“Name it.”
“Call Sam McFadden. Bring him up to speed. He’ll be worried.”
“Just the thought of California makes me wish I was sitting on my deck in Santa Barbara right about now.”
Wolf flashed a faint smile. “Hell, Nash, I’d like to be sitting on your deck in Santa Barbara right about now. No, belay that. Actually, I’d like to be in Santa Barbara ordering pancakes and trading quips and phone numbers with Edie, the waitress.”
“Well, make that your goal then.”
“I intend to when this is done. There is the little matter of the Agency’s hired man. That’s unfinished business as far as I’m concerned.”
“Someone’s bound to find the guy if they go poking around the neighborhood after the fire. Could that come back to haunt us?”
“According to Royce, they won’t find much. Don’t forget, the guy was going to kill us. Don’t shed any tears. It was him or us.”
Nash threw on his jacket. “That’s a reassuring thought. On that note, I’m off to Rome to make some calls.”
Wolf gave him a hand-drawn map of the area and the road to Royce’s cabin. “Keep it handy.” Coffee mug in hand, Wolf, shirtless, walked him to the cabin’s porch. “Be back before dark. Remember, you’re my only ride out of here.”
Chapter 97
After treating himself to a latte and a scone at a coffee shop, Nash called Sam McFadden in San Diego as instructed. Elated to hear from Nash, the former Green Beret kept his end of the conversation short.
“You never know who’s listening these days. Sorry to hear about the loss. Tell our friend I’m following up on things from my end. Keep your heads down and keep the faith. Call home when you can.”
Buoyed by McFadden’s response, Nash next called his editor.
“Great to hear from you, Sean. I heard the news about the shootout at the O.K. Corral. Geez, you had me worried. Everyone here thought it was a case of déjà vu. Oh, by the way, got your stuff.”
“So, what did you think?”
“Some of your strongest writing. You did a job on the Russian mob. You haven’t been this tough since…”
“Since Danae’s death. I know. I hope you can find the space, Roger.” An unsettling pause. “Roger, you do have room for it, don’t you?”
“Well, space isn’t the problem with the piece.”
“Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“It’s the suits, Sean. The boys in legal think the piece is too long on opinion and short on facts.”
Nash finished his coffee and crushed the cup in anger. “Don’t do this to me, Roger. Do you know what I’ve been through? Do you realize how I put my neck on the block for this story?”
“Of course I do. Look, I think it’s a dynamite piece, Sean. It’s just that legal is not going to let it fly. At least not the way it’s written. I can’t run it without them signing off on it. And right now they won’t touch it.”
“Tell me their objections. Maybe I can tweak it. Tone it down.”
“No good, Sean. They got up on their hind legs about it. You know how they are. They want me to spike it.”
Stunned, Nash got up from the coffee shop and walked outside, the phone to his ear. “That’s it. You’re telling me you’re not going to go to the mat on this one.”
“I can’t, Sean. They won’t budge.”
“I practically wrote this piece in my own blood.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Sean.”
Yelling, “Fuck the lawyers!” Nash killed the call. He got back in the car, his head against the steering wheel, tears in his eyes. For fifteen minutes, Nash sat there without moving. Finally, he started the engine and drove away.
Nash found his way back to the cabin and parked under the thick umbrella of leaves as Wolf had done. He got out of the car and climbed the stairs with leaden legs. Wolf was as he left him—shirtless. He was studying a framed topographic wall map of Oneida County when Nash came through the door. “I got your tea,” said the writer, handing him a small tin.
“Outstanding. Appreciate it. Hey, you look like you just learned your puppy died. What’s going on? Did you get hold of McFadden?”
Slumping in a chair, Nash nodded. Wolf put away the tea and sat opposite him. “So, what’s the skinny from San Diego?”
“Sam says he’ll do what he can on his end. He’ll make some calls. You’re to keep the faith, watch your back. Call when you can.”
“Something’s eating you. What is it?”
Slamming a fist on the table, Nash snarled, “Fucking lawyers!”
Wolf stiffened. “Your editor, huh? Let me guess. You called your editor and he passed on your piece, didn’t he?”
In a dark mood, his eyes on the floor, Nash nodded without speaking.
“Don’t tell me. The magazine’s lawyers think your piece is libelous.”
“All he told me was that the legal department said it was too long on opinion and too short on facts.”
“Bullshit. It’s a solid piece of reporting and we both know it.”
Finally looking Wolf in the eye, Nash threw up his hands, saying, “On one hand he tells me it’s some of my best writing. On the other hand…it doesn’t matter. It’s not going to see the light of day.”
“They got to them,” murmured Wolf.
“Who?”
“The Agency, the White House, State. Somebody in one of those outfits got to the magazine’s publisher. They got the lawyers involved.”
“How can you prove that?”
“I can’t. That’s the beauty of what they’ve done. Can’t trace it.” Wolf got up from the table, agitated. “I’ve seen this before. In our case it’s kill the messenger. Since they didn’t kill the messenger, kill the message.”
Whirling on Nash, he said, “You know, we should have expected this. Should have seen it coming. Hard to anticipate something like this, but you have to give it to them. They’re playing hardball.”
“You sound so sure about this.”
Wolf came back to the table. “Oh, I am. I’m certain. That guy at State I told you about had to have a hand in this.”
“Nells?”
“That’s the sneaky bastard. I’ll bet his fingerprints are all over this.”
“No one will touch my copy with a ten-foot pole,” groaned Nash.
“You could take this to the Times. You can post it online, leak it to Fox, CNN, Public Radio, or the BBC. Any one of those outlets would love a scoop like this. One of them is bound to run with it.”
“They, whoever ‘They’ might be, are probably already closing those avenues while we sit here in the middle of nowhere,” said Nash.
“What about a shotgun mailing to every news outlet you can think of?”
“They’d eventually come after you and they’d ruin me.”
“You willing to risk it?” said Wolf. “This would be so public they couldn’t afford to touch you.”
“But they’d know you were involved. We go public with this and you’d be on their short list.”
“Hell, I’m already on a dozen short lists.”
Wolf’s rapid-fire delivery was like a locker room halftime speech. Nash caught the fire. “Okay, let’s start with the Times. If the Gray Lady goes for it we’re halfway home. After that, we could post my version anonymously.”
Slapping him on the back, Wolf said, “Now you’re back in the fight.”
“Let’s drive to Rome,” said Nash. “I’ll call some people at the Times and run this past them. If they go for it, I’ll send the file. They can have the byline.”
“They’ll go for it,” claimed Wolf. “This is their kind of story. Tell them they have first shot at it. If they hesitate, say you’re ready to go online with it. They’ll smell blood in the water.”
Nash took a long look at Wolf’s healing back and arms. “You good enough to go to town?”
Throwing on a shirt, Wolf said, “Be hard to keep me from a fight.”
Chapter 98
Re
naissance Hotel, Tel Aviv
Boris Levich, his mind foggy from the twelve-hour flight from New York, didn’t register the ringing phone. He rolled over, irritated at the interruption of a half-formed dream. Levich propped himself on bony elbows when the ringing finally stopped, replaced by a blinking red message button. He rubbed sleep from puffy eyes, stretched, and yawned like an aging lion. Levich threw off the sheets and pushed himself into a sitting position on the edge of the king-sized bed.
He shuffled to the suite’s balcony and opened the doors to the sound of waves on breakwaters far below. The Mediterranean stretched to the horizon like shimmering blue silk. From his fourteenth-floor aerie, ant-like beachgoers dotted the brilliant white sand beyond the tiled promenade. To his right, a crowded forest of masts filled the Tel Aviv Marina. To his left, more high-rises and beach. A gentle breeze parted the gossamer curtains. Levich gripped the balcony railing, closed his eyes, and leaned back, inhaling the sea air. Israel, an oft thought-of destination, was a reality at last.
His life’s journey—begun in Kiev, forged in the Gulag’s brutality, shaped by the Brotherhood’s internecine cannibalism, tempered by his immigrant’s struggle to survive and eventual triumph in Little Odessa’s criminal netherworld—ended here among his fellow Jews.
No one can touch me here, he told himself. I have arrived. I am not some penniless Ukrainian Jew washing ashore, seeking the favor of those in authority. It will be those in authority who will soon be seeking my favor. I may have fled my adopted country in the eleventh hour but I am still a man to be reckoned with. And if I believed in God I would say he had blessed me but that would be superstitious nonsense. I have made my own way as before. Tel Aviv suits me. There is an energy here I can tap into. My journey ends here.
Later, Levich checked his messages. As expected, his Brotherhood contact, Viktor Askov, had been delegated to call and welcome him. He was to phone again this evening.
Good, thought Levich. Viktor will be useful. He will introduce me to others who have gone before me. I will have to be careful to study the structure here and move only when I am guaranteed success. One must be cunning. Levich smiled at his image in the bathroom mirror. I am certainly that. He showered, shaved, and dressed in the one set of clothes he had carried in the valise. As he expected, the slothful TSA drones had not done a thorough search of the case.
Refreshed, Levich went downstairs to the hotel’s Africa Restaurant. At a table overlooking the beach, he asked for a pot of coffee and a carafe of orange juice. While waiting for those to arrive, he prowled a groaning buffet piled high with fresh fruit, pastries, cheeses, and breads. Feeling strangely liberated in his temporary anonymity, Levich piled his plate and stopped to order a vegetarian omelet. He ate a leisurely breakfast as he watched the beach parade. In the afternoon, he did some shopping to begin replacing the wardrobe he had abandoned in his flight.
When Viktor called again, Levich was ready to receive him. They agreed to meet in the hotel’s Renaissance Club Lounge with its spectacular views of the ancient Jaffa seashore. Claiming a private corner window with two facing couches and a table laid with Russian pastries and a silver coffee service, Levich played the role of a lord about to entertain a petitioner.
He rose to greet Viktor Askov with a smile and a genuine embrace. “How good it is to see you, my friend. You are looking well. Israel agrees with you, eh?”
“Israel agrees with all of us,” growled his guest. A burly peasant thug with wide-spaced eyes and a flattened nose earned in bar brawls, Askov looked as if he still belonged on some master’s estate in czarist Russia. Wearing a sport coat and open-necked white shirt, the Spetsnaz veteran was ill at ease in the palatial surroundings.
“You pick a good spot, Boris Levich. This is expensive, you know.”
Levich smiled conspiratorially. “Yes, I think it will cost me three hundred dollars a day, Viktor.”
“How long do you expect to stay here?”
“Ten days, I think.”
Levich watched his guest run the numbers in his head. Glancing about the lounge, Askov shook his head, impressed at the cost.
“So, Viktor, what can you tell me about our friends? I’m glad you came to see me. I don’t forget your courtesy.”
Waving away the flattery, Askov sipped his sweetened coffee. “Ah, we are anxious to hear what things have changed in America for you, what brings you to our shores. These are tough times for us, Boris Levich.”
Levich wagged a bony finger. “Not good to hear that. I was told this is the land of opportunity. What news from the Brotherhood?”
Lowering his voice, Viktor said, “You must realize the Americans are busy here. Their FBI works with the government. There has been talk of shutting down some of our operations just to make things easier for a while.”
“Did I choose the wrong time to arrive?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that with the situation between our enemies and us, we cannot afford to be so high profile, you know?”
Nodding sagely, Levich made his pitch. “Which of the bosses should I call on? I need to hear what they advise for a man like me who arrives not knowing all the players, you know.”
“You want to know where you can fit in, eh?”
“Yes, something like that. I don’t come to be idle, Viktor Askov. There is always room for one more at the table, eh?”
Askov pondered Levich’s remark. “Okay, I understand what you are asking. Let me report to them that you have arrived safely and that you are telling me you wish to be accepted into the circles. True?”
“It would be an honor, Viktor. I wish to settle here. It’s a dream come true for me. I have always longed to return. I’ve thought of little else all these years.”
“Okay. I will do what I can to arrange this.”
“Please convey my best wishes to the council. When you have news, call me. I will be here for the next ten days.”
Askov grinned. “In that case, I’d better make arrangements quickly before you run out of money, eh?”
“I’ll manage for a while, Viktor. Perhaps they will let me wash dishes to pay my bill.”
Askov finished his coffee and got to his feet. “Somehow I don’t think you are going to have to do such a thing.”
Levich walked his guest to the elevator. In the lobby, the two parted with a hug and Levich returned to his room to make two calls.
Chapter 99
Brooklyn
Nash yelled down the charred stairwell. “Who’s there?”
Footfalls on the steps, then a face appeared on the soot-filled landing. “Jerry Little, your insurance adjustor, Mr. Nash. You think it’s safe?”
“The top floor seems sound enough,” said Nash.
It had been a week since the fire. Wolf and Nash had returned to the blackened loft to meet with Nash’s insurance company representative. They waited on the top floor.
Wearing a bright yellow vest and a hardhat plastered with the company logo, Little, a cherubic chatterbox ventured upstairs, camera and digital tablet in hand. After introductions, he did a cautious walk-through with Nash. Snapping pictures and typing notes, Little explored the damage and a gaping hole in the roof made by fire crews.
Wolf’s attention was drawn to the gutted storefront across the street. Two patrol cars had arrived and parked. Wolf glanced out a charred window frame at two uniforms peering in the smudged windows. As he watched, the second pair of patrolmen headed to the rear of the building.
“Uh, oh,” said Wolf. “We got visitors.”
Nash deserted the adjustor and came up behind Wolf. “Oh, shit. What are they doing here?”
“Probably got a call.”
Nash stepped back from the window. “What are we gonna do?”
Putting a hand on Nash’s shoulder, Wolf’s blue eyes bored into him. “We’re going to remain calm. We don’t know anything about that building, do we?”
“Right. We don’t know a thing,” said Nash. “We’re just here to meet with my
insurance agent about the fire.”
“Good. Take a deep breath and finish the walk-through with Mr. Little.”
“But if the cops come up here—”
Wolf said, “Then I’ll do most of the talking. Take your cues from me.”
Nash caught up with the agent and Wolf continued his vigil at the window. Imagining the scene on the second floor of the building opposite, Wolf remembered Royce’s assurance to Nash when the journalist had asked about the sniper. “I don’t think that will be a problem.” Wasn’t that what Royce had said?
As Wolf watched, a van joined the parked squads. Two crime scene techs with kits got out and followed a waiting officer inside.
This is going to be interesting.
Chapter 100
“Not a good sign,” murmured Wolf softly, as a medical examiner’s van arrived across the street from Nash’s ruin. As Wolf watched, an unmarked sedan arrived and two plainclothes detectives got out. One of the officers spoke with the uniformed cops. The other detective eyed the burned loft and crossed the street to intercept the insurance adjustor, who was leaving. The two chatted on the sidewalk as Nash and Wolf watched from the top floor.
“I know this guy,” whispered Wolf. “Name’s Willis. He interviewed me the day of the fire. He’s a Columbo wannabe.”
The detective sent the agent on his way and spotted Wolf in the charred window above.
“HELLO!”
Wolf gave Nash a reassuring squeeze on his arm and peered out the window. “Up here.”
“I’m Detective Willis, Seventy-third Precinct.”
“I recognized you, Detective. C’mon up, but be careful.”
At the top of the stairs, Nash deadpanned to Willis, “We had a fire.”
Willis said, “Do tell.” Testing the floorboards with his foot, he said, “This structure might not be safe. You thought of that?”
Wolf greeted the cop. “Ah, Detective Willis. What can we do for you?”
“For starters, you can explain where the hell you two have been for the last three days.” Red-faced from the climb, Willis, short and round-faced, said, “My lieutenant’s been chewing my ass about getting hold of you. He’s got the press climbing all over him for details about this fire and the five victims found here.”
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