“So what can I do?”
“Nothing. You have to stay with us while our people do their work. You don’t know London. It’s a huge city and you’ll only get in trouble. There are Albanian factions that we are not friendly with who we need to avoid. You know how it is. I’m sure it’s the same with you.”
Burim nodded. There was always a certain amount of factional warfare going on among rival Albanian clans.
“Have a beer and try to watch the snooker. It’s a cool game.”
Harry smiled and Burim shrugged. He’d play along, for now.
CHAPTER 61
George Wilson was amazed by Paul Caldwell’s ability to compartmentalize his life. Paul was going to work, doing night shifts, putting in long hours. Every couple of hours he’d call George to check in, but George never had anything to report. The police hadn’t called him back; Nano wasn’t responding to his emails. He still couldn’t find a phone number for Zach Berman, and Burim Grazdani had not been in contact, either.
George found that he was unable to concentrate on anything. After returning from a quick visit to Will McKinley in New York, where there had been no change, George came back to Boulder, where he spent his time pacing about Paul’s apartment. He had never been so depressed or frustrated in his life; he knew there was nothing he could do, and it was driving him crazy.
This day, he had checked in again with the Boulder police, who now were shunting his calls to a civilian liaison. Paul had come home and switched his attention to trying to find Whitney Jones and was working his way through the phone book in an attempt to locate a relative of hers. The same 411 operator that had come up with Mariel Spallek’s apartment had given him an address, but he quickly discerned it was the postal address for Nano, LLC. Perhaps the woman did actually live in the office. All the while, he cursed Whitney for being a Jones and not a Johansson or any other less popular name.
Then, as George was about to make a call himself, his phone rang. A stream of numbers appeared on the screen. More than the usual ten. An international call. It’s Pia, he thought hopefully, she’s safe. He picked up.
“Pia?”
“No names, remember.” It was a man’s voice, gruff and terse. It took George a second, then he placed it. Burim.
“Have you found her?”
“No.”
Burim was calling from a public place — George could hear voices in the background, and a public-address system sounded in the distance.
“Where are you?” George asked.
“Have you heard from her? If she shows up, or you find out something, you let me know, right?”
“Of course. Should I use the original mobile number I have for you?”
“Yes, but don’t say anything. I’ll call you back when I see you have called. So you haven’t heard anything at all?”
“Nothing, we’ve had no word.”
“Okay. In that case, I want you to get your ass over here,” Burim said.
“What?” said George. “Why?”
“Because I’m doing a lot of legwork, and you’re sitting on your butt in a place where we know she isn’t, okay?”
“You want me to help you?”
“Don’t get excited, college boy, I’m not offering you a job. This is busy work. But we should make the most of what we have. I know you’d be able to recognize her if we come across her. Now, get over here and I’ll call you in twenty-four hours, okay?”
“Where are you? Milan?”
“London? Come to London and contact me, and I’ll call you back.” Burim hung up the pay phone.
The search for Pia had yielded nothing in London. Harry confirmed to Burim that, yes, the flight that came in from Milan via Colorado was an official Chinese government plane. Harry told Burim that no one he knew had any links to the Chinese crime syndicates, let alone the Chinese government itself. It was clear to Burim that he had received all the help he was going to get from the Albanians. The Chinese connection was like a metaphorical stone wall. But he knew he was welcome to stay as he continued the search himself.
Burim had taken to traveling around central London, looking in flophouses and cheap hotels, whorehouses and gentlemen’s clubs, showing Pia’s photograph around so much it had become dog-eared and stained by the dirt of a thousand hands. As attractive as Pia was, he thought she could be worth something in a drugged state, like a lot of other Eastern European girls and women. But he was worried that his hopes of finding Pia were fading at the same rate as her picture when his Albanian connections came up with zilch. When the picture became unrecognizable, he would know he had lost her. But his determination was strong. He would help her if she was in danger; he just needed something to go by besides the Chinese association, which had turned out to be a bust.
CHAPTER 62
When Berman came to fetch Pia, she was sitting on her bed, reading. There was also a night table with a small lamp. Berman had acceded to Pia’s request and got her a better room with a proper toilet. There was a single, small leaded-glass window less than a foot square high on one wall. When Pia had brought over the night table and had stood on it, she’d been able to see green trees and pastures. Best of all the window afforded Pia a chance to adjust her diurnal schedule. She now knew when it was day and when it was night. The shackles were gone but there was still a stout locked door and a twenty-four-hour guard stationed outside. Berman had found some old paperbacks for her to read, and he had made sure she was allowed to walk around the garden for an hour a day on a leash like a dog with the guard following her around. Carrots and sticks, thought Berman.
Pia felt strong and was coiled like a watch spring ready to unravel. But she maintained a cool and slightly pathetic demeanor and hoped that what Berman felt as concern for her well-being would not morph back to the lechery she knew he was capable of.
Berman sat down next to Pia. She stiffened as he placed a hand on her knee.
“How are you feeling?”
“I feel great,” said Pia sarcastically.
“You do have the books I gave you, and a bathroom. And you’re looking better. Much better.”
“I’m just about ready for the runway at the fashion show.” She was wearing a simple black T-shirt and black shorts with which she’d been provided.
Berman’s hand traveled up Pia’s thigh and she brushed it off.
“You don’t want to go there,” Pia said. “So please take your goddamned hand off my leg, you pervert.” Pia looked daggers at Berman, but he pressed his leg harder against hers. Pia squirmed and batted at Berman with her good hand. She restrained herself from giving him a sharp martial arts — style chop on the side of his neck with her good hand that might have brought him to his knees. The trouble was she thought it probably would also put her back in the basement. “Is this your new way of trying to talk me around? Well, forget it. It’s not going to work.”
Berman’s hand was on her thigh again, rising higher. Pia again slapped it away.
“Just leave me alone,” Pia yelled at the top of her lungs. The sudden, unexpected scream startled Berman, and he stood up.
“Okay, okay. That got my attention. I was just teasing you to see how you would react.”
“Well, now you know.”
“Actually I came here to tell you I have arranged a little treat. You and I will be taking dinner together in the kitchen.”