by David Duffy
“CPS?”
“As I just said…”
“You working for yourself or the government?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t see how I can help you.”
“I believe if we continue our conversation, we will find we have interests in common.”
He had a card he wasn’t ready to play. “What do we have to discuss?”
“Rad Rislyakov.”
“We’ve just exhausted that.”
“I’m not so sure. Rislyakov works for the Barsukovs. You’ve seen two Barsukovs in two days.”
How long had he been following me? Why was Rislyakov so important to him?
He read my thoughts. “I was coming to see you earlier today. I saw you leave. You seemed to have a purpose. I decided to tag along.”
“My destination surprise you?”
“Not necessarily. You were in Brighton Beach yesterday.”
“Victoria told you about my visit?”
“You were spotted there, as you know.”
“So?”
“The Cheka sticks together. You were a colonel in the KGB.”
He’d also been checking up. “That ceased to be a state secret years ago.”
“The Cheka has a long reach.”
“Suppose I told you I haven’t set foot in Lubyanka or Yasenevo in more than fifteen years.”
He considered that. “Yasenevo—First Chief Directorate?”
“That’s right.”
He adjusted his eye patch and backed down a little. “I apologize if I’m touchy on the subject. My run-ins with your former colleagues have not always ended well.”
“My own run-ins have not always gone smoothly either. The wounds just aren’t as readily apparent. Consider me an ex-Chekist.”
“Putin says there’s no such thing.”
“Maybe I’m the exception that proves Comrade Putin’s rule.”
He sat for a moment, watching me with his one eye. He possessed remarkable presence for someone his age.
“Excuse me for pressing the question, but what kind of dealings does a self-proclaimed ex-Chekist have with the Barsukovs?”
“Old friends.” I shrugged.
“What do your old friends have to do with Rad Rislyakov?”
“You’ll have to ask them.”
“That is hardly likely, as you know.”
I shrugged again.
“What were you doing with Iakov just now?”
“Visiting an old friend.”
“How did you know he was in the hospital? You say you’ve been out of touch. My understanding is he only just arrived in New York.”
I couldn’t see what cards he held, but the ones he was playing indicated a strong hand. Good time to get out of the game. I stood and stretched. “I’m afraid this conversation is too one-sided. Good luck in your inquiries—whatever they are.”
“Victoria said you can be less than forthcoming. However, she’s not as well informed as I am, at least not yet. For example, I happen to know you spent more than an hour last night at 32 Greene Street, in apartment 6A, which is registered to a certain Alexander Goncharov. Witty fellow. When you left said apartment, you taped the door open. You were accompanied by a young woman who’s been seen quite often in the company of Rad Rislyakov. The woman appeared the worse for wear, and you had to hold her up. Not long after, Lachko Barsukov arrived with a small army in tow. Iakov appeared injured when they brought him out, and this morning I learn he was admitted to the hospital with a bullet wound. Superficial, too bad. He’s one ex-Chekist the world could do without.”
His voice took on a bitter edge, but I hardly noticed. My mind was racing. He hadn’t followed me to Greene Street, I was certain of that, and he purposely hadn’t told Victoria of my whereabouts. He was playing a solo hand.
“Barsukov’s men carried a rug out of the loft. Fat enough to have something wrapped inside—a body, for instance. All of this is made more interesting by your reluctance to tell Victoria where you were last night. Leads someone of a suspicious nature to conclude you have something to hide. I’m going to make the wild guess that this something involves Rad Rislyakov. Correct?”
“I thought you and Victoria were collaborating.”
“Ahhhh, you are wondering why I haven’t told her what I just told you. We are collaborating on some matters, that is true. I am pursuing others on my own. They are not her affair, nor that of the U.S. government. I thought perhaps my knowledge, which I came upon most serendipitously, I must tell you, might present something of a bargaining chip.”
“And you’re bargaining for?”
“Rislyakov.”
I shook my head.
“Was he in that loft?”
“I just told you, I never met him.”
“Was he there—dead or alive? Or was he there and you killed him?”
“Why would I do that?”
“The Barsukovs wanted him dead. Chekists—”
“Yeah, I know, we stick together. Even the devil’s not as black as he’s painted, Petrovin.” Time to play a chip of my own. “What are you after? The money laundry?”
“What do you know about that?” he snapped.
“More than I read on Ibansk-dot-com.”
He thought for a minute. “The laptop. When you left Greene Street last night, you had the girl in one arm and a laptop in the other. You had the laptop when you arrived at the hospital today. You don’t have it now. You just delivered it to Iakov.”
He was much too observant.
“As I said, I have yet to discuss your actions with Victoria, but I think she would find them most interesting. Unless … Tell me what happened last night at Greene Street.”
“Tell me your real name and who you work for.”
He shook his head. “I see no reason…”
Victoria’s threat, wrapped in bayou twang, to put me behind bars echoed in my ears. Petrovin had an even stronger hand than I thought—and he knew it—even if I couldn’t see right now how he’d acquired it. But he couldn’t play the cards without losing them. A good time for a little urki betting.
“Your threat lacks punch unless you are prepared to follow through on it, and if you do, I might suffer, but you don’t necessarily gain. We both want information. Neither of us is willing to divulge what we already know. We’re not going to get very far that way. So I’ll tell you this much. My interest in Rislyakov has nothing to do with the money laundry. However, I could be in a position to provide a great deal of information on the laundry—how it runs, possibly a record of every transaction it executes. If I’m at liberty to pursue my own inquiries.”
“You’re willing to share the results?”
“So long as there are no adverse consequences for me or my client.”
“Who is?”
I shook my head. “Not the Barsukovs.”
“You didn’t mention this to Victoria.”
“As you point out, you are much better informed.”
“A generous, if ambiguous, offer. Forgive me if I ask why you make it and why I should believe it.”
“Like I said, I’m trying to be the exception to Putin’s rule. That good enough?”
He grinned and adjusted his patch once again. “Admirable, but not remotely good enough. Question is, are you a man one can do business with?”
“Careful. That’s how Brezhnev described Nixon.”
He laughed out loud. “You don’t often meet a Chekist with a sense of humor.”
“Former Chekist, remember? I need a little time, Alexander Petrovich. Moscow wasn’t built in a day. I’ll be in touch. If I’m not, you and Victoria both know where to find me. Where are you staying?”
“You’ll understand if I don’t answer that. I have a local cell phone. Here’s the number.” He handed across a piece of paper. “Do you really follow Ibansk?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
* * *
I was still thinking about the man in the eye patch an hour later,
back downtown. He reminded me of something, or someone, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I wondered if he wore his white suit in Moscow, where his real identity would be known to those who cared. He was almost daring them—here I am, come and get me. Ballsy, especially since they’d already tried once. Courageous, or crazy, or both. Also, as he said, much too damned well informed—about me.
He’d waited for me at Victoria’s office, and he’d followed me to the hospital. Okay, but how had he pegged me at Greene Street? And what was he doing there? And why hadn’t I seen him?
What had he said—Iakov had only just arrived in New York?
A few minutes later, Expedia.com and the Basilisk supplied the answer. Ratko, traveling as Alexander Goncharov, had flown from Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport to JFK on Delta flight 31, which had arrived early at 2:15 P.M. Wednesday. Aeroflot flight 315 carried Alexander Petrovin and Y. Andropov, traveling separately, on the same route and also landed early, at 4:45 P.M. Andropov was Iakov’s own joke—the former Cheka chief and general secretary of the Communist Party died in 1984. Petrovin must have spotted Iakov—or somehow knew he was on the flight—and followed him to Greene Street. Then I showed up, then the locksmith, then … somehow he managed to hang out without getting spotted.
I called Gina.
“When you were at Greene Street Wednesday, did you see a tall guy with black curly hair and an eye patch?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it. He walked up the block and back down a few minutes later. Didn’t stop or look around, so I didn’t pay any attention. Handsome guy, white suit—looks a little like Mark Twain. Did I screw up, not mentioning him?”
“Nope. I didn’t pay him any attention either. Thanks.”
One mystery solved—but new questions raised. Most significantly, to me anyway, why had Iakov followed Ratko to New York? Age and illness made travel difficult, and he hated this city—always had. What prevented his Cheka business from being dealt with in Moscow?
I turned on my laptop. Foos had come through. Or had he?
“Three possibilities. 1) Your prosecutor wannabe pal is schizo. 2) There are two Victoria de Millenuits. 3) She’s had her ID heisted. Doesn’t sound like your type in any event. Proceed with caution—she has a handgun permit.”
The data backed him up. In New York City, Victoria Millenuits owned a condo at Sixty-seventh and Third, for which she paid $1.7 million, no mortgage. She shopped at Bergdorf, Bendel’s and Grace’s Marketplace. She ate at East Side restaurants, especially a place called Trastevere, maintained a five-figure bank balance, and paid off her three credit cards in full every month. In Fayette County, Pennsylvania, she lived at Windy Ridge Home Court, bought kids’ clothes, Wonder Bread, house-brand soda, and the occasional flat-screen TV at Walmart, and had no bank account but four credit cards all pushing their limits. There was a gun permit—in New York—but no phone number.
I was about to pound the desk when I saw his PS at the bottom of the screen—“212-517-4667. Thought I forgot, didn’t you?” Sometimes he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.
I dialed the number, and a machine picked up. Her voice said simply, “Please leave a message.”
“This is Turbo. We Russians are stubborn as well as funny. I’m still hoping you’ll join me for dinner. Tonight, Trastevere, eight o’clock. If you haven’t checked your credit rating recently, I’d advise it. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, I hope under less confrontational circumstances.”
The phone rang as soon as I replaced the receiver. A female voice said, “Please hold for Mr. Mulholland.”
He didn’t make me hold long. “I need your help again.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Eva. She’s … not well. Quite ill, in fact.”
“I know. I found her last night and got her to a hospital.”
“Yes. Bernie told me. We’re grateful. Now she’s run away. She left the hospital this morning. The doorman at her building says she stopped there before noon. Arrived by cab. He lent her the money to pay the fare. Only stayed about half an hour and left on foot.”
“Does your wife know you’re calling me?”
“Felix? No. I’m at my office. I called her, of course. She was frantic, as you’d expect. I said I’d get help.”
“You might want to tell her who the help is.”
“What? Why?”
“Better if she explains. Call her back, then meet me at Eva’s apartment.”
“I can’t leave the office. I’ve got meetings … I’ll talk to her. Lachlan, my driver, will meet you. He’ll have the keys.”
“Half an hour. I’ll come to your office after.”
“Her building’s at—”
“I know where it is.”
“How…”
I hung up before he could finish and headed for the subway.
CHAPTER 19
It took more than an hour to get uptown. A block from the Wall Street station, the sky darkened to the point of nightfall or Armageddon—it felt like even odds which. Close cracks of thunder and street-freezing flashes of lightning portended the latter. A fire hose from the heavens let go as I dropped down the stairs. The train stalled for twenty-five minutes after it left Fifty-first Street. Flooding uptown, the conductor said. The air-conditioning was working, but the car was packed. I’d given my seat to an elderly woman at Twenty-third Street and ended up jammed in the scrum near the door. The old lady got off one stop later, and a young Hispanic man took her place, listening to hip-hop on his headphones so loud the whole car could hear. There are days you can only say, New York—whattayagonnadoaboutit?
The crowd surged up the stairs at Sixty-eighth Street, eager to get out of the subterranean steam—until it met the force of bodies rushing down, pushing to escape the rain. I went with the breaking waves and emerged, lightly bruised, on Lexington Avenue. The rain had slackened, but everything’s relative—still enough to get soaked in short order. I waited under an overhang outside a hair salon until the storm moved on, ignoring the frowns of the black-clad hairdressers who doubtless considered my shaved pate poor advertising. A layer of mist rose from the wet concrete into the waterlogged atmosphere. The temperature hadn’t dropped one degree.
Eva’s building was a big, brutal, thirty-story concrete bunker, with its own similarities to Soviet architecture—the Khrushchev-era apartment blocks that mar Moscow and most every Eastern European city. The only thing you could say for this hulk was, unlike its Communist counterparts, it wasn’t rotting from the outside in and the inside out. The tower ran the full block from Seventieth to Seventy-first Street, flanked by two small parks east and west (probably the price the developer paid for a midblock building this tall) and a covered driveway along the east side. A gray and black Maybach limousine was parked near the door. The driver got out as I approached and ground a cigarette under his heel. He was built like Jimmy Rushing, Mr. Five-by-Five, except this guy was white with a buzz cut so short you couldn’t tell the color of his hair, a flat face, slits for eyes, and purple lips permanently pulled back over tobacco-stained teeth. Despite the heat, he was wearing a cheap wool suit and a flat cap. I looked for the bulge under the arm. It was there. He came in my direction, favoring his right leg.
“You be the snoop.” The Irish accent was thick as peat. It’s often pleasant to listen to. Not on this guy.
“I’m Turbo, if you’re Lachlan.”
“Don’t like fookin’ snoops. Don’t like fookin’ snoops who’re late.”
“Talk to the MTA.”
“Let’s go. Gotta get back to Midtown. Traffic sucks today.”
I was going to ask when traffic didn’t suck, but he might try to answer. I followed him to the door, where he nodded at the doorman and went straight to the elevator on the north side of the building. We rode to the fifteenth floor. A long hallway with lots of doors. He went to the one marked F and used two keys to unlock it. I followed him inside. The air was stale and warm.
“Look around, snoop. But mak
e it quick. I gotta get—”
“You told me. Go ahead. I’ll lock up when I leave.”
He shook his flat face at that idea, shut the door, and leaned against the frame, arms folded. They were half as wide as he was. I tried to ignore that and focus on the apartment.
We stood in what passed for a foyer but was really one end of the living room. Windows at the far end looked east; I could see the river and Queens beyond. Galley kitchen to my right. A short hallway to the left leading to two bedrooms and a bath. I started with the living room, which was furnished traditionally with lots of chintz and flowered fabric. Everything placed just so. Dad had hired a decorator. The kitchen held all the basic appliances but little else. In the fridge, I found a half-drunk bottle of Perrier, some orange juice, a few staples, and two jars of organic peanut butter. That was mildly interesting, but I had no idea why.
Five-by-Five followed me down the hall to the bedrooms. Her room was simple and feminine—queen bed with lots of pillows, dressing table, pair of chairs, TV, closets. A few fancy outfits, but more jeans and tops than anything else. The bathroom had less makeup than I expected until I told myself I had no way of knowing what to expect.
Flat-screen TV, upholstered chair, and desk in the other room. A few books, more magazines—Back Stage, Variety, Vanity Fair, and something called Stage Directions. A scribbled note on the desk—“You should have left me with Lena.” No signature. From Eva? To Eva? Eva to whomever she thought would come looking for her? Five-by-Five reached for the paper, but I picked it up first and put it in my pocket.
“That ain’t yours, snoop.”
“I’m here to find Eva, remember? This might be a clue.”
I think he gave me a nasty look, but it was hard to tell. His normal look was nasty enough.
No datebook, address book, or checkbook. I hit REDIAL on the telephone and got a drugstore. No answering machine. Probably used the phone company’s service. The signal light on the iMac flashed slowly, indicating the computer was asleep. I clicked the mouse, and it came to life.
I almost missed it. The screen flashed, and the digital clock in the upper right corner reset to the current time, 4:52. Before that, it read 11:44. I opened the e-mail program. A slew of unread messages. None opened today. I felt Five-by-Five’s breath on my neck as I brought up the Safari browser and clicked on “History.”
