Countdown in Cairo rt-3

by Noel Hynd

  “You have to try their specialty drink, ‘The Peacock,’ ” Federov said to Alex.

  “Named after the Shah of Iran?” she asked, making light of it. “He would have liked this place. He used to stay here, in fact, if I remember.”

  Federov laughed. “The place still stinks with Iranians,” he said. “They’re disgusting people.”

  “What’s the drink?” she asked. “The Peacock. What’s in it?”

  “It’s a vodka drink,” he said. “Cranberry-infused vodka and apricot brandy with a sour made from scratch. The vodka is Russian.”

  “Sounds lethal,” she said.

  “It is. Russians are lethal. You know that. That’s why I order it. I had three last night.”

  “Well, you’re still alive,” she said.

  “Ha! Just, hey.”

  The waiter arrived.

  “I’ll take your recommendation,” Alex said. “But I’m sure one will suffice for me,” she said.

  “Two Peacocks,” Federov said to the waiter. “Make mine a double.”

  The waiter nodded approvingly and departed.

  Federov turned to her and smiled. Now Alex got a good look, up close and personal, and he was indeed thinner than she remembered. She couldn’t yet tell whether it was a sign of good health, vigor, and exercise or something more ominous. She dug through the repository of facts on Federov that she kept in her head and tried to recall his age. Given a moment’s thought, she reckoned he was about forty-eight or forty-nine. Not a bad age for a man, depending.

  There was an awkward moment of silence between them. “So,” she said, quickly moving to fill it, “I thought I’d start with a basic question. Are you here in the United States legally?”

  He laughed.

  “Of course, I am,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to break any laws now that I have a clean slate.”

  “The tax thing,” she said. “That got cleared up, I hear. Completely?”

  Federov nodded. “Cleared up perfectly,” he said.

  “Try to keep current in the future,” she said.

  He made a dismissive gesture. “The future. What’s that?” he said. “I’m retired, enjoying the time I have left and the money I’ve stashed. I don’t make money anymore. I try only to keep track of what few millions I have. And you know I’m here legally. You’re the government and have all the computers and the records. You know I came in on a visa, and you even know where I’m staying without me telling you.”

  “Touche,” she said.

  “I hoped you’d get in contact but didn’t know if you would.”

  “Now you know,” she said.

  “Now I know, but I suspect this is business more than pleasure. Thank you, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be surveillance on me. I appreciate that.”

  “There isn’t, and it wasn’t my decision,” she said. “I’m not that powerful.”

  “You are very powerful,” he said, “like opium.”

  She tried to be angry but couldn’t help laughing. “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said.

  “Opium is not good stuff, huh?” he said. “It eats the brain and destroys it. I’ve tried it but don’t recommend.”

  “What do you recommend?” she asked, playing along.

  “Vodka,” he said. And as if on cue the waiter arrived with two drinks, served in the bar’s signature glasses, which were sculpted in the shape of a beautiful woman. The waiter set the single before Alex and the double before Federov. Federov produced a fifty-dollar bill as quickly as some men can snap their fingers. He handed it to the waiter and declined change.

  The waiter bowed most appreciatively.

  Federov lifted his glass to Alex and switched into Russian. “ Za tvajo zdarovye,” he said. To your health.

  “And to yours, Yuri,” she said, lifting her glass, clicking it to his, and reciprocating. “ Za tvajo zdarovye.”

  She sipped. Federov knocked back half of his drink in one long draw. Then he set down his glass, and his gaze landed hard on her. He grinned.

  “So,” he said, launching one of the lightning non sequiturs that she had come to expect from him. “Why don’t you marry me?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Are you still singing that note?” she asked.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” he said. “I’ve met the perfect woman. So I pursue her as I can. What can I do for you while I’m in New York? May I buy you a yacht or just take you away with me on one for six months?”

  His flirtation was so outrageous that she refused to even take it seriously. “Don’t you ever give up?”

  “Obviously, no. Why should I?”

  “My answer will never change.”

  “Never say never,” he said. “Life changes.”

  “Do you know the old phrase about a snowball’s chance in hell?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered thoughtfully, “and since you like to speak of philosophy and sophisticated notions, it has occurred to me that a snowball might have some small chance in hell.”

  “The snowball’s got a hundred times better chance than you do of marrying me,” she said.

  “Thank you! Very encouraging.”

  “Encouraging?”

  “Yes. This is the first time that you’ve acknowledged that I might have some small chance. I’m heartened.”

  With an overly dramatic gesture, he took her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. These were the same hands that had pulled triggers on unarmed men and beaten several other men and women to within a few inches of their lives. Sometimes she wondered how she had the gumption to play along.

  Federov finished his drink.

  “A lot of women would marry me in a heartbeat,” he said.

  “I’m not a lot of women,” Alex answered.

  “No, but you’re the woman who charms me and excites me. Why don’t you think about it?”

  “Sure. And in the meantime, why don’t we change the subject?”

  “To what?”

  “Why are you in New York?” she asked.

  “Is that what you’re here to discover?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. It is. My superiors at the US Department of Treasury sent me here to find out.”

  “Ah.”

  “So why don’t you tell me and then business will be out of the way.”

  “I’m here to see some doctors,” Federov said. “Some specialists. I have a few health issues.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” she said.

  “American doctors are the best in the world, so I put my trust there.”

  “I’m sure the medical establishment will be flattered to learn that. Is that the only reason you’re here?”

  “If you’re asking me if I’m here to do business,” Federov said, “the answer is no. And why would I lie to you at this point? I’ve made my money; I don’t live in Ukraine or Russia anymore, so I tell you again: I take my winning chips, and I walk away from the table. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “And I have some friends here,” he announced easily. “So I socialize, have dinner and drinks, and mind my own business.”

  “How long are you here for?” she asked.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Alex LaDucova,” he laughed, finishing his drink and signaling to the waiter that he could use another. “I’m sure the record of my air travel has already been given to you. I’m here for ten days. And you knew that.”

  She smiled. “I didn’t say I didn’t know that.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “To see if you’d tell me the truth.”

  Federov raised his thick hand expressively. “Again, why would I not tell the truth at this point? You have all the power here, not me.”

  The waiter presented Federov with his second drink, also a double. Alex was working slowly on the first half of hers.

  “These ‘Peacock’ drinks,” Federov said. “They’re like
a woman’s breast. One is not enough and three would be too much.”

  “You said you had three yesterday.”

  “Yes, I’m a pervert and it was too much. Tonight I am a gentleman because I am with a lady.”

  “Tell me about your friend.”

  “Ah, this friend I am seeing this evening,” Federov said next. “I’m glad you can come along. This is, ah, ‘good fortune’-you’re well educated; what is the ten-dollar word?”

  “ ‘Fortuitous’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there an ulterior motive?”

  “There might be,” he said.

  “Why don’t you tell me then, or is it one of those things I have to figure out?”

  “No,” he said. “His name is Paul Guarneri. He is a former business associate of mine in New York. We’re going to meet him at 7:00 p.m. in Little Italy.”

  “What sort of business?” Alex asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “You can ask him that yourself. I’ll tell you right now that Paul is from a ‘connected family’ in New York, but his businesses now are entirely legitimate. Like many people in his position, he has friends on both sides of the law.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “I mentioned you to him. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “I don’t date wise guys, Yuri. You know that.”

  “His interest is elsewhere,” he said. “Come along. You won’t regret, hey.”

  She processed a lot of information quickly. Then she decided she would go along with it and file a complete report as soon as she returned to Washington. If Guarneri was connected, could an association of this sort hurt her? As an investigator, little tidbits that she picked up at such meetings could sometimes prove of immense value.

  “Okay. That’s fine,” she said. “I look forward to meeting your gangster pal.”

  He laughed again. She sipped more of her drink. The Peacock started to resemble rocket fuel, and she was on the runway. Then she realized he was looking at her very contemplatively, as if there were something else he wished to bring up.

  “What?” she asked.

  He reached directly to her. She held her position, not knowing where his hand was going. It went under her chin to the neckline of her blouse; she allowed it. He fingered the pendant that she wore, the one fashioned by a child for her in Venezuela. He looked at it thoughtfully.

  “You still wear this,” he noted.

  “I do.”

  “You used to wear a little gold cross. I had almost forgotten. That’s what you had when we first met.”

  She opened her mouth to remind him what had happened, but he continued the line of thought for her.

  “But you lost that little cross in Kiev,” he said. “The same day you lost the man you were in love with.”

  “That’s correct,” she said.

  “Life is strange,” he said.

  “It can be. Cruel too.”

  He gently pulled his hand away. In doing so, he eased away from the subject. “I’ve done many rotten things in my life, hurt people I should not have, things I regret,” he said. “Kiev. Moscow. New York.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I think I should clear my ledger, like I did with the tax people. What does your religion say about that?”

  “About what?”

  “Forgiveness. Asking for it.”

  “From another person or from God?”

  “Suppose it would be from you.”

  “If you did something heinous, and I know you have done many such things, I’d be more worried about God than me,” she said.

  “What if I cared more about you than God?”

  “Then I’d say you had your priorities wrong,” she said. “Where are you going with this?”

  He shrugged, retreating from the subject. “I’m just asking,” he said. There was a grave expression on his face, as if his mind had jumped to a place that was very painful.

  He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get a taxi,” he said. “We’re going way downtown. Traffic can be terrible.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” Alex said.

  Federov found another fifty-dollar bill. He signaled to the waiter that they were leaving and left the fifty on the table. Alex had the impression that the waiter would be sorry to see Federov check out. They finished their drinks. When she stood, she was mildly buzzed. Crossing the lobby, Federov took her hand to guide her to the front entrance on Park Avenue. She made no motion to object, even when he gave it an extra squeeze.

  TWELVE

  Yuri Federov and Alex arrived by yellow cab in front of a restaurant named Il Vagabondo on Carmine Street in Little Italy and stepped out into a light, cold drizzle that had begun on the drive downtown. Manhattan in November; the weather was typical.

  If the New York restaurant critics gave an annual award for Most Sinister Atmosphere, Il Vagabondo might have been in strong contention. Three long black limousines sat outside the restaurant; once she and Yuri stepped inside, Alex saw an array of thick-browed guys at the bar, watching the entrance, watching everyone arrive. The congregation at the bar was solidly male; it looked like the waiting room in a urologist’s office.

  From the bar, the eyes of those assembled suspiciously jumped from her Russian escort, to Alex, then back to Federov again. She knew the routine: check out who is entering, check out the female companion, keep your eyes on the guy. Look for trouble and get a lid on it if you find it. Yuri’s appearance started a few conversations. She wondered how many other Feds were in the place this evening and further wondered if anyone had dropped a wire on it. Probably, she decided.

  The place was decorated in expensive Italian-American eclectic, a style that Robert used to refer to as “Early Al Capone.” There were murals of Sicily on the walls and replica Roman columns at the doorway that led to the dining room. The only things missing were Mount Vesuvius and a signed portrait of Sinatra. The Italian food, however, promised to be outstanding, judging from the atmosphere.

  A captain in a black jacket met them. His name was Mario and he knew Federov. Mario quickly led them to a table where a man was waiting. The captain dutifully held the chair for Alex as they sat down.

  Yuri introduced Alex to his friend, Paul Guarneri.

  “This is my friend, Alex LaDuca of the US Treasury Department,” Federov said to Guarneri. “Alex, I’ve mentioned you to Paul many times.”

  “Favorably, I hope,” she said politely.

  “Always,” Federov said.

  Guarneri was fiftyish, dark, and handsome, with a little gray at the temples. He had a strong face, what some might have called a Sicilian face, but with something else mixed in. Alex, having a mixture of Italian and Spanish-Mexican blood in her own veins, was always alert to such things.

  “Usually I don’t like to hear from anyone at Treasury,” Guarneri said with equal politeness. “Maybe tonight will be an exception.”

  “I’m here socially, not professionally,” Alex said.

  “That makes three of us,” Guarneri said. “I guess it’s a check-yourgun-at-the-door sort of night.”

  “Really?” she answered, “I didn’t check mine.”

  Guarneri laughed. “What are you carrying?” he asked.

  “If everything goes well, no one will find out.”

  Even sitting, Guarneri came across as tall and powerfully built. He also came across as smart.

  Alex could always pick up when a man she was meeting showed some interest. There was something about the eyes on her, the body language, the tone of voice. She sensed it from Guarneri, just as she had the first night in Kiev with Federov.

  “See?” Federov said. “I told you Alex was my type of broad.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Yuri,” she said back.

  In no way did she expect to feel anything in return for this new acquaintance. If she had felt ready for any sort of new relationship, it wouldn’t have been with either of these men. It would have been with her longtime friend and sporting partner, Ben,
or it could have been with someone like Peter Chang, whom she had worked with in Madrid. But the bottom line was that Guarneri was an attractive man. Even though he was twenty-some years older, she picked up on something primal. And it surprised her.

  “Just visiting the city?” Guarneri asked her.

  “I live in Washington right now,” she said. “Treasury sent me up to keep tabs on Yuri. Nothing new about that, the US government seems to think I’m his babysitter.”

  “Ha! We should all be so lucky,” Guarneri answered.

  “What about you, Mr. Guarneri?” she asked. “Yuri says you live here?”

  “I have a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights,” he said. “And my name is Paul, if I may call you Alex.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “And a brownstone in Brooklyn isn’t the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

  “No, it’s not,” Guarneri said. “I bought it a year ago when the market was down. I have room for my kids.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Divorced. Joint custody. Two girls, fifteen and twelve. My angels. A boy, eight. My devil.”

  “I get it,” she said.

  “I grew up on Long Island,” he said. “Glen Cove. Know it?”

  “I know where it is. I’m from the West Coast. So it’s just a short three thousand mile walk from where I grew up.”

  Guarneri had lived in the New York metropolitan area all his adult life, he said. He added that he had gone to parochial schools in Glen Cove, “run by some of the world’s toughest nuns,” as he put it, and then had gone to Cornell University where he picked up an undergraduate engineering degree while nearly freezing to death for six months of each of the four years. “My old man made plenty of money,” he said. “Not all of it legal, but he made it anyway. So I got sent to good schools. I try to do the same for my kids.”

  “That must cost you a few bucks,” she said.

  “Yeah. About fifty grand a year. Three private school tabs in the city.”

  “I’m told you used to be able to buy a house for that,” Alex said.

  “Now you can barely buy a judge,” Federov added.

  “Your father? Is he still in business or is he retired?” Alex asked, staying with Guarneri.

  “Neither. He’s dead. Someone shot him.”