Last to Fold

by David Duffy

  Iakov! I found the light switch. His eyes were closed, his right shoulder was soaked in blood. I patted his face gently. The eyes opened.

  “Iakov?”

  Crack!

  The bullet passed over my back. Another hole in the door, this one a few inches higher than the others.

  I hit the door low and hard. It pulled away from hinges and latch, and I fell into the room with splintering wood, rolling fast until I banged into a wall. I pushed back one revolution and came up in a crouch. Eva Mulholland, naked on a bed, lined up another shot.

  Crack!

  Wide. I grabbed her wrist, and the gun fell on the sheets. She looked straight at me, but what she saw, if anything, was anyone’s guess. I picked up the gun and slapped her, not hard, but not gently either.

  “Eva!”

  She stared straight ahead.

  “Turbo. Friend of your parents.”

  More stare.

  I passed a hand a few inches in front of her face.

  No reaction.

  “That Ratko outside?”

  No response.

  “You shoot him?”

  Nothing.

  I pushed her gently, and she fell backward on the pillows. Like Gina said, a model’s figure, inherited from her mother. Fine shoulders, small, round breasts, tucked waist, narrow hips, long, slender legs. Under other circumstances, she’d be beautiful to gaze upon, except the beauty was marred by ugly scars and discolored skin covering both thighs from knees to hips. Burns, or bad medical treatment. Circumstances, as well as decorum, vetoed closer examination. I pulled the sheet over her nakedness and ejected the clip from the automatic, a Glock 9 mm. The same one in the photograph? Four gone. Two at me, one in Iakov, one in Ratko? For whatever reason, that didn’t feel right. I put the gun in my pocket and went back to Iakov.

  His eyes were still open. He blinked once as I knelt beside him.

  “Turbo?” His voice was just above a whisper.

  “It’s me. How bad are you hurt?”

  “He who’s destined to hang won’t drown.”

  I smiled. If his humor was intact, the rest of him couldn’t be too badly injured. I exhaled. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.

  “Who shot you?” I said.

  “Don’t know. Didn’t see.”

  “I’ll get help. You want an ambulance or Lachko?”

  He closed his eyes for the better part of a minute before he said, “Lachko.”

  I’d never known for sure how deep the split between them ran. Since I was part of the cause—the whole cause, in their eyes—I’d never asked, but it had to be serious if it took that long to choose the lesser of two evils when he had a bullet in the chest. At least the brain was functioning. That was a good sign.

  “I’ll call him. The girl in the bedroom—she’s your granddaughter, isn’t she?”

  He looked surprised. “Eva?”

  “That’s right. She’s drugged. I’m going to get her help.”

  He waved his good hand and closed his eyes, as if trying to think. “She’s Lachko’s child, Turbo,” he said after another minute. “He’ll take care of her.”

  It was clear from my visit that afternoon, Lachko didn’t know about Polina. A good guess he didn’t know Eva was here either. Getting between them was a true fool’s errand, but I’d been hired to find the girl. I went back to the bedroom. Eva lay as I left her, sheet around her shoulders, eyes staring into space. King-sized bed, four-poster. Mahogany. Two bullet holes in the wall behind. They hadn’t missed by much. T-shirt and jeans tossed on the floor. A can of Diet Coke on the bedside table, half drunk. I sniffed the top. Smelled like Coke. Another door led to a bathroom-spa bigger than the bedroom. Whirlpool twice the size of the gold sofas, steam shower, sauna, two sinks, racks of multicolored towels.

  Back in the hall, Iakov had worked himself up against the wall. He watched as I went through the dead man’s pockets. Keys, change, eight hundred twenty-four dollars, and a U.S. passport in the name of Alexander Goncharov. In the last pocket, a shiny new BlackBerry. The message light blinked. I pocketed the BlackBerry and replaced everything else.

  “I want that,” Iakov said.

  “What?”

  “BlackBerry—I want it.”

  “Okay, later.”

  A rolling suitcase by the bed was packed full of men’s clothes, mostly worn, mostly black. The luggage tag read GONCHAROV with the Greene Street address. The used boarding pass indicated he’d just flown in from Moscow. Beside the suitcase was a messenger bag with a laptop inside. I put it to one side.

  “That, too.”

  Iakov had pulled himself to the open door. He was cataloging my every move. The caution of an old spymaster? More than that. Why should I be surprised?

  “Stay still, Iakov. You’re losing blood. I’m calling Lachko now.”

  “That computer is mine, Turbo.”

  “Okay.”

  I went out to the kitchen-dining area, where he couldn’t follow, and weighed the merits of my cell phone versus Ratko’s landline. Both would leave a trail, but going out to a pay phone would take too much time. I decided on the latter for the first call—to Brighton Beach. When a man’s voice answered I said, “Tell Lachko it’s Turbo.”

  It didn’t take long before Lachko said, “Nothing in twenty years, twice in twelve hours. To what do I owe this misfortune?”

  “I’m with Iakov. He’s okay, but he needs a hospital. He’s been shot.”

  “Turbo, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  I repeated myself.

  “You fucking with me? Let me speak to him.”

  Lachko didn’t know his father was in New York. I shouldn’t have been surprised by that either. I carried the phone back to the hall.

  “I told Lachko you need help. He wants to hear you say it.”

  “Listen to Turbo, Lachko,” Iakov said into the phone. “I’ll explain later.”

  He handed it back. I went back through the door as Lachko wheezed, “Where the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing there?”

  “Thirty-two Greene, between Grand and Canal, 6A. Belongs to Rislyakov, although here he goes by Goncharov. He’s here, too, but he’s dead.”

  “What the fuck?!”

  “I’m playing it straight, Lachko. Rislyakov was dead when I got here. He was shot, too, from the looks of it. I found him and Iakov and called you.”

  I could hear him barking orders in Russian. I looked at my watch. I figured I had at least forty minutes before they got here, but I’d be gone in thirty to be sure.

  Lachko said, “I thought we agreed—stay the fuck away from Rislyakov.”

  “I didn’t know he would be here. Iakov neither.”

  “Bullshit. What else is there?”

  I hesitated. He was going to find out soon enough from Iakov. “Eva. Stoned silly. She might have shot Iakov, without knowing what she was doing. She tried to shoot me. I don’t think she shot Ratko.”

  “Eva? What the hell? Turbo, I am personally going to—”

  “Shut up, Lachko. You’re not going to do anything. I’m taking Eva to get help.”

  “You stay right the fuck where you are. My men are on their way.”

  “I’ll be gone by the time they get here. She can’t wait. Could be an overdose.”

  “Turbo, do exactly as I fucking say.”

  “Lachko, I could have called the cops. I still can.”

  Silence. I thought I could hear the scratch of a lighter and the faint crackle of burning tobacco.

  “I’m telling you one more time…”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll tell Iakov help is on the way.”

  My second call was to Bernie. I used my phone for that. He wouldn’t like it, but he was going to have to get his hands dirty. He was at the office.

  “Mulholland sprung?” I asked.

  “Million dollars bond.”

  “He’s got more trouble.”

  “I don’t need this, Turbo.”

  “Y
ou don’t begin to know the truth of that. I’m with Eva. The least of her problems is she’s non compos—totally zonked on something. She can’t talk, but she can shoot, which she did, at me.”

  “Christ! Are you all right?”

  “Fine. The drugs didn’t help her aim.”

  “Least of her problems?”

  “Yeah. I’m not going to tell you about the worst. You won’t approve of how I’m handling them. I need someone to take Eva to a hospital—someone you can trust. She might have overdosed, and have her checked out thoroughly, including STDs.”

  “STDs?”

  “Sexually transmitted diseases.”

  “Turbo!”

  “She’s naked in a bachelor pad, Bernie. Just being prudent.”

  Sharp intake. “You got any good news?”

  “She’s alive. That’s not a universal truth here.”

  That stopped him. “Turbo, have you called the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you intend to?”

  “If anyone asks, Bernie, I called you about Eva, that’s all. How long do you need to get someone to SoHo?”

  “Give me half an hour. I’ll set it up at NYU Hospital. Rory’s on the board. Where are you?”

  I looked at my watch. “We’ll be at Grand and Mercer, southeast corner, at ten fifteen.”

  “Turbo, I—”

  “I’ll need to talk to Eva when she comes out of it. Before anyone else—including her parents. Got it?”

  “Turbo, I can’t—”

  “You have to. Unless you want Mulholland and his daughter to have adjoining cells.”

  Silence. Then, “Okay.”

  “Ten fifteen.”

  Iakov hadn’t moved. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was slow and easy. The other doors in the hall opened to a bathroom and a den. A quick check found nothing of interest in either.

  I knelt by Iakov and put my hand on his hair. His eyes opened, and he smiled.

  “Lachko’s men should be here in fifteen minutes. They’ll get you to a hospital.”

  “Are you…”

  “It’ll be better if I’m not here. Lachko and I … Well, you know better than most. I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  I went to get Eva. “We’re going to get you some help, okay?”

  I wasn’t expecting a reply, and I didn’t get one. It took a long five minutes to get her dressed. Iakov was nodding again when I took the messenger bag and put it by the front door. I went through the drawers in the kitchen until I found masking tape to hold the latch of the door and the front door downstairs. I spent five more minutes carefully removing all evidence of my presence from the loft.

  Eva had little interest in walking, so I leaned her body against mine and held her upright with my right arm under hers. We’d gotten as far as the hall when I felt her stiffen suddenly and start to shake. Her eyes grew wide as she looked down at Iakov. Then she screamed—a long piercing wail. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO…”

  I picked her up and carried her to the gold sofa in the living room. She stopped screaming, but her eyes stayed wide with terror.

  “Eva!”

  She didn’t move or speak.

  “That’s your grandfather.”

  No response. Eyes still wide. Terrified. I backed away. She didn’t move.

  I returned to the hall. “What was that about?”

  “No idea. My condition?”

  This was no time to argue, but we both knew Eva’s scream wasn’t one of surprise. It was a wail of terror, deep-rooted terror. “She needs help,” I said.

  He was trying to push himself up with his good arm. “Where’s the computer?”

  “I’ve got it. Lie still, Iakov. Lachko won’t be long.”

  “No! Leave it. It’s … mine.”

  “It’s Rislyakov’s.”

  “Goddammit, Turbo! This is Cheka business.”

  I was halfway out the door. His eyes were wide open now, his injury all but forgotten. He looked as determined as I’d ever seen him.

  “Cheka business?”

  “You heard me. I want that computer.”

  “I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

  “Turbo…”

  I left, before he could argue further, carrying Eva down the stairs and most of the way to Grand and Mercer, Iakov’s assertion, angry, defiant—This is Cheka business—filling my head. A Town Car idled at the corner. The window slid down, and young Malcolm Watkins peered out.

  “Didn’t tell you about this in law school, did they?” I said.

  “Not at Harvard. My father wanted me to go to Chicago.”

  I made a mental note to tell Bernie the kid was okay. He helped me load Eva in the backseat and crawled in after her.

  “She’s high on something. Not sure if she took it or it was slipped into her drink. She’s also terrified, but I have no idea of what. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

  He nodded and spoke to the driver. The car pulled away. I gave a wide berth to Greene Street as I walked south out of SoHo and through what’s left of Little Italy and Chinatown back to the office.

  Cheka business?

  Foos was sipping Kalashnikov vodka and banging away at his keyboard. I picked up the bottle and examined the label, eyebrow raised.

  “He’s entitled to make a buck,” Foos said.

  I fetched a glass from the kitchen. General Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov invented the most successful weapon in the history of weaponry, the AK-47 rifle. More than a hundred million in circulation. Unfortunately, since he’d done it in service of the Soviet state, he hadn’t earned a kopek, and two Hero of Socialist Labor medals won’t get you on the Moscow Metro these days. So he was cashing in, any way he could, like everyone else in the great Russian rush to capitalism. As Foos said, who could blame him? I took a sip. The bottle had been out too long, so the vodka had lost its chill, but it still tasted good. I made a silent toast to the general while I took Ratko’s laptop from the messenger bag.

  “I need to copy a hard drive. Pronto.”

  “Everybody’s in a hurry. Let’s see.”

  I handed it across. He opened the top, pushed the power button, and sipped his vodka.

  “Problem,” he said.

  “Encrypted?”

  “Yep. Where’d you find it?”

  “Belonged to Ratko Risly.”

  “Belonged?”

  “He doesn’t need it anymore.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  I told him how I’d spent my evening.

  “Who shot Risly?”

  “No idea. Then again, I have no idea what the whole thing is about. I’m hoping something on the computer will tell me. I’m going to have to hand it over to one Barsukov or another, probably tomorrow.”

  “Okay. We’ll try brute force. See how good the late Mr. Risly was. Once we get in, copying is no big deal.”

  “Can you do it so no one knows? Ratko probably has some tech-savvy associates.”

  “You’re talking to the maestro.”

  “How about a keyboarding bug, one that can’t be found if someone looks?”

  “No problemo.”

  “I owe you.”

  “You’re working on a lifetime tab.”

  “In that case, the next bottle of Kalashnikov is on me.”

  I put the Glock and the BlackBerry in the safe, next to the payoff money I’d forgotten to return to Bernie. I’d take care of that first thing tomorrow.

  Or so I thought.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Chekist moved the indicator on the computer forward. He knew the exact spot.

  Polina said, “Jesus Christ, Tolik, have you gone mad? They’ll kill us for this.”

  “I didn’t plant the bombs, Polya. But we did provide the money. That’s why they burned the bank. To kill us, they have to find us. We’re leaving, within the hour. I can get us into Latvia, and from there—”

  “Who’s that man—Leo?”

  “Gorbenko.
Boris Gorbenko. FSB colonel. Point man on the whole operation. He determined the targets, recruited the others, acquired the explosive, oversaw the whole thing. The money moved through him.”

  “Jesus Christ, Tolik. He’s a mass murderer. What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s had an epiphany, a little late in the game. He’s concluded that the people he did all this for—the real mass murderers—plan to kill him, too. He made a deal with the CPS, told them his story. They want him to bring me in, too.”

  “And?”

  “I told him no deal, of course. Our only choice is to run, disappear, buy new identities abroad and make sure the Cheka knows that we’ve hidden those CDs in a safe place.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “No one.”

  “And Leo?”

  “Forget him. He’s a dead man.”

  “No way, Tolik. We don’t know him. He’s already double-crossed the Cheka. We’re nothing.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He could be listening right now.”

  The whispers became inaudible, their intensity apparent, individual words impossible to make out. Except at the end. Polina, her anger rising, said, “God damn it, Tolik, if you won’t, I will. Come on.”

  Nothing for a few minutes, then Polina’s voice with Gorbenko. They’d moved to the kitchen.

  “Leo?” she said.

  “What the…”

  “Move, out the door.”

  “Kosokov, what the fuck is this? I have no time for—”

  The shotgun roar drowned the rest of the sentence.

  Polina spoke again. “One barrel left. Move!”

  The door creaked open and banged shut a few seconds later.

  Silence on the tape.

  It came back to life with a rumble. As the Chekist found out when he got there, they’d taken Gorbenko to the barn.

  “Over there,” Polina said.

  “What do you want?” Gorbenko said, his voice betraying panic.

  “We’ll get to that. Open that trapdoor.”

  A grunt as he pulled at the concrete slab covering the hatch in the back of the barn.

  “Look, Kosokov, I can—”

  The blast from the shotgun cut him off. The Chekist would see later she’d hit him square in the chest. The force knocked him through the opening and down the cement stairs to his grave.