High Stakes

by John F. Dobbyn

  “Let’s not quibble over semantics. Mr. Oresciu is proving to be an obstacle. He refuses to discuss the matter with anyone—except you.”

  “You amaze me, Boris. I’ve heard that your methods of torture are irresistible. Don’t tell me you’ve grown a conscience.”

  His voice became low and tense. “Don’t misunderstand me, Michael. Your Mr. Oresciu is in frail health. It’s unlikely that he would survive the methods you refer to. You, however, seem in excellent health.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  He leaned closer. “You’ll speak with him. You know what we need to know. You’ll tell us what he tells you about the code. Then you’ll hand over the violin. No more tricks. No more games.”

  “And then I’ll walk away from this whole business and resume a long happy life.”

  “Of course.”

  I could only smile. “You seem to know more about me than my mother. What in my background makes you conclude that I’m simple-minded enough to imagine you’d let me live ten seconds after I give you the violin?”

  He returned my smile. “We would never consider you simple-minded. Who knows? Perhaps you can resign yourself to … such a final conclusion. On the other hand, you might be less dismissive of what might happen to your wife, Terry. There might be room for bargaining on her behalf.”

  He touched the one nerve that controlled all of my thinking. I could simply nod. “Alright.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BORIS SMILED AT my apparent surrender. “Very wise. Then you’ll come this way.”

  He led me to a door at the far side of the room. He used a key to open a dead-bolt lock and shoved open the door. I waited for him to lead the way in, but he just stood back beside the door. “In there, now. You’ll ask the right questions. You’ll get what we need from him. He’s a stupid old man. Old men can be stubborn. Especially Romanians.”

  I nodded. “Yep, not like you smart, honorable, easygoing Russians. Right, Boris?”

  He forced a smile. “Have your little joke now. But remember this when you go into that room. The continued health … pretty face … perhaps life of someone very close to you will depend on your treating serious business seriously. Do you fully understand that?”

  I went into a silent struggle to suppress a raging anger at what he was suggesting.

  “I’ll have an answer. This may be the last chance to get the information from that crazy old man. He won’t last long. I want you focused. Do you understand clearly what will happen if you disappoint us?”

  I tamped my emotions down from the verge of an eruption to a controlled boil. I turned to get a dead-on look into his eyes. “Boris, you are the lowest, filthiest piece of scum I’ve ever met. I don’t think there’s an ounce of your ignominious being that deserves to be called human. There’s nothing I can do to change that. But before I walk into that room, by damn, you will give that man the dignity he deserves. You will refer to him as ‘Mr. Oresciu.’”

  He was stunned for a moment before he quickly remembered that he still had the upper hand. That brought a sardonic smile back to his puffed-out lips. He held a hand out to the open door. “As you wish, Michael. You will now go in there and speak with … Mr. Oresciu. You will not come out of that room without the information we need.”

  He stood back. I walked into the room with a dread that ran down to my toes. I had a clear vision of the sweet gentleness of that man whose entire life had been consumed with giving the joy of music to the world. I could visualize that warm smile when his eyes had looked into my heart. Then I recalled the broken, abused body that I held in my arms on the floor of his violin shop, and my heart constricted all over again.

  I walked in slowly, silently. There was a heavy wooden bed at the far end of the room. The size of it exaggerated the diminutive size of the fragile body lying in the center of it.

  When I walked up to the edge of the bed and touched the pillow, that serene face turned toward me. There was a recognition that brought an instant light to those tired eyes. He licked dry lips and found the strength to say, “Michael. You found me again. Just like before.”

  How I wished it were “just like before.” I could relive in my mind, just for an instant, that long conversation about music over coffee that we would never again savor in this life. The emptiness it brought was hard to bear.

  “My dear friend, how I wish I could have gotten here sooner.”

  I could see a tiny waving off of a small, calloused hand. “No, Michael. No regrets. We should thank God for these minutes together.” His smile brightened. “I will thank Him. I’ll be seeing Him soon. I’ll thank Him for the blessing of having you come into my life. It was brief perhaps. But not to be missed.”

  I wanted to tell him that the blessing was most certainly mine, but the only parts of my face that seemed to be working were the tear ducts.

  His hand rose above the covers and rested on mine. It was still the strongest hand I’d felt since shaking hands with a jockey.

  His expression became serious. “Michael, I’m afraid we’ve fallen into the hands of people not like us. They want information. I’m sorry to place this burden on you. If you wish, I can just take it with me.”

  “My dear friend, if you trust me with whatever it is, I’ll do my best to see that it does as little harm, and as much good as possible. I’m afraid that if I leave here without something, other people will suffer deeply.”

  He nodded his understanding. The weight of it seemed to take him to a new level of weakness. His breathing was becoming shallow. I could see his hand beckoning me to bring my ear closer to his mouth.

  “How sad that that miracle at the hands of Mr. Stradivari is being so misused. I think you know, that violin carries a code that could lead to a wealth these men will use for … terrible …”

  I tried to tell him to rest, but he shook his head feebly. “No time, Michael. They think I can give them the code. I can’t. I never heard it. I’m afraid they will be angry with you.”

  The look in his eyes was purely concern for me. He took a few shallow breaths to gain the strength to say, “But this may help. The one to ask … The person who may have it … is … the person who translated … the ship doctor’s journal.”

  “I read the translation. There’s nothing there. Nothing about a code. I read it all.”

  His hand gripped mine. “Not all, Michael … It’s … not all there. The translator … She held back …”

  I could feel the pressure of his hand slowly release. The deep concern in his face slowly melted into a pure peace. I knew that he was at last in the hands of the One who had given all music to the world. And I knew he was home.

  * * *

  I sat there, holding that hand that had brought nothing but musical beauty into the world. I was alone with my prayers.

  I had a decision to make, and quickly. My friend had given me the key to the next step in this satanic quest. It was on my shoulders now. Do I give Boris and his cutthroats the name of the woman at the university who translated the journal, and most surely bring into her life whatever hell these Russian gangsters could devise? Or do I shield her—at the expense of whatever horrors they had planned for Terry?

  I struggled for an answer, but the time was up. The door burst open. Boris stomped his overstuffed carcass across the floor to the side of the bed.

  “He’s dead?”

  I stood up. “Yes. There’s nothing more you vultures can do to him. He’s out of your grasp.”

  Boris looked into my eyes. “But you’re not. And may I remind you there’s another who’s not beyond our reach. Tell me. What did he say? I advise you to be truthful.”

  I needed time. “You don’t know? Don’t tell me your technical geniuses didn’t have the room bugged.”

  “I’m growing tired of your humor, Knight. Yes, of course we did. I heard enough to know he gave you information. He spoke too softly to hear it clearly. You will now tell me exactly what he said. And understand. I heard enou
gh to know if you choose to lie.”

  I was still wrestling with the decision. I had nothing to offer at that moment but silence. Boris’ eyes bored into mine for the few seconds I could salvage.

  It was short-lived. He took a cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed a number. “I’m a patient man—when patience is called for. But no more.”

  He hit the speaker button on the phone. I could hear a ring tone and the click of the connection on the other end. My heart froze. The voice repeating “Hello” was Terry’s.

  I erupted. With a closed fist, I smashed my knuckles into the hand that held the phone. I could hear the bones in his wrist snap like twigs. Absolute hell consumed the minutes that followed.

  The cacophony of the clattering of the phone against wall, bedpost, and floor was punctuated by the raucous curses and squeals of the writhing Boris. It nearly drowned out another sound I could not understand. I could swear that I heard the explosive splintering of the front door in the other room. It was followed by the stomping of heavy boots charging into that first room where three of Boris’ thugs were waiting. More Russian curses from that outer room drowned out Boris’ tantrum, but only for an instant. Rapid, deafening bursts of automatic weapon-fire filled the air for what seemed like ten seconds. Then sudden silence, filled only by the sound of heavy bodies hitting the floor.

  Even Boris was stunned to silence. Our eyes were fixed on the bedroom door. I was beyond astonishment to see the small figure of Irina, the girl from the Glam Club, appear in the doorway.

  In an instant, she pointed at Boris and screamed, “Michael!” I turned to see Boris struggling with his good hand to pull a gun out of his pocket. He jerked it free and leveled it at my head. Once more I heard, “Michael, here!” I looked just in time to see Irina tossing me a handgun. Without thought, I caught the gun and dove to the floor. I fired two rapid shots toward Boris’ bulbous torso. Both shots struck home. His eyes were the size of fried eggs. He teetered backwards in stunned silence and crumbled in a heap on the floor.

  My eyes were snapped back to the door when I heard Irina’s voice at top pitch, “Michael! Back!” Her hand was out. She was focused on something in the other room that had her frozen to the side of the door.

  “Now, Michael! Gun!”

  I rolled on my side. I gave the gun a toss like a quarterback’s lateral. She caught it, spun, and fired every shell left in the clip. The thud that followed shook the floor. I could see the top half of the hulking Leonid spread across the doorway, arms outstretched within half a foot of Irina.

  I got to my feet. My first instinct was to run to her. To my surprise, that young, vulnerable girl from the Glam Club was quietly leaning against the doorframe, looking with cool, expressionless eyes at the fallen figure of Leonid.

  “Are you alright, Irina? Was he coming for you?”

  She answered in a voice that was alarming for its composure. “Yes. I’m alright. It’s not the first time he’s tried to put his hands on me. But it’s the last.”

  I took the time to catch my breath and check the outer room. The three thugs who had been in the room with Boris were strewn around the floor in positions that suggested they had fought their last fight. There were also three men, dressed in black with black hoods, holding automatic weapons and searching the fallen bodies. They seemed to be taking anything that would identify the bodies.

  I looked back in the bedroom. Boris was on the floor, rocking back and forth. His previous shrieks and curses had fallen to a droning whimpering. Based on the location of two spreading circles of red, my shots had caught him in the left shoulder and right thigh.

  In spite of his threats, I thanked God that I hadn’t taken his life.

  The sight of Boris brought back a flash that needed immediate action. I found my cell phone. I dialed a number and said a prayer at the same time. It took only one ring to hear the shaken, but alive, voice of my Terry.

  “Michael, what’s happening? I got a call …”

  “Terry, thank God. Are you alright?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. But what …”

  “Just listen, Terry. I’ll explain later. I want you to do something right now. I want you to go out the front door of the cottage. Walk down the beach to the fifth house. Knock on the door. Their names are Armand and Michelle Roy. I’ll call them. They’ll be expecting you. Stay there until a man comes to pick you up. He’ll mention the name Tom Burns. You’ll be safe in his hands. Do you understand?”

  “No. I mean I understand what you said. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “There’s so much I’d like to say, Terry. But not now. Move fast. Don’t try to take anything with you. Just go. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Are you alright, Michael?”

  “Yes. No more talk now, Terry. Except I love you. And I promise—never again. Go.”

  I hung up and speed-dialed Tom Burns. He caught it on the second ring. “Mikey. Do I assume you have another disaster for me?”

  “Of course. No time to explain. Can you get a man to my cottage in Milton, New Hampshire? You’ve been there. You know where it is.”

  “As fast as possible, Mike.”

  “No. Faster, Tom. Have him pick up Terry at the Roy house, five houses to the right. Get her to a safe house. I’ll contact you later. Can you get on it?”

  “I already am. I have a man on an assignment about ten miles away. He’s breaking the speed limits from Farmington right now. What should he expect?”

  “Depends on how fast he gets there. Possibility of Russian mafia. I don’t know how many.”

  “I’ll let him know. Should I call you?”

  “Hell yes, Tom. Soon as you have Terry safe.”

  I hung up and dialed the number of the Roy family at the lake. They were friends since childhood. In the calmest voice I could muster, I prepped them for the knock on their door by Terry, followed by a pickup by Tom Burns’ man. I added the promise of a full explanation later.

  I took a few moments to get back some equilibrium. Irina was standing beside me. The questioning look on my face almost made it unnecessary to ask, “How did you find this place? There was no car following us out here.”

  “You can thank your friend George. You know him from America, yes?”

  Her words brought back what George had said when I asked him if I’d have anyone on my side when I walked into the Glam Club. He simply said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I know him well. But how did you find me?”

  “I should tell you first, I’m Russian, but I was born in Romania. I speak both languages. The Russian mob recruited me to work for them, but Romania is really my home. Someone you don’t need to know on the Romanian side asked me to go with the Russians, but report back to him.”

  “So you were a double agent. I still don’t know how you found me.”

  “Do you remember I gave you a hug when you got into the car to leave the Glam Club?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look in your pocket.”

  I took out a strange object that I was seeing for the first time. I looked up at her.

  “It’s a tracking device. We could follow you far enough back so you wouldn’t see our car lights.”

  “I can’t believe it. How do I thank you?”

  “Did you get the information you came for?”

  “To some extent, yes.”

  “Then you can thank me by sharing it with George. He wants to hear from you.”

  Through all of the clutter, one thought was coming foremost in my mind. Both Terry and I would likely have been casualties but for George’s calling out the marines. I could feel myself crossing a line. I was now permanently on his side.

  “I’ll call him.”

  I looked over at the now glaring figure of Boris on the floor. “I’m afraid your cover is pretty well blown, Irina.”

  She smiled and shrugged. “It would have happened eventually. There are other ways to serve my people. Meanwhile, remember that you owe George a call.�
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  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IRINA MADE A call to the local authorities to alert them to the accumulation of bodies we were leaving at the farmhouse. She did it anonymously, as nearly as I could tell, it all being in Romanian. Then she and the three other members of my rescuing contingent gave me a ride back to Bucharest.

  At my request, and on her recommendation, they dropped me at the Vila Toparceanu, a neat little eight-room hotel within ten minutes of the Coanda Airport in Otopeni outside Bucharest. I booked a flight for the following morning through Atlanta to Manchester, New Hampshire. The primary goal was to leave Bucharest and arrive home, unscathed by Russian mobsters at either end.

  My first call from the hotel was going to be to Tom Burns, but he beat me to it.

  “Hey, Mikey.”

  “Tom, before another word, tell me it all went well with Terry.”

  “Alright, I will. It all went well with Terry.”

  “A few details.”

  “That girl is a trooper, Mike. Why the hell don’t you stop playing James Bond and give her a decent life?”

  “Excellent advice, Tom. This is the last quagmire I’m going to get us into. I promise both of you.”

  “Excellent. That promise and five bucks will get you a cup of coffee at any Starbucks.”

  “No. Not this time. I mean it more every hour. Tell me about Terry. How is she?”

  “My man got there and picked her up. Just to let you know, when they were driving the road away from the cottage, they passed a black Lincoln with four bozos who weren’t your typical New Hampshire campers. It was that close.”

  “Thank God for Tom Burns.”

  “I think you’re working both me and God overtime. I might add, I’m on Terry’s side in this.”

  “It’s hard to believe, but so am I. Someday I’ll step back and try to explain to all three of us how I got sucked into this morass. Where is she now? How do I reach her?”

  “My man took her to Rochester. She’s at the Governor’s Inn. I figured you’d want her at a five-star hotel.”

  “Right on that. How do I reach her?”

  “I had my man register them both as husband and wife so she could go under the name of Mrs. Edward Barrett. It’s a better cover. Just call the hotel. They’ll connect you. Do it on a prepaid phone. You can’t be too careful.”