Change of Heart by Jack Allen Page 11

  Yuri looked up, and nodded.

  “You’re right, of course. I think there is nothing for me now.”

  Kurchenko did not believe that, but said nothing. All that mattered at that moment was that Yuri get home safely. They would discuss his future later. If he recalled, Baretsky had a plump cousin who always asked about Yuri. She would be perfect.

  Yuri stood, drained his vodka glass in one gulp, and coughed.

  Yuri never was much of a drinker. Tonight was a hell of a night to start. As Yuri headed to the door, Kurchenko slipped the bottle in Yuri’s coat pocket.

  “I’ll ask Baretsky to drive you home,” Kurchenko said, hoping they would discuss Baretsky’s cousin.

  Yuri looked up at him; Kurchenko practically dwarfed his brother; nodded, then looked back down at the floor. Kurchenko opened the door and they went out. He sighed. That was probably ten times more difficult than the war to come.

  * * * *

  Five miles west of Cizre at the foot of the hills marking the bound-ary between southern Turkey and northern Syria, the crates from Rafjani’s truck were unloaded and tied to the backs of twenty four horses for the thirty mile trek over the low mountains, across the border into Syria, through Syria and on into Iraq. Inside the Iraqi border, a collection of small vehicles waited to carry the crates Change of Heart

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  deep into the Syrian desert of western Iraq.

  Rafjani did not travel with the horse caravan. There was too much risk of being captured by the authorities and possibly an ambush by armed Kurds. When the crates were loaded on the horses, Rafjani drove the empty truck back into Cizre and parked in the garage of a building that was owned by a dummy company set up with money supplied by wealthy Iraqis living in Europe and America.

  Rafjani did not care to associate with these people, for they had adopted the sloth and greed of the west that he despised so much, but their money was as good as anyone else’s and went a long way toward perpetuating their cause. He often believed these expatriates channeled their funds out of guilt. He did not care whether this was true or not. He was, however, aware that much of the money was gained through illegal means, but this did not bother him, either. Anything that made life more difficult for the people of the west made life for the people of the east that much easier.

  Rafjani would stay the night in Cizre. In the morning, he would enter Iraq legally as the businessman Armen Ghazal travelling abroad. He closed the heavy steel door at the back of the two story garage, securing each of three dead bolts which, ironically, were American made.

  On the many trips through this small city, Rafjani came to know two or three women who would sleep with him any time he was passing through. One, Dewan, was married. She was his favorite, but at that hour of night she was likely to be in bed with her husband. Mohsen, a very attractive young woman with deep eyes that melted through his soul every time she looked at him, lived with her mother. Her mother, the evil old hag that she was, hated him. Mohsen was also likely to be in bed by then and although she would probably let him in on her own, her mother would forbid it. Which left Venia.

  Rafjani crossed the quiet street and walked along the twisting, narrow sidewalk that followed the old, cobbled road, practically feeling his way in the darkness. As he thought about Venia he 100

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  became aroused, and a lustful grin crossed his lips.

  Venia was an unconventional woman. In a region of the world where Islamic faith ran so deep as to be fanatical and the rights of women were so rigidly restricted, Venia managed to operate her own business. In fact, she ran a bar. Venia was a capitalist. She had travelled the world in her young life and brought back to Cizre all the best of what she learned. Venia was a thoroughly modern woman with liberal western ideals, which completely frustrated the traditional values of the Muslim men with whom she lived and worked. Still, she was persistent. She was the embodiment of everything Rafjani despised about the west, and this was what excited him most about her.

  He was pleased to see her bar still open. It was the only place open that late. A few windows in the tightly packed houses had lights, but the light from Venia’s bar spilled onto the street like a beacon for lost travellers. This was how Rafjani found her in the first place.

  As he neared the bar, Rafjani remembered he had not seen Venia in quite a while. Would she even be pleased to see him again? Of course she would. She always was. Outside the bar he hesitated, then went in.

  Nothing about the bar had changed since the last time he was there, including the drunks on the barstools. He was not surprised. They probably had not left those spots since his last visit. When was that? Months ago.

  Western music played from a jukebox in the far corner. He did not know what the music was, he just knew it grated on his nerves. He ignored it and went to the end of the bar, away from the regular drunks.

  Venia emerged through the swinging door that led to the back room, carrying a case of Turkish beer. Rafjani was pleased to see she had not changed, either. She was still a beautiful woman with high cheekbones and a graceful jaw. Her long, black hair was tied in a braid that hung down her back. She wore a decadent white silk blouse that contrasted her dark skin and accented the curves of her body beneath. The top buttons of her blouse were undone Change of Heart

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  and he could see tiny droplets of perspiration on her chest. As she walked he could tell she was not wearing a brassiere. She never did.

  At first she didn’t see him. She set the case down on the cooler behind the bar and started unloading it.

  “What can I get for you?” Venia said without looking up.

  “You, if you’re not too busy,” he said.

  As she looked up, he could see she recognized him. There was not the sly smile he came to expect when she saw him. Instead, she looked upset.

  “Armen Ghazal, you bastard,” she said, her voice contemptu-ous.

  She leaned on the cooler with both hands. She was bent at the waist and the top of her blouse was open. Rafjani openly stared at her exposed cleavage. Venia made no attempt to stop him.

  “Did you come back here to torment me?” she said.

  She looked tired and in no mood for lovemaking. Rafjani, however, did not think she would be able to resist him. He leaned over the bar, gazing into her dark eyes.

  “There’s nothing I enjoy more than tormenting you for hours on end.”

  She stared at him for a few seconds, then that sly smile finally appeared.

  The drunk sitting nearest to them, a thin, old man whose face was covered by a graying beard, watched them. He turned away when Venia and Rafjani both looked at him.

  “I suppose you expect me to welcome you back to my bed after you treat me like nothing more than your own private resort to make use of on your business trips.”

  “Yes, actually, I do.” He reached over the bar and took a bottle of beer from the case. “But first you’ll have to get rid of these people. Open this for me?”

  He handed her the bottle. Venia still wore the smirk as she popped the cap off the bottle. Rafjani admired the way her un-restricted breasts moved beneath the thin blouse.

  “I should kick you out of here,” she said, and handed him 102

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  the open bottle.

  Rafjani shook his head.

  “You should kick them out of here.” He indicated the two drunks at the bar. “I have no desire to let them watch me do to you what I have in mind.”

  He drank the beer. Venia contemplated the drunks; he could read it in her face. It was still too early to close the bar. He would not mind if he had to wait, but that was not the point. It was a matter of whether or not she was in his control.

  Venia clapped her hands together.

  “Time to go home, gentlemen,” she said. She came out from behind the bar and pulled the old men off their stools. “Go home to your wives. I’m sure they’re waiting for you.” She hustled them out and locked the door. />
  Rafjani came up behind her and closed his arms around her when she turned around. She gave a yelp of surprise and before she could speak he clamped his lips over hers. He was the one who was in control and they both knew it. His right hand moved down the inward curve of her back and slipped under the waistband of her slacks. Venia moaned and pressed herself against him. His knee pushed between her legs and she rubbed herself on his thigh.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” she said in a low, breathy voice.

  “But I have to finish my beer,” he said.

  Venia grabbed his hand. “Forget it. I have your favorite wine upstairs.”

  Venia lived in the small apartment over the bar. She turned on the light and Rafjani went in.

  “Have a seat. I’ll get the wine,” she said, and went to the next room.

  Rafjani sat in the arm chair in the main room. The apartment was small but comfortable, decorated with all the trappings of a western home, including a small television and a very elaborate Japanese stereo system, items most of the households in this area would never see.

  Venia returned, holding two glasses of dark, red Pakistani Change of Heart

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  wine. She handed him a glass and took a sip from hers.

  “When was the last time you had this?” she asked.

  “The last time I was here. You’re the only person I know who can get it outside of Pakistan.”

  “That’s not the only reason you come to visit me,” she said.

  She dropped to her knees in front of him, pulling down his pants. She wore a wicked grin and he found himself unable to look away from her face, although shame told him he should.

  This sexual aggressiveness she acquired from her exposure to western culture was just one of the traits that separated her from the oppressed Muslim women with which he was so familiar. As she lowered her head and took him in her mouth, Rafjani laid his head back on the soft chair and closed his eyes. Of all her western traits, this one was the best.

  As soon as Ismail Rafjani went into the bar, Mahmoud Azzizi stepped out of an alley that entered onto the narrow street across from the bar. He stopped at the corner of the building and remained in the shadows. He was a short man with black hair, a moustache, and a long nose. He watched the bar until the pair of old men were sent out and the lights went off. When the lights came on in the apartment over the bar, he lit a cigarette, cupping his hand over the end to hide the glow.

  He followed Rafjani from the building that housed the truck, where he waited most of the night for his return. Now that Rafjani was in the apartment of Venia Dahar, Azzizi knew he was free to leave. Rafjani would return to Iraq in the morning and he would expect Azzizi to be there to meet him.

  * * * *

  Valeria’s eyes fluttered open. She raised her head off the inflated side of the raft, feeling stiffness in her neck from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position.

  For a second she was disoriented and seized with panic. She was on a tiny raft with a stranger and they were in the middle of 104

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  nowhere on the water with no land in sight. Then the memories of the night before flooded back to her and, although they were mostly fuzzy, she calmed down.

  This stranger, this man asleep beside her, was responsible for getting her in this situation. Moving through her mind were images of the flaming boat, the Russian ship, the sharks and the look of fear in this man’s eyes when he saw the sharks.

  Who was this man? He spoke to her in Russian, hadn’t he, or was it her imagination? She was in shock when she woke up in the water. If she hadn’t waken up in this raft she might have believed she imagined the whole thing.

  But he wore a dark blue jacket with the name of an American warship, and his clothes looked like those of an American naval officer. He must be American.

  She stared at his face, trying to read his mind. He did not look old. Twenty eight, she decided, maybe thirty. He was lean and slender and had strong features. There was a scar on his chin, and one over his right eye. Very intriguing, especially those eyes. They were closed now but she had looked into them last night. They had betrayed fear, but she saw something else there.

  Confidence, a security she could wrap herself in when her own fear escalated to panic. Whoever he was, he had honest eyes.

  More memories of the previous day flashed through her mind, and her heart was seized with panic all over again. The events of the prison break were just a blur. She remembered loitering in the yard with the other women when a fight started somewhere near the wall.

  Most of the other women moved closer to see, shouting and yelling. Valeria moved away to keep herself apart. The guards on top of the wall, those brutish men, aimed their rifles at the crowd of women. They were always eager for a reason to fire on them.

  Somewhere near the wall where the women were gathered was a boom like an explosion. The women’s shouts turned to screams and they ran in all directions. Some were knocked down and trampled.

  Guards on the wall fired gas bombs into the yard to subdue Change of Heart

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  them. Valeria had seen the thick, white smoke several times before, always an effective tactic to quell unrest, but she’d never seen so much. The entire yard was blanketed by an enormous, white cloud.

  Valeria remained where she was, unable to see to move. When somebody spoke her name, she turned to face the voice. A man appeared through the smoke, startling her.

  “Valeria Konstantinova?” he said again.

  She nodded, not sure whether she should let him know. If he was one of the guards, he would know, anyway.

  He stepped closer and she could see his face. He wasn’t one of the guards, at least, not one she recognized.

  “I’m an American,” he said in Russian. “I’m here to get you out.” He held out his hand, waiting.

  She stared back at him. Apprehension froze her to her spot.

  He could be American. He could be anybody. She never met an American. She wouldn’t know one from a German.

  Whoever he was, he was offering her escape. She could be out of this miserable place, on her way back home. Or she could be on her way to her death. He might be KGB, or whatever passed for KGB after the fall of the Soviet Union. He might want to take her somewhere to put a bullet in her head. But he could have done that already, while no one could see them.

  Hoping she was doing the right thing, she put her hand in his.

  He led her away at a run, as if he could see through the smoke when she could not. He told her to step up, then step down, and she found herself outside the wall, emerging from the white fog into clear air. Behind was the towering stone wall. The guards along the top all faced inward. Ahead, on the narrow gravel road, was a car with a single occupant in the driver’s seat. They went toward it.

  “I’m with the CIA. We were sent to make sure you were safe,” the man said.

  Valeria’s blood went cold at the mention of the CIA, but somehow she trusted this man. She had little choice. There was no one inside that prison she could trust.

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  “We were sent here by-”

  He was cut off by shouts behind. They turned to look. Some of the guards had come out through the gate farther down the wall and spotted them. The CIA man looked in Valeria’s eyes.

  “Get in the car,” he said, and shoved her toward it as he drew a gun.

  Valeria stared at him for a moment, then turned and ran toward the car. She heard gunshots, but did not look back. The man in the car opened the passenger’s door, and she got in.

  They heard a burst of gunfire and looked back. The CIA man fell to the ground on his hands and knees, crawling in their direction. The man in the driver’s seat drove off in a hurry. Valeria watched the guards catch up to the man on the ground as they receded in the distance. One of the guards put a gun to the back of the CIA man’s head and she tore her eyes away. She couldn’t believe what was happening.

  �
��My name is Ron Finn,” said the man who was driving. Valeria looked at him. He was staring straight ahead at the road. “I’m with the CIA. You’ll be safe now. We have to get you out of the country.”

  He glanced at her, then back at the road.

  The rest of what happened was too confusing. They drove until dark, changed cars once, maybe twice, were chased by men in uniform, were helped by other CIA people, and continued driving. She didn’t know where they were going until they got there, and she didn’t know why.

  It seemed so quiet when they reached the dockyard in some small city on the coast she never heard of. Ron Finn seemed to know where they were going, then they saw policemen. He went a different way, but the police were catching them.

  She remembered the gunshots, from the police and from Ron Finn. She couldn’t remember if she had screamed or not. They were near some sailboats and Ron Finn shoved her into one. As he untied the boat, he spoke with a weak voice, clutching his chest with one hand.

  “I brought some clothes,” he said, and handed her a small Change of Heart

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  equipment pack. “Put them on.”

  She remembered a red stain in his shirt under his hand, then she went into the sailboat to change, and that was all, until she awoke in the water with this man, yet another stranger. What was this all about?

  Those words stuck in her head.

  “You’ll be safe now.”

  She repeated them again and again. Even now she wondered what they really meant.

  His eyes opened suddenly and he sucked in a deep breath, bolting upright and looking around. Valeria stayed very still. He looked out over the water in every direction, then down at her.

  “Dobroe utro,” he said in Russian.

  His Russian was very good. He had only a hint of an accent, or maybe a lack of an accent.

  “Who are you?” she replied in Russian.

  His eyebrows arched up. She realized it was the first time she spoke to him. He settled back against the raft, facing her.