by David Duffy
“You gauging my ambition—or my naivete?”
“Only asking if you’re trying to change the world.”
He smiled once again. “There was a time, not too long ago, I would have said yes. Now … I’m just trying hard to hold on to truth as a concept. Not something we, as a people, are familiar with, except perhaps in our humor. It may take us somewhere, it may get pushed into a ditch, but if we don’t at least put it on the road … You’re probably right about Rislyakov. Still, we had to try.”
“You might still get what you want. That file’s out there somewhere.”
“I’d like to talk to Polina Barsukova.”
“Her name is Mulholland now. Felicity Mulholland. Married to another banker, Rory Mulholland. Nine nine eight Fifth Avenue. Be careful. She doesn’t like talking about the past. Even if there’s no history.”
He gave me a funny look.
I said, “In your investigation of Kosokov and Gorbenko—their bodies, I mean—did you come across anything related to someone named Lena?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Eva keeps throwing this line at her mother—‘You should have left me with Lena.’”
“Lena … Yelena … there’s something in the file. I’ve got it all on this.” He tapped the laptop keyboard. “Here we go. A doll—in the shelter. Under the stairs, female, plastic, forty-five centimeters long, blond hair, remnants of a peasant costume. Also a plastic doll’s suitcase, nine by six by three, with three dresses inside, mostly intact. Name handwritten on the inside of each one—Yelena.”
“Huh. If the doll was in that shelter, odds are she was, too. Maybe with two corpses. Can you get the doll sent here?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. It’s a risk—no one knows I’m here, remember?”
“Have it sent to Victoria, or to me. That’ll give you some cover.”
“You believe it’s that important?”
“She’s a screwed-up kid. Mulholland told me she suffered some kind of childhood trauma. He doesn’t know what. She was at the dacha with Kosokov and Gorbenko. She might have seen what happened. I know she’s terrified of something. The doll could be the key—if I can find her, that is.”
He nodded. “I’ll call tonight.”
The buzzer sounded, and I shuffled over to the intercom. Vodka was definitely having a medicinal effect on movement. “Yes?”
“Your guardian angel. Who else were you expecting?”
“I’ve been advised to screen my guests.” I pushed the door release button and turned to find Petrovin next to me, putting his laptop back in the messenger bag.
“I’ll be going,” he said, taking my hand. “Three’s company, as they say. We’ll be in touch.” Haste in his voice, bordering on urgency. I had the feeling he didn’t want Victoria to know he was here, but when she stepped out of the elevator, he bowed in his formal Russian way and spoke a few words in her ear. She nodded in response before coming down the hall, smiling, briefcase in one hand, shopping bag in the other. She was wearing a sleeveless blue blouse over a knee-length black skirt. All the curves in place. I wasn’t ready for a guardian, but the angel set my heart racing.
She gave me a kiss on the cheek and pushed past me to the kitchen. “I gotta warn you, I’m not much of a cook, but I figured in your condition, you’ll take what you get.”
“I’m cooking, remember? What’s in the bag?”
“Chicken. I’m going to call Giancarlo. He’ll tell me what to do.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You just go lie down. Dinner in an hour, I hope. You get any wine?”
“Still vodka and beer, sorry.”
“That’s got to change if I’m gonna keep comin’ around. Where’s the vodka?”
“On the counter. I’ll roast the chicken. You like lemon or onions?”
She turned, the vodka bottle in midair. “This about the chicken or control?”
“Probably both. It’s my kitchen.”
“In that case, you’re on your own. I’ll be right back. You got a wine shop in the neighborhood?”
“Liquor store, corner of Fulton, across from the Seaport.”
She was gone before I could say more. I melted some butter, chopped some garlic, parsley, and rosemary, grated some zest, squeezed some juice, mixed it all together with salt and pepper. I splayed the chicken, painted it all over with the butter-herb mixture, and put it in the oven, reflecting on the fact that none of this felt like it had taken any effort or caused any pain—but that could’ve been the vodka. I had just poured a small glass in celebration when the buzzer sounded Victoria’s return. She came down the hall carrying a bottle of something red, frowning. “Y’all need a new wine shop or a new neighborhood. Hope this stands up to your chicken. Corkscrew?”
I found one in the drawer and went looking for some mood music. Sketches of Spain was still on the CD player. I pushed PLAY and went back to the kitchen. She started around the room, wineglass in hand, too-small nose wrinkled in distaste, the rest of her smiling in fun.
“Wine not up to your standards?” I said.
“Passable, barely. Music sounds like a hermit’s funeral. Stoned hermit.”
“Not a Miles fan?”
“Ain’t no Bob Wills, that’s for sure.”
I switched to Bach cantatas. Her frown moderated a little. Bach wasn’t her thing either, but she didn’t complain. I left it on, hoping he’d grow on her. Bach usually does.
“What’s this?” She held up a small glass case with a medal inside.
“Order of Lenin.”
“Hey! That’s a big deal, isn’t it?”
“Used to be.”
“How’d you get it?”
“Recruited some useful agents.”
“So, you not only worked for the government that jailed your mother for no reason, you did such a good job they gave you a medal?”
“That’s right.”
“You weren’t kidding about Russian irony. How’d you make out with the ex-wife?”
“I survived.”
“Tell me about her.”
“That outfit is very becoming.”
“Your eyes are taking it off. Don’t change the subject.”
“It’s only fair. You undressed me.”
“Not out of choice. Come on, I’m curious.”
“I’m crushed.”
“Don’t be. We might get to what your dirty mind is thinking, but you’re not up to it yet. What about your wife?”
CHAPTER 34
“She was the daughter of a general in the GRU—military intelligence. Lithuanian mother. Her father distrusted me because I was KGB. He was a drunk, a bad drunk, so bad, he got run out of the army. Then he did some really stupid things and got sent to the Gulag. Family went from privilege to periphery to poverty. Polina was crushed; she doted on him. I don’t think she ever recovered, but I didn’t see it at the time.
“We were married in 1980, had a son in 1983. Partly because of her old man, and partly because of my own fears, I never told her about my past, my Gulag past. Iakov had buried that, or so I thought. We had our ups and downs, perhaps more than most. By 1989 it was all over. I hadn’t seen any of them since—until a week ago.”
“Okay, I’m hooked. What happened?”
“Nineteen eighty-eight, I was posted in the New York rezidentura for the second time. The rezident—chief of station—was one Lachko Barsukov, who was fast climbing a ladder many thought would end as chief of the entire KGB. But Lachko’s always been greedy. He and another guy were running a side business, ordering everything from champagne to truffles to designer dresses on the consulate’s tab, shipping it all home, where his brother sold it on the black market.”
“What’s that have to do with you?”
“One of my agents ratted him. Lachko screwed him on a deal, not knowing he was working for us. I turned Lachko in.”
“This is better than a soap opera.”
“Iakov leaned on me hard not to testify
. I made the worst decision of my life—and I didn’t even know how bad it would turn out to be. Honor versus loyalty. I opted for loyalty.”
“Lots of people would have made the same choice.”
“True enough. It’s still the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. At the same time, I couldn’t deny Iakov—I still believe that today—so I was screwed no matter what I did.”
“You’re being too hard.”
“The story’s not finished. I’d already set certain processes in motion. Stopping them wasn’t so easy in the KGB. I recanted, prevaricated, tied myself in knots to back off. Lachko and Iakov had plenty of enemies—you don’t get to where they were without them. They thought they had Lachko in their sights. Ultimately, without me, there wasn’t enough of a case. Lachko got a slap on the wrist, but the damage was done. He was tainted. His climb to the top of the Cheka was over. He still blames me for that.”
“That explains his attitude the other night. But what’s this got to do with your wife?”
“Lachko wanted revenge. He mounted a campaign of innuendo, based on my zek past. He knew how to use that kind of information, especially in a closed system where everyone talks to the same people every day. Once started, a good rumor could spend weeks going round and round the circuit.”
“Wait a minute! Iakov didn’t do anything to help? He couldn’t get Lachko to stop?”
“Maybe he tried, I don’t know. We weren’t speaking much by then. But it’s also one of life’s lessons—don’t expect father to turn against son.”
“He hung you out?”
“He did what he thought was right.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. And you still stick up for this prick?”
“I still owe him. The whispers got around to Polina. She was horrified—at the idea of being married to a zek and at the prospect of her life crumbling again. I realize now how much I underestimated the dept of her insecurity. She married me as much for stability as for love. I was a Chekist on the way up, Nomenklatura, privileged class—important factors for someone who’d seen her family fall as far as she had. Then all that unravels—all at once. My KGB career is effectively over—and I’m a zek, beneath the lowest of the low, right down there with her disgraced old man. I can almost sympathize with her.”
“She didn’t sympathize with you.”
“No. She blamed me for the whole disaster. She took our son and left. I’d counted on something like that, but I didn’t appreciate how far she’d go. I found out when she started carrying on affairs with my fellow officers—three of them—in ways that were bound to bring notice. That sounds harsh, but I don’t believe there was any love involved on her part, only hatred and vengeance. She was out to ruin my career and make sure I couldn’t challenge over custody. She knew the Cheka had no room for indiscretion and her recklessness would mean my dismissal—or worse.”
“No wonder you’re the pain in the ass you are. What did you do?”
“I put an end to it. I found out before she got too far. Iakov tipped me off.”
“And?”
“I was drinking a lot—Russian response to everything, especially crisis, but one day I woke up and realized I had to take control. Life presents an endless series of choices, some bigger than others. Whatever Polina and I had was shattered, I understood that. I could’ve fought her for custody. Might’ve won, but I’d be out of a job and in no shape to take care of my son. Or I could make a deal with the devil—in this case, one of his earthly representatives. Polina could raise Aleksei, with my support. I wouldn’t interfere, I wouldn’t even be a known factor. As if I never existed, a zek’s destiny. In return she had to cease the campaign to ruin me, for the sake of the three of us. She took the bargain and so far as I know stuck to it. I didn’t reckon on her marrying Lachko, but I’m not omniscient. In retrospect, she was grasping for security and still trying to get even. He’d always had a thing for her, and he wanted to get even, too.”
“Perfect fit.”
“Yeah. Iakov pulled some strings and I was given an assignment in San Francisco. That was a time-buyer. I was back in Moscow in two years, behind a desk, which I hated. When the opportunity presented itself to call it quits, I did, and moved here. Started over.”
“That’s some story.”
I’d told it straight, as it seemed today, a couple of decades later. Memory simplifies, but it plays tricks, too, and the more time it has, the more mischief it gets up to. I tell myself I did what I did for the love of my son, and most of the time I believe it. Once in a while, though, I ask myself which is stronger—love or the instinct for survival? Then I’m not so sure.
The timer chimed. I took out the chicken and sprinkled some chopped parsley over the top. No fresh vegetables, so I resorted to frozen peas.
Victoria said, “What was … Petrovin doing here, if I’m not being nosy?”
So that was the exchange at the elevator—he was reminding her of his assumed name. “He had information for me. Something I asked about. Also, I think he wanted to tell me a story. He’s looking for help.”
“You going to give it to him?”
“Maybe. Turns out I have an interest in the same matter.”
“What’s that?”
“Do U.S. attorneys ever take time off, quit for the day?”
“Not this one. I’ve got a lot riding on the thing we’re working on—Barsukov’s money laundering operation. It’ll be my first big case if I can bring it, and it’s not white collar—it’s big-time organized crime. Petrovin … well, for one thing he’s Russian. Y’all are hard to read, if you don’t mind my saying so. For another, he plays his cards close to the vest. I’m not always sure what he’s up to. That makes an insecure country girl like me nervous. There—I’ve said it.”
I could have taken issue with every adjective—insecure, country, nervous—but I didn’t bother. She was trying to fool herself, trying to fool me, trying to charm, and succeeding, as she well knew, on the one out of three that mattered most.
“Your new friend Barsukov is applying heavy pressure to some of his old friends—including me—to keep his laundry running. That’s what Friday night was all about.”
“That’s why he beat you up?”
“That and the old scores I just told you about. Rislyakov had a database—the identity info he hacked from T.J. Maxx and the code that makes all the transactions make sense. Lachko thinks I know where they are.”
“Do you?”
“Maybe.”
“No bull.”
“I have an idea.”
“If you’re withholding evidence…”
“I’m not, at least not yet. If I find it, you’ll be among the first to know. Dinner’s ready.”
I quartered the chicken and put out two plates on the counter. We ate mostly in silence. I had a glass of her wine, which was nothing like Giancarlo’s Barolo. Something else to study up on.
“That was an excellent chicken,” she said, pushing the plate away. “You’re a good cook, among your other talents.”
“You haven’t begun to explore my talents.”
“I’ve learned humility ain’t one of them.”
“I have others.”
“Sugar, I’ll be honest. I’ve liked you from the first time I saw you—I have no goddamned idea why—and I’m hotter than the Texas Playboys to do something about it. But, like I already said, no hanky-panky with criminals. Deep down I really am a cautious country girl, and I still have no idea where you stand or what game you’re playing. If I end up having to come after you in a professional capacity, make no mistake, I’ll do that as hard as I know how. I don’t want my heart broken at the same time.”
I reached across and took her hand. “Vika…”
“Vika?”
“Sorry. Russian nickname. Just slipped out.”
“That’s okay. I never had a nickname. Didn’t like the obvious candidates.”
“We give everyone nicknames. I won’t break your heart. You can trust me because I kno
w how it feels. I just told you the story. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
CHAPTER 35
The Chekist replayed the tape one more time. Just a fragment of sound, less than a minute, before the fire consumed the microphones. The flames whooshed and roared and popped. He could hear Kosokov shouting, the words impossible to make out. Then that other noise—squealing, high-pitched, rising in volume.
Now he realized after all these years, it was the girl. She must have been there the whole time. It was her in the horse stalls, not rats. He’d almost shot her. How the hell had he missed?
How had she survived the inferno? The only answer was the old shelter. Somehow she’d had the sense to seek protection there. Maybe that’s what Kosokov was yelling. He’d never know for sure. One more thing that didn’t matter.
She was alive, she was here, she knew who he was. That did matter.
She would have to be dealt with.
Before anything else went wrong.
CHAPTER 36
I woke feeling born again, just like they sing about in those gospel songs, although my particular form of rebirth probably wasn’t what they had in mind. A little after six o’clock, and I lay there watching her chest rise and fall under the sheet.
I don’t know whether it was the nickname or what I said about heartbreak, but I’d led her to bed without resistance. It was far from my best night, which she more than made up for with her own intensity and tenderness, a combination that took us places where I could leave the pain of my injuries far behind. She’d undressed herself, then me, then used her breasts, eyes, thighs, lips, hands, and teeth to work both of us into a white-hot heat, on the edge of ecstasy, before we wrapped ourselves together and plunged. Sometime later, we broke the surface of reality, panting and sweating, partly sated, knowing there was more to come. We lay quietly, her head on my chest, holding each other close, saying nothing. I dozed until I felt her restless hands start to work, and I responded with mine, and without a word we carried each other a second time to the door of oblivion. I slept through the night, visiting no netherworlds for the first time since Saturday.
