There was a lot on my mind and so I dreamed. I dreamed of crashing in a glider, of spinning to the earth and of ending as a splash of flesh and blood and hair. I dreamed of kissing Harmony Scott and of tasting the poison in her soul. I dreamed I saw Varvara sitting on a bench in a Roman slave galley, dragging an oar while she blew the sweaty Roman colonel standing in front of her. I dreamed of Anna Masters’s breasts and the firmness of her erect nipples. I dreamed of von Koeppen dressed as a Nazi SS general standing up in a new open-topped Mercedes convertible and smiling while a boxcar full of human beings smelling of excrement and fear pulled out of the siding. I dreamed that four assassins came into my room, under the door and through the keyhole, and offered to sell me their timepieces. But I knew that to be a dream while I dreamed it because the door didn’t have a keyhole; it had a swipe card and you couldn’t get in without one. And then I woke to a burst of static through the clock radio just as I dreamed I was about to grasp something important in this case. The memory of the images of my sleep hung around like the last shreds of a fog.
I’d set the clock two hours earlier than necessary, 0430, and it was still dark. I wanted to be exhausted for the flight so that maybe I’d sleep. Already the thought of getting airborne made me want to go to the toilet. So I did, and I took some more of Scott’s files to read.
I checked out at 0545, wearing yesterday’s underwear. I paid cash, which raised the interest of the gothic teenager on night shift behind bulletproof glass only slightly less than zero. She took my notes from the slot under the glass without once making eye contact.
Stuttgart Airport was considerably busier at 0615 than it had been when I was last here. The place was full of businessmen hurrying to get somewhere or other. I bought a return flight to Riga with the homeward leg open-ended. I paid cash and received a wary look from the man behind the counter, although I had no idea why. Wearing an ACU and with all the required paperwork in order, I was hardly a risk. But let’s face it, no one pays cash these days unless they have something to hide.
It was too early to ring Masters, although I was tempted, if only to hear her voice. My dream, along with the memory of her skin under my fingertips and the way she smiled, was still strong. The gate lounge wasn’t too crowded on the Riga flight. The plane began to board as I arrived. The beads of sweat were starting to muster on my forehead, my top lip, and in the small of my back. The attendant smiled at me and motioned to come through. I made the universal sign of “I must use my mobile phone” and took a seat away from the passengers lining up for the flight. I pulled it out of my bag and looked at it. Maybe it wasn’t too early to call Masters, after all. Did I really want to turn the thing on? What shit would come down the line? I took Masters’s card out of my wallet, punched the power-on button, and waited for a connection. As soon as I had a signal, I keyed her number.
“Special Agent Masters,” said a sleepy voice.
“Anna,” I said.
“Is that you, Vin?” she said, suddenly awake.
“Yeah.”
“Where are you? Never mind that.” Masters was suddenly wary. Digital-cell-to-digital-cell calls were supposed to be impossible to tap, but neither of us believed that. She changed the subject. “How’d you sleep?”
“Okay,” I said. For some reason that had mostly to do with a complete lack of backbone, I was unable to say anything of an even remotely personal nature. “Any news?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. Got a call from Bishop last night.”
“Does that guy never sleep? Let’s have it.”
“We found out who owns Aurora Aviation, the company that provided the instruments for Abraham Scott’s plane.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Another company owned by another company whose major shareholder just happens to be the Vice President of the United States, Jefferson Cutter.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Excuse me, please. If you’re taking this flight, we’re about to close the gate,” said the attendant in heavily accented English. She leaned over me with a look of concern cracking her makeup.
Jefferson Cutter, the father of the widow, my so-called influential friend, and the owner of the company that provided the instruments for Abraham Scott’s doomed glider. His name was starting to pop up a little too often, wasn’t it? Coincidence? My definition of coincidence: events whose connections have yet to be uncovered.
“Sir?” said the woman again. She had a kind face but it had spent too many hours in the air, and her skin looked about ready to shed.
“Okay,” I said. I picked up my bag and fed my boarding pass through the machine. I walked down the square hallway until I intersected the tube with a door and another flight attendant. There were no windows to tell me that I was about to catch a plane. It could have been a train, or a narrow cinema. I tried to tell myself this as I followed another flight attendant’s directions to my seat. It was on the aisle, and the two seats to my right were empty. I shoved my bag in the overhead locker, reached across and closed the plastic blind, and sat tight. The woman sitting across the aisle glared at me. I smiled at her, probably more of a grimace, then I closed my eyes and tried my damnedest not to urinate.
It was raining heavily in Riga, a murky sheet over the town that made the medieval center seem even more of a time capsule. Ancient spires pierced the low cloud cover and disappeared into it. Behind the old rose the new, a twentieth-century city. The old city reminded me of the towns I’d seen in stories as a child, the sort where trolls lived under the bridges. My cab driver was Russian. I knew this because he told me. He also told me he was a communist and that he loved vodka and cigarettes. He didn’t need to tell me about the cigarettes because he was smoking and the interior of the taxi smelled like a spittoon, butts piled in the ashtray so that every time he braked, the load shifted and a couple toppled out and dropped onto the floor. I hoped the vodka thing was just a bit of lighthearted banter, but, from the way he meandered back and forth across the road’s center line, I doubted it.
“Riga, jewel of the Baltic,” he announced as we crossed the rat-gray river behind which the city was built. “Where you going?”
I flipped open the folded postcard and said, “Two hundred and thirty-one Dzimavu-iela. Did I say it right?”
He shrugged and said, “Drink half a bottle of Russian vodka and try again. You’ll get it.”
“Your English is good. Where’d you learn it?”
“I was translator for Red Army. Your English is good, too.”
The driver was around fifty, with wiry gray hair, the putty nose of the heavy drinker, and deep laugh lines emanating from the corners of his eyes. He had a broad, gray-bearded face and few teeth. The ones he had stood like old marble tombstones among the weeds.
An old, dull green car blowing more smoke than a forties movie star pulled out in front of us, filling the cab with the fumes of baking grease and unburned fuel. My driver wrestled with the wheel and swore at the vehicle, swerving around it and losing the inch of ash curling off the end of his cigarette, which fell between his legs. I hoped for the sake of his unborn children that there were no embers in it.
We skirted the old town, swerved right down a wide boulevard lined with art nouveau buildings, one of which I noted housed a department store, and pulled up across from a building with a stone gargoyle with large curled toenails perched on a shield over the arched doorway. Beside it was a neon sign in blue and pink of a naked woman. She was leaning over to spank her butt and each time she did, a different bunch of neon tubes filled with color, animating the figure so that she simultaneously winked. How lucky was that gargoyle? The name of the place was a roadkill of consonants, all the vowels having hit and run.
“The Bump?” I asked the driver.
“Da,” he said with a nod.
“Is it open now?”
“Da. Open twenty-four hours. I know better place than this,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand, as if casing a titty bar at eleven in the morning was an
everyday occurrence. “More girls, prettier—virgins. I take you.”
Of course they are. I said, “Do you know of a hotel nearby? Walking distance? Not too expensive.”
“You pay a hundred dollars U.S.?”
“If I must,” I replied. The driver pulled back into the traffic, did a U-turn, and lurched to a stop outside The Bump.
“There is a hotel on top,” he said. “A hundred a night.”
How convenient. I thanked the driver, who gave me his cell number and told me I should call him if I found the girls at The Bump too old and ugly and unvirginlike.
I was eager to check in, but more eager still to get fresh underwear. I took a walk to the department store half a block away, struggled through the language barrier, and bought a few pairs of boxer shorts and a change of clothes. Then I went back to the hotel and got a room for one night.
It was nearly noon and I was dragging my feet. I took a shower and lay down on the bed. For whatever reason, sleep wouldn’t come, so I took out the folder containing Scott’s downloads and started reading about Chechnya. I woke up ten hours later, not knowing where I was.
The sleep had done me good. I took another shower, put on the white T-shirt and loose brown corduroy pants I’d bought, and rode the elevator down to the ground floor. It was 2300 hours before I made it to The Bump. A Beyoncé track played as I handed over the entry fee to an old matron done up like a madam from a French bordello, perched behind a cash register reading—from the looks of the cover—a romance novel.
I walked through a cave, pushed aside a heavy red velvet curtain, and entered a vast, crowded space. A woman, tanned and tall and dressed in no more than a tiny skirt made from transparent red mesh, strode past on heels high enough to induce a nosebleed. Her hair was long, wavy, and yellow and she prowled rather than walked, as if maneuvering to play with an injured mouse she’d spotted. She smiled at me in a way that communicated she wanted to have sex with me right here, right now.
I made my way to the bar, which ran the full length of one very long wall. Bottles of liquor of every color lined the shelving backed by a mirror, lit by alternating pink and white spotlights. The bar itself was a combination of stainless steel and zebra skin and was three or four deep in male customers. Liberally scattered among them were young women who laughed and chatted with the men as if they were good friends, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were, mostly, next to naked.
The theme of the place reminded me of a set for a sixties Playboy shoot. Large mobiles with orange, red, and pink circles within circles hung from the ceiling. The motif was continued in various wall hangings and on the thick carpet.
At each table, skewered by a brass pole that ran from floor to ceiling, a naked woman performed various feats of advanced leg opening. Around the walls, red leather booths held intimate gatherings. The place was humming. Everywhere, young women were either taking off their clothes or were already entirely naked, their ankles in the air. No one seemed to be complaining about this. Indeed, the men mostly watched these performances silently, glassy-eyed and tense, their endocrine systems dumping quarts of testosterone into their systems while their elbows bent subconsciously, pouring alcohol down their throats as if to extinguish a roaring fire within.
Over the PA system a male voice announced something in what I assumed was Latvian and a number of men surged to a large glass tank filled with water. Two blondes appeared out on stage from behind a glass bead curtain, wearing gold bikini tops and ultrashort gold miniskirts. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen, yet they had huge breasts and impossibly small waists, just like Varvara. They strutted to the platform in front of the tank and undressed each other. The men licked their lips. The two women climbed into the tank, kissed passionately, and began soaping each other up with hands that were far from shy.
If, as Varvara had suggested, this was a front for the Chechen separatists, it was a movement I could happily consider joining.
I ordered a Coke. The drink came as I was enveloped by a woman’s scent—the very same one Anna Masters used, if I was not mistaken—and I felt a cool hand slip under my arm. I flinched slightly, acutely aware of the gunshot wound above her fingers. I turned and looked into the face of an angel wearing spectacles. I know it’s trite, but my first thought was beauty and brains. Her hair was straw-colored, wavy, and tumbled around her shoulders. She wore pink lipstick and a tight white sheath of Lycra so that I had to use my imagination, but not too much. Her voice was light and clear, like a bird chirping in a cage, and she was speaking to me in what I decided must be more Latvian. I shrugged to let her know I didn’t understand a word she was saying. She immediately switched to English and said, “Hey, stranger, don’t be shy. Where you from?”
“A little town—you wouldn’t know it.”
“Oh, you are American. I love Americans,” she said. She’d picked my accent, but I couldn’t return the compliment. She could have come from one of the Baltic states, Russia, Georgia, the planet Venus. She ran a fingernail lightly from my ear across my cheek and down my neck and chest, stopping at my belt buckle. “You have nice body. My name is Katarinya. I would love to dance for you.”
“I’d love that too, Katarinya, but first I have to meet someone. Maybe you know him?”
“Oh, you know someone in Riga?” One perfectly plucked eyebrow arched higher.
“We’ve never met. His name is Alu Radakov,” I said.
Katarinya almost jumped at the mention of the name. She didn’t know how to react, whether to be extra friendly—if that were possible—or suddenly cautious. After a moment of internal turmoil, visible on her face, she decided on the latter.
“Yes, Alu. That is him. Over there, the man partying with the redheaded woman.” She gestured at a booth where a considerable number of women were entertaining a cluster of men. The word “cavorting” came to mind. I wasn’t sure which man Katarinya was referring to, there being two attentive redheads in the group, clearly earning their pay.
When I looked back to clarify this, Katarinya had vanished, but then I spotted her with her arm around the neck of a fat, middle-aged businessman while she rocked on his lap, her back arched in apparent ecstasy. Maybe she was moving on his wallet.
I strolled over to the booth. “Alu Radakov?” I said. There were six men and eight women. All but one of the men were bearded. The mood of the party went from bawdy lust to leery in a heartbeat. I toasted them with my Coke and said, “Varvara Kadyrov and I are good friends. She said if I ever came to Riga I should look you up.”
A clean-shaven man, in a white body shirt opened to the breastbone so that more hair than on a barbershop floor was revealed, leaned back. His body language told me he was the man I’d come to see. I knew when I was being evaluated, so I did likewise. Radakov’s head was round like a bowling ball and his hair was black and waxed into short, unruly quills. His eyes were cold and gray and the lids drooped, giving the impression that he’d been awake for a week. Maybe he had been. It wasn’t a kind face, nor was it especially brutal. He appeared to be fit, if the thick muscular neck was any clue, and his forearms were bunched with well-defined muscles that reminded me of cable. After a moment’s consideration, he smacked the rump of the stunning redhead perched on his knees. She yelped playfully, got the message, and skittered away rubbing her ass, high heels clicking on the polished marble floor.
“Yes, and you must be Special Agent Vin Cooper,” he said. His accent reminded me of Varvara’s and Flight Lieutenant Peter Bishop’s rolled into one. Educated in England, perhaps? “I’ve been expecting you. Can I get you a drink?”
Expecting me? I glanced at my glass, which now held mostly ice. “Thanks,” I said.
He said something to the men at the table. All had peasant faces with broad Slavic features—high cheekbones with eyes set wide enough apart to make me question their origin in the gene pool. One was painfully thin with sallow skin, sunken cheeks, and a nose that reminded me of an eagle’s beak. His eyes were black pits bene
ath a solid, single brow. All the men except Radakov wore black vinyl jackets. When Radakov had finished having his chat, the men smiled warmly and toasted me as if they’d just been told I had five daughters of child-bearing age, all of whom were virgins. I raised my glass in a return salute as Radakov came out from behind the table and herded me toward the bar.
“You’ve come a long way,” he commented.
I shrugged. “It’s a shrinking planet. How did you know I was coming here?”
The woman behind the bar ignored the men waiting their turn and served Radakov. “There’s not much I don’t know about my friends and enemies. What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Coca-Cola. Which one am I—Friend? Or enemy?”
“That stuff will kill you—too much sugar. I myself drink lime and soda. And I haven’t yet decided.”
“If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here.”
“You are investigating the death of Abraham Scott,” he replied.
“More accurately, his murder.”
“Yes,” Radakov agreed. “Unfortunate business.” He made a gesture in the air and was attended immediately by a tall, dark waitress who wouldn’t have been out of place in Italian Vogue or on a Brazilian beach. He said a few words to her, and she raced on ahead and cleared one of the booths occupied by women taking a break from taking their clothes off.
The Death Trust Page 28
