Enforcer (42 page)

Ojacarcu said nothing for over a minute, staring through them into space. He finally turned his gaze on Jera.

“You are an avid television watcher?” he asked her, his voice sounding almost fatherly.

“Yes, sir,” she said to the floor. “I was when I was a kid.”

“What kind of television do you watch?”

“Just… just stupid stuff. Old shows, reality shows. Nothing interesting like nature or history.”

“You like the Dancing For America show?” he asked, his interest noticeable.

Connor could barely contain his need to reach out for Jera’s hand. She didn’t understand the stakes as well as he did, and he wasn’t sure if she could play the game well enough to convince Ojacarcu. The worst they would be able to torture out of her was that he had been somewhere else during the time in question, but it was more than enough for her to ride the conveyor into the incinerator.

“Yes, sir,” she answered the desk, still afraid to look in the man’s face. She couldn’t keep herself from talking about Dancing For America, one of her favorite shows, one that Connor complained about endlessly. “I’ve been watching it since it started a few years ago.”

“I enjoy the doctor and the lady, Karen. The school teacher. She never stops talking, but she can dance very well,” Ojacarcu said.

“I hate her,” Jera said, unable to stop the words. Ojacarcu gave her a curious look. “She’s a bitch to everyone,” Jera said, not quite believing she was having this conversation with a man who could order her death. “She treats Dr. Jenkins like shit, and she’s always talking shit behind everyone’s back and then so sweet to their faces.”

Ojacarcu chuckled. “I believe that to be true, though I did not want to be the one to say it. How about you Vadim, who is your favorite dancer?”

“I do not watch stupid American show of dancing,” Vadim said from behind Connor, his tone making his feelings clear in case his broken English had garbled the words.

“How can you not love the dancing? It is not these boom-boom clubs, it is real dancing.” He said something else in Romanian, Connor only catching the ‘back home’ part, his Romanian far worse than Vadim and Petre’s English. “Do you like to dance?” he asked Jera.

“No. I mean yes, I would like to, but I never learned. I can only do the…
boom-boom
dancing at the club.”

“Ack, that is because it requires no skill, only hallucinogenic drugs and boom boom boom. Real dancing requires skill.”

Jera nodded, looking back at the thick carpet, her mind reminding her stomach that the color of the carpet would mask blood stains to the naked eye. She fought the urge to reach out for Connor’s hand every two seconds. It was a battle between that urge and the urge to let her bladder go where she stood.

“What of these old shows? I am partial to Gilligan’s Island for some reason. Gilligan is so stupid, and the plot is completely unbelievable, but it is what I watched back in Romania, along with Hogan’s Heroes. Both were illegal to watch under Ceaușescu, but Hogan’s Heroes could get you executed for owning Nazi and American propaganda. Gilligan was illegal only because he was stupid and was deemed to have no value for Romanian children.”

“They didn’t believe that laughing had value?” Jera asked.

Ojacarcu narrowed his eyes at her. “You are correct. Laughing was a weakness that could lead to defeat if the Americans ever declared war. That was the official line. The real truth was that the KGB would haul you off to Moscow, if they didn’t execute you immediately, before the spread of ‘Western Propaganda’ infected your comrades, who would soon decide that the Iron Curtain wasn’t the great utopia that Marx had envisioned.

“Did you know that the strangest, most frightening thing I encountered when I came to America, was how much everyone smiles? During the Cold War, if you smiled, the KGB would eventually find you. Smiling citizens were up to no good. Smiling citizens were smiling about plots against the Directorate, against Ceaușescu, against Moscow.”

“You risked that just to watch bad American television?” Jera asked.

Connor was interested as well, having heard all manner of things about living under communism in Romania, but he’d never heard about the risk of being caught watching American television or listening to American music like this. A sliver of worry was shouting in the back of his mind that the Romanian was lulling Jera, maybe even himself, and would eventually pounce like a trapdoor spider.

“Not just me,” Ojacarcu said. “Entire neighborhoods. If someone could get the signal clearly from Istanbul, or sometimes American naval ships in the Black Sea that would purposely broadcast American television with Russian voice-overs and Romanian subtitles, we would crowd into their home or apartment to watch, knowing that the Securitatea, the secret police, could send us all to the firing squads or public hangings.”

“That’s crazy,” Jera said, fascinated with the thought of having to grow up in a dour, suppressed place where smiling, laughing, or owning anything from the West could get her tortured or killed.

“Yes, it certainly was. It was infuriating as well, because all of the informers, the spies, the authorities and agents, they watched the same broadcasts. Western culture was popular to all except the oldest, most hard-line Party members. I’m sure even
they
appreciated the offerings of the West, in secret of course. The eventual fall of communism was welcomed by all but those in power. Ceaușescu held on longer than the others, but in the end, he could not hold on tight enough. I was already an American by that time, having defected to the Greek ambassador during a trip to Athens.

“As close neighbors to Romania, Greece would quietly transfer people like me to the American consulate, where we would be assessed by CIA and State Department agents to determine our value. Many were sent back to Romania, those who were not members of Romanian military, police, or any career that the West could interrogate us for information to use against Moscow and its satellites. Because I was an officer in the army, and had been trained in Russia, I was valuable. I traded whatever ‘secrets’ the Americans wanted for citizenship and a quiet life. Many of my countrymen were not so lucky. They were pawns in a game of appeasement between the two superpowers.” Ojacarcu leaned forward in his chair. “The West would give up these ‘worthless’ defectors in exchange for troublemakers from within the Iron Curtain who had too many of The Peoples’ ears. You can imagine life for those who defected to the West only to be sent back in the custody of the KGB or Securitatea.”

Ojacarcu winked and stood up. Connor braced for a blow to the back of his head from Dracul, but the only thing he felt was his skin crawling from the anticipation. His brain was in the midst of a meltdown from fear, filling him with dread that the older man’s words were prophetic in some way.

“Come,” Ojacarcu said, holding out both hands in a gesture that signaled they should follow. “As I mentioned, we have a serious situation. I think you will be interested in it.”

Vadim opened the office door, Petre going into the hallway first, everyone else waiting for Ojacarcu to exit before following. They rode the elevator down to the basement, every second an eternity of terror for Connor and Jera. Connor knew that the more elite criminal organizations tended to pretend to be nice before snuffing a fellow member out.

“Miss Gellner, I would feel privileged to have you ride with me. I would very much enjoy discussing our love of terrible American television,” Ojacarcu said as they reached the row of black Lincolns.

Jera’s legs threatened to collapse under her, but she held herself together, smiling and accepting Ojacarcu’s request, knowing she wouldn’t be allowed to refuse. She had to will herself to not look back at Connor, afraid the terror on her face would shine like a brilliant beacon, alerting everyone that she might be hiding something.

Vadim, Dracul, and Ojacarcu escorted Jera to the closest Lincoln. Petre and Connor stood next to another, watching its twin exit the underground garage. The Romanian said nothing, did nothing other than stare at his friend until Connor looked away. Petre unlocked the Lincoln and sat behind the wheel, waiting for Connor to get in. Conner finally sat down, but he was afraid to latch his seatbelt. The way Petre stared at the concrete wall in front of the car, combined with the faint creaking sounds as his hands gripping the steering wheel began to push Connor’s fear into overdrive.

Connor felt his tighten enough to form diamonds when he noticed that Petre’s hands were covered by the same kind of black leather gloves Dracul had worn when he’d killed Travis Benkula.

CHAPTER 35

“What’s going on?” Connor asked after riding in silence. “Where are we going?”

“This is not good,” Petre said after they turned onto State Street heading west.

“That’s all you’re going to say? ‘This is not good?’”

“I am forbidden to tell you. I can only tell you that this is very bad.”

“Bad for who? Me? Jera? All of us?”

Petre refused to answer, staring straight ahead as he drove. They’d driven around Boise in aimless circles for an hour, no pattern to Petre’s random turns. Connor thought they might be playing a cruel joke on him, making him sweat by having Petre drive silently, going nowhere. He had the thought more than once that Petre was waiting for a sign, a text message maybe, that Connor’s grave had been dug to the proper depth, and they could finally head toward the real destination. He also feared they were going to the landfill, and when the big car turned north on Highway 55, he felt like throwing up. He knew something was up, most likely his own number, most likely Jera’s as well.

Connor had been haunted by a nagging voice in his head for the last day and a half, one that reminded him that out of himself, Jera, and Larry, he was the lowest earner. Jera and Larry put cold, hard cash in Ojacarcu’s hands. Connor put asses in the seats at the arena, but he didn’t think he was earning anywhere near ten thousand dollars per week for his boss.

Twenty minutes later, as they neared the small town of Horseshoe Bend, Petre turned right on Harris Creek Road. Connor had tried to engage Petre in roundabout conversation, but the Romanian refused to speak. After another twenty minutes of silent cruising up into the mountains, Petre turned north on an unpaved but well-maintained gravel road, the Lincoln twisting and turning through curves that mirrored whatever small river or creek Connor could make out every few minutes in the car’s headlights. The big luxury sedan made its way over the gravel at a decent speed, but Petre dialed it back at every new curve.

They rode for another forty minutes of slow progress before turning to what Connor thought was west again. He was unsure now, with only mountains and overcast midnight skies to try to get his sense of direction from. The glow of the Treasure Valley was nonexistent from wherever Petre was taking them. They turned down an almost hidden road with tall pines to either side forming a tunnel in the Lincoln’s headlights. The natural tree tunnel reminded Connor of a carnival’s haunted house ride, the condition of the road causing the headlights to throw garish shadows at sharp angles. Connor expected a cardboard maniac with a chainsaw to swing out from one of the trees at any moment.

Petre pulled the car up to a small wooden cabin, nothing like the luxury cabin that Ojacarcu had invited him to before. That it looked a lot like the shack at the landfill made his adrenaline begin to flow freely. Petre killed the engine and removed the keys, exiting the car and walking to the steps that led up to the door of the cabin. Connor reached out to open his door, needing two attempts to work the handle, his hand a cold, sweaty, shaking stranger. On the second try the Lincoln’s door opened and he paused for an extra few seconds to get his wits about him.

Petre waited for him on the wooden steps. Connor saw the other Lincoln parked off to the side of the cabin. He tightened his stomach muscles and gritted his teeth, afraid to know what would greet him on the other side of the cabin’s front door. Petre knocked with a triple-tap of his knuckles followed by one medium rap of the flat of his fist on the door. The door opened a few inches, one eye and the barrel of an automatic greeting the two men on the steps.

Petre pushed the gun to the side, giving Vadim a frown as he walked by. Connor stared at the gun, his feet refusing to move. Vadim noticed and put the weapon back into his shoulder holster, using the other hand to wave Connor into the cabin. When the door closed, Vadim flipped a switch and a small room lit up by two lamps was before them, looking like every cabin Connor had ever seen. Vadim walked through the room and down a short hallway before turning left, looking back to make sure the two newcomers were following.

Vadim opened a door that brought them into another room, this one larger but unfurnished and utilitarian. Ojacarcu and Jera stood just inside the room with their backs to the door. Connor could see someone beyond them, but couldn’t make out the detail until Ojacarcu turned and stepped back, Jera doing the same. Larry Fallon was secured to a wooden chair, completely naked, his upper lip and lower chin covered in a thin film of blood and snot. Connor visibly cringed when he saw the man, looking to Ojacarcu for explanation.

“You remember Mr. Fallon?” Ojacarcu asked.

“Yeah,” Connor replied. His testicles felt like they were trying to crawl up inside of his body.

“Well, this is the interesting thing I told you about. Mr. Fallon has a story to tell, an accusation to make. Why don’t you tell them about it, Mr. Fallon?”