Chapter 55

He saved the file and decided to take a much needed break from Ashley and her relatively useless memoir and opened his browser to search for more information on Oliver Memphis. He was the lynchpin of the entire investigation.

According to the witness, Alan had reported his involvement with Memphis began because they needed to kill Rikko Crusstrovich, A.K.A. Dimitri Talk.

“Why?” Patt whispered to himself and then remembered the comment about Memphis’s mother and sister. Were they dead?

Doesn’t matter, he thought. The important thing was the auction, everything else was inconsequential. So why couldn’t he get it out of his head? Why did the story seem relevant? It was motive, sure, but how did it lead to the location of the auction in St. Petersburg?

Patt let out a deep sigh and got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. He’d heard the local cops gripe about the coffee on an almost daily basis, but unlike them, he actually enjoyed the coffee in the office. It was likely true the coffee machine had never been cleaned, but maybe the grit added something. He smirked. Back at his desk he grabbed his notepad and started digging through his notes to find a starting point for his research.

Ashley's story about masturbation didn't give her much of a starting point, but she did manage to learn that pozhaluysta meant "please" in Russian. Apparently Alan spoke Russian so easily that he used it in private. I would assume that people normally spoke the language of the country where they had grown up since childhood while they were alone and certainly while doing that particular activity. God knew he had never screamed in Mandarin while he was in ecstasy. Of course, he didn't speak Mandarin.

He flipped through more notes and discovered that Alan also spoke Spanish and that he spoke English with a strange accent, characterized as “…a mix of British, Russian and… maybe German.” Matt pulled out a map of Pakistan and tried to delineate an area with that combination. It seemed very unlikely that he would find it. Still, an accent meant that Alan was born or long immersed in an area where he would have heard those languages daily. Russia.

Patt checked his watch and decided to order his dinner before his favorite Chinese restaurant closed for the night. He was practically salivating over the thought of garlic noodles and crunchy eggrolls. There had been a time when he’d have ordered for two, but it had been nearly a year since he’d had a partner to share the long investigative hours with; these days, he worked alone. It was just as well since he wasn’t really good with people. He was much too honest and people just didn’t appreciate him for it.

He was good at his job and people respected him, but it didn’t mean they jumped at the chance to work with him or wanted to go out for beers after work. Still, they did what he asked them to do and he couldn’t fault them. If he’d asked one of the analysts to stay behind and help him do some research, they’d have begrudgingly done it and kept their disparaging remarks to themselves until the next time they found themselves in better company.

Patt had asked for a special task force to assist on the case. There was a potentially short turn-around and the possibility of an international incident if they had a raid in St. Petersburg. Still, his boss refused to get a decent task force together unless Patt had concrete proof suspected terrorists and political targets would be at the auction.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d accuse the Bureau of purposely letting this case fall between the cracks. Ashley ’s face was splashed all over the news, complete with grainy surveillance and camera-phone videos of her standoff with the border patrol. Something like that didn’t go away easily.

He scrolled through the information he had available on Oliver Memphis and his accomplices. He was a Russian military officer and a high ranking one. He had fought beside U.S. forces as part of the coalition during Desert Storm. He was highly decorated and was rumored to be very close to the former Major General who assisted in the 1993 coup that overthrew Russian’s president. In short, the man had some very powerful people in his circle.

If he wanted someone dead, he couldn’t imagine it would be difficult for him to carry it out. Of course, he would have to do it without embarrassing himself or his superiors in front of the international community. Could his involvement be the reason the Bureau was hesitating on attacking this case full force?

Patt picked up his pen and wrote down a list of things he needed to gather information on: military bases in Russia, air strips near or on such bases, customs locations and refueling stations. One thing was for certain, Memphis wouldn’t be flying in or out through commercial means, he’d need a private plane, one that wouldn’t have to contend with customs officials. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The intercom buzzer startled him. His food had finally arrived. He took the elevator to the first floor and met the delivery guy, gave him a healthy tip and trudged back upstairs to enjoy his greasy, delicious treats.

Several hours later, Patt decided to call it a night and drive back to his hotel. He planned on getting up early in the morning and going to visit Ashley in the hospital again. She’d be expecting news on her request to join the witness protection program and he had no additional news to offer, but he still needed to get the rest of her statement.

If her information delivered the results he had proposed to his superiors, her request would likely be granted, but not for the right reasons. What the girl needed was justice. She needed the men responsible for her kidnapping, rape, and torture to pay for their crimes in the public arena. She needed for those men to be judged and found wanting of basic human decency, only then could she pick up the pieces of her life and move forward.

However, if he was correct in his assumptions, the Bureau would be more interested in the national security elements, rather than justice for one eighteen-year-old girl. There would be no official arrests, no public trials, because the information she could provide and the covert op that would garner evidence of involvement in human trafficking by wealthy and powerful military leaders, heads of state, and billionaire moguls would be an invaluable asset in the hands of the U.S. government.

It was somewhat of a moral conundrum as far as Patt was concerned. Ashley was running away. She didn’t want to face her former life or its inhabitants and it was a sentiment Patt understood well, but couldn’t agree with. At the same time, he was the last person to give advice on how a person should move beyond their personal traumas. He was still damaged, still sick in the head, no matter how many therapists he had talked to as a teenager. His records had been sealed and for all intents and purposes he was fit for duty, but he knew his own mind. He knew his own limitations and biases. He supposed it counted for something, his knowledge of his own shortcomings afforded him the semblance of perspective when dealing with his job.

He entered his hotel room and set his briefcase down on the table provided. He emptied his pockets, careful to stack any loose change by denomination and place them in a row by size. His keys, wallet and watch were also placed with care. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and hung it up in the closet. Next, he sat and removed his shoes and socks, followed by his shirt and tie. Finally, he removed his belt, wound it, and placed it on the table with his other things before he removed his underwear. He lined up his shoes under the bed and placed the other items in the hotels dry-cleaning bag. It was his nightly routine and he took comfort in the repeated actions. Order was important.

He stood naked in the warm, slightly humid, Texas air and ignored the tingling sensation of his penis becoming more erect. He knew why he was getting hard and he wished he weren’t. He’d been unable to resist the temptation of perusing his interview notes, despite the promising information he’d garnered through researching Memphis in greater depth. That much of the girl’s story was filled with violence was regrettable, that the violence was a direct result of sexually charged circumstances was contemptible, but the way she recounted the story with such devious and manipulating zest and obvious arousal was enough to put him over the edge. It pushed all of his buttons and on the heels of his distaste was the undeniable quickening of his pulse.

He wouldn’t do it though. He wouldn’t fantasize. He wouldn’t masturbate. He wouldn’t seek out sexual gratification. Doing so, would be a step in the wrong direction for him because he knew it would lead to the debilitating guilt that inexorably followed.

Instead, he got down on the floor and proceeded to do as many push-ups as he possibly could. He was tired and his muscles protested. Two in the morning was not the time for exercise, his muscles screamed at him, but it was better than the alternative. He pushed himself until sweat ran down his back and his stomach quivered, until his arms threatened to give out… until there was not a chance in hell he could inspire his lust. Then he took a shower and got in bed.

He slept peacefully and without dreams.