by David Duffy
The red backpack was on the floor, empty. The transponder was next to it. I sat on the bed long enough for my head to clear, then took the plastic liner from the ice bucket and filled it at the ice machine on my way downstairs. The lobby bar was still busy. No Eva. No one under the age of thirty. I wasn’t surprised, but I wanted to be able to tell Bernie I was thorough.
I returned to the elevator. The Sheraton had ten floors, eight with guest rooms. The top two were labeled CLUB LEVEL and required a special key. I assumed the Ukrainians wouldn’t have sprung for those. Thirty-eight rooms to a floor, two hundred thirty to check. I started on eight and worked my way down, knocking on every door. Business was slow, and fewer than a hundred rooms were occupied. I asked for Eva wherever someone answered. Most responded, “Wrong room” or “Not here.” I interrupted two couples in the throes of passion. The first woman screamed, “My husband!” The second man told me to “Fuck off!” Three other women threatened to call security. One guy invited me to join the poker game he was running in his suite. The whole process took just over half an hour.
Eva wasn’t there, just as I’d expected. Never had been. Time for Plan B. The Ukrainians might know where she was. More likely, I’d have to find a way to get them to spill who they were working for. Along the way, of course, I’d retrieve the money and discourage whoever needed discouraging from trying to put another bite on the Mulhollands. Priorities.
No one near my car. The Ukrainians were long gone—or so they thought. I wedged the melting ice bag against the headrest and leaned against it. The cold felt good. I turned on my laptop, took out my cell phone, and dialed Bernie’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Turbo! Where are you?”
“Hotel parking lot. We had a little scuffle, but everything’s okay now.”
“What? Are you all right? Have you got Eva? What about the money?”
At least he asked about me first. “I’m okay. Bump on the head, that’s all. No Eva. Not here. Never was. I searched the whole hotel. I should know about the money in a minute.”
“What should I tell Rory? And Felix?”
“I wouldn’t tell them anything yet. Bear with me.” I put down the phone and picked up the laptop. A few clicks of the cursor and a map filled the screen. An arrow pointed to a block in Jersey City, not far from the Holland Tunnel. I picked up the phone.
“Looks like they didn’t go far. Jersey City. I’m on my way. I’ll call later, but it could be a while.”
I closed the phone before he could argue, pulled out of the lot, and found my way onto I-78 East. When I was through the tolls and climbing the ramp onto the Pulaski Skyway, I made two more calls. The first was to Foos, with the Jersey City address. I woke him up, but he’s used to that. The second was to Gayeff, a former Soviet Olympic discus thrower. He and his twin brother, Maks, who competed in the shot put, did contract work for the Cheka after they retired from athletics. They now run a numbers operation in Brighton Beach and moonlight as muscle for hire, mainly, I think, because they enjoy it. Gayeff was awake, but I probably interrupted something—he didn’t sound happy to hear from me. He agreed to round up Maks and meet me in an hour.
When I got to Jersey City, I found a parking place, adjusted what was left of the ice in the bag, and settled in to wait. It was going to be a long night. Not least for the men holed up at 145 Montgomery Street.
CHAPTER 9
Montgomery Street was in the process of gentrification. About half the three-story brick row houses in the block containing 145 looked like they’d had significant money put into them. The other half did not. Number 145 was in the latter group.
I’d been there ten minutes when Foos called. “Three apartments. Two tenants have lived there several years—Sanchez and Rodriguez. Third place is empty, or rented off the books, Apartment 1A. Need anything else?”
“Don’t know yet. I’m waiting for reinforcements.”
“Track and Field?” His nickname for Gayeff and Maks. He thinks it’s hilarious. “Don’t let those boys get out of hand. I’m going for pizza. Back in twenty.” Foos likes to smoke a little dope from time to time, which invariably gives him the munchies.
I rested my head against the melting ice, which was having a generally therapeutic effect. At twelve fifty-five, a green Econoline van rolled down the street and pulled into a parking space across from mine. Reinforcements had arrived.
Gayeff came around to my passenger side and got in. He was a large muscular man who looked every inch a large muscular man. The years away from professional competition hadn’t added any fat. He had a square face, round nose, small eyes, and a buzz cut. When he grinned, as he did now in greeting, pencil-thin lips extended a half inch at either end in a flat line.
“What’s the deal?” he said.
“Take a pass by 145. We want apartment 1A, ground floor.”
“Huh.” He shut the door quietly and walked down the block. A minute later he returned on the other side of the street and climbed back in the car.
“Can’t tell much. Bars on the windows and air conditioners. Double door, double locked on the front. Apartment’s in the back, on the right. We can do it, but they’ll know we’re coming.”
“Let’s wait. Anyone comes out who doesn’t look Hispanic, grab him.”
“Huh.” He went back to the van.
We didn’t have to wait long. The door opened fifteen minutes later, and a man stood on the stoop long enough to light a cigarette before coming down the stairs and turning away from where I was parked. The same guy who hit me. Gayeff followed on foot. The van pulled out and followed him. I followed the van. We all turned right at the corner and stopped briefly midblock while the van’s sliding door opened and Gayeff hustled the man inside. I followed a few more blocks until we reached a commercial neighborhood and the van pulled over. The door slid open, and Maks looked out, wearing the same thin grin as his twin. He moved aside, and I climbed in.
Gayeff held the Ukrainian with two clamplike hands. He was dark-haired, unshaven. A knife, a wallet, and some keys sat on the floor of the van. I took the Raven from my pocket and put it against his forehead.
“You forgot this.”
He whimpered and tried to slide away. Gayeff held firm. I put away the gun and picked up the wallet. A driver’s license bore the name Ilarion Nedelenko and an address in Brooklyn, Manhattan Beach. Pictures of an overweight, unattractive woman and an equally overweight, unattractive young girl. I nodded to Maks, stepped outside, and called Foos. He confirmed the address, adding a phone number, immigration information, the make, model, and registration number of an old Ford Taurus, and the names of the wife and child. First thing was to find out if these guys were operating with protection. They were on Lachko’s turf, but they weren’t the kind of men he’d have confidence in. If they were freelancing, it shouldn’t be difficult to terrify them into cooperating—they were already living on borrowed time.
I told Maks what I had in mind, and we climbed back in the van. I made a show of pocketing my cell phone before I said to Maks in Russian, “Lachko says he’s a useless pizda staraya—old cunt. Kill him. Use his gun.”
Maks grinned and rummaged through a toolbox. He held up a screwdriver. The man’s eyes bounced in their sockets. The Badger’s calling card was a screwdriver in the right eye.
Maks said, “What about the wife and kid?”
“He doesn’t care. That’s up to you.”
Maks grinned again. “Gayeff likes fat broads.”
The man began babbling in Ukrainian. He hadn’t done anything, please let him explain, we had the wrong guy, please don’t hurt his wife and daughter, and so on. I let him beg for a while, then ordered him in Russian to shut up. I was right about freelancing. I knelt in front of him and held out my old KGB identity card.
“The Cheka never goes away, you know. We’re everywhere. We see everything. We know everything. Even here. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now and let my friends spend the rest of the night enjoying t
hemselves with Katerina and Pavla.”
I don’t know whether it was the card or the Christian names, but the terror overwhelmed him. Howls of fear intermingled with meaningless ramblings.
“Shut up and listen to me! You have one chance. One chance to save your family and your own worthless skin. You give me the wrong answer, I will know, and I will turn you over to these two.”
Maks waggled the screwdriver. The man sobbed, “Noooo.”
“How many men in the house?”
He hesitated. He wasn’t as terrified as I thought. Turn up the heat. I rationalized that psychological terror was preferable to its physical cousin, but the truth was I’d also been trained by some nasty motherfuckers.
“Kill him.”
I handed Maks the Raven, which he put to Nedelenko’s temple.
“No! No! Wait!” Nedelenko was screaming. “Two, there are two.”
“Names,” I said, putting as much cold as I could into my voice.
“Dolnak, Kalynych.”
“First names?”
“Marko, Diodor.”
“Armed?”
“Revolvers.”
“Layout?”
He described a two-room apartment with a small kitchen and bath.
“Money there?”
He nodded.
“Maybe I’m going to give you another chance. Maybe.”
I went outside and called Foos again, with Nedelenko’s names. It took him less than ten minutes to come up with addresses and phone numbers, also in Manhattan Beach. One of the men, Marko, had a family. I got back in the van.
“We’re going back to the house. You’re going to take us in. Anything goes wrong, you die first. Understand?”
He nodded.
We left my car and drove the van back to Montgomery Street. Nedelenko had keys for the front door. He led us down a hallway with a dirty linoleum floor and yellowed, peeling paint to a single door in the back. The three of us stood to one side. He knocked twice and said his name before he put his key in the lock. As soon as he turned it, I pulled him back, Gayeff kicked open the door, and the brothers burst in. There were shouts of surprise and the pop of a silencer. After a minute, Maks said, “Okay.”
I brought in Nedelenko, which probably didn’t add any years to his life expectancy, but he should have chosen his business associates more wisely. Like he said, there were two men in the room, one on an old couch, the man from the parking lot, and one at a table with money on it. Next to the money was a revolver and a BlackBerry. The room was hardly any cooler than outside. An old air conditioner chugged away in the window, but to little effect. The man at the table, the other man in the hotel room, wore a tank top and held his bleeding shoulder. His skin was covered in tattoos. His eyes were darker and tougher than Nedelenko’s. They showed pain but not fear. The ringleader. The other man was scared. His eyes darted around the room. Sweat stained his shirt halfway down his rib cage.
Momentum was an ally. Don’t give them time to think. I went straight to the man at the table, picked up the gun, and poked the wound. He tried not to show the pain, but it was too much.
“Which one are you? Marko? Diodor?”
His eyes widened, but he said nothing. I nodded at Maks, who put his gun against the man’s cheek.
“Which?”
“Mar … Marko.”
“Good. Let me explain the situation. You are clumsy and you are stupid. You are operating on the Badger’s turf, which means you also have a death wish.” I took out my cell phone. “One call and—”
“No! Ratko said—” Marko caught himself. That name rang a vague bell, but I wanted to keep the pressure on.
“Ratko said what?”
Marko shook his head. I poked his wound again and he grimaced. I pushed harder and he cried out.
“Okay, okay, please. We know rules. We no break. Ratko said everything okay with the Badger. I swear.”
“You can swear to Barsukov. See if he believes you. Personally, I think you’re full of shit.”
“No! It’s truth!”
“Shut up. Listen. You have two problems. One is the Badger. The other is me. He already has men on their way to your home on Amherst Street. I can call them off—if you give me reason to.”
Marko started out of the chair. He was scared now. “No! You wouldn’t—”
I shoved him back, hitting his wounded shoulder. His face was filled with pain.
“You don’t think so? You are wrong. Listen to me. Where’s the girl?”
“Girl? What girl?”
I only had to feint in the direction of his shoulder before he screamed.
“No! Stop! Please! I … I don’t know girl. Ratko say pick up money. That’s all.”
“And he’d take care of Barsukov?”
“Yes! I told you…”
“I still think you’re full of shit. Let’s see what Lachko thinks.”
I took out my cell phone and walked into the bedroom. Marko wailed as I shut the door. I was all but certain they knew nothing of Eva. As expected, they were working for someone else—Ratko—and he might. I waited a few minutes, returned to the living room, and spoke quietly to Gayeff and Maks. I surveyed the three men, all of whom looked terrified.
“You,” I said, pointing to the man I hadn’t spoken with yet. “In there.”
I followed him to the bedroom, Raven in hand.
“Take off your clothes. Kneel on the bed, face forward.”
“Wait,” he cried. “Please…”
“Now!”
He did as he was told. I put the muzzle to the back of his head. “One chance. Where’s the girl?”
“No know! No girl! Please!”
“All right, where’s Ratko?”
“No know! No know! Marko—”
I moved the gun to the right and fired past his ear into the mattress. The crack was loud in the small space. The man fell forward sobbing. The room smelled of shit. I believed him.
The door opened, and Gayeff came in quickly. He leaned over the man on the bed and said in Russian, “My friend is kind. I am not. You make one noise, I will kill you.” He raked the man’s cheek with his pistol to make sure he understood. The man sobbed quietly.
I returned to the living room.
“You two! Clothes off! On your knees. Now! I gave your friend a chance to live. He didn’t take it.” I shrugged. “Maybe you are smarter.”
They looked at each other wide-eyed and then at me. I raised my gun hand as if to strike Marko, and he started to undress quickly. Nedelenko followed.
“Down, now!”
They dropped to their knees facing the wall.
I put the barrel of the gun to the back of Marko’s neck. “You’ve probably gathered by now the Badger doesn’t give a fuck what happens to you. Where do I find Ratko?”
Marko turned slightly to look at Nedelenko.
“You’re next, Nedelenko. Tell him to answer.”
“All right,” Marko said. “Don’t shoot. We only pick up money.”
“Where is he?”
“He has apartment. New York. Sixth Avenue, Twenty-first Street, new building.”
“What name?”
“What?”
“What name does he rent the apartment under?”
“His name. Rislyakov.”
“What do you think?” I said to Maks.
He spat on the floor.
“No! It’s truth! I swear. We no lie!”
I knocked on the bedroom door, and Gayeff came out.
“Get in there,” I said to the Ukrainians. “Don’t even think about coming out that door for an hour. My friend will shoot the first one who tries.”
Marko and Nedelenko shuffled into the bedroom. Cries of surprise turned to anger as Gayeff closed the door behind them. I put the money in the bag as Maks gathered up the clothes. I pocketed Marko’s BlackBerry and signaled the twins outside.
“Wait until they make a run for it. Forget Kalynych. Follow the other two and let me know where the
y go.”
* * *
I drove back to Manhattan, keeping the car at the speed limit while my mind raced. This was still America—New York, New Jersey—but the last few hours felt like I was back in Russia, more specifically the old Soviet Union. Terror, intimidation, fear know no boundaries. I’d used that to my advantage, thanks to the power of the Basilisk and the stupidity of the Ukrainians, but I wasn’t happy about it. I’d meant to leave that life behind. I slid back to it all too easily, and in a way, this was worse. In the old days, the law, however oppressive and corrupt, gave me the right. Tonight, I’d acted on my own—no law, no right, just a fake ID, a little information, and the ability to terrify.
I could tell myself it was the only way to find the girl, she could be in danger. Priorities.
That was a lie. I’d done what I’d done because I could. A bad habit to fall back into.
I pushed guilt aside and tried to focus on facts. The probability that Eva Mulholland had actually been kidnapped, never high, had fallen to near zero. The note was real, the photo faked, both most likely concocted by Ratko Rislyakov—I was still trying to place where I’d heard that name—and Eva Mulholland. The delivery instructions were accurate, except for the part about Eva. The Ukrainians were working for Ratko. Eva probably needed money for drugs, Ratko could have his own high-cost vices. It all made sense, except that the Ukrainians expected Ratko to clear things with Barsukov. That meant he had pull with the Badger. That opened up a host of other questions. Was Ratko aware of Eva’s real identity? Did Eva know Ratko was connected to her biological father? Did Eva know her biological father was in New York City? Was Polina aware of any of this? I could guess at the answers, but they’d be only that—guesses.
One good thing—nobody was after me, or they hadn’t been before tonight. Somebody—Ratko Rislyakov?—was now out a hundred K. So I still had a terrified Polina and a pissed-off kidnapper/extortionist to worry about. Maybe the head of the Russian mob, too. Who already hated me more than anyone else on earth. Not a game I would have chosen to sit in on, had I had the chance to preview the other players. Like it or not, I was in it now, and I still couldn’t see enough cards to get a feel for the game. First order of business tomorrow was to introduce myself to one guy at the table I hadn’t met.
