by D. R. Bell
Megrano got up. “I’ll go call a towing service and take a look at Ferguson’s car. Why don’t you check if anything interesting happened in Seattle today? I doubt this is all about engineering documents, but we don’t know what they want. And neither, it seems, does Ferguson. Unless he is playing some clever game here.”
“So you want to use him as a bait?” asked Chander.
Megrano shrugged. “It might be our only way to draw them out.”
Friday, 4/22/2022, 8:32 p.m. PDT
Maggie watched Chander in the rear-view mirror as they drove off.
“Why don’t you drop me off at the Holiday Inn on Colorado?” David said.
She pulled over and turned to him. “You have no car, no clothes, no computer—and you want to go to a Holiday Inn?”
“The detective told us to not go home. I’ll get a room and walk to the station tomorrow. I don’t have anyone I can just barge in on late at night without notice.”
Maggie looked at him contemplatively. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen him before, she just hadn’t looked very carefully, not expecting to be around him for longer than an hour or two. He was well built, broad-shouldered, not great looking but handsome, with a high forehead and a mop of soft dirty-blond hair with a few silver speckles. Brown eyes, unfocused, unsure, nothing special. His nose seemed slightly bent, an imperfection that actually made his appearance more interesting. Save for the borrowed T-shirt, he seemed like a careful dresser. His manner was not easy and he did not seem to know what to do with his hands. The air he projected was that of an affable but not a confident person, lacking that bit of arrogance she liked in men. But she enjoyed his voice. It wasn’t deep but had a certain stumbling melody to it.
It was tempting to do as he asked, to drop him off and hopefully never see him again. He seemed to bring bad luck. But with a pang of conscience Maggie thought, He did tell me about the danger. And she still didn’t really know the reason for people pursuing them, except that with someone getting killed it must have been serious. So she couldn’t possibly feel free to go about her life until she figured it out. And she needed David for that.
Maggie shook her head. “You Americans are so damn proper. You don’t even have friends you can go to without making a reservation. Why don’t you come with me? My friend has enough room.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “I mean, offering to take me to your friend?”
Maggie shrugged. “I guess I’m sentimental. You could have walked out of the restaurant without warning me and gone to hide away somewhere. Then those guys would have found me. And with your other choice being Holiday Inn … but don’t get any ideas.”
She turned right at a Santa Monica Freeway on-ramp heading east then on 405 San Diego Freeway going north. As they passed the UCLA exits, David asked, “Aren’t you going to your friend near UCLA?”
“No,” Maggie said. “I changed my mind. We’re better off going to my friend Andrei in Sherman Oaks.”
“Andrei? Is that a Russian name?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Russian? I didn’t think Margarita was a Russian name.”
Maggie nodded. “I’m from Ukraine, part-Russian. Margarita is not a very common Russian name, but my parents are big fans of Mikhail Bulgakov who wrote The Master and Margarita, so they named me after the heroine. But I like Maggie better. Andrei, and I came to the US at the same time to study at UCLA and have been friends since.”
The Leaf wheezed its way up the Sepulveda Path and started picking up speed going downhill. Maggie said, “Before we get there, you should know that Andrei is not exactly in a regular business.”
“What do you mean? Drugs?”
Maggie shrugged. “I don’t ask and I don’t judge. Neither should you. We were studying together, and he is really smart, but he chose a different path. Perhaps he was the smarter one.”
David protested. “Why are we going to him, then? Don’t we have enough problems with … with …”
Maggie cut him off. “David, we are sheep being chased by wolves. And sheep should not look for protection with other sheep, but with wolves instead. That’s why we’re going to Andrei. He has a big house and bodyguards. Believe me, I would rather be going to my own apartment than to someone’s house. But if I can’t do that, I want to go to the safest place I know.”
Friday, 4/22/2022, 9:16 p.m. PDT
They got off just before Route 101 and wound their way south into the hills. Maggie navigated a maze of narrow streets, passed two private security cars, and turned into a driveway with a large gate. She buzzed security and in response to “Hello?” answered in Russian. A long exchange followed, but the only word David understood in her conversation was “Maggie.”
The double gate slowly opened, and they rolled down a wide driveway to an enormous white house. David couldn’t help letting out an awed, “Wow!”
Maggie laughed. “Yes, he bought four houses, razed them all, bribed someone in the city department, and built this.”
As they got out of the car, the front door of the house opened, and a man in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts came out. He had the air of a successful and confident young lawyer or investment banker. His wavy dark hair looked coifed, as if each strand was carefully laid in place. “Sabina!” The man opened his arms, smiling broadly, and greeted Maggie with kisses on both cheeks. David thought, Sabina? What the hell?
Maggie turned to David. “This is my,” she paused, “friend David.”
The man vigorously shook David’s hand. “Andrei.” He inquired whether David spoke Russian then said they’d make sure to use English. Andrei’s paunch and reddish face betrayed a sedentary lifestyle involving drinking. His gaze did not feel friendly even if the words were; David felt like Andrei was looking past him.
There was a tall ashtray outside, with a few cigarette butts sticking out of the sand, an unusual site for smoke-unfriendly LA. They walked into an enormous vestibule with a staircase. On the way, David whispered to Maggie, “Sabina?” She waved it off with an “old joke” whisper. A giant chandelier hung from the ceiling. Everything was either white or gold. David jealously thought that the house looked over-the-top nouveau riche opulent—just what his ex-wife would have liked.
Andrei asked what they wanted to drink. Before David had a chance to respond, Maggie said, “We have quite a story to tell you, but I am dying from hunger, and I’m sure David is, too.”
Andrei led them into the kitchen, where they met two men who introduced themselves as Alex and Oleg. Both were tall and blond, probably in their late twenties, and looked like they worked out with weights at least four hours every day. Alex gave Maggie a hug and looked at David questioningly, while Oleg smiled broadly showing crooked teeth and shook David’s hand with vigor. Tons of dishes came out of two fridges, with Oleg supplying Russian names like pelmeni, kotlety, pirozhki, blini. Like the vestibule, the kitchen was over-the-top: two giant refrigerators, an enormous island with a sink in the middle, big marbled counters. Here, too, everything was in white, except for the black marble of the counters.
Two more people came into the kitchen, an older man by the name of Petr, and a pretty young woman who gave Maggie an insincere air kiss.
“Tamara,” the woman said, as she touched David’s hand. Then she wrapped her arm around Andrei. David could not help but stare at her: shiny long black hair, perfect nose, thick lips. Her face looked like all parts of it had been worked on by LA’s best plastic surgeons. Her breasts definitely appeared to be part nature, part medical art.
“Welcome,” said Petr, a gaunt, balding middle-aged man. He smiled, but David felt he eyed the newcomers suspiciously. Or perhaps it was Petr’s natural expression, a mixture of a pout and misgiving. With sunken cheeks, deep-set eyes, and thin bluish lips, he looked like a skull with skin stretched tight over it.
A miniature black poodle ran into the kitchen, his paws click-clacking on the floor. He sniffed Maggie and then turned to David and growled. David tried o
ffering the dog his hand to sniff and get familiar, but the dog snapped and barked.
“Teddy, behave yourself!” said Tamara, with no reproach whatsoever in her voice. She picked up the dog, who continued snarling at David. David had a dog in childhood and generally got along well with man’s best friend, but Teddy clearly took a dislike to him.
While David and Maggie were eating, Maggie took charge of telling the story. As she put it, she’d heard it by now twice and had to practice presenting it herself. Awkward and fidgety, an unwelcome guest in a rich man’s house, David was grateful for playing a supporting role. While both Maggie and David tried to inject some humor into their storytelling, none of the listeners were laughing.
In the process, Maggie still managed to put away a well-packed plate of food. She doesn’t seem to worry about her weight, David thought. Right now he didn’t have much of an appetite.
At the end, Andrei faced them, hands on hips, and asked, “Do you trust these detectives?”
Maggie and David looked at each other and nodded. “They seemed to be sincere,” she said.
“I know who to trust in LAPD,” Andrei said. “I don’t know much about Santa Monica. In any case, you are safe here. It’s after ten, and I’m sure it’s been a long day. Why don’t you get some rest, and we’ll talk again in the morning.”
They went upstairs, with Tamara escorting Maggie and Andrei taking care of David. Andrei asked, “You probably need some clothes?”
David shrugged. “They stole my bag. But I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”
Andrei insisted and took him to a couple of different closets, handing out shirts, pants, and pajamas, while saying that they might not fit perfectly but would be OK for now. As Andrei showed him to his room, David tried to thank his host.
Andrei just made a motion with his hand, saying, “You’re a friend of my friend; you are welcome,” and left.
Friday, 4/22/2022, 10:21 p.m. PDT
The room had a bookcase. As was his habit when in someone else’s house, David looked at the books Andrei had. He realized that they were not real paper books, but decorations. Instead, there was a late model tablet with an extensible screen on the nightstand. David turned it on. Books on the tablet were, for the most part, thrillers. Many titles started with “Murder.” That brought up an image of Jim, who hardly weighed more than 160 pounds, trying to fight off the attackers—and of a blade penetrating his chest. Jim was one of David’s few remaining friends. They’d had lunches together at work until Jim was RIF’d about four months ago, played tennis, and had dinner from time-to-time. Two lonely guys. Jim was forty-two, never married; he had a sister somewhere in Nevada.
David thought, It’s just not fair. Why him? He wondered if he could risk attending Jim’s funeral. If he hadn’t lost the damn phone, Jim would still be alive. David shivered, feeling cold.
The room itself felt chilly, even though it was warm in the house. It could have been a hotel room. David figured he’d use the PJ’s. He’d be uncomfortable sleeping in someone’s house just in his underwear. But he wouldn’t touch the rest. He wanted to take as little as possible from the rich, successful Andrei. As it was, just being here made him feel like a failure.
David took a long hot shower, brushed his teeth, changed into the PJ’s and climbed into bed. He lay there, restless and uneasy in this big luxurious house. He couldn’t help thinking about the house he and Judy had saved so long for—and never got. She would have liked this one.
Judy …
“Hey, listen to this,” she called out. The scene replayed in David’s memory, not for the first time. It was the morning of September 6, 2019. He was about to leave for work. His career was going well, and Judy’s real estate work provided the extra income for investment. The TV was on and the news anchors were talking excitedly about China introducing a new gold-backed currency, the “jin huobi.”
“What does it mean?” asked Judy.
David pursed his lips. “Probably nothing.”
Commentators and the stock market agreed, shrugging it off with snide indifference: “Who cares? We have more of that barbaric gold relic than they do! Maybe they should get a ‘hobby’ instead of ‘huobi.’ Hah-hah.” At the water cooler people laughed about the silly Chinese and, it being Friday, conversation turned to the weekend and college football.
He didn’t get to watch football that weekend; Judy dragged him out to look at open houses in Manhattan Beach and Hermosa Beach. He’d done well in the soaring stock market and they’d had enough down payment to afford a house within a few blocks off the ocean. That was what Judy wanted—to live close to the ocean with a Sub-Zero fridge and Viking appliances. Children were going to come next, after they settled into their yet-to-be-found house. But by Sunday evening the news on the Internet had turned troublesome: Russia, Brazil, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Iran, and a host of other countries had joined the China initiative, proclaiming that the world needed new reserve currency, one not dominated by a single country. The dollar was down big on Asian exchanges, and so were US stock futures.
Monday morning the market declined sharply, circuit breakers were triggered, and exchanges were closed after just a few minutes. The President went on TV urging calm and talking about an “orchestrated financial attack on the US system that will not succeed.” Some talking heads on TV were advocating using military force, but others pointed out that one can’t really go to war because people want to use their own currency. At least it did not lend itself to a strong moral ground. Which might have been overlooked, except going against China and Russia was not the same as taking on Grenada or even Iraq. The week was spent in nervous agitation. Everyone sensed that something had changed dramatically, as if their ship had hit an iceberg below the waterline. No changes on the deck yet, but water must be pouring into the engine room.
On Monday, September 16th, David logged into his brokerage account hoping for a miracle. Some moments live in our memories, and this one was a nightmare that David kept reliving over and over. The house down payment and most of their savings had been wiped out by forced liquidation. Trading on a margin worked well on the way up but proved a killer in a crash. He was not alone; the big market drop punished many. The dollar had lost twenty-four percent that day.
After about twenty minutes of upsetting memories galloping through his mind, David bit into his hand to stop the torture. He was tired but too wound up to sleep. Getting out of bed, he left the room, carefully noting which of the dozen doors it was, and descended the stairs to the kitchen. Maybe he’d grab a glass of water or find another distraction of some kind.
Alex, Oleg, and Petr were there, all drinking tea, which they offered to David. “Can’t sleep?” Petr asked.
David nodded. Petr left the kitchen, came back a minute later, and handed David a prescription bottle. It said “Ambien. Saratov, Petr” on the prescription label.
David was no stranger to Ambien. He thanked Petr and took a pill.
He started drinking his tea, and they made a small talk. David explained what he did at work—while the trio pretended to be interested—and then asked them what they did. Alex and Oleg indicated that they’d previously been in the military, while Petr avoided the question. Instead, Petr started conducting an interview: where David lived, how long he was in his current job, whether he was married, did he have any relatives in LA. Petr’s manner of speech was stilted and flowery.
David answered politely, but grew tired of it, finished his tea, and excused himself. The Ambien started kicking in. He made his way up the stairs, carefully counting to the right door.
Then he fell into bed and dropped into a deep black hole.
Saturday, 4/23/2022, 7:35 a.m. PDT
David was having a dream. He and Jim Plasche were playing singles. He hit a deep shot and rushed to the net for a volley. But instead of going after the ball, Jim pulled out a gun and ran to the net screaming at David, “What did Julius tell you? Where is the Shulman file?” Jim started firing, the gun maki
ng a booming noise.
David woke up to a loud knock on the door. He looked around. Where the hell am I?
The loud knocking continued. He crawled out of bed, still half asleep, and pulled open the door. “What?”
A woman with bright green eyes and yellow streaks in her dark hair almost hit him, as her hand continued a knocking motion. “What’s wrong with you? Time to get up.”
David mumbled something about being groggy from Ambien.
“Well, take a cold shower and come downstairs,” Maggie said, her impatient annoyance visible as she turned and marched off.
He almost called after her, saying, “You look cute when you’re angry.” But he thought better of it. She might actually bite his head off for a bad joke.
David usually tried to start his day with a short meditation, a few minutes of calm. But today he could only manage a few deep breaths—and slamming his hand against the pillow a couple of times. He showered and shaved. In the morning’s light he saw that his clothes consisted of someone’s exercise T-shirt and a pair of dirty gray slacks. His jacket was in the Accord and his dirty shirt in Maggie’s car. He dressed in the borrowed clothes he’d sworn he would not wear: a too-tight white shirt and khaki pants. He figured this must have been Andrei’s taste in colors.
Heading downstairs, his head still cloudy, he ached for strong coffee and a cigarette, even though he’d quit smoking eight years ago on Judy’s insistence. Fortunately, there was plenty of coffee in the kitchen, where the whole gang from last night was already eating omelets.
David drank two cups, and his head cleared up a bit. He’d meet with the detective in a few hours, get his car back, go home, and hopefully start putting this mess behind him. There was plenty of chatter going on, but people seemed to be avoiding the elephant in the room.
Finally, Andrei looked at Maggie and David and said, “OK, what’s the plan?”
