The Flinck Connection (Book 4) (Genevieve Lenard) (21 page)

“They had a lot of money.” I was purposefully provocative. “From the opening of the Foundation until now, eighty-nine million euro has been deposited into their accounts.”

I watched their reactions and wasn’t disappointed. Isabelle’s
masseter
muscles lost their strength and her bottom jaw went slack, leaving her mouth open. Mariam touched her hand to her suprasternal notch, gently rubbing where her throat met her sternum.

“Where did you get those figures, Genevieve?” Isabelle asked softly.

“From Libreville Dignity Foundation’s system.”

It was time for me to trust the two women looking at me in shock. Before we had arrived, I had mentally prepared an abridged version of our case, and what we had learned so far. I took a deep breath and started talking. It was a challenge to not give into the compulsion to go into detail, but I managed to give them the most important points. I told them that we were breaking orders to look into Minister Savreux’s death and that we believed it was connected to the 1990 Boston heist and this week’s heist.

“And why do you think someone wants to kill Mariam?”

“Because I have a video of Minister Ngondet meeting with Minister Claude Savreux, saying that it would benefit everyone if she dances her last dance.”

“Paul Ngondet? He said that?” Mariam’s voice raised a pitch.

“Yes, exactly those words. Not once did he use your name, but logic dictates that there is no other ‘her’ ordering an independent commission looking into corruption.”

“Where did you get that video? What else did he say?” She looked at Isabelle, her
corrugator supercilii
muscles contracting her forehead in and down. “If he prevents me from going to this meeting, he will destroy everything I have worked for.”

“What meeting?” This might be the key. Both women looked at me and I saw their indecision. They wanted to trust me, but were wary.

“First tell me what else Ngondet said.”

I told her word for word. “Nothing that gives us any clear idea what they are planning.”

“Genevieve, what we’re about to tell you is a very sensitive topic.” Again Isabelle placed her hand on the sofa between us. I wondered about her need to touch me. “Very few people are privy to this information.”

“My country, my continent are filled with wonderful people—people with good hearts, generous hearts.” Mariam’s voice was heavy with emotion, her affection for her country evident on her face. “Too many of these people live in terrible poverty, but they will give you their last chicken and their best chair if you are a guest in their house. Their strength lies in their closeness to nature, in their value for family, in their strong beliefs and their ability to laugh even when they have so little. They find joy in each other, not in what they own.

“Those are most of the people in Africa. A small minority exploit this. They abuse the power given to them and take as much as they can for themselves, callously leaving everyone else with next to nothing. If this power is not given to them freely, they take it by force. They use the country’s resources to afford them a life of luxury while their people are living in inhumane conditions. In Gabon, we have difficulty reaching many villages with medical care. Education is often limited to only three years before the children are forced to work to help their families survive. If kids want an education, in certain areas they have to walk three, sometimes ten kilometres to school and back every day.”

Mariam took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Her speech had gained momentum and volume as she had gone on. “As you can see, I feel deeply about this. Sadly, there are people in my country, in my government who are running a syndicate providing illegal services. To my disgust, I discovered that there are a few women involved as well. Together with the men, they take part in corrupt, unethical and horrid activities. Some of these people work with me. Every day.”

Her voice broke and she looked away. I didn’t need to see her expression to know she felt betrayed. That was obvious from the context. “Is that why you are here?”

She nodded. “Over the last sixteen months, I have gathered evidence of arms deals, human trafficking, art theft, slavery, and other unspeakable crimes, which I plan to give to the prosecutor of the International Criminal Court. I want these people to be prosecuted in an international court, not in Gabon. They have control over so many local law enforcement agencies and court officials that they might get a slap on the hand, at best. I want them to be in The Hague, tried in the ICC. I want the world to know what they are doing.” Her voice softened. “I want my people to know that I am fighting for them.”

“Is Minister Paul Ngondet one of those men?”

“Yes, he is. He doesn’t know that I know about him.”

“I disagree.” I thought back to the video. “He knew that you had an important meeting that was going to cause him problems. What other meeting could you have to cause him difficulties?”

She thought about it. The
depressor anguli oris
muscles turned the corners of her mouth down. She looked at Isabelle. “This is a real problem. Our whole timeline has to move up.”

Isabelle nodded and turned to me. “The plan was to use tomorrow’s evening gala at the International Institute of Human Rights to hide Mariam’s meeting with the ICC prosecutor. The meeting is set up for late tomorrow evening. Then she’s going to present him with all the evidence she has gathered.”

“Is there a reason why you didn’t email this evidence to the head prosecutor? Do you think your emails and phones have been compromised?” I asked. “Is that why you didn’t send him any of this electronically?”

“At this moment, I don’t know who I can trust, Genevieve.” Mariam’s brow and eyes went from expressing concern to sadness. “As far as I’m concerned, only the people in this room can be trusted.”

“That’s good,” a familiar deep voice said from the open office door. “Then you can hand all your evidence over to me.”

As one, we turned to the man dressed all in black.

Dukwicz was tapping the broad side of a knife’s blade on the palm of his hand. It looked like the knife he had used to stab Savreux twenty-five times. He lifted the knife and studied the blade. “And before any of you get the silly notion to start screaming like the bitches you are. Don’t. I’m actually quite good at throwing knives, even if I have to say so myself.”

Dark panic filled my vision. My breathing stuttered and an involuntary whimper sounded loudly in the room. I had seen what this man was capable of and it terrified me. My psychology background helped me understand how much he was enjoying my fear. I saw it around his eyes, his mouth and his dilated pupils. Other people’s fear made him feel powerful, it fed his ill mind. I was giving him that pleasure.

To the other two women’s credit, they didn’t respond with fear. Mariam and Isabelle’s breathing was even and no obvious signs of panic were evident. Yet I noticed the numerous micro-expressions indicating their alarm.

“Who are you?” Mariam asked, her voice strong and confident.

“Ask Doctor Lenard. She knows me well.”

My chest tightened seeing the micro-expression of hurt and betrayal on Mariam’s face. She thought I was working with Dukwicz. It was like a switch that turned off my panic and turned on my anger. I grabbed onto that emotion and allowed it to grow. Anger was a powerful driving force, something I desperately needed if I were to maintain control over my
actions. I pulled my shoulders back, ignoring the panic still hovering in the back of my mind, ready to dominate my entire being.

“Dukwicz is a contract killer, an assassin. He’s the one who killed Savreux.” I took pleasure in seeing the widening of his eyes at my knowledge. “He is most likely here to kill you, or all of us.”

“Smart as always, Doctor Lenard.” He stepped closer.

“How did you get in?” Isabelle asked.

The smile he gave her held no humour, only cruel enjoyment. “They never secure the windows. That little balcony gave me quick access to the study. Windows are always the easiest to get through, aren’t they, Doctor Lenard?”

Another whimper got stuck in my throat as I fought to keep my anger. I was not going to allow this man to intimidate me. Not again. I bit down hard and chose one area that always gave me control. I studied his nonverbal cues, a cause for great concern. He was about to take action and I knew I wasn’t prepared for it. None of us were. Ignoring Isabelle and me on the sofa, he walked to Mariam Boussombo and pressed the tip of the knife against her cheek.

“Where is it? Where is the evidence?”

“Not here.” She swallowed when the tip of the knife pressed deeper against her fleshy cheek, not yet breaking the skin.

“Please make this difficult for me. I will enjoy it so much more.”

As I had done with so many other cases, I had compiled a profile on the target of our investigation. That profile dictated that Dukwicz would feel stronger the longer we resisted him, the longer we argued with him. There were two options. Either we gave him what he wanted immediately and be killed. Or we countered his attack without hesitation or delay. Knowing that he wouldn’t respond like our previous suspect, Kubanov, to
verbal sparring, I didn’t waste any more time on analysing the situation. Instead, I did the most stupid thing of my life.

In one movement, I jumped out of my seat, over the small coffee table and tackled Dukwicz from the side, screaming loudly with the disgust of touching another person. I hoped Manny would hear me from the hallway. We fell to the floor in an inelegant heap, my arms tightly around Dukwicz’s waist. Only the element of surprise had given me the advantage. From now on, it was going to be an unfair fight. I doubted my seven years of self-defence training and Vinnie’s training in street fighting would help against a professional killer.

From the hotel door came the commotion of the security trying to enter, but I couldn’t pay attention to that. I was still screaming and couldn’t stop. Dukwicz punched me awkwardly on the side of my face, hard enough to disorient me and make me lose my hold on his waist. He turned and with an incredible force, pushed me away. I shook my head and sat up. The punch had been on my cheekbone, yet both my eyes were hurting. I stretched my eyes wide open to see Isabelle running to the front door, hopefully to let in Manny and men with many weapons.

Movement from my left caught my attention. I turned and saw Dukwicz raise his knife to stab Mariam. How and when she had come to be lying on the floor next to her chair I didn’t know. With another scream, I jumped up and grabbed his arm as it came down, but I wasn’t strong enough. The blade entered Mariam’s side with shocking ease. Her eyes widened and tears filled them as she groaned loudly. The commotion at the door was becoming louder, and Dukwicz turned to look towards the door. He pulled his knife out of Mariam’s flesh, simultaneously punching me with his other, weaker hand. That punch caught me on the same cheek and would’ve broken bones had it been his dominant hand.

In fluid movements, he got up and ran back to the office just as the front door burst open and armed men rushed into the room. I was still screaming uncontrollably, and pointed to the office. My behaviour wasn’t a meltdown like some people experienced. The inability to stop saying the same word, singing the same song or, currently in my case, screaming, was behaviour that autistic people often manifested.

Repetitive behaviours were often a way for people on the spectrum to deal with overwhelming emotions. Sometimes it was to gain control of an unfamiliar situation. All of these applied to me as I continued yelling. I closed my eyes against the men running around the hotel suite, a security officer kneeling next to Mariam and pressing hard on her bloody side, and Manny ordering loudly into the phone that Colin should get to the hotel immediately. I didn’t know how I was going to stop screaming.

My throat felt raw, every inhale and scream burning against my vocal cords and swollen larynx. Still I could not stop. My voice had lost its strength and was becoming increasingly hoarse. I didn’t want to open my eyes, knowing that those still in the hotel room would see the wild desperation I was feeling. This was one of the few times Mozart had failed to provide me with the meditation-like focus and serenity usually needed to regain control. The hard-won power I’d had over my autistic behaviour was so badly shattered that I didn’t know how or if I could recover it.

“Jenny.” Colin’s voice was calm, but I could hear the concern. I still didn’t open my eyes. Of all the people currently in my life, Colin had the most knowledge of my vulnerabilities. Having him witness this lapse made me feel even more powerless. Especially since I knew just how much I needed him. This became apparent at the calm that started flooding my brain the moment he touched my forearm. “Shh. I’m here. I’ve got you. Shh.”

He stayed consistent in tone and touch, but it wasn’t enough for me. I needed more in order to recover faster. Not knowing if it would work, I grabbed his hand as he rubbed my forearm and pulled him closer. His loud inhale told me I had surprised him with this action. Physical closeness was not something I ever encouraged. Outside our sexual intimacy, I had limited his physical closeness to a light, simple touch on my arm.

Not now. He shuffled closer on the floor until I was sitting between his legs. I was clutching onto his left hand and when
he put his right hand on my free hand, I grabbed it and folded his arms securely around me. I was surrounded by him. My back was pressed against his chest, slowing the rocking I hadn’t even been aware I was doing. I pulled his arms even tighter and took a shaky breath. It still came out as a scream, but I could feel my fragmented mind slowly mending as Colin continued to softly reassure me.

How long we sat like that I didn’t know, but my last scream came out as a painful whisper. I had a coppery taste in my mouth and wondered if my throat was bleeding. Irrationally I thought how preferable shutdowns and meltdowns were to this. At least then I wasn’t aware of my surroundings. The sounds of armed men searching the rooms and of paramedics asking Mariam questions had made it much harder to find the centre of my calm.

“Jenny?”

I nodded, my throat too sore to speak. I took a few more uneven breaths and opened my eyes. Someone was holding a bottle of water in front of me. I looked up at Isabelle sitting on the carpet, and tried to smile. I couldn’t. It took a few seconds to get myself to let go of Colin’s arm and accept the water. It wasn’t opened and my fingers fumbled with the lid.

“Let me?” Isabelle held out her hand and I gave back the water. She opened it and handed it over. I took a few small sips, the liquid cooling the burning in my throat. The bustling in the room drew my attention. Three paramedics knelt next to President Boussombo, stabilising her. They were talking about getting her onto the gurney to rush her to the hospital. Next to Isabelle were two men—anger, frustration and vigilance in their nonverbal cues.

“How’re you feeling?” Colin’s voice rumbled against my back.

“My throat really hurts.” Even whispering was painful.

“Would you let the paramedics look?” Isabelle leaned closer, but immediately moved back again. Her sensitivity was rare and notable.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Colin said. “We can sit like that while they check out your cheek and your throat.”

I considered this, felt the dark panic creeping closer and vigorously shook my head. Once started, I couldn’t stop shaking my head. Tears of frustration formed in my eyes. This involuntary repetitive behaviour was most disconcerting. I turned my head, pressed my uninjured cheek against Colin’s chest and brought his hand up to press my head tighter against him. Again he spoke in a low tone, reassuring me until I stopped the uncontrolled movement a few minutes later.

“Not yet,” I whispered. Isabelle held out the bottle of water, and I wondered when she had taken it from me. I accepted it and took a few more sips.

“Doc?” Manny went down on his haunches next to Isabelle, concern dominating his face. “How’re you doing?”

I nodded, and looked at President Mariam Boussombo as the paramedics carefully lifted her onto the gurney.

“How…?” I couldn’t get further than that. It was too painful.

“You saved her life, Doc. When you grabbed Dukwicz’s arm, you deflected the knife and what would’ve been a fatal injury became a flesh wound. The medics think the knife didn’t get anything important, but they’re taking her to the hospital now.” He lowered his chin, his expression sombre. “How are you?”

I pointed to my throat and mouthed, “Painful.”

“I can imagine. Who knew you could outdo an opera singer?”

I wished I had my voice to tell him opera singers didn’t scream. Their singing was as skilful as a gymnast performing complex twists and turns with their bodies. It took years of training for opera singers to project their powerful voices in controlled use of their vocal cords to create flawless arias.

“You’re arguing with me in your head, aren’t you, Doc?” Manny’s face relaxed, a small but genuine smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “This is going to be interesting.”

“Don’t you have some law enforcement work to do, Millard?” Colin’s arms tightened around me. I tapped on his arms, inhaled deeply and sat up. I didn’t move out of his embrace.

“As a matter of fact I do. Doc, don’t go anywhere until the medic checks you out.”

“When you’re ready,” Colin said as Manny got up and walked to the other side of the room.

“Genevieve, I have to go.” Isabelle’s body language indicated that she didn’t want to leave. She glanced at the two nervous men next to her. “I’ve been breaking protocol and scaring my security by not leaving immediately.”

“She insisted on staying with you and President Boussombo,” Colin said. “She even fought them off when they tried to physically remove her.”

“I’m sure my overprotective husband is not going to be pleased, but I couldn’t leave my friends.” The look she gave one of the men spoke of indignation. “It’s not like I’m one of the most important women in the world. For goodness’ sake, I travelled to Africa all on my little ownsome and worked in rural clinics there.”

“You’re the wife of a world leader, Madame President,” the man said with the familiarity of a brother.

“Bah! Don’t Madame President me, Luc. I was the one who didn’t tell your mother when you lost your car at university in a stupid bet with your friends.” She got up and looked down at me. “Be well, Genevieve. I’ll be in touch.”

There was much more to her last statement than a mere greeting. Her tone had been light and polite, but the micro-expression around her eyes implied a nuance I didn’t understand. No sooner had she uttered the cryptic greeting than
Luc grabbed her elbow, the other man close to her other side, and walked her out of the room.

“How long…?” I hoped Colin understood the rest of my whispered question.

“It took me fifteen minutes to get here and you were like this for another ten minutes.” He turned a bit to have a better view of my face. “It actually hurt to listen to you screaming your voice raw like that. I think you’re going to be hoarse for some time.”

I nodded.

“Wait, stop.” Mariam Boussombo’s voice drew my attention away from the distress on Colin’s face. “Genevieve?”

“Yes?” I forced the sound out and winced at the stinging pain.

Strapped to the gurney, Mariam Boussombo looked at me. “Thank you. I will never forget what you did for me. Especially in your circumstances.”

I nodded, unable to give her the reassuring smile people in this situation usually needed. Her expression told me she put a higher value on my action than she would’ve had I been a neurotypical person. It didn’t make sense. She blinked twice, ending the emotional moment. The paramedics rolled the gurney out the room, but one stayed behind. He sat down on the coffee table, his eyes alert and interested.

Logic dictated it a wise course of action to have a medical professional examine the damage I had inflicted on my throat and vocal cords. I pulled Colin’s arms tighter around me and nodded to the paramedic.

“Are you sure, Jenny?”

I nodded again. As long as I maintained this current position of safety, I could bear a stranger touching me. The fact that he took fresh gloves from a package and put those on his hands were even more reassuring.

“Hi, Jenny. My name is Arnaud.”

“Genevie…” I started coughing, but forced myself to stop when tears filled my eyes.

“Her name is Doctor Genevieve Lenard,” Colin said.

“Doctor Lenard,” Arnaud said and knelt down in front of me. “I’m first going to check your cheek and then I’ll check your throat.”

I waved my hand to stop his explanation. I swallowed and slowly mouthed, “Just do it.”

He smiled and leaned closer. I tightened my hands around Colin’s arms, closed my eyes and forced Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 8 in A minor as loudly as possible into my mind. Ten anxiety-filled minutes later, the paramedic declared I had severely injured my vocal folds. My trachea and larynx were swollen and red from overuse. The painful prodding on my cheek had satisfied him that nothing was broken, but he still recommended I went to a hospital for x-rays. I knew I wasn’t going to.

“I also recommend that you don’t speak for a week. Your throat and vocal cords need time to heal.” Arnaud put his instruments back in the large carry bag and stood up. “Despite the hard hit to your head, it doesn’t look like you’ve got a concussion. As a precaution—”

“I’ll check on her every hour,” Colin said. “It’s okay if she sleeps, right?”

“Sure, but it will be better if you wake her up every hour, not just check her.” Arnaud looked at me. “Get well soon, Doctor Lenard.”

I nodded and leaned into Colin.

“Are you ready to go home?”

“She needs to give a statement to the police first, Frey.” Manny sat down on the paramedic’s place on the coffee table. “Are you up for it, Doc? Or should I tell them you’ll give the report tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” I mouthed the word and was relieved when Manny not only understood, but accepted it.

“They can come to us for that statement. I’ll get right on it. Let Frey take you home. I’ll be there soon.” He got up and went back to the same man he’d been talking to most of the time.

“Do you want Millard to come to the flat?”

I turned in Colin’s arms to give him full view of my mouth. I was going to heed the paramedic’s advice, mostly because of the pain and the feeling that my throat was even more swollen now than before. I spoke with a combination of exaggerated lip movements and exhalation of air. It was the merest of whispers. “I don’t mind. I predict everyone else is in my apartment now, right?”

“Most likely. You know how it is.” He smiled gently. “Let’s go.”

The drive home was done in complete silence. Colin had put on Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet in A Major after a quick phone call to Vinnie. Everyone was indeed in my apartment. Vinnie was cooking and Francine was irritating him with her suggestions of trying out new spices. The quiet in the moving vehicle gave me time to think. It wasn’t the case that was foremost in my mind. My latest autistic episode was causing me to reflect, something I seldom did for extended periods.

In the quiet and warmly lit hallway of our apartment building, I stopped Colin with my hand on his arm a moment before we reached the front door to my apartment. Before we went inside, surrounded by people and noise, I had questions that needed answers. He patiently waited for me.

“How do you know what I need?” I was still whispering and Colin leaned a bit closer, his eyes narrowing on my lips.

“You usually tell me. If not with words, with actions like you did tonight.”

“You are not a typical male.” Not according to the numerous textbooks I had studied at university, nor the men I had observed growing up.

“Um, thank you.” He smiled.

“What do you get out of this?”

His smile disappeared and he tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“People don’t typically do things selflessly. There is always a return on any emotional or social investment. What do you get from this?” I moved my index finger between us.

“I get you, Jenny. Your unconditional acceptance of who I am, despite your lack of complete understanding and agreement of what I do, is more than I could ever have hoped for. You are real. I always know where I stand with you. I never have any doubts. What we have is more secure than ninety-nine point nine percent of relationships out there. It’s invaluable to me.” He moved in closer. “You are invaluable to me. You bring joy into my life.”

I knew he was truthful. It wasn’t just my trust in him, but his nonverbal cues spoke of complete honesty. It didn’t make sense to me. I knew and understood my intellectual and professional value. I knew I was an asset to any case, to any company that would ever hire me, but personal relationships had me at a loss. No amount of rationalisation helped me find the value I added to anyone’s life, especially Colin’s.

“Aren’t I emotionally taxing? I was told that I am too much hard work for people to want to be with me.”