by D. A. Keeley
“What you want?” he said. “You bring Aleksei back?”
He pronounced Aleksei differently than anyone she’d heard say the name previously. He seemed to say the name more fluidly, more rapidly—Alek-SAY. Even Bohana, after so many years living in the US, pronounced it more stiffly and Americanized: Alec-SIGH.
“Mr. Vann,” Hillsdale said, “you realize that neither Agent Cote nor I make the laws, but, like you, we must follow them.”
“You’re using my son for getting what you want.”
“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said, “this is Mark Rogers. He’s a Russian professor at the University of Maine at Reeds. I asked him to join us in case you have any translation needs.”
“I will not,” Dariya said.
“Just want to be sure,” Peyton said.
“I lived in Boston for a year.”
That surprised Peyton. Dariya Vann’s English wasn’t even as strong as his son’s.
“Okay. I’m going to record this conversation so there is no confusion about what was said later on.” She reached toward her cell phone as if he didn’t have the right to stop her, and the red light started blinking. “We need you to speak openly and honestly about your son’s entry into the United States.”
“I bring Aleksei here,” he said.
“You brought Aleksei here yourself ?” Peyton said.
He nodded.
“Dariya,” Hillsdale said, “this is the third version of the story.”
“It was me. I bring him here.”
“Okay,” Peyton said, “then tell us about the journey, from start to finish.”
“Would you like coffee?” Bohana asked, suddenly amiable. The room smelled of cinnamon. She’d baked something recently. Coffee cake before school? Peyton had arranged for her own son to sleep away from home so she could work last night. Hadn’t even seen Tommy off to school today. And this Martha-Stewart homemaker was up early to prepare coffee cake?
Hillsdale accepted the offer; Peyton did not.
“My wife get hurt. Very bad.”
Dariya looked at his hands. Peyton watched him. He had the face—weathered, wrinkled, eyes tired and sagging—of a man who worked outdoors, a laborer’s face; but his hands were thick with manicured nails, the hands of someone who made his living behind a desk. Dariya was twirling his wedding band.
“Putin, you know, taking over. Donetsk a mess. No airport.”
Peyton had read about the Donetsk airport, about how fighting between pro-Russian separatists and the Ukraine forces had left it in ruins.
“Liliya need me there. I care for her.”
“What are her injuries?”
“Broken bones and stomach.”
“What happened to her stomach?” Peyton said.
Dariya thought about that for a moment. “Shrapnel,” he said. “Long operation to remove.”
Peyton was surprised he came up with the word; maybe his English was better than she thought.
Hillsdale nodded. “So you’ll return in a few days?” He knew as much, Peyton assumed, since he’d signed off on the man’s stay here.
“Yes, I go back. Doctor says she needs more surgery. But she must get stronger first.”
Hillsdale nodded reassuringly. “Why did you send Aleksei here?”
“People dying every day. Boys his age fighting pro-Russians.”
“And you have stayed behind to fight?”
“Not like that. I cover the war.”
“As a reporter?”
“Yes, I tell the truth.”
“Dangerous?”
He nodded.
“When did you decide Aleksei needed to come here?” Peyton said.
“Long time ago.”
“Please tell us about the trip,” Peyton said for what felt like the umpteenth time.
“I brought him.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“You told Mike Hewitt that you paid someone to bring Aleksei.”
“I did myself.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you tell Mike something different?”
“To”—he searched for the word, smiled when he found it—“simplify things. I thought Aleksei would be take back to Bohana.”
“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said, “Aleksei led me to believe that you and your wife might be in grave danger if he told me who brought him here. Then you told a similar version of the story but claimed you didn’t know who brought your son here. Now you’re taking responsibility for his illegal entry into the US.”
Dariya said nothing.
“That’s three versions of the story,” Hillsdale said.
“And Alien Smuggling is a felony punishable by ten years in federal prison.”
“You can’t arrest my brother.” Bohana was on her feet.
“Your brother seems to be highly proficient in getting people here,” Hillsdale said. “I’d like to know this isn’t—or won’t become—a habit.”
Dariya shook his head.
Peyton said, “Can you describe the trip?”
“Very long.”
“Mr. Vann,” Hillsdale said, “we need details.”
Bohana got up from the table then and brought more coffee cake from the counter.
“We need to know the date you left, where you went, how much you paid, when you arrived, and who helped you,” Peyton said.
“No one helped.”
“Tell us how you did it.”
“Does that matter?” Bohana asked.
“Yes,” Hillsdale said.
Dariya ran a hand through his hair.
His sister reached over and touched his shoulder. “I know it’s hard. You were just being a good father. And these people are questioning what you’ve done.” Bohana stared at Peyton.
Peyton smiled warmly and sipped her coffee.
“So you put Aleksei in the back seat of your car and started the engine,” Hillsdale said. “Then what?”
“Drove to Hamburg.”
“It’s nearly thirty hours away,” Peyton said.
Dariya nodded.
“Did you do it in one shot? Stop somewhere for the night?”
“One shot.”
“Thirty hours?”
He nodded.
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Boat.”
“Tell us about the boat.”
Dariya shrugged. “Cargo ship. I slept the first two days.”
“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said. “I’ve done a little research into this, as you can imagine. The trip from Hamburg to Halifax, on a cargo ship, usually takes longer than half a month.”
Aleksei nodded.
“Who took care of your wife while you were away?”
“Neighbor.”
“Were you in contact with your wife while you traveled?” Peyton said.
“No.”
“How long did the trip take?”
He shrugged. “Three weeks.”
“And you didn’t speak to your ill wife the whole time?”
“No.”
“How did you eat on the ship?” Hillsdale asked.
“With the crew.”
“And Aleksei?”
“Same.”
“What ship were you on?” Hillsdale said.
Dariya shrugged.
“Want me to ask for specifics?” Mark Rogers asked.
“Sure,” Hillsdale said.
“I know what you asked,” Dariya Vann said.
“Name of the ship?” Peyton said. “Captain’s name? Cargo company?”
Again, Dariya shrugged.
“You’re not going to tell us?” Peyton said.
“H
ard to remember.”
“You’re telling me you won’t answer those questions?” Peyton said.
Bohana said, “That’s not what he told you. We should’ve waited for Bobby Gaudreau.”
Peyton moved on: “Where did you land?”
“Halifax. Then we drove—I rent car; I have the rental receipt—to New Brunswick border. And Aleksei walk to you.” Finished, he leaned back in his seat and looked from Peyton to Hillsdale.
“How much did you pay for the boat?” Hillsdale said.
“I don’t remember.”
“Who did you pay?”
“I don’t know the man’s name.”
“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said, “Aleksei was asked these same questions.”
Peyton saw something—not quite fear but certainly concern—cross his face.
“And he told us you paid someone to bring him here. That you didn’t make the journey.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did.”
Dariya sat up straight in his chair then and looked Peyton in the eyes. “Excellent. He do what I tell him.”
“You told him to lie to us?”
He nodded, lifted a piece of coffee cake, and took a bite. “Good,” he said to his sister.
“Thank you,” Bohana said. She looked pale.
“What purpose would your son’s lying serve?” Hillsdale asked.
“Don’t like people to know my—” He paused to think, shook his head, and said something to his sister in Russian.
“Business,” Rogers translated.
Dariya turned and stared at Rogers as if he’d just remembered Rogers was in the room.
“And you flew back?” Peyton said.
“My wife is ill. Had to get back.”
“Do you know what your son told me about the trip?” Peyton said. “And I tell you because, if none of this is true and you really paid someone else to bring him here, whoever that person is should be held accountable. Aleksei said he was locked below the deck of the ship where he got seasick and ate alone. That’s a long three weeks, Mr. Vann. I’d even call it child abuse.”
Dariya turned to look at Bohana. She sat stoically. Then he spoke rapidly in Russian.
Rogers said, “He wants her to tell him if that’s true.”
Dariya heard Rogers and looked at Hillsdale then at Peyton.
“He’s a good boy,” Dariya said. “He did what I tell him.”
“You told him to say that?” Peyton asked. “To make all of that up?”
Before he could answer, there was a knock at the back door, which swung open before anyone stood.
The man took one step into the kitchen and paused.
“Bohana, is this a bad time?” he asked.
Bohana shrugged, eyes falling to the floor, hands restless in her lap.
Peyton recognized the man immediately. She’d seen him with Steven Donovan at the gun range. He was tall and lean with thinning sandy-blond hair and wore navy blue work clothes. Beneath the unzipped Carhartt jacket, Ted was stitched into one breast pocket, Donovan Ford into the other.
He looked around the room, his gaze coming to rest on Dariya. Dariya looked at him, then at Peyton and Hillsdale. His sister saw him staring at the agents.
“Yes, Teddy, this might be a bad time,” she said. “But help yourself to the coffee.”
Peyton and Hillsdale watched the man—waiting to continue the interview—as he not only filled his travel mug but opened the refrigerator and added cream. Peyton looked at Hillsdale, who offered a tiny head shake. She shifted, adjusting the .40 on her service belt that was digging into her side. The eight-pound Kevlar vest was—after all these years—a routine hassle. But the gun digging into her side was an indignity she refused to tolerate. Coffee made, Ted moved to the pantry and took out a bag of bagels, cut one, and popped it into the toaster.
“Friendly neighbors,” Hillsdale said. “I wish my neighbors fed me breakfast.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bohana said. “I should’ve introduced him. This is my brother-in-law. He lives in the upstairs apartment.”
The man failed to acknowledge the statement. When the toaster popped, he took his bagel, wrapped it in a paper napkin, and started for the door.
“You all going to be home tonight?” he asked Bohana.
She shrugged. “As far as I know.” She looked at Peyton. “We’re having Aleksei over for dinner, so he can spend time with his father.” She turned to Hillsdale. “That okay with you, sir?”
“Fine,” Hillsdale said.
“I’ll be by,” Ted said and left.
When the door closed behind him, Peyton said, “So that we’re all clear on this, Mr. Vann, you told your son to lie to agents about being mistreated on the ship?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see the receipt for the rental car you used to get from Halifax to Youngsville, New Brunswick, Canada.”
He stood and left the room for several minutes before returning with the receipt.
Hillsdale took it from him, examined it, and put it in his pocket.
“Why didn’t you fly here?” Peyton asked.
“Passports,” Dariya said cryptically.
“Meaning you don’t have them?”
“Aleksei do not.”
“Why not get one?” Peyton said. “Or even falsify one for him?”
“Not that easy,” Dariya said. “Besides, no time.”
“I’m trying to understand how this was time-sensitive,” Peyton said.
“After the Buk hit my brother’s house, he knew he had to leave.”
Peyton looked from Bohana to Dariya. The diminutive man was staring at the crumbs left in his plate.
“So it didn’t take you long to line up the ship, the car, and even map the route,” Peyton said to Dariya.
“What?” Bohana said.
Peyton saw Dariya scowl at his sister.
“You see what I’m saying, Mr. Vann. Don’t you?”
“No. I do not.”
“I think you do. From the time you decided to bring your son to the US, it seems like the logistical aspects of the trip took shape very quickly. That doesn’t seem possible.”
Dariya looked at his sister.
“May I assist?” Rogers said.
“I don’t need help,” Dariya insisted. Then to Peyton, “You think all of this was planned?”
“Had to be, Mr. Vann. There are simply way too many moving parts.”
“No.”
“No, I guess there is one scenario that would work the way you’ve explained it.”
Dariya leaned back in his seat and waited.
“You hired someone who knew how to do this and had done it before. Or you spent several weeks, probably months, getting the logistics ironed out before you left.”
“You call me a liar?”
It was her turn to not answer.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Peyton,” Bohana said.
“That’s fine.” She stood.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Bohana said and did. When she held the door, she said, “I’ve never seen this side of you before, Peyton.”
“And what side is that?”
Bohana started to speak, then stopped. Finally she said, “You can be a real bitch.”
“That’s on my business cards,” Peyton said. “Right beneath my name.”
5 p.m., Interstate 95
Rodia. Anna.
Thoughts of them wouldn’t let her go. The flight had been long, and the six- and three-year-olds dominated her mind. Marfa tried to focus on what was to be done. But thoughts and memories of her children returned as if part of an unwanted video loop.
Had her father been right? As a woman, was she instinctively maternal? And, if so, would that hold her bac
k? She’d spent years denying her father’s theory. Her father had no problem shedding parental duties when business called. “Go play,” he’d say. “Daddy’s little girl, you go play.” Then, years later, “This is something Dimitri and I must discuss. Why don’t you go shopping?”
Shopping. The irony struck her for the first time. She was shopping now, alright. She’d turned off the Nokia phone she’d had in Russia (always a Nokia in Russia) and had purchased an iPhone (when in Rome …). Driving seventy, classical music playing, she laughed. She wished she could see her father’s face when he realized the enormity of it all. When he realized that, yes, she could have simply waited for him to die—just a few months, maybe a year. She wanted to see his expression upon realizing not only was she taking it all sooner, but also why she was doing it: only to spite him. And, if that wasn’t enough, what she was doing now—driving to northern Maine to get (and, unbeknownst to him, keep) the gift he treasured above all else—would be the final insult.
The rented Buick Enclave shot north into the midmorning sunlight, had just crossed into Maine, when her iPhone chirped.
She answered it. The voice was familiar.
“It’s good to hear you,” the voice said. “I’ve missed you.”
She spoke in Russian, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” she lied.
“And our kids?” he said.
“They’re home. That will come later. I have to get something first.”
“The money?”
“No, not the money,” she said. “Something else.”
“Well, here’s the address for your GPS. I’ll be waiting.”
Mozart played on the radio. She was glad Pyotr was there already. That meant the house was set. She passed the service plaza in Wells, Maine, not needing gas yet.
Garrett, Maine, she thought, and looked at the GPS. It would take her five more hours.
Where the hell was she going?
And how could it have stayed hidden there for a quarter century?
5:15 p.m., Route 1A, Garrett
Tommy used to say it “smelled like spring” on days like these. It was forty degrees, and Peyton recognized that the early-evening air seemed somehow different after such a long winter. A precursor of what was soon to come, she hoped.
