While not as openly murderous as the tsarist Cossacks, the socialist regime that the new immigrants had lived under suppressed their culture to such a degree that they conformed to be more like their non-Jewish Russian neighbors than the orthodox Jews of the past. Jew was their ethnicity, but not necessarily their culture and religion. For instance, the fashions they wore-like their non-Jewish counterparts-looked straight out of Boris Pasternak's Dr. Zhivago, at least the winter scenes. Everybody seemed to be wearing expensive fur hats and coats.
Wishing she was as well insulated, Stupenagel pulled her Saks Fifth Avenue wool coat around her shivering body as best she could; she maneuvered down the sidewalk past old crones dressed in black and muttering Russian epithets, and vendors hawking "real Bulova watches" and potato knishes.
Naturally, the area boasted the best Russian restaurants in the five boroughs, and Stupenagel's stomach growled at the thought of tonight's dinner with her "date." The caller had named the restaurant, and she'd immediately known its location, having been there many times in the past.
The Black Sea Cafe was famous for its mouthwatering dumplings called vareniki and pelmeni. Vareniki came in a dozen varieties of fillings, from sweet farmer cheese to sour cherries, enclosed in paper-thin dough, topped with sauteed onions, and bathed in drawn butter. When she'd had her fill of them, she would switch to pelmeni, which were stuffed with boiled meats and then drenched in a sauce of cheese and eggs and gratineed.
The plan was to wash it all down with plenty of ice-cold shots of Jewel of Russia vodka. However, the buzz wasn't what she was looking for as much as information. She'd yet to meet the man who could keep up with her drinking ability, though Butch Karp's colleague Ray Guma, a man she'd had a brief and forgettable fling with, was close. She knew that Russians looked at drinking as a sort of competition, and thought she'd have no trouble getting the informant liquored up and talkative.
She knew one other thing about the Black Sea Cafe. It was owned by a Russian gangster named Vladimir Karchovski and his son, Ivgeny. Brighton Beach was also home to the Russian mob in the United States. It was an interesting aside, and she'd long hoped to interview the Karchovskis, but right now it didn't matter to her who owned the restaurant as long as the dumplings were hot and the vodka cold.
Walking in the door of the restaurant was like being greeted by an old friend with the smell of borscht, the moody dark woods and leathers that made up the interior, and the haunting sounds of the balalaika. Looking around, she noted a group of men who were well into the Russian tradition of extravagant toasts. For a Russian, drinking vodka was a celebration of life in all its joy and grief as only a Russian could express it, full of melancholy and fatalism.
One of the men had just finished a lengthy toast, after which they'd all clinked their glasses and downed the contents before reaching for the zakuska-hors d'oeuvres said to bring out the flavor of the vodka. Then they filled their glasses and began another round, or charka.
Like any good journalist taking in her surroundings, Stupenagel made mental notes of the other people in the restaurant. Sitting at one table was a fortysomething couple who appeared to be either leaving or returning from a trip. Just one of them, she corrected herself, noting that they sat with a single suitcase between them.
There were also several families in the restaurant. The parents, in the relaxed way of Russians, did little to settle their children, who were running around the restaurant, diving in between the legs of servers and patrons, as if it were a playground. She'd dodged one child when she spotted the man waiting at a corner table beyond where the couple with the suitcase sat. He was looking right at her and inclined his head slightly, indicating the chair across the table from where he sat.
Stupenagel took a deep breath and walked past the table of drinking men. The man giving the latest toast stopped what he was doing and instead raised his glass to her. The other men said something in agreement and also raised their glasses. She smiled and they drank before going back to their business.
Walking up to the table where the single man sat, Stupenagel repeated the phrase she'd been told earlier. "I'm here on a blind date." She wanted to roll her eyes-secret code phrases were too Hollywood for her tastes-but this was his game and she had to follow the rules.
"Then you've come to the right place," the man said, without a trace of a smile that a beautiful woman had the right to expect from such an exchange.
This guy is all business, Stupenagel thought as she took a seat. She took a mental snapshot of his face-the crooked nose and scars around the eyes, as if he'd been a boxer, and the clear, dark eyes that were assessing her just as thoroughly.
The mutual investigation was interrupted when one of the men at the drinkers' table shouted something. He sounded angry.
"What's he saying?" Stupenagel asked.
Her companion listened for a moment and at last cracked a smile. "He said, 'When I was released from prison three weeks ago, not one of you bastards would lend me so much as three rubles… Nobody but Ivan, who is my true friend and not one of you other bastards.'"
"Sounds heavy," Stupenagel said. "But nobody seems to be taking offense."
The man shrugged. "Why should they if it's true? In Russia, we have a saying: 'The first charka is for health, the next for joy, the third for quarrel.' We are a moody people who understand that it is better for a man to get such things off his chest than to let it fester inside and someday erupt."
"What if somebody does take offense?"
"They would be in the wrong as long as he does not step over certain lines, or tell an outright lie," the man replied.
Seeing the opportunity for a segue, Stupenagel replied, "Speaking of the truth, thank you for the information you have given me."
The man held up his hand. "I am doing as my employer wishes," he said. "He's asked me to tell you more and to give you something of vital importance. But first, we eat. Are you hungry?"
"Famished." Stupenagel smiled.
"Good," the man said, and clapped his hands sharply, which brought the immediate attentions of a waiter who was obviously nervous. He said something quickly to Stupenagel's companion, who nodded.
Well, whoever this guy is, Stupenagel thought, he's got some pull at the Black Sea, and I'll bet it ain't because he's a big tipper.
"Vareniki-all varieties-and pelmeni," the man said. "And a bottle of Jewel of Russia."
Stupenagel noted that the man placed the order in English rather than Russian, which everyone else in the restaurant was speaking. It's a message to me, she thought, and acknowledged aloud what it meant. "Well, someone seems to have done his homework."
The man tilted his head to the side and gave her a wry smile. "Yes…how do you say in America, 'Knowledge is power.' My employer is aware that you enjoy dumplings and Jewel of Russia vodka. And the waiter told me he remembers you from other visits."
When the bottle arrived, the man filled their glasses and raised his with a short toast. "Prost. To health."
Tossing back her drink, Stupenagel savored its warm, smooth course down her throat but noticed that the man wrinkled his nose. "Don't tell me I've met a Russian who doesn't like Jewel of Russia," she said.
"It's dela vkusa-a matter of taste," he said, then leaned toward her conspiratorially. "To be honest, I prefer Armadale…but it's a Scottish vodka, believe it or not, and they don't serve it here. In fact, if I asked for it, I'd get my ass kicked."
Stupenagel laughed as her companion, who told her his name was Gregory, filled their glasses again. She had the sudden impression that she might have met her match and would not be drinking this man under the table that night. So she resigned herself to whatever happened and was soon happily scarfing dumplings while Gregory kept their glasses filled and regaled her with stories of his time in Afghanistan as a Red Army soldier fighting the mujahideen.
"I hope America kicks the asses of those evil bastards," he said. "These religious zealots will not be happy until every man has been coll
ared and made a dog to their imams and every woman made chattel. I wish we could have killed them all. But we were an army of conscripts, young boys straight off the farms of Ukraine and the streets of Leningrad; we didn't have the heart of men who think they are fighting for Allah."
They polished off dinner with blintzes for dessert and a pot of strong Russian coffee. Through it all, the waiter had been attentive but made no attempt to hand Gregory a bill.
In the meantime, the restaurant emptied. Two families were left, their exhausted children now asleep or fidgeting in their seats. Only two of the men who'd been in the drinking group were left-one staring blankly up at the ceiling with tears streaming down his face, the other snoring with his head on the table. The couple was drinking coffee and waiting on their bill.
Only now did Stupenagel's companion reach inside a leather coat he'd placed on the chair next to him and produce a five-by-seven manila envelope.
"What have you got there?" Stupenagel said, hoping she didn't sound too drunkenly excited. She reached for the envelope.
But Gregory held it just out of her reach. "This is a photograph taken in Aspen, Colorado. The man who took this photograph had been asked to watch for Nadya Malovo. He spotted her and followed her to a meeting in a bar. The others at this meeting were Andrew Kane and Jamys Kellagh."
Stupenagel's sobriety level shot up several notches. She just about jumped across the table for the envelope, but he still kept it out of her reach. "I'm not through," he said with a wolfish grin. "I am told to impress upon you that this is the only known copy-it is not very good quality and our attempts to make other copies have been less than adequate."
"Why not have the photographer make you another?" Stupenagel asked.
Gregory's eyes grew hard, but he waited for the couple to get up and leave before he spat out, "He was murdered. Unfortunately, he was also old-fashioned and used thirty-five-millimeter film instead of digital. He made this and faxed it to my employer. It is not very good quality. He was supposed to send the film, but someone burned his darkroom down with him in it, and the film went with him. So this is all we have, but will be enough, no?"
"Maybe," Stupenagel said. "But now you've got me all excited, and I need to take a whiz before I pee my pants. So just hold that thought, and envelope, for a moment."
Gregory gave her an amused look. "I have nowhere else to go," he said, and smiled.
Stupenagel tottered rapidly to the far back of the restaurant for the bathroom, her mind whirling with the possibilities. First, a Russian spy implicated in the plot to kill the Pope, and now, in a few moments, she would see the face of Jamys Kellagh, the man behind the curtain. Pulitzer, here I come.
Out in the restaurant, Gregory sat back in his chair. As clandestine meetings went, this one had been rather enjoyable. The woman was pleasant to look at, with large breasts and a good sense of humor. Plus, she could drink like a man. Perhaps his boss would find other reasons for him to meet this woman.
Only then did he notice that the couple who'd been sitting near them had left their suitcase behind. He'd been trying to think why the woman had seemed familiar. She'd obviously dyed her blond hair brunette and the glasses seemed phony. Suddenly, though he'd never seen anything but grainy photographs of her, he knew who she was.
"Nadya!" he yelled, and started to rise from his chair just as the suitcase bomb exploded.
It blew the windows out with such force that an old woman standing in front of the restaurant died of a million little cuts that sliced through veins and arteries and bled her dry in seconds. Thousands of ball bearings shredded the two young families and the two friends who'd been drinking together, as well as a reputed Russian gangster named Gregory Karamazov. The simultaneous flash fire from a canister of high-octane jet fuel that took up half the suitcase immediately torched the interior of the cafe, incinerating anything that would burn, including the envelope and photograph that Karamazov was holding in his hand.
The walls crumbled and then the world was absolutely still for just a split second. The second passed and the vacuum was filled with screams and shouts and the sound of sirens in the distance.
11
About the same time that Ariadne Stupenagel was downing her first vareniki and shot of vodka at the Black Sea Cafe, Butch Karp opened the door of the loft a second time for Mikey O'Toole and Richie Meyers. "Welcome back," he said to his visitors. "How was your day?"
"Great," O'Toole exclaimed. "We took the boat to see the Statue of Liberty and then over to Ellis Island to check out the immigration museum, which was impressive. We even located the ship's manifest with my great-grandfather's name on it-Seamus O'Toole, steerage class, arrived in 1890 from Liverpool, just eighteen years old and with not much more than the clothes he was wearing. It was really something to stand in the same hall where he waited to hear if he was going to be allowed in or get sent back to Ireland. Must have been nerve-racking. I remember my grandfather talking about Seamus and how there was nothing but poverty, famine, and hopelessness for him back in Ireland. Gives you a real appreciation for the courage it took to leave everything and take a chance on a new beginning."
"I know what you mean," Karp replied. "Marlene's parents were from Sicily and waited in those same pews. So did my grandfather-a Jew from Poland, escaping the tsar's Cossacks. Imagine leaving that for someplace that promised everyone equal protection under the law and opportunity limited only by your willingness to work for it."
"Which I guess is part of why we're here," Meyers pointed out. "So did you have a good day with your boys?"
"It's always a good day if I'm with my boys," Karp said with a smile. "Busy, though."
Actually, it had been busier than he'd expected or hoped. First, there was basketball practice with the twins. As usual, Zak was the star of the team, but Giancarlo was no slouch, with a deft touch for outside shots. It was the only sport where he enjoyed some measure of success when compared to his brother, so at least the good-natured sniping was two-sided.
Then it was on to the bar mitzvah class Karp taught as part of a series presented to the synagogue's youth by Jewish community leaders. Given a free hand by the rabbi, his classes tended to emphasize the impact of events in Jewish history on the American judicial system, or centered on topical moral discussions.
Many of his lessons had raised eyebrows among some of the other parents. And that day's lesson was certain to do it again, as he'd asked the class to consider whether Jews were "culpable in the murder of Jesus of Nazareth."
The question had caused his students to gasp. Then Sarah, who was studying for her bat mitzvah, angrily denounced the allegation. "Christians have used that as an excuse for centuries to murder Jews," she said.
"Exactly why it's important for Jews to examine the allegation and, if warranted, be prepared to debunk its credibility," Karp said.
"But it was the Romans who crucified him," replied Sarah, a plump, precocious teenager whose already well-developed bosoms were the object of great curiosity to her male classmates, much to her disdain.
"But only after Jewish community leaders accused him essentially of sedition against the Roman Empire, of which they were a part," Karp pointed out. "Then when Pontius Pilate said he could not ascertain that a crime had been committed by Rabbi Jesus, those same leaders continued to press for his punishment. And when Pontius Pilate gave them the choice of executing a known murderer-for whom there was factual guilt and legally admissible evidence that led to his conviction-or Jesus, they chose Jesus. So would that make them guilty of conspiracy to commit murder?"
"They were afraid that he might cause trouble for them with Rome," Ben, a thin, bookish scholar noted.
"I thought it was because he was a threat to their leadership in the community," Karp replied. "However, even if we go with your theory, is it okay then to let fear of what might happen dictate how the law is applied? Was that a valid reason, and legally supportable, to conspire with the Romans to murder an innocent man?"
T
he class had broken down into noisy debate, which Karp was quite sure would be repeated at some of their homes. Especially when their homework assignment was to research the trial and execution of "the Jewish rabbi, Jesus of Nazareth" and then choose whether to prosecute or defend the Jewish leadership for conspiracy to commit murder.
"Why?" Sarah, who came from a very conservative household, demanded to know. "What does this have to do with us becoming adults?"
"Well, I was asked to teach this class as a so-called role model in the Jewish community," Karp answered. "And as you know, my job is to determine whether to prosecute people accused of crimes based on whether they are factually guilty and there is sufficient, legally admissible evidence that is likely to result in a conviction. If it was to happen today, the allegations, trial, and death penalty given to Rabbi Jesus of Nazareth would make an excellent case study with important implications for the American legal system. And as you've pointed out, it has had enormous historical implications for Jews."
"Good one, Dad," Zak said later as they left class. "Hope you're ready for a bunch of angry telephone calls."
Karp shrugged. "Why should the weekends be any different than during the week."
"Well, I think it's an interesting question," Giancarlo said.
"You would," Zak said with an exaggerated rolling of the eyes. "Then again, you think opera is interesting."
The boys were still squabbling when they got back to the loft, where Karp sent them off to their room, hoping to relax for a couple of hours, reading on the couch, before O'Toole and Meyers returned from sightseeing. He'd just settled in with John Keegan's book Intelligence in War when the telephone rang.
"Got a minute?" Newbury asked.
"For you, yes," Karp replied.
"I won't keep you long," the head of his white-collar crimes bureau said. "I just need your opinion. It has to do with the 'No Prosecution' files."
Newbury and his gang had been investigating hundreds of "lost" files found in the District Attorney's Office and stamped "No Prosecution." They'd come to light during the initial investigation that brought down Andrew Kane, when he was still just a wealthy attorney, investment banker, and mayoral candidate, and exposed his plans to corrupt and compromise the New York City Police Department, as well as the Catholic Archdiocese, for his own ends.
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