In for a Ruble

by David Duffy

  * * *

  After dinner, Victoria pronouncing the pork a success, I got the computer and logged on to Ibansk.com. Ivanov had a new posting on Konychev. I skimmed it quickly.

  “Seems Konychev’s still in New York.”

  “What?!”

  I translated.

  High Noon in New York City?

  The world is a big place, but perhaps not if one travels in the seemingly small circles of the Ibanskian oligarchy.

  Exhibit A—Efim Konychev and Taras Batkin, brothers-in-law, sometime partners, mortal enemies, personal proponents of Ibanskian revenge, especially on each other, faced off this week, everything but guns drawn, across the floor of a Manhattan café.

  Ivanov will set the table. Maison sur Madison was the venue—a New York see-and-be-scene known for elegant if tasteless meals, left mostly uneaten by emaciated models and their testosterone-laden peacock patrons. Did Ivanov mention stratospheric prices? They go without saying. Little surprise then that it appeals to a clientele from all corners of the Ibanskian empire who share great wealth and minimal taste. “Eurotrash” is the American term of art, and as much as Ivanov hates to admit defeat when it comes to a matter of words, he can’t come up with a topper.

  “He’s got style,” Victoria said.

  “Zinoviev’s turning in his grave.”

  “Who’s Zinoviev?”

  “Russian novelist. Inventor of the original Ibansk.” I went back to reading.

  Everyone knows the bad-blooded background between Konychev and Batkin. The Kremlin-enforced partnership. Konychev’s failed attempts to torpedo his sister’s romance and marriage. Attempted assassination. Assassination tried the other way. Yet here they were, two old comrades seeking overpriced sustenance. And certainly unwilling to remain in the other’s company.

  Konychev’s party was seated when Batkin and his entourage arrived. Words were exchanged. Hands reached under overcoats. The owner intervened, at risk of his own scalp, and convinced Batkin and Co. to take their leave. A bad day for him—he’ll never see Batkin or his kopeks again.

  Lunch was served—Konychev and Co. dined on sautéed scaloppini, risotto Milanese, and roasted artichokes. Most un-Ibanskian fare. Washed down by Mouton-Rothschild ’82. Total tab? A very Ibanskian $5,100.

  “Christ! What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Victoria muttered at the sink.

  “You talking to yourself?”

  “Just wondering if all you Russians are ignorant peasants. Artichokes are an absolute Cabernet killer. They didn’t taste a drop of that wine, and it probably cost them most of that fifty-one hundred dollars.”

  I had a feeling she was talking about more than the menu, but I said, “I’ll be sure to tell Konychev next time I see him. One more paragraph.”

  Ivanov can add a related tidbit. One person missing from Konychev’s party was the feared enforcer of the Baltic Enterprise Commission—a shadowy figure of unknown name and uncommon strength—who has been spotted in New York of late. Lunch might have been someone’s last supper had he decided to attend.

  “That’s the guy who beat you up, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Read me the earlier article, the one about Konychev and Homeland Security.”

  I scrolled back and read it aloud.

  Her only comment was, “Shit.”

  “Need any more translation services?”

  “Who is this guy, Ivanov? Where does he get his information?”

  “Nobody knows—on either score.”

  “How widely followed is he?”

  “Very.”

  “Damn it.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just about everything. I really need the Basilisk now. How ’bout it?”

  “I’ll try but whether he agrees is anybody’s guess.”

  “What time can we start?”

  “You go running with me at six, we can stop at the office on the way back.”

  “I’m not that desperate. Let’s say breakfast at eight.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “Bayou Babe! Tiramisu?”

  Pig Pen was on the case the moment we walked out of the server aisles.

  “Get a wall clock, parrot,” Victoria said. “Nine thirty, breakfast, remember?”

  I think he muttered, “Prospect Parkway—lane closed,” as he paced the floor of his office. He’d met his match in Victoria.

  Foos came to his door to check the commotion. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “It appears that Leitz’s brother-in-law, Walter Coryell, may have a hidden identity, Franklin Druce. Victoria thinks Druce is behind a payment processor for kiddie porn sites. We want to check him out.”

  “Which one’s asking?” Foos said with a grin, planning to enjoy the moment.

  Victoria looked at me.

  “We both are,” I said. “I still want to know what Nosferatu and the BEC have on Coryell. There’s also my new client, Taras Batkin, stepfather of Andras Leitz’s girlfriend, Irina.”

  “You’re working for Batkin?!” Victoria cried. “You didn’t say anything about him.”

  Foos’s grin broadened. Pig Pen climbed the mesh in his door, attracted by his nemesis’s distress.

  “That a problem?” I asked.

  “He’s … He’s … Shit. You know what he is. What the hell are you doing for Batkin?”

  “That’s between us. But I might be persuaded to tell tales out of school if you do the same about Efim Konychev.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not? Batkin can be very useful to me. He thinks his stepdaughter’s up to some kind of trouble and wants to know what. We made a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Like I said…”

  Pig Pen picked the wrong moment to take another shot. “Bayou Babe…”

  “Quiet, parrot!”

  He shook his feathers and went back to his radio.

  Foos said, “You think this trouble could involve the Leitz kid?”

  “Their bank accounts say it does.”

  “What bank accounts?” Victoria said.

  “Remember I told you about the two kids with eleven mil each in the bank—back when we were sharing? What about Konychev?”

  “Dammit, I…”

  “And how is Coryell connected?” Foos asked.

  “Andras and Irina were supposed to meet him at the Black Horse. He didn’t show. Andras has been trying to contact him ever since. The guy’s gone underground—maybe as Franklin Druce.”

  Foos nodded. “Your lucky day, Bayou Babe. We’ll make an exception to the no-Fed rule, just for you. But…” He looked at me. “Stay on the reservation.”

  Foos went back in his office. Victoria said, “What did I ever do to him?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Be glad he likes you.”

  “He likes me?”

  “He would have reset all the passwords if he didn’t. Come on—before he changes his mind.”

  Pig Pen thought about trying again as we passed his cage, but when Victoria shot him a look, all he said was, “Route Three, fuel spill.”

  It took less than ten minutes for the Basilisk to confirm Walter Coryell and Franklin Druce were indeed Jekyll and Hyde with plastic. In addition to the address, which Druce listed as both home and office, their driver’s license photos showed two poor images of the same ordinary-looking, brown-haired man. Druce was CEO of ConnectPay, and the company deposited forty-four grand a month into a checking account at B of A. He spent a big chunk of it online, mostly with ConnectPay, at a long list of what looked to be child porn sites. A consistent three to five K a month. Bricks-and-mortar charges were at gas stations and restaurants all over the Northeast—Connecticut, New Jersey, Vermont, New York, sometimes Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, or Delaware.

  I told the Basilisk to line up the food and gas purchases. The beast whined and hissed—You already know the answer to that—but did as instructed.

  “One-night stands from the looks o
f it. He buys gas and food in the same town. No hotel or motel charges, though. Must pay cash for those. Thinks he’s clever.”

  I could almost hear the Basilisk snort with contempt.

  “What do you mean?” Victoria said.

  “Druce is a pedophile. He’s using the money he makes from ConnectPay to support his own habit. Every few months, when he gets bored just watching kids online, he sets off around the countryside to hook up with one. That explains the extra mileage on his car, remember?”

  “Christ.”

  “In fact, looks like he’s been on the prowl this week. Bought gas last Wednesday in Rockville, Connecticut. No meals though.”

  I asked the computer for the phone number for Coryell’s garage. A Hispanic voice answered. “Sí. ¿Hola?”

  I went with Spanish too. “Hola. This is José at Manhattan Volvo. We’re supposed to pick up Walter Coryell’s car Monday for service. Have it ready at eight, okay?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  I could hear him talking to someone else in Spanish in the background.

  He said to me, “Sí, that’s okay, but it’s not here now. Hasn’t been since Wednesday.”

  “Oh. Maybe there’s a mistake. I’ll check with the customer and call you back.”

  “What was that all about?” Victoria asked.

  “Coryell took his car out of the garage Wednesday and hasn’t come back. Julia told me Friday her husband was traveling on business. I wonder if maybe…”

  I sent the beast back to its cave. It returned in an instant, blowing fire, triumphant.

  “There’s your answer,” I said, pointing to the screen. “No one could find Coryell because he’s been cooling his heels, as Martin Druce, in the Tolland County slammer in Rockville. He was busted on Wednesday. Take a look.”

  “Goddamn,” Victoria said. “That explains a lot.” She leaned in to read the screen. “Attempted rape, solicitation of a minor, indecent exposure, the list goes on and on. At least we got him.”

  “Don’t count your Coryells too quickly.” I sent the Basilisk after his bank records. “I’d move fast if I were you. He wrote a check for five hundred thousand yesterday. Looks like he bailed himself out.”

  “No!”

  She pulled out her phone, found a number, and was soon giving orders to someone on the other end.

  While she talked, I went back to Druce’s bank information. A handful of withdrawals, all cash, all five figures. The dates went back four years. A quick check confirmed they corresponded with Thomas Leitz paying off his shopaholic debts.

  “GODDAMMMIT!” Victoria cried. “How the hell…? Never mind, I already know.… Get a man back on Fourteenth Street.… Yeah, I won’t hold my breath.”

  She put the phone back in her bag. “Sometimes I think FBI stands for ‘Forever Behind It.’”

  “Flew the coop?”

  “Yesterday. Had a kid in his car when he got nabbed, but the kid got smart and ran. Cops found condoms, K-Y Jelly, all the usual paraphernalia. Only good thing is no one was hurt. Could be a tough case though, parents are already backing away—don’t want the attention and publicity.”

  “He have any ID other than Franklin Druce?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “Hope he shows up back in Long Island City. I’m betting he’s halfway to Shanghai.” She banged her hand on the desk. “Dammit!”

  “Don’t be too quick. He’s been doing this for a while. If he’s smart, and the record so far shows that he is, then he’s planned for this. He’s probably got another identity lined up, ready to go. He sheds Franklin Druce like an old snakeskin, reemerges as Walter Coryell, and goes back underground as John Q. Sleazeball. He’s out half a mil, and fingerprints are a problem, but no one has Coryell’s prints on file, and his won’t match Sleazeball’s in the event someone has them. He’s still at liberty.”

  She looked at me with skepticism. “Why is it that you always know every scumbag’s next move?”

  “Misspent youth, as we’ve discussed.”

  “Don’t discount the rest of your life experience.”

  “There is a risk Coryell/Druce takes on a new identity and disappears entirely, but somehow I doubt that. Too much money tied up in ConnectPay for one thing. And he’s got his partners to worry about. They don’t like surprises. That fact might give us some leverage.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. No us, though, shug. You stay away from Coryell. He’s Federal property now.”

  “This is the gratitude I get?”

  “So long as you’re working for Taras Batkin, it is.”

  “Suppose what I’m doing for Batkin is purely personal?”

  “Only thing personal about Batkin is the fact that I’m gonna nail his ass to the jailhouse wall.”

  Something clicked. “You’re working with Aleksei again, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t ask questions.”

  “Konychev—he’s part of your case, right?”

  “I said…”

  “You’re having a hard time keeping Efim Ilyich on the leash, aren’t you? He’s not supposed to be going out to lunch at Maison sur Madison or anywhere else.”

  “If you don’t … Oh, never mind. Dragons and treasures, that’s my new mantra when it comes to dealing with you.”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “You have helped, and I’m grateful.” She gave me a squeeze and a kiss.

  “Tell me this much—why all the secrecy surrounding Konychev?” I said.

  “Who’s asking—you or your new client?”

  “Point taken. I’ll do my own legwork.”

  “You would anyway, no matter what I said.”

  She did have me pegged.

  “Make me one promise, though,” she said. “Whatever you’re doing for Batkin—it is personal, right?”

  “Like I said, he’s worried about his stepdaughter. He thinks she’s up to something and wants to know what.” No need to remind her that whatever it was almost certainly involved the BEC. “And no money’s changing hands, if that makes a difference to you.”

  She frowned. “No money? You are getting paid, right?”

  I nodded. “Information. Or access to information. He’s the only guy I know who can provide it.”

  Another frown. “What kind of information?”

  “Family history. Gulag history. I’ll tell you all about it once I know what it is. Could amount to nothing.” Hope springs eternal.

  She was looking me up and down, but the frown had turned into a smile. “This on the level—or you cooking up another one of your screwball Russian plots?”

  “On the level.”

  “Good. Remember, I don’t like surprises either. I gotta get to the office. Right after I thank that lion tamer you work with for the assist. And stay away from Coryell.”

  I did as instructed, for the most part, because I figured the next surprise was right around the corner. I was right, and it was a doozy. But only the first in a hell of a string.

  CHAPTER 29

  Two days is a long time when nothing’s happening. I told myself to be patient—when I was in the Cheka, two days was nothing. I used to spend weeks, months, sometimes years, working an agent until he or she paid off. But I was playing a long game then—the Cold War stretched for decades. Victories were few, at least on our side, so the time they took faded once they were recorded. This was twenty-first-century America—waiting was for losers and wimps—you were expected to produce something every day.

  Victoria was antsy too—and patience, as a song goes, was not a virtue she possessed.

  “Goddamned judge. How long does it take to grant a search warrant?”

  “We used to get ’em in hours. On the infrequent occasions when we needed one.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Just pointing out the relative merits of different systems.”

  “Horse-you-know-what. You’re just pulling my chain—and enjoying
it.”

  I was enjoying her company—and that contributed to my feeling frisky. She appeared to be enjoying mine as well—at least she was making no haste to return to her apartment uptown. We spent most of our time together talking about things other than the business at hand—everyday things like books and music and movies. The first phase of our romance had ended before we had that chance. Now, we found that, as with art, we had little in common on any of them. Her tastes ran to Hemingway, honky-tonk, and comedy. Mine took in hardboiled noir, bop, and the filmed version of hardboiled noir. The disparities led to spirited arguments that inevitably (and happily) led to equally spirited reconciliation.

  Her presence was keeping Beria at bay—as if she locked some door, and he could no longer get in, or maybe she just filled all the available emotional space with love and good cheer (interspersed with the occasional threat), and there was no room for his malevolence. It had been days since his specter last appeared. I made the assumption that this bode well for the future, in all kinds of ways.

  Occasionally, we circled in on the subject at hand or one of its multiple manifestations—Batkin, Konychev, the BEC, Coryell/Druce—and if we reached a point of contention, we circled out again. We felt tension and not, we both understood the situation. Get used to it, I told myself more than once, this could be what it would be like going forward. I remembered the feeling I’d had with my ex-wife—I couldn’t talk about my work with her—and I knew where that led. This was different—and better.

  While Victoria was at the office, I worked the Basilisk. Thursday, it produced a few tidbits. Coryell/Druce had returned two calls Tuesday when he got back to town. One to Andras. One to the nameless cell phone I’d matched with Nosferatu. Nothing after that. And nothing from Gina. I started to call her more than once but no news meant nothing to report. She’d get in touch when she was ready.

  Disobeying orders temporarily, I made a surreptitious trip to Long Island City for a look-see. Victoria’s FBI man was watching the building. Other than that, not much going on.

  Batkin called Thursday late to keep the pressure on. He wanted a progress report, he said. I had none. He wasn’t pleased.

  “I can close the archive doors as easily I opened them.”

  “I can walk away from a teenaged girl and her overbearing stepfather too. Neither of us benefits either way.”