"I'm annoyed, not hurt," Andreno said. "But I'm very annoyed."
The cop who'd followed Lucas in said, "Hey, when I'm talking to you…"
Lucas pointed his finger at him and snarled, "Shut the fuck up. Who's running this clown factory?"
One of the men in plainclothes snapped, "I am. Who the fuck are you?"
"Who the fuck are you?"
"John Terry, I'm the chief."
"I'm a BCA agent, I work for the governor, and I'm running a double-murder investigation that was almost a triple murder if it wasn't for my guy here, and nobody in this fuckin' humpty police department would tell me what the hell was going on and now I find my guy all chained up and let me ask you-you caught the guy who went running out of here, right? The double murderer who went running out of here because you put the call on your fuckin' unscrambled police frequency…" His voice was rising and he could feel the blood in his forehead.
Andreno said, "Tell 'em, brother," which didn't help, and added, "They didn't catch him-they didn't even chase him. A guy went outside and looked around with a fuckin' flashlight."
"That's not fuckin' true," said Terry. He was a weathered sixty, maybe, with a red drinker's face and a pushed-in nose. "We've got a team looking for him."
"Yeah, now," Andreno said. "By now the guy's down in the fuckin' Twin Cities shootin' pool and playing with his girlfriend's tits."
"Who the fuck are you?" Terry demanded. "You got no ID, you got no badge, you got no car, who the fuck do you think you are?"
"I'm under fuckin' cover," Andreno shouted at him. "Maybe you heard of that? And I gotta car. I just didn't want you in it."
One of the cops, trying to be reasonable, said, "The call was on the command channel…"
Lucas took a step back and put up his hands, palms out, as if pushing away from them. "All right, all right: let's start over. Okay? Let's start over. And let's take the cuffs off my guy, here, okay? Okay? Let's take the cuffs off."
They moved out to the front of the bar. One of the cops went around behind the bar and put together some Cokes and ice, and Lucas told Terry about the investigation.
"… I got this spy here, this Russian, and we think she's got somebody working with her. So after we come up with Spivak, she says, 'Well, let's do Spivak tomorrow, after we do the paperwork.' I think, I wonder why that is? Why don't we do him today? But I go along with it, because I already called Micky in. I tell Micky to keep an eye on Spivak, just in case. So he stakes out the place, and Spivak never comes out after the place closes. Micky starts to worry about it, so he stands up on the garbage can in back and peeks into the back room…"
"I see Spivak standing on two six-packs of whatever…"
"Bud Light," Terry said.
"Whatever," Andreno said. "His knees are shaking like crazy, he's about to hang himself, and I call Lucas. I'm standing in the back, still on the phone, and I hear Lucas talking to you, and the next thing I know, the back door bangs open and this guy comes outa there like a rocket ship. I go running after him but as I go past the door I see Spivak hanging by the neck, so I gotta stop and run inside and try to lift him up by the legs so he don't strangle, and then your guys got there. About an hour later."
"Two fuckin' minutes," one of the uniformed cops said. "And we looked for the guy. We knocked on doors down there to see if anybody saw anybody tearing out of there in a hurry, or anything."
"Nobody saw anything," said another cop.
"What pisses me off," Andreno said, "Is that when your guys got here, one of them points his pistol at me and says, 'Okay, drop him,' and Spivak is going aaagggaaaaaaghh."
They all looked at him for a moment and then Lucas started to laugh, and then another cop started and then the second one, and the chief rubbed his forehead and said, "Ah, for Christ's sakes."
Spivak was at the medical center with rope burns around his neck and on his face where the rope had cut against it. He had pulled muscles in his neck and back, and had a damaged larynx. He could talk-croak-but just barely, said the cops who'd brought him in.
His wife, a short, broad woman who might have been Spivak's sister, was in the hallway outside the hospital room where Spivak was being treated, and when she saw them coming, she said, "John Terry, I don't want you talking to him. You go away."
She was frightened and angry. Terry said, "I'm sorry, Marsha, but we gotta talk to him. This is a murder investigation. Two people have been murdered…"
"He almost got hung," she wailed, and then she started to cry, "You almost got him killed…"
Two more people came around the corner, a man and a woman, both short and stocky, both in their late twenties or early thirties, both Spivaks, Lucas assumed. One of them said, "Ma, what's wrong. Ma? Is he okay?"
"He's okay," she sniffed. "The police say it's a murder investigation…" and she cracked again and wandered over to a chair and sat down. The young woman said, "John, what the heck is going on here?"
"Carol, you just go take care of your mom. We need to talk to your dad for a minute. We don't know exactly what happened yet, but we're working on it."
"Did you catch anybody?"
"Not yet. That's what we're working on. You go sit down and we'll talk to your dad for a minute and then you can come in."
Spivak was propped up in a hospital bed, covered to the waist with a sheet, his neck wrapped in gauze, more gauze taped to the left side of his face, another blob stuck on his earlobe. When they walked in, he looked at Lucas and croaked, "What the hell?"
Lucas asked, "Did you recognize the guy?"
"No. Never saw him before." The words came out in spurts, as though each one hurt. "Tall guy. Black hair. Black eyes. Skinny. Big nose. Maybe forty. Black raincoat. Gloves. Waited in bar. Everybody gone. Asked him to leave. Pulled a gun. Made me tie rope up. Made me stand on beer bottles. Hung me. Had radio. Kicked out beer bottles when he heard cops was coming. Ran out back."
"American? Foreign?"
"American. I think. No accent. Shot me in ear."
"In the ear?" Andreno asked. "I saw blood, didn't hear no shot."
"Silencer. When I wouldn't stand on bottles. Shot my earlobe off. Bullet one inch from eye. Scared shit out of me."
"What did he want?" Lucas asked.
"Same as you. Wanted to know, who was in room."
"What'd you tell him?"
"Same as you. Don't know."
"You didn't know a single one of them?"
"No. Told you."
They went on for a while, but Spivak knew nothin' about nothin'.
Finally, Lucas said, "I'll tell you, Mr. Spivak, you're bullshitting us. There are already two people dead and you were almost a third. This guy is nuts, and he could come back if we don't catch him."
Spivak's eyes flicked away, and without looking back at Lucas, he shook his head.
They spent five minutes with the family, but the family claimed they knew nothing about any meeting at the bar, and pushed the cops off and disappeared into Spivak's room.
The chief said, "This is really screwed up."
Lucas asked, "How well do you know Spivak?"
He shrugged: "Well-I think he moved here from somewhere else when he was a kid, so I've only known him since kindergarten. That's what, fifty-four years?"
"He's a good guy?" asked Andreno.
Terry nodded: "Yeah, he's okay. He's just a guy. He runs a bar. He can be an asshole, sometimes. Most of the time, he's okay."
"Goddamnit. The problem is, there's something going on with this spy shit, and I don't know what it is," Lucas said. "Spivak isn't talking, and he knows some shit…"
Terry nodded in agreement. "I saw him look away. I'll tell you what, maybe you scared him. I'll go in and bullshit with him when you're gone. Tomorrow morning, see what he has to say. We've known each other a long time."
"I'd keep an eye on him," Lucas said. "This guy out there, whoever he is-he's not fuckin' around."
"I'll get them to put him down in intensive care. That w
ay, he'll be behind the nurses' station and there'll always be somebody right there. I'll have guys stop by and we got an extra car, I'll park it out front."
"Good. Talk to him, then. Call me."
"Get this guy some ID," Terry said, tapping Andreno on the chest. "And tell him to watch his mouth. He wise-assed us so much some of the guys wanted to shoot him to stop the bullshit."
Andreno said, "You guys…" But Lucas waved him off.
"I gotta ask you a favor," Lucas said to Terry. "I'd like to put out a story-your newspaper, the TV, however-that you got a call from a passerby about something weird happening at Spivak's. Maybe somebody heard a scream. When you sent a car, you missed the bad guy, but a cop or a passerby saw Spivak hanging there and cut him down. Just have somebody else do what Micky did. Tell your guys to keep their mouths shut-tell the family that. I want to keep Micky a little secret."
"Gonna be tough. This is a small town," Terry said.
"If you jump right on the story, it oughta work. I'm not worried about rumors: I just don't want Micky on the TV news, where out-of-towners are gonna hear about him. These guys, these Russians, I don't think they have local sources. They won't hear the rumors."
"Do what I can," Terry said.
Lucas had met Micky Andreno on a case in St. Louis. Andreno had retired early from the St. Louis Police Department, had a decent pension and a part-time job at a golf course, and, in his middle-fifties, was good undercover. He looked more like an Italian grocer than a cop. Lucas had used him twice before, on minor lookout jobs.
They found an all-night diner out on the highway, got a booth in the back where they could talk, and ordered cheeseburgers. Andreno said, half laughing, "Hell of a night."
"I'm sorry about this," Lucas said. "I never thought you'd get tangled up in anything rough."
"Hey, I like it," Andreno said. "I'm having a good time. I'm just sorry I got busted so fast. I could use an ID. If I'd had an ID, it would have cooled things out a lot quicker."
"I'll get you something," Lucas said. "When did you get here?"
"Flew in at noon. Rented a van."
"Nothing going on until this?"
"Hard to tell. Must've been two hundred people in and out of the bar. Any one of them could have been talking to Spivak that I couldn't see."
"Nothing we can do about that," Lucas said.
"One thing: the guy who hanged Spivak. Spivak said tall and thin and dark haired. I don't think tall. And he didn't look especially thin, either. I don't know about the hair. I couldn't see him when he was inside and only got a quick shot when he came banging out of there. But…"
Lucas nodded. "Spivak is bullshitting us. About a guy who tried to hang him."
"It's a goddamn good thing I didn't go chasing this asshole, if he really had a silencer on the gun. Don't want to go running after any pro fuckin' executioners with nothing in your hand but your dick."
"You had your dick in your hand?"
The waitress came with the cheeseburgers; she had a small smile on her face, and Lucas thought she must have overheard the last question. When she was gone, Andreno said, "So. I'm headed home?" He sounded unhappy.
"No. I've got another thing for you."
"Excellent," Andreno said. He rubbed his hands together and looked around. "I like this town. This is like a town in the old country. Maybe they could use an Italian restaurant."
"They'd have to find somebody who could cook Italian food," Lucas said.
"Little wine, little checkered tablecloths, fat guy with an accordion…"
Lucas drifted away for a moment, then shook his head: "That fuckin' Nadya. She's fuckin' with me, Micky."
"I don't know what you're talking about, but I'd beat the shit out of her if I were you," Andreno said. "Pass the ketchup."
Though it was late when Lucas got back in his truck, he decided to call Andy Harmon, the FBI counterintelligence contact. Once clear of Virginia, on the highway, he found Harmon's cell-phone number in his address book. Harmon answered on the first ring, in a quiet, wideawake voice: "Harmon."
"This is Davenport. You awake?"
"Yes."
"Are you always awake?"
"No."
"Good. I'd hate to think you went around sleepy all the time."
"Is this about something, or did you just call to chat?"
Lucas told him-the hanging of Spivak and the call from the unknown woman. He didn't mention Andreno. When he was done, Harmon whistled: "This is turning into something."
"The big question is, do I confront Nadya? She must've sicced this hangman on Spivak. Unless it was Reasons, but I don't see Reasons being involved in any of this."
"He has a Russian wife."
"That crossed my mind, but I'll tell you: I don't believe it. From what Reasons has said, she was one of those people who got out of Russia when the getting was good. She worked for an optician in Russia, and she works for an optician here."
"So it's just a coincidence…" Harmon said it with a brooding tone, doubt right on the surface.
"Hey, it's your call. I'm not going to spend any time with it, but if you want to check Reasons out, be my guest. My main thing is Nadya. I feel it in my bones, she set this thing up with Spivak."
"Let me make some calls. I'll talk to you in the morning. Don't do anything before then."
"What time in the morning?"
"I'll call you before nine."
"All right. But listen, Andy: people are being killed. I don't much give a shit about spies or anything you guys deal with, but I get a little pissed when people are being murdered and I can't stop it. So… come up with something. Or I will."
"Take it easy, okay? Take it easy. I'll call before nine o'clock."
Chapter 10
Svoboda's Bakery in downtown Hibbing had a U-shaped glassed-in counter with the cash register at the bottom of the U. If a customer wanted bread, which was kept in the case to the left of the cash register, he had to walk between fifteen running feet of glazed, frosted, powdered, and jelly doughnuts, cherry, apple, and blueberry popovers, poppy-seed kolaches, six kinds of Danish including prune, apple, and apricot, and a variety of strudels, cakes, jelly rolls, and cookies.
Two small bathroom-style exhaust fans, mounted in the corners of the wall behind the cash register, blew odors from the ovens into the sales space, a mixture of yeast, dough, spice, and just a touch of sea salt. Few customers made it back to the street without a load of extra calories.
Leon Witold and his wife, Wanda, arrived two minutes after the bakery opened at six in the morning. Karen Svoboda, the stay-at-home daughter, was standing at the cash register and tipped her head toward the back. The Witolds nodded at her and went on past the cash register, through the preparation and oven rooms, down a short corridor past the single rest room to a small employees' lounge. The lounge was a cube with yellowed walls and a flaking ceiling, furnished with three tippy plastic-topped tables, a dozen folding chairs from Wal-Mart, and an E-Z clean vinyl floor. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, disinfectant, and warm cookies.
Rick Svoboda, a round-faced man with steel gray hair, was pushing chairs around. When the Witolds walked in, he said, his eyes downcast, worried, "Hi, guys."
"You know what it's about?" Leon Witold asked. Leon was an accountant, a tall, thin-lipped, thin-faced man with overgrown eyebrows.
"Something serious," Svoboda said. "Marsha Spivak called last night and said Anton was in the hospital. Somebody tried to hang him-and she thinks it's the Russians."
"Oh my God," Wanda said. The blood had drained from her narrow face, and she pushed a knuckle against her teeth. "Hanged him?" she breathed.
"He's not dead, but the cops are all over the place," said Svoboda. There were footsteps in the hallway outside, and Grandpa Walther was in the doorway, ancient, shaking a little, his eyes blue as the sky. Then Grandma appeared, in a wheelchair pushed by their grandson, Carl.
Svoboda looked at Carl and then Grandpa, who said, "He's been in for five year
s. I've been teaching him for more than twelve."
"Aw, boy. Does Jan know?" Svoboda kept his eyes on Carl, who looked back with the flat stare of a garter snake.
"No. She turns her back on us, so we tell her nothing," Grandpa said.
"Carl's her kid," Svoboda said.
"I'm in," Carl said. "I don't care what Mom thinks."
"I'm not sure what the others will say," Leon Witold said.
"It doesn't matter what they say," Grandpa said. His voice had an edge of the Stalin steel. "He is in. He knows our story. He knows enough to send every one of us to prison. Some of us were younger than he is, when we got in. He's our future, and he's in."
Svoboda rubbed his face. "Oh, brother. I thought it would stop with us."
"Never stop," Grandpa said. "We have a duty."
More people: Marsha Spivak, Anton's wife, a heavyset woman with a hound-dog face, a babushka over her hair, the woman who raised the alarm.
"Good to see you, good to see you," she said. "My Anton is terrible hurt, terrible hurt…" She'd been born in the United States, but somehow managed a middle-European accent. She'd been to church already, not to Mass, just inside the door to dab her forehead with holy water and to say a prayer for Anton. She was a Communist, all right, but of the practical sort, the just-in-case kind, who had no personal problem with Jesus.
Janet Svoboda, as round faced as her husband, blond, with a long nose that looked a little like one of her bagel sticks, came in with a pot of coffee and a tray of doughnuts. "Karen will stay at the counter," she said. "What else can I get for everybody?"
Marsha Spivak sat heavily in a folding chair, dabbed at her face, took a jelly doughnut and said, "Maybe a little milk to wash down the doughnuts?"
"Oh, sure," and Janet darted away to get a carton of milk.
Bob and Carol Spivak came in, two walking fireplugs, twin brother and sister. They both looked at Carl Walther, and then Bob stooped to kiss his mother, who burst into tears again, finished her first doughnut, and took a second.
Nancy Witold Spencer came in: "Hi, Mama." She didn't speak to her father or look at him, but he said, weakly, "Hi, Nance." She nodded, a bare acknowledgment: they'd had a financial falling-out over a loan to her dance studio.
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