Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

“And nothing from the facial photo?”

  “That turned up a picture of Lev’s face from his Florida driver’s license.”

  “Okay. Keep trying. Go to other databases, like NATO and Interpol. And be there this afternoon, at the office. We have work to do. I’ll call you when I get back here.”

  “Goodbye, boss.” She clicked off, ballsy as ever, but also more valuable than ever.

  Lenny and I looked at each other.

  “I think we’re getting to the fun part,” I said.

  “It’s what we do, brother,” he responded.

  Lauren glanced between us. She knew. I was unsure of how she would react to this side of my business when she saw it from a street-level perspective... because she had a role to play in it, starting tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  Lenny went to his room. Lauren packed up her stuff, and we prepared to exit the hotel. When Lauren and I got to the lobby, Lenny surprised me. He was carrying a midsize suitcase. I knew some of its contents.

  “I’m going to take a little trip this afternoon,” Lenny informed us. “After the meeting. I think I’ll go up to this little city, Stuart, Florida. Heard so much about it.”

  “I hear West Palm Beach is also nice,” I said.

  “I’ve heard that, too,” he said. “I’ve got a car. I’ll leave right after the meeting.”

  Lauren stood between us. She grabbed my arm at the elbow and did the same to Lenny, although it was not quite so easy with his muscular arms. We towered over her, but she still showed an inner strength that was appealing to me. It was like she was dealing with kids. Maybe she was.

  “I don’t know what you guys are doing… Well, not exactly. I have an idea. Whatever. Please be safe. Don’t get hurt,” she said.

  Lenny spoke while my heart fluttered. “We know what we’re doing,” he said, “This is not our first time at the rodeo… or whatever that phrase is.”

  “Yes,” I said, regaining some authority. “We ride bulls like they’re sheep. Let’s saddle up and ride out,” I joked.

  And we did, right after I called Ed Sapperstein to confirm our meeting, tell him we were running a little late, and hear that Lauren’s security detail was there waiting for her. It would be Jimmy and Bob again; that gave me great relief because those guys were top-shelf.

  I texted Linda and told her to send all files on Santo to Lenny, and to be at the office this afternoon for more work. And I texted James and told him that I would be calling him later this afternoon, to stand by. He texted back immediately: Asshole! Okay.

  Then we saddled up, Lauren and me in my Porsche Panamera and Lenny in a BMW X5 from the hotel’s Hertz location. We exited the hotel and headed toward Sabra, just a short distance away. As I drove, I checked every few seconds for anything around us, just like our life depended on it.

  * * *

  I drove into the Sabra parking lot as usual. There was a smattering of cars—it was Sunday morning—and two guys wearing flowered shirts, with the usual underneath, and Oakley sunglasses. Jimmy was waiting at the entrance doors next to one of the security guys. Lenny drove in right behind me. And then, wham, like something out of a movie, both of the guards went for their guns. One at the door with Jimmy, one closer to our cars. Two-handed grips on their guns, legs slightly bent, aiming and moving in on us with precision steps.

  I tried to get my window down, but the car was moving forward while I fumbled for the window button. One of the security guys was moving right in on Lenny. I stopped the car, finally found the button, and the window creaked down in slow motion. Lauren’s hands were at her mouth, the fear of another attack straining her breathing.

  “Stop! Stop!” I yelled. “He’s with me!”

  It worked. The guy close to me stopped moving in but kept his gun pointed at me. I couldn’t see what was happening behind me with Lenny and the other guard. Jimmy ran over and said something to the guy closest to us, who relaxed and dropped his gun to his side, then yelled something over my car. He went behind me to the other guard.

  Ed came running out of the building, waving his arms, and took control. I couldn’t hear what he said, but both security guys holstered their guns and moved back a few yards.

  “Sorry about that… Go, park, it’s okay. This guy’s with you?” he said to me, standing close to my open window and pointing behind at Lenny.

  “Yeah, he’s with me.”

  I got it. A big Black guy driving in hot behind me. It was a trained, security-based reaction. But how did Lenny feel? This had probably happened to him before: driving while Black, walking while Black. Fortunately, nothing bad had happened.

  I parked the car, and Lenny parked right next to me.

  I grabbed Lauren’s hands and looked her in the eyes, which were wide and fearful. “These are friends… It’s okay. You don’t have to—”

  She cut me off. “What is this with you? People with guns! What is this?”

  “You’re safe. Believe me, this is nothing,” I said, looking into her disbelieving eyes. After a pause and a squeeze of her hands, I said, “This is just guys being cautious. This is my client. C’mon, I have work to do here, and you need to go home with Jimmy and Bob and get ready. You have something to do this afternoon, and I’ll be right there with you.”

  The thought of Cathy’s funeral drew her back. Her face went slack. She took a deep breath, and we got out of the car. Lenny was standing behind our car. Ed and Jimmy approached.

  “Didn’t you play football?” Ed asked Lenny. Problem resolved.

  Ed, Jimmy, Lauren, Lenny, and I stood behind my car. Introductions were made; it was all copacetic. I explained the arrangements for the next twenty-four hours: Jimmy and Bob would take Lauren home, then bring her back to the Cathedral of St. Mary for Cathy’s funeral at three p.m., then take her home again. Then another team would take over for the night and bring her to work at eight a.m. tomorrow morning. Ed nodded in agreement.

  I got Lauren’s suitcase out of the hatchback and handed it to Jimmy.

  “You’ll be there… right?” Lauren asked, some unsteadiness in her voice. She moved next to me, reached around my waist, and pulled herself into me.

  I got it with no delay on my part: she needed assurance—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, whatever. I hugged her into me, might I say Miami style, and told her I’d definitely be there and that it would all be good.

  She released me and walked off with Jimmy to the black Chrysler Bob had silently parked near us. Man, these guys were good.

  As they drove out of the lot, Ed, Lenny and I walked to the entrance. “Katarina’s here?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course. You’re going to be quite impressed with her,” Ed responded with a devious twinkle in his eyes. Please do not let this be a horror show.

  * * *

  Inside the Sabra building, there were few people; it was quiet, and had an eerie feeling, at least to me, based on what I hoped would not happen: some kind of violence against this woman, Katarina Truska. My mind was racing. How had they found her so quickly, how had they turned her, how had they gotten her to America within about twenty-four hours after I had revealed her identity and her location in Kiev?

  I was wondering just who my client was as we walked into Ed’s spacious office. Ronnie and Ziv were already there, sitting close together. The chairs in Ed’s office were arranged differently than my last visit, in a kind of semi-circle with one chair in the middle and a small table next to it, star-chamber style. Both guys smiled and nodded when I entered.

  Then Lenny came in.

  Ronnie pointed. “Niners,” he said.

  Lenny walked over, offered his hand, and said, “Lenny Brown. Pleased to meet you.”

  Ed sat behind his desk, picked up the phone and said, “Okay, bring her in.”

  Lenny and I sat next to each other. I was tense. Lenny was himself; he al
ways appeared to be comfortable. Ed, Ziv and Ronnie were totally at ease, showing zero emotions. It was surreal because of what I was hoping not to see: a battered woman with bruises, visible injuries, and a defeated spirit.

  We heard noises from the doorway, and then she walked in, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, followed closely by a new man who was holding her by the right elbow in a gentle, almost caring way. He had short hair, slightly tanned skin, and a razor-thin body with definition. His eyes swept the room when he entered; he was clearly a professional.

  He led her to the seat in the middle of the chairs and helped her get settled. She looked to be unhurt, although she was without any makeup, her hair was uncombed, and her eyes showed that she needed sleep. Fortunately, there was no sign that she was the victim of enhanced interrogation techniques. Even with all that, there was no hiding the outstanding facial and body features that had lured Ziv back to his apartment so she could successfully run the op on him.

  She had a bizarre object affixed to her left arm, the size and form of a pack of cigarettes, with medical tape covering it. The man positioned her arm with the taped object so that it sat comfortably on the armrest, then sat down next to Ziv. He picked up a metal gadget that was lying on the couch, which I had not seen, and flashed it in front of Katarina. It had five colored buttons on it. Katarina nodded to him, some kind of recognition passing between them.

  “This is our friend Morty. He helps us sometimes, and we help him.”

  Morty said nothing but continued to hold up the metal object so that Katarina could see it. She nodded. Whatever that gadget was, she knew what it did.

  “And this is our new friend, Katarina Truska,” Ed said, looking directly at her. “Katarina, these are our friends. Say hello to them, please.”

  “Hello,” she said, her voice weak. Her eyes shifted between Ed and Morty.

  “Katarina has agreed to help us. Isn’t that right, Katarina?” he continued.

  “Yes,” she agreed, nodding her head again like a trained poodle.

  This was becoming too much for me. I viscerally felt that there was too much under the surface that contradicted what I was seeing. I had to speak up. This client had hired me because I’m good at what I do. I get results. Here, they were showing me a result that encompassed some things not in my tool kit, maybe even something outside of my ethics.

  “Slow down for a second, Ed,” I started. I searched for the right words. I didn’t want to look like a coward. I’m not one to use violence on a woman, and that was what this looked and felt like, although without any signs of visible injury or bruises. “How did she get here? Help me understand this. And what is this thing on her arm?”

  I must have looked weak.

  Ed looked to Morty, who shook his head seriously from side to side: no, he indicated.

  “We can discuss how she got here later. Katarina wants to help us. But this device on her arm? You’ll like this. They call it the drip-o-matic at the office,” Ed explained. Morty again shook his head no, but Ed continued anyway. “It’s an intravenous device which contains five liquids, or substances, or whatever they are. With that control panel”—he pointed to the device Morty was holding—“we can cause any one of the liquids to be released into the arm. It’s really amazing,” he emphasized, clearly impressed by the technology. “One makes the subject go to sleep. One hurts. One causes numbness, like an anesthesia. One is like speed—like meth or something; it makes them want to talk. And that red button, that’s the end. It’s all over if we push that one. There’s also a safety mechanism built in. If she tried to take it off, well… Katarina, you don’t want to try to take that off, do you?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Have we hurt you, Katarina?” he asked her as if to make the point that he knew what was roiling me internally.

  She shook her head again, then said, “No, you have not hurt me.”

  “Okay!” Ed said, looking directly at me with an authority in his eyes that I had not seen in him before. He was clearly offended that I had questioned him, questioned this operation—and in front of his associates. I tried to meet that head-on.

  “Let’s do it!” I responded to change the energy in the air. “What can she tell us?”

  Ed paused for about a minute to let any latent tension clear off. I pushed my mistrust down deep into my gut and tried to look like a professional. I knew from the photos I had that this person was, in fact, Katarina Truska. But the rest of this was off the charts. I looked at Lenny, who was showing nothing. He nodded his head yes, which helped me get over what my gut was telling me to do: get up and walk out of this surreal situation. Instead, I took control of myself.

  “Katarina,” Ed started, “tell us again what you told us before. About Lev and Siroco and Dimitri. Please.” He gestured with his hand toward her to start.

  Morty held up the gadget for her to see.

  “Ziv, can you get Katarina some water?” Ed asked. “She has a lot to tell us.”

  Ziv jumped up, went out, and came back with a plastic bottle of water, which he opened and set on a table in front of her. He looked into her face and gave her a triumphant look that I fully understood. I had no doubt that he’d do a lot more than that to her if they would let him.

  “Katarina,” Ed said again to prompt her, “please… go.”

  “I work for Dimitri Porshenko,“ she started in flawless English. “He’s the Minister of the Interior of Ukraine, but he’s involved in lots of different stuff. He uses me sometimes. What you people call ‘black ops,’ covert operations. I’m the one who did this to Ziv.” She pointed at him. “And I offer my sincere apologies.”

  She stopped and looked at Ziv, then to Ed. She did seem sincere—but she was a trained professional.

  “Dimitri and a guy named Lev Lavorosky have a long background together. I think they met in the Balkans. I think Lev is Serbian, but not sure. They did some stuff in Crimea. I don’t really know all that. I’m doing my best.” She paused, again looking toward Morty, who held the figurative guillotine in his hands but was now resting it on his lap. He had not taken his eyes off her.

  “Three years ago, this guy Lev got involved with drugs. He worked some kind of a deal with the Albanians… He became their biggest customer for their heroin business. He shipped it to America somehow—I don’t know the details. That’s the way they work. He made a connection to some guy in China, a general of some kind, for China White. Fentanyl. All I know is that they had some plans to form a big operation in America, and they needed some parts to make it bigger.”

  She stopped and took a drink of water, then another, then another. She was composing herself.

  Morty nodded for her to start again, and she did, like a circus poodle. I was fascinated by this show I was getting, and at the same time, still felt an emotional pain in my gut.

  “There’s not much more I can tell you. I’m trained for this. They sent me to the Russian Sparrow School about eight years ago. I’m Ukrainian and they sent me to Russia… Bastards!”

  If this was a performance, I rated it Oscar quality.

  “It paid really well, and like most other things over there, if you made a problem, they’d just kill you. That’s it.” She sat back and exhaled loudly.

  Morty nodded positively at her for the first time, like he was giving her a candy for the tricks she was doing. He looked to Ed, who looked to me. I took it as an invitation.

  “I have some questions, Ed. Do you mind?”

  “Of course; that’s why you’re here. Go ahead. Katarina will be happy to answer any question you ask. Right, Katarina?”

  He looked at her, and she nodded.

  “Thank you. We already know about all this that you just told us. Have you worked in America before?”

  “Yes, twice, both last year. Once in Las Vegas and once in New York.”

  “Who were your targets?” />
  “In New York, it was a guy who ran a shipping company—ships at sea. His name was Mercer Manning. We hacked his system, same way as with Ziv. The guy in Las Vegas was Robert Douglas, some guy who worked for Sheldon Rifkin in his casino business. That one was a little more complicated. He had a family; it was something to do with Rifkin and Israel and some dark transactions. They don’t tell me everything—in fact, as little as possible. I just seduce them and plant the bugs. That’s what I do. But for that one, I planted some cocaine and some pornography. They just blew him up, and he had to leave his job. He committed suicide after that… for real.”

  “How do they pay you?” I had ceased having misgivings about this. Maybe it was the kind of theater that you only saw in movies and in thriller books, but the reality was that there was no visible violence on her.

  “Sometimes cash if they have it, usually through an ATM card. I could go to any bank and draw out money in the agreed amount. In any currency too.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  “They paid me fifty thousand euros per job and one thousand euros a week. I also had a government job with a salary, but that was just a cover. I didn’t do much there. But it gave me diplomatic status, which helped a lot.”

  “Where’s the ATM card?” I asked.

  “In my purse.”

  I looked at Ed. “Do you have it?” I asked. He looked at Morty, who nodded.

  “Do you want it?” Ed asked me.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  Morty got up, walked out of the room, and returned with her purse. He reached in, found her wallet, and opened it. There were several cards along one side.

  “Which one?” Morty spoke for the first time; his was definitely an Israeli accent.

  “The red one,” she answered.

  He pulled it out and handed it to me. I was thinking at full speed. Maybe it was connected to the Cayman account. What a stroke of luck that would be.

  I looked at the red card, which of course revealed nothing immediately of value. Katarina’s name was imprinted in Cyrillic along with the name of a bank and some other details. The electronic strip was intact; that was all that mattered. Maybe.