by Robert Crais
I said, “Are you guys for real?”
The lifter said, “What is that, ‘for real’?”
Alexei pointed the Clock at me. “This is real. Would you like to see?”
“No.”
“Then keep your mouth shut.”
Crump.
A light patter of rain began to fall, and Alexei put on the windshield wipers. We took the Alaskan Way Viaduct up past Elliot Bay into Ballard, then turned toward the water and bumped along an older part of the wharf to a warehouse at the edge of a pier. The warehouse, like the pier, was old and unkempt, with great rusted doors that slid along tracks and peeling paint and an air of poverty. Dmitri climbed out, pushed open the door, and we drove inside to park between a brand-new $100,000 Porsche Carrera and an $80,000 Mercedes SL convertible. Guess the air of poverty only went so far.
The warehouse was a great dim cavern that smelled of fish and rain and marine oil. Dust motes floated in pale light that speared down through skylights and gaps in the corrugated metal walls, and water dripped from the roof. Men who looked like longshoremen were driving forklifts laden with crates in and out of the far end of the warehouse, and did their best to ignore us. Alexei blew the horn twice, then cut the engine and told me to get out. A row of little offices was built along the side of the warehouse, and, with the horn, a pudgy guy with a cigarette dangling from his lips stepped out of the last office and motioned us over. We were expected.
The three of us went through the door into a shabby office in which it was even harder to see. The only light in the place came from a single cheap lamp sitting atop a file cabinet in the corner. Three men were around an oak desk that had probably been secondhand in the thirties, two of the men in their mid-fifties, the third maybe younger. The younger guy was the one who’d waved us in. I had hoped that maybe Clark would be there, but he wasn’t. Probably just as well.
An empty folding chair was in the center of the room. The pudgy guy gestured at it and said something in Russian. Alexei said, “For you.”
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
Alexei glanced past me to Dmitri and then an M-8o went off in my ear. I rocked sideways and went down to one knee, then felt myself put into the chair. Alexei leaned toward me. “No more jokes, now.” His voice was far away. “That was a slap, do you see? If Dmitri closes his hand, it will kill you.”
“Sure.” His face tilted crazily first to one side, then the other, and I thought I was going to throw up.
A fourth man entered, this guy a little shorter than the others, but wider, and hard to see when your eyes are blurring. He was in his fifties, with crinkly gray hair and a florid face and a dark blue shirt open at the neck to show a lot of grizzled chest hair. He was also holding a McDonald’s soft drink cup. Large. I guess that’s where Dmitri got it from.
When the new guy entered the other men stood, and murmured greetings of respect. The new man spoke more Russian, and Alexei handed over my wallet. The new man put his cup down and sat on the edge of the desk to look through my wallet. Deciding my fate, no doubt.
I rolled my head one way, then the other. The disorientation was beginning to pass, but the soft tissue around my ear felt tight and hot.
The new guy finished going through my wallet, then tossed it to the floor. His eyes were tired and lifeless and uncaring. Just what you want to see when you’re being held in a chair by a four-hundred-pound Russian with steel fingers. The new man said, “I am Andrei Markov.”
“All right.” He spoke pretty good English.
“Where is Clark Hewitt?” It hung like a chime tone in an empty room. All of this was about Clark.
“I don’t know.”
Markov nodded and the steel fingers tightened into my shoulders like pliers. Alexei backhanded me with the Clock and a starburst of pain erupted from my other ear. Some days suck. Some days you shouldn’t even get out of bed. I said, “Who is Clark Hewitt and why is he so important?”
Markov said, “Tell me where he is, or I will kill you.”
“I don’t know.” My ears were ringing. I shook my head to stop the ringing but the shaking made it worse.
Another nod, and this time Alexei hammered back the Clock and pressed it hard into my neck. Dmitri stepped back to get clear of the splatter.
I said, “I’ve never seen Clark Hewitt, and I don’t know where he is. I don’t know anything about him.”
Markov said something to Alexei and Alexei answered in Russian. Markov said, “Do not lie. You were asking about him. You were at his wife’s grave.”
“His name came up in something I’m working on so I came up here to find out about him.”
“What thing?”
“I’m trying to find a drug importer from San Francisco. Before he disappeared he said he was going to buy some dope in Seattle off a connection named Clark Hewitt. I came up here to find out.” Good lying is an art.
Markov stared at me some more, thinking about what I had said, trying to decide whether or not he believed me and how far to take this if he didn’t. The Clock hovered like a living thing three inches from my left ear. I thought that I might be able to block it away and drive up into Dmitri, and if I was lucky I might be able to live another ten seconds.
Far away a dog barked. Deep and throaty and coming closer.
I said, “I don’t know Hewitt. I don’t know you guys. What in hell is going on here?”
The phone rang, and the man to Markov’s right answered it and listened without speaking. He put down the phone and said something and Markov’s steady eyes wavered.
Something was happening out in the warehouse. The dog sounded closer now, and men were moving and there were voices. Markov murmured more Russian. The Clock disappeared and Alexei stepped away and the barking came to the door. A guy in a suit stepped inside, holding out a federal badge, and announced, “Federal Marshal.” He was a tall guy and the suit fit well. He glanced at me, then came over and jabbed a finger into Dmitri’s chest. “Step back, fatso.”
Dmitri squinted at Markov, and Markov nodded. Dmitri stepped back.
The guy in the suit looked at me. “You okay?”
“Do I look okay?”
“We’ll get you some ice.” He turned back to Markov. “My name is Special Agent Reed Jasper, United States Federal Marshal. The men behind me are with United States Customs. They have some paperwork they’d like to discuss with you.” A powerfully built guy wearing an assault suit and a Browning 8mm was outside the door with the dog, and the dog was straining to get into the room. It was a big, muscular mix, maybe shepherd and Akita, and it looked like it wanted to bite. Behind him, other men were moving through the warehouse.
Andrei Markov spread his hands. “I am always happy to cooperate with the authorities, Special Agent.”
I said, “My name is Cole. I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles. These men brought me here against my will and assaulted me. I’d like to press charges.”
Jasper put away his badge, then picked up my wallet and lifted me off the chair as the guy with the dog came in. Jasper never again looked at the Russians, but kept all his attention on me, as if I was the reason he had come and the Russians were now someone else’s problem. He said, “You’ll live.”
“I said that I want to press charges.”
“Sure.” He led me out of the room.
Maybe a dozen federal agents were moving through the warehouse. There were a couple more dog handlers in assault suits, but most were wearing blue rain shells that said POLICE - U.S. Customs. Jasper led me past them without another word and out into the rain. Maybe Jasper could tell me what was going on. Maybe Jasper could tell me why Clark Hewitt was so important, and why I had been grabbed, and why Andrei Markov had come maybe three seconds from blowing my brains out. I said, “Man, am I glad to see you guys.”
Jasper said, “You won’t be.”
“What does that mean?”
A guy in a blue shell was waiting beside a nondescript government G-ride. “Is this the d
ude?”
Jasper tossed him my wallet. “Yeah.”
The new guy slipped my wallet into his pocket without looking at it, then went around and climbed in behind the wheel. His blue shell said MARSHAL. I said, “Would you guys tell me what’s going on?” I seemed to be saying it a lot, and no one seemed willing to answer.
Jasper pushed me against his ride, pulled my hands behind my back, and cuffed me. “You’re under arrest, asshole. If you know any good lawyers, you’d better get ready to call ‘em.”
Wilson Brownell had been right. I had stepped into something deep, and now I was drowning.
CHAPTER 10
The rain came harder, raging at the G-ride as we made our way southeast across Seattle to the Federal Court Building. Jasper mumbled at the driver a couple of times and the driver mumbled back, but neither of them mumbled to me. The driver’s name was Lemming.
First irate Russian thugs, now irate federal cops. Maybe Rod Serling was next.
The rain vanished as we slid beneath the building into the parking garage. We didn’t bother with a parking spot; Lemming stopped the car at the elevator where a bald African-American agent was waiting with the elevator locked open. He was wearing a plastic security ID that said SCULLY, WILLIAM P. “That him?”
“Yeah.”
He stepped into the elevator and unlocked the doors. “Get his ass upstairs.”
I said, “If you’re Scully, where’s Mulder?”
No one answered. Guess they didn’t watch the X-Files.
They hustled me up to the sixth floor, then along a general issue federal hall as if I were a presidential candidate with an active death threat against him. We went through a door that said UNITED STATES MARSHALS, and into a department room with maybe half a dozen desks and four more agents gathered at one of the desks, talking. Scully took a bag of blue ice from a little fridge by the coffee machine, uncuffed me, then told me to put the blue ice on my eye. “Put’m in the cold room.”
I said, “I think I need medical attention. How about calling nine-one-one?”
“Keep the ice on it.”
They brought me to a small room with a table, four chairs, and no windows. Lemming put me in the far chair and said, “Sit.”
“How about a lawyer?”
“Sit.”
I sat. Jasper sat at the table across from me, but Scully and Lemming stayed on their feet. Scully whispered something to Lemming, and Lemming left. Jasper said, “First, I want you to know that we’re holding you for questioning. We do not plan to file charges against you at this time, but we reserve the option to do so at a later time.”
“Questioning about what?”
“The murder of a federal officer.”
“Come again?”
Scully said, “Why are you looking for Clark Hewitt?”
I looked at him. First Markov, now these guys. I looked from Scully to Jasper, then back to Scully. They were staring at me the way a circling hawk eyes a field mouse just before she folds her wings and slips down through the air to feed. I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that name.”
Scully said, “Knock off the bullshit. We ask, you answer.”
I grinned at him. “Is that the way it works, Scully?”
“Yeah. That’s the way it works.” My eye was burning and flushed with blood. I put the blue ice on it.
Jasper said, “Who are you working for?”
“I just went through this with Markov. I didn’t like it then either.”
“Tough.”
Scully said, “How do you know Markov?”
“I don’t. Two goons scooped me off the street and brought me to see him.”
Scully glanced at Jasper, and Jasper said, “Alexei Dobcek and Dmitri Sautin.”
Scully looked back at me. “Why?”
“So they could ask the same questions you people are asking.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“The same thing I’m telling you.”
“It might go easier if you were more cooperative.”
“You might get more cooperation if you told me what was going on.” I’d had enough, and my voice was getting loud. My back was tight and my cheek and ear were throbbing, and the blue ice had lost its cold. I didn’t know why any of this was happening, and the not knowing made me feel like a chump. I had flown up on my own nickel to find a runaway dad, only nothing appeared to be quite what I had thought it was, and that made me feel like a chump, too.
I put the ice packet on the table and stood. “If you’re going to charge me, then do it. If you’re going to keep me, I want a lawyer.”
“Sit down.”
I looked at Scully. “No, Scully, I don’t think so.”
Jasper stood and leaned across the table at me. “Get in the goddamned chair.” Yelling.
“You’re going to have to put me in the chair, and it’s not going to be as easy as you’re thinking.” I didn’t shout. I was proud of myself for not shouting.
Jasper started to move around the table, but Scully caught him. “Reed.”
Jasper stood there, breathing hard. I was breathing hard, too, but I was tired of getting shoved around and kept in the dark. Something was going on and everybody seemed in on it but me. I was seeing bits and pieces of it, and I wasn’t liking what I was seeing, but I knew there was still more to the picture. Maybe it was time to start sulking. Maybe I could phone Charles for a couple of pointers and sulk these guys into submission. Or maybe Jasper would try to put me in the chair and I could get in two or three good shots before half a dozen federal marshals boiled through the door and rode me down. Might be worth it.
Scully, William P., had stared at me for what seemed like an hour when the door opened and Lemming whispered something in his ear. Scully listened without saying anything, then nodded and the tension seemed somehow lessened. “Hang on for a minute.”
He patted Jasper’s shoulder and the two of them stepped out with Lemming, but now I was feeling better about things. I was probably thirty seconds away from being thrown into jail, but you always feel better when you tough off to a guy.
Three minutes later Scully and Jasper came back without Lemming. Jasper had a nine-by-twelve manila folder and Scully had two Styrofoam cups of coffee and a baggie filled with fresh ice. Scully tossed me the ice, then put one of the cups by me on the table. He sipped from the other. “We came on too strong and that was a mistake.” He gestured at the envelope. “The office down in LA faxed up some information on you. You seem like a square guy, Cole, so let’s take a step back and start again.”
“I’m listening.” I put the ice where the Clock had bitten me.
Scully said, “Andrei Markov is looking for Clark Hewitt to kill him. We’re looking for Clark to protect him. That’s the difference between us and Markov.”
I looked at him without responding. The tough detective refusing to cut them any slack. Or maybe I was just the sulky detective. “Don’t tell me: Clark Hewitt used to be involved with Markov, but he turned state’s evidence, and now he’s in witness protection.”
Jasper smiled, but there wasn’t a lot of humor in it. “What else do you know?”
“I don’t know any of it, Jasper, but I’m a hell of a guesser. Markov wants Hewitt, and so do you. You aren’t the cops or the Treasury or the FBI. You guys are U.S. Marshals, and the marshals oversee the federal witness protection program.” I moved the ice to my ear and leaned back. “And since you guys don’t seem to know Clark’s location, that means you’ve lost him.”
Reed Jasper frowned. “We didn’t lose him, goddamnit. He left. You don’t have to stay in the program once you’re in. You can leave any damn time you want.”
Scully said, “Did Markov have any idea as to Clark’s location or current identity?”
“Nope. That’s what he wanted from me.”
“How’d he pick you up?”
“They had someone on Rachel Hewitt’s grave.”
Scully whistled. “Jesus Christ, three years and
they’re still on that place.” He shook his head. “When that Russian swears an oath, he means it.”
I said, “Who’s Markov?”
Jasper said, “Markov is a big macher in the Ukrainian mob. He came over here a few years ago with his brother, Vasily. Vasily was the boss. They set up shop and began expanding the business, and one of these new ventures was printing counterfeit dollars to ship back home and sell on the Ukrainian black market.”
I nodded. Clark the printer. Clark the artist. “Clark was a counterfeiter.”
Scully said, “Yeah.”
“So what happened between Clark and Markov?”
“Vasily thought Clark was skirnming his print and laying it off on a couple of locals. Clark got word that Vasily was planning to bump him off, and came to us for help.”
“He turned state’s evidence to buy into the program.”
“Didn’t have a lot of choice. The Markovs never made a threat they didn’t carry out.”
“Was Clark skimming?”
Jasper shrugged. “Who knows? Because of Clark, Vasily’s doing twelve to twenty on Mercer Island, and Andrei swore he’d spend the rest of his life hunting down Clark and his family, and that’s what he’s doing. It’s been three years, and he’s still got people on it. Now you show up, and he sees you as a lead back to Clark.” Great.
I said, “If Clark went into the program, how come you guys lost track of him?”
Jasper stared at me for a time, then wet his lips and looked away.
Scully made a little mouth move as if his lips had gone dry, too. “The night we brought Clark in things went bad. Middle of the night, raining, we were going to put him and his kids into a safe house, then begin the relocation. We told him not to worry. We told him it was safe.”
I was watching him. “Only it wasn’t safe.”
Jasper’s eyes narrowed and he looked back at me. “Somehow Markov’s people found out. We had everything in the truck, we were five minutes from driving away, and they surprised us.” He stopped and stared past me some more and I wondered if he wasn’t reliving that night. “My partner was a guy named Dan Peterson. He was killed.”
