by David Duffy
“Uncle Thomas says you’re all good at sweeping stuff under the rug, and I think each of you has stuff you don’t want anyone else to know about. You seem to.”
Another silence. I let him simmer.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, maybe Irina does. She was there too, right, at the Black Horse?”
When the odds are four to one in your favor, it’s no surprise that you win the bet.
“NO!”
“Hey, don’t get excited. I was just going to give her a call. She could’ve heard from your uncle.”
“STAY AWAY FROM HER! YOU HEAR ME? STAY AWAY! THIS CONVERSATION IS OVER.”
He broke the connection.
I dialed Irina’s cell phone. He got there first, or she just didn’t answer. I was sent to voicemail. I didn’t bother with a message. She’d see I called, discuss it with him (or maybe not), and decide whether to answer when I called again.
The heater blew warm air, too warm. I got out and walked around the windy parking lot. I’d accomplished what I knew I would. Drawing myself in deeper. But I was no closer to the link I was looking for—Andras-Irina-Coryell to Nosferatu. I got back in the Potemkin and pointed the bow south toward the city.
I tried Irina from the Bronx and was mildly surprised when she answered.
“Andras tell you about me?” I asked without introduction.
“You’re Russian.”
She’d done some homework, quickly. “That’s right.”
“Where?”
“Moscow mainly, but I’ve lived all over. New York now.”
“Cheka?”
Definitely doing some checking. She had the means and connections.
“That’s right, First Chief Directorate, if you’re interested.”
“Chekists are pigs.”
“That what you tell your stepfather?”
She didn’t pause—or bite. “I only wanted to hear your voice, so I can avoid it if I hear it again. I have nothing to say.”
She had plenty of presence for her age, no question about that, even over the phone.
“Hold on. I don’t want anything to do with you or Andras. Your bank accounts are your business.”
I meant to freeze her and I did. I could hear soft breathing, the breaths were shorter than a minute ago.
“I only want to know about Andras’s uncle Walter. What happened at the Black Horse?”
“What do you know about that?”
The question came fast, accusation wrapped in nerves. I’d pricked the tough-girl veneer. But only slightly, she asked what not how?
Maintain the ascendancy. They teach you that in Cheka Interrogation 101. They didn’t train you specifically to interrogate seventeen-year-olds, but anyone, of any age, could be in the chair. My mother found that out. What had she been asked? What had she answered? Beria chuckled in the background.
“You and Andras were supposed to meet Uncle Walter at the Black Horse. He didn’t show. What happened?”
She laughed. “You’re not as clever as you think you are. I don’t know anything about any Black Horse. Any more questions, Cheka pig?”
She understood ascendancy as well as I did.
“Let’s talk about those bank accounts.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Lot of money for a couple of teenagers.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Twenty-two million is a lot of money to make up. But like I said, I’m really interested in Uncle Walter.”
“Be careful, Chekist pig. You know what happens to Chekists who make mistakes.”
She cut me off. The girl was tough and smart—and experienced, much more so than she should have been. Jenny Leitz had picked up on it, but she hadn’t grasped the full degree. Irina had played our short interrogation like an expert. Not that surprising, perhaps, her father and stepfather were top oligarchs. She’d been learning at the feet of experts since she was a baby. She and Andras were doubtless comparing notes. I still couldn’t see what any of this had to do with the bugging of Leitz’s computers.
Not that it mattered. I fully expected to be fired by the time I got back to Manhattan.
CHAPTER 22
Suspicion confirmed.
Leitz was waiting at my office. He and Foos were bent over a laptop in the open area, comparing notes on something. Leitz had switched to blue cashmere today. Same corduroys, from the looks of it, same shoes.
“Don’t you believe in progress reports?” Leitz said, looking up, trying to be confrontational, but not able to manage it. His eyes were red with bags underneath. He was tired, and for him, decidedly subdued. Looked like Jenny had told him of her diagnosis.
“Didn’t see the need. You had your man in the tan coat for that.”
He started to say something, stopped and shook his head. “He figured you spotted him—on Houston Street.”
“Before that—outside Marianna’s.”
“How’d you figure he was working for me?”
“Process of elimination. Who else would have someone following me around?”
He nodded. “Serves me right. Foos said I could trust you, but…”
“I’m told you like to control things.”
He nodded again. “Guilty.”
“You want your report now?”
He shrugged. “If you think it’s necessary. I actually came down here … I want to ask you to stop. The computers, whoever it was, it just doesn’t matter that much anymore.”
He looked down at the coffee table.
“I’m finished anyway,” I said. “I can tell you who and what if you want. But it’s likely to cause more pain.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
It took a minute before he raised his head. Tears in his eyes. “You … you know?”
“She told me. Only when I asked, although I already knew about the doctors and the tests.”
“Jesus.” He started a lunge for the laptop. For a moment I thought he was going to hurl it across the room. Foos thought the same thing and was ready to grab it first. But halfway there, Leitz just collapsed and fell back on the sofa. Sorrow overwhelmed temper. Foos was unconvinced. He closed the lid and moved the computer out of range.
“Life ain’t fair, man,” he said, mainly, I think, to say something.
I went to the kitchen and came back with the vodka bottle. Leitz shook his head when I offered him a glass.
“It’ll help, if you don’t overdue it.”
“You mean, like Marianna?”
I shrugged.
“Just a little,” he said.
I poured him a finger. He took a sip and put the glass on the table and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to unload my burdens on you.”
“That’s all right.” His family had already done that.
He picked up the glass, took another swallow, and shook his head when I offered a refill.
“Tell me what you found out,” he said quietly, “although I’ve almost decided to abandon the TV bid. I’ve got more important things to focus on.”
He sounded sincere. I believed him, but I wondered how he’d feel a day or two or ten down the road. I’m determined we should all lead as normal a life as possible, Jenny Leitz had said. She’d be encouraging him to keep on.
“We can do this another time if you want,” I said.
He shook his head. He was struggling to stay afloat in an emotional tsunami. For the moment, the trader was still in control. “Go ahead.”
I double-checked with Foos. He dropped his lopsided visage ever so slightly in assent.
“Your computers were bugged by the Baltic Enterprise Commission—an organized cyber-crime outfit. We told you it was someone like this, and we were right. They specialize in Web hosting for phishers and spammers, but they’ve expanded into hacking for hire and industrial espionage. Nosferatu, the man who beat me up, is the BEC’s enforcer. I established that through contacts in
Russia. He got the cleaners to place the bug.”
“How did he…?”
“Your brother-in-law, Coryell, was the agent. He was with Nosferatu when they bribed the cleaners. He told them where to put it. The cleaners described him. I’ve since seen Nosferatu at Coryell’s office. He had a key.”
I half expected an explosion—WALTER? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN? WALTER?! I DON’T BELIEVE IT. HE’D NEVER … What a difference a day and a diagnosis of death make.
All he said, weakly, was, “Walter?”
“Afraid so. I wish there was another explanation, but…”
“Why would he…?”
“Coryell’s compromised. He’s being blackmailed, I assume by Nosferatu and the BEC, but also by someone else. I don’t know what the leverage is, but it’s powerful. It’s already cost him two hundred grand by my count, maybe more.”
The money focused his attention. “Two hundred thousand? Blackmail? Who told you this?”
I was trying to get through the story without squealing on Thomas. I didn’t give a damn about him, but he wasn’t connected to the main event, and adding his troubles to the mix would only make matters worse for Leitz. Maybe I was doing my own under-the-rug sweeping.
“It’s in the Dick,” I said.
“But … Have you talked to Walter? What does he say?”
“I haven’t seen Walter. Neither has anyone else—in at least a week.”
“What about Julia?”
“She tells me her husband is very busy. I doubt she knows anything about blackmail or Nosferatu, and I haven’t enlightened her.”
He shook his head. “Okay, but … Jesus. Tell me about this Baltic … what do you call it?”
“Baltic Enterprise Commission. It’s a partnership—three oligarchs—that’s suffered some setbacks and internal disagreements in recent months. The founding partner’s Efim Konychev. He still runs the show, maybe, but in that world, disagreements often lead to violence. Someone tried to gun him down in Moscow last month.”
I was watching for the reaction. He didn’t try to hide it. He fell against the back of the couch like a man who’d been slugged. I waited, but he didn’t say anything. The eyes, still red, went blank as he stared into the distance of the space. I hesitated a moment before delivering the next blow.
“Konychev’s sister is Alyona Lishina.”
“CHRIST!”
The old Leitz came back in an instant. He balled his fists, leaned forward, and flailed in the air. Foos picked up the laptop.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”
He pushed himself to his feet, thought about kicking over the coffee table, thought better, and marched around the room. Pig Pen, who’d been attracted to the door of his office by the commotion, beat a fast retreat to his back perch when Leitz headed in his direction. I glanced at Foos, who shrugged and nodded—You’re doing the right thing. I wasn’t certain I shared his confidence.
Leitz came back and stood close to my chair. “What do you know about Konychev?”
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
He went back to the sofa.
“He’s an oligarch—now. He was a high-level propaganda apparatchik in Soviet times. He bought up media properties during transition. He controls most of the nonstate media in Moscow. He also grasped the commercial potential of the Internet early. All the spammers, phishers, and pornographers out there need servers to call home, preferably servers somewhere hard to find, in a jurisdiction with authorities who aren’t eager to assist the rest of the world’s police. The former Soviet republics have such places in abundance, and as new converts to capitalism, they were keen to attract the business.”
He shook his head again. “I had no idea.”
At the risk of setting off another explosion, I said, “I find that hard to believe.”
“No … You don’t understand. I really didn’t. I didn’t know who he was.”
I waited, my skepticism evident. Foos shifted in his seat, reached for the vodka bottle, thought better and left it where it was. He wasn’t buying either.
Leitz looked from one of us to the other.
“Okay, I know it begs credulity. But … here’s what happened. I met a woman, back in October, through my son, actually. He’s dating—or trying to date—her daughter. They go to the same school. She’s wired into the New Russia. Her husband’s…”
“I know who he is. Taras Batkin. Russian-American Trade Council. It’s a front. He’s also BEC, by the way, one of the three partners, and Alyona’s first husband, the girl’s father, is the third.”
“Oh my God. I had … You have to believe me … I had no idea. I’ve been played for a total fool. If this gets out…”
Sounded to me like he was already rethinking the TV bid, but I stayed quiet.
“I was working on the network transaction,” Leitz went on, “putting together a limited partnership to pursue it. My bankers were having trouble raising money. TV’s out of fashion among institutional investors and … I was a victim of my own hubris. Nobody wanted to put money with someone who was seen as unpredictable—‘mercurial’ was the word you used the other day, right?”
“That’s right. They worried you might decide to give the money back,” I said with a smile.
That got a small grin in return. “Exactly. Anyway, Alyona was all over me in the following weeks. Not the way it sounds, she was all business and she was relentless. She said she could raise hundreds of millions, maybe billions, and I offered her the same commission deal I give my bankers. She organized lunches and dinners and presentations. We went to London and Paris and the South of France. That’s when the rumors started. There was nothing ever to them, I promise you that. It was all business. Jenny knew every move I was making. I met all kinds of people I never knew existed, and more than a few did invest. But there was always one big fish out there—the white Russian whale she called him, it was her idea of a joke, but she wouldn’t say any more. Meetings kept getting set up and canceled. I offered to go to Moscow, but she said that wasn’t a good idea. She wouldn’t say why.”
I knew why, but let him tell his story.
“Then, in December, she tells me I’ll get a call. I do, and a man comes to see me, and he’s in a position, through a partnership he controls, to invest three hundred million, maybe more. You have to understand, in this kind of deal, the value of three hundred million is three billion or higher because of the leverage it allows. I was suspicious, of course, but he seemed to know all about her—and me. I was also getting ready for the day when we’d have to raise our bid—and I needed his money. I told him his group and any investment would have to pass scrutiny with U.S. regulators, the SEC. He said that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Konychev,” I said.
He nodded. “It all fits.”
It did fit. “You meet him in your office?”
“Yes.”
“He placed the voice bug under your desk. You get his money?”
“We made a handshake deal, and our lawyers have been doing the paperwork, but I haven’t heard from him directly again, no.”
“You won’t. You won’t see any money either.”
Leitz buried his head in hands. Foos and I exchanged a look that said, Give him some space. Foos took the laptop to his office. I returned the vodka bottle to the kitchen, leaving Leitz a wide berth on my way to my office. Even Pig Pen picked up on the tension and kept quiet. I think he turned down his radio.
I felt a large presence at my door a half hour later. Leitz looked worse than when I arrived.
“I didn’t mean to add to your troubles,” I said.
“Not your fault. You did what we agreed. Give me an account number, I’ll have your fee wired tomorrow. I’ll tell my lawyers to draw up a loan agreement for the Malevich. Best to document that.”
“Thanks.”
Even under the pressure he was feeling, the business brain was functioning. I told myself not to be judgmental—I was the beneficiary.
�
��What are you going to do about Coryell?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Walter … Let’s just say, this is one more in a long string of issues with Walter.”
I nodded. Not my business to press. I thought once more about saying something about Marianna and Thomas, whose problems were no less serious, or potentially threatening. Let them pass. Andras called out from a Siberian corner of my mind—Hey, what about me and my eleven mil? I told him to shut up. Don’t climb into another man’s sleigh, as another of our proverbs goes.
Leitz stepped through the door and stuck out his big hand. I stood and took it. His grip was almost painful.
He said, “I can’t say it’s been fun working with you, but … I guess, I hope we meet again under better circumstances.”
“Me too.”
He let go and lumbered across the floor until he disappeared among the servers. I stood in my door rubbing my wrist.
Foos appeared, shaking his mane. “Man don’t know what hit him.”
“I think he’s got a pretty good idea. Problem is, he doesn’t know what’s coming around the curve up ahead. Like that song you play, trouble ahead, trouble behind…”
“You’d be better off dead?”
“Let’s hope not.”
CHAPTER 23
I told Foos I needed a straw man, and he set me up with William Ferrer. Foos consults for banks and financial institutions, partly because he enjoys charging usurious fees for jobs that to him are pedestrian, and partly because he wants to keep tabs on what the bastards are up to, as he puts it. He maintains a stable of well-heeled straw men—straw women too—synthetic identities he’s created by marrying deceased persons with other people’s Social Security numbers. He gives them the financial basics—bank accounts, credit cards, sometimes passports and driver’s licenses—and brings one to life when he needs someone to do something anonymously. One of his ways of toying with the Big Dick.
Tomorrow when I received Leitz’s money, I’d move a hundred grand into Ferrer’s account at Citi, where he was already sitting on $2,748, and send a debit card to Aleksei. Half of me said it was guilt money for having abandoned him as a child, the other half pegged it as down payment on the guilt to come, courtesy of L. P. Beria. The little bit that was left rationalized that Aleksei had provided a key tip about Alyona Lishina, so this was his commission. That part of me walked home happy. Except I kept thinking about smiling, terminally ill Jenny Leitz, who was soon likely to add more pain to her list of ailments. Half of the world’s major religions lay claim to a righteous God. I agree with the Bolsheviks on one thing—who’d want Him? He’s a mean-assed SOB.
