Apollo is grinning at me with a wry expression. “Thank you, my love, for that very informative explainer on European criminal infrastructure.” His tone is dry, sarcastic. “I would not have understood it, otherwise.”
I frown, not following—as I said, I’m exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally drained. And then it dawns on me, and I laugh. “Forgot who I was talking to, for a second.”
“Indeed.” He pats my thigh. “Rasmussen. Rings a bell.” He muses quietly for a moment. “Sven Rasmussen?”
I nod. “That’s him.”
He slaps his knee. “I know him. I’ve done business with him. I was new to the game, just starting out after discovering who Grandfather was. Thought I could connect with my family history by being one of them, right? Get closer to Grandfather, to Mom. Well, I wanted this deal. Would have been my biggest acquisition ever—a major player in moving heroin from Afghanistan to Eastern Europe by way of Georgia, and guns the other way, had died of a heart attack, very suddenly, very unexpectedly. This left a power vacuum. I wanted control of that route, and so did Spaulding—he sent Rasmussen to negotiate with me.”
“What was that like?” I ask.
He snorts. “Rasmussen is a slick operator and a vicious son of a bitch. I hated him on sight.”
“Who got control?”
Apollo winks. “I did. I gave Spaulding a piece of real estate he’d been eyeing that I owned, a port warehouse in Odesa that was perfect for certain smuggling operations. I gave him that, and he gave me the route.” A laugh. “I got the better deal. See, I’d gotten wind Interpol had pegged that warehouse for being exactly what it was, and were watching it, so I’d planned on unloading it anyway. Ended up a win-win for me.” He sobers. “I do not much like the idea of Sven Rasmussen hunting us. Djakovic worries me less. But Rasmussen, as I said, is slick and very, very vicious. Not someone to fuck around with.”
“We tracked him to a ship docking in Algiers, but last I knew, that’s where I lost him. We were assuming he was heading to meet up with Spaulding, which is why we were tracking him in the first place, but then Alexei joined us and he had a contact here named Thomas, who got us more direct intel on your current whereabouts. Once we knew where they were holding you, we sort of left off keeping track of Rasmussen.”
“Logical enough.”
“Except now he’s a threat. And I don’t know that this plan of mine will work.”
“It’s what we’ve got. My next best idea was to try and sell this truck for cash and get a bus to Tangier so I can get ahold of my friend there—and then, at that point, I could get us somewhere safer, if not get ahold of your many uncles.”
“That’s an option too, but at least in this we have control over our movements.” I glance at the shops on our right. “So, where do we find a phone?”
“Better question is, where do we find a phone that they’re not going to want us to pay them to use?” A wry, bitter laugh. “Billions of dollars between the two of us, and we’re flat broke.”
“It is pretty ironic, isn’t it?” I can’t help but laugh at the observation.
We drive through Tunis at random for a while. Eventually, Apollo points. “There.”
It’s a small cafe, with a few tables on the sidewalk outside the open front. At one of the tables, a local businessman has a cell phone to his ear, and a small mug pinched between two fingers.
“Pull over,” Apollo says, gesturing.
I stop the vehicle across the street, put the shifter in neutral, and set the parking brake. When Apollo moves to exit, I touch his leg. “Wait—I should talk to him.”
He frowns. “I think maybe he would respond to another man better.”
“But who is he going to remember more acutely: a pretty blond American, or a man with a badly wounded arm?” I gesture at his face, at the purpling bruises left by Djakovic. “Plus, the bruised face.”
“Shit. You’re right.” He hisses in frustration. “I hate letting you assume all the risks.”
I smile at him and pat his thigh. “There’s little risk to this. I just have to play the pretty damsel in distress.”
“I know. But still.”
“I’ve got this, Apollo. It’s fine.”
I slip out of the SUV and head for the cafe. The businessman ends the call as I approach, seeing me and dismissing me—until I halt near him on the other side of the low, decorative fence. “Excuse me, sir.”
He eyes me irritably. “No English.”
“I just need to borrow your phone, please?”
He regards me with further annoyance. “No English.” He gestures at me, snapping something in Arabic.
