“That would be very kind of you, sir,” Keiko said.
Rifling through a folder on his desk, Fedya repeated the Swiss bank account numbers slowly for Keiko.
There was an uncomfortable silence at the other end of the line.
“Keiko?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” Keiko paused as if choosing her words carefully, “Those are the same numbers I have. I’m afraid there must be a mistake. The account only holds sixty five hundred dollars at present.” The tremble returned to Keiko’s voice, “With all due respect, Patrushev-san, is it possible there has been an error on your end?”
Flustered, Fedya could feel his rage returning. This time, however, it was tempered with a bit of fear.
“I will check on this immediately, Keiko. Please extend my apologies to Seiji. I will be back in touch with you within the hour to let you know what I find out.”
The two said their goodbyes, and Fedya began screaming for his assistant before the handset hit the cradle.
Fedya was not a man well acquainted with fear. Every move and transaction was carefully calculated. He was known for his accuracy and the thought of a miscalculation perturbed him. He was operating under the assumption that a clerical error was to blame even though there was a niggling thought in the back of his mind that something much more serious might be wrong.
A winded assistant appeared at the door just as Fedya’s office line began to ring again. He held up a finger to signal the man to wait quietly while Fedya attended to business.
Fedya answered, “Hello?”
Najib’s voice snarled “What the FUCK are you trying to pull, friend?”
CHAPTER 87
Grace, Mary Jane, and Sam arrived at Denny’s well past the agreed upon meeting time. Birdie sat in a corner booth nervously playing a video game on her phone. She had changed into normal attire and washed the stage makeup off her face in the storage space.
“Hey, Bird.” Looking thoroughly dragged out, the three collapsed into the booth.
“Wheah the fack ‘ave you been? Nevermind me freaking out heah!”
“They searched us all before we left.” Sam rolled her eyes. “Like someone is gonna carry that kind of cash out in her dance bag.”
“Hey, we thought about it,” Mary Jane said.
“And quickly nixed it,” Grace added.
Birdie closed the flip screen on her phone. “Did they tell you why?”
“Said they were looking for drugs.”
“Right. Did they find any?” Birdie snapped.
Sam laughed. “What do you think?”
“What about the DVDs?” Birdie asked.
“Mary Jane managed to slip ‘em to Tyrone and Tyrese before they left. We would have been screwed if they hadn’t showed up. They said Tanya sent them in to keep an eye on us and make sure we were okay. They saved our asses.”
“And how was Gio? Did that go okay?”
Grace moaned, “Oh lord, you’re enough of a sadist, Birdie. You would really have enjoyed that part.”
“Thank you!” Birdie smiled, clearly interpreting the comment as a compliment.
“The drug worked fine. Perfect, in fact, and we managed not to kill him. Which was a bonus. Once the drug started to wear off and he realized they’d been robbed, he kept it quiet. Wouldn’t let anyone in the office and ordered the bouncers to search anyone going in or out of the club. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck.” Sam kept her voice low.
“Sorry I missed that.” Birdie smiled.
“Oh, it gets better. When Gio finally left the office, he was checking the VIP rooms and, from what we can gather, he found Pietra in some sort of compromising position with Tyrone and Tyrese.”
“WHAT?” Birdie shouted with delight, causing several other tables to glance over at her.
“All we know is that it wasn’t pretty. Gio was screaming like a little girl.”
“You could hear him over the music,” Mary Jane added.
Birdie was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “Oh God, I’m so sorry I missed that!”
“So what about the cart?” Grace asked.
Birdie took a few seconds, trying to collect herself. “Yup. Bob’s your uncle.”
“Have you counted it?”
“No, we agreed we’d wait ‘til we’re all together.” Birdie dried her eyes with the back of her hand. “There is one thing though. Just one little bitty thing.”
The girls tensed, bracing themselves for whatever Birdie might see as a minor detail.
“I bumped into Joe. Gave ‘im the memory stick with all Fedya’s books on it.”
Silence.
“Are we screwed?” Mary Jane finally asked.
“Don’t think so. He let me go without checkin’ the bags, didn’t he?”
“Guess that means Bob’s our uncle, huh?” Sam smiled.
A waitress, as wide as she was tall, appeared. “Can I take your orders?”
CHAPTER 88
Sunday, the four, weary and apprehensive, returned to work. It seemed important for them to project an air of normalcy. As Mary Jane said, “These are not the droids you are looking for. Move along. Move along.”
Still, they were understandably nervous about the reception they would get and what rumors might be flying. They weren’t disappointed. The dressing room was filled with chatter. Some were talking about what they thought transpired with Pietra and the two silver-clad strangers in VIP 5. Others speculated about Gio, who was clearly going to pieces. His steely, cool façade cracked under the pressure of Saturday night’s events. A majority of the employees compared notes about what might have been the cause of the full bag search and questioning every employee had to endure after the club closed on Saturday night. Everyone was pissed that they hadn’t been allowed to exchange their Pink Pussycat funny money for cash that night. Gio told them they would have to wait until Monday to change out their money. There were no shortage of theories and none of them were even close to the truth.
The four decided to take Monday night off and watch movies at Sam’s. The beer and junk food flowed. Sleeping on the couches under Sam’s homemade blankets, the four felt warm and safe for the first time in a long while.
CHAPTER 89
Outside the window, a chilly pre-dawn gust blew dirt, dried leaves and fast-food wrappers through the empty parking lot. Seated in their regular booth at Denny’s — sans listening device −− the four passed the Pablo Escobar phone from one to another. Each girl stared at the text message Tanya had sent just before going into surgery.
The tiny screen displayed “1.8 bil.”
“That can’t be right.” Sam murmured.
“I didn’t think she was goin’ undah the knife until tomorrow,” Birdie said.
Grace laughed, “Of all people to not understand time zones, Birdie! It is tomorrow there! She’s twelve hours ahead.”
“Roight. Time difference. I always forget ‘bout that. Guess that’s why me mum always sounds so cranky when I call.”
“Do you think she means million? That’s still a pretty handsome take, especially with the money from the club. We’re all millionaires?” Turning the subject back to the business at hand, Grace scratched her face and squinted like she was staring into a blinding light.
“When we checked the stolen books it looked like there were hundreds of millions funneling through those accounts. It’s possible there was over a billion . . . but holy shit! Could we be so lucky?” Mary Jane said.
“Fedya’s gonna come looking for that money. I can tell you that for sure.” Sam took the phone and stared at the LCD screen again. “We may have just signed our own death warrants.”
“How?” Mary Jane asked, “The person who made the transfers just disappeared off the face of the earth. “Tanya is no longer Tommy, or Fedya, or anyone else.”
The four fell silent. Could they really get away with this? Would they be caught? Killed? Worse? What would they do with all that money?
The energy at the table
was humming. If the text message wasn’t a typo, they were far richer than they had ever imagined.
Tears rolled down Mary Jane’s face, “I feel a little guilty,” she choked. “This is all about Lena and the revenge we wanted. I’m so grateful for the money . . . but I also feel guilty for feeling good about this. I mean, is it bad to be excited that we’re rich?”
Sam nodded, “I know. I feel the same way. I can’t believe this is real and I’m trying not to jump out of this booth and scream with delight. I can’t believe that money is all ours.” She grinned ear to ear, “It’s pretty amazing, even if it was a typo, it’s an exciting one!”
Birdie was scribbling notes onto her paper placemat and talking to herself.
“What are you doin’ Bird?”
“Making a list of everything I ever wanted, cuz I’m gonna buy it all.” She looked up with her cockeyed grin.
Grace smiled, “We did it girls.”
CHAPTER 90
“Why me?” Dmitry thought as his ancient Lada wheezed up the winding hill, heading away from the lights of Yekaterinburg. The scent of pierogis wafted into his nostrils from the insulated bag in the passenger seat. The frost of the Russian winter might penetrate every cubic centimeter of the old car, but could not reach the delicate dumplings sent from the infamous Dacha by the Lake Restaurant. Dmitry was lucky to land the busboy job, but hated that he was also the occasional delivery boy.
“Why should he send me so often? Those giant thugs at the gatehouse don’t tip. They just grunt and hand back the bag from last night. You would think they would be swimming in rubles, working for such a rich guy. Such a huge estate. You can barely see the roofline of the big house from the road.” Dmitry nursed his resentment. “Why doesn’t he send Arkady or Nina more often? He just hates me.”
Rounding a blind bend in the road, Dmitry stood on the brake and brought the weary Lada to a stop. Crosswise in the road ahead, a dark Toyota Land Cruiser blocked the path. Suddenly the light bar on the top of the Toyota sprang to life. A woman wearing the uniform of the DOBDD exited the driver’s door and strode toward him. “Shit” Dmitry said to nobody in particular. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” He rolled down his window, but made no attempt to exit the car.
“Identification please.” Her tone was even and her words precise. Standard Russian with no trace of an accent. Educated? St. Petersburg perhaps?
“Identity card, please” she repeated.
Dmitry fished for his wallet. He fumbled with the card and then dropped it. He bent down, grabbed the lost card, and straightened up. As he swung his gaze back toward her, a muffled “thud” was heard. The 9-mm hollow-point slug entered Dmitry’s skull just above his left eye. And he knew no more.
CHAPTER 91
Yuliya had little difficulty dragging Dmitry’s lifeless body into the small stand of spruce and Siberian larches next to the road. She possessed extraordinary upper body strength for a woman her size.
She dumped the light bar and easily navigated the Land Cruiser into an alcove in the trees. Then she shed the uniform revealing nondescript jeans and a sweatshirt. Finishing the look, she added a heavy jacket and a ball cap, both emblazoned with the words Dacha by the Lake. She removed the pierogi bag from the Lada and placed it next to an identical insulated bag in the cargo area of the Toyota. Donning goggles and heavy gloves, she worked for a handful of minutes, transferring things between the bags. Hastening back to the Lada she slid behind the wheel. Carefully placing the new parcel on the passenger seat, she turned the ignition. The Lada choked back to life.
Yuliya Petrovna Larin had been a golden girl as far back as she could remember. Growing up in Vladivostok she had been first in her class at every step. Her father, Pytor Larin, had been early to recognize the value of computer technology. Largely self-taught, and after service in the Soviet Navy, he stayed on at the huge Pacific Fleet base as a pivotal civilian technical expert. He provided his family with a comfortable living. A more-than-comfortable living.
Yuliya breezed through Far Eastern Federal University, spending as much time as possible with the professors at the Japan Center. But her real love, she thought, was the shadowy world of espionage. She was fascinated by the stories that eddied about the periphery of the great naval base, some of which were actually true. Stories of the Great Patriotic War were still plentiful then from the men and women who had actually lived through the conflict. Physically fit, sharp, and fluent in Japanese she was quickly recruited by the SVR and ultimately Directory S. The language training came easy as did all the subjects in the SVR academy, even the “wet work”.
The life of a spy sounded exciting and at first it was. But after being posted as an attaché in the Tokyo embassy, she found the bureaucracy confining. Independent thinking was unwelcome. Casting about, a friend of an acquaintance of an acquaintance led her to Keiko Genda, a personal assistant to an important executive, in an office located in a grimy industrial area of the city. Resigning from the SVR, she had returned to Russia, to Yekaterinburg. That was a year and a half ago. Or was it two? Ms. Genda’s employer, it seems, was interested in her skills to keep an eye on one Mr. Patrushev, with whom he did business. A great deal of business. And Ms. Genda’s patron did not trust anyone. Certainly not a gaijin.
Yuliya’s life now was more spy-like than when she actually was a spy. While she could not flaunt her newfound prosperity, Ms. Genda’s remittances, contacts and assignments kept life interesting and happy. And she was barely twenty-five.
Never had Yuliya set foot on the Patrushev compound. And only one person there even knew that she existed. That would be Sandor Szoke, Fedya’s Hungarian secretary and assistant. Yuliya smiled to think how easy it had been to compromise Sandor. A classic “honey-pot” maneuver out of espionage 101. Sandor was a hairy, sweaty little man, peering out from behind his wire-rims like a middle-aged owl. Yuliya, on the other hand was strikingly beautiful, with eyes so gray they were almost invisible and a dancer’s body with muscles made of spring steel.
To initiate contact, Yuliya had positioned her automobile in a grocer’s parking lot near Sandor’s car. When he started to back out, so did she. After the minor accident, she apologized, then apologized again, then cried. Crying always worked. He comforted her. Then met her again because she needed yet more comforting.
The first time Sandor left her bed, he realized almost immediately that the rules had changed. Yuliya told him that his cooperation in just some tiny, tiny matters would be needed. It would be just so unfortunate if his potato-shaped wife should ever find out. “Nobody wants that” didn’t even need to be uttered. Thus it began.
It started with a few simple details about the routine at Chez Patrushev. Security arrangements. Security detail assignments. Names and addresses. A few items from the Rolodex. Simple things. And oh by the way, does Nestor, the security guard, wear glasses?
CHAPTER 92
Today Yuliya was all business. This was to be the culmination of all things. Earlier in the day there had been a hotel rendezvous with Roman Georgovich, the third member of Fedya’s security detail for the 3 to 11 shift. Like all of Fedya’s soldiers, Roman was a giant of a man. Post-coital torpor and several glasses of spiked vodka later, however, Roman was appropriately docile. And Yuliya had no trouble in opening his mouth, lifting his tongue, and injecting beneath it (where no autopsy would reveal the injection site) a large dose of succinylcholine. After that, no matter how loudly Roman’s brain screamed at his lungs to inhale, the laggards would not respond. And Roman went on to whatever is next. The police, bless their souls, would be left to search for the sunglasses-wearing lady who had registered and paid in cash for the room, a Mrs. Cohen of 666 Banana Avenue, Miami, Florida, USA.
Yuliya reviewed the plan in her mind. Ms. Genda, or someone associated with her, had been the author. And so far the drill was working with military precision. Yesterday, two overnight express packages had arrived. One was from Medellin, Columbia. The other was from Manila. She had placed the boxes in her ba
thtub and piled bags of cracked ice around them. Then, using an assumed name, she called in a large carryout order to Dacha by the Lake. Back in her apartment, the food was discarded. Two sheets of cardboard, reinforced by a sheet of heavy plastic were placed front-to-back to partition the box in halves. Ready for show time.
Later, in the copse of trees, gloved and goggled, at the back of the Land Cruiser, Yuliya carefully emptied the contents of the Express Delivery packages into separate compartments in the erstwhile pierogi box.
She stared down into the container holding her two new charges, she’d affectionately named Bevis and Butthead. Bevis was a juvenile female Buthrops asper, commonly known as a fer-de-lance. Butthead was a similarly immature Philippines spitting cobra. Two of the deadliest snakes on earth. The Russian Winter had rendered the pair as docile as Roman had been.
She opened several air-activated hand warmer packs, dropped half of the contents into each compartment and closed the lid securely. The new delivery box was placed in the thermal sack, and Yuliya headed for the Lada.
CHAPTER 93
Nestor was annoyed. Beyond annoyed. “Not only did that asshat Roman not show up for work,” he thought, “he didn’t even call. Spartak will have to tromp around outside in the cold the whole shift because of my bad foot. He’ll really be pissed. And if he complains to Sandor, then there will be trouble. Maybe it will be better for me to take a tour or two outside, even if my foot hurts like hell.”
Lights appeared on the road, a vehicle coming up the lonely hill. “It’s that stupid kid from Dacha.” Nestor thought. “Always late.”
The Lada appeared. A female figure with an almost catlike gait appeared, carrying the familiar bag. Her cap was pulled down, nearly covering her eyes.
“Big order tonight” Nestor observed, trying to appear clever. The courier nodded and said “Hmmm.” Then she turned on her heel and departed.
Tea Leafing: A Novel Page 25
