Among The Poppies

The gravel lightly crunched, harmonizing with the sound of the brakes screeching to a halt. It slung me against the back of the van door with a solid thunk. My hands were still tied and my eyes blindfolded when I heard the slow scraping of boots. Every few hours repeated themselves. Whoever took me drove in one direction for miles. Every so often making slight turns as to avoid taking the same road for too long. The van would stop. A violently large man would make his way to the back of the van. He would ask questions I did not have the answers to, in a manner that did not inspire honesty.

I was following a story in Greece about the secret auction of a long missing Van Gogh painting by the name of “Poppy Flowers”. It was produced within the last three years of the artists’ life making it a highly sought after piece. The painting has been stolen twice since its inception. Once, June 4, 1977, it was taken from the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum later to be found in Kuwait. The same Cairo based museum failed to hold onto it for good. They would close their doors for eleven years after a thief managed to take a knife and cut the canvas from the frame in broad daylight. The thieves evaded museum security, and the painting had been neither seen nor heard of since 2010. Well until about four months ago when I got a tip from one of my sources who feeds me intriguing stories from the art world.

 Allegedly Viktor Dragos, a respected and feared international arms dealer had gotten his hands on it. I was reluctant to hear any details from my source due to Mr. Dragos’s rather intimidating nickname, the Dragon Conqueror. Andros, the art source, continued to pose questions as to why an arms dealer would venture into a new market. Surely, arms dealings made more than enough money to negate the need to diversify.  I first heard of Viktor Dragos in my war reporter days. In fact, I had dropped an entire investigation when all the roads started to point towards him. Maybe it was hubris or maybe it was the five mezcal old fashioneds, but I decided to let Andros give me more information.

The plan was simple. Andros, being a man of many talents would forge documents with a fake identity. He had the contact to meet the man who knew the man who worked for Viktor. Andros would create an offshore bank account that could be traced to the false identity that in a pinch could have real money funneled into it from his own illicit dealings. My journalism style is a little off textbook and my background vastly different than that of my peers. Then, all I needed to do was fly to Greece and follow the Mediterranean brick road so to speak.

Apparently, I was not the only person who had heard about this black-market auction. I was certainly the least threatening of those looking for the answers.

Judging by the fact I had yet to hear us pass over water or onto a boat, I believed us to be heading further north into Europe. Eastern Europe, from the sound of my new friends’ accents. A bear-like man with piercing blue eyes peaking out of a mask that obscured the rest of his facial features flung the door open. My body, which was previously leaning against the door, crumpled onto the ground. The gravel made me start to yearn for the asphalt of the earlier interrogation environments.

“Igor, is it? I thought we were becoming pals. Gentle on the goods, buddy.”

In response, Igor punted his enormous steel toed boot into my ribcage.

“Get up, little spy.”, he said in a sing-song tone.

Heaving and gasping for air, I slowly rolled to my stomach. I pushed my head into the rocks to propel me onto my knees. Fortunately, my companions had graciously tied my hands in the front, allowing me assistance in rising to my feet. Breathing heavily with a defiant smirk stretched across my face, I faced the direction the voice was coming from.

“Oh, Igor, darling. May I have my eyes back this time?”, I jeered.

He ripped the blindfold and a bit of hair off forcefully nearly causing my balance to fail.

“Ahhh, there’s those beautiful baby blues. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Igor shouted, “Where is the painting?!”

“I don’t have it,” I replied. “I never did. Where did you come from? New York fucking City. Who do you work for? My damn self. Now can you let me go?”

“Where is Drakos?” he whispered like a shout.

“I don’t know, asshole. Maybe if you guys were better at your jobs. If you, I don’t know, let me meet the son of a bitch’s man to bid for a seat at the auction before kidnapping me. Or wait until after the meeting and snag the person that works for him, you buffoon. Your boss must be proud.” At this point in the journey, the cut across my eyebrow paired with potentially broken ribs, bruised shoulder and hips were fueling my anger rather than my survival instincts.

He dug a meaty finger into my ribs, sending splitting pain throughout my body.

From the crinkle at the corner of his eye, I could tell he was smiling as he said, “You Americans are not so smart, huh?”

“Smart enough to know, the further you drive from Athens prodding me about answers I do not possess, the further your boss is from getting a bid. Which I also assume he can’t do on his own.” I spat back at him. His fist rocketed towards me almost as quickly as the words left my mouth. I felt my consciousness slipping away as my body collapsed beneath me. The words, “Goodnight, little spy,” were the last I heard before the dark took over.

Igor had knocked me into a deep enough unconsciousness I began to dream. Snow falling as a much younger version of me ran through the knee-deep snow laughing so hard I cried. I could feel the tears starting to freeze on my eye lashes. A pair of hands reached out, “Nadia, come here, Nadia.”

The van hit a bump jolting me awake. I could hear the driver and Igor arguing.

“How could you let her hear my name? Are you crazy?”

“There’s over a million Igor’s in the world. There’s nothing special about you.” replied a woman’s voice.

I stifled a chuckle. Better for them to believe I remained unconscious for now.

“Once we can access this phone, we will have the name and no longer need her. So, keep trying instead of worrying about your precious little identity or learn better interrogation skills. Clearly, you’ve oversold your value. We have a deadline.”

Something about the woman’s voice seemed eerily familiar or maybe it was the head trauma and searing pain. By my calculations, we had been driving nearly thirty-six hours stopping every few for either interrogations or gas. Deciphering where I could possibly be taken to and deeply hoping my theory was not true. Another two hours passed, it was time for gas or interrogation. I could hear Igor grumbling that he did not need much longer to get into the phone. Gas, this time. The woman got back in and started the car. We drove for maybe another thirty minutes or so when I heard an uncharacteristically high-pitched squeal erupt from Igor. This must have meant he found the name of the man I was to meet days ago in Athens.

“Well done, Igorina.” chuckled the woman.

My head knocked into the side of the van as the woman turned off the road and slowed to a stop. I had a lot of close calls chasing stories. This one turned out to be the closest. I heard the front door open, but it was the driver’s door this time. Allowing myself a little self-indulgence, I began to think how my words had changed the world before I died. I took one last deep breath before going off to an early grave. The door clicked open, and I felt the cold infiltrate the vehicle.

“Hello, Nadia, darling.”

My heart sunk to the deepest pits of my soul. The woman spoke in her true voice this time. Slightly different than the one I had heard throughout this little road trip. But this one, this one, I recognized immediately. I slowly exited the car and stood in the snowy field she had parked in. Slender fingers gently untied the blindfold then the woman circled around me and cut the ties around my wrists. She was of slender, muscular build. She had olive skin, jet black hair and eyes of emerald. She had stunningly delicate features. The woman behind the features was anything but.

 “Tatianna.” I smiled bitterly through clenched teeth.

“It’s been too long, baby sister. Did you lose our phone number? Father misses you dearly.”

“I have received his gifts over the years,” I winced as the aching in my ribs worsened. “And I have asked that I be allowed my freedom.”

“Little princess Nadia. Made quite a life for yourself in New York City. What is the word the Americans use? Journalist, is it? Always too good for the family business. But I see you kept the family method of doing things. Do your little friends back in New York know what you are? Who you are?” Tatianna chuckled. Her eyes glittered brilliantly against the snowy backdrop.

“You got what you wanted, Tatianna. Take me back now.”

“Oh darling, but father would be so disappointed. After all, he went through all sorts of trouble trying to locate your birthday present that he so thoughtfully procured for you all those years ago. After all, isn’t that why you wanted to find Viktor? I’ll never understand why you liked that Van Gogh so much. Depressing twat, really. Or was it what he did to our mother?” She did not chuckle this time. Her eyes turned cold, her expression colder.

My father was a vicious man, a cold man. Ivan Dragovich was an international salesman of sorts. He had a diversified portfolio of interests that built him an empire and a temper that kept it. It seemed my sister had inherited those qualities over the years. With me, my father was kind, charming, funny, loving but that does not change who he was at his core. There was a reason I was hesitant to tell Andros why I feared Viktor and how he got his moniker that night in the bar.

The year was 2010, it was nearly my twenty-first birthday. My father was beside himself that his little princess was almost a woman. I never really knew what my father did. I knew he was an important man. I knew we needed security so that no one tried to take what was rightfully ours or at least that’s what father said. I knew we were wealthy. I knew my father had an army of frightening looking men at his beck and call. I knew there were secrets I did not care to know. The day of my party my father was beside himself with joy. He could not wait to give me my gift. I descended the stairs into the party wearing a silk emerald dress. Tatianna followed closely dressed in black as was her custom. My foot barely left the last step when I was swarmed with hugs and kisses and people passing me envelopes no doubt thick with cash. It was then I met my father’s eyes and followed his gaze. There hanging on the wall was “Poppy Flowers” by Vincent Van Gogh.

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. I was overwhelmed with joy and confusion. I did not consider the means by which he obtained it. He was a wealthy man. It was not out of the ordinary to receive astounding gifts. I ran into his arms, and he spun me around the room. My mother looked at us overjoyed as she stood by father’s best friend. My sister and I paled in comparison to my mother. In her younger years, she modeled for some of the most well-respected photographers on the globe. Waiters arrived with trays of champagne. My father raised his hand to make a toast.

“Thank you to all who have gathered today to celebrate my daughter becoming a woman. This old dragon is proud of you my dear. To the dragon princess, long may she reign.” my father shouted near tears.

“If I may make a toast, Ivan.” spoke my father’s friend.

My father nodded his permission to continue.

“To the dragon, may you never fall.”  spoke none other than Viktor Drakos.

What happened next was a blur. The waiters dropped their trays to reveal guns. People were shrieking. My father’s security scrambled to remove the family before they could harm any of us. But Viktor had been planning this for a long time. I later learned that he orchestrated the theft of the painting as a distraction. Manipulating my father to believe it was his idea for his precious baby girl. The security managed to get almost everyone in the family out. Everyone but my mother that is. Viktor had not left her side all night.

As I was being dragged from the room, I watched him slit my mother’s throat in front of the painting I loved so much. He pulled the painting from the wall as my mother’s body slumped to the floor. I heard gunshots but none seemed to touch him or the painting. The color went from the room. The world around me had turned silent, almost slow motion. Three agonizing years later, I left and started a new life. A life where I was no longer Nadia Dragovich, the Dragon Princess. A life far from those painful memories. Tatianna stayed.

I heard a faint noise and realized I had been so lost in thought I had almost forgotten where I was.

“Nadiaaa, NADIAAA. Little Dragon Princess.”  cooed my hateful sister.

“Enough, Tatianna. What do you want from me?” my accent thickening as I responded.

“There she is. I wanted you to remember who you are. Seems you do.” she taunted.

“I earned the right to be called Dragon Princess. Or have you forgotten, sister?” came a voice from my lips that I recognized as my own but had not been mine for a long while.

Tatianna’s brow furrowed and her face paled at the sound of my natural voice as the New York accent finally faded. Her eyes betrayed her face by going misty from the sound of family she thought to be long gone. She quickly glanced at the ground to hide the single tear that fell from her right eye. I smiled knowing I would not call her on it. Our eyes met once again with more warmth than before.

“Well does that mean you are coming home, princess?” she sighed with a hint of hopefulness.

“That has not been home for a long time, Tati. And I don’t think father would take these bruises lightly.”

She looked at me with a glimmer of sorrow behind her cold eyes.

“Maybe for the best,” she shrugged. “Father is going to war, and I heard you don’t report on that anymore.”

I chuckled at that a bit then asked, “Could I get that ride now?”

“We’ll drop you off at the next village. I trust you remember how to get around your home country.”

We both slid back into the van. This time she allowed me to sit up in front with herself and Igor who was now driving.

“Not exactly. Father did not let me drive myself often.” I nervously replied.

“Then, I take it you remember how to hire a driver.” she laughed wickedly.

I stared out the window at the wintery landscape leaning my bruised and throbbing head against the glass. It felt nice to not be in restraints and breathe painfully but freely. I cringe at the fact that I traveled to war-torn countries for years and this little family reunion was the most dangerous threat to my health. Tatianna turned on the radio to a folk station cranking the volume as high as it could go. My sister, although deranged and mildly psychotic was not all bad, all the time. She took after father that way. I could see the pillowy rooftops up ahead, meaning that the ride was coming to an end. Igor pulled to a stop in front of one of those old bars with an inn still attached. Tatianna and I said our goodbyes. Igor tried to hug me and received a swift kick to his nether regions instead. Tatianna gave me my phone back. They had gotten what they needed.

The bartender looked at me warily before asking what I’d like to drink. He spoke to me in Russian even though he clearly didn’t think I understood.

“Vodka.” I stared back.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

“Yes and no.”

He placed a shot glass in front of me and went to pour. I grabbed the bottle from his hand and drank directly from it. He asked if I was staying the night, and I told him I would need a room.

“Your name, miss?”

“Nadia Dragovich.”

He apologized so profusely I thought his head would spin.

I climbed to the top of the stairs and started a scorching hot bath once I got to the room. It had gone ice cold before I made my way to bed. I fell asleep cuddling a second bottle the now terrified innkeeper had given me thinking, “Fuck, I forgot how good the vodka is here.”

And I dreamt of fields of poppies.