Last to Fold tv-1

by David Duffy

  “Don’t think I ain’t gonna look into it. You sure you can make it?”

  “Feel better already,” I lied again.

  I took a step to prove it. Foos caught me before I fell.

  “This is silly,” Victoria said.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Foos. “I’ll explain later.”

  Somehow they managed to carry me out of the hospital and pack me into a cab, Victoria issuing orders the entire way. The painkillers helped. Foos squeezed into the front, and Victoria sat beside me. The driver took off like the rabbit chased by the dog. I yelped when he hit the first bump, and Victoria shouted at him to slow down. He used his lack of English to ignore her. The name on his license was Slovakian. I said in his native tongue, “My friend here is with Immigration. You don’t take it easy, I’ll make sure she has you on the first boat back to Bratislava.”

  He dropped his speed by half. Victoria looked at me.

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Used one of your lines. Slovaks scare easier than Russians.”

  They got me upstairs to my apartment and tried to park me on the sofa, but I excused myself and hobbled to the bedroom to call Petrovin. This time he answered. I did my best to keep my voice low and level and pain-free.

  “I need to track down a rumor. I’m told someone took a shot at CPS headquarters Saturday morning. The intended target was an officer named Tiron, Aleksei Tiron.”

  A pause. “Why call me?”

  “You’re CPS.”

  “How—”

  “Your cell phone. Calls to your office. Here in America, the land of the free can be an overstatement.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. You have access to some significant capabilities.”

  “Will you check on Tiron?”

  Another pause. “I know Tiron. I’m sure I would’ve heard if something happened to him.”

  “That’s a relief. I’d still like to confirm he’s okay. I’d also appreciate knowing whether there was a shooting or the whole story is somebody’s idea of a bad joke.”

  “A strange request, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I’ll explain when I see you next. It has to do with our friend Barsukov.”

  “I see. How do you know Tiron? Shall I give him a message?”

  “He’s… the son of a friend. No message.”

  Victoria was on the sofa, and Foos was in the kitchen. The culprit vodka bottle was standing on the counter amid the dirty dishes. I swore I would lay off the sauce for a while, but I knew I was lying as I did so. Foos held it in my direction. I shook my head. He put it in the freezer and moved the dishes to the sink. I sat next to Victoria. Petrovin’s news had alleviated the worst of the pain, but I still hurt all over.

  Victoria said, “I feel terrible about Saturday night. I didn’t want to leave. That man, he practically carried me out of there.”

  “I know. Thanks. It’s better that you did. Lachko was trying to intimidate both of us, for different reasons. As you saw, he’s not subtle, and sometimes he gets carried away.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “We had a one-sided conversation, Lachko, Sergei, and I. When they got bored, they dumped me somewhere off Ocean Avenue. I took the subway home.”

  “You took the subway?”

  “I told you before, Russians are stubborn. That was before I slipped and hit my head on the coffee table. I did that all by myself.”

  “With a little help from the vodka bottle, I think.”

  “Drinking beer without vodka is just a way to spend money.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “What it says. Russian proverb.”

  “Russian horseshit. You probably already had a concussion, so a couple of shots is just what you needed.”

  “I realize the visual evidence doesn’t support me, but I do an okay job of taking care of myself.”

  “You sure know how to pick your friends, too.”

  “Careful,” Foos said from the kitchen.

  “Present company excepted, of course,” Victoria added quickly. “Did Barsukov say anything about Risly?”

  “Ahhh, that’s why you’re so attentive. The depth of your concern is touching.”

  “Hey! That’s not fair. I called you three times. Who do you think got you to the hospital?”

  “She’s telling it straight, Turbo,” Foos said. “You’d still be out cold on the rug.”

  “Sorry. Meant it as a joke. Barsukov didn’t kill Risly, if that’s what you’re asking. Risly was his protégé, or that’s the way he looks at it. He was also a golden-egg-laying goose.”

  “We reckoned he was the point man on the money laundry.”

  “You were right. How’d you get onto that, if it’s not a state secret?”

  “We’ve been running a joint investigation with your CPS for more than a year now. They’ve been able to track large sums of money moving in and out of Russian banks. Some of it originates in Russia, some moves in from Asia and the Middle East. It moves out again to the kind of places you’d expect—Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Cayman Islands. We got a break when things in Liechtenstein loosened up, and we could see that money moving into the U.S. in thousands of small chunks. We also found funds headed the other way. But we lost the trail here. Then we got lucky about six months ago. Two of your countrymen got in a fight at an East Village bar. They were drunk. Big surprise.”

  I let that pass.

  “One of them pulls a knife and cuts the other across the chest. Not so bad that it kills him, but enough to require a couple yards of stitches. So one gets taken to the hospital, the other to the precinct house, and miracle number one, the cops at each compare notes on what they found. Both men carrying BlackBerrys, and both BlackBerrys have identical long lists of messages, and the messages are tables filled with some kind of code. The cops didn’t know what to make of it, but they sent it up the line, where, miracle number two, a lieutenant figures this might be bigger than a bar fight and orders the BlackBerrys returned to their owners, after they’ve been bugged. He also orders the owners released, which was easy because when they sobered up, nobody pressed charges. He also ordered them followed. Miracle number three, he calls us.”

  “You used up your quota,” I said.

  “You got that right. These two Russians ain’t the swiftest bears in the forest, and they go blithely about their business over the following days and weeks like nothing has happened. So we know they spend most of their day at banks and ATM machines, depositing and withdrawing money. We know the money ain’t theirs, but we don’t know who the accounts belong to and how they can move around as much dough as they do, in such small increments. Nobody can have that many bank accounts. And we can’t subpoena every transaction of every bank, every branch, every day.”

  “Not even under the Patriot Act?” Foos said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  “What’s wrong with the Patriot Act?” she said.

  “Perhaps you haven’t been properly introduced,” I said. “Victoria de Millenuits, this is Foster Helix. Foos, Victoria.”

  “The Foster Helix?” Her head swung back and forth between the two of us. Foos tried to look innocent, something he’s not good at. I’m sure I just looked frightful.

  “The Foster Helix,” I said. “Privacy advocate, STOP founder and CEO, thorn in the side of government agencies everywhere.”

  “God damn it! You should’ve warned me. I could lose my job telling him what I just told him. I mean, Jesus, I work with guys who want to bring back the electric chair, just for him.”

  “Music to my ears,” Foos said. He gave her a mischievous grin. “But you don’t need to worry. We’re all friends here. Right, Turbo? Mind if I sample your vodka?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “Victoria?”

  She looked at me. “Don’t suppose you have any wine?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll have mine on the rocks, then.”

  “T
urbo?”

  “None for him,” she said.

  I looked back at Victoria. “Maybe I can do without your concern.”

  Foos brought her a glass. It looked good.

  “Do you know that goddamned foundation of his has filed a half-dozen amicus briefs in cases we’ve got under appeal?” she said.

  “I thought it was more,” I said. “Did I mention I’m on STOP’s board? Foos, Pig Pen, and me. You’ll like Pig Pen. He’s the secretary.”

  “Shit. It’s a good thing for you y’all are in the kinda shape you’re in.”

  Foos arched an eyebrow at her logic. “I’m outta here. Gotta meet someone. Need anything before I split? Can you make it to the bedroom?”

  “Think so.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Victoria said. Things were looking up. Not that I had strength to do anything about it.

  “Okay,” he said, putting the vodka bottle away. I felt a small regret, but that was the last thing I needed.

  Foos said good night and was gone. Victoria sat watching me.

  “Y’all don’t look bad in black and blue and yellow, but I think I prefer the plain shaved head.”

  “Thanks for everything you did. I’m sorry you got caught up in this.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for all the music in New Orleans—except for what happened to you, of course. People in my position, especially people like me who get to my position, we rarely get to see the bad guys face-to-face, and never in their own lair. I’m sorry about what happened, and I do mean that, but I wouldn’t trade that visit for ten trips home.”

  “Glad it worked out for someone.”

  “I still have to ask you about Rislyakov.”

  I had the same thought I had at Lachko’s about lying and telling the truth. Might as well get some benefit from my injuries. “I know. Tomorrow. I’m not good for much more today.”

  She gave me a long look. “Okay. You think if you lean on me you can make it to your room?”

  “Leaning on you…”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Let’s try.”

  She came over, and I pushed myself up. The painkillers were still doing their thing. I tried not to put too much weight on her. She took what I had with ease and guided me across the floor. We got to my room, and she let me down easily on the bed.

  “Can you get undressed or you need help?”

  “Help.”

  She took a step back. “Sugar, remember I’ve already seen it all, and I’m excited, but we both know for a fact excitement ain’t gonna rule tonight or anytime soon. You really need help?”

  “No, but I’m not happy about it.”

  “Neither am I. Although the why of it mystifies me.”

  She put her arms around the back of my neck and kissed me gently on the forehead. I felt good for the first time in two days.

  “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

  She left, and I managed to shed my clothes before I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Chekist lighted a cigarette and put the computer aside, his mind still back in the Valdai barn. He’d made Kosokov drink until he polished off the vodka bottle. The man was drunk when he got there; he had to be borderline blotto now, but he wouldn’t talk. The Chekist asked again and again about the CDs. Kosokov kept lying—they don’t exist.

  “I have you on tape, Anatoly Andreivich. You made copies. Tell me where they are and you live.”

  Kosokov laughed and threw up on the floor. The Chekist hit him with the gun, and he fell in his own vomit. The Chekist kicked him in the face.

  The banker was a weak man, but he’d decided to make a stand. Why?

  He left Kosokov unconscious and made a survey of the barn, looking for something he could use to break his will. It couldn’t be that hard, but time wasn’t on his side.

  He was passing through the horse stalls when he sensed movement again. The stall to his left. He stopped by the gate and listened motionless. Breathing? A scratching sound. He raised his pistol, kicked the gate open, and fired. The bullet sank itself in old timber. The stall was empty. Had to be rats.

  In the garage he found several gas cans. He’d give Kosokov one more chance to talk or burn in the hell he deserved.

  The driver helped him bind the banker’s hands and feet to a post. The Chekist poured gasoline in his hands and threw it in Kosokov’s face.

  “Whaaaa?”

  “Wake up, Anatoly. This is your last chance. CDs—where?”

  “Fuck you.”

  The Chekist gave him another splash and carried the can around the perimeter, pouring as he went. When it was empty, he went back to the garage and got another to finish the job. There was more than enough to run a liquid fuse out the door through the snow. Kosokov watched from his stake, still in a stupor, with rising terror. He tugged at his knots.

  “You wouldn’t,” he croaked. “Even the Cheka…”

  “I would and I will. CDs—where?”

  Something passed through Kosokov’s eyes—realization, resignation, defiance, he couldn’t tell, but he knew he’d lost the battle.

  “One more chance, Anatoly Andreivich. Where are the copies and you live.”

  Kosokov spat. “For what? To be shot later. The Cheka’s its own worst enemy. Someday you’ll understand that.”

  “There’ll be no someday, Anatoly, unless you tell me what I want to know.”

  Kosokov spat again—in his face. He could smell the alcohol and gasoline as it ran down his cheek.

  “I’m going to light a match. I estimate you’ll have five minutes. Shout if you change your mind.”

  He walked through the open door, waiting for the banker to call his bluff, but he didn’t.

  Fuck him. Maybe they were still in the house. Maybe Polina had them. He’d deal with it. He fired the match and dropped it in the snow.

  The fire snake slithered into the barn. It took a matter of seconds before the walls leapt into flame. The old timber burned fast. He hadn’t even needed the gas. He waited for Kosokov’s call, but it didn’t come. The fire spread across the doorway, shutting off his view. The flames climbed the walls to the roof and kept leaping upward. A few minutes later, sections of the roof began to fall. A few more minutes, and it was over. The whole structure collapsed in on itself, a bonfire of heat and orange flame.

  Damned fool.

  He had to move fast now. The fire would attract attention, even out here.

  There was still Polina to be dealt with.

  TUESDAY

  CHAPTER 30

  I awoke at six, having slept almost ten hours, to find that I felt semihuman, I could move, with difficulty, and Victoria was still with me. She was in the kitchen, making coffee and looking fresh and rested even though she wore the same clothes as yesterday.

  “Look who’s back among the living,” she said. “Sort of.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “You’re welcome. How do you feel?”

  “Better than yesterday.”

  “Better than you look?”

  “I haven’t checked the mirror yet.”

  “Don’t.” She handed me a steaming cup. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

  Me? “I don’t remember beating myself up.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You think I go looking for trouble.”

  “Yes. Not intentionally, maybe, but you don’t care if you find it—or it finds you. That’s not normal.”

  “A pig will always find mud.”

  “Another goddamned proverb?”

  “We’ve got one for just about everything.”

  “Everyone you know is either dead, has one foot in jail, or is trying to do you harm. Like I said, that ain’t normal.”

  Didn’t seem unusual to me, but my brain was probably still addled.

  “You think you can manage for yourself today?”

  “I do most days.”

  “Most days aren’t the day after you were in the hospital. You wa
nt my advice, you stay right here, try to get some more sleep, get your strength back.”

  “Your concern is still touching. I’ll try to take it easy.”

  “You want to tell me about your friend Rislyakov?”

  “Don’t you Americans have an amendment that protects against self-incrimination?”

  “We do. It works in a courtroom. I’ve got a rule against fooling around with felons. That applies right here in your kitchen. So you can tell me what you know or I’m outta here—and not coming back.”

  “Talk about rock and hard place.”

  “Don’t worry.” The green eyes smiled. “I won’t use anything you say against you—unless, of course, it should be. Besides, I’ve been reading your notes. You can start there. This Iakov the same guy you told me about at dinner?”

  She pushed across the piece of paper with the list I’d written out during my brief window of semi-lucidity.

  “One of the first things they teach you in spy school is never write down anything.”

  “You failed that class. C’mon, give. What were you doing at the Greene Street loft? What happened there? I’m bettin’ you found a dead Rislyakov. What else?”

  I don’t know whether it was the fallout from the pain and painkillers, accumulated stress and exhaustion, or just the green pools staring across the counter, but no chance I could dance around her questions in any way that would satisfy her—or me. I didn’t even want to try. So I told my Cheka training to take a rest while I told her what she wanted to hear—all of it. Or at least the all of it that I knew.

  We drank two cups of coffee each while I talked. She took it all in, without question or interruption. Along the way, I realized I’d forgotten something important. I gave myself a mental kick. Even that hurt. I wrote “Blue Impala” on the paper and kept on with the story. When I finished she said, “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “Same question Bernie asked. Short answer, I needed that computer for leverage to get Sasha out of Lubyanka. Long answer, I was determined to figure out what’s going on. Still am. We’re stubborn, remember?”

  “Stubborn ain’t the half of it. Did you have to give the computer to Barsukov?”