“I wore that … at an embassy ball.” Her voice was harsh. Franny realized he was still clutching the pearl and diamond choker. “I was beautiful. He thought so. Thirsty,” Baba Yaga finished and she sounded old and scared.
“I’ll try to find you some water. I’ve gotta leave you for a while. Look for a pilot and plane. Will you be okay?”
Her response was mumbled and the words seemed garbled. Franny had to take it for assent. He put the pouch of gems in one pocket and the emerald necklace in the other, secured the pistol in the small of his back, and headed out.
Many of the hangar doors were closed. He spotted one with the doors open. A woman sat on a bench out front smoking a cigarette. As he drew closer he saw she was younger than he’d first thought, and attractive in a leggy, outdoorsy sort of way. Long brown hair was secured in a ponytail and she had a tattoo of teardrops that began at the side of her left eye and down onto her cheek. He smiled and walked forward.
“Hi, you speak English?”
“A little.” She held up her thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. She had an accent he couldn’t identify.
“Is that your plane?” He nodded toward the plane in the hangar. It was a dull white and stained in places. It also didn’t look like it could cross the Atlantic, but maybe it could get them to a city with an airport that was open.
“Yes.”
“Could I charter it?” The woman frowned. “Hire it. Have you fly me somewhere.” He made a swooping gesture toward the sky.
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Great. Look I don’t have money—” There was a sharp frown at that. “But I’ve got these,” he hurried to add as he pulled out the pouch of gemstones.
The woman’s brown eyes lit up at the sparkle. “That will do nice.”
She ground out her cigarette in a bucket of sand, stood, and sauntered over to him. Her white blouse was unbuttoned enough that he could see the swell of her tanned breasts. She was obviously a fan of sunbathing topless and Franny felt a reaction. She smelled of soap and cigarettes and rose perfume.
“Where you want to go?”
“Someplace with an international airport. Could you get us to … uh…” Franny thought about the maps he’d studied before he and Jamal had started on this mad journey to rescue the jokers. He considered Russia but given Baba Yaga’s concerns about the KGB, or whatever it was called today, he decided against that destination. “Ukraine or Turkey?”
“Sure. Have to file flight plan. Give me jewels and I’ll go do that.”
“Let me think about that. Uh … no. You go file the flight plan, you’ll get the jewels when we land.”
Perhaps it was the fact she was a pretty woman. Or that he was past the point of exhaustion. Or the pain pills he’d swallowed, but he missed the signal, the warning in her eyes and body so the toe of her cute ankle boot took him right in the nuts. Screaming, he doubled over, clutching his abused balls as agonizing pain shot straight through the top of his head. Vomit filled his mouth and he fell onto his knees.
The pouch fell out of his hand, jewels glittering like multicolored rain drops cascaded out and went dancing across the tarmac. The woman went scrabbling after them. Franny wanted to grope for his pistol but couldn’t make his hands release his throbbing balls. The emeralds, shit! If she searched him they’d be gone, too. Groaning, he reached back, grabbed the pistol grip, and pulled it free.
The woman paused, hand in her pocket where she’d thrust a handful of gems, saw the gun. Her face twisted with fury and she didn’t look so pretty any longer. She spat out something that sounded like curse words and bolted like a greyhound hearing the starting gates slam open.
Groaning, Franny climbed to his feet. There were a few gems glittering on the ground. Moving like he was as old as Baba Yaga he tottered around and picked them up. Of the woman there was no sign. He just hoped she wouldn’t go and alert the soldiers. If the military was as corrupt as the cops he was probably safe.
One thing the experience had taught him—he wasn’t going to be able to negotiate a deal then go back and get Baba Yaga. He needed her with him while he found a pilot so they could leave right away. He returned to the van for the old lady. She was conscious, but barely.
“This is proving harder than expected. I need to take you with me and you’re going to have to walk at some point because I need my hand free for the gun. Can you manage?” She grimaced but nodded. He slipped the satchel strap over his good shoulder, clasped the emerald necklace around her throat, and picked her up.
With Baba Yaga in his arms he moved on through the buildings, heat rising off the tarmac, sweat trickling down his back and sides and into his sideburns.
“The black. Did you … kill … him?” Her voice was threadlike.
“No,” Franny snapped. “He told me what you did. To Father Squid.” He discovered that rage had a taste and Baba Yaga cried out as his arms tightened around her. He fought for calm.
“The priest … was noble … always makes you stupid…” Her voice trailed away.
He wanted to tear into her. Tell her about Father Squid. His place in Jokertown, his kindness, his decency, his basic goodness. Instead he muttered, “You’re a goddamn monster.”
“No, boy, the monsters are coming.”
Another open hangar beckoned. He approached with a lot more caution this time. There was a man inside, older with Asian features. He was actually prepping the plane. This plane sported not only stains but places where the paint had chipped and rust had taken hold. The glass over the cockpit was pitted in places.
“Fucking Millennium Falcon,” Franny muttered. “Well as long as it can outrun the Takisians or whatever the fuck we’re running from in Talas…” He set Baba Yaga on her feet and kept his left arm around her. He figured his wounded shoulder could handle her weight better than the recoil if he should have to fire the gun.
The man had stopped, clipboard in hand, pen poised to write, and was staring at the gun. The sight of one did tend to focus the mind, Franny thought.
“My grandmother’s hurt.” A spasm ran through Baba Yaga’s frame when he said grandmother. He ignored her and went on. “We need a way out of here. You fly us and you can have her necklace.” The man’s eyes were blinking rapidly and he didn’t respond. “Oh fuck, you didn’t understand a word I just said, did you?”
Baba Yaga started speaking. Her hand went up and touched the necklace. The man’s eyes flicked to the emeralds, but almost immediately went back to the gun. He answered her. Franny understood one word—Tehran. Great, not at all the direction he wanted to be heading.
There was more talk. Despite the weakness of her voice there was something in Baba Yaga’s tone that had the hair on the back of Franny’s neck standing up. The man seemed to feel it too because he nodded, then gestured to the plane.
“Get me aboard, but make him come with us. Then watch him during the final check. I told him you would kill him if he tried anything.”
“Interesting negotiating tactic.”
“Worked better than yours,” she grunted, and she slapped her hand against his crotch. Despite the fact it was a feather’s touch Franny sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ve kicked enough men in the balls to know the signs.”
The shit plane wasn’t very fast either. It took over three hours to reach Tehran. Franny had spent the entire time standing in the cockpit with the gun trained on the pilot to make certain he didn’t radio anybody. His legs were aching and shivering, his back hurt, his balls throbbed, his head was pounding, and his gunshot wounds were burning. On the upside all the various pains were keeping him awake.
The pilot looked up at Franny, said something, and gestured at the radio. He made a helpless gesture and shrugged. Glancing back over his shoulder to where Baba Yaga huddled among the crates he yelled, “Hey, Baba Yaga. The guy’s gotta call the tower now. Or at least I think that’s what he’s saying. I need you.”
“Help me, boy.”
Franny moved to her, hauled her
up, and supported her into the cockpit. She and the pilot gabbled at each other. He unlimbered the radio and made the call. A lot of numbers and letters were exchanged. Oddly the codes were exchanged in English. Then Baba Yaga took over the radio and in a completely different language started talking to the ground.
“You speak Arabic, too?” Franny asked.
She gave him a disgusted look. “It’s Farsi. And no wonder you Americans mess up everything when you go out into the world.”
At one point she looked back at Franny and ordered, “Bring the passports.” He brought her the stack and she fanned them out on the instrument panel. Most were for her. The others showed pictures of B.O., Baldy, and Stache.
“Unfortunately I don’t look anything like your goons.”
“Won’t matter.” She handed him B.O.’s passport. “They will have something to stamp. Bureaucracy will be served.” She gave the radio back to the pilot and slumped in the copilot’s chair overcome by just the effort of talking. Her eyes closed and her breathing was sonorous.
A few minutes later they were on the ground and rolling to a stop.
“Okay, let’s get out of here,” Franny said.
“No. We wait,” she ordered.
Franny had spent enough time in her presence to know when she had that tone no explanation was coming. Trucks arrived to start off-loading the cargo. Men in uniforms arrived, customs officers Franny assumed. They checked the bill of lading, gave a glance at the passports. Left. The unloading continued. Franny sank down on the floor of the cargo bay with his back against the curving side of the plane. About thirty minutes later a man in a tailored Western-style suit arrived. He and Baba Yaga had another conversation in what Franny now knew was Farsi.
She motioned to Franny and indicated he should remove the necklace and give it to the pilot. He did. She then took the cassette tapes out of the satchel and handed it and their remaining funds to the man in the suit. He picked up Baba Yaga and carried her off the plane. Franny scrambled after them. He wouldn’t put it past the old bitch to leave him even after all this.
“Fairuza tells me the air space over Kazakhstan has been closed. We are lucky, boy. We are riding the wings of the storm.”
“Yeah, real lucky,” Franny grunted as the stitches in his side pulled.
When they came around the freight plane there was a sleek, modern jet waiting on the runway with the steps down and the engines starting. There was a big man in a white coat climbing aboard. A stethoscope hung out of one pocket of the coat. Despite these medical trappings the man was far more reminiscent of the late (unlamented) Stache, B.O., and Baldy. Apparently Baba Yaga was done relying on Franny.
The man in the suit carried Baba Yaga into the plane. Franny followed and gaped at the elegance of the interior. There was a final conversation between the man and Baba Yaga and he left. The doors were closed and they began to taxi down the runway. Baba Yaga reclined in a wide leather seat, clutching the tapes to her withered bosom with her one remaining hand.
Franny scrambled into a seat and hooked the belt. “How … how?”
She opened her eyes and pierced him with one of her cutting looks. “A few favors. A little blackmail. And money. Lots of money. It is a power greater than all your aces.”
The mansion was set back from the double-gated entrance at the end of an impressively long, slightly loopy gravel driveway. The rococo wrought-iron gates were impressively tall and so thick that the Angel figured they’d be a worthy test of her strength. A call box was set in the stone part of the wall that swept out beyond the limits of their sight, right and left both and finally dwindled away in the distance. The call box was, the Angel suspected, just out of reach. And she was right. Lonnegan had to unbuckle her seat belt, open the car door, and lean as far as she could through her down-turned window to press the buzzer.
She leaned back to a more comfortable position, static cackled on the air, and a male voice said something in Russian.
“You’re in America now, Jack,” said the cop. “Speak English.”
“But of course, madam. Who may I say is calling?”
“Detective Joan Lonnegan.”
“Ah.” A pause. “Aren’t you somewhat off your beat?”
“Not so far that I can’t drag your ass to jail if you keep annoying me.”
“Very well. I shall see if the master is in.”
They waited perhaps forty-five seconds, then the metal gates slowly creaked open.
“Into the bear’s den,” Lonnegan muttered.
“Is this really wise?” the Angel said, watching the stone monstrosity loom larger and larger as they approached.
“Well,” Lonnegan considered, “Ivan Grekor may be the biggest Russian asshole in this city, but even he hasn’t taken to slaughtering NYPD detectives and SCARE agents out of hand. Yet. Besides, the boys know where we are.”
“Comforting.”
It was a slow, crunchy drive down the looping driveway over the crushed gravel. By the time they’d arrived a reception committee was waiting for them before the front entrance, which was raised five stone steps up off the ground. The Angel was no architectural expert, but it looked as if the stairway leading up to the entrance, the columns flanking it, and the front facade surrounding it, seemed to be marble. In what style she couldn’t venture a guess. But it was very ornate.
“Detective Lonnegan.” A handsome old geezer with a head of beautiful silver hair leaned down and looked into the car. He was dressed either as a butler or an ambassador, the Angel was unsure which. She decided to go with butler, mainly because he had an English accent. “Ah,” he said when he spied her. “And whom else shall I be introducing to the master?”
“This is Ms. Fox, SCARE operative, also known as the Midnight Angel.”
“Delighted.” He seemed as if he actually were, and held out an unnecessary helping hand to first aid Lonnegan and then, after scurrying around the hood, the Angel exit the car. They both stopped to look at the man who waited behind the butler. He wore a badly cut suit, dark sunglasses, and either was one of those guys who had to shave twice a day or had decided to skip a couple of days. He held out his hand for the car keys.
Lonnegan shook her head. “Uh-uh. I’ve busted too many of you guys for running hot car rings, and I’m very attached to my ride.” It was a slightly worse for the wear maroon Toyota Corolla of uncertain vintage.
The butler looked up at the sky with a long put-upon expression on his handsomely lined face.
“As you wish, madam.”
They followed him up the stairs, into the mansion, for a long walk down beautifully carpeted hallways and rooms, the hood following close behind.
The inside was as stylistically jumbled as the outside, and extravagantly decorated. At one point as they passed a statue in a shadowy nook, Lonnegan leaned over and whispered to the Angel, “Isn’t that statue in the Louvre?”
“I hope so,” she replied.
Just as the Angel was feeling totally overwhelmed and helplessly lost, they entered a room that seemed large enough to host football games. The windows in the rear wall were covered by thick drapes and it was almost totally dark, making it hard to discern the nature of the certainly ostentatious furnishings. Somewhere, perhaps fifty feet away in the gloom, was a small gleaming lamp sitting on a large desk that had an equally oversized overstuffed chair behind it.
Without missing a beat the butler pulled out a flashlight and, like a movie usher, led them down a luxuriously thick carpet toward the desk.
As they got closer the Angel realized that the desk was probably older than America and that the lurking hulks set on either side of it were also overstuffed chairs, but not as large nor as padded as the one behind it, where sat Ivan Grekor, aka Ivan the Terrible, the head of the Russian mob in New York City.
“Forgive the overwhelming size of what I like to call my office. Ha-ha.” Grekor didn’t actually laugh. He simply said ha-ha. “I dislike being ostentatious.” Sure you do, the Angel thought. “B
ut I like to be among my things even more. Ha-ha.”
He was small, though the embroidered smoking jacket he wore made his size difficult to assess. His head was finely, almost delicately featured, though lined with age, particularly around the eyes and mouth. His white hair was clipped short. His thick white mustache was too big for his face. His eyes, the Angel thought, were the deadest eyes she had ever seen in a human face. She’d seen shark eyes that were friendlier, as she recalled, even when the shark was trying to eat her.
“Please sit.” The mob boss indicated the chairs placed before his desk.
“Sorry to call without notice,” Lonnegan said.
Grekor waved her apology away. “Is nothing. I’m very busy. Business.” As he spoke he closed the big old-fashioned ledger that had been open before him. “But I always have time for the ladies. Now, of course I recognize the famous and beautiful Razor Joan Lonnegan.” He turned to the Angel and speared her with his black gaze. “But who is this ravishing creature?”
“This is Ms. Fox,” Lonnegan said dryly. “AKA the Midnight Angel. She’s a SCARE operative.”
“Oooh. A Fed. Ha-ha.” Grekor lifted his hands in mock alarm, but no sign of humor touched his expression. “I know, lovely lady, that the Federals pay so poorly. I’m sure that we could find you a position in my organization, perhaps on my personal staff, that would be much less onerous and would pay so much more.”
The Angel could hardly believe her ears. “I don’t think my husband would approve,” she said.
“Your husband?”
“Billy Ray.”
“Ah.” For the first time something touched Grekor’s eyes, but whatever emotion it was, it fled so quickly that the Angel couldn’t identify it. She hoped it was fear. “Well, a man must try. Ha-ha.” He turned his attention back to Lonnegan. “The most beautiful ones are always taken, nyet?” He sighed, shrugged padded shoulders. “Well, what can I do for you ladies?”
High Stakes: A Wild Cards Novel Page 23
