by D. F. Bailey
Another woman slipped into the bathroom and before the door closed behind her, Eve caught a glimpse of a familiar face as a man turned along the exterior corridor. But who? She often had trouble identifying people when she saw someone out of context. Normally she’d simply release the feeling of ambivalence and walk on. But this face troubled her. She decided to follow him. Ahead she saw the slouching shoulders, the salt-and-pepper hair — and when he turned into the hotel lobby — the toothbrush mustache. Damian Witowsky.
She stopped, felt her heart thrum, then jogged after him. When she caught his elbow, he swung around with a look of surprise, a look that immediately shifted to suspicion.
“Knew I’d see you here,” he said.
“You did?” Her eyes narrowed. “So what? Now you’re tailing me?”
Witowsky scanned the room, wary of being watched. “Look, not here in the lobby. Let’s take this outside.”
As she followed him onto the sidewalk and along Kalakaua Avenue she wondered how he’d found her, but immediately let the question go. As an SFPD cop he could track her down using any of a dozen tools: monitoring the GPS on her cell phone or the trail of her credit card purchases. What troubled her more were her paranoid suspicions about his motivation. Witowsky had followed her to do what exactly? Arrest her for leaving the scene of Dean Whitelaw’s murder? To question her about Gianna’s estate? Or to seize the GIGcoin flash drive?
He turned a corner onto Lewers Street, glanced over both shoulders and, satisfied that no one had followed them, he settled on an empty bench under an awning. A light rain drizzled from the canopy onto the sidewalk just past their feet.
“So. What’s this about, Witowsky?” She sat beside him and looked into his eyes. He glanced away. “All right. Now I know I’m about to get a load of BS topped with a fresh layer of horse shit. Can’t you be straight for once?”
“I’m here for the same reason you are, Eve.” He glanced past her shoulder to the end of the street. “Alexei Malinin.”
The answer surprised her.
“How did you know he was here?”
“Flight manifest flagged him.”
“And why are you interested in him? He hasn’t committed any crimes in San Francisco.”
“Hasn’t he?” He smiled. “You know I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“No? What if I gave IAD a call and let them know where you are?”
“IAD? What do they care?” He sniffed and tipped his head to one side.
“I heard they’re nosing through your case files. A few people say you crossed over.”
“Bullshit.” He scuffed his heel against the pavement. “You think I’d have access to the Surveillance and Monitoring network if IAD were on me?”
S-and-M as the old boys called it. She coughed up a bleak laugh as she considered this. True enough. Maybe Leanne’s rumor was just another paranoid lie that slithered through the SFPD every other month. Suddenly the rainstorm broke open with a blaze of lightning and a baritone thunder clap. She turned her attention back to Witowsky.
“It’s because you need me, don’t you? That’s why you’re here. You need me to get to Malinin.” She leaned forward, pressed him to look squarely at her, but his eyes snaked away again. “What do you know about Malinin?”
“A hell of a lot more than you, apparently. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here with no one else besides Clark Kent and Captain Gizmo.” He crooked his thumb in the direction of her hotel.
Eve looked away and studied the rain as it slashed down on the street. For the first time in years she felt out of her depth. The Russians filming her making love with Will was bad enough, but now Witowsky seemed to know everything about her, Will, and Sochi. And their rendezvous with Malinin.
“Okay. Pants down. You caught me.” She laughed a genuine, almost inviting laugh to suggest that Witowsky held some pretty good cards.
“You’re in way over your head, Eve. Way over.”
“Maybe.”
“No, not maybe.” He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke away from her. “For real. Why do you think Malinin wants to meet here? And it ain’t for the golden sunshine.” He drew on his cigarette and continued. “Because Honolulu is a center of Russian mafia. He does his deal and snap” — his fingers clicked in the air — “his fixers come by to clean up the chills and spills while he disappears.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I want you to work with me. On Malinin.” A cloud of smoke drifted from his mouth. “In exchange, I’ll provide some back up when you need it.”
“First tell me why you want him.”
Ever alert for some unknown danger, Witowsky peered up the road and then turned back to Eve. “Sorry, I can’t tell you that.”
“Then fuck you, Witowsky.”
She stood up. He gripped her elbow and pulled her back beside him.
“All right.” He squeezed the half-finished cigarette under his heel. “It goes back to the Toeplitz and Whitelaw murders. Last week our tech team scanned all their computers. Then we discovered something called GIGcoin.” He paused to gauge her reaction.
“Go on.”
“It’s digital currency like bitcoin. Something that Toeplitz engineered for Whitelaw and an international syndicate. And my Assistant Captain thinks all of it’s tied to Malinin.”
“And?”
“We know in order for Malinin to go forward with GIGcoin without Whitelaw and Toeplitz, he needs something.” Finally able to hold her gaze, he stared into her face. “Something that I know you’ve got, Eve.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. And I think that’s why you’re here. But make no mistake, he’ll kill you for it. Whether you give it to him or he has to take it from you. Once he has it he’ll take you out. You and your two friends.”
Eve looked along the length of the street. It was lined with high-end shops and hotels. A few tourists willing to brave the steady shower ducked from the protection of one awning to another. If Witowsky could provide backup, what would it cost her? In the past she’d never agree to work with him. But now, with the risks mounting, he could prove useful.
“All right, Witowsky. Whatever it is you think I might possess is irrelevant for now. But if you want Malinin, then show up at the Maunakea Market in Chinatown tomorrow morning. Ten A.M. sharp.”
※
While Sochi and Finch waited for Eve to return to their table, Finch brooded over the events of the past day. First the news from Eve and Sochi that they’d been surveilled by the Russians. Well, maybe. After his dinner at the Shorebird Finch knew that Malinin possessed the local resources to manage any kind of spy craft. He could pay for intelligence, hire some muscle from the local Russian mafia, bribe the desk staff to reveal Finch’s room number, monitor his movements in and out of the hotel, and install the bug without leaving a trace. Standard FSB operations. But what of his talk about betrayal? Of mutual assured destruction. Surely he knew that if Finch discovered the spy cams, Malinin could lose his only chance to retrieve the GIGcoin software.
Furthermore, Sochi made a convincing argument that any high school senior with a modicum of tech smarts could mail-order the electronic components and install two spy cams in under five minutes.
After considering the possibilities, Finch tried to clarify their situation. “So in fact, the Russians might not be the bad guys.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m saying setting up the web cams is dead-beat easy.” His head turned from left to right, scanning the cocktail lounge for Malinin, Kirill or Marat. “And if they toy with us again,” he said, “I will completely screw them.”
“Careful.” Finch’s tone was apprehensive. “Malinin doesn’t tolerate any treachery. He laid out a clear warning to me tonight.”
Sochi sneered at that, a look of anger Finch hadn’t seen from him before. “Don’t worry. I can fix it so they won’t even know what’s happened. They’ll be rubbing the round part of their asses wondering who poked them. Meanwhile we’l
l be back in San Fran.”
Minutes later Eve returned to the lounge with her news about bumping into Witowsky and that the grizzled old cop had tracked her down in Waikiki. As she spoke, Finch studied her with a look of disbelief.
After she explained the little she knew about Witowsky’s interest in Malinin, Sochi pushed off for an early night. “Besides,” he said, “I need to make some final tweaks to the software. Before I meet the Ruskies tomorrow, I want to have plans A, B, and C lined up to deal with any contingencies.”
“Don’t make this unnecessarily complex,” Finch warned him. “Remember, all you have to do is exchange flash drives and check to ensure Marat is giving you a valid key. It’s really that simple.”
“Is it?” Sochi drew the two web cams from his pocket and held them aloft as if he were displaying evidence to a jury. “I rest my case.” He turned and walked across the outdoor patio, trying to dodge the rain that poured between the umbrellas.
“What’s he really up to?” Finch asked when they’d returned to their hotel room.
“Sochi?”
“Him, too. But more important, Witowsky.” Finch locked the door and dropped his courier bag to the floor.
“He says it’s all about Malinin. But I don’t trust him.”
“Me neither.” Finch recalled Witowsky grilling him after Dean Whitelaw’s murder. And again, in the hospital when he produced a warrant and confiscated Eve’s phone. Then came the interrogation — a week too late — about Fiona’s kidnapping. And now he appears at the Moana Surfrider in Honolulu. A string of unlucky coincidences? Impossible.
He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth.
Eve leaned on the door, hesitated, and then said, “Trust him or not, I asked him to cover us tomorrow in Chinatown.”
“You what?” He rinsed out his mouth and turned to her.
“We need him, Will. Don’t you see it? We’re completely outgunned. If Malinin put together this surveillance operation” — she pointed to the ceiling smoke detector — “it means he’s playing in a bigger league than us. And probably with twice as many players.”
He sauntered over to the bed, a heavy weariness dragging through his feet. “You brought your .38?”
“It’s in the case.” She tipped her chin towards the locked, hardshell box in the closet. As a registered PI she’d simply followed standard protocols and checked it in with her luggage during the preflight clearance. “But if Witowsky’s right about Malinin, a .38 is more a liability than a threat.”
No doubt about it, he thought. Once someone draws a pistol, all the halfway options vanish. The middle ground disappears and whatever talk remains runs to extremes. The only important question then is, who has the bigger gun?
“You think he can bring in the Honolulu police if we need them?”
“If it were me, I’d have a SWAT team in place. Ready, set, locked and loaded.”
“Right.” Finch tugged off his shirt and pants, flopped onto the bed, stretched out his legs and turned his head toward her. His eyelids felt heavy, trance-like. “Except he’s not like you. He’s Witowsky.”
“Sadly.” She shrugged and began to unbutton her blouse.
He listened to the rain beating against the windows, the wind slapping the palm tree limbs together. Despite the violent weather, he sensed a peace of mind approaching, the void that follows complete exhaustion. He pulled the sheet over his chest and watched Eve undress through his half-closed eyes. He liked to see the clothes slip away from her body, gaze at her breasts as she strolled naked through the room, watch her apply various creams to her hands and face, brush out her hair. It provided a marvelous distraction, a glimpse into a private world that she seemed more than happy to reveal.
But soon the abyss called to him and dragged him under. Before she’d removed her bra — before she’d even unhitched the clasp — he fell into the vast emptiness and didn’t budge for another seven hours.
※
The morning heat in Chinatown began to cook the air. A stew of fragrances from the vegetable, meat and seafood stalls drifted through the streets leading to Maunakea Marketplace. Rows of bananas, papaya, pineapple, mangos, kiwis and dozens of foreign, exotic fruits and vegetables lined the exterior walls of shops along the crowded streets. As the fast food chefs prepared for the noon-hour rush, the burst of flavors from stir-fried meats and fish sent an intoxicating plume through Finch’s nostrils.
He walked along the open plaza in the heart of the market, past the statue of a standing Buddha and settled into a chair in the shade of the east wall. He found a local newspaper that had been abandoned on a nearby table and began to leaf through its pages. On the second floor promenade above the market courtyard, Eve leaned against the railing. Below her, opposite Finch’s position, Sochi sat on a clay stool next to a table covered by a green sun umbrella. Finch studied Sochi’s face as he gazed across the patio. Even in his surfer shorts, t-shirt and leather vest he still resembled a cross between a Viking and a Canadian logger. Finch had to agree with Eve; Sochi was a quirk wandering in an anomaly lost in an aberration. And yet so brilliant.
He glanced at Eve again as she walked the length of the upper promenade, her hand trailing along the balustrade. No trace of the .38 under her vest. They nodded to one another. Steady, ready.
Finch continued to scan the crowds. Witowsky, if he was present, had made himself invisible. Same with Malinin, Marat and Kirill. The mid-morning shoppers were already swarming around the vendors hawking hand-made jewelry, knock-off jade carvings, burnished ukuleles, wood flutes and whistles, and a sea of plastic knick-knacks imported from China. What had become of the world, Finch wondered. Everyone up to the their chins in debt — just so they could purchase the endless stream of junk needed to keep the economy afloat. What if everyone simply agreed to stop the nonsense and —
Marat.
Finch snapped out of his reverie when he glimpsed the young Russian approaching the market courtyard through the south concourse. Impossible as it seemed, Marat looked more jaundiced than yesterday. His skin had the color of cold urine and the flesh on his face hung from his cheekbones and jaw. As he walked across the red brick courtyard toward the Buddha statue his eyes seemed to peer at the world from a distant place, as if he might be witnessing this life from a bottomless hole.
Despite his illness, Marat had no trouble finding the standing Buddha. Sochi nodded to him. Marat said nothing and sat beside him. He drew a laptop from his shoulder bag, lifted the cover and turned it on.
He drew heavily on a cigarette and flicked the butt to one side. After a moment he turned his eyes to Sochi and began the final negotiations.
※
“You have flash drive?”
“Yes.” Sochi took a moment to study the Russian, to assess the extent of his broken health. Something about Marat bothered Sochi — something out of place, even alien. Why had Malinin assigned this half-living soul to test the validity of the software?
The Russian wagged a finger. “Then give.”
Sochi pretended to fumble for the flash drive in his vest pocket, and as he fussed, he caught sight of Finch walking beside a fruit stall on the far side of the plaza. Eve leaned on the rail on the second floor concourse above him. So far no sign of the monster, Kirill, or Malinin himself. As for Witowsky, who knew?
He held the GIGcoin drive in his fingers as if he were tempting a child. “And yours?”
“Is here.” Marat drew a metal stick from his shirt pocket.
For a moment they held the two drives a few inches apart. Sochi felt as if he were preparing for a hockey face-off. He nodded. The two men traded the drives and Marat immediately plugged the GIGcoin drive into his computer and began to type a series of keystrokes. Sochi could tell at a glance that the Russian had prepared a set of validity tests to determine if the GIGcoin software was authentic. As he completed each one he nodded as if he were assessing the sequence of moves in a chess game. With each nod he mumbled, “Mmm. Mmm.”
&nbs
p; Because Sochi only had to evaluate the viability of the key his assessment consisted of answering two questions. One, did the key fit one of the two locks? Yes, it did. Two, could the key engage, or “turn,” the start-up protocols in the software. Yes, it did that too. He could see at once that only a second key would be needed to launch the entire program. With the Russian’s key now verified, he attached the file to the prepared email and sent it to Gianna’s address. As the message window spiraled forward, he glanced at Finch and nodded his head. Finch returned the signal and nodded to Eve at her station next to the railing. Sochi turned back to his laptop screen to see the critical email notification: “Message sent.”
He pulled the stick drive from his computer and shut the lid. “Well, that’s me,” he said under his breath and tried to stand.
Marat’s hand reached across the table and pinned Sochi’s forearm to the table. The sudden display of strength and agility caught him by surprise.
“Wait. Test not complete.”
Sochi tried to free his arm but Marat held fast.
“All right. No rush, my friend.” When he relaxed his arm, the Russian released him and returned to tapping his computer and uttering low grunts of approval. But after a few moments his breathing turned to elongated sighs, deeper tones that suggested some discontent.
Sochi glanced up at Finch with a look of confusion. The longer Marat took — two minutes, then five — Sochi’s mood turned to concern and then a gnawing anxiety set in.
After another growl, Marat closed his laptop and stared at Sochi, the whites of his eyes now the color of cold butter. “Smart,” he whispered, “or maybe not.” Then he turned the collar of his shirt up to his lips and whispered a few words in Russian, concluding with the only word that Sochi understood: “Nyet.”
