Chapter 91
Levich, who had been dozing in his favorite wing-backed chair, awoke to loud voices in the apartment’s entry. Recognizing Sheveski’s ragged bass, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and abandoned the chair. Summoned by repeated knocks, he opened the door to find a florid-faced Sheveski wearing out the carpet. Off to one side, a worried-looking bodyguard stood like a statue. Sheveski faced Levich.
“Dimitri is gone.”
“WHAT? When did this happen?”
“Late this morning, if his hosts are to be believed.”
“Do you doubt their honesty in telling you this?”
Sheveski shook his head.
Levich ushered the big man into his study and sat at his writing table. Drumming his fingers, his eyes bored into Sheveski. “Did your man not keep watch on him as I instructed?”
Unlike other of Levich’s underlings, Sheveski was not intimidated despite the circumstances. “He brought Dimitri his medicine last night. Everything seemed normal. The old couple had prepared dinner for him and breakfast this morning. They opened their shop as usual and went to rouse him when I called to tell them I was on my way. That’s when they discovered him gone. Vanished. Perhaps it happened before dawn. Maybe sometime around midnight. Hard to know.”
In a rare loss of control, Levich slammed the table, rattling his cup and saucer. Despite the outburst, Sheveski’s placid expression did not change.
“I have my people out looking for him, Boss. He can’t go far on his bad foot. We’ll find him. Where could he go?”
Lowering his voice, Levich said, “Search Lydia’s house. He has stayed there before. The foolish woman dotes on him like a grandson.”
“Perhaps I should ask her.”
Levich waved away the suggestion. “Not yet. Search first. If he is not found there, so be it. If he’s been hiding there, take him. I will question her myself if that’s so.”
“We will turn the city upside down to find him, Boss.”
“Well, you won’t find him by standing there, Anton. Take Mikhail with you if you need another hand. Go!”
Turning on his heel, Sheveski went out the way he had come, the bodyguard in tow.
Lydia crept to the study’s doorway. “Is Dimitri in trouble?”
“No. He seems to have gone out for air or some such foolishness. We are concerned for him, of course. He is being talked about on the news. The police will be looking for him as well. We need to find him first. He needs medical help.”
“Poor Dimitri,” she whined. “He must be in pain. A fever perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” groused Levich. “Who knows why he would break cover at such a time as this. Don’t worry, Sheveski and his boys will find him.”
“Or the police. God forbid the police. You know Dimitri. His temper.”
Levich rose, put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Yes. Wouldn’t it be like our dear Dimitri to refuse to be taken by them? We must trust that Sheveski will find him first.”
“I will pray that he is unharmed by day’s end.”
Yes, thought Levich, you pray, Lydia, though it won’t do you any good. He is a dead man. Pray that we find him. My future hinges on that. Yes, pray.
Chapter 92
Feeling cornered, Wolf called McFadden.
“Hey, Sam, checking in with you.”
“So, how are things back east?”
“Tight. Pucker factor high. Caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Every landing zone I’m looking at is hot.”
“Sorry to hear that, Wolfman. Would it help to know the feds have put a face to the name of Kurskov’s killer?”
“I’m working my own angle on that but a name would help at this stage of the game.”
“Your boy’s name is Dimitri Ivanov. He’s a bad actor. Be careful.”
“How’d you find out about this guy?”
“Your favorite Hoover Suits came by on a snooping mission yesterday. They know you’re back east, of course. Your buddy at State probably worked hand in glove with them to keep track of you. Anyway, this killer’s face is hitting the news here as well. Apparently he works for somebody called Boris Levich in Little Odessa.”
“I’ve met Levich.”
“No kidding? You move fast, Wolfman.”
“I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. I dangled a page from the book in front of him. Told him I’d give the rest of the book if he gave me Kurskov’s killer.”
“That was a crazy thing to do.”
“Why? We knew the guy was connected somehow. It was Nash’s idea to confront these scumbags in their own backyard.”
McFadden’s voice was laden with concern. “You guys are running a dangerous game. Maybe you should rethink where this is headed. Now I’m hearing you talking about the Russian mob and trading for a wanted man.”
“We’re almost there, Sam. I can feel it.”
McFadden broke into nervous laughter. “Back off. Time to call in the cavalry. The feds are your best hope right now.”
“Bullshit. Our own people took a run at us, Sam. Did you know that?”
McFadden sighed. “Who? Not somebody from State, I hope.”
“Close. A private contractor. Haven’t made the connection yet. Gunny Lindgren’s looking into it for me.”
“And…?”
“That’s another story. I’m still standing.”
“Oh, man. You have got to put an end to this. Come back out here as soon as you can. You hear me?”
“I can’t. Not right now. Got to go, Sam. I’ll check the news to see if this killer shows up on television again. I’m still one step ahead of the white hats…though I’m not sure if those are still the good guys. It’s messed up. I’ll call you.”
Wolf put away his phone and looked at Nash busy with his laptop. “Are you any closer to putting this story to bed?”
Raising his hands, the writer said, “It is finished. Hallelujah!”
“You serious?”
A triumphant Nash hit the send key. “Gone! On the way to my editor.”
“Can I read it?” said Wolf.
Nash offered the computer. “Be my guest. You have to realize that this is when my editor goes to work. I’ve put it in the best shape I could. Now it’s in the hands of the editing gods.”
Wolf took the laptop. “For better or for worse, huh?”
“I trust this guy. We’re tight. It should knock his socks off.”
Wolf stretched out in the hammock, the laptop on his chest. “You like what you’ve written?”
Nash grabbed a beer from the cooler, popped the top, and smiled. “I do. I think it’s going to make some folks in Little Odessa and elsewhere unhappy. Might even goose the Bureau to ramp up their efforts.”
“What about Washington?” said Wolf, beginning his read.
“Plenty of embarrassment and outrage to go around.”
Nash plopped down on a couch near the freight elevator, beer in hand. Wolf’s eyes darted across the screen as he scrolled through the story.
“Liking what you’re seeing?” said Nash.
“Hmmm, so far, so good.”
Royce came up the back stairs, carrying his Glock. “I’m going to say this again, guys. We ought to move while we still can.”
Nash said, “I’m with you. I’m done here. We can close up the joint early as soon as Mr. Wolf finishes reading.”
“Good. I have this uneasy feeling.”
“Like we’ve pushed our luck too far?”
“Exactly.”
Nash got up, wandered across the open room to Royce. “What did you have in mind for our next stop?”
“I have a cabin upstate, south of Fort Drum. Two bedrooms. Wolf’s been there. Nothing fancy but it’s in the woods, far from the Big Apple. I’d feel a lot better about being there while this goes down.”
“What’s going down?”
Royce laid the Glock on the table. “This wild plan you and Wolf dreamed up about trading the book for Gary Kurskov’s killer.”<
br />
Nash pointed the beer bottle at Wolf. “That’s his deal. I just wanted to come along so I could take my best shot at Levich and his crew.”
Royce leaned against the pillar supporting one end of the hammock, his eyes on Wolf. “What’s going to happen when he finds out there is no book?”
“We’ll give him printed copies from the disc and tell him the book no longer exists.”
“How long before he puts a bullet between your running lights after he hears that?”
“I’ll phone it in from a safe—”
Royce froze and signaled for silence. Grabbing the Glock, he crept to one of the tall windows covered in black cloth. Wolf slipped from the hammock and shut the laptop, returning it to the table. He picked up the other Glock and moved to the brick wall at the head of the stairs. Nash stood rooted to the floor, his eyes studying four camera images on the loft’s security system’s flat screen: two figures at the street entrance, two probing the rear of the building.
Royce caught Nash’s eye, mouthing, Where? How many?
Pointing to the stairs, he flashed two fingers. Gesturing to the back of the building, he flashed two fingers. Wolf caught the hand signs and nodded.
Royce waved Nash to his post near the window and gave him his pistol. He slipped into his bedroom and emerged with the loaded Dragunov and a spare magazine. He crossed the room and took position near Wolf at the stairs.
The street-level intercom buzzed.
“Hello. Hello,” the accent heavy, unmistakably Russian.
Looking at Royce, Wolf shrugged. Should we answer?
A second buzzing, longer. “Hello, Hello.”
The freight elevator came to life. The pulley motor cranked, lowering the shuttered wooden cage to the ground floor. Wolf felt the platform shudder as it reached the first floor. A bad sign. Someone was operating the machinery from inside the building. Nash switched to an interior camera and confirmed it with a hand signal.
Below them the wooden gates opened, then closed. The motor hummed, spooling the cables. The cage rose. Backing from the edge of the shaft, Wolf flattened himself against a heavy vertical pillar and aimed his Glock at the shaft. Royce moved to a new position covering both elevator and stairwell. Trembling, Nash dropped on one knee behind a wooden pillar larger than himself, the unfamiliar pistol trained on the shaft.
The freight elevator rose steadily, the greased cable winding around the grinding winch. The three men tensed as the cage emerged on the top floor.
Chapter 93
“Cover me, Royce.”
Wolf inched forward, his Glock steadied in both hands. He peered through the wooden safety door’s vertical slats.
“Might be a trap,” whispered Nash.
Wolf grasped the cage’s dangling canvas strap, pulled upwards, separating the wooden gate’s top and bottom. A lumpy six-foot length of rolled carpet lay in the middle of the elevator’s steel floor.
“Might be booby-trapped,” hissed Royce.
Wolf nudged the carpet with a foot and got a muffled groan in response. Tucking the Glock in his belt, he dragged the bulging rug from the freight elevator, dumping it in the middle of the main room. Turning to Royce, he held out his arms. “What the hell?”
“It’s him.”
“Who?”
“Kurskov’s killer,” said Royce. “Gift-wrapped. He’s not going to come out shooting.”
Wolf circled the carpet, Glock in hand. Nodding to Nash, the two of them kicked with their feet, unrolling the rug. The pale, bloodied body of a naked man lay bound hand and foot. Nash stepped back, covering his nose and mouth.
“Has to be him,” said Royce. “This is Levich’s part of the bargain.”
“Whoever he is,” said Wolf, “he’s barely alive.”
Royce snorted. “Obviously didn’t come willingly. He’s your man.”
A voice boomed from the bottom of the elevator shaft. “His name is Dimitri Ivanov. This is the man you want. Now, you give us the book, eh?”
“How do we know this is the right man?” yelled Wolf. “He could be anyone. Someone you picked at random.”
“He is the right man. His is the face on the news. My boss keeps the bargain with you. Give us the book and we leave.”
Motioning to the table, Wolf sent Nash to retrieve a thick manila envelope stuffed with printed pages from the book’s scanned images. Wolf took the envelope and tossed it into the elevator cage.
“Coming down.”
He closed the safety gates, tapped the buzzer to signal the unseen intruders two floors below. The cage creaked in descent. Peering over the edge of the darkened shaft, Wolf heard the gates open, footsteps, and loud voices. What sounded like a disagreement followed, angry Russian words rising from the ground floor.
“They don’t buy it,” whispered Royce. “Time to call the cops.”
“Not yet,” said Wolf.
Silence below. Then the commanding voice. “What am I supposed to tell my boss, eh? This is not book, this is just pieces of paper you make.”
“Tell Levich the book no longer exists,” Wolf yelled. “It was destroyed months ago in Russia. The sheet I gave him was the last remaining original page from the book. I was given the copies you now have. They are the only ones in existence.”
“You cannot expect me to believe this! You lie.”
“I’m not lying, asshole. Read the words and the figures. Show them to Levich. He will see they are genuine. You have the only copy I was given.”
“You wait. I will call him to see what he wishes to do.”
Royce crept next to Wolf. “They’re playing a game. Buying time. They’re up to something.”
“Better make up our minds quick,” Nash called from the table. He was watching the security cameras. “They’re bringing in gas cans through the loading dock. Call the cops!”
Wolf and Royce gathered at the flat screen. “How will we explain these guns?” said a worried Nash, holding aloft a Glock.
Wolf focused on the scurrying images in front of him. “You think it will matter in the next few minutes? Pack your shit, Nash. Your laptop, your notes. Whatever you can’t leave behind.”
“But the guns,” protested Nash, slipping the laptop case over his shoulder.
“Hell, if the cops get here in time, we’ll just toss them in the shaft and say they belong to the Russians. Our word against theirs if we survive.”
Royce gestured at the split screen. “There are four of them, three of us.” “They can’t see us but we can see them. I know where they are. If I take the stairs now I’ll have surprise on my side. I can take them out, Wolfman. But I have to go now while they’re busy getting ready to play firebug.”
“What about him?” Nash pointed the Glock at the unconscious Ivanov.
“He comes with us,” said Wolf. “Give Royce your pistol for backup. I’ll still have mine. Royce, we go out the window to the roof next door. You take these guys out and meet in back.”
Grinning, Royce hefted the Dragunov. “I like it. Here, take my car keys just in case. There’s a cabin key on the ring. You know where it is.”
The two shook hands and embraced.
“Give ’em hell, Royce.”
“You know I will, Wolfman. See you out back.”
Wolf knelt next to the unconscious Ivanov and hoisted the naked man over his shoulders. He grasped one of the Russian’s hands with his left and held the Glock in his right. “Nash, open the first window overlooking the building next door.”
Royce halted on the top of the stairs and waved them away. “Go now!”
Wolf heard the Dragunov firing, then an explosion. He had just lowered Ivanov’s limp form to Nash on the adjacent roof when the concussion wave hit, knocking him to his knees. Covering his head with his hands, he hugged the floor as a ball of fire blossomed against the ceiling. The boiling flames rolled across the remodeled loft, the interior walls sparing him the worst of it.
Nash grabbed Wolf’s arms, dragging him free of the blist
ered window frame belching thick black smoke. The building’s sprinkler system came to life, flooding all levels but losing the battle with rivers of fire pouring down the stairs and licking at support beams.
Nash carried Ivanov to the far end of the not-yet-threatened building and returned to usher Wolf to safety as well. He shook hot cinders from Wolf’s shirt and checked him for wounds. Wolf felt his head and torso, came away with bloody hands. “What the hell happened?”
Nash tore his shirtsleeve to fashion a crude compress for Wolf’s bleeding scalp. “Royce must have caught those guys in the act,” he said. “Never saw anything like it. A flash fire. Boom!”
“Where’s Royce?”
“Haven’t seen him. Hope he got out the back like he planned.”
Wolf was regaining control. “What about the Russkis? What happened to them? Did they get out?”
“Hope not. They probably went up in the explosion.”
“Royce. Gotta find Royce. C’mon.”
“Are you sure you’re in any condition to do this?”
“C’mon. Royce. My pistol,” mumbled Wolf.
Nash handed him the Glock. “Saved it. If we don’t need it we should toss it before the cops show.”
Defiant, Wolf kept the weapon, saying, “We’re gonna need it.” He tucked the pistol behind him.
Nash and Wolf half-carried, half-dragged Ivanov to the fire escape and worked their way to the ground. Each breath Wolf took helped clear his head. Concentrating on what he had to do, he ran on autopilot through swirling smoke.
The sidewalks were filling with gawkers. A chorus of sirens wailed in the distance. Reluctantly, Nash lowered Ivanov to the ground and stood over him. Two women trotted up the alley through drifting embers, followed by a cyclist.
“Wait for the police, the ambulance,” shouted one of the women as they neared the building. “You’re hurt, mister. And this man is bleeding.”
Wolf's Vendetta Page 29
