Russian Roulette

by Austin Camacho

  Hannibal could understand why Renata would not have told her mother that her return to the man she loved had come about through the turn of a card. And her assumption that Boris had hurt Ben made sense too. If Renata’s plan had worked, there would have been an interesting irony in them getting money from Boris for helping him find Dani who appeared at this point to be his traitorous partner. All of that moved Boris up on the list of suspects for any of the murders.

  “Ma’am, if I can’t find Renata maybe I can make things safer for her,” he said. “If you know where I can find Boris Tolstaya, maybe I can convince him to leave her alone.”

  “You would face this man?” she asked, looking into Hannibal’s eyes. “He is powerful and dangerous. You don’t know.”

  “Ma’am, these people don’t scare me. I deal with his kind all the time. Just help me get face to face with him.”

  * * * * *

  Hannibal felt as if the entire neighborhood was staring at him as he returned to Rissik’s car, but in fact he knew that only one old woman might be watching through one of the big windows. He got in, but couldn’t stop looking around.

  “So, a lead on Renata Tolstaya?” Rissik asked.

  “Not really, but she did give me some dirt on Boris Tolstaya. Apparently he and his partner, one Ivan Uspensky, own a securities firm and do a lot of money laundering for the Red Mafiya.”

  “Yeah, Boris is a real bad guy,” Rissik said, starting the car. “You ought to steer clear.”

  “You know about this guy?” It was more a demand than a question.

  Rissik was unruffled. “The FBI has an open file on him. He and Renata are under investigation for income tax evasion.”

  “And you didn’t tell me any of this why?”

  “Look, this is a genuine bad guy,” Rissik said. He looked at Hannibal with an expression that Hannibal didn’t recognize. “Do you know that the Red Mafiya scares the FBI more than the Italians, the Colombians, the Yakuza, anybody? Heroin smuggling, weapons trafficking, mass extortion. These guys, Tolstaya and Uspensky, apparently set up here in the Dulles Corridor to funnel the cash flowing down from the casinos in Jersey and up from the strip clubs in Miami Beach.”

  “Yeah? So? Am I supposed to be scared or something?”

  Rissik gripped the wheel with both hands as he eased through traffic. “See, that’s why I don’t tell you this stuff. Because you are a knucklehead. You’re always stepping in some shit. I mean, you see the shit lying right there on the sidewalk, right there, and you step in it anyway.”

  Now Hannibal thought he recognized the expression on Rissik’s face. “I’ll be damned. You’re for real. You’re worried about me. I’m touched, Chief, I really am, but you know I have to follow this lead. If this is all about Tolstaya getting ripped off, the bodies are going to keep dropping until he either recovers the cash or he lands in jail. The way I see it, Viktoriya Petrova will never be safe unless I make one or the other happen. And the next step is to get face to face with Ivan Uspensky and see what he says about the Russian mob and his old buddy Boris.”

  “You know I can’t back you up on this,” Rissik said.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Hannibal said. “I know where I can get some backup.”

  -27-

  Like Silicone Valley in Southern California, the Dulles Technology Corridor is not so much a location as a concept. Hannibal had heard the terms “netplex” and "high tech colossus" in reference to the area, but to him it was simply a commercial zone out by the airport.

  Driving down the Dulles Toll Road he wondered if the businesses that set up on either side of this minor highway had set out to form an unrelated conglomerate of research, technological, and development oriented companies, or if it had just happened. He recalled some startling statistics: thirty thousand businesses and more than a half million of Northern Virginia’s jobs were stuffed into these futuristic buildings, and he didn’t know if he was in Herndon or Reston or Falls Church or if perhaps the Dulles Corridor had its own ZIP code.

  Sitting beside him, Ivanovich said, “You know, he may recognize me.” He tugged at the lapel of his navy blue suit, checking to make sure his jacket hung properly to conceal his pistol.

  “I’m counting on it,” Hannibal said. “Having you behind me will make me a player in his eyes, and that might make him want to cooperate.”

  “And if it does not?” Ivanovich asked as Hannibal eased his Volvo onto an off ramp. “We are hardly in a position to challenge him. If he decides we represent trouble he could make us disappear like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

  “Well, that will make it an exciting day,” Hannibal said with a smile.

  The sprawling Worldgate complex was built by a land development company called Monument, and the different sections were numbered. Hannibal followed the signs toward Monument 3 Worldgate and rolled into the parking garage beside the building that housed Rice, Staff & Spike Securities. Before getting out of the car he reached into the glove compartment for a spare pair of Oakley sunglasses. Ivanovich nodded and slipped them on as he got out of the car.

  Instead of heading for the elevator Hannibal led them outside to stand in front of the building for a moment to gather his thoughts. He wondered what army of immigrants maintained such beautifully landscaped property, almost a hundred acres of industry conducted almost entirely on paper and in computers.

  “So this is where organized crime hides these days,” he said, “three or four miles from one of the country’s busiest airports, surrounded by Fortune 500 companies in one of the fastest growing, wealthiest locations for economic development in the country.”

  “This,” Ivanovich said with a smirk, “is where organized crime has always hidden. Shall we go face the lion in his luxurious den?”

  The two men entered the building and walked straight to the security guard’s desk. The uniformed guard looked up in surprise, probably because these two had crossed the faux marble floor without the usual clacking shoes usually make. Ivanovich, true to his character, looked everywhere except at Hannibal. Hannibal focused only on the guard, who looked and sounded Somalian.

  “Good afternoon. Buzz up to RS&S and tell them that Hannibal Jones and Aleksandr Ivanovich are here to see Mr. Uspensky.”

  “Is he expecting you?” the guard asked in a singsong, offkilter accent.

  “We don’t have an appointment,” Hannibal said, “but I suspect that he is expecting us.”

  In the following three minutes a handful of people walked through the wide hall, each wearing an identification badge and the scowl that is the real badge of the modern office worker. Hannibal and Ivanovich signed in and a guard prepared their visitor badges. Then, three men in well-cut suits who looked familiar to Hannibal stepped out of the elevator. Not that their faces were familiar, but their body language and posture were unmistakable. They varied from six foot three to six foot five and all had wrestlers’ bodies and bored Slavic faces. Two of them stopped six feet away while the third moved forward until he was staring down into Ivanovich’s face. Hannibal saw no change in either man’s expression.

  “Aleksandr,” the taller man said.

  Vladimir,” Ivanovich returned.

  Then the tall man broadened his view to take Hannibal in as well. “Gentlemen, if you will follow me.”

  Hannibal found their escorts to be both polite and professional. In the elevator, one of the men watched Hannibal, one watched Ivanovich, and the third watched the doors. When they stepped into the carpeted, paneled hall on the appropriate floor, two stood on either side of a door while Vladimir faced them, looking almost embarrassed.

  “I am sorry, but I must ask you if you are...”

  Hannibal held up a palm, and then opened his jacket. Vladimir reached in and pulled the pistol from under Hannibal’s right arm. Then he turned to Ivanovich, who stood with his hands folded in front of him.

  “No,” Hannibal said. “You take nothing from him.”

  “Aleksandr,” Vladimir said,
“I have to.”

  “Only if you are prepared to literally take it from me,” Ivanovich said. None of these men showed any emotion on their faces but Hannibal could taste the tension in the air. These two men had history, but now they were sizing each other up again, testing and probing in some way below Hannibal’s level of perception. He looked at the two door guards and chose the one he would take out if things went sour, and watched Ivanovich because he somehow knew that the loser would speak first. He was surprised when Vladimir turned to address him instead of Ivanovich.

  “He can’t go in.”

  “I go where he goes,” Ivanovich said, his voice snapping out in defiance.

  “Not necessary,” Hannibal said, tuning out the three strangers and holding Ivanovich’s eyes with his own. “He won’t hurt me; he just wants to feel safe himself. Just stay near this door. And if you hear anything that doesn’t sound like friendly conversation, I know you can take these three assholes out.” Then he looked up at Vladimir and pointed at his chest. “And you know it too.”

  Hannibal walked between the two towering bodyguards, opened the door, and stepped into wonderland. The carpet was deeper, the paneling changed from laminate to cedar, and the desk set to one side of the football field of an office offered its occupant a commanding view of the toll road that led to Dulles International Airport. The paintings were not prints but real oils. Classical music wafted in, just loud enough to notice. It was all meant to impress. Hannibal faced the desk and let the man behind it see that it had worked.

  “Ivan Uspensky?”

  “And you must be Hannibal Jones,” the man said, standing and offering his hand. The handshake was warm and firm, but taking the man in caused Hannibal to linger with it. Uspensky could have been Tolstaya’s brother, another big man with a little round belly and almost no hair left. The difference was that while Tolstaya’s photo showed wisps of black hair, the few strands remaining on Uspensky’s head were blond. This man was likely on the godfather level even if he wasn’t, he was surely a senior captain of contemporary industry. Hannibal decided on deference and courtesy.

  “Thank you for making the time to see me.”

  “How could I not?” Uspensky said. “You are clearly a man of some influence. You have Aleksandr Ivanovich.”

  Hannibal smiled and nodded. “He opens doors. I only want a few minutes. By the way, I love the name of your brokerage firm. Tell me, who are Rice, Staff and Spike?”

  Uspensky smiled, regaining his seat and opening a humidor. “Those are just common words chosen at random. They are meant to send the message that the company is very American. I can see that you are a man who understands the importance of appearances. Now, is this to be a chat, an interview, or an interrogation?”

  Hannibal selected one of the cigars. “Just a friendly conversation. You can help me with my current investigation. First, I’d like to make sure I’m pursuing the right man.”

  He handed over the photograph he had been carrying for the last couple of days. Uspensky took it, laid it on the desk and stared down at it while clipping the end off his cigar. He lit it with a Zippo lighter and took a first puff, all the while gazing at the picture as if trying to find some inner meaning in it.

  “Yes, this is my business partner, Boris Tolstaya at the center.”

  “And do you know the man behind him?” Hannibal asked.

  “I believe that to be Gartee Roberts, an African who I think may have worked with Boris on a project.”

  Hannibal nodded and settled into the overstuffed armchair by the picture windows. “Well, that fellow you knew as Roberts is now known as Dani Gana. He was murdered recently. His widow is in hiding, in fear of the killer.”

  “Obviously I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Uspensky said, his face the embodiment of innocence. “I didn’t really know this Roberts, or Gana, or whatever. In fact, I think I only met him once.”

  The sweet cigar smoke reached out to Hannibal, reminding him that he was holding a similar weapon. He glanced at his cigar, but decided to tuck it into his inside jacket pocket. Not looking up, he said, “He was more Boris’s friend, I guess. I’d sure like to discuss it with him.”

  Uspensky’s laugh was a raucous bellow. “Oh, I bet you would. And believe me, I wish I could help you, but I haven’t seen Boris in weeks.”

  “I guess it took him a while to find Roberts,” Hannibal said. “I think Roberts may have stolen money from Boris. That would make it easy to put the murder on Boris. The thing is, once Boris found Roberts, I figured he’d come back to work.”

  Uspensky stopped laughing. “I think you got that a little mixed up. Funds disappeared all right, right about the time Boris did.”

  “Boris?” Hannibal sat forward, his feet sinking into the deep carpeting. “Well, that kind of makes sense. Our boy steals money that’s already been stolen, figuring the original thief, Boris, can’t go to the cops or even to the mob to report it.”

  “Look here, Jones,” Uspensky said, resting both elbows on his desk. “You got Ivanovich backing you up. That makes me think you are not with the police. But it would be polite for you to confirm this.”

  “I assure you I’m no kind of cop or fed. No affiliation with law enforcement of any kind.”

  Uspensky nodded. “Now the question is, are you connected?”

  “If you mean to some sort of criminal organization, like perhaps the Red Mafiya, I have no connections or affiliation there either. You can check me out.”

  “I’m inclined to believe you,” Uspensky said. “I guess you’re here asking for information, for help. Come over here and let me school you.”

  Hannibal stood and went to the front of the desk. Uspensky clutched his cigar between his teeth and spread his meaty hands on his desk to lay it all out for Hannibal.

  “You see, the securities business isn’t much different from the casino business. Sometimes people bet big. Sometimes they do it on the margin, which means they actually bet, or invest, more than they have. Sometimes when they do that they lose. We have to carry that debt, and sometimes those debts can add up because of interest.”

  “I’m familiar with this type of debt,” Hannibal said. “Interest can get quite high.”

  Uspensky nodded. “Yeah, sometimes. And sometimes people don’t want to pay. Now Boris, he liked to keep his hands clean. He meets this Roberts guy, and this guy is smooth. So Boris has the kid handle some of the collections. He was collecting and stashing some of these funds.”

  “Stashing?” Hannibal asked.

  “Hey, you’re a businessman,” Uspensky said. “Nobody reports all their income to the IRS, right?”

  Hannibal did, but he just nodded and smiled.

  “Well, that side of the business was kind of subjective. Sometimes Boris would give the big losers a little discount if they did things for him. And sometimes he’d collect an extra percentage point from those he could squeeze it out of. And sometimes when he did that, he would do some creative bookkeeping. You getting any of this?”

  “Oh my God,” Hannibal said, his face scrunching into an open-mouthed smile. “Boris was embezzling from his own business. He was stealing from you. Gana wasn’t hiding from the mob, he was just hiding from Boris. Boris is the one hiding from the mob.”

  “That kind of hangs together,” Uspensky said, blowing a big cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “If you got it right, it sounds like Boris caught up with the little African thief and that means he might have my money back.”

  “So, you don’t know where he is.”

  “No,” Uspensky said, “but nobody can hide forever. You’re a pretty clever detective, Jones. You’d have to be to follow a trail from that old picture to me. And you got Ivanovich at your back. There could be a fat finder’s fee if you was to find my old partner and let me know where he is. He left here with a sizable sum. I’m just saying.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” Hannibal asked.

  “A sizable sum.”

  Hannib
al nodded and walked very slowly toward the door. When he wrapped his hand around the knob, Uspensky asked, “Well?”

  Hannibal turned and smiled. “It’s a very tempting offer, but that would turn our friendly chat into a business conversation. And, no offense, but you’re not the kind of guy I really want to do business with.”

  * * * * *

  Once he got the car back on the Dulles Toll Road, Hannibal pushed a button to call a familiar phone number.

  “Rissik.”

  “Hey, Chief,” Hannibal said. “I just wanted you to know that a friend and I just paid a visit to Ivan Uspensky and are on our way home with our skins intact.”

  “Really?” Hannibal could hear him leaning back in his office chair. “You learn anything useful?”

  “I think the visit did shed a little more light on Dani Gana’s murder, and maybe on all three.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Rissik replied. “It’s kind of late in the day for you to visit here, but stop by my office in the morning so we can compare notes. You tell me what the Russian money man says, and I’ll tell you the interesting connection my people turned up that ties Dani Gana’s death to the murder of Raisa Petrova.”

  -28-

  Tuesday

  Sitting in his car, in the parking lot outside of Rissik’s office, Hannibal made a rare early-morning phone call. He was facing eastward, watching a thin wisp of clouds trying in vain to hide the red-tinged rays of the autumn sun. With all the windows down he enjoyed a pleasant cross breeze that carried the sweet scent of late-blooming lilacs growing nearby. The cool air against his skin brought a smile as he listened to the phone ring at the other end.

  “Hello?” a somewhat impatient voice finally said.

  “Hey, babe. How is your morning looking?”

  “Hannibal?” He could hear Cindy’s voice shift into a sweeter mode. “I can’t remember the last time you called me before I left the house for work. What’s up?”