A Real Flexible Girl: Pt. 02

A Real Flexible Girl

Part Two

by The Preve

The Carnegie Museum of Modern Art opened its Picasso exhibit on a beautiful spring day, end of May. The curator was present, as was Charley Bakersfield, the billionaire bankrolling the exhibition. Various members of the local Quality also attended. Semi-formal wear befitting the bright, sunny atmosphere was the rule.

The curator, Harold Bakersfield, noted the presence of Mike Barnes, the weaselly assistant professor from the University. He despised the bastard, in spite their "business association".

Sure it was too bad about Sarah. A beautiful and talented woman. Her work setting up the exhibit was exemplary. Unfortunately, he had those gambling debts, the Russians breathing down his neck, his father telling him he wasn't going to bail him out this time, and Mike, the ex-bro who'd got him into trouble in the first place.

Mike, who came up with the scheme to get back at his ex-girlfriend, Sarah, and clear their slate with Boris at the same time.

Plus, Sarah asking questions about the expenditures he approved. Maybe she recognized the embezzlement, maybe not. Harry couldn't take the chance. Maybe she didn't know. It was a while back. She didn't mention it. The train was running by then, too late to stop it. Too bad for Sarah.

Sarah, who walked into the main hall like a ghost. Sarah, wearing a bright, white sundress and white sandals, smiling as if she had no care in the world. Sarah, of the beautiful yoga-sculpted body, who technically shouldn't be there; who should be off to whatever fate Doctor Hamish planned for her.

He glanced at Mike. Mike was having his back pounded. Apparently he'd swallowed something down the wrong pipe. The look on his face was fish-pale, and pop-eyed at the woman walking past him.

Sarah glanced at Mike but seemed more interested in Harry. Other guests noticed her. Some smiled and waved. She waved back; people knew her. She drew more than a few admiring glances from both sexes.

Her sundress impressed, with a plunging neckline to reveal just enough to draw attention, but not enough to scandalize.

Charley Bakersfield intercepted her. They chatted briefly, smiling at each other. He was surprised to see her.

"Harold told me you wouldn't be coming. He mentioned trouble with the family?"

"False alarm, I'm afraid. Mom can get hysterical sometimes," Sarah replied. "I wasn't about to miss this day. Got back early this morning."

"Yes, you worked so hard on this project. Excellent job; people are saying it's the best display of Picasso they've ever seen. I'm recommending my son promote you."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir. I need to talk with your son about the upcoming Warhol exhibit. If I may . . .?"

"Oh, of course. I have to slap some palms myself. Once again, excellent work."

She watched him go to the Mayor and his wife.

A good man. At least as good as a billionaire can be. Too bad his son is such a shit.

She came to Harry, all sunshine and smiles. "Well, it looks like we did it again."

"Well, uh, er, um . . . Yes . . . Uh . . . I guess," Harry fumbled.

"Is something the matter Harry? You look a little pale."

"Uh . . . nothing! Nothing's wrong!" he nearly shrieked. "Um . . . how are you?"

He looked at Sarah as if she were the Grim Reaper come to collect his soul.

What's she playing at?! She's playing me?! Fuck! It's fucking blackmail!

"Oh, I'm great," she beamed, "I told your father, Mom's phone call was a false alarm."

Sarah wore the sunny, alluring smile he always found fascinating. She was throwing the sick mother lie back in his face. Her smile held a touch of humor.

She's enjoying this! She wants to see me squirm! "Well, good to know. Um, did anything happen . . . while you were at your Mom's I mean?"

Sarah's face took on a quizzical expression. The question was awkward, but not unexpected. Her confusion was a parody. She drank in his discomfort, reveled in his fear.

This is fun. "Not that I know of. That's a strange question."

"Yes . . . uh . . . well . . . I, uh . . . guess it is," Harry stammered.

"Look, maybe we should talk later, Harry. You look a little sick."

"Uh, yes, come to think of it. I'm not feeling too well. Yes! I . . . have to go. Not feeling too well, bye!"

Harry practically ran away. Sarah suppressed a giggle. She enjoyed watching him squirm.

His time is coming, but not now. Let's see about Mike.

Mike panicked. Oh God! She's coming over here! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! What'd she say to Harry?! Fuck me!

Boris, in so much coded words, had told him Hamish picked her up; no telling who was listening on the phones, given Boris and his associates.

"Hamish conveys his personal thanks for the package, and so do I. It really is an exquisite present. Inform Mr. Bakersfield his debt is cleared."

Mike smiled. Serves the bitch right. What did she think, dumping me like that? No one does that to me. No one.

Sure he didn't exercise fidelity, exactly, in his relationship, and maybe, he'd sponged off her a little too much, and often. So she accused him of being a control freak and narcissistic. Well? What of it? She's just a girl. The museum job took too much of her attention away from him.

Mike's narcissism, at the moment, had switched to self-preservation. Options raced through his brain; most explored how to use his charm to calm her so, hopefully, she wouldn't sic the police on him.

"I'm fucked," he sweated. "She calls the police, Boris will kill me before they even put me in the cruiser."

Sarah, however, didn't look pissed, or hateful.

In fact, her face was cheerful, carefree. Mike couldn't be more unsettled. Her expression held a different look, the last time they spoke.

What's she playing at?

Sarah waltzed up to Mike. "Hello Mike," she glowed, "Some party huh?"

"Gulp! Um, hi Sarah?" he squeaked.

"Is something wrong Mike? You don't look well."

"I . . . um . . . I . . . choked."

"Oh, something went down the wrong throat, then?"

"Urk! I . . . um . . . I guess." Mike's stupid deer-in-the-headlights look nearly caused a giggle from Sarah.

God, why did I ever fall for him? She moved closer and spoke in a low voice. "Look Mike, I lost my temper last time. I think I could have handled it better, maybe been more understanding? I mean, you're you and I guess I should accept it. Maybe we can talk about it at my house? See if we can move on?"

Her words shocked Mike speechless. She wants to make up?! Her tone carried a hopeful edge, in contrast to the last time; angry curses and insults tossed back and forth.

Any indication of Hamish seemed absent from her face. Mike looked at Harry. He was chatting with another guest, while glancing, surreptitiously, at him and Sarah. He doesn't look good.

"Mike?"

"What? Oh! Yeah! Right, we can talk," Mike replied, voice creaking.

"I think you should see someone for that throat. Or maybe take some honey. I have some at home." Sarah leaned close to his ear, and whispered, "Don't tell anyone about the meeting. If we're getting back together, I want it to be a surprise."

"Uh." What is she up to?

"So, eight tonight?" she asked, then lowered her voice seductively, "After my yoga session?"

Mike flushed and his pants grew tight. "Um, okay."

Sarah left with a swish of her sundress, and a wave of her golden hair. The sunny afternoon illuminated her body, rays shining through her sundress. No one noticed, except Mike. She naked under that? He sighed, but not with relief. What the fuck just happened?

"What the fuck just happened?!" someone hissed.

"Huh? What? Oh, Harry," Mike said.

"Well? She's supposed to be gone, and she isn't." Harry aspirated his words into Mike's ears.

"Fuck if I know. Boris said Hamish picked her up. This is . . . fucked."

"She knows something. We talked about her mother's 'illness'. She played along. What's she up to?"

"She invited me to her house," Mike replied. "She wants to make up. She didn't talk about Hamish. I don't think she knows about Boris." A light went on. "You think Hamish has something to do with it? Brainwashed her somehow?"

"I don't know what the fuck that crazy psycho is up to. You going?"

"Damn straight I am," Mike replied. "She told me not to tell anyone, but something's going on here. You need to talk to Boris. I'll go find what Sarah knows."

"Shit!" Harold cursed. "I'm supposed to be done with Boris. I'm supposed be clear of both of you. You're the one who got me into this mess, you piece of shit."

"I didn't do anything, Harry. I only suggested the poker game. Why didn't you take out a loan, or mortgage your house to cover the stolen money."

"Money I 'borrowed' Mike. I had to pay off Boris for the hole you put me in."

"He offered generous terms."

"Use of museum funds to launder his money? And you never thought the position it would put me in with Father? With my family? The community? I'm a Bakersfield, Mike."

"Didn't stop you from selling a co-worker into sex slavery," Mike sneered.

The two men glared at each other, mutual hate radiated from their bodies. They noticed the area around them had grown quiet.

"People are staring, Mike."

Mike looked at the crowd. No one heard the conversation, but the men's body language clued them something was wrong. The two men relaxed.

"Right! I'm going to Sarah's house. Talk to Boris, find out what happened."

"Um, what are going to do? After you talk to her?"

"I don't know," Mike replied. He'd never considered himself a murderer; an asshole, yes, but not capable of killing. If she knew too much . . . well, it was him or her, and he was a selfish shit.

****

Boris Chavorov was a refined man. He loved his chess, he loved his literature, fine wine instead of vodka, expensive cigars instead of cheap cigarettes, and semi-formal suits instead of casual. He never raised his voice, even to people who angered him. He didn't need to.

His looks were clean-shaven, bland. He looked more the classic Soviet bureaucrat, with his wire rim glasses and ice blue eyes.

His position in the hierarchy reflected the impression; high, but not too high.

Boris' strength, besides high intelligence, stemmed from holding cards close to his chest. He never, ever betrayed his thoughts, not in his face, nor his voice. It made him an excellent chess player, and as brilliant and ruthless a leader as any in the Bratva.

His enemies feared him for his inscrutability. His subordinates feared him for his unpredictability.

They never knew how he would react to mistakes. Sometimes he left the offending party alone. Other times . . . a subordinate was present at a meeting one day, and gone the next. Nobody talked about it. People who did quickly became one of the missing.

Boris kept his ambitions carefully hidden. He never made pretensions to humility but disliked open arrogance. Ambition was rife within the organization. Boris was wise enough to know others would see through pretense.

That wasn't to say he had no aims towards higher office. Maintaining the illusion of knowing one's place, while carrying out schemes and executing strategies, meant walking a razor-thin wire.

Side projects tended to receive frowns within the organization, but the one he was engaged upon received some approval. The higher ups saw potential in it.

Boris might have some skepticism of Hamish's idea, but he'd seen enough strange things in his Spetsnaz and KGB days to see the possibilities.

Crime was expensive these days, even for the Mafiya. The potential for money saved through indestructible prostitutes was too much not to explore.

Boris saw greater possibilities of course; prostitutes were one thing, hitmen and mercenaries were another, and if those assassins could be controlled . . .

The possibilities included potentially huge profits Hamish's process could yield him personally. The theories would seem far-fetched if Boris hadn't witnessed Hamish's near success himself.

It was Boris who made sure of the disappeared funneled to Hamish's secret lab. Boris who made sure of the discreet disposal of the failures. Boris who quietly controlled the information sent to his superiors.

The Pakhan and the others viewed the project as an elaborate way to control product (people). They were fools. Boris saw his path laid before him: pakhan---peetokay---manya. Hamish and his project were the keys. Nothing must go wrong.

Boris put the phone down. He'd just finished speaking to Harold Bakersfield, a spoiled idiot with wealthy connections and some minor potential. Bakersfield had a gambling debt, barely worth Boris' notice, but it bore some interesting fruit. Now Bakersfield informed him of some bad news. Something had gone wrong; terribly, horribly wrong.

Boris pressed his intercom. "Miss Katerova, can you please inform Mr. Broski I have need of his services."

"Yes, Mr. Chavorov."

Fifteen minutes later, Kevin Broski was at attention in his boss' office.

"I have an issue with Mortimer Hamish. One of his assistants may have left somewhat abruptly. Go to his office, evaluate, ascertain if there's a workplace problem. Take no further action until I say so."

"Yes, Mr. Chavorov," Kevin acknowledged. He was a man who, in other circumstances, would reply, "Sure thing, boss." Boris Chavorov was someone, one did not refer to as "Boss", not to his face at least. It was "Mister" or "Sir", never "Boss". "Boss" was crude.

Kevin did not ask questions. Mr. Chavorov asked the questions, Kevin provided the answers. He didn't like Hamish, nor what he did, but nothing was to be done. Hamish was Chavorov's and that's all that mattered.

He took Alex "The Ax" Godrov, his driver and bodyguard, to Hamish's warehouse, and immediately found a problem.

"Cops."

The place crawled with them. He took out his phone and texted Chavorov. "Cops at the warehouse."

Bystanders and reporters were present. Kevin looked around and smiled. He saw someone he recognized: Dennis Porter, detective, in the boss' pocket. Dennis saw him as well. Kevin nudged his head. Dennis trotted over, surreptitiously making sure no one saw him.

"So?" Kevin asked.

Dennis immediately knew what Kevin wanted. They owned him so he always had to be prepared.

"Hamish didn't show up for work. His secretary didn't get a text or phone call, so she got her cop boyfriend to take a look at his house. Didn't find anything at first, but he smelled decomp and called it in. Turns out some dog dug up body parts in his backyard. Nothing human but still illegal.

They searched his house, found an invoice for delivery to this address. Found a bunch of lab and medical equipment, plus one dead body. Place was set up like a hospital. What the fuck was Hamish up to?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. What is the condition of the body?"

"See for yourself," Dennis answered. "They're bringing it out now."

The body was covered in a sheet; nothing of note, except the tent in the midsection.

"Is that what it looks like?"

"Yep," Dennis answered.

A breeze rose up and briefly uncovered the corpse. Kevin got a look at its face. It was Hamish. He took his phone and snapped a picture. Hamish's expression especially struck Kevin. It's grimace seemed equal parts ecstasy, pain, and terror. Hamish's face was pale, slightly desiccated, with a trickle of blood leaking from the right nostril.

Kevin, normally ice cold, felt a chill race up his spine. Something was seriously wrong here. "Did you find anything else?"

"Nothing so far. The computers are wiped, and if he kept notes, they're missing."

"Hmmm," Kevin grunted. He thought for a moment. "Nothing to be done here, except to inform Chavorov. Keep me informed."

"Sure, uh. I can't keep this out of the press."

"That's Mr. Chavorov's problem."

He spoke to Chavorov on the phone back to the office. Chavorov's reply was neutral in tone. It made Kevin nervous.

Chavorov was not happy. Hamish dead, his computers wiped, his notes gone, and the latest test subject loose.

She was the key of course. She saw something or did something. At the very least, she knew too much. She had to go, and so did those two fools Mike and Harry. The only unsettling thing about this affair was the girl had not gone to the police. What is she up to?

Chavorov sighed. His position in the organization was obviously in danger. Most of this project was on his dime. There would be a reckoning. In the meantime, "Miss Katerova, could you please call Olga. I have a task for her."

****

The silver-haired man waited in his car. He was patient, quiet, more than a match for his Russian counterpart. The organization he worked for had greater resources than the Bratsva, albeit not by far, and arguably was just as corrupt, certainly just as deadly.

Of course the silver-haired man's superiors had an excuse: protecting the country from its enemies. Not a good excuse but something to swallow.

The young man approaching the car was something of a prodigy; not even thirty and already considered the world's best thief. He was lean and athletic, built like a gymnast, with gold skin and glossy black hair.

His slightly almond eyes showed he favored his Japanese mother. The snub nose came from his Brazilian-Portuguese father. Add to his looks an aura of mischief, plus a slightly below average height, and the silver-haired man was reminded of an elf.

He thought it apt. The way Yoshi Oliveira could break into vaults with the best in security was near magical. His eidetic memory made him an excellent observer as well.

Yoshi carried a large Duffel Bag. The silver-haired man opened the door. Yoshi got in.

"So that's everything?" the silver-haired man asked.

"Yep, the flash drive, his notes, the pictures . . . I wiped everything left."

The silver-haired man smiled. "One of the greatest scientific breakthroughs of the age, and those idiots at Langley didn't see it. What a fucking mess."

"I got out before the cops came. Um, what are we going to do about the woman?"

"She'll have to be picked up of course. She's the only witness and the first survivor, so far as I can tell. I'll send Agent Morgan."

Yoshi shook his head. "Uh, I don't think that would be smart. You didn't see what I saw. You might have to send more."

"She doesn't seem formidable."

"She probably wasn't before Hamish got his hands on her. Look, maybe we shouldn't do anything really, until we figure what the Russians know. Just my opinion."

"You'll find your opinion doesn't count for much in the Company, Yoshi," the silver-haired man frowned, "but you have a point. You're the point man. Get close, observe, and report."

Fuck, Yoshi cursed to himself, Me and my big fucking mouth. "Yes sir."

****

On May 30 20 . . . at 6:00pm, Mike Barnes left his apartment, through the back alley. No one saw him leave. He didn't order a taxi. He didn't use public transportation. He rode his bicycle, cutting through the park, on an old bike trail, neglected for the new one built by the city. Three weeks later, his bike, covered in dirt and cobwebs, was found on that trail. Mike would never be seen again.

Mike's disappearance was inevitable in hindsight. Not so the circumstances, nor the method.

He stowed his bike and walked the last few miles to Sarah's house. Several acquaintances lived nearby, so if questions were asked, he could be visiting anyone and no one.

Sarah lived in a modest bungalow. She'd purchased it with the help of her parents. It took a few more years to alter it to her tastes. Mike frowned; he hated this place. Other visitors may like Sarah's Japanese garden but he preferred American styles. Her house was too isolated for his comfort as well.