by Greg Dinallo
“Little Odessa.”
“Uh-huh. I manage the place for him.”
“She’s in the restaurant business, her mother’s family’s from Kiev, we’re practically related,” Barkhin gushes, taken by her—really taken, since I don’t have any relatives in America, let alone a cousin who’s a restaurateur. “I’ll bet you could teach my staff a thing or two. If you feel like picking up some pocket money while you’re here, I’d be—”
“Thanks, I already have,” Scotto counters. “Cash me out will you, Nikolai? I’ve got to make a pit stop.” She tips the stickman, scoops the rest of the chips into my cupped palms, and hurries off.
“Be careful, Katkov,” Barkhin warns after she’s gone. Is he that sharp? Did he nail her as a cop that fast? I’m thinking he wasn’t taken by her at all when he grins lasciviously and explains, “She could fuck a man to death.” He winks and leads the way between the gaming tables toward the cashier’s cage, where a Latina in a sexy costume smiles from behind thick glass. To my surprise, Barkhin continues past it and starts down a marble staircase. “Unfortunate about Rafik, wasn’t it?” he says offhandedly.
Is he sincere? Is this a shrewd cover? Is he thinking, “The shooter was supposed to get you too"? Is that what’s going to happen now?! “Sorry, Arkady. I really screwed up. The guy followed me. I thought I’d lost him, but—”
“No, I shouldn’t have sent you to the Graneetsa in the first place. The medals aren’t out there.”
“They aren’t?” I’m not all that surprised, but he’s caught me off guard. “That’s very interesting. How do you know?”
“I offered to buy them. The dealers would’ve turned in their mothers for what I put on the table.” The staircase takes us to a corridor, sheathed in marble and lined with heavy wooden doors.
“What about the shooter? Anything on him?”
Barkhin shakes his head no. “I came up empty.”
“Then he probably wasn’t a local.” The numerous Marlboros crushed into the pavement come to mind. “You think he might be a foreigner?”
“Yes, from Minsk, Sverdlovsk, or Tbilisi,” Barkhin replies facetiously, rattling off capitals of former Soviet states. “Who knows? Every little town has a gang that’s trying to muscle into the big time now.” He stops at one of the doors and unlocks it with a key.
We enter an elegant office that contrasts with the tropical decor of the club. Thick Persian rugs. Floor-to-ceiling hardwood paneling. A huge, carved desk piled with papers. A computer terminal. A vase of fresh flowers. And—with the touch of a button that sends a section of wall panels sliding aside—a gleaming, case-hardened-stainless door to a bank vault.
Barkhin stands there, admiring it like a new car. “Is this the perfect place to open a casino, or what?” Then, as if conducting a symphony, he sets the tumblers, spins the wheel that retracts the dead bolts, and throws the opening lever. Two and a half meters across, a meter deep, its weight measured in tons, the door pivots aside smoothly on two immense hinges. We step through the circular opening into an enormous space. Deep bays of shelving units line the walls. Each hard currency nation has it’s own labeled section. The United States—stocked with dollars of every denomination—is by far the largest. Counting machines are aligned on a table in the center.
Barkhin switches one on. “Five hundred sixty dollars,” he announces seconds after I deposit the chips in the hopper; then he crosses to the appropriate bay, counts off a neat stack of bills, and slaps it into my palm with a grin. “Don’t bring her back.”
“Why not? You might get even?”
He laughs, then closes up shop and escorts me back to the dining room, excusing himself to greet some new arrivals. Scotto is already seated in a booth near the stage, watching the show. I slide in next to her and drop the money into her outstretched palm.
“Thanks. Not a bad haul, huh?”
“More than a year’s wages for the average Russian. Where’d you learn to gamble?”
“Brooklyn. Where else? My uncle Angelo taught me. My mother wasn’t thrilled, but—”
“Did you say her brother’s name is Angelo?”
Scotto nods matter-of-factly. “He was a bit of a hood but a great guy.”
“I thought you said your mother was Russian?”
“I also said I work for your cousin in Brooklyn,” Scotto replies with a grin. “She’s Sicilian. My relatives come from Palermo.”
I lean back, studying her as it dawns on me. “You’re really quite good, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’m a professional. I’m trained to think on my feet. To take control. To speak Russian. To—”
“To lie like the devil himself, and—”
“Herself.”
“—and make it seem like the truth.”
“Yeah, if the situation calls for it.”
“I imagine it becomes difficult to know which is which after a while.”
“Enough. You’re starting to sound like my husband.”
“Your husband?”
“Yeah. I’m married. God, you’d think I said I have AIDS or something.”
“Sorry, Scotto. I’m afraid you don’t quite come off as the domestic type.”
“I’m not. He is. We’ve been separated for a while. I don’t know where it’s going.” She pauses, then with a knowing smile asks, “So, what’d your buddy Barkhin have to report?”
“Report?”
“Come on, I gave him the chance, and you and I both know he took it.”
My respect for her acuity goes up another notch. She went to the ladies room because she knew Barkhin wouldn’t talk in front of her. “He said Vorontsov’s medals aren’t for sale on the black market.”
“Then you’re probably right about robbery not being the motive. What else?”
“Whoever tried to kill me wasn’t a local.”
She’s nodding thoughtfully when champagne and caviar arrive. “Winner buys,” she says, peeling off bills. The waiter explains it’s complimentary, fills our glasses, and pockets the twenty Scotto slips him. “By the way,” she says offhandedly when he’s gone, “you ever come across the name Rubino? Michael Rubino?”
“No. Can’t say that I have. Sounds like someone from your old neighborhood.”
She smiles and shakes her head no. “It’s R-u-b-i-n-e-a-u,” she explains, spelling it out. “Used to be Rubinowitz. That was a lot of years ago. He was working for Meyer Lansky at the time.”
“Lansky? The one who ran the rackets in Cuba?”
“The one and only. Rubinowitz was being groomed to take over the operation, but Castro beat him to it, so to speak. He hung in there until Lansky retired, then changed it to Rubineau and went on his own. Done very well; runs a chain of hotels now: Vegas, Atlantic City, Tahoe, Reno . . .”
“Something tells me he could teach Barkhin’s people a thing or two.”
“Something tells me he already has.”
“Why do you say that?”
She smiles and takes a long swallow of champagne, then tilts her glass in the direction of a large table. “Because he’s sitting right over there.”
I casually shift my position to see a group of Western businessmen, easily identified by their heavily starched shirts and tailored suits. They’re buzzing about a trim, aquiline man in his early sixties who listens more than he speaks, responding with a decisive nod or shake of his head. Rimless glasses combine with graying, neatly parted hair and a deep tan to give him the look of a natty investment banker. “The fellow sporting your complexion and my nose?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I have a feeling I’ve seen him here before.” Then gesturing to the Caribbean decor, I joke, “I guess he’s into reliving old times.”
“Or recreating them,” she says suspiciously.
“You’re watching him too?”
“Oh, yeah.” Agent Scotto locks her twinkling eyes onto mine and breaks into that amused smile. “FinCEN’s watching lots of people.”
16
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Darkness has fallen, and it’s well below zero when Scotto and I leave the Paradise. On a night like this, it’d be worth being fucked to death just to have her sensuous body smothering mine with its warmth, but she doesn’t offer, and I don’t ask. Instead, she wishes me luck and, with a sarcastic cackle, says to look her up if I live long enough to visit my cousin in Brighton Beach; then she hails a taxi and takes her winnings and biting sense of humor back to the U.S. Embassy.
I’m walking to the Metro, wondering if FinCEN’s watching me, when I start having second thoughts about returning to my apartment. Last night I was angry, depressed, and drunk, not to mention with a woman. What’s more, the hitman was dead, and I vaguely recall thinking it’d be a while before the medal dealers found out he’d blown the assignment. But now I’m pretty damned sure they didn’t hire him, and I’m concerned whoever did might find someone else to finish the job. No. No, my apartment is off-limits. It isn’t safe, and—Ludmilla! Damn, I forgot all about her.
I find a public phone and dial my number. There’s no answer. She probably got tired of drinking coffee alone and went home. I sure as hell hope so. I’ve no idea where she lives, which is unfortunate, because neither does whoever’s trying to kill me. It’d be a perfect place to stay for a while. Any place is better than mine. Even Vera’s. I know I’m asking for trouble, but I call her at work anyway.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“I’m busy, Niko,” she says curtly.
“I’m in trouble. I need a place to stay.”
“Hey, I did my bit. I didn’t even get a thanks. Ask one of your other girlfriends to help you.”
“They’re not my girlfriends. Come on, give me a chance to explain. I—”
“I told you, Niko. It’s finished.” The line clicks and goes dead.
“Vera? Vera, you there?” I slump against the wall of the booth, feeling sorry for myself, then drop the receiver on the hook, jam my fists into the pockets of my parka, and head off into the darkness.
I wander about the city, cold, tired, and hungry, wishing I could afford a hotel room. About a half hour later, I find myself in front of Yuri’s apartment. His window is dark. He’s not back from work yet. I climb the three flights, nauseated by the smell of boiled cabbage that fills the stairwell, and camp out on the landing. Several hours pass before I hear the trudge of footsteps.
“Why don’t you get it over with and move into your office?” I tease as his head rises into view.
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it.” He holds up a mesh sack stuffed with canned goods. “I snuck out early tonight. My mother always gives me a list of things to bring on Saturday.”
“How’s she doing?”
He waggles a hand. “She’s old. She’s lived a long life.” He shrugs philosophically and leads the way inside. “By the way, I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can get them,” he says, referring to Vorontsov’s documents.
“It’s okay. Really. I—”
“I tried everything, believe me,” he rushes on, removing his coat and gloves. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been destroyed.”
“Figures. Thanks for trying.” I settle in a chair next to a radiator that could heat the Kremlin. The whole apartment is barely larger than my sleeping alcove but on days like this, I’d trade in a minute. “Actually, I dropped by because I need a place to stay.”
“Oh? Why, what’s going on?”
“Well for openers, I fell off the wagon and into bed with another woman.”
Yuri winces, sending the ends of his mustache to the corners of his eyes.
“Naturally, Vera caught me.”
“Naturally.”
“To make matters worse, she was smack in the middle of a tantrum when another woman shows up. Tall, vivacious, bronskis out to here.”
“Naturally,” he cackles, starting to loosen up.
“Vera takes one look at her, throws her newspaper at me, and takes off. So, there I am, nasty hangover, one woman in bed, one at the door, and one on the run. I’m not sure what to do. So, I go after Vera. I’m more than halfway down the hall before it dawns on me I’m stark naked . . .”
Yuri’s laughing so hard he can hardly speak. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “How’d you get hooked up with . . .” He lets it trail off, suggesting I supply her name.
“Ludmilla. Moscow Beginners. I couldn’t handle it. Neither could she. We ran into each other at Liquor Store Twelve over on Vekova; ended up at my place drunk as skunks.”
“And the rest is history,” he concludes, still laughing.
I nod sheepishly and laugh along with him.
“Now,” Yuri says, suddenly more serious, “I know why you can’t stay at Vera’s place. You want to tell me why you can’t stay at yours?”
“Someone’s trying to kill me.”
“Naturally,” Yuri says with a solemn nod. He has the patient look of someone who’s spent his life raising a child who can’t seem to stay out of trouble.
“I’ve no idea who.”
Yuri nods again, then fetches a carton of vanilla ice cream and two bowls. He plops a large scoop in the center of each and drowns them in peach brandy. “Might as well fill your veins with alcohol and save the embalmers the trouble.” We spend the rest of the evening doing just that and discussing my encounter with Agent Scotto.
The next morning it’s so cold, frost covers the windshield of Yuri’s Lada. But by some miracle the engine starts, and he drops me on the Kremlin side of the Krymsky Bridge on his way to work.
My fear of assassins gives way to nostalgia at the sight of an old building on the far bank. Dingy and gray, hidden by the massive bridge abutments, the four-story edifice—current home of MGIMO, the prestigious Institute for International Relations—once housed Tsarevich Nikolay Lycée, a school founded in 1868 by my great-grandfather M. N. Katkov. I recall my parents being proud that he taught democratic principles and once traveled to America; and as a child I spent hours watching the river ferries and wondering if any of them went there. They’re not going anywhere today. The frozen Moskva has them locked in its wintry grasp, a thick, monolithic sheet of ice that will hold them captive until spring.
A bone-chilling wind snaps me out of it as I come off the swaying span. It’s a short walk to the House on the Embankment. I hurry through the lobby with the familiar sounds and smells and take the elevator to Tanya Churkin’s apartment.
A girl of about seven, clutching a Barbie doll, opens the door and leads the way inside to Vorontsov’s study. Mrs. Churkin is on a ladder, handing things down to a pale-faced boy who stands amid piles of books, papers, photographs, and numerous boxes. He’s a few years older than his sister and eyes me with appropriate suspicion.
“I’m sorry. I hope this isn’t a bad time,” I say as Mrs. Churkin climbs down to greet me. “I didn’t know you were moving.”
“We’re not,” she explains in a tone that suggests she wouldn’t mind it. “I can’t come in here without getting upset. And the children—they’re in one small room. Now they can each have their own. My husband, I mean ex-husband, was supposed to do this. But . . .” she scowls and lets it trail off.
“I understand.”
“You have some news for me?”
I nod solemnly. “He died. I should’ve taken him to a hospital.”
“Please,” she protests. “I’ve enough misery. I’m interested in my father’s medals. Nothing else.”
“They’re not for sale.”
She pauses, her arms filled with books, and looks at me with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. “Does that mean you found them?”
“No. It means I was right all along. They’re not on the black market. Never were. Never will be.”
“Why not? Why steal them otherwise?”
“To make your father’s murder look like robbery.”
“More speculation?” she flares, throwing the books to the floor. “Or have you proof he was involved in this . . . this scandal you mentioned?!”
> “No, but I’m betting he was. Of course, which side of the street he was working is another matter.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Katkov?”
“That your father was either ripping off the government, or about to blow the whistle on someone who was.”
“I assure you it was the latter.”
“That’s for the militia to determine.”
“Then we have nothing more to talk about,” she says, turning her attention to the packing.
“I guess not,” I reply, winking at the children, who aren’t sure what to make of all this and keep their distance. I’m about to leave when I notice a briefcase on the floor next to the desk. It looks like the one Shevchenko used to take Vorontsov’s documents back to his office. My pulse quickens at what it might contain. “The police returned your father’s briefcase?”
“Yes, when I picked up his things.”
“Have you been through it?”
She shakes her head no.
“Mind if I have a look?”
She studies me, deciding, then shrugs in a suit-yourself gesture.
I put it on the desk and discover a bulging manila envelope inside, the kind the police use to store evidence. It contains: a watch, wallet, ring, currency, loose change, checkbook, keys, pens, pencils, a pack of cigarettes, a paperback novel, and some business correspondence—everything but the elusive documents.
I turn my attention to the briefcase. The file dividers and pockets are all empty, as are the four penholders. However, one of them feels rigid, as if a pen had been inserted upside down in the leather sleeve, then removed, leaving the cap behind. I press my thumb against the bottom to force it out. The object won’t budge at first; then all of a sudden it breaks free, shoots through the air like a tiny missile, and goes rolling across the polished floor.
The children giggle and scurry after it. The boy elbows his sister aside and retrieves it for me.
My eyes widen with intrigue. What I thought was a pen cap turns out to be a cigarette lighter—a butane cigarette lighter from the Paradise Club.
17
Shevchenko sits behind his desk staring at the lighter, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Steam wafts from a kettle gurgling on a hotplate beneath the window. It’s so cold, the drops of moisture that roll down the glass freeze well before reaching the sill. “Really, in his briefcase?” he says, expelling a thoughtful breath. “I had one of my men examine it.”
