by David Duffy
I shook my head. “Why should I go along with that?”
“Because you will recognize that you have no choice.”
What I recognized was the nasty feeling I get when I’ve stayed in a card game too long, miscalculating my opponent’s hand, and was about to pay for my mistake. I took a sip of brandy and played for time.
“I don’t follow,” I said.
“I think you do. Find Irina, and I give you the results of my search. Walk away and I give them to your son. I’m sure he will be most interested to learn of his ancestry.”
How the hell did he know my every fear and insecurity? Beria appeared by the fireplace, fingering the king of spades, his message all too clear.
Never underestimate the Cheka.
Perhaps I had been living away from home too long. Batkin was watching me across the top of his glass, enjoying himself in some perverse way, if that was possible on such a morning.
“Only Irina?” I said.
“I don’t need help with Konychev, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What about Karp?”
“If I were in your shoes, I’d kill him before he killed me.”
CHAPTER 38
I stepped into the street, not sure what to think. The refection of sun on still-clean snow blinded. In Moscow, a layer of black soot would already be settling. The snow here would get dirty soon enough, but for now it was bright white everywhere.
I walked east toward the subway, squinting. I’d spent another half hour probing Batkin about the BEC and the extent of his knowledge about its demise. No question he was one tough SOB—as well as an unreliable witness and an accomplished liar. He was a Chekist after all. On balance, however, I was inclined to believe him. At least until I checked out his account.
He confirmed the essential facts about the Baltic Enterprise Commission and the split between its leaders. Konychev, the media mogul, and Lishin, the technology expert, had built the business. Web hosting for spammers to start, in the Internet’s early days. They’d been successful—so successful they attracted the Kremlin’s attention. An enterprise with mastery of this mysterious new medium—ultra-mysterious to the dinosaurs who rarely ventured outside the fortress walls—was frightening. They injected Batkin into the partnership, ordered him to get his arms around the BEC and its activities and report back. He did that. He also recognized that Konychev and Lishin had only begun to tap their creation’s potential. For three men, each of whom wanted the other two dead, they made a toxic and formidable team. The business grew and expanded and spun Internet gold. Batkin kept his Kremlin bosses far enough at bay that the partners were allowed to enjoy the fruits of their labors.
The trouble started over the summer. Long-simmering animosities bubbled to the surface, and disagreements over business issues turned up the heat. Then the technical problems hit. Annoyances at first, just as Foos had described. Minor hackings, data corruption, cyber-vandalism. Things like that had happened once or twice before, not often, but they had a big Internet footprint, they would be a target for any fool who wanted to boast about hacking the BEC. The partners were concerned, but not overly so—until three mil vanished in August. That got their attention. Their technical people worked the data. Karp flew to New York.
Karp reported some progress. He’d identified the source of the theft attack. Konychev boasted they’d have the culprit soon. Batkin and Lishin were losing patience, fast.
Another five million went out the cyber-door in November. Karp leaned on Coryell. Elizabeth Rogers started making the rounds. The BEC leadership was apoplectic. It wasn’t just the money. They weren’t used to this kind of treatment—and the inability to do a damned thing about it. Lishin told Batkin it had to be an inside job—their defenses were too strong to be so easily breached. Lishin ordered Konychev whacked. Batkin didn’t put it that way, but we were Chekists, we understood each other. The killers missed, Konychev went into hiding.
Batkin didn’t say anything about the most recent cyber-attack that felled the BEC or about Lishin’s death. I didn’t ask. I wouldn’t have believed him on either of those questions. It was possible that he had been playing me for a sucker since that first visit to my office. I could have delivered Irina into the hands of her jailer, maybe executioner, last night, which was why she ran the first chance she got. Even money, though, that neither Konychev nor Lishin had confided in him. No reason for them to have done so.
As I picked my way through the snow-packed sidewalks, I tried to handicap whether his concern for Irina was based on her safety or a desire to reunite her with her dead father or some idea that she, or Andras, could lead him to the missing ConnectPay servers, now more valuable than ever. Perhaps even the foundation the BEC needed to rebuild. A man like him would already be thinking about that.
First things first. I called Victoria. She was in a meeting. I left a message that Irina had taken off. I didn’t say anything about Batkin. I’d call again as soon as I had more information. Then I found a payphone and dialed Moscow—Aleksei’s apartment.
“Coffee?” I said.
“When?”
“Sooner the better.”
“Do you know what time it is? Never mind. Ten minutes.”
I walked a few more blocks, until I found another pay phone and dialed Aleksei’s disposable.
“You hear about Taras Batkin?” he asked.
“Just left him.”
“What?!” Then, “Why am I surprised?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“How do you know what I think?”
A fair question.
“I can tell you all about it—it’s his stepdaughter. She’s playing some dangerous games, and she’s run away. You know the BEC’s offline?”
“Old news.”
“How about the late, unlamented Alexander Lishin?”
“Ivanov broke that story.”
I listened for anger or frustration but didn’t hear any.
“Here’s something else, the real reason I called. I’m assuming you’ll be able to pinpoint the date of Lishin’s demise. Check whether his daughter, Irina, was treated around that time for a wound to the neck, right side, just below the ear. A cut, maybe a burn, bad enough to leave an ugly scar.”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“I’m assuming you have hospital contacts. You can do it quietly. It might be the bulldozer you need to push the roadblocks aside—if you want to. You have a suspect yet?”
“Don’t ask. What’s your interest in the girl?”
I started to give the same reply—Don’t ask—until I heard Beria chuckling. I spotted him across Lexington Avenue, shaking his head with a smile.
You don’t get it, he mouthed. You never will.
“I think she’s the one who took down the BEC,” I said to Aleksei.
Sharp intake of breath. “How…?”
“She had help. Her boyfriend’s a computer geek. His uncle was a key cog in the empire.”
“Was?”
“He checked out last week.”
“Connection?”
“Maybe. Probably. Not sure. Konychev’s enforcer is after the kids. Name’s Karp by the way. You can pass that on if you like. I need to keep the girl’s role under wraps.”
“You trusted me. I can return the favor. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
I hung up. Maybe that was the start of something. I looked around for Beria. He was gone. I continued down Lexington and stopped at the window of a coffee shop. Cheka and BEC troubles were sidelined by the immediate prospect of a club sandwich and fries—not my usual lunch diet, but comforting in the prospect that they might soak up the brandy. My hand was on the door when my cell phone buzzed.
Thomas Leitz’s voice was high, shrill and hysterical.
“YOU HAVE TO HELP ME! YOU HAVE TO!”
CHAPTER 39
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“EVERYTHING! IT’S YOUR FAULT! He’s out there. I can’t move. I c
an’t do anything!”
“Who, Thomas? Who’s out there?”
“The tall man. HE’S STALKING ME!”
I dropped my hand from the coffee shop door. The fear coming through the phone was real. People brushed past, bumping me from either side on the snow-narrowed sidewalk. I pushed on down the block until I found a doorway providing shelter from the pedestrian traffic.
“Okay, calm down. Tell me what’s going on.”
“He’s out there. HE’S WATCHING ME!”
“Describe him.”
“The man you told me about. You told him where to find me, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU?”
“Cool down. I didn’t tell anybody anything.”
“I DON’T BELIEVE YOU. HE’S OUT THERE!”
“Thomas! Stop! You called me. I want to help. You have to tell me calmly and specifically what you are seeing. Understand? Where are you?”
“He’s out there.”
The hysteria receded, a little, the borderline panic remained.
“Where are you?” I repeated.
“My apartment.”
“Okay. What’s going on? What do you see?”
“He’s across the street. He’s watching me!”
“How long has he been there?”
“I don’t know. I was going out. To … He came towards me. STRAIGHT AT ME! I ran back inside. I’ve been watching. He hasn’t moved. He’s waiting for me!”
“How long ago? How long ago were you going out?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes.”
“Okay. Good. What does he look like?”
“The man you told me about. Tall. Ugly. Bad hair, bad teeth.”
“You have a doorman?”
“Yes … Part-time.”
“There now?”
“Until four.”
I looked at my watch—2:30 P.M. The doorman would be no match for Nosferatu, but the fact that he was still across the street said he didn’t want the complication of getting past someone. Question was, what did he want?
“How many entrances to your building?”
“How should I know? I…”
“Thomas! I’m trying to help. Answer my questions. This is important. How many entrances?”
“The front door?”
“Good. Fire escape?”
“From the rear window. Down to a well in the back.”
“Then what?”
“Back out to the street.”
“Next to the front door?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
“I think so.”
No way for Nosferatu to get in without the doorman seeing him. Or so I hoped.
“Listen to me,” I said. “I’m going to hang up for a minute. I’ll call you right back. I want you to watch the tall man. Tell me what he does. Okay?”
“I need help!”
Cheka training, any training, if it’s done right, is hard to shake. I had Thomas Leitz in the palm of my hand. I could help him, I could also get something in the process. The process wouldn’t be pretty.
“You shouldn’t have blackmailed Coryell all these years,” I said, making my voice hard, almost cruel. “That’s what this is about. The tall man knows what I know. You want my help, there’s a price.”
“WHAT?! What are you saying? I didn’t…”
He was crying. I ignored that and pushed. “You did. You hit him up. You used him every time you needed money. Now the tall man wants to know what you had on Walter. So do I. That’s where we are today. You can deal with him or you can deal with me.”
“That’s not fair. You’re a bastard. I didn’t.”
“Him or me, Thomas. I’m hanging up. I can call back or not. Tell me which way you want this to go.”
Tears, choking, sniveling. Maybe I should have felt sorry, but Thomas Leitz was a user whose string of using had run out. No remorse on my part.
“Good-bye, Thomas.”
“WAIT!”
“Wait for what?”
“I’ll do what you say.”
“What I say is this: When I call you back, you are going to tell me what you had on Walter Coryell. That’s the deal.”
“But…”
“No but.”
A long wait. Longer than it should have been. Thomas Leitz was terrified, but not terrified enough.
I broke the connection and started to count. I got to seven when the phone buzzed in my hand.
“Next time I turn it off,” I said.
“You’re a bastard.”
“Tell it to the tall man. If he lets you. He likes breaking necks. He’ll break yours in a second.”
I cut the connection again. This time I got to four.
“OKAY! Whatever you say.”
“What did you have on Walter?”
“Make him go away first.”
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll make him come back. And I’ll be right behind in case he fucks up.”
“Make him go away. PLEASE!”
“Watch your window.”
I walked down the block until I found a pay phone. I punched in the number the Basilisk had identified calling Coryell’s office last week.
A Belarusian voice said, “What?”
“You and I have a lot to discuss, Karp.” I spoke Belarusian.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Someone who knows who you are. Someone who knows where you are. Someone who has what you want.”
I could almost hear him spit in the snow.
“Fucking zek. I know you, asshole.”
“Fuck your mother. You want to do business or trade insults?”
“I don’t trade with zeks.”
“Kiss the computers good-bye then. I’ve got other buyers.”
I hung up and started counting again. When I reached twenty-five, I called Thomas on my cell phone.
“What’s he doing?”
“Throwing a total hissy fit. He just punched the wall, I think.”
“Good. I’ll call you back.”
“Wait…”
I called Nosferatu on the pay phone.
“Reconsider?”
“You’re a dead man.”
“We all are. Are we dealing before we die?”
“What do you want?”
“Leave the fairy alone. He has nothing you need. Get out of his neighborhood and we’ll talk. That’s the deal for now.”
I felt mildly guilty about the “fairy” part. But us tough guys have to bond like everyone else.
“Maybe I’ll just kill him now.”
“Then you won’t hear from me again. And I’ll let your boss know how you fucked up.”
I hung up before he could respond.
Thomas Leitz said, “He’s leaving! He’s walking down the block and … he’s gone! How…?”
“I called in some debts. Your turn now. What about Coryell?”
“It’s not … I didn’t…”
“If I don’t make a call, he’s back in five minutes.”
Another long wait. It was taking time for Thomas Leitz to realize his luck had run out.
“Good-bye, Thomas. What time does the doorman get off?”
“WAIT! Okay. Go to the school, my locker. I’ll give you the combination. You’ll find what you want taped under the top shelf. No fucking good to me anymore.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, although I knew the answer.
“You haven’t heard, smart guy? Walter’s dead. They found his body yesterday. You and Sebastian and Julia can all have a great time remembering what a wonderful human being that shit was. You can read the note at his funeral. I won’t be there.”
WEEK THREE: ALL IN
CHAPTER 40
Never underestimate the impact of boredom on a teenager. I didn’t experience any. My daily concern was getting through the day. The cold, the work, the guards, the whole system, even many of my fellow zeks—they all had it in for me. I wasn’t unique, they had it in for everybody. That was life, if you can call it
that, in the camps. Whatever energy you managed was focused on making it to tomorrow. Looking back, I’ve often wondered why we bothered—tomorrow would only replay today.
Andras Leitz could not have come from a more different time and place, and holed up, as I came to find out, in a suite at the Regency Hotel, with only a TV for company—no one to talk to, no one to friend or tweet or text—he was bored. So, only somewhat to my surprise when I called him from the lobby, he told me to come up to his room. Of course, the news that Irina was on the run might have had something to do with it too.
* * *
I got lucky at Thomas Leitz’s school. A construction crew was collecting weekend overtime while they drank coffee and laid a new floor in the main hallway. They didn’t give me a second look when I told them I’d forgotten some lesson plans. I went from the school to the office and made a copy of the note Thomas had hidden for the last four years. It answered one set of questions and opened another. I put the copy in my wallet and the original in the safe. I walked home hoping I wouldn’t encounter the emptiness that was there. No more empty than I was used to, but all the more so because of what I’d hoped to find.
I could have called her. What would I say? I’m still working for your man, Batkin, because he has a hold on me I can’t explain? Ever hear of Beria? My father, Beria? She probably blamed me for Irina being on the loose as well.
I got the vodka from the freezer and spent a lonely evening thinking about Leitz and his family. I’d wandered into the middle of it, eyes wide shut, and had them opened to the horrors of the kind that can only be delivered by those closest to us. I’d grown up with a different set of horrors until I got the opportunity to join the enemy I couldn’t beat. But even today, I was still victimized—by my past and by Taras Batkin because he knew how much he could hurt. Stop, I told myself. You’re still a victim only because you allow Batkin to make you one. I could have called his bluff this morning. I still could. But I didn’t—and wouldn’t. I was afraid. I had the chance to right a thirty-year wrong, but not if Batkin blew it up before I even got started. Maybe Aleksei wouldn’t care. Hard to know, but I was scared to take that bet. So I’d sold a piece of my soul to Batkin—at least for the time being. I had the sense that the Leitzes had made a similar deal some years ago.
