Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  Fuck Shurkov and his book. I’m going back to New York. Verlov is going to pay. The man in San Diego is not my problem.

  Chapter 61

  Van Nuys

  A beaming Wolf, wearing the hat and stage glasses, rapped the counter to get the attention of the girl on duty. “Hello, there, young lady. I have an appointment with Mr. Shurkov. Is he in?” The rattling machines nearly drowned out his words.

  An anorexic pig-tailed blonde looked up from a monitor behind the chest-high counter. She dutifully rose from her desk. “I keep his calendar but I don’t remember an appointment listed for today. You are?”

  Wolf said, “Pastor Diffley. Fifth Presbyterian over Anaheim way. Well, that’s odd, my secretary said she called yesterday to arrange a meeting.”

  “No sir, there is no note of a call,” she said over the machinery noise.

  Wolf charmed the dull girl. “No problem. These things happen. I can see that you are not only pretty but also very efficient. I’m sure it’s my secretary’s fault. My apologies. Our church has a large order to place with your shop. Mr. Shurkov will appreciate the business, I’m sure.”

  “Any other staff here?” he said. “Perhaps they may have taken the call.”

  “No sir, there is no one else today. Just me and Mr. Shurkov. I’m sorry, sir, but he is on the phone right now with another customer.”

  “You’ve been so sweet. I’ll just pop in and place the order with Leonid myself. His office still in the back?”

  “Yes. But truly, I can help you, sir.”

  Wolf waved away the suggestion. “Don’t trouble yourself. You have so much work to do. I’ll just say hello to Leonid. We’ve done business before.”

  Palming his cellphone, Wolf hit the shop’s number. When the girl reached to answer the phone, he grinned, signaling he would show himself down the hall. He heard her answer, “Hello, Odessa Copies. How may I help you? Hello, Hello.”

  Wolf drew the nine-millimeter Beretta and went down a narrow hallway of cheap paneling. A door on his right opened to a storeroom, a second door, to a bathroom. He passed an open door on his left—a room of loud copiers turning out broadsides, perfect cover for his footfalls on peeling linoleum. The last door would be Shurkov. Wolf hit the print shop number again, heard the distracted girl answer and killed the call. Ear to the door, he heard a gruff voice—Shurkov arguing with another.

  No turning back.

  Wolf twisted the knob with gloved hand and rushed in, the pistol gripped in his right hand. He kicked the door shut behind him. Stunned, Shurkov’s eyes focused on the Beretta in Wolf’s hands. A tinny voice babbled from a speakerphone on the Russian’s cluttered desk.

  “Say goodbye,” mouthed Wolf.

  “Myer, I must go…no time to talk.”

  Shurkov ended the call. Glaring at Wolf he raised both hands and started to rise. “Whoever you are, you make a big mistake. Do you know who I am?”

  Poised an arm’s length from Shurkov, Wolf said, “Sit down. You are Leonid Shurkov, the man I came to see.”

  Defiant despite the gun, the Russian said, “So, what do you want?”

  “Viktor Kirov sent me.”

  “Who? I don’t know this name.”

  “I think you do. Your friendly book collector. He certainly knows you, Leonid. He says you sent two men to kill Gary Kurskov in San Diego.”

  “Lies. I don’t know this Kirov. I know nothing about someone being killed in San Diego. I run a print shop, as you see. You are mistaken.”

  “Why kill Kurskov? He was only a messenger. He didn’t have the book you wanted.”

  At the mention of the book a flash of recognition came and was just as quickly gone. Gambling, Wolf said, “The man I work for sends me to sell you the book on one condition.”

  “What book is this you talk about?”

  Wolf kept the pistol centered on Kurskov. “Don’t play games, Leonid. The book is worth ten thousand dollars to my boss. We both know it’s worth one hundred times that. You have one chance to bid.”

  “I refuse to play your stupid game.”

  “Really? You have one last chance.” Snagging a jogging suit jacket hanging on a chair, Wolf wrapped it around the Beretta’s muzzle as a primitive silencer. The gesture unnerved Shurkov.

  “I will give you a number to call,” said Wolf. “It may be the most important call in your life. My boss is waiting. If you want to live you will agree to the terms of sale.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I will kill you. It doesn’t matter to me either way. I do as told. You call my boss and agree to buy the book for ten thousand. If you tell him no, I kill you. Someone else will then be offered the book.”

  A moment passed. The Russian was sweating despite the air conditioning—a good sign. Confident he had struck a nerve, Wolf didn’t take his eyes off Shurkov. “What’s it going to be, Leonid?”

  “Bastard. Give me the number.”

  Wolf recited the numerals.

  “I am curious. Before you call, tell me why you had Kurskov killed. Not that I care one way or the other. He didn’t possess the book, my boss did.”

  “Kurskov played a dangerous game…and lost. It was only business.”

  “We thought as much. Make your call. Put the phone on speaker so I can hear my boss. When you connect, say only, ‘I will buy the book.’ He will understand.”

  “Fool. You think I have that kind of money here?”

  “Of course not. But you will make a transfer once you agree to meet the price my boss set.”

  Kurskov dialed. Wolf pointed the Beretta at the speakerphone. Frowning, Kurskov hit a button and the first of two rings echoed in the room. Feeling the cellphone in his pocket buzz against his thigh, Wolf tapped the unseen screen, making the connection.

  “I will buy the book,” said Shurkov. “Ah…Hello?”

  Wolf fired, tapping the Russian twice in the forehead.

  Chapter 62

  Ivanov paid cash for a one-way ticket to Newark. Pale and light-headed, he signaled for a wheelchair and breezed through security with his escort. At the gate he tipped his handler and sent a text to Sergei Helinski, alerting him to his return. Boarding early, thanks to the wheelchair, Ivanov limped to his seat.

  I am going to make it back. By the time they discover Alexi’s body in the van I will be across the country. I only hope I am not too late.

  Ivanov began to relax by degrees. Only when the plane filled and backed from the gate, with the droning ritual of safety tips from flight attendants, did he let go of his fear of being discovered. Even then, the thought of being pulled off the plane at the last minute kept him on edge until he felt the airplane leave the ground. Airborne, with California falling behind him, Ivanov ordered two mini-bottles of vodka during the attendant’s liquor run and downed them both. He gobbled more pain relievers. Fighting fatigue and the throbbing in his left foot, he finally surrendered to a restless sleep.

  When he reached Newark, he welcomed another wheelchair arranged by the gate attendant. Ivanov asked to be parked curbside to make a call. He sent another text to Helinski and got a response, then a call a few minutes later.

  “You are back?”

  “I am back, Sergei. Where are you?”

  “My cousin’s place. I’ve been staying here since he went to Florida. You remember it?”

  “Yes. Are you alone?”

  “Igor is with me.”

  “The others?”

  “Dead or disappeared.”

  “All of them?”

  “Petor disappeared yesterday. We’re the only two left, Dimitri.”

  “Stay put. I am taking a car. I will be there soon.”

  “Call when you are close. I will come down to meet you.”

  “Where is Verlov?”

  “Likely with Levich. He never leaves his side these days.”

  Ivanov fought a sudden wave of hopelessness. “That will be a problem. Okay. I am coming. We will turn this around. Do you believe me?”


  “Yes, of course. With you back things will be like they were before.”

  “No, Sergei, things will be better than they were before. Much better.”

  “Things couldn’t be worse than they are now.”

  “I will need a weapon,” said Ivanov.

  Helinski said, “I have one for you. We have been waiting for this.”

  “Not much longer. Look for me soon, little brother.”

  Helinski put down the phone and faced the man with the gun, who said, “Good. You were very convincing.”

  Sitting opposite a battered, defeated Helinski, Verlov waved a Glock at Ivanov’s lieutenant. “Because you did as told I spare you.” He smiled. “Don’t take it so personally, Sergei. This was bound to happen. Your world changes and you must change with it.”

  “He trusts me.”

  “I know. Lucky for you. That keeps you alive. Unlike your foolish friend, Mintov.”

  Attempting to flee when Verlov and his two byki broke through the door, Igor Mintov was halfway out a window to the fire escape when one of Verlov’s guard dogs caught his feet. Dragged back inside screaming and kicking, he had been knocked out and tossed next to a groggy Helinski. Grabbing Mintov’s hair, Verlov’s goon pulled, exposing the boy’s pale neck to his curving blade. One swift cut and it was over in a spray of blood, unhinging Helinski.

  Helinski held his throbbing head and eyed Mintov’s pale corpse propped beside him on the blood-soaked couch. Mintov’s head was nearly severed.

  Helinski groaned. “You didn’t have to kill him. He was just a kid.”

  “Oh, but I did. He was old enough to hold a gun, eh? What if he had run away and warned Ivanov? That would have been most annoying.”

  “So, now we wait,” said Verlov.

  Chapter 63

  “Looks like we caught a break.” Nodding to McFadden, San Diego Police Detective Mike McManus pocketed his cell phone and said, “We should talk, Sam.”

  “Okay. Out back. I’ll tell Reggie we’re outside.”

  McManus poked his head outside the front door, said something to the duty cop, and went out back by the pool. Joining him moments later, McFadden asked, “Good news?”

  “Maybe. One of our squads found a witness in Kurskov’s neighborhood who remembers seeing a white van the night of the murder.”

  “That is good news, Mike.”

  McManus said, “Probably only a million or so white vans. But the guy did jot down a partial number. We’re checking.”

  “Did this witness see anyone in the van?”

  “Negative. But it’s all we’ve got so far. No prints in the house. All the blood belonged to Gary Kurskov.”

  “Well, it’s something.”

  “Pretty damn slim so far. Say, where’s your friend?”

  McFadden had expected the question. He said, “The beach.”

  “He’s gone to the beach? Isn’t that risky?”

  “Wolf is a former Navy SEAL. He knows how to take care of himself. Besides, he’s been cooped up here ever since the assault on Gary Kurskov went down. He’ll call in at some point.”

  That satisfied the cop. “I’d like to be at the beach myself but I’m on the people’s dime. Not doing any good here. Besides, you’ve got a uniform outside. We’ll keep someone here until we get past this. I’ll head back to the shop to see what else I can turn up.”

  McFadden walked him to the door. Reggie heard the front door, came out of the bedroom, and threw her arms around McFadden. “I just got off the phone with Mother. She’s worried, Sam.”

  “Me too, Reggie. But we’ve got a cop outside. I’m thinking of checking in with work. Seems like years since I was last down there.”

  “They can do without you a little longer. I need you here.”

  “Maybe I’ll get hold of the Wolfman and get him to spell me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The beach. He wanted to check out the waves. You know him. He gets restless. Say, why don’t you go for a swim? Work off some of the stress.”

  “Only if you come with me.”

  “Okay. One hour max. I’ll tell Deputy Fife we’ll be out back.”

  McFadden headed for the front door, stopped, and said, “By the way, McManus said they have a lead on a white van that was seen in the neighborhood that night.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “It’s all they have right now. But yes, it’s a good thing.”

  “I’ll change into my suit.”

  Grinning, McFadden said, “Don’t bother, it’ll just get wet.”

  “You’re unbelievable, Sam. We’re in the middle of a murder case, no suspects, and you’re thinking about–”

  “A great stress reliever.”

  “See you out back. And I’m wearing a suit.”

  “One can always hope.”

  Chapter 64

  Wolf disassembled the Beretta, tossed the pieces in different storm drains miles from Shurkov’s shop. Likewise with the hat, sliced into shreds, and the glasses and cellphone, shattered and thrown in trashcans and Dumpsters on the way back to San Diego. He drove south, racing the clock among highway lemmings. One hundred fifty miles and three hours later, he left I-5, heading into Imperial Beach. He found the public pier, parked, and called McFadden from his perch halfway down the wooden planks.

  “Checking in, Sam. What’s happening?”

  “Some progress. Cops have a witness who saw a white van the night Kurskov was killed. They have a partial number for the plate.”

  “Good luck with that. I’ve seen a lot of white vans today.”

  “Granted it’s a long shot, but it’s all they have right now. Care to tell me where you are?”

  “At the beach like we agreed.”

  “That covers a lot of ground, Wolfman.”

  “Imperial Beach. Been watching the boys in the water. Crowded as usual. Lousy waves not worth paddling for in my humble opinion.”

  “That’s a sign of age,” McFadden said. “You treating my car kindly?”

  “Running like a top. I’m at the pier, Sam. Gonna call Agent Smathers and see if he’d like to meet for dinner at the Tin Fish. Whadaya think?”

  “I think that’s a good idea. If we didn’t have our babysitter, Reggie and I would love to join you.”

  “Okay, I’m halfway down the pier as we speak. Give Reggie my best. I’ll be home late. Be sure to tell the duty cop I’m coming in.”

  “Anything else to share?”

  “I’m still operating under the ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ rule.”

  “Okay. I can live with that. Later.”

  Wolf found the card FBI Agent Smathers had given him. Reaching the end of the pier, he called. “Hello, my name’s Tom Wolf. May I speak to Agent William Smathers, please?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Agent Smathers is not available at this time. Would you like me to connect you with his voicemail?”

  “Thank you.”

  Smathers’s robotic voice apologized for, “not being able to take your call. Please leave your name, phone number, and brief message, and I will return your call as soon as possible.”

  Wolf waited for the recorded beep. “Agent Smathers, this is Tom Wolf, houseguest at Sam McFadden’s. I’m in Imperial Beach. Thought I’d grab a bite to eat at the Tin Fish on the city pier. If you get this message within the next hour and have your evening free, perhaps we could meet. Please return my call.” He recited the cellphone number and said goodbye.

  To back up his story, Wolf walked to the restaurant, stopped at the bar, nursed two beers for an hour, then ordered fish tacos and another beer. He paid with a credit card. No call from Smathers. Just as well.

  He pocketed one of the restaurant’s cardboard coasters and a souvenir plastic beer cup. Wolf closed down the place and retraced his steps along the pier. The surf wasn’t half bad. The wind had died, replacing the ragged chop with glassy green, waist-high walls. He watched surfers scrap for the waves until dusk, then drove north along Seac
oast Drive to Elm. From there it was a straight shot back to I-5. An hour later, he turned into McFadden’s driveway after being waved ahead by the duty cop. It had been a long, productive day.

  Chapter 65

  Brighton Beach, Brooklyn

  Ivanov had the town car stop mid-block from the Caspian Nights club. He gave the driver a hundred dollar bill and sent him on his way. Ivanov shuffled to a darkened storefront adjacent to the club and kept to the shadows. Couples came and went. He watched a strutting pack of alpha males enter the club followed by a preening covey of girls. Each time the door opened, vague disco-like music floated across the sidewalk.

  Ivanov’s injury was giving him fits, as if his foot was in a vise. Walking had opened the wound, leaking blood in his shoe. He steadied himself against the brick wall, willing away his pain.

  After an interminable wait, the familiar figure of Anton, the Azerbaijani took up his usual station as the club’s greeter-bouncer. Breathing a sigh of relief, Ivanov headed to the club’s entrance. Whistling, he caught Anton’s attention and waved. Like a bear rising on its hind legs, the burly man lumbered toward Ivanov and embraced him. “Dimitri. You appear like a ghost. Where have you been?”

  “California. Levich sent me on an impossible errand.”

  “Does he know you have returned?”

  “Not yet. I arrived only hours ago. I haven’t had the time to see him.”

  Looking down at Ivanov’s leaking shoe, he said, “You are hurt, eh?”

  “A scratch. It’s nothing. I need to see Levich.”

  Anton’s eyes narrowed. Glancing about, he said, “To speak to Levich you will need to see Verlov first. I think maybe you have been replaced, Dimitri.”

  Ivanov scowled. “Verlov, eh? I’ve been gone two weeks and this is what I find when I return?”

  “Things have changed. You should be careful.”

  “So I’ve heard. I want your help, Anton.”