The cold room hc-2

by Robert Knightly

  Aslan Khalid was sitting at the desk when I made my appearance, followed closely by Hansen Linde. Though Aslan’s mouth expanded slightly, he did not rise to greet us. On the other side of the room, two men stood next to the workbench. The older, a Latino, was stripped to the waist. He held a screwdriver in his left hand and his narrow face was streaked with sweat. The younger man was in his early thirties. He wore a white polo shirt over a pair of decently-tailored linen slacks and lattice-work sandals without socks. Silky fine, his carefully-styled hair reached his shoulders, while his beard and moustache were immaculately groomed.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Linde asked the younger man.

  ‘Nicolai Urnov.’ He took a deep breath, then walked to within a few feet of Linde. ‘I own this business. Who are you?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Linde said, ‘I almost forgot.’ He reached into his jacket, withdrew the billfold containing his gold shield, then flicked it open for an instant before slapping it closed. ‘Now, what about this other guy? The guy standing behind you. What’s his name?’

  ‘What do you want with him? He just works here.’

  ‘I want his name.’

  The older man turned to face Linde. ‘Miguel Sierra,’ he said. ‘I am not do nothing.’

  ‘Just work here, right?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Well, I’m giving you the night off, Miguel. Come back tomorrow.’ Sierra didn’t have to be asked twice. He was still buttoning his shirt when Hansen closed and locked the door behind him.

  Thus far, I hadn’t said a word, nor had I turned my full attention to Aslan, though I could feel his gaze boring into the side of my head. Linde had placed himself at center stage and I was content to watch his performance. The fever that had driven me had now vanished. There would be time enough.

  ‘I’m going to call my attorney.’ Nicolai’s gaze became more intense and I got the distinct impression that he wasn’t accustomed to being ordered around. Still, he was a small man, not more than five-nine, and slightly built, a sullen monkey to Linde’s menacing gorilla.

  ‘Okay, great, but first I’m gonna have to search you. I mean, a guy could get himself in a whole lotta trouble by not checking a suspect for weapons.’

  ‘Suspected of what crime? I’m a legitimate businessman.’

  Linde walked over to the workbench and pointed to a row of ATM machines. ‘Tell me about these, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘I’m a legitimate businessman,’ Urnov repeated. ‘I place ATM machines in stores and split the service charge with the owner. I have a license from the Department of Consumer Affairs.’

  Linde held up a slim plastic panel. ‘And what’s this?’ When Urnov didn’t answer, Linde said, ‘It’s a card reader, Nick. You add it to the slot on the ATM, it reads and stores the data on every card dipped into it.’

  ‘I want my lawyer,’ Urnov half shouted. ‘You don’t have a warrant. You have no right to be here.’

  ‘And what about these?’ Linde scooped up a handful of credit cards and carried them over to Urnov. Though each had a series of raised numbers on its face, the cards were white, the name of the bank conspicuously absent. ‘What do you plan to do with these?’

  ‘I’m not saying another word. I know my rights. I was born here.’

  ‘That makes you one up on me. I was born in Minnesota.’ Linde allowed the cards to fall through his fingers. ‘Now I want you to put your hands on the edge of that bench while I search you, Nick, and I really think it’d be a whole lot better if you did it now.’

  Urnov’s mouth worked silently for a moment, then his eyes flicked to Aslan Khalid, his gaze accusing. Aslan first frowned, then gave the tiniest of shrugs. Our presence was his fault, no doubt, but there was nothing he could do. Finally, he looked up at me.

  ‘First preliminaries,’ he said, ‘then comes main event.’

  ‘Alright.’ Linde rubbed his hands together, then dropped them to Urnov’s shoulders. His fingers clamped down hard, then opened, then closed again as they moved along Urnov’s arms, inch by inch. ‘Now, stop me if you heard this one,’ he said. ‘What’s the difference between lutefisk and snot?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Urnov protested, the words issuing between grunts of pain.

  ‘Nope, wrong answer. What’s the difference between lutefisk and snot?’

  Linde continued to ask the question and his hands continued to clamp down as they moved from Urnov’s arms, to his ribs, to his waist, to the outside of his thighs. It was only when Linde reached Urnov’s ankles and started to come up the inside of the man’s legs, toward his crotch, that he truly caught Urnov’s attention. Was the psycho detective with the vice-grip hands running a bluff? Did he have a stopping point? There was simply no way for Nicky to be sure. Meanwhile, the family jewels were on the line.

  ‘What the fuck is loochapiss?’ Urnov finally cried.

  ‘Loo-te-fisk. What’s the difference between lutefisk and snot?’

  ‘I don’t know, okay. I don’t know the difference between lutefisk and snot.’

  ‘The difference between lutefisk and snot,’ Linde declared as he finally led Urnov to the couch and sat him down, ‘is that kids won’t eat lutefisk.’

  Urnov’s tongue ran across the bottom of his mustache. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ he asked. The question was posed an instant too late. Linde was already beside himself with laughter.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he declared when he finally caught his breath, ‘that was a hot one.’

  I gave Hansen a moment to recover by carrying a three-legged stool from the workbench to the front of Aslan’s desk. ‘What happened to the flag?’ I asked.

  ‘Flag?’

  ‘Yeah, the one that hung over your desk at Domestic Solutions.’

  ‘I have never heard of this company.’

  ‘How’d you know it was a company? Why not a rock band?’

  ‘If this stupidness is all you are having to speak, you should be going on your ways. I have living to make.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘At whatever I am choose to be doing in free country.’

  ‘Fine, let me see your green card again.’

  The request caught him off guard. Should he refuse? Comply? I watched the wheels turn for a moment, until he reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, then extracted the document. I took it from his hand and passed it over to Linde.

  ‘This is not faking,’ Aslan said. ‘I am genuine immigrant with right to work in United States of America.’

  ‘I already know that, Aslan. I’ve spoken to the Immigration and Naturalization Service about your case.’ I smiled at him, a smile, or so I hoped, of utmost confidence. ‘See, what I remembered, from the last time, is that your country of origin is Russia. Meanwhile, you told me you were a Chechen. That’s what I’m trying to make sense of. Why doesn’t it say Chechnya?’

  I looked into Aslan’s eyes, my gaze studiously mild. Though Aslan’s features had remained almost immobile, his eyes blazed with hate. I folded my arms across my chest, maintaining eye contact as I waited for him to respond.

  ‘Chechnya is province of Russia,’ he finally said. ‘Chechnya is not yet country.’

  ‘But it should be, right? Considering how long the Chechen people have been fighting for their independence?’

  ‘One day.’

  I turned on the stool to face Nicolai Urnov. ‘How about you, Nicky? Are you a Chechen?’

  ‘I’m an American,’ Urnov said. ‘I was born here.’

  ‘What about your parents? Where did they come from?’

  ‘From Russia.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘See, this is what’s so confusing. There’s Konstantine Barsakov and Nicky Urnov, both Russian, and there’s Aslan Khalid, the lion of Chechnya.’ I snapped my fingers as I turned back to Aslan. ‘Oh, I get it. Killing Barsakov was Aslan’s way of fighting for the Chechen cause. A little victory for the homeland. One less Russkie to worry about.’

  ‘What is point of this
?’ Aslan demanded.

  ‘The point of this, Aslan Khalid, is that your buddy has asked for a lawyer twice, but you haven’t even asked once. Evidence of a guilty mind, Aslan. That’s what they call it in a court of law.’

  ‘If I say to go, you will go? If I say I want lawyer, you will hand me telephone? This I don’t think so.’

  I got up, walked over to the ping-pong table, picked up a ball and bounced it. ‘When was the last time you saw Konstantine Barsakov?’ I asked.

  ‘When you place him under arrest for crime of marijuana.’

  ‘Not after he was released?’

  ‘Released? What is this? How am I knowing you have not killed him in your jail?’

  ‘Are you telling me that you didn’t see him after he returned to the warehouse on Eagle Street?’

  ‘I am telling you to stick tin badge up ass.’

  I continued to bounce the ball. ‘Relax, I only have a few more questions. I’ll be gone before you know it.’ When he responded with a grunt and a sneer, I asked, ‘Where do you work these days? Now that you no longer work on Eagle Street?’

  ‘I have never work on Eagle Street.’

  ‘Fine, so where do you work?’

  ‘You are big-shot detective. Find out for own self.’

  This was one question I would have liked answered, but that wasn’t going to happen, not on this pass, and I decided not to push him. Domestic Solutions’ workers were at their jobs when I arrested Barsakov. Aslan couldn’t be certain that I knew about them. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

  ‘Okay, so you don’t want to tell me where you work. Let’s try something else. You told me the last time you saw Konstantine alive was when I arrested him. Now I want to know when you saw him for the first time. Were you still living in your home country?’

  Aslan straightened in his chair, his senses on full alert. ‘What do you know about this?’

  ‘I know that Aslan Khalid is not your real name. I know that you took your name from Aslan Maskhadov, a hero of the struggle against the Russians. I know that Aslan means lion in Farsi and Turkish. I know that in your dreams, you imagine that you, yourself, have the heart of a lion.’ I walked back to the stool, sat down and leaned over the desk. ‘Tell me how you came to the United States, Aslan. Tell me the truth and I’ll walk right through that door. I promise, Aslan. I’ll walk out of here.’

  ‘How has this to do with Barsakov?’

  ‘I thought maybe he helped put you on top of the quota list.’

  ‘You are fool, Mr Cop. In Chechnya, only you have self to help self. This is lesson of Grozny.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, raising my hands defensively, ‘Barsakov didn’t help you. But you have to admit, it’s a long way from the mountains of Chechnya to the canyons of New York. All I’m asking you to do is describe the journey.’

  The tension dropped away from Aslan’s expression, his brow softening as his jaw relaxed. He glanced down at his knees, then raised his eyes to meet mine. The body language could not have been more obvious. I was going to hear a tale Aslan had told many times before.

  ‘In Moscow, for right money, can buy whole country. What is exit visa? What is putting name on list? These are nothing.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘You just said you bribed your way out of Russia. I’m now asking if you bribed your way into the United States?’ I looked over at Nicky Urnov to find his dark eyes fixed on Aslan.

  ‘Why do you ask this question?’ Aslan said. ‘You are miserable New York cop. Immigration is not for you to be concerning yourself.’

  ‘Aslan, please, let’s not change the subject. You couldn’t have gotten that green card without being scrutinized by the CIA, the FBI, and a dozen national security agencies.’ I spread my arms wide. ‘I mean, you come from Chechnya, for God’s sake, a country that’s on every terrorist watch list in the entire world.’

  Aslan might have taken that moment to claim that he had, indeed, bribed American immigration officials, or that he’d come to the United States before 9/11, when legal immigrants, even from Chechnya, received far less scrutiny. But Aslan was having too much trouble controlling his emotions. He wanted to come off that chair, to vault the desk, to explode in my face.

  ‘Like I already said,’ I continued, moving a little closer, ‘I spoke to a case officer at immigration about your status. According to her, you got out of Russia and into the United States by.?.?.’ I glanced at Urnov. ‘What do you think, Nicky? What am I gonna say next? I’ll give you a hint. The animal I’m thinking of has four legs, a long ugly tail, and a skinny face with sharp little teeth.’

  Without waiting for an answer, I swung back to face Aslan. ‘Not only did you rat on your own people, you took the name of a true warrior to cover up the truth. Tell your partner, just so he understands, how many died because of you. How many freedom fighters were blown to pieces because the Russians knew where they were hiding? How many villages were burned because you told the Russians that the villagers harbored rebels? How many bodies were dumped in mass graves so you could pursue your American dream?’

  By the time I finished, Aslan’s eyes were ricocheting from side to side. I’d seen that effect on many a common criminal. The adrenalin pouring into Aslan’s blood-stream was demanding that he do something to relieve the tension, but his mind was rejecting every possibility. One of those possibilities became clear to me when he balled up his fists.

  ‘You pissed off, Aslan? You wanna do something about it?’ I approached to within a step of where he sat. ‘Why don’t you do it? C’mon, take a chance. You’re the lion of Chechnya, right? You’re a true son of the wolf people. Ask yourself, what would Kazi Mullah do? Jokhar Dudayev? Imam Shamil? Shamil Basayev? Would they allow an ordinary cop to label them cowards and rats? Or would they fight to maintain their honor?’

  As I reeled off the names of these Chechen heroes, Aslan rewarded me with long slow moan. I’d stripped him of even the pretense of dignity. But he didn’t fight me, not when I took him by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet, not when I searched him, then cuffed his wrists.

  Finally, I turned to Urnov as Hansen led Aslan out the door; the message I wanted to send was simple, though I felt that it needed driving home.

  ‘You figured this out yet, Nicky? You gettin’ this? Well, just in case, let me spell it out for you. If you do business with Aslan Khalid, if you help him in any way, I’m gonna make you a personal project.’ I took one of the card readers from the shelf, dropped it to the floor and crushed it with my heel. Then I slapped him in the face, just so there’d be no misunderstanding.

  TWENTY-THREE

  We took Aslan to the headquarters of a Street Crimes Unit stationed in Far Rockaway. Hansen drove, while I sat next to Aslan in the second of the Ford Expedition’s three rows of seats. Aslan’s hands were cuffed behind his back and he had to lean forward throughout the forty-five minute drive. He didn’t complain, though, nor did he break the silence Hansen and I studiously maintained. Not even when he realized — as he must have at some point — that we weren’t headed back to Greenpoint, that we were driving in the opposite direction.

  The SCU outpost we finally entered reminded me of Formatech Money Services. A large room with a few desks, lockers and filing cabinets scattered about, a bathroom large enough for a shower, a computer workstation in a corner, a refrigerator and a microwave on a battered table. Except for the wire cage at the far end of the room, it might have been any small business. I checked that cage very carefully, sides, top and bottom, and found it reasonably secure. Nevertheless, I took a further precaution, cuffing Aslan’s right wrist to a steel cot, the cell’s only furniture. The cot was bolted to the floor.

  As I backed out of the cage and locked it, Aslan raised his eyes to me. The hate was still there, but the fire was gone. His gaze was implacable now. He would await a better time.

  I broke it off when I heard the door at the far end of the loft open. Our unannounced guest was Sergea
nt Theobold Anderson, and he came bearing gifts. Our food supply, first, in a pair of plastic bags. Cold cuts, corn chips, a loaf of rye bread, a jar of mustard, a jug of water. Anderson shoved all of it, including the chips, into the refrigerator, then unpacked a billy club, a canister of pepper spray and a stun gun. There was no toilet in Aslan’s cage and we were going to have to let him out from time to time. Sergeant Anderson was prepared.

  ‘The sergeant’s gonna stay here,’ Hansen said when he introduced us, ‘to guarantee that somebody’s awake at all times.’

  And to witness any conversation I might have with Aslan. But that didn’t need saying and I gave Theobold’s small hand a hearty shake. Tall and heavily built, Anderson might have plugged a hole in the front line of a professional football team. His face was almost perfectly round and he had more hair on his chin than his head.

  Theobold didn’t smile when he took my hand. Later on, when I asked him where he’d worked, he told me that he wasn’t a police officer. He was a Corrections Officer and his beat was the Isolation Unit on Rikers Island, home to the most violent prisoners in the system.

  I took Hansen off to the side while Anderson wrestled a folding cot out of a closet. He accepted the deal I offered without hesitation. I would babysit Aslan until midnight on Saturday. He would relieve me, then continue on until Monday at noon when Aslan was to be cut loose.

  That done, I walked Hansen to his car. He was in an expansive mood and I remember his cop-to-cop smile as genuine. ‘Helluva job you did on Aslan,’ he declared. ‘Where’d you get that good stuff on Chechnya?’

  ‘Forget Chechnya. All I did was memorize a few names. Plus, it didn’t work. Aslan kept his cool.’

  ‘Maybe so, but he definitely paid a price.’

  I accepted the compliment with a nod, then said, ‘Tell me about lootafrish.’