Brittany's Travels Ch. 07

"You don't look worried," Joseph said.

"No more than I ever am when I see her off." Angie leaned back in her chair. "Let's face it, Joseph, our protegee was born for this job."

"So if I tell you I've been in touch with the embassy in Singapore and they've never heard of her..."

"Give them a few hours yet, Joseph," Angie said. "And yes, I remember her mission was just to learn some names."

"Did you really think that was all she would do?" Joseph asked.

Angie looked at him and they both laughed a bit, but she didn't answer.

In the morning, Ken ordered room service and Brittany awoke to the smell of coffee and pastries. "Wow, you sure know how to treat a girl, Ken!" She wrapped herself in the bedsheet as she sat up, then reconsidered and got up and walked to the table naked. She did love the adoring way he looked at her body."

"Aren't you chilly?" he said.

"A little," Brittany admitted, pouring herself a black coffee.

"There's another robe in the closet if you want."

"Do you want me to put it on?"

"I want you to be comfortable, Erika. But if you leave it up to me, no."

"Then I won't," she grinned, settling herself across from him.

"Pardon me if I stare."

"Stare away, Ken."

"Thanks." And he did. Brittany enjoyed every moment of it.

After a leisurely breakfast, Brittany asked how long he was staying in Singapore. "Three more days," he said. "I know you've got a living to make, Erika, but would you mind spending today with me?

"I wouldn't, at all. But look, I've got an errand to run first. I have to go back to Orchard Towers for a bit. Can I borrow your key card so I can let myself back in when I get back?"

The tenderness vanished in Ken's eyes, and now his face was set in a sceptical look. "Erika, no offense, but how do I know this isn't some sort of trick to bring your pimp back here to beat me up for not paying you or something?"

Brittany thought about that for a moment and couldn't deny he had a point. "I guess you don't. But I swear it's nothing like that. It's someone else I'm trying to get in trouble, not you!"

"Then you won't mind if I say no. Just call me when you get back and I'll open the door for you."

"That's fair." Brittany kissed him again and stood up. She welcomed his adoring looks as she put her clothes back on, but she desperately wished she'd brought some less provocative clothes along. No use in asking if Ken had a nice modest dress handy, though.

"I will be back, I promise." She leaned down and kissed him again, and welcomed one final caress of her breasts, and heard him turn the television on just before she let herself out. In the elevator and out through the spacious lobby, she had no problem weathering the way nearly everyone looked at her. Helping a widower through his grief and getting a great lay along the way, she mused, even James Bond couldn't touch that!

On the way back down Orchard Road, Brittany kept an eye out for a ladies' room that might be open. The only one she found was in the basement of Orchard Towers itself, and she ducked inside with hope she wouldn't be seen on the way in. A pair of women, dressed similarly to her, were arguing loudly in Chinese by the sinks, so Brittany helped herself to a stall and sat down.

She needed to make it look like she'd been crying to make the act believable. With no makeup at hand, there was only one way to do that: actually cry. Brittany did her best to shut out the noise and concentrate on something sad.

Only one thing she could think of was that sad. Reluctantly, Brittany shut her eyes tightly and tried to envision the courtroom on the day she was convicted. Having spent three years and change trying to never think of that day again, she was almost happy to realize she couldn't recall most of the details. But there she was, in her lawyer-ordered print dress, refusing his order to smile this time because there was no use in pretending -- her fate was on that slip of paper the judge was now reading. Brittany recalled trying to read the judge's expression as she read the paper, but the older woman had decades of practice in this sort of thing and her eyes revealed nothing.

They couldn't, Brittany remembered thinking. Anyone can see I don't know how that stuff got in my suitcase. They never proved I had anything to do with it!

She had replayed the scene in her mind -- however reluctantly -- hundreds of times in prison, always trying to force a different ending and wake up to see it was only a nightmare. But it hadn't been a nightmare, and once again the real words came through loud and clear. The jury foreman, dressed in a sportcoat and a blue shirt, stood up and responded to the judge's order to read the verdict.

We find the defendant, Brittany Kyriazis, guilty.

Now as then, Brittany cried. Not as long or hard this time as that, perhaps because she didn't have to put up with the judge admonishing her to act her age as if her life hadn't just been destroyed, but the tears flowed just the same. Brittany took a few squares of toilet paper and dried her eyes, and squinted in the shiny toilet paper dispenser for her reflection. She couldn't see much, but it would have to do. She'd been crying, chances are it looked like she'd been crying.

It must have been near noon, and the bars were just opening. Now she did get a few funny looks from others, confirming that the tears had done their job. "Rough client?" teased a young British man on the down escalator as she was riding the upward one.

Brittany smiled and looked away. It occurred to her now that her Chinese friend from last night might be around. But she had a feeling he would be alerted to her presence within one mimosa at the bar.

A more frightening prospect occurred to her at the moment of no return as she stepped into the bar: what if Mr. Abbott was there? But a quick look around confirmed that he was nowhere to be seen. She sat down and ordered a mimosa, flashing cash from her clutch at the bartender to prove she wouldn't drink and run, and did her best to look inconspicuous as she waited.

She was soon proven right: barely halfway through the drink, the same young man in a different Iron Maiden t-shirt appeared at her right. "We had a deal, yes?" he said.

"The bastard stiffed me," Brittany said.

"Stiffed you?"

"He wouldn't pay."

"La!"

"Yeah!" Brittany knew she had him. "He said he'd pay for the whole night, and when I got up this morning I told him it was time to pay up, and next thing I know he's got a friend in there dragging me out by my arm." She rubbed it as if it were sore. "They threw my clothes at me and I had to get dressed out in the hall!"

"Can you take me to his flat?" the man asked. "I'll make him pay us both all right."

"I don't need to take you there," Brittany said. "I memorized his address."

"Oh, you're coming with us either way," he declared, grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the exit. He was dialling his phone furiously with his other hand.

Brittany's heart leapt. This was not part of her plan! But she had told herself on the walk back that things might go this way, and she managed to keep her cool.

The pimp kept her arm clutched discreetly in his hand for the few long minutes they waited on the corner. No one batted an eye; it was business as usual for that corner. Brittany at least didn't have to deal with that indignity for very long before a black Maserati pulled up and a taller Chinese man got out and folded down the passenger seat.

"Ladies first," the pimp said, giving Brittany a rough push so that she stumbled most unladylike into the back seat. She was just happy to avoid bumping her head anywhere, but also painfully aware that she had undoubtedly flashed her pussy at the driver.

"Address?" the driver growled.

Brittany told him, and they were off onto the side streets.

She had no idea where the address actually was, but it turned out to be scarcely a two-minute drive to the gated condo. On their arrival, Brittany was certain the guard knew exactly what they were. She wasn't sure whether to be upset or relieved when the driver growling "Mr. Abbott" was all it took for the guard to raise the barrier and point them in the direction of the right flat.

The driver waited in the car, and Brittany walked up to the doorbell flanked by the pimp and his assistant. She pressed it.

"Yes?" came an American voice.

"Mr. Abbott? It's Erika."

"Now you show up, you bitch? I had to sign for the delivery myself!"

Brittany didn't dare look at either of her two new friends, both of whom she was sure were utterly confused. "Sir, can't we talk about this?"

"I'll talk to you all right! You've still got to get this stuff to Madame Zhuckette, and if you're lucky I'll get you out of the country along with me. Get up here!" The door buzzed, and the pimp opened it and shoved Brittany in ahead of him.

She stumbled up the stairway with the others on her heels.

Just as she reached the landing, the door opened and Mr. Abbott -- she recognized him from the photos Annie and Madame Zhuckette had shown her reached out to pull her inside. He hadn't expected her to have company and saw the two men behind her a moment too late. "What the hell?" he snapped, and tried to slam the door on them.

He was a moment too late, and they had no trouble forcing their way in. Before Brittany knew just what had happened, the pimp had a knife out and in Mr. Abbott's face. "You don't pay, you never get it up again, la?" he hissed.

"What?!" Mr. Abbott shrunk back, tripped and nearly fell over a couple of boxes that were stacked in the otherwise-empty living room -- the shipment she was supposed to sign for, Brittany figured. "What are you talking about?"

"You bring her home all night and not pay? No!"

"No!" Mr. Abbott had found his footing, but he still had his hands up. "I never even saw her last night!"

"You lie!"

"She lies! She was supposed to come over last night and sign for these boxes here, but she never showed up!"

The other man, still standing just inside the door, said something in Chinese -- a question from the sound of it. The pimp took a long look at Mr. Abbott and lowered his knife. "You're right," he said. "Not the same man." Now he turned and glared at Brittany, and lifted the knife her way. "What kind of game are you playing, you bitch?"

"Don't touch her!" Mr. Abbott said. "I need her to get these to my business partners."

"I no care what you need!" the pimp snapped. "You play games with me, someone gets hurt!"

Brittany always had hated the way her mother used to try to get out of parking tickets and the like -- batting her eyes and looking silly -- but desperate times, desperate measures. "Oh, gosh, you don't need to hurt anyone," she said in the sweetest tone she could muster. "I can make this all worth your --"

"Shut!" roared the pimp, and he made to hold the knife to her throat.

Mr. Abbott grabbed him from behind and locked his arms under the pimp's, causing him to wave the knife about recklessly. Brittany was able to duck out of the way with only the left strap of her top the worse for the scuffle. Catching her balance, she dove for the door, only to recall too late that the pimp's henchman was still there. He had no trouble wrestling her to the floor. "Oh no you don't!" he grunted.

Meanwhile, Mr. Abbott had managed to get the pimp to drop the knife. Hearing it clatter to the floor, Brittany managed to guess its location correctly and kick it off to the far end of the empty room, where none of them had any chance of reaching it. The two men were wrestling on the floor, neither one showing any sign of gaining the upper hand anytime soon.

Seeing this, Brittany's captor knelt up with a knee still on her back. He unzipped her skirt and pulled it off. "You're not going anywhere without this, are you?" he said as he stood up and let her go. With the skirt still clutched in his right hand, he dove into the scuffle to help his friend get Mr. Abbott under control.

The door was open and Brittany was free, but naked from the waist down. It was her only hope, she figured quickly.

There was no use in even trying to tamp down the humiliation she could already feel washing over her. Brittany ran out the door and down the stairs.

"Get her!"

Brittany had no idea which of the three men had said it. But it didn't matter. She burst out into the sunlight, where a young mother was watching her two sons ride their bikes at the end of the parking lot. On seeing Brittany, the mother screamed and ordered the boys to look away, which of course neither of them did.

There was no time to worry about that. Brittany made a beeline for the guard's booth, yelling "Help!" all the way. "Help me, please!" she screamed when the guard finally turned around to see her.

"Ma'am!" The guard drew his gun and pointed it behind Brittany, and she looked to see the pimp's right-hand man running after her. He stopped and held his hands up, and yelled something at the guard in Chinese. The guard yelled back at him and did not lower his gun, and opened the booth door to let Brittany in.

"I've tapped the silent alarm," he said to her in English, while still glaring at her pursuer, who was now standing stock still halfway across the parking lot. "The police will be here soon."

The guard still had the man in his sights, hands up, when two police cars came roaring up the driveway a few minutes later. They soon had the man cuffed and in the back of the car, and then turned their attention to Brittany. On seeing her state of undress, one of them brought her a blanket to wrap herself in. "Did he attack you?" one of the cops asked.

Brittany answered in what she hoped was a passable Russian accent, having figured out that an American prostitute would raise questions she wouldn't want to answer. "We went to collect my fee from the American in there," she said, pointing at Mr. Abbott's door. "But he had a knife, and I think some drugs! He want me to carry them!"

"Drugs!" said another of the officers. Just as Brittany had hoped, one of the cops went to his car and radioed for backup while the others stormed Mr. Abbott's door. In no time the pimp and Mr. Abbott, both rather the worse for wear after their fight, emerged in the doorway in handcuffs. A fleet of police cars appeared in the driveway moments later, and Brittany was pleased to see at least half a dozen cops heading to Mr. Abbott's flat.

"Ma'am?" One of only two female cops Brittany could see touched her arm and pointed to a squad car. "We will take you to the station to give your statement and get you some clothes?"

"Yes please!" Brittany smiled through her utter hatred of police stations and did her best to hold back the flood of memories of the first long hours after her arrest back home. She could only hope they wouldn't notice the cold sweat she could already feel as the two women ushered her into their car. It wouldn't be that way this time, she told herself.

And it wasn't. At the station, they found Brittany a dowdy looking dress that at least fit her fairly well, and brought her a cup of coffee. When asked to state her name, she gave the most Russian sounding name she could think of. "Tatiana Rostoff."

"And how do you know the men we arrested today, Miss Rostoff?"

"I went home with Mister Abbott last night to...you know..."

"We do know, but you have to say it, Miss Rostoff."

"To have sex," Brittany sighed. "For pay, you know. But he not pay. So I tell my pimp, and --"

"Mr. Chen?"

"I not know his name. In the heavy metal t-shirt?"

"Yes, Mr. Chen."

"Right, him. I tell him and he bring his friends...did you find the Maserati?"

"What Maserati?"

"They drove me to Mr. Abbott. There was another man, he drive." In the heat of the moment, Brittany couldn't remember whether she'd seen the car when she'd escaped to the parking lot. Maybe the driver had seen her and panicked...but then she'd have seen him leave from the guard's booth.

"We didn't see him or the car," the officer said. "Would you know him if you saw him?"

"Probably not," Brittany said. "I not get a good look, he wearing, what do you call it, dark glasses?"

"Sunglasses."

"Right."

"Now, Mr. Abbott and Mr. Chen?"

"They fight, with a knife. I not think Mr. Chen knew about the drugs. Mr. Abbott, he want me to...to..."

"To be a drug mule," the officer said. "He can get the cane for that, at least. Miss Rostoff, you're free to go for now, but we may need you to testify. Have you a phone number where we can reach you?"

"I can give my family number? Home?"

"You're not here to stay, then," the cop said. "Don't worry, I'm not with immigration. Go ahead and give me your family number."

Brittany wrote down her American cell phone number, hoping the cop would mistake the +1 (603) for a country code, maybe +160, though she had no idea if that code even existed.

The cop got up and opened the door to the tiny room. "Next time a client won't pay, you come to us, understand?"

"Yes, thank you!"

Brittany had little trouble finding her way back to Orchard Road, but her heart was in her throat with every step until she was safely back among the throng of tourists and shoppers. If Mr. Chen's driver was about, he apparently didn't spot her, and she got back to Ken's hotel without being accosted.

Attracting far less attention this time, she made her way through the lobby and asked the concierge to call his room. "Certainly, ma'am," the young man said, and he picked up the phone.

There was no answer.

"Did he leave a message for anyone?" Brittany asked.

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"Erika."

The man looked at his computer and clicked a few times. "Sorry, no. Would you like to leave a message for him?"

"Sure," Brittany said. "Just say I'm sorry I missed him and I wish him the best for the rest of his trip."

"You don't sound too broken up about missing your true love there," Joseph said three days later at her debriefing.

"I figured it was just as well I didn't spend any more time with him," Brittany said.

"You really shouldn't have spent any time with him," Angie said. "But I can't argue with what you accomplished."

"I'm afraid she's right, Brittany," Joseph said. "You have to be more careful about involving civilians in your missions."

"You don't look terribly upset with me, Joseph," Brittany couldn't resist saying.

"I'm not," Joseph said. "Unless this Ken fellow was lying about his name, we've confirmed that he really is just a lonely widower on vacation."

"Where's he from?"

"I'm not going to tell you. You dodged one bullet and that's enough."

"What we can tell you," Angie said, "is Stanford Abbott sang like a canary to the Singapore police and we've got a number of juicy new targets. They also caught Annie, and she'll be heading back to Denver soon to face a long list of targets there."

"But she got away with fooling us," Brittany groused.

"It's a fact of life in this job that someone is always trying to play us as much as we're trying to play them," Joseph said. "Don't let that bug you, you beat her at her own game twice."

"Thanks," Brittany said. "Now what about Madame Zhuckette?"

Angie and Joseph exchanged looks. "The good news, Brittany, is thanks to you, we now know what she looks like. Up to now we only had the name."

"The bad news is she got away, right?"

"I'm afraid so, Brittany," Joseph said.

"Which means I'm too hot to work for now." Brittany knew all too well how the game was played.

"Until we know where she's gone to, yes," Joseph said. "We also want to track down the guy driving the Maserati, since he can probably identify you. And I'd also like to wait and see if the Singapore cops do call you."