Hot Rocks

By Edward Lackey

While her lover, David Townsend, is piloting a Boeing-777 across the Atlantic, Irina Marisovna receives a call from her distraught aunt in the Ukraine. Her cousin, an active 17 year old, has gone missing without a trace and the mother has no clue how to find her. Irina drops everything and heads to Kiev to help locate the missing girl and finds a disturbing trend of unexplained disappearances of young women. During her investigation, Irina is caught up in the human trafficking business conducted by the Russian Mafia to supply their U.S. branch with beautiful women for their lucrative escort business. Drugged and in the pipeline, Irina crosses the Atlantic to New York's Brighton Beach carrying contraband uncut diamonds that have become a collateral side of the unsavory business.

When Townsend returns to London, Irina's father is waiting to tell him of Irina's disappearance and they head to Kiev in an attempt to locate her and the wayward cousin. They are just a few days late but are able to track down the perpetrators of the abduction and ascertain the logistical plan by employing unconventional but effective interrogation methods.

The next stop is New York where they meet their friend and colleague Billy Ray Benfield who has been using his access to the NSA computer system to begin formulating a plan to locate and free the two women from the clutches of the Russian organized crime family. Part of the plan is to ensure that justice is extracted for Irina and all of the other unfortunate women caught up in this affair.

From Brighton Beach to the cloistered hills of central Connecticut to Bevery Hills, the team puts together an intricate plan to act as puppet master to bring down an organization that has eluded the FBI for too many years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Lackey
• Release date: Aug 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301741427

Edward Lackey

Edward Lackey is a former Naval Aviator and retired corporate pilot who flew Gulfstream aircraft around the world. An avid reader, Lackey decided to try his hand at writing using his military and civilian aviation and travel experiences as a basis for his novels. He is currently working on the continuing adventures of Townsend and Benfield in his second novel. Lackey lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

Book preview

ONE

1234 UTC. Monday, April 8. 54 00N 020 00W.

Miss, are you alright? Is there anything that I can do for you? Patricia Hansen looked at the young woman and could tell that she was extremely uncomfortable. She was clutching her stomach and rocking back and forth as if the movement would ease the pain she obviously felt.

As Purser of this fully loaded Boeing 777, she was normally busy in First Class trying to keep the 16 high rollers happy and comfortable. It was just a little over two hours since takeoff from Heathrow and she was well into the elaborate lunch service routine. When one of the harried Coach flight attendants came forward to alert her to a potential problem with one of their passengers, she headed to the back to see what she could do.

Hansen guessed that the girl was in her late teens or early twenties with stringy blonde hair and a pale complexion that a coal miner would be proud of. Her clothes were typical to most Eastern European travelers—jeans with a v-neck black t-shirt and worn trainers without socks. She knew that the girl was from somewhere east of Germany as she had heard the mumbled Slavic words of anguish directed to the middle aged man sitting next to her. The man was doing his best to ignore her and the pesky flight attendants.

As the young girl tightly clutched her bloated stomach, Hansen asked, Sir is your companion possibly pregnant? She seems to be in a great deal of pain.

The man merely shrugged and did his best impression of the Invisible Man.

Hansen saw that this situation was getting worse by the minute and told the hovering Coach flight attendant to remain with the two passengers and quickly went forward to her station in First Class to use the pager function of the phone to see if there was a doctor on board to tend to an apparently ill passenger. She was now following standard operating procedure.

After the page an elderly gentleman, by his accent from well below the Mason-Dixon Line, agreed to see to the young woman. After a brief examination the senior cardiologist at one of the largest hospitals in Atlanta said, From what I can tell, the young lady is suffering from some sort of acute gastrointestinal disorder. She may have eaten something at Heathrow or on her inbound flight that has caused the problem. I know it wasn’t on your flight as this part of Coach hasn’t been served yet. I really can’t tell you much more because she apparently doesn’t speak English and can’t tell me anything. Her seat companion is totally unresponsive. They must know each other but he doesn’t seem to be too concerned.

Could she be pregnant and going to miscarry? Hansen felt like a dentist trying to extract a stubborn molar getting information out of this doctor.

Without a proper pelvic exam, which I’m not qualified to perform, I really can’t be sure. Since she can’t or won’t speak English and her companion is unhelpful, I really can’t give you an accurate diagnosis.

Hansen asked, Do you recommend that we get her back on the ground as soon as possible?

The doctor simply shrugged and replied, That’s not my call but take a look at the girl, would you like to sit in that cramped seat for another four or five hours? Shrugging again, he smiled sadly and returned to his seat in Business.

Hansen had come to the same conclusions but needed the official diagnosis before proceeding. She was accustomed to the non-committal attitude displayed by physicians forced into these in-flight medical situations. On one of her flights out of Frankfurt she had a passenger—another Eastern European—in a Coach window seat experience a heart attack. By the time she and her crewmembers had gotten him out of the seat and to an area where they could administer CPR he was gone. With malpractice concerns flashing alarms, the doctor, who reluctantly came forward when the page for assistance went out, would not pronounce the man dead. The crew worked for the entire 85 minute divert to Keflavik, Iceland on a man who was well passed saving.

She followed the physician back through Business and hurried to her phone to place the dreaded call to the cockpit.

David Townsend checked the progress page on the Flight Management System to see how they were doing with reference to the computer flight plan on his clipboard. Not too shabby, the climb out from LHR was pretty much unrestricted and they were fighting forecast winds; fuel onboard was within 500 pounds of that estimated by the computer.

He was on the mid-portion of his six day trip. For the last eight months he had built lines that had him flying DFW—LHR then LHR—JFK—LHR then back to DFW. The end result of this unusual sequence was more days in London than at his home in DFW horse country. When he had amassed the maximum number of flight hours allowed for the month, he deadheaded to London and spent the remaining 9 days with the very beautiful reason for his quirky schedule—Irina Marisovna.

It was still difficult for him to believe that the beautiful, famous runway fashion model could actually fall in love with him. After their three week adventure last summer, they had been as inseparable as Siamese twins. A loner most of his life, he found that being away from Irina was almost physically painful. The reunions made up for the separation.

They had just passed 20 West; westbound in the North Atlantic Track System. The former requisite position reports every 10 degrees of longitude to Shannon Oceanic Control on primitive HF radio were now, thankfully, not required. The newer aircraft, like Townsend’s Boeing 777, were equipped with CPDLC (Controller-pilot data link communication). This innovation provided radar-like position depiction along the entire route to Shannon and Gander Oceanic Controllers. Now trans-oceanic flight crews fought off boredom as the CPDLC, autopilot and FMS did their magic. He was interrupted from his reverie by the distinctive chime of the cockpit/cabin inter-phone. Cockpit, what can we do for you Trish?

Without preamble Hansen got straight to the matter, David, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but we have a Coach passenger, 35A, who is in some kind of stomach distress—she may even be having a miscarriage, the cardiologist who responded to my call for assistance is at a loss as to what to do. He really thinks that we should get her to a hospital as quickly as you can find one.

Townsend recognized his Purser’s frustration with doctors who were hesitant to get involved with airborne passengers. Regardless of any promises they had made to Hippocrates when they began their careers, malpractice suits were always an inhibiting consideration. He knew that not all physicians were of that philosophy. One of his good friends back in Argyle, an accomplished surgeon, would perform an emergency splenectomy in the Business galley if it would save the patient. He silently wished that Mark was onboard today.

Immediately in the flow he said, Okay Trish, hang on a second. He turned to his First Officer and said, Tom, get on to Shannon Control on HF and work up an emergency divert back to Shannon via the most direct routing. Without missing a beat he continued with his Purser, Trish, I’ll get with Dispatch when I get off with you to set up the emergency medical services and handling at Shannon. What can you tell me about the pax?

I’ve got the passenger info in front of me. Her name is Alexandra Kowalchuk, originated out of Kiev with a transfer at Heathrow. Her seat companion is a strange one, his name is Evgeny Yurkevich—same itinerary. Problem is he acts like he doesn’t even know her. Neither of them apparently speaks any English so we’re not getting any help with her condition. Another funny thing, according to the data from the manifest, they only have carryon baggage.

Townsend harrumphed, Yeah that is unusual. Most of our Eastern European travelers usually have as much baggage as a small circus. It will make our turn at Shannon shorter since we won’t have to dig through the bins to get their stuff.

Hansen could see that the plane was in a left hand turn as they were cleared back to the westernmost Irish airport and emergency services for their passenger. She asked, How long ‘til we land?

Figure about 50 minutes. We’ll keep the speed up so as to get her to a hospital as soon as possible. I speak passable Russian, can I help out?

Thanks David, I can’t figure out what’s up with these two. The guy looks like he’d rather be any place than beside this poor girl. I’ll head back there and meet you at her seat. The worried Purser hung up the intercom and told her two First Class attendants that they would have to look after that section without her for the remainder of the flight.

Townsend, after ensuring that everything was set for their unscheduled arrival at SNN, unbuckled his harness and left the cockpit in the capable hands of his senior First Officer, Tom Talbot. He hurried through First and Business to the fully packed Coach cabin with his focus on the left side mid-cabin where three flight attendants were hovering. As he approached he could see a young woman who appeared to be in distress. He was more interested in the nervous man sitting beside her.

Townsend, since college days, found that he had an unusual aptitude for foreign languages and by graduation was fluent in Spanish and German. During the course of his brief but exciting career as a Naval Aviator, he had occasion to learn and employ Arabic. Over the course of the past eight months, he had pleasantly surprised his significant other by acquiring a remarkably authentic command of Russian.

The nervous passenger in 35B was shocked to hear the fourth crew member speak to him in perfectly accented Russian, Sir, I am Captain Townsend and in charge of this flight. What can you tell me about your companion’s medical condition? Is she with child?

The man squirmed as he replied, I have no knowledge of this girl’s medical condition. I was merely asked by a friend to accompany her to New York. As a personal favor to my friend I agreed, but I know nothing of the girl other than her name and that she is to be met at Kennedy Airport by her sponsors. Now I wished that I had never agreed to his request.

Townsend was watching closely as this man made his disclaimer. He appeared to be genuinely irritated and showed little concern for the distress that the young lady was currently experiencing.

In the brief interlude, he heard the girl mumble, Evgeny…must be coming out…hurts so bad.

Townsend had trouble hearing everything that she said. His vocabulary was very good for the short time that he had been learning the complicated language. He thought that she said out but it could have been loose. That didn’t make any sense. But his brief inspection confirmed his Purser’s recommendation; this girl needed to be in a hospital.

Sir, we are heading back to Shannon, Ireland. When we land, there will be Emergency Medical Personnel to tend to your companion. You will accompany her to the hospital and we will continue on to JFK. The Captain gave the reluctant minder a stern look and headed back to the cockpit to get ready for the approach and landing.

10:00 AM. Monday, April 8. Lowndes Square, Knightsbridge, London.

Irina Marisovna was sitting at the desk in her small office overlooking the square below. The bare trees were just beginning to have a tinge of green as spring was trying to break through an unusually cold winter. She was hunched over the desk intently working on another of her ongoing projects—this one a two piece business ensemble.

Irina relished the privacy and solitude she was now afforded in the early stages of her retirement from the active fashion world. Her picture had graced the cover of fashion magazines around the world as the face for one of the major French designers for more than a decade. Irina had finally convinced her long time friend that it was time—well past time—that he bring on a replacement. At thirty one, she argued that she was over the hill and he should look to a younger, more glamorous representative of his fabulous designs.

He argued, correctly, that even at the ripe old age of thirty one, she was as beautiful and fit as she had been when she first strutted down that narrow runway ten years ago. Irina was one of those fortunate women who were virtually ageless. At just under six feet and a trim 120 pounds, she cut a dashing figure in the sleek gowns her employer had her wear for the world to see and admire. Her face was as wrinkle free as if she were a teenager on her way to the Prom. Her dark eyes, just a little farther apart than normal, gave her a feline look that stole the breath from those lucky enough to be near. Even in her casual mode, as she flitted about Knightsbridge shopping and exercising, she nearly stopped traffic with her natural beauty and grace.

In the recent Spring Fashion Week showings in Paris, she had attended several galas where the twenty two year old former Victoria Secret’s model was introduced and then bombarded by the media for literally thousands of photographs from every angle imaginable. Irina was more than happy to relinquish the stage and made her exit as quietly and unobtrusively as an outgoing president after the inauguration.

With her friend’s blessing, she was about to embark upon her own career as a designer. Encouraged by David, she decided to employ her intuitive skills to provide attractive, functional fashions for the normal woman. Realizing that only a small percentage of the female population could possibly afford or fit themselves into the glamorous gowns and dresses worn by the runway models, she chose a more practical approach.

Her father, a silent partner in the enterprise, provided the start up funds and she had plans in place to begin initial production in the fall. She found that she really enjoyed the work and it passed the time when David was over the Atlantic or in his Texas home. She glanced over at the framed picture on the corner of her paper strewn desk. It was a unique photograph of the two of them in one of the caverns of the ancient Jordanian town of Petra with the massive Treasury façade behind them. When the photograph was taken she had only known the shy, quiet airline captain a few days but in her heart she had known that this was the man for her. The following few weeks bouncing around the world on a high stakes scavenger hunt brought them close as a couple. The last eight months had made them one.

The ascending ring tone of her iPhone brought her back from her reverie. As she reached across the desk to pick up the vibrating nuisance she noted the other unique instrument beside it. This phone was slightly larger and had an extendable antenna that allowed one of thirty geosynchronous NSA satellites in low earth orbit to connect the instrument to a very special network of only seven subscribers. Those lucky enough to have this untraceable, untappable, ultra secure phone were members of a group known as the Pennsylvania Avenue Irregulars. This very special group provided off the books help to a special task force in the FBI. Her help to David and his best friend Billy Ray Benfield in averting a major terrorist attack assured her inclusion in the group and the ownership of the phone.

The fact that it was her normal phone still vibrating noisily on the desk lessened her interest in answering. Those she cared most about in this world all had one of the special devices. This was probably one of the few remaining fashion editors still trying to get a quote on the new girl on the covers. Well, she might as well check the caller ID.

Hmmm, the international code is 380—the Ukraine. The city code is 44—Kiev. She only knew two people from the city of her birth. In Russian, rather than the traditional Ukrainian, she answered, Hello.

An excited voiced immediately replied, Irina, it is Katyusha. Irina had not heard the Russian diminutive version of her aunt’s name in quite some while. She knew that just about every first name in the Russian language had some sort of diminutive used by close friends and family.

Well this is a surprise. Ekaterina Gulyayeva was fifteen years younger than Irina’s mother and had remained at home in Kiev when her older sister married the dashing Russian Air Force pilot and moved to Moscow. She had idolized her beautiful older sister and was subconsciously envious of her good fortune. Because of the difference in their ages and the affluent lifestyle the Govlenkos enjoyed, there had been little contact with Ekaterina and her young daughter. Irina went along on the occasional visits to Kiev but grew up in Moscow and never really learned the slightly different nuances of the Ukrainian language. She continued, Katyusha, what a pleasant surprise, how … . .

Irina, it is Olya, she is gone. I do not know where she is. She was out with friends last night and did not come home. I just thought that she stayed overnight with one of the other girls. I called them all this morning and they have not seen her since last night.

Irina knew that Katyusha’s only daughter, Olga, was turning out to be what David’s friend Billy Ray called a handful. She was seventeen going on twenty four and was, according to her mother, turning to all of the bad influences available to twenty first century young women—drink, cigarettes, men and drugs. This was not good.

What did her friends tell you?

Her best friend Nastya said that a very handsome young man came over to their table and asked Olya to dance. The two of them were together the rest of the night. When the other girls were ready to leave, Olya told them to go on without her as her new friend would see her home. She did not come home. I have tried her cell and it goes to voice mail. She has never done anything like this before. I am sick with worry.

Irina could hear the concern in her aunt’s voice. She asked, Have you gone to the police?

Yes, I called but they told me that the waiting time for a ‘missing person’ is 48 hours. They said to call back then if she is still not home. Irina, I know that I have been hard on Olya, but she is basically a good girl. You are much more worldly than I, please tell me what to do.

Irina reached for her MacBook to check flight schedules as she replied, Katyusha, I am looking up flights to Kiev, I think that it is best that I come to you and see if we can locate her. Ah, there is a Ukraine International flight out of Gatwick to Kiev in a couple of hours. It is a direct flight with seats available. I should be at Boryspil Airport around six this evening. In the meantime, call back to Olya’s best friend and find out the name of the club where they were and a description of the young man that she met with. I will do my best to track her down. Can you pick me up at Boryspil when I land? It will save time. Please try not to worry Katyusha; we will find her and she will be alright.

After a quick but thorough job of packing, Irina checked her office to make sure that she had not forgotten anything. The Special Phone was still sitting patiently on the desk. She knew from conversations with Billy Ray just how sensitive that piece of equipment was. In view of the part of the world she was to travel, she knew that it was a bad idea to have that super-secret phone in her possession. She would keep her iPhone handy and David could always get in touch with her using that device.

Before placing the phone in the cabinet safe that David purchased for her flat, she typed in a time delay text for him. She knew that he would be about halfway across the Atlantic and didn’t want to disturb him. But she needed to let him know of the minor emergency and where she would be.

Hello my love. My aunt from Kiev called to say that her daughter, my cousin, has gone missing. Probably it is just teenage girl mischief but she seems to be very worried. She needs my help and I am booked on PS 502 to KBP to give her support. You can reach me on my iPhone. I love you.

TWO

6:45 PM. Monday, April 8. Kiev, Ukraine.

Immediately after disconnecting from her aunt, Irina placed a call to the friendly dispatcher for Alexander’s Car Service that she had used for the last seven years to get her around London for shoots and, as in this case, to the airport for last minute departures. Sarah said that Alexander himself would be waiting at the normal spot on Harriet Street in twenty minutes. When told that Irina wished to leave from Gatwick rather than her normal Heathrow departure, Sara cautioned that the travel time was somewhat longer.

About halfway to the number two London international airport, Irina told the owner of the busy car service that she was seeing roads that I have never seen before. Alex just smiled and said, Personal short cuts, my dear. I’ll have you at the curb in plenty of time. And he did.

One of the advantages of being a celebrity is that when you are so easily recognized you get special consideration. Irina had made it a practice never to accept that kind of treatment and went out of her way to avoid the attention getting behavior that many in her line of work assumed was simply their just reward for their beauty.

When she entered the terminal area and found the counter for Ukrainian International Airlines, she was greeted by an attractive young lady in a well fitted uniform. "Good morning, Ms Marisovna, if you will come with me I will