by Dale Brown
Given an unexpected reprieve, Borya spent the school day attending all of her classes, uncharacteristically participating in each one, even in a discussion of Catcher in the Rye, where her teacher complimented her definition of alienation. While her opinion of the book had not changed—dreck—she was now aware of a certain parallel between the main character and her own life. Hers was more interesting and she was smarter, but Holden Caulfield did at least have the right impulses, even if his inventor couldn’t express them properly.
Caulfield’s escape to New York had a certain appeal, given her father’s likely attitude at her breaking curfew and using a “found” ATM card (the explanation she had settled on), but ultimately she decided to go home. She knew from experience that his anger would be short-lived. She also knew, or guessed, that he would be unable to figure out what she was up to, and as long as she supplied a halfway decent story to explain it, the repercussions would be limited.
I found the ATM card on the way home and decided to see if it worked.
A simple story, impossible to refute. She worked on the narrative as she walked home, imagining it unfolding as an interrogation:
Where did you find it?
On the sidewalk.
You didn’t look for the owner?
I asked a man I saw. He shook his head.
Where was this?
Around the corner.
No, that was too close. Someone might have seen her, or rather, not seen her.
A block from school, in the gutter. It was wet.
Good touch.
Why did you go out after curfew?
I had to do my homework first.
He’d like that answer. Maybe he wouldn’t believe it—she could offer to have him call her teachers, who’d all remember how bright she’d been today.
Curfew was going to be the sticker. She couldn’t get away from the basic fact that she had been out late. So she was going to be in trouble for that, no matter what else.
She could say she was sorry about that, right away.
I throw myself on the mercy of the court and I fall on my sword.
He’d ask where she got such expressions. She could mention Catcher in the Rye, even though they weren’t in there that she recalled. He’d accuse her of changing the subject. She’d say she was simply answering questions.
A thousand variations occurred to her as she neared her home. She needed more time to rehearse—she turned quickly up the block, planning to circle until she felt ready.
Tolevi leapt from the couch, caught by surprise.
“Easy,” said Yuri Johansen. “Slow down.”
Johansen stood in front of him in the living room. Two men, both in black pin-striped suits, stood behind him. Both looked as if they could headline a heavyweight boxing match, even in formal wear. Johansen himself was dressed in tan khakis and a pullover sweater, casual. Tolevi shook his head, trying to wake up. He’d been in the middle of a dream.
His wife was in it, alive. They were in a building somewhere, running, lost . . . He couldn’t remember the details.
“What’s this ATM scam you’re running?” asked Johansen mildly.
“What ATM scam?” asked Tolevi.
“The FBI has you fingered for a bank scam. That’s why they picked you up. Luckily for you, I intervened. It wasn’t easy. I had to get the deputy director involved.” Johansen turned to one of the suits. “Go make him some coffee.”
“Why are you here?” Tolevi asked.
“Because you were in trouble.” Johansen shook his head, smiling. “You are being a naughtier boy than we thought.”
“I don’t like games,” said Tolevi. He thought of the pistol hidden below the end table, and the other, behind the dresser in his bedroom. It was impossible to reach either, and beyond foolish to use them, yet something about the idea of shooting Johansen appealed to him in a way it never had before.
Kill all of them and be done with them.
Then what? Escape to Mexico with Borya. Or Russia, or Kiev.
Neither would do.
“End whatever you are doing with the banks,” said Johansen, his tone once more businesslike. “That is over.”
“I’m not doing anything with the banks.”
“Your mob connections—it’s time for you to ease them off. To the extent you can without destroying your contacts.”
“I’m not part of the family. You know that. But they are very useful.”
“Find another way to get things done.”
“Why are you giving me orders?” asked Tolevi. “That’s not how I work.”
“Have some coffee,” said Johansen, nodding at the suit who was approaching with a cup. “You take it black, yes?”
Borya trotted up the stairs, ready to deal with her father. She pushed through the outside door and walked quickly through the hall. The building had once housed two apartments; when it was remodeled, the exterior stairs to the second floor were retained, along with the opening to the first floor near the rear of the hall. Borya swung her key from its string on her pocket, then saw that the door was ajar.
A sure sign her father was home and awake.
Oh well.
She pushed inside, taking two steps across the foyer before spotting the two men in business suits gaping at her near the open dining area on the other side of the living room. Her father and another man, older, with white hair, were sitting at the table. She didn’t recognize any of them, aside from her father.
The man with the white hair turned and looked at her.
“You must be Borya,” he said cheerfully. “Hello.”
“We’re busy,” snapped her father. “Go do your homework.”
“I get a snack,” she said, taken off guard by his tone. “I—”
“Later.”
Borya put her head down and headed quickly through the living room to the back hall.
Why were the men here? Were they police?
They must have discovered her ATM scam. She cursed herself for letting it go on too long.
Gluttony. That was the worst sin. The nuns told her that all the time. Why hadn’t she listened? They were humorless old farts, but they did know certain things, things that could at least get you out of trouble, or steer you away from it.
She’d damned herself by being too cocky, too confident. She didn’t need the money—she’d barely spent any of it. She’d done it for the thrill, and what was that now, now that they were going to send her to jail?
Borya closed her door carefully and threw herself on the bed, completely in despair. She would never get out of this. They would drive her to jail, lock her up until she was an old woman.
My life is over.
She rolled over to her back, staring at the ceiling and trying to hear what the men were saying below. Their voices were too low and muffled to make anything out. Reluctantly, she got up and crept to the door. Still unable to make any sense of the muffled voices, she cracked the door open and put her ear into the opening, holding her breath as she listened.
“We need you there by the end of the week,” said one of the men—the white-haired geezer guy.
“That’s all you tell me?” That was definitely her father. He was speaking sharply, his tone even harder than he used when the nuns called about a test she had blown off.
The white-haired guy said something too muffled to make out. Then her father again:
“I can’t leave my daughter.”
“Find a way.”
They weren’t talking about ATMs and the banks. They weren’t here about her at all.
Borya’s mood rocketed. She pressed her ear against the open space, leaning out, curious now.
Careful! Curiosity killed the cat.
“Use this phone to contact me tomorrow,” said the white-haired guy.
Chairs scraped. Footsteps.
Borya pushed the door closed and tiptoed over to the bed, trying to be quiet.
If they come in, I’ll pretend to be asleep.
&nb
sp; As soon as Johansen and his goons were gone, Tolevi went to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of vodka from below the sink. He poured three fingers’ worth into a tumbler and downed it all. He refilled it, this time about two fingers’ worth, and once more drained the glass. Then he splashed about a finger’s worth in and went to sit down on the couch.
You have a name for the contact?
He is the brother of the man we want and he owns a shop. You’ll get an address, That’s enough.
No, it’s not.
If I tell you now, you’re a liability, even to yourself.
Is he wanted by the Russian, or the rebels?
Both.
How do I get him out?
Use your skills. I’m confident.
Why do you need him out?
He has information we need. Really, Gabe, you don’t need to know anything else. Just get it done.
Tolevi might be a smuggler by trade and an occasional spy, but he was not a killer, let alone the sort of action hero who could dig through the weeds and come out with a prize. That’s what they needed here.
Waltz out of Donetsk with some sort of CIA prize? Surely the rebels and the Russians would object. Violently.
Tolevi had killed before, but that was when he was young, and they’d deserved it. Then it was kill or be killed, and such decisions were not really decisions, were they? The species had evolved to make that very decision, to take that action. Kill or be killed.
Going into a place specifically to seek danger—that wasn’t him. Profit, yes, and sometimes that involved risk. You could balance that as an equation—it was math: X risk equals Y profit. But this was a little more complicated: risk to X power equals? Profit.
He could make the visit pay—that would be a good idea as a cover in any event. But beyond that . . . was finding some forlorn CIA contact something he wanted to do?
Did he have a choice?
“Daddy?”
“Hey, Sugarbaby.” Tolevi put down the glass and went to his daughter. She clutched him tightly, her fists grabbing the back of his shirt. She was getting big, reminding him more and more of her mother, God rest her soul.
“Who were those men?”
“Businesspeople.”
“For work?”
“Yeah. Something I need to do. It means more traveling.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“I’m afraid I have to.”
Tolevi wasn’t sure how much his daughter truly knew about his “business” arrangements. And naturally he kept any hint that he was working for the CIA from her.
On the other hand, an array of characters had visited the house over the years, and she’d met even more at various parties father and daughter attended. Borya even knew a number of mobsters’ sons and daughters. Though they never spoke about that part of his life, he suspected she had at least an inkling of his connections. It occurred to him that he should discuss that at some point.
But not now.
“I don’t like it when you go,” said Borya.
“I don’t like to leave you either. But you have school.”
“The lessons are so boring. They’re a waste.”
“And what were you doing out last night?” asked Tolevi. “Why were you out after curfew?”
“I found an ATM card,” she said.
She’d held on to him all this time; now she let go and sat on the chair across from the couch. He hadn’t realized how warm she was until she let go; he almost shivered.
Maybe she had a fever?
“Where did you find this card?”
“I found it near the school. I wanted to try it.”
“So you rode your bike all the way across town?”
Borya’s expression seemed to say, Where else would I have gone? She had a way of doing that—turning a perfectly natural question around as if it were the most bizarre thing in the world to ask.
“Where exactly did you find it?”
“On the sidewalk. Near school.”
“You know it was stolen?”
“It was?”
“That’s what the police say. It could have gotten you in a lot of trouble.”
“Oh.”
“You rode your bike pretty far in the dark,” Tolevi said, deciding to drop the business about the card. It was only natural that she would try to use it. He couldn’t fault her for that.
“It wasn’t that far.”
“It was after curfew.”
“I know I broke curfew.” She shook her head. “I know you’re going to punish me. I deserve it.”
Even though Tolevi knew this was a tactic designed to win leniency, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat proud of her for taking responsibility. She really was a good daughter—brilliantly smart, responsible, able to take care of herself. She didn’t go running all over town with druggies, and she wasn’t throwing herself at boys. She studied, got excellent grades. All the nuns said she could get into MIT. It was just a question of what she wanted as a major.
Probably some computer thing. He’d really prefer a doctor. But she had to follow her own muse.
“I am going to punish you,” said Tolevi. “We’ll figure out the punishment together.”
“Do you have the card?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“I just wondered.”
“Do you know whose card it was?”
She shook her head solemnly. Tolevi searched for something to say. He didn’t think she’d stolen it herself—Borya wasn’t like that—but it was just possible one of her friends had. That Susan Abonfinch or whatever her name was. She was a little sneak.
And the boyfriend last year. He was headed for the penitentiary—though if Tolevi saw him around Borya again, he’d save the state a lot of expense.
“What’s my punishment?” asked Borya.
Tolevi felt a pang of sorrow. Her voice sounded so much like her mother’s.
“What do you suggest?” he asked.
“No television for a month?”
“That may be too severe,” said Tolevi, already weakening. “Two weeks. But—”
“I won’t do it again. I promise.”
“And not while I’m away, especially. I worry about you.”
Borya jumped up from the chair and hugged him again, pushing her face against his chest. She was going to be some heartbreaker, this girl. Worse than her mother.
“You haven’t called me Sugarbaby in a long time,” she told him.
“I always think it.”
“I love you, Papa.”
“I love you, too.” He pushed her gently from his chest. “Now don’t take advantage of that.”
“I won’t.”
“Ha! I’m going to call Mrs. Jordan and see if she can stay with you while I’m gone. In the house. So she’s here all the time. Do you have much homework?”
“Just science.”
“Do it. Then we’ll go out for pizza.”
“I’d rather sushi.”
“Sushi, then. Go.”
More and more like her mother every day, Tolevi thought as he looked for Mrs. Jordan’s number in his phone’s index.
38
Boston—around the same time
Jenkins had no intention of giving up the case. If anything, the fact that the CIA had reached out to pressure him made him all the more determined.
But he had to be careful now, more careful than he’d been. Putting Mr. Massina off was the first step. Staking out Tolevi’s home was the second.
The three men who came down the stairs looked a little too polished for mob types, at least not of the Russian variety. The shorter guy might be; he was older, casually dressed, and while he didn’t look particularly Russian, he had the swagger Jenkins associated with a street hood.
The other two, though. They might be bodyguard or enforcer types, except for their ties. In Jenkins’s experience, Russian mobsters never wore ties, except in court. They preferred open collars beneath their suits.
He to
ok all their pictures anyway.
With no backup, he wasn’t in a position to follow them, but he did want to at least get a license plate. He slipped his car into gear and waited for them to get almost to the end of the block before he pulled out.
They turned the corner. Jenkins accelerated, not wanting to lose them. As he came around the corner, a white panel truck cut into his lane. Jenkins hit the brakes so hard the car veered to the right, just missing a Volkswagen parked near the corner.
“Son of a bitch,” he shouted.
He laid on the horn, cursing. Then another car hit him from behind, pushing his vehicle into the VW. Jenkins pounded the steering wheel and went to grab the door handle.
Instead he found himself being lifted through the already open door. Before he could react, he was thrown against the hood of his car. His jacket and arms were pulled behind him, and his gun holster twisted back. As two men, each much larger than himself, pinned him against the car, another removed his wallet and his pistol.
“Let him go.”
Jenkins shook himself free as he was let up off the car. He turned and saw the man with the white hair who’d come out of the apartment holding his wallet and service pistol. He was grinning.
“Special Agent in Charge, huh?” The man flipped the wallet to him but held on to the gun. “You have to be more alert in Boston, even down here.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just some friendly advice.” The man flicked the magazine latch on the pistol, dropping the box to the ground. Then he cleared the chamber, making sure the weapon was empty. “The streets can be pretty mean. I know you have a pistol on your leg,” he added. “Reaching for it wouldn’t be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”
“I’m going to nail you,” said Jenkins.
The man laughed. “You don’t even know who I am. Let me give you another piece of advice—don’t poke your nose into places where it doesn’t belong. The next person who sees it may not be as considerate as I am.”
