by Greg Rucka
Natalie nodded. "According to Bridgett's version, that's pretty much what Oxford was trying to do."
"That's almost exactly what he said," I confirmed.
"There are very few people who stand to lose as a result of Havel's book," Scott said. "If two of them aren't Gracey and Bowles, then I'll give you even money that their bosses are."
"Finding evidence for this is going to be rough."
"But possible," Scott said. "Especially if you've got access to someone who knows how the system works. Especially if you're protecting someone who has been on the inside."
"You're a mercenary bastard," I told him.
"Call it payback for lying to a friend. I'm going to start digging, see if I can rattle a few cages. And I'd like to talk to, uh… Alena, is it?"
"Alena," I said.
"I'd like to talk to her in the next couple days. It can wait until she's buttoned up."
"She won't like it."
"Change her mind."
"And I can start tomorrow," Natalie said. "After getting the papers drawn up, of course."
"Just pay me my share, that's all I ask."
"You'll get what you're due."
"That's kind of what I'm afraid of," I said.
Chapter 2
November in Brighton Beach has none of the charm reserved for New England, it's as if the autumn palette ignores the neighborhood altogether. Everything is gray, and a stormy sky only serves to reinforce it, as if saying, what the hell's the point?
I parked the car on Avenue Y, just a couple blocks west of Coney Island, and watched the street. Clouds were riding a chill wind off the water, and the few people on the street wore gloves or walked with hands in pockets. Nobody looked happy to be outside. I checked my mirrors, followed a clump of twenty-something tough guys with my eyes as they scowled their way down the block. They turned the corner at Hubbard, into a restaurant with a name written in Cyrillic. Condensation from inside stuck to the windows, and they disappeared out of sight like wraiths.
The gun in the glove compartment was clean and untraceable, one of the pistols from the cache Alena and I had cleared the previous afternoon. It was a Czech semiauto, the CZ75, and it could be carried cocked and locked.
I took the gun out of the glove compartment. I cocked it, locked it, and then put it in my belt at the small of my back.
Then I got out of the car and headed for the restaurant. Before I'd even opened the door I could smell the grease frying inside, hear the noise of the patrons. There was no liquor license posted anywhere I could see, but that didn't seem to bother anyone within, and there looked to be a bottle of vodka for everyone present. Cigarette smoke choked the air. I moved inside as if I knew exactly where I was going, and it helped that Alena had given me explicit directions, and because I didn't look out of place and I didn't act out of place, no one gave me more than a cursory glance.
I worked my way along the aisle between the counter and the crowded tables, giving an eyefuck to anyone who looked my way too long. Almost everyone present was male but for one very busty brunette working the register, and a couple of older women in a booth near the bathroom doors. At least a hundred horses had gone to their great reward to provide the occupants with leather, from boots to jackets to, in a couple of cases, pants. On a lot of the men I saw tattoos, especially on their hands and fingers, Russian mafia call-signs.
At the back of the room was a door marked with a plastic sign in English, ordering me to keep out. I went on through into the back room, passing a very large teenager who was listening to a Walkman as he sat on a stack of plastic crates. He slipped from his perch as I passed him and asked me something in Russian, and I waved my left hand at him in such a way as to indicate he didn't want to mess with me. I was at the next door and going up a flight of stairs as he settled back down.
I'd half expected another whorehouse, because Alena hadn't been clear on what I would be walking into, but it was merely a furnished room with two men doing paperwork at two wooden desks. As I came in both looked up, and from their expressions I could tell they'd been expecting someone else. The one at the closer desk, bespectacled and chunky, asked me something I didn't understand.
There was a couch and a coffee table, so I sat down like I owned the place. The chunky one repeated what he'd said, this time not so friendly. The other one, who was both older and smaller, rose, suspicion on his face.
"I want to see Danilov Korckeva," I said in the Russian Alena had made me practice over and over again until she was certain I could sound authentic. "Tell him I'm a friend of Natasha's."
Then I waggled my hand at the thin man, indicating that I wanted him to either use the phone, sit down, or possibly do the hokey-pokey.
He decided I meant for him to sit down. As the chunky one got on the phone, the older one studied me curiously, then asked me something in Russian. I gave him a look that said I wasn't in the mood for chatter, he nodded, and went back to his paperwork.
I kept smiling, though it was more honest this time. "Just act as if you own them," Alena had told me. "Say nothing after you ask for Dan. If they try to speak to you, scowl. If they do it a second time, draw the gun, but do not point it at them. Otherwise, look as if you don't have a care in the world. The longer you sit there and wait, the more afraid of you they will become. They can't help it. It's the Russian mentality. The only thing they fear is their own, and they will take you for one of their own, but one who is unknown, and that will truly frighten them."
And damn if she wasn't right, because I sat there for thirty-seven minutes, and each time I caught one of them looking at me I stared right back and scowled, and they lowered their eyes, caught, and hastily resumed their work. They didn't speak to me. They didn't speak to each other. The chunky one got up once and went to the small television that sat on a metal stand against the wall between their desks, and he looked at me before switching it on, the question in his eyes. I shrugged, and he smiled and switched on ESPN, then went back to his work.
A little after noon the door opened and Dan came in, wearing designer jeans and biker boots and the same leather jacket as before, plucking a pair of sunglasses from his face. There was no need for them on a day like today, but they seemed to suit the image. He saw me on the couch and stopped cold, squinting, and I had to remind myself that the last time he'd seen me I'd worn glasses and been clean-shaven. It took him almost three seconds, and then his face cracked into a grin.
"Holy fuck, it's Mr. Atticus!" He loomed in, offering one mammoth hand for a shake, the other going to my shoulder. It didn't rattle me as much as it had when we'd first met. "Natasha sent you? That's for real? You're not giving me the bullshit?"
"She needs a favor."
Dan waved a hand, warning me to say no more. "We don't talk here, not about 'Tasha. You come with me."
He waited until I was up, then held the door open for me, gesturing, and I grinned and didn't go through, and he laughed and nodded and went first. I followed him out into the hall and back down the stairs. When we reached the teenager with the Walkman, Dan cuffed him alongside the head, growling in Russian, and the kid yelped. We went back through the restaurant, then out onto the street, where the Kompressor was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant. The top was down. He climbed over the side and forced himself behind the wheel, and I opened the door and took the passenger seat. The engine came to life and he did a moderately illegal turn, then put us on Coney Island Avenue, heading to the water.
"You're not dead," Dan said. "That's surprising."
"No one's more surprised than me."
He roared with laughter. " 'Tasha sent you, you walk in like an old-time commissar, you have balls. What does she need, anything she needs if I can give it, it's for her."
"She needs a house."
"Big house? Little house? Apartment? Condo?"
"A secure house, somewhere access can be restricted, someplace that she can hole up."
We turned onto Brighton Beach Avenue, Dan nodd
ing. "And she sends you to get this for her? Why does she not come herself?"
"She's finding it difficult to move around right now."
"Police?"
"Almost."
He scratched his chin, sniffing the air. "Okay, I can get a house, a good house. But it's not cheap."
"It needs to be secure."
"Real secure, this house, in Jersey. Comes with alarms, cameras, I can even give her guards, she wants them."
"She may."
"Guards, those will be extra. I will pick them myself. Only the best for 'Tasha." He looked over at me, and his tone changed, and the enthusiasm, the friendliness, disappeared. "You tell her I get her the best, okay?"
"She said you always do."
He put his attention back on the road. "That's right, I always do. You don't fuck with 'Tasha unless you have your will in order."
"How long will it take you?"
"By tonight, I can do this. Where do I contact you?"
"Doesn't work like that, Dan. I'll contact you."
He took a moment, then nodded and rattled off a phone number. I repeated it back, as much to aid my memory as to check that I'd heard him right.
"How much will it cost?" I asked.
"With guards, for 'Tasha – she gets discount – I say five large a day."
"I'll have to check with her about the guards," I said.
"Of course, of course."
"She'll want to see you there when she arrives."
"Yes, of course, okay." He nodded a couple of times, then asked where he could drop me off. I told him back at the restaurant would be fine, and he turned the car around and headed back to where we'd started, driving in silence. Then he asked, "So, you were with her? All this time, you were with her?"
"All this time," I confirmed.
We were back on Hubbard, and once again he parked in front of the hydrant, then killed the engine. I opened the door and climbed out of the car, and he watched me as I started to go, then called out, waving me back. I came around to his side of the car.
"Was it hell or heaven?" he asked.
"I'm still trying to figure that out myself," I told him.
I got back to the SoHo Grand just before two, used the house phone in the lobby to ring the room once, hung up, and then took the elevator up. Natalie opened the door for me as soon as I got there, her Glock in her hand, and when she confirmed I was alone, let me pass, saying, "It's him."
Alena came out of the bathroom on her crutches, the PDW slung from her shoulder, and the tension seeped from her face when she saw me. From where he lay on the floor, Miata acknowledged me with a slight raising of his head.
Natalie had arrived late that morning, just before I'd left for the meeting with Dan, bringing with her a short stack of legalese that roughly meant I'd get three-quarters of a million dollars for my share of KTMH. The figure had been much higher than I expected, and Natalie explained that it would be paid out over the next six months. I'd signed the agreement, and then I'd introduced her to Alena.
The two women had greeted one another politely, with some awkwardness but nothing like the tension that had existed between Alena and Bridgett. I figured that Natalie wouldn't have very much to say to Alena, either, but as I came into the room, that no longer seemed to be the case. There was a pad of paper on the desk, covered with figures written in Natalie's hand, along with rough diagrams that made it look as if she'd been working on a calculus equation, and I realized they'd found a common interest to discuss.
"We've been talking about sniping," Natalie told me as she locked the door. "Alena was telling me about the Dragunov."
"I trained on the Dragunov," Alena explained. "How was Dan?"
"I hadn't realized how afraid of you he is," I said.
She hobbled to the bed, dropping one of the crutches and then taking the submachine gun off her arm. "Is he?"
"I think so."
"Then he will do what we ask." She sat down carefully, folding her hands in her lap. "How long does he need?"
"He says he can have a house for us by nightfall, one with basic security and a few guards."
"How many guards?" Natalie asked.
"I don't know. Three or four, I'd expect." I looked back to Alena. "I told him that you'd want to see him in person. He's asking five grand a day."
She made a face as if she'd hoped for better and expected worse. Natalie said, "We don't even charge that much."
"It's a seller's market," I told her. "We've got enough loose cash here to cover a week and a half or so, but there's no way this'll be over by then. We're going to need more money."
"I'll arrange it." Alena slid along the bed to the nightstand and picked up the phone, began dialing. It was a long string of numbers, and when she got an answer, she started speaking in German.
I moved to the couch and sat down, taking the pistol out of my belt. I unlocked it and lowered the hammer carefully, making it safe again. Natalie took her seat at the desk, began examining the figures on her pad. It took Alena another minute on the phone before she hung up.
"It's done. There is a Credit Suisse branch in midtown. If you go there tomorrow, they'll have the money. Two hundred thousand. You'll give half of it to Dan." She looked me over. "You should exercise."
"I'm kind of working right now," I said.
"Natalie is here, I am safe for the time being. You should at least do some cardio."
Natalie laughed, then caught herself.
"My personal trainer," I said.
"I noticed," Natalie replied.
"I'm serious, Atticus," Alena said. "Don't lose everything you've gained."
I really didn't want to work out, but she was right, and in fact I was already feeling the effects of not having exercised in almost a week. I did feel stiff, not as loose or as fluid, and the thing that surprised me most was just how aware of the changes in my body I was.
Alena used one of her crutches to prod me. "Go."
"I'm gone," I said, and went to the gym.
***
The house was in Mahwah, New Jersey, about an hour's drive from Manhattan. I left Alena with Natalie at the SoHo Grand and took Miata with me when I went out to see it, and I met Dan on the Franklin Turnpike in what could charitably be called the middle of town. He was parked outside of a Dunkin' Donuts, the roof now up on the Kompressor, but only because a light, cold rain had begun falling.
I followed him in my rental, and we wound our way along thin streets lined with trees, most of which had lost their leaves. Mahwah was on the edge of the New Jersey boonies, close to Mount Campgaw, though skiing at the resort wouldn't start until around Thanksgiving. The countryside was quiet and pleasant and hilly, the houses separated not only by wide spaces but also by age, some of the houses a century or more old, others built the year before. Farther into the mountains were New Jersey's infamous hillbillies, the Jackson Whites, inbred families with atavistic brows and six-fingered hands.
I followed the Kompressor onto a small side road that wound its way down another slope, then leveled into a small valley, then into another turn and up a short drive that ended at a seven-foot-tall gate supported by two stone pillars. There was no fence, but past the pillars on either side of the drive, the road dropped into foliage, more trees and bushes grown thick together.
Dan climbed out of the Kompressor and opened the gate, waved me through, and I pulled forward and then off the road, parking half on the unkempt lawn. I stopped the engine and climbed out, Miata springing down after me and looking suspiciously around him. Dan pulled forward and stopped beside me, his engine still running.
"You don't want to see the house?" He pointed up the road, at the building that was perhaps two hundred feet away.
"Go ahead, I'll meet you there."
He creased his brow, then put the car back in gear and drove away. Miata looked after him, then began sniffing around on the grass.
I started with a walk of the perimeter, taking almost three-quarters of an hour before approac
hing to the house. There was no fencing to speak of, and no cameras or other perimeter security. Even with the autumn assault, the woods around the grounds were still capable of providing heavy cover. At the back of the house was a high hill, and anyone coming over it would have a view of the whole area.
I didn't like it.
Miata loped behind me as I walked back up the drive. The house was built in the colonial style, and from the outside appeared to have been recently renovated. A wide set of stairs came off the drive to a porch, painted white. Dan was waiting for me by the front door, smoking a cigarette, and when I came up the steps he flicked the butt away; it hit a puddle and died with a sizzle. He looked at Miata, and Miata looked at him, and I swore they were sizing one another up.
"No dogs inside," Dan said.
"The dog is hers."
The pained look he gave me vanished quickly, replaced by a question that he didn't feel safe in asking. Then he shrugged and opened the front door, heading inside. I went in after him, and Miata took up the rear. As we came inside I could hear the warning tone from an alarm system, one long bleet, and Dan turned the first corner we came to and rapidly tapped in a code on the keypad. The bleeting stopped, and Dan began walking through the house, turning on the lights.
I took another hour just going through the house, checking all of the doors and windows and corners, hoisting myself up into the insulated crawlspace above the second floor, checking out the cellar. The security inside was better, and every portal on both the ground and second floor was wired, though obviously so. Everything ran through a locked junction box in the basement. The house was entirely furnished, decorated to match the colonial exterior. On the second floor were three bedrooms, one master and two smaller, and two bathrooms. The ground floor had a kitchen, dining room, living room, and guest room. There was a hot tub on the back deck.
