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“For the moment? Yes. But I have my doubts that will last. Popov has been slowly pushing the other families. I think he’s likely to disturb the balance of power. That creates war. War costs money, and involves the police.”
“Is human trafficking something the families often do?” I ask.
“Absolutely not. To my knowledge none of them do. There is money in it to be sure, but from a strictly business speaking point, it’s high risk. Not to mention the moral considerations, though again, Popov is a sociopath, and a known sadist.”
Goosebumps rise along my arms and I fight a sudden chill. I take a healthy swig of the tea and wish it were wine. Or vodka.
“And where does one find Popov and his minions?”
“In addition to the assorted personal properties, the locations of which I don’t know, he has a collection of smaller businesses, loan shark offices and such. Publicly, he owns the nightclub Glistenand a massage parlor in Manhattan. I know he conducts much of his more public meetings from a VIP area of Glisten, and meets business associates at the parlor often.”
He refills both our teas. “Now, child, why do you need an ID?”
“Oh, to get a job of course!” I try my most innocent expression. Pierre somehow manages to look more pale.
“You are not thinking of working for him.”
“Not only thinking of it, I’m planning on it.” I hold his gaze.
“You don’t speak Russian,” he informs me.
“I’m aware.”
“You’ll need proof of his activities.”
“Indeed I will.”
Pierre stops, stares blankly at me for what feels like hours. Finally, a faint smile lifts his lips. “You’re mad, did you know that?”
“It’s been mentioned.”
“I’ll speak highly of you at your funeral.” His smile has reached his eyes, giving them a slight sparkle.
“That means a lot, Pierre. I don’t think you’ve ever gone on the record having actually liked anyone before.” My own smirk has appeared.
“Ah, but you’re one of a kind, my dear.” He puts his tea down. From the same cabinet the kettle was in, he retrieves a high quality digital camera. He indicates a plain section of wall behind me. “Picture time.” After taking a few images, he tells me to make myself comfortable. He steps out, and I hear him speaking softly to someone outside the office in French. Footsteps echo down the corridor.
About an hour later, he hands me a matched passport and driver’s license.
“Miss Rebecca Jackson, I presume,” he says with an exaggerated wink.
“Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”
“To your real name? Roxanne Johnson, journalist? Yes. But you may run into someone you know, or slip up yourself. Keeping the name similar makes it easier to cover up the error. You’ll note that I kept your birthday the same. The address is to a duplex a few blocks away. I own it actually, and there is a vacant furnished apartment.” He hands me a key. “You should move a few items there just in case you need it.”
I’m beside myself. This is so much more than I could have ever asked for. “Pierre, I don’t want to put you at risk for this.” He laughs. Not a giggle or a smirk, a full blown laugh.
“Darling, my affairs are wrapped in so many layers of deception it’s a wonder I haven’t forgotten about them. Now, a few more things.”
He hands me a silver bangle bracelet covered in intricate vines and roses and a matching rose pendant necklace.
“The bracelet records short clips of audio. It doesn’t transmit. You have to sync it later.”
I’m as close to speechless as I get. “Pierre, do you have some sort of alter ego working with James Bond?”
“Certainly not!” the Frenchman snorts in mock offense. “But my darling,” Pierre’s voice takes on a somber tone, “you’re planning on getting in some dangerous waters. You’d better be damned sure you know how to swim before getting in.”
CHAPTER11
