  The inside of the tent was dark. By the narrow beam of his penlight he made out five pallets in the rear. The refrigerated units stood closer to the front, their compressors humming. A tangle of power cords connected them to the outlets mounted on a pole to the left of the entrance.

  The extra refrigerated container—he remembered the code number—sat closest to the entrance. Its door was still sealed with a plastic cable tie. Without hesitation, he cut the tie and opened the door.

  A wave of putrid stench enveloped him immediately. The beer in his stomach gurgled uneasily, sending a wave of nausea upward. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose. His penlight revealed the source of the reek. The bags of once frozen food had swollen to resemble grotesque pillows. Many had burst. Mold blooms as large as pizzas covered the interior of the container.

  It all fit together. This container was extra, and last week one had been missing. The plane had stopped somewhere, dropped off the container, and then picked it up a week later. Without electricity, the food’d be rotten, all right—a perfect cover for smuggling weapons.

  The sound of a truck arriving stopped him. Doors slammed. Angry voices. They had discovered the open gate. He stuck the penlight in his pocket and slipped toward the rear of the tent.

  Not a moment too soon. The door of the tent opened and the bright beams of flashlights danced across the tent fabric. He ducked behind a pallet.

  “Hijo de puta,” somebody swore.

  “Fuck! Somebody opened the container!” Vermeulen recognized the pilot’s voice. “Raúl, check if anyone is still here. The rest of you, get the guns out now. We gotta move fast.”

  A flashlight lit up the rear of the tent. Raúl came closer. Vermeulen’s mind ran through his options. There were none. These men had guns; he had a little knife. No contest.

  Raúl stopped on the other side of the pallet. His flashlight bounced across the dark reaches of the tent. Raúl stepped to the left. Vermeulen crawled to the right, keeping the pallet between them.

  He was now in plain view of the men at the entrance, but they were busy tossing the rotten food on the ground.

  Raúl walked toward the last pallet.

  “¡Nadie!” he shouted to the front.

  Vermeulen felt exposed. He crawled to the pallet on the left and knelt in the dark space between it and the side of the tent. The beam of Raúl’s flashlight swung around. The beam stopped, lighting the space he had just left. Vermeulen’s heart skipped. There, glinting in the beam, lay his penlight. It must have dropped from his pocket.

  “¡Mira!” Raúl shouted and held the penlight in the beam of his torch. Vermeulen crawled behind the pallet Raúl had just left.

  The men in front had started stacking the guns
in a pile. They were in a hurry.

  Another voice told Raúl to hurry up, they didn’t have all night.

  Raúl shrugged, pocketed the penlight, and joined the men up front.

  Time was running out. Vermeulen had to stop them before his evidence disappeared. He knelt down and cut a long slit into the tent fabric. His escape prepared, he took his lighter and lit the plastic netting around the nearest pallet. The flame licked up quickly. The other pallets caught fire just as fast. He crawled out of the tent and held his lighter to the tent fabric. The nylon fabric burst into flames.

  Voices shouted inside. In no time, flames erupted through the top of the tent. The soldiers raced to safety in a mad scramble. The tent had turned into a torch, lighting up the airport like a bonfire.

  COLONEL ZAMAN STOOD up when Vermeulen was led into his office the next morning. His appearance evoked memories of the Raj—a uniform that looked as if it had been ironed after he’d dressed; a dark mustache, neatly twirled at the ends; slicked-back dark hair with a few white strands that framed the pale olive narrow face; keen eyes and a sharp nose. He seemed distraught.

  “Mr. Vermeulen? What can I do for you? We have to make this quick. I have to deal with the aftermath of a fire.”

  His clenched jaws told the whole story—endless investigations, reviews of procedures, new training protocols, a complete nightmare.

  “I know. I was there. The objects of my investigation were in that tent.”

  The colonel shook his head.

  His day has just gotten worse, Vermeulen thought.

  “You were at the airport in the middle of the night? Why?” the colonel asked.

  “I just wanted to make sure the cargo area was secured, as your deputy had assured me it would be. It wasn’t.”

  “Did you see the fire?”

  “Yes, I saw the flames when I arrived. I saw the pilot and several Spanish-speaking soldiers.”

  “Spanish-speaking, you say? Did you see any insignia?”

  Vermeulen shook his head. The colonel made some notes on a pad.

  “Did they find guns in the tent?” Vermeulen asked.

  “Yes, AK-47s and MP-5s. All burned, of course. It took a while to get the fire extinguished.”

  “Have you ordered anyone arrested?”

  “Arrested? Why? The cause of the fire is unknown.”

  “What about the people by the tent?”

  “Lots of people were there, trying to douse the fire.”

  “I just told you who started it.”

  “But you don’t know that. You only got there after the fire had started.”

  The truth began to sink in slowly. And when it finally hit, Vermeulen had to press his lips together to keep from screaming. Setting the fire had ruined his investigation. He knew who the culprits were but couldn’t finger them unless he admitted to setting the fire. Which would mean the end of his job.

  “You should at least arrest Petrovic,” he said, sounding deflated.

  “The pilot?” Colonel Zaman raised his left eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because the guns came on his plane. I need to question him.” The colonel shook his head. Vermeulen knew what would come next.

  “We don’t know that. Besides, he’s a civilian contractor. I can’t arrest him on your say-so.”

  “My mission,” Vermeulen said, trying to conjure gravitas out of thin air, “authorizes me to interview anyone attached to the UN operation here. That includes Petrovic.”

  The colonel sighed.

  “You may interview him if you can find him, but I can’t arrest him; I trust you understand that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  IN DAYLIGHT, MAMA Tusani’s club was even less appealing. The bar still reeked of stale beer and tobacco smoke, but the shabby interior was no longer hidden by the darkness. An ancient tape player looped through a scratchy collection of American hip-hop. Some girls were hanging around the bar, but one o’clock in the afternoon was clearly not the main business hour.

  Vermeulen had gone to the club after leaving Colonel Zaman’s office. It was an obvious choice. He’d met men like Petrovic before. Despite their swagger, or maybe because of it, they were essentially stupid. Of course Petrovic would be at the club. One last screw before flying back to Kampala.

  Mama Tusani stood behind the bar. She nodded and held up two fingers.

  “Be careful, he’s got a gun,” she whispered.

  He marched past the ragged curtain and ripped open the second door. Lily lay on the bed, her arms tied to the bed frame, her eyes wide with fear. Petrovic lay on top of her, pressing down hard.

  Images of Gaby in that hellhole in Antwerp ran through Vermeulen’s mind. His heart pounded and he had to stop himself from pulling Petrovic off the girl.

  Petrovic smiled when he saw him.

  “Vermeulen. What a surprise. Want to join the party? Lily here has many talents.”

  Petrovic’s smile turned Vermeulen’s blood to ice. The gangsters who held Gaby had smiled like that. The crooks he investigated smiled like that. Certain they were untouchable. Too often, they were right. But not this time.

  “Get dressed, Petrovic, you’re coming with me,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His heart pounded.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Petrovic said. He rolled to his side languidly. “Hey, Lily, let’s show this guy a good fuck.”

  Petrovic’s clothes lay piled at the foot end of the bed. Vermeulen bent down, rifled through them, and found the gun, a Beretta. He flicked off the safety and pointed the pistol at Petrovic. “Get dressed, Petrovic. Now!”

  “Hey, careful with that,” Petrovic said with a bored expression. “It doesn’t suit you. I bet you never even fired one.”

  “You’re wrong there. We shot all kinds of vermin on our farm. Now get up and get dressed.”

  Petrovic crawled to the edge of the bed and started putting on his underwear. “Tell me this is a joke. You haven’t got anything on me.”

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty. I have all your departure and arrival times. You were late because you made unscheduled stops to pick up guns. I also know you stored them in refrigerated units because every time you brought an extra one, it had rotten food in it. I’ve put all the pieces together.”

  Petrovic pulled on his jeans, a sneer on his face. “That won’t do you any good. You’ll never make it stick. What court will hear your charges? I’ll just walk away from this and fly somewhere else. No big deal. Africa always needs guns.”

  A rage Vermeulen hadn’t known before erupted. It ruptured the dam that held back a sea of frustration accumulated over a decade. No need to think anymore. The flood swept away any hesitation. He saw everything—the room, Petrovic, Lily—with unearthly clarity. There was only one thing he could do.

  “You’re wrong again,” he snarled, and stepped toward the bed.

  Petrovic realized something had changed.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice suddenly uncertain.

  Vermeulen grabbed Petrovic by the shirt, pressed the Beretta’s muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger. The side of Petrovic’s head exploded. Lily screamed. A sick spatter of blood and tissue marbled the wall. Petrovic went limp. Vermeulen let the body slide onto the bed.

  Briefly deafened by the gunshot, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the gun. Then he opened Petrovic’s right hand, placed the Beretta in it, stuck the index finger through the trigger guard, and closed the hand again.

  Mama Tusani waited in the hallway.

  He opened his mouth, grasping for an explanation. She put her finger on his lips.

  “I’ll take care of Lily. Go out the rear. The driver will take you back to the hotel.”

  He nodded and strode to the back door. A strange lightness took hold of his body. Tomorrow, he’d call his daughter.

  THE UNREMARKABLE HEART

  BY KARIN SLAUGHTER

  June Connor knew that she was going to die today.

  The thought seemed lik
e the sort of pathetic declaration that a ninth-grader would use to begin a short-story assignment—one that would have immediately elicited a groan and failing grade from June—but it was true. Today was the day that she was going to die.

  The doctors, who had been so wrong about so many things, were right about this at least: She would know when it was time. This morning when June woke, she was conscious of not just the pain, the smell of her spent body, the odor of sweat and various fluids that had saturated the bed during the night, but of the fact that it was time to go. The knowledge came to her as an accepted truth. The sun would rise. The Earth would turn. She would die today.

  June had at first been startled by the revelation, then had lain in bed considering the implications. No more pain. No more sickness. No more headaches, seizures, fatigue, confusion, anger.

  No more Richard.

  No more guilt.

  Until now, the notion of her death had been abstract, an impending doom. Each day brought it closer, but closer was never too close. Always around the corner. Always the next week. Always sometime in the future. And now it was here, a taxi at the foot of the driveway. Meter ticking. Waiting to whisk her away.

  Her legs twitched as if she could walk again. She became antsy, keenly aware of her pending departure. Now she was a businesswoman standing at an airport gate, ticket in hand, waiting to board the plane. Baggage packed. Luggage checked. Not a trip she wanted to make, but let’s just get it over with. Call my row. Let me onto the plane. Let me put back my seat, rest my eyes, and wait for the captain to take over, the plane to lift, the trail of condensation against the blue sky the only indication that I have departed.

  How long had it been since the first doctor, the first test, predicted this day? Five and a half months, she calculated. Not much time, but in the end, perhaps too much to bear. She was an educator, a high school principal with almost a thousand kids in her charge. She had work, responsibilities. She hadn’t the time or inclination for a drawn-out death.

  June could still remember going back to work that day, flipping through her calendar—standardized testing the following month, then the master schedule, which no one but June understood. Then the winding down of the school year. Grades due. Contracts signed. Rooms cleaned. The school was to be repainted this year. Tiles replaced in the cafeteria. New chairs for the band room. Lockers needed to be rekeyed.