Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  Signaling the nervous manager, Royce quizzed him. “Who’s the man at the table with my friends?”

  “Sorry, I do not recognize the gentleman, Detective.”

  “Your eyesight is as bad as your honesty, Mintoff. For your information, he is Anton Sheveski. One of Boris Levich’s cronies.”

  The little man shrugged. “Really? I do not know him.”

  “You’re such a poor liar.”

  Pretending insult, the club’s manager said, “Truly, I don’t know him.”

  “Really? It’s well known that Boris Levich owns this dump and that you serve at his pleasure. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “Certainly not my intent.”

  “Bullshit,” scoffed Royce. “Can’t understand the game if you don’t know the players.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. Don’t you have some tables to clear?” Royce shooed him away and switched locations. He shifted his eyes between the crowd, the dancers, and Sheveski. The gangster was talking with Nash and Wolf. As Royce watched, the slippery Mintoff drifted by the table and bent to whisper in Sheveski’s ear. The gangster shot a stony look in Royce’s direction. Royce, showing his best neutral face, propped his right hand at the hip in an obvious display of his detective’s shield. He got a contemptuous scowl in return for the gesture. Turning back to the business at hand, Sheveski took a sheet of paper from Wolf and scanned it.

  A taste of the book. Take the bait, thought the watching Royce.

  His expression unchanged, Sheveski handed it to his bodyguard and sent him away. Followed by spotlights, sequined, feathered performers worked their way among the tables, pausing to toy with men and women alike. Reforming on the dance floor with military precision, they finished their number to whistles and applause. Forming a new line, they locked arms, obscuring Royce’s line of sight. Cued by a statuesque blonde, they twirled and parted in pairs, revealing an empty table where Nash, Wolf, and Sheveski had been moments before.

  Chapter 87

  In a secluded, soundproofed retreat, Nash and Wolf sat on a red leather banquette across from Anton Sheveski. The back room was one of several set aside for special guests. Wolf could only guess at what went on in its confines. Lined in red velvet, with brass wall lamps and crystal chandeliers, the private chamber was a tasteless exercise in excess. Producing a single page from the sought-after book had gained them an audience with Boris Levich.

  A rap at the brass-studded leather door and Sheveski stood. Nash nudged Wolf to his feet as well. The door opened and Boris Levich appeared, imperious and grim. Sheveski held a chair for the Brighton Beach godfather and stood at a respectful distance behind the old man. Levich did not extend a greeting. Instead, he held the single book page in front of him. Perching a pair of reading glasses on his hooked nose, he studied the scribbled notes of tidy Cyrillic. No one spoke. Levich removed his glasses.

  “So, which of you is Wolf and which of you is Nash?”

  The two identified themselves.

  “Ah. So we meet again, Mr. Nash. I know your work. Lies, all of it.”

  Nash refused the challenge.

  “And you, Mr. Wolf, seem to have caused a great deal of trouble during your stay in California.” Levich held

  up a spotted, palsied hand. “Don’t bore me with denials

  or details. We know you were there.”

  “And we know your man was there as well,” said Wolf.

  Looking down at the page, Levich shook his head. “The toll of business is sometimes high, no? It does not matter what the business is. There is always a cost. The point before us is this: why do you come here and present this piece of worthless paper at this late hour?”

  Wolf leaned forward. “The paper is not worthless and the hour is not late. I believe you have more than a passing interest in what a page like this contains. And there are more of them where that came from.”

  Levich laced his fingers together. “It means nothing to me.”

  “Ah, but they mean something to your friends in Moscow. True?”

  “Let us suppose they do. This is one page. Where are the rest? Where is this book people talk about? Do you have it?”

  Careful with his words, Wolf said, “I have access to it, yes.”

  “And you want something in return, I suppose.”

  “Not money, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “Not money? It’s always about money.”

  “I want the man who came to California and killed my friend.”

  “If such a man existed, and if I knew of such a man, why would I give him over to you?”

  “I will trade this book for such a man. I think you have the power to make this happen. You get the book. I get the man.”

  Ignoring Wolf’s proposal for the moment, Levich turned his attention to Nash. “And what is your part in this ridiculous extortion? Why are you here? Are you not ashamed of the way you maligned our people with your book?” Grimacing malevolently, Levich shook a finger at Nash. “I hold you responsible for this slander you wrote. You made accusations that were not true. Like others, I come here to start a new life and you write lies.”

  “I am a journalist. I write the truth, not lies.”

  Levich unleashed a string of curses in Russian and Yiddish. “Oh, yes, journalists. They sometimes suffer for their efforts. I have heard of journalists being killed.”

  “In the Old Country,” said Nash, “Not here in America.”

  “Well, one can never tell what may happen…even in America.”

  Wolf nudged Nash’s knee. “Consider my offer, Mr. Levich.”

  “The book for this man?”

  “If such a man exists,” parroted Sheveski.

  “Both of us know he exists,” said Wolf. “I am here because the trail led here. The police in California have evidence. They are closing in. Soon, the FBI will become involved. I cannot be responsible for what will happen once the government investigates.”

  “Such talk bores me,” said Levich. “I am just a businessman who looks after his people, nothing more. Strictly as a kindness to a guest of this club, I will have my associates ask about this ‘man’ you say you are looking for. But I don’t think you should expect much to come of it.”

  Wolf said, “And I will talk to the people who have access to this book you want. If they don’t hear from me, they may do something else with it.”

  Levich rose. Without a backward glance at Nash and Wolf, the mob boss and Sheveski abandoned the private room. In the hallway, two unsmiling byki fell in with them, one in front, one behind. Levich and his retinue left through a rear door. Nash and Wolf emerged to find a much-relieved Royce pacing the carpeted hall outside the party room.

  “I was about to call nine-one-one. One moment you’re sitting at a table talking with Sheveski, the next time I look, you’re gone.”

  Wolf said, “You were watching the dancers.”

  “The hell I was. You guys could have been headed for a landfill for all I knew. I had your back, but we should have figured on something like this.”

  “Kind of hard to anticipate this kind of encounter,” said Nash. “We got to see the top dog. Can’t do better than that.”

  Royce said, “Was that old guy Levich?”

  “You saw him?” said Nash.

  “Yeah, that weasel of a manager, Mintoff, told me you two were in conference with the big man. I threatened to tear him a new one if you didn’t turn up.”

  “Well, so what gives?” said Wolf. “Are we done here?”

  Nash looked at him. “I picked up enough to work with. I think we’d better leave while we can.”

  “Works for me. We have some decisions to make.”

  Royce said, “Want me to scrap the tracking beacons?”

  “Sure. Even though the feds know where we are, we can stick the GPS trackers on someone else’s car,” said Wolf. “Let them chase those people for a while. C’mon, let’s blow this joint.”

  Royce said, “
You know, that has a certain appeal to it.”

  “He didn’t meant that literally,” said Nash.

  For the first time that night Royce smiled. “You don’t know Wolfman well enough to make that assumption.”

  They left the tracking beacons and the nightclub behind.

  Chapter 88

  “I think we ought to move to higher ground before it hits the fan.” Cradling the Draganov rifle in his lap, Royce rubbed the oiled barrel and receiver with a clean rag and repeated his warning. “Did you hear me? I said we ought to—”

  Wolf, lounging in a hammock strung between two floor-to-ceiling pillars, said, “Heard you the first time. And go where exactly?”

  “Upstate. New Jersey. Florida. Anywhere but here for starters.”

  Nash interrupted his typing. “I’m a day from wrapping up this article. We can stay for at least another week if we need to.”

  Royce slipped the sniper rifle in a gun sock and tightened the drawstring. “Don’t you get it? We’ve got targets pinned on our backs.”

  Nash studied his notes without looking at Royce. “If they were going to do something, don’t you think they would have made a move by now?”

  “Not necessarily. We don’t know who’s got us in their sights: old Boris and his borscht-eaters or our friends in Washington.”

  Wolf climbed from the hammock and took his cellphone up on the roof. The spot gave him two things: good reception and a respite from the other two. Wolf selected one of the stored numbers and initiated the call.

  Gunny Lindgren’s recorded voice boomed from the phone. Wolf left a detailed message and number. He didn’t have to wait long for the return call.

  “Hey, Wolfman, you have ESP. I was planning to call you today.”

  “Warms my heart to hear you say that.”

  A long sigh. “I don’t know what you’re up to now, but you, my friend, have stepped in it big time. Not the words you wanted to hear, I’m sure.”

  Wolf paused. “I always count on you to give it to me straight.”

  “Okay. Here’s what little I’ve been able to find out so far. Your man in State, Nells, was told by his boss to take off the gloves. Guess he wasn’t making much headway with you about giving up the book.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Your playing hardball with him at Kennedy Airport didn’t leave him much wiggle room, Wolfman.”

  “I was tired of being hassled, Gunny.”

  “I feel your pain. But his supervisor put the screws to him. They brought in the big guns. Sorry, bad choice of words. The contractor tailing you was a freelancer. Ex-army guy from Puerto Rico. You had the name right, Jorge Iberra. Don’t know how you got him to tell you that. My source said he’s never blown a mission before. He must have gotten careless.”

  “Not careless, just a second too slow.”

  “Guess there’s a first time for everybody.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Wolf said. “What about the number on the guy’s phone? Royce left a message but never got a call back.”

  “It’s a mailbox.”

  “No way to trace it?”

  Lindgren laughed. “You think I’m a miracle worker?”

  “Damn near close to one. Got any advice, Gunny?”

  “I’d say vamoose. Get out of town. Find that hole I told you about.”

  Wolf stayed in the shadows on the roof. “What if I contacted Nells, worked something out to get him off my back?”

  Lindgren’s sigh filled Wolf’s ears. “Probably too late for that. If he let that dog loose on you, do you really think he’ll want to talk?”

  “Probably not. I’ll call with a report in a few days. Thanks for the help, Gunny.”

  “Go find that hole, Wolfman.”

  Chapter 89

  Sheveski lumbered into Levich’s dining room. “A word, Boss.”

  Levich glanced at Lydia fussing over his teapot. “Leave us.”

  She went through the French doors, closing them behind her.

  “Sit, Anton. What news today?”

  “I have confirmed that it was Dimitri who killed Verlov.”

  Levich said, “I suspected Dimitri might be involved. They did not get on with each other from the first. Verlov presumed too much, too quickly. Dimitri resented him, of course. It was Verlov who suggested Dimitri be sent to California to find that accursed book. He wanted him gone.”

  Sheveski nodded in agreement. “Undoubtedly. No one, including me, mourns the loss of Verlov, Boss. But you did not order his death as was your right. Such an affront cannot stand. Dimitri must be held accountable.”

  His voice flat, Levich said, “You think to advise me on this, Anton?”

  Sheveski offered a tepid apology. “Of course not. I was only thinking of your reputation. This will be spoken of in the streets if we do not immediately act.”

  A habit of his under pressure, Levich smoothed his thinning hair. “Yes, I agree. But I think we can accomplish two things with one stroke.” He pushed away from the table. Sheveski got to his feet in a show of respect and waited.

  Levich wandered to the curtained window overlooking the street. The old man cradled his chin, his brow furrowed. Only the ticking of the mantel clock broke the silence. Hands clasped behind, he returned to the table, steadied himself by grasping the back of a chair, and looked at Sheveski.

  As if waving away the awful truth of what he must do, he said, “Go to Dimitri. Tell him all is forgiven. Say to him that the doctor was mistaken about his leg. That he can save it after all. I pay all expenses.”

  “I doubt he will believe me.”

  “Not at first. You must disarm him. The key is not to force him to go with you. Tell Dimitri you think it was a good thing he did by removing Verlov. Convince him I, too, am relieved he is gone. Then have him to call me. I will talk to him and tell him I want to see him, that I have forgiven him.”

  “Boss, he won’t believe me. I should just kill him and save you this trouble.”

  Taking Sheveski by the elbow, Levich smiled. “We need him alive. There is this man, Wolf, who wants him, remember? In exchange for Dimitri I will get the book our friends in Moscow want.”

  “If he refuses, may I kill him?”

  Levich patted the big man’s arm. “Do not be so eager, Anton. You’ll have your chance. No, do not kill him. If he hesitates, say I will meet him at Lydia’s house if he so wishes. Tell him he can stay there to recuperate from his wound. He trusts her. For now, we need Dimitri alive.”

  “At least until this Wolf gives up the book.”

  Levich nodded. “Yes. Once that is done, get rid of them all.”

  “All of them?”

  For Levich, ordering the deaths was akin to brushing lint from his lapel. Arching an eyebrow, he said, “Yes, a clean sweep. Dimitri, Wolf, the writer Nash, and their friend. These four have caused me a great deal of grief, each in their own way. I mourn over Dimitri in particular. I practically raised him as my own son.”

  “These things happen.”

  “It doesn’t ease the pain one feels, Anton.”

  The big man shrugged. Emotion, real or imagined, was not for him.

  Drawn again to the window, Levich brushed aside the sheer curtain and studied the Brighton Beach skyline. “However, the death of the journalist Nash will give me great pleasure. He has been a thorn in our people’s side for far too long. If only he had been in the car that long ago morning instead of his wife.”

  “Regrettable. Fate spared him, it seems.”

  “True. But that was long before your time, of course.”

  “These deaths will cause an uproar, Boss. It will be short-lived, but perhaps you should arrange to be away while I see to it.”

  “I think that would be most wise.”

  Chapter 90

  Levich shuffled to his den and unlocked his desk. Withdrawing a slim green notebook, he turned to a familiar spot and smoothed the pages. He made a phone call to the private line of the senior accounts manager at
Manhattan’s New Amsterdam Global Bank and Trust.

  “Ah, Fedor, my friend,” said Levich, altering his voice. “It’s Marcus Pavel. I wish to transfer the bulk of my account to my bank in Zurich. I am about to invest in a rather exciting business opportunity. Time is of the essence, eh?”

  “Of course, Monsieur Pavel, I understand. I am at your service.”

  “I know I can count on you. I wish to wire ten million five. Please make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Consider it done, sir. Do you wish me to send a messenger with the paperwork?”

  In silky tones, Levich said, “A phone call will suffice, Fedor. The paperwork can follow in due time.”

  “Very good, sir. You may expect the funds to arrive within the next few minutes.”

  “I appreciate your thoroughness, Fedor. I show five thousand remaining in the account, correct?”

  “You are correct, sir.”

  “I shall add to that within days.” Levich leaned back, a conspiratorial smile spreading. “A pleasure doing business with you as always, Fedor.”

  “I assure you the pleasure was all mine, Monsieur Pavel. New Amsterdam Global Bank and Trust appreciates your business.”

  “Very good,” said Levich. “Au revoir, Fedor.”

  That done, Levich went to a wall safe behind a gilded framed print of Kutuzov driving the French at Smolensk, a favorite. He withdrew a plastic bag of passports, a small black velvet bag of uncut diamonds, and two blocks of wrapped currency: American one hundred dollar bills and Euros. He packed all in the false bottom of an anonymous worn leather valise.

  He went to his bedroom where he shooed Lydia from her cleaning duties. He added underwear, a pair of socks, and a fresh shirt, along with toiletries to the leather case. He tucked the valise in the back of his wardrobe where it would sit undisturbed until needed. Satisfied with his preparations, Levich returned to his study and ordered Lydia to prepare tea and a small plate of his guilty pleasure: Russian tea cakes, her specialty.

  Levich opened his computer, checked the status of his Zurich account, and rejoiced silently when he saw the transfer had gone through as promised. In the morning he would transfer half of the millions to a bank in Tel Aviv. Next, Levich called a ticket broker he had used over the years and booked a one-way first class ticket to Tel Aviv for the following day on El Al. Leaving Kennedy Airport mid-morning, he would arrive at Ben Gurion International in the afternoon of the next day. Pleased with his plan, Levich waited for Sheveski’s call.