Payback for Revenge

By Alex Markman

What sacrifice is too big for all-consuming love? What revenge is worth? Are there psychological and moral boundaries, beyond which passion does not dare to step?
Chantal, a woman with irresistible charms was a clear-minded, very successful journalist when at the age of 28 she married a financial tycoon who convinced her to try a different life style.
Jovan, a 42 years old surgeon from Yugoslavia - an extraordinary man both in appearance and in substance, considered his life as a journey to wisdom, to discoveries of life’s meaning and purpose. This journey came to an abrupt end when his daughter, a 14 years old beauty, was abducted and killed in a small town in Montenegro in 1995, while the civil war in Yugoslavia was still in full swing. From this moment on revenge became the purpose of his life, the obsession, the only justification of his existence. At this crossroad, by a sheer chance, he met Chantal in New York: they fell in love with each other. Chantal had to make a terrible choice: either to leave her loving husband and life of luxury and go after Jovan and her mission in life - journalism, or stay in comfort and lose her first genuine love and mission. Her hesitation was painful, but short.
Finding killers was a demanding task for Jovan. Police closed the case claiming that his daughter Lilia was abducted by hostile Croats. The only witness though, who later refused to testify, said that he saw how local pimps grabbed the girl on the street and ran away in a car. Both versions lacked credibility, as autopsy concluded that the girl was a virgin.
Soon Chantal discovered something not less horrendous than the civil war, and of no less important to report about: the East European prostitution ring, which used Yugoslavia as a hub for trafficking adolescent girls from Russia, Ukraine and Romania to rich West European countries and North America. She became a witness of terrifying events, when innocent and helpless girls had to go through hell during their short and horrific life.
Jovan discovered the secrets of his daughter’s death and found the killers. The revenge, as well as the payback for it, changed his live, as well as many others, forever. He lost everything on the way to his goal. However, he managed to save lives of a few girls, which was his final reward.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Asteroid Publishing
• Release date: Sep 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781926720029

Book preview

PAYBACK

FOR REVENGE

PAYBACK

FOR REVENGE

BY ALEX MARKMAN

Asteroid Publishing

PAYBACK FOR REVENGE

Alex Markman

Copyright © 2011 by Asteroid Publishing, Inc.

Published by Asteroid Publishing at Smashwords

All rights reserved.

eISBN 978-0-9731379-3-4

Published in Canada.

PAYBACK FOR REVENGE is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the products of author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, organizations or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

www.asteroidpiblishing.ca

[e-mail]

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Long Island

Chapter 2 – Montenegro

About Alex Markman

Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul

JOB 3:20

Chapter 1. Long Island

I

Through the glass wall of a large solarium at the back of my beach-side house, the ocean looked like a painting by a great master mounted in a modern frame. Laying on the massage table, feeling the gentle-but-strong fingers of Branka, a masseuse from Yugoslavia, I watched with lazy interest as heavy thunderclouds moved in rapidly from the west. A small smoky spot on the horizon quickly grew to a large shoal, blocking the daylight. Soon the darkness was like night.

Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning, like a giant leafless tree, carved through the black of the sky. After a brief moment of ominous silence a deafening crack and a rolling rattle shook the earth. Looking back years later, I would see this as a warning sign of another coming storm, which was soon to carry me away into troubled waters.

The patio door to the backyard was open a few inches, letting in the loud murmur of the pouring rain and the aroma of fresh, moist air.

Sometimes we have such storms in Montenegro, Branka remarked, working on my legs.

Please, do me a favor, I said, pointing to the wall at the right. Turn on that switch. No, not that. The next one. Thanks.

She had thought I wanted to light the chandelier at the ceiling. Instead, the touch of her finger brought to life all the outdoor spotlights, whose powerful beams shot through the shrubs, the foliage of the trees, and the solarium’s glass walls. Each created different rainbow colors, turning the room into a fantasyland. Branka exclaimed in admiration.

I’ve never seen anything like that, she whispered, as if afraid of breaking the spell.

Living on the shore of Long Island has its advantages, I mumbled, drowsy under the magnetic warmth of her hands, which moved slowly over my naked back. Their soothing effect made me feel safe and secure.

You have a perfect body for a thirty-four-year-old woman, said Branka, kneading my neck and head. My headache began its slow retreat.

That’s because of never having a child, I responded with a wry smile, which she didn’t notice. I’ve never had such a wonderful masseuse. Where did you train?

Her hands flew over my spine, not touching it, but emitting warm, almost magnetic, waves that penetrated my skin.

I’m actually a licensed doctor. I graduated a medical school in Yugoslavia and became what in America is a family physician. My husband is a surgeon. He taught me many things, including massage.

How did he learn massage? I mumbled in a deep relaxation.

There is no man like him on earth, Branka said, perhaps more with regret than pride. He was always unpredictable. When our daughter was born, something happened to him. He left for Tibet in search for ultimate wisdom and came back when our daughter was two. Since then he has practiced a lot of massage and Eastern alternative medicine. From being a tough and athletic man, he became soft and caring, like a nun. For our daughter he became both father and mother. It was quite a sight when he washed her, changed her underwear, and braided her hair. Now she’s turned fourteen. I always carry her photograph with me. My husband’s as well. Do you want to see them?

Sure, I said, but it was from sheer politeness. I was prepared to offer a few banalities about how pretty the girl was and how attractive her husband, but in my view, very few activities are as boring as staring at bad snapshots of a stranger’s family. They are of interest only to their relatives.

Branka darted to her handbag, fished two photographs from its depths, and placed them under my nose as I lay on my stomach, chin on my crossed arms.

This is my Lilia. Isn’t she pretty?

She asked exactly what I had expected her to ask, and then took a deep breath, waiting for my response.

Uh-huh, I murmured. The girl was indeed pretty, but what could be special enough about a pretty fourteen-year-old girl to attract my attention?

Most girls in our country have dark hair and dark eyes, Branka continued. Lilia is blond, with blue eyes. Perhaps, because of her grandmother - my husband’s mother - she was English. Blonde-blonde, you know…

As she talked, I glanced at her husband’s face. Every part of it seemed out of place, as if the features belonged to different people, but had been put together with no attempt at balance. His forehead was very high and wide, narrowing down towards his eyes, which were too large, taking up almost all the space across his face. The face itself was long and thin, with a square chin, a large mouth, and a hard, narrow nose. I thought it looked like the mask from a science-fiction movie. Never before had I seen such irregular features, but, though they were not handsome separately, they were very impressive together. His mesmerizing stare was disturbing, perhaps because it conveyed an unusual and incompatible combination of laziness, a sullen disposition, and almost inhuman strength of character.

Branka replaced the photographs on the dressing table, where they could be seen by both of us. In the large mirror to my left, I could watch her. Once in a while she would shift her eyes briefly to the photograph of her husband.

Do you love him? I asked her suddenly, surprising even myself. My question took her by surprise as well.

Yes, she said, trying to hide an embarrassed, but happy, smile. Then, suddenly becoming serious, she added: He does not deserve it, though.

She quickly collected both pictures and drowned them into the belly of her swelling bag. I looked at her more closely in the mirror. She was attractive in her own way: dark hair falling on her shoulders, gray eyes, round face, and full lips. With a touch of envy I noticed her healthy skin, smooth and slightly tanned and totally without blemish. How could she have preserved it that well? I wondered. She obviously could not afford the creams and cosmetics that I used.

Our glances met in the mirror. Her eyes lingered on my face, as if studying it, and then she lowered them. In this fleeting moment I had a feeling that she understood my inner thoughts. It was not the penetrating, sharp stare of an investigator, but rather of an all-forgiving, understanding, and compassionate woman.

That’s it, she declared, taking her hands off my body. How do you feel?

Good, I said, getting to my feet and letting her help me with my robe. Good job. My headache is gone. Would you mind having a cup of coffee with me?

Sure. She accepted my invitation with apparent delight. Let me prepare it.

No need, I said. I flipped on the intercom and asked our maid to brew a pot.

No sooner had we started our conversation than my husband, Marvin, came in. It was unusual to see him at this time of the day, as he was always busy with business matters until late evening. Short and stocky, with the slightly superior look of a big deal-maker, he had a peculiar ability to convey an impression of his significance and superiority. It had intimidated me when I had first met him six years ago. He gave a brief nod to Branka.

My husband, Marvin, I introduced him, giving Branka an apologetic smile for his chilly greeting. This is Branka. She is a doctor from Yugoslavia, a magician in massage. Please join us, Marvin.

How do you do, he said off-handedly and took a chair.

Marvin has a spine problem, I chattered on in an attempt to warm up the ambiance. One of the vertebrae in his lower back is out of place. Is it possible to do something about it, Branka?

I can’t, but my husband could. He is a true magician. He is going to come to America soon.

What’s your status in America? Marvin asked.

Temporary, Branka responded, moving uncomfortably in her chair. I hope to get a permanent card eventually. It’s so painful to wait – I miss my daughter so much! Everything I do is for her.

Her eyes got wet, making Marvin turn his attention to the patio door. He utterly disliked any sign of melodrama. In a split second Branka had understood.

Oh, I have to rush to another appointment. She glanced at her plastic wristwatch and frowned as if she were really late for something.

It’s been a pleasure to have you here, I said rising. Is there anything I can do for you?

Not really…

Her tone was not convincing. I felt a pang of compassion for this woman and desire to help her.

Are you sure? Please, don’t be shy.

Just… She cast down her eyes in painful embarrassment.

What? Go ahead.

I have no phone in the basement where I live. May I give your phone number to a friend of mine in Yugoslavia? Just in case of emergency, you know. My daughter is alone sometimes, as my husband is at the front most of the time. He is a surgeon, you know...

Of course! By all means.

Just in case of emer–

I interrupted her by putting my hands on her shoulders.

That’s fine. Use my number. Come the day after tomorrow for my massage – the same time. Okay?

She flashed at me a grateful, shining glance, her cheeks pink.

After she left I sat back down and only then noticed how tight my husband’s lips were, the corners of his mouth pointing down in a disapproving grimace.

Anything wrong? I asked.

What makes you be so outgoing? His tone was cold.

What do you mean?

Don’t misunderstand me, darling. I’m not against charity to poor people. But there should be nothing personal.

I shrugged my shoulders and slowly turned my head to face him – the move demanding an explanation more clearly than words. This time though, contrary to my expectations, Marvin remained unperturbed.

I wouldn’t mind you giving her a hundred-dollar tip, but don’t get involved into her affairs.

Why?

Because it may get you into trouble. Keep a distance from the people you don’t know.

I only gave her my phone number. Not much of anything.

You never know how one thing leads to another.

For instance? I said with mocking curiosity, leaning back and stretching my legs. Marvin looked at my knees with apparent delight.

I can’t be more specific than that. I’m not a fortune-teller. The most important thing though is to stick to certain principles and rules. When you deviate from them, you never know what you’ll be involved in. Simple wisdom, though, is the hardest to understand.

It would not be before long I knew how prophetic his words had been.

II

I remember every minute of that bright, sunny morning; the endless, pale-blue sky, the blossoming trees and flowers outside the patio doors. The universe was saturated with joy and energy; it was one of those uneventful, but for some reason memorable, moments when life seems enjoyable and precious. At a quarter to ten the telephone rang – a bit early, but nothing out of the ordinary. I picked it up, slightly displeased at being distracted from my agreeable thoughts. To my surprise it wasn’t the crisp voice of a Long Island neighbor that I heard, but thickly accented, broken English.

You must have the wrong number, I said, about to hang up.

No, no, the man on the other end of the line protested, his voice rising. Branka ask call you. She said call you, if something happen.

Oh, yes. I immediately remembered giving her my phone number for emergencies. What’s the matter?

Tell her, her daughter killed. Tell her go home bury her.

What? I yelled in horror. Killed? What are you talking about?

She dead. The sound of his voice, hard and grim, left no room for doubt.

How did it happen? I asked.

My English small. Ask her go home. I am her cousin. Please, please, tell her. He hung up.

Dumbfounded, I had to sit still for long moments, staring at a distant small cloud on the horizon and trying to collect myself. How on earth could I give Branka such terrible news? What was I supposed to say? ‘Your daughter is dead, go home?’ No, it was beyond me.

It suddenly occurred to me that she probably had no money to buy the airline ticket and had nobody to borrow it from. Oh, my God! Why me? This was a disaster of astronomical proportions. I had to help her and then somehow get out of this mess. I picked up the phone and punched in the number of my travel agent.

Hello, she greeted me in her usual trained, detached, but pleasant tones. I skipped social pleasantries and went straight to the heart of the matter.

I need one ticket to Belgrade.

Chantal? Good morning. Thanks for calling. When do you wish to fly?

It’s not for me.

It’s quite a short notice. She talked slowly, the clicks of the keyboard indicating her search in the computer system. All tickets have been sold.

Find one. Please, I said curtly.

Hold on. The clicking intensified during the pause. Well…there is one available in business class. As you haven’t booked it in advance, it’s more expen–

Book it, I interrupted. I’ll come to your place to pick the ticket up.

You don’t wish your friend to come for it? she asked.

No. I will.

The flight was for early evening. With all the madness of the New York traffic it took me a while to get to the travel agent’s and then to Branka’s place – a run-down, garbage-littered street of shabby townhomes. At the distant corner of it stood a group of boys in their late teens observing my Jaguar with unpleasant attention. I pulled up, stepped out, crossed the pedestrian walk, and pressed the doorbell. It was out of order. I knocked at the door. There was a patter of steps behind it. A pleasant young female voice asked: Who is there?

I need to talk to Branka. It’s urgent.

There was a click of the lock and the door opened, revealing a pretty woman of about twenty-five, who examined me with friendly, but keen, interest.

Please come in. Her invitation was in fluent, slightly accented, English. Branka is taking shower at the moment. She will be with you in a few minutes.

She looked me up and down twice, probably trying to understand what brought a woman who was so obviously from a different social circle, to visit Branka. Not finding an answer, she led me down a short flight of stairs covered by worn-out, dirty carpet, to the poorly lit basement kitchen.

I’m Milana, she introduced herself. Please sit down.

I’m Chantal. Are you from Yugoslavia as well?

Yes. Some coffee, Chantal?

I looked around in search of a coffee machine. There was none, but on the stove was a small pot with a long handle, the type used to brew Turkish coffee.

No, thanks.

Milana smiled apologetically.

What brought you here? she asked. None of my business, of course . . .

Just . . . Somebody called from Yugoslavia, asking for Branka.

I didn’t have time to finish answering her. Through the thin wall Branka had overheard our conversation. She shouted something to Milana, apparently in Serbian.

You have a guest, Milana responded in English. Chantal.

A moment later Branka broke into the kitchen, pale, lips trembling. She fixed me with terrified eyes.

My daughter. There is nothing wrong with her, is there? her voice rose until it broke. Is there?

No, no, I protested, surprised at how calm I sounded. Perhaps I could have been a good actress. It seems that your husband’s ill. Nothing’s wrong with your daughter. Somebody called me from Yugoslavia and asked me to tell you to come at once. Actually, I bought a ticket for you.

Not looking at her, I produced the ticket and placed it on the table. Her legs gave out. She sat down suddenly on a shabby stool and looked at me with fear and angry suspicion.

How do you know that it’s my husband, not my daughter? she demanded.

I know nothing, Branka. I’m just telling you what I was told. The guy who called me knew only a few English words.

I’ll take care of him, she assured me, as if it were my main concern, and jumped up. I’m a good doctor. I know that he picked up some strange disease in Tibet in one of his travels. But I know what to do. She ran out of the kitchen but continued to talk to us through the thin wall as she changed her clothes. Anything, other than my daughter. I can go through anything. Oh my, I hope she’s not worried about her father.

Through most of this, Milana was watching me, her perfect eyebrows raised in disbelief. To avoid this silent interrogation, I began examining dirty stains on the greasy table.

You have to be quick, I said loudly, but as gently as I could. You have only three hours left to get to the airport and check in. Hurry up.

Branka came back and sat down across the small table.

Thank you so much, she exclaimed rather emphatically. As you have probably guessed, I don’t have enough money for the ticket. I’ll pay you back upon return.

Don’t worry, I said, touching her hand. Branka ran out of the kitchen again, and resumed her noisy collection of her belongings.

It’s her daughter, I heard Milana’s whisper. I nodded, not looking at her. Milana moved her face close to my ear.

Is she dead?

I nodded again.

My God. Milana didn’t say it; she just moved her lips. My God. She was about to say something else, but Branka came in, dressed for travel. In a split second she sensed the mood in the air.

It seems that you know something that I don’t. What is it?

A large butterfly flapped in my stomach when I looked at her face.

C’mon, Branka. I stretched my lips into a careless smile. Stop worrying. Your husband may indeed be in trouble, but both of you are doctors. Make the best of it.

Branka stepped back and re-appeared with a suitcase.

I’m ready.

Outside, I breathed in fresh air and opened my car with the remote. It responded with frantic flashes. Numerous ugly marks had appeared on its glossy paint.