Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  “I’ll be okay,” yelled Wolf. “Take care of my friends.”

  Feeling Royce’s car keys in his pocket, Wolf stumbled along the rear of the building until he found the ash-covered Land Rover parked near the alley’s mouth. Opening the passenger side door, he slid the Glock under the front seat and locked the door. He came back to the waiting Nash, who knelt in drifting smoke, Ivanov in his arms. The women and cyclist were nowhere to be seen.

  “Ivanov’s dead,” said Nash. “There’s no pulse.”

  Wolf said, “We should get the hell out of here while we can.”

  “We can’t just leave him.”

  “The hell we can’t. He killed Kurskov…and others.”

  “But the cops should know.”

  “His face is plastered all over the news. They’ll know who he is.”

  “Besides,” wailed Nash, “I can’t leave. It’s my building, remember? How am I going to explain a bunch of bodies once the fire’s out?”

  Hands on hips, Wolf looked down at Nash propping up the dead Ivanov. “Well, there’s nothing here to keep me around.”

  “I could use your help,” said Nash. “We can tell the truth. The cops will listen. You could speak to the feds. Tell them what’s going on with the mob.”

  Wolf hesitated, moved by Nash’s appeal. He agreed to stand fast until police arrived. The two went over their story while they waited. Wolf insisted their narrative be consistent. Safe from the flames for now, they rehearsed the telling. Wolf corrected the timeline Nash recited. Nash added details Wolf had forgotten. At their feet lay Ivanov.

  Firefighters crawled over the roof, smashing newly installed skylights to gain access to the loft’s interior. The trapped smoke, dense and dark, blossomed anew. Crews wielding soaker hoses fought to contain the flames. An ambulance rumbled up the alley through the thick smoke. Guided by a cop, it came to a stop next to Wolf and Nash. EMTs bounded from the vehicle.

  Pointing to Ivanov, Nash said, “He’s dead.”

  The paramedics knelt over Ivanov, trying to revive him without success. Waving over the policeman, Wolf pointed to Ivanov’s body. “You might want to check with your supervisor, Officer. This guy is Dimitri Ivanov.”

  “Who’s Dimitri Ivanov?” said the cop.

  “He’s wanted for murder in California. He’s Russian mob. His face is all over the news right now. And the FBI is looking for him.”

  “Really? And you might be?”

  “Name’s Tom Wolf.”

  “And I’m Sean Nash, Officer. I own this building.”

  The cop took a step back and called on his lapel mike. He came back to Wolf. “The lieutenant’s on his way over. Meantime, you guys need to check in with the EMTs. You look like shit, both of you.”

  While one emergency responder offered Wolf and Nash oxygen masks to clear the smoke from their lungs, his partner covered Ivanov’s body with a sheet. Wolf and Nash were checked for cuts while they sat on the vehicle’s bumper step breathing clean air. Offered cold water, the two downed a bottle each and asked for more. Wolf held a bottle aloft, letting the cool liquid wash over his face, rinsing soot and sweat from his eyes.

  The cop’s supervisor, a bull-necked lieutenant wearing a clipped mustache and a skeptical attitude, high-stepped over snaking hoses and asked Wolf to repeat his claim.

  He relayed the news about Ivanov to the brass, then said, “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. When the EMTs give you a green light, we’ll get you to the precinct house and take your statements.” Pausing to look them over, he added, “You guys have a place to stay?”

  They shook their heads. Nash pointed to the smoldering loft. “That was it. All I have left is my laptop and what I’m wearing.”

  “How about you?” he said to Wolf.

  “I’ve got my friend’s car. That’s it.”

  “Nobody to stay with? Nobody who could take you guys in?”

  Wolf and Nash shrugged.

  “We’ll get you a city voucher for some meals, some clothes, and a couple nights in a hotel. Maybe the Red Cross will put you up. First things first.”

  The lieutenant nodded at the cop who had summoned him. “You guys ride with Emerson to the stationhouse and get the paperwork started.” Turning to leave, he said over his shoulder, “Sorry about your loss, pal.”

  Nash waved in acknowledgement.

  “Guess I’d better call my insurance guy.”

  Watching the burning building, Wolf said, “So much for your remodeling project.”

  The EMTs wrestled Ivanov’s corpse onto a collapsible gurney and lifted it to the rear of the ambulance. They shut the rear doors and huddled with the lieutenant. He sent the crew on their way and turned to Wolf. “Emerson has a squad car at the end of the alley. He’ll take you to the stationhouse.”

  Wolf and Nash trailed the cop down the alley, past the fire trucks, hoses, and onlookers. Glancing both ways to avoid being overheard, Nash whispered, “What about the bodies on the ground floor? What’s going to happen when they find them?”

  Speaking without looking at him, Wolf said, “It’s going to make for some very interesting conversation for starters.”

  “You realize they’ll find Royce, don’t you?”

  Wolf nodded. “I hope so. He’s the only one I care about.”

  Chapter 94

  Sheveski’s last call told Levich he had paper copies of the book’s pages, nothing more. At the time, enraged at what he considered a double-cross, Levich ordered the loft torched as planned. But something had obviously gone wrong. Sheveski had not called again as promised.

  Levich finished dressing and went to the television in his den. The local station had the answer. A breathless Channel Seven reporter on the scene was doing her best to describe firefighting efforts.

  “We’re on Brooklyn’s Union Street and Second Avenue. Behind me you can see the challenge facing ladder crews. Eyewitness News has learned that several neighbors heard a huge explosion and then arrived here to see raging flames shooting from every window.” Her voice continued as dramatic helicopter shots showed the conflagration being fought by three crews. “Several survivors escaped the explosion. There may be one fatality, but that is unconfirmed as of now. Stay tuned for an update.”

  Drawn to the screen, Levich knew instantly what had happened to Sheveski. On the street below the chopper, a tangle of hoses ended at the base of a thinning plume of black smoke. There would be no book. That much was clear to Levich.

  Sheveski might have survived, but that would prove an inconvenience if he was tied to the arson. Had all worked as expected I should have had the book in my hands by now. I cannot risk waiting one more moment.

  Levich had planned his escape well, but nagging doubts plagued him as he shut off the television. The hired car was due to arrive at any moment.

  Wearing his favorite navy blue Italian suit and ivory silk tie, Levich threw on a cashmere overcoat and donned a fedora. Picking up the leather valise, he went past the kitchen where Lydia was preparing his supper.

  “Boss, you are going out? I fix your lunch for you.”

  “I have an errand to run, Lydia. Put it in the oven where it will keep for an hour. I’ll return shortly.”

  “You go by yourself?”

  Flashing a paternal smile, Levich said, “Am I not permitted such a privilege?”

  She blushed at his mild rebuke.

  “When you go home tonight, take the envelope on the table in the foyer with you.”

  “Do you wish me to mail it for you?”

  “No, dear Lydia. The envelope is for you. Dosvidanya.”

  “Dosvidanya, Boss.”

  Levich rode to the ground floor, nodded to the doorman who held the door. A suited, unsmiling man the size of a linebacker opened the rear door of a town car. Levich sank in the backseat, the precious leather valise on his lap. The big car pulled away, bound for Kennedy Airport. Knowing he would not return, Levich gazed at Little Odessa’s familiar skyline, the distant beach, the sea.<
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  Did the book still exist? Would my plotting be discovered? In twelve hours I will be in Israel, beyond the reach of American authorities. And if the Brotherhood in Moscow remains ignorant, I have nothing to fear.

  Chapter 95

  Questioned separately, Nash and Wolf endured four hours of interrogation by detectives. The one thing they had agreed not to divulge was the existence of the much-sought-after book.

  “And this guy Ivanov,” said a beefy Italian detective, “he was the reason for this bizarre arson?”

  Wolf said, “I believe so. They brought him to us and dumped him. They thought that would buy Nash’s silence about the Russian mob.”

  In a nearby interviewing room, Nash was telling his team of questioners the same thing. “I was finishing my article. Their giving up Ivanov was their version of a quid pro quo. Frankly, I don’t think they were going to honor their part of the bargain.”

  “Our guys on the scene tell me they found five bodies on the first floor.”

  “That make sense,” said Nash. “We counted four intruders on the security camera…and then, Royce.”

  “But you and Wolf made it out with Dimitri Ivanov. How did that work?”

  “We wanted to turn over Ivanov to the cops. We knew he was wanted for murder in California. He was barely alive when they tossed him our way. It’s obvious they were planning to torch the place anyway. It blew up in their faces prematurely.”

  “And your friend, Royce. How come he didn’t make it out with you and Wolf?”

  “We headed for a window on the top floor. There was a short drop to the roof next door. Royce must have taken a wrong turn in the smoke. It was dark. That’s about the time the explosion happened.”

  Not completely convinced, the detective said, “Okay. A few more questions. I’ll be right back.”

  The cop went next door where his colleagues were running Wolf through the same drill. He knocked, let himself in, and took a seat in the corner. Wolf had just finished answering a string of questions put to him by a lanky, sour-faced detective named Willis.

  Willis said, “So, Royce doesn’t make it out alive. How come you get away with Nash and the Russian guy and Royce gets left behind?”

  “It all happened the same time the place went up in a fireball. I was handing Ivanov out a window when the place exploded.”

  “We don’t have IDs on any of the five bodies we found on the ground floor.”

  “One of them will be Royce, Detective. He’s a former Army Ranger. The service will have his medical records if you need them.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t get out?”

  “No question. He was supposed to meet us out back. I’m sure you’ve got the four Russians and Royce.”

  The detective named Willis loosened his tie and got up from the table where he had been jotting notes. “You can stop the questioning any time and ask for a lawyer. You sure you don’t want a lawyer, Mr. Wolf?”

  “I don’t need one. I’ve told you guys what happened. You can check with Nash. He was there.”

  “So he was,” conceded Willis. “Okay. You can go…for now. We might need to call you back in if we run into problems.”

  “You’ve got my number, Detective. I’ll be available.”

  “You sure you don’t want protection? I mean, the Russian mob is a nasty bunch. They won’t be happy about losing four of their own.”

  “Four less assholes, if you ask me,” said Wolf.

  “Five if you count Ivanov,” said Willis.

  “I stand corrected. Five. Nash and I will be fine, Detective.”

  “Okay. We’re done for now. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  “Royce has an ex-wife in Boston,” said Wolf. “When the medical examiner releases his body, I’d be willing to contact her and make whatever arrangements are needed.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind. I’ll have an officer give you a lift.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Wolf left the interview room and went downstairs to wait for Nash. When he showed, accompanied by a uniformed patrolman, they asked to be driven back to the burned-out loft. Dropped there, they lingered at the site until the cop left. Wrapped in yellow crime scene tape, the charred three-story building wore sooty scars like ruined mascara. Tossed outside by firefighters during the battle, piles of burned remodeling materials covered the ground.

  “Sorry about this,” said a somber Wolf.

  “I’ve got insurance. I’ll survive. Though right now if someone were to make me an offer, I’d grab it.”

  Wolf said, “Sort that out later. Let’s use Royce’s car to get away.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Get away’?”

  Clapping Nash on the back, Wolf said, “Get out of town for a while.”

  “But the cops—”

  “Hey, why hang around waiting for the Russkis to come after us?”

  “What about our interviews?”

  Wolf smiled. “I think they went rather well, don’t you? I can read people, Nash. We boxed them in. We told the truth…so maybe we left out the part about the magic book…but we told it like it happened.”

  “I’m surprised you agreed to stay.”

  They walked to Royce’s abandoned car. “You were right,” Wolf said. “But now we need to make ourselves scarce for a while. Oh, don’t worry—we’ll stay in touch with the cops. They’ve got a job to do in the wake of what’s happened here. But so do we.”

  In the car, Wolf said, “Pull out the glove compartment. It’ll come loose after a few tugs. You’ll find a roll of cash behind it. That’s Royce’s mad money for just such an occasion.”

  Within seconds, Nash held up the cash and flipped through the bills. “There’s eight hundred here.”

  Wolf started the engine and turned his eyes upward. “Thank you, Royce. We’re heading north to the cabin.”

  Nash navigated out of Brooklyn, through Queens, across the George Washington Bridge, and eventually north on I-87.

  “Royce’s cabin is almost five hours northwest of here,” said Wolf. “We might hit some tolls.”

  “That means cameras.”

  “Trust me. They have no idea where we’re going.”

  “Someone might have copied the license number back at the scene.”

  “Yeah, that’s a risk.”

  “But five hours.” Nash did the math. “That’s almost three hundred miles. Do we really need to do this? Besides, you could use cleaning up.”

  Slumping in his seat, Wolf groused, “You don’t smell so good yourself.”

  “I meant medically. You look like you have a bad sunburn. Maybe first or second-degree. It has to bother you.”

  “Some.”

  They drove in silence for an hour. Wolf said, “We’ll stop on the outskirts of Albany for gas. We can buy some clean clothes, first aid supplies, and food.”

  Staring out the window at passing cars, Nash said, “I’m sorry about Royce.”

  Wolf nodded. “Me too. With the fire it will take them several days to ID everybody. We can use the time to plan our next move.”

  “I’ll need to check in with my editor at the Albany stop. Our run-in with the Russian mob has to be all over the news by now.”

  “We’ll be okay. We can call the cops if you’re worried. They won’t be able to put the puzzle together for a while. We’ll be safe. Nobody knows about Royce’s cabin.”

  “Where we going again?”

  “Past Utica. Nearest town is Florence. Maybe twelve hundred souls. Royce bought his property when he got out of the service. Pretty little place. Forty acres. Sits in the middle of the woods. Utilities off the grid. Thousands of acres of state forest around him. He loved it. I helped put on the roof when he…” Wolf’s voice softened, trailed off.

  Nash didn’t bother him again until they came off the highway near Albany. They refueled and bought sandwiches, cartons of bottled water, and prepaid cell phones. Wolf had Nash drive to a chain store for the rest of what they needed. Nash called his
editor, was told he was out, and left a message he would try again. He got them back on the road in forty minutes and finally surrendered the wheel in Rome. From there to Florence was a silent, solitary ride with no traffic except a one-eyed pickup passing them going south.

  Despite the years, Wolf found the correct gravel spur. Swallowed by the dark save for headlights, he took them all the way to Royce’s cabin without missing a turn on a weedy, winding track carved from the forest. Out of habit he parked the car under a thick hardwood canopy offering good cover in daylight. They carried everything inside by flashlight. Only then did he strip off his shirt and allow Nash to apply a coat of soothing gel to his bright red arms and back.

  Chapter 96

  Wolf slept without moving for ten hours. Nash was up before that, trying unsuccessfully to get a signal in the tiny clearing. Nothing worked. Frustrated, he gave up, came inside, and found a bare-chested Wolf shaving over a washbasin.

  “How’d you sleep?” said Nash.

  “Feel like a folding chair left out in the rain for two days.”

  “Your back still looks like a lobster’s. Not worse, not better.”

  “Looks are deceiving. It feels better.”

  “Coffee?”

  “I prefer tea. But, yeah, I’ll settle for a cup of java.”

  Nash rummaged in the knotty pine cupboards for another mug. He poured from an enameled pot warming on the cabin’s cast iron stove and set it on the counter beside Wolf.

  “Can’t get a decent signal. Back in Albany, I left a message on my editor’s voice mail saying I’d call again. Maybe I’ll go into town to see if that works.”

  Wolf shook his razor in the basin and toweled shaving cream from his chin. “Take the car all the way into Rome. That way you won’t draw as much attention like you would in Florence. Just a precaution.”

  “You’re right. Shoulda thought of that.”

  “You’ll get back in the habit.”

  “You want anything else in town? Maybe you want to come along.”

  Arching his back, Wolf said, “Nah, I’ve put in enough car travel for a while. I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone. Come to think of it, you could do me a favor.”