Last to Fold

CHAPTER 30

I awoke at six, having slept almost ten hours, to find that I felt semihuman, I could move, with difficulty, and Victoria was still with me. She was in the kitchen, making coffee and looking fresh and rested even though she wore the same clothes as yesterday.

“Look who’s back among the living,” she said. “Sort of.”

“Thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome. How do you feel?”

“Better than yesterday.”

“Better than you look?”

“I haven’t checked the mirror yet.”

“Don’t.” She handed me a steaming cup. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

Me? “I don’t remember beating myself up.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You think I go looking for trouble.”

“Yes. Not intentionally, maybe, but you don’t care if you find it—or it finds you. That’s not normal.”

“A pig will always find mud.”

“Another goddamned proverb?”

“We’ve got one for just about everything.”

“Everyone you know is either dead, has one foot in jail, or is trying to do you harm. Like I said, that ain’t normal.”

Didn’t seem unusual to me, but my brain was probably still addled.

“You think you can manage for yourself today?”

“I do most days.”

“Most days aren’t the day after you were in the hospital. You want my advice, you stay right here, try to get some more sleep, get your strength back.”

“Your concern is still touching. I’ll try to take it easy.”

“You want to tell me about your friend Rislyakov?”

“Don’t you Americans have an amendment that protects against self-incrimination?”

“We do. It works in a courtroom. I’ve got a rule against fooling around with felons. That applies right here in your kitchen. So you can tell me what you know or I’m outta here—and not coming back.”

“Talk about rock and hard place.”

“Don’t worry.” The green eyes smiled. “I won’t use anything you say against you—unless, of course, it should be. Besides, I’ve been reading your notes. You can start there. This Iakov the same guy you told me about at dinner?”

She pushed across the piece of paper with the list I’d written out during my brief window of semi-lucidity.

“One of the first things they teach you in spy school is never write down anything.”

“You failed that class. C’mon, give. What were you doing at the Greene Street loft? What happened there? I’m bettin’ you found a dead Rislyakov. What else?”

I don’t know whether it was the fallout from the pain and painkillers, accumulated stress and exhaustion, or just the green pools staring across the counter, but no chance I could dance around her questions in any way that would satisfy her—or me. I didn’t even want to try. So I told my Cheka training to take a rest while I told her what she wanted to hear—all of it. Or at least the all of it that I knew.

We drank two cups of coffee each while I talked. She took it all in, without question or interruption. Along the way, I realized I’d forgotten something important. I gave myself a mental kick. Even that hurt. I wrote “Blue Impala” on the paper and kept on with the story. When I finished she said, “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“Same question Bernie asked. Short answer, I needed that computer for leverage to get Sasha out of Lubyanka. Long answer, I was determined to figure out what’s going on. Still am. We’re stubborn, remember?”

“Stubborn ain’t the half of it. Did you have to give the computer to Barsukov?”

“That’s what Foos asked. I traded it for Sasha. I owed him.”

She shook her head. “I’m trying to count up how many laws you broke.”

“Didn’t Dylan say something about honesty and living outside the law?”

“Give me Hank Williams any day.”

“Dylan might agree. I’m just trying to say, what you see is what you get.”

“That’s what frightens me. Listen, serious now. You and I are gonna have an understanding. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, I think, mainly because they happened when I wasn’t around so I can almost convince myself you weren’t trying to hide anything from me. But I meant what I said about fooling with felons. I’ve worked too damned hard to get where I am. My job and career are too important to me. They gotta be important to you, too, if we’re gonna have anything—together, I mean. That means you gotta be a law-abiding citizen going forward, an American law-abiding citizen. Those are the ground rules. No exceptions. Understand?”

I nodded slowly, mainly to buy time. Even though my brain was operating at about seventy percent, I knew I couldn’t live by those conditions—not in the current circumstances—but the last thing I wanted was to drive her away.

“That a nod of agreement?”

I wasn’t going to lie. “It’s a nod of agreement to think about what you’ve said. I’m still not at my best—as you can see.”

“Fair enough,” she said, to my relief. Perhaps she was worried about driving me away, too. I could only hope. “I wouldn’t say what I said unless I cared. You know that, right?”

Hope validated, for once. “It’s the one thing that makes me feel semi-okay.”

She laughed, and the green eyes pulled my heartstrings like a puppeteer. “Okay, then. I’ve got to run. Thanks to you, I lost all of yesterday, and now I’m behind a big damned eight ball. I’ll stop in on my way uptown this afternoon, see how you’re faring.”

“Something to look forward to.”

The phone rang. Foos said, “Victoria still there?”

“That any of your business?”

“Speaker.”

I pushed the button. His baritone rumbled out of the phone.

“Good morning, boys and girls. Thought I’d check in, see how everyone’s doing. Big Dick tells me Victoria hasn’t gone to work yet. Didn’t go home last night either.”

“Big Dick? What?! You just say what I think you said?”

“You’re playing into his hand.”

His laugh filled the room.

“Patriot Act’s the best thing that ever happened to the Dick. That’s D-I-C—Data Intelligence Complex. It collects information, on you, me, Turbo, everybody. I just ask for little pieces of it.”

She said, “Christ. A privacy junkie with an adolescent sense of humor.”

“Only making a small point about liberty. Your client’s called twice, Turbo. Wants to see you ASAP.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she said.

“Just relaying the message,” Foos said.

“I need some help from the Dick,” I said. Victoria shot me a look. “Somebody followed Track and Field from Jersey City to Greene Street Wednesday morning. Blue Chevy Impala. No plate number, sorry.”

Victoria said, “Who the hell are Track and Field?”

Foos said, “Turbo, do you have any idea how many Chevy Impalas—”

“Could be a rental.”

“Do you have any idea how many rental cars—”

“Look at it as a challenge for the Basilisk?”

“What’s the Basilisk?” Victoria said.

“The beast that keeps track of you—whenever I ask it to,” Foos said. “Have a nice day, Victoria. I’ll be watching.”

“Listen, goddammit—”

A click and the dial tone as he hung up.

“I don’t know which of you is the bigger pain in the ass. If you take my advice, you’ll stay right where you are—all day. But I might as well tell your friend to act like… oh, never mind. Why bother?”

“Foos would tell you that you’ve reached the inevitable logical conclusion.”

She didn’t respond as she took the cups to the sink and rinsed them.

“Why didn’t you tell me your first wife is married to Mulholland?”

“Didn’t seem relevant.”

“Hiding out, living under a different name?”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with Mulholland. He doesn’t know who she used to be. He thinks she’s a real estate broker from Queens.”

“What’s she hiding from?”

“Don’t know. Lachko, maybe. That’s what she says. I’m not sure I believe her, but that means I have to believe Lachko. She had a lover, while she was married to Lachko. They were all in business together. Iakov claims she and the lover stole six hundred million dollars from the lover’s bank—and maybe Lachko. Lachko says that never happened. That could be pride talking, but I doubt that, too. Besides, if she had all that money, why did she try that silly fake kidnap scheme on her husband? So I think it’s something else, which I intend to ask her.”

“Not today, though, right?”

I didn’t respond.

“How long were you married?”

“How about I tell you the whole sordid tale over dinner—right here? I’ll cook something. We ex-socialist small businessmen can’t afford a steady Trastevere diet.”

She smiled a big smile. “Deal.”

She came around the counter and gave me a kiss on the lips that was much more than a peck. Then she was out the door without looking back.

I sat for a moment sipping coffee and thinking about how good it felt, for the first time in a long time, to have someone who cared what happened to me. Even if she was threatening to toss my ass in jail if I didn’t change my ways. Maybe that was part of what made it fun.

I could have—and should have—followed her advice and spent a quiet day in bed, mentally replaying her kiss. She was giving me every incentive to get well soon. However, patience was not among Lachko’s virtues, and I’d already blown more than two days. That was his fault, of course, but he wouldn’t see it that way.

Using the counter for support (I could tell Victoria I was trying to take it easy), I made it back to the living room, where I’d left my computer, and logged on to Ibansk.com. I wasn’t surprised to see Ivanov had been busy. Three new postings, Saturday, Monday, and this morning. The first focused on the Barsukovs’ growing anxiety over setbacks to their money laundry and speculated about whether Ratko had disappeared with “the detergent that makes the washing machines run.” The second reported the surprise demise of Risly. The third detailed the shooting at CPS headquarters.

Three things were clear to me.

Petrovin was spoon-feeding Ivanov.

Ivanov was baiting the Badgers.

Both of them were chasing a lot more than Lachko’s laundry.

CHAPTER 31

I made two Politburo-level decisions. At least they felt that way. The first was not to call ahead. The second, forgo the subway for a cab. That way, I could tell Victoria I was taking care of myself.

I returned to the bedroom, removed my robe, and, ignoring her advice, checked myself over in the full-length mirror. A Francis Bacon nightmare stared back, a hunched, stretched, distorted mass of colors—reds, blacks, blues, purples, and yellows—none of which looked natural, much less healthy. The stitches on my face and jaw gave a certain Frankenstein’s monster appearance—if the good doctor had been drinking while he worked. I wondered idly what Victoria could possibly see in me and concluded there’s no accounting for taste. The only possible benefit was maybe Polina would be so shocked that she’d take pity and explain what was really going on.

Right.

I showered gingerly and dressed with equal care. That took twice as long as usual, but I was pleased to feel no sudden shots of pain. Quick healer. I walked the two blocks to the office, which took almost ten minutes, and I felt wiped when I got there. Maybe not so quick. Then again, the temperature hadn’t dropped a degree while I’d been out of commission.

Pig Pen took one look and winced. I didn’t know parrots could wince.

“Russky. Ouch. Three car pile-up.”

“That’s right, Pig Pen. Three cars, they all hit me.”

“L-I-E?”

“No, not L-I-E.”

“Cross Bronx?”

“Not there either. Brighton Beach.” That caused him to lose interest. Brighton Beach isn’t mentioned often—if at all—on traffic reports, so he had no context. Not that he knows where the Long Island or Cross Bronx expressway is either, but I might be selling him short. The sight upset him sufficiently that he didn’t even ask about pizza.

Foos looked up at me leaning against his doorjamb, breathing harder than I should and sweating.

“You up and around already?”

“Don’t start. One minder is plenty.”

“So, how many Chevy Impalas are there in metro New York?”

I shook my head.

“Two hundred thirty-eight thousand three hundred twelve. None registered to anyone we know, best as I can tell.”

“Rentals?”

“Sixteen thousand five hundred sixty-one.”

“Okay—lots of data. Rental Impalas?”

“Varies. Right now, five hundred four.”

“And?” He wouldn’t have started this if he didn’t have the answer.

“Three of those belong to an independent outfit on East Eighty-eighth Street—Yorkville Car Rental. One of those three was rented last Tuesday afternoon at 3:52 P.M. and returned Wednesday at 12:36 P.M.”

“By?”

“Gentleman named Lachlan Malloy.”

Five-by-Five. He was limping on Thursday. “Remember when you pointed out I’d been taken for a ride?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You didn’t know the half of it.”

I dialed Victoria’s office. She got on right away.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Bullshit. Where are you?”

“Telecommuting,” I lied.

“More bullshit. You’re at your office.”

“Doctor said get exercise. I’m taking it easy.”

“Are all Russians really this pigheaded?”

“National trait. I need a favor.”

“What?”

“Hospitals have to report gunshot wounds. I’m looking for a guy named Malloy, Lachlan Malloy, with a bullet in the right leg, late last Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. You must have contacts with NYPD.”

“Who’s Malloy?”

“Nasty SOB, built like a panel truck, with bad intentions toward me. Also Mulholland’s driver.”

“Where’d he get the bullet wound?”

“Rislyakov’s loft. Wednesday night. After he shot Ratko.”

“He killed Rislyakov?”

“Looks that way. Felix Mulholland put him on me, I put him onto Ratko’s associates, and he followed them to Greene Street. Ratko wasn’t there, but Malloy went back when he was. Shot him and Iakov. Was probably trying to get to Eva Mulholland, maybe to get her home, I don’t know, when she shot him through the door.”

“Tell me you’re not going to see her.”

“Good a time as any to get reacquainted.”

“Turbo…”

“I’m not looking forward to it.”

“I’m not either. Watch out for Malloy.”

“He’s not half as dangerous as she is.”

I limped into the lobby of 998 Fifth to the usual impassive greeting. If Christ himself descended from on high, mother in tow, and levitated through those doors, he’d receive the same bland response. We went through the routine of name asking and calling upstairs, and the elevator man drove me to the ninth floor.

The man in the silver tie opened the door. When I told him who I wanted to see, he took me to the library. The room was cool and dark, lighted by the same lamps as last week. I stopped by the desk to glance at the computer screen. Mostly red. FTB was trading in single digits.

I sat in a chair by the giant fireplace and took out my cell phone.

“This is Gina.”

“How soon can you get uptown, Fifth and Eighty-second?”

“Half an hour.”

“Good. Park yourself on the steps of the Met. You’ll have a clear view of this building, nine-nine-eight Fifth. I’m expecting a woman, blond, forty-something version of Greene Street Girl, to come out later today. I want to know where she goes and what she does.”

“You got it.”

“You’re the best.”

“Put that sentiment into cash.”

“The best mercenary, that is.”

Victoria called as soon as we disconnected. “Where are you?”

“Lion’s den.”

“You mean lioness.”

“You’re becoming very protective.”

“You’re getting no less obnoxious. Lachlan Malloy was treated and released by Beth Israel late Wednesday night. Superficial gunshot wound, right thigh.”

“I owe you.”

“Then get out of there.”

“As soon as I’ve tamed the lioness.”

“Turbo…”

“Gotta run.”

Raised voices, one male, one female, outside. I was about to move closer to the door when it opened and Mulholland came in, dressed in one of his Savile Row suits. It was hard to tell in dim light, but he looked as though he’d aged several years since our last meeting. I wondered what he’d make of my appearance.

He came across the big carpet without stopping at the desk or looking toward the computer. His shoulders slumped forward, and his legs moved without purpose, as if they were directing themselves, unsure of where their owner wanted to go. I stood, and as he grew close, he raised his eyes to meet mine.

“Good morning, Mr. Vlost. It seems you were in an accident of some kind.”

“That’s one way of putting it. I look worse than I feel.” Not true, but it sounded good.

He nodded. “Do you have news of Eva?”

“I actually came to see your wife.”

He nodded. “Hicks told me. She’s… she’s not well. The accumulated stress—my difficulties, Eva—it’s taking a toll.”

“Is she here?”

“She’s resting. She… she had a bad night.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wake her.”

“Why? What for?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“I hardly think—”

“She can talk to me or talk to the cops. The topic is murder. She despises me, but I’m still likely to be more understanding than they are.”

He was tough, or tired, or both. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t show much reaction of any kind. “Murder? Whose murder? I don’t understand. What about Eva?”

“Get your wife and I’ll answer your questions.”

“Does this have anything to do with your… accident?”

“Tangentially.”

“Tell me this much. Is Eva all right?”

“She was when I saw her.”

“You saw her? When?”

“Friday.”

“Friday? Why haven’t you—”

“Get your wife.”

Thirty seconds or more passed before he stood. His legs seemed to find more intent as they traversed back across the rug.

He was gone almost twenty minutes. I spent most of the time debating whether to beat it while I had the chance, but I’d come with a purpose in mind. When he returned, Felix/Polina—I hadn’t worked out which way to think of her—was with him. She was dressed in a rose top and black slacks, no makeup or jewelry. She’d been crying. Sorrow—or anger—turned to surprise as she came close.

“You… What happened?”

“Lachko and I agreed to disagree. But it took some time to get to that point.”

“My God. Lachko did that?”

“He had help.” And I still had some pride.

She didn’t express sorrow for my pains. On the other hand, she didn’t say I deserved them. She and Mulholland sat across from me. He looked at her. She looked at me. I let them look until Mulholland started visibly losing patience.

I nodded toward him but kept my eyes on Polina. “How much have you told him about me?”

She shook her head.

“And Lachko?”

Another shake.

“You’re a piece of work, Polya.”

“Polya?” Mulholland said.

“Say what you came to say and get out,” Polina said.

“Felix, I—”

“I know you hired him to find Eva, but this man is not our friend,” she said. “He’s a born liar.”

“What about Eva, Mr. Vlost?” Mulholland asked. “You said you saw her. Where was she?”

“The W Hotel on Union Square. She had a room under a borrowed name. She’d borrowed the cash to pay for it, too.”

“Borrowed?”

“I was being polite. Stolen. The last time I checked, she’d removed almost eight thousand dollars from various people’s bank accounts, using information she bought on the Internet. She used her boyfriend’s account for that, but he won’t mind. He’s the one who was murdered.”

I was watching Polina. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t move her eyes from my stitched-up visage. I still remembered all too well what her cold shoulder felt like, and she’d added more than a few layers of ice since then. Mulholland just looked lost. I felt sorry for him, but it was Polina’s armor I was trying to find a chink in.

Nobody spoke for a minute. Then Polina said, “Why didn’t you bring her home? That’s what we’re paying you to do.”

“She didn’t want to come, for one thing. She ran before I could change her mind, for another. She took off when I told her Rislyakov—that’s her late boyfriend—worked for Lachko. Why’s she so afraid of him?”

“Look in a mirror and ask that question again.”

“I’m not his daughter.”

“Who’s Lachko?” Mulholland asked. “You said that name before.”

“Your move,” I said to Polina.

“You should have died in the camps.” She spoke Russian. “They’re the only place you ever fit in.”

“You and Lachko agree on that much,” I replied in our native tongue, “but I think you just blew your cover with Hubby Number Three.”

“Eb tvoju mat’!” She stepped forward and slapped me once with the flat of her hand and again with the back side, setting my face afire. Her insult, a form of “fuck you” that translates literally as “I fucked your mother,” is one of the worst in the Russian language.

“Felix!” Mulholland shouted.

“Get him out of here. He makes me sick to my stomach,” she said, in English.

“If I leave here now, I go straight to the police.” I was watching her again. Despite the show of temper, the ice was still in place.

Mulholland spoke. “You said murder. Who’s this Rislyakov? What’s he have to do with Eva? What’s he have to do with us?”

“You want to tell him?” I said to Polina.

She stared back silently as she sat, sparks of hatred shooting through the indigo. I tried to feel some regret for what I was doing, but not very hard, and none came.

“Rad Rislyakov is—was—a computer whiz. He worked for a man named Lachko Barsukov, big-time mobster. I’ve known Lachko half my life, and there’s nothing good I can say about him. Maybe your wife has a kind word—she’s known him nearly as long as I have. I’ll let her fill in the details, or you can try Google. He probably has a Wikipedia entry. Rislyakov is the guy who phished you with that fake letter back in March.

“What? How do you—”

“For now, just accept that I know and what I know is fact. If anything I say is conjecture, I’ll flag it.”

“He lies,” Polina said. “His whole life is one big lie. Don’t believe a word.”

“I deceived Polina years ago—about myself, an act of omission, not commission, born of love mixed with fear. I’ve been paying for my sin ever since, and my transgressions will never be erased in her mind. I can’t do anything about that. She can tell you that story, too, or I will, but right now we’re talking about Rislyakov.”

“Bastard,” Polina hissed.

“Go on,” Mulholland said.

“Rislyakov learned a great deal from his phishing expedition—he had access to all your computers for weeks. One of the things he picked up was Eva’s drug use and stay in rehab. Rislyakov had a gambling problem—he used that to get himself checked into the same place, where he struck up a relationship. Eva claims he loved her. Little doubt she loved him. My money says he was using her for other purposes.”

“You’d know,” Polina said.

“Rislyakov stole a large file from one of your computers. It belonged to your wife, I’m almost certain of that. Polina doesn’t panic often. She did then.”

“What’s this Polina business?”

“Sorry. That’s how I know her. Something else she can explain. You might want to start a list.”

She was up again, hand flying. This time I caught it in midair. “Lachko already did enough damage.”

She said, “I don’t have to put up with this.” She tried to pull away, but I held her wrist.

“We’re just getting to the good part.”

“Sit down, Felix,” Mulholland said in a voice that more ordinarily gave orders to subordinates. She heard it, too, and she hadn’t heard it before. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed. I let go of her arm, and she took her seat, perched on the edge.

“This is going to be embarrassing,” I said to Mulholland. “I’m sorry. But that ransom note and photograph you received were both created right here in this apartment on your computer.”

“WHAT?” Mulholland jumped out of his chair. Polina sat ice-sculpture still.

“No question about it. The picture was created on Photoshop. I have the components.”

“But how…”

“Rislyakov had access to your computers, like I said. I had access to his, I could see where everything came from.”

I turned toward Polina. For the first time I saw fear behind the ice.

“Rislyakov was blackmailing you. Somehow he knew about your income stream, probably because the money was moving through the laundry he’d designed for Lachko. So he proposed a partnership, clipping you for fifty percent, and you accepted. Don’t object. I have his notes, the instructions, the account numbers, the whole deal. He knew who you were, who you’d become. But my question is this—how did he find you in the first place?”

“I have nothing to say to you—EVER!”

“You’ll find that a hard position to stick to. Back to the story. This is conjecture, now—Rislyakov needed money, faster than your partnership could provide it. His gambling debts were mounting. He hit on you again. Hundred thousand, cash, small bills, instructions to be issued in a week.”

The ice started to melt. I pulled myself up in my chair.

“You didn’t have it. Not enough in the accounts yet, or you didn’t want to risk accessing them, for whatever reason. You were desperate. We’ll come back to why. You had the idea of the kidnap scheme, and the even better idea that whoever delivered the payoff could also lead you to the blackmailer. Kill two birds with one stone, maybe literally. That whoever turned out to be me. Bad luck.”

Mulholland said, “That means the men you paid off were expecting…”

“They were expecting someone with a hundred thousand dollars in a red backpack. That’s what Rislyakov told them. That’s all they knew.”

“Then how…”

“I tracked the pickup men back to Rislyakov’s place. That’s where I found Eva, drugged. I also found Rislyakov—dead.”

“My God! Why didn’t you call the police?”

“The question everyone asks—and I’m still asking myself.”

Polina shifted in her chair. I sat forward in mine. Everything felt sore.

“Too many unanswered questions, I guess. I had no idea what was going on then. I have a better idea now, but not a complete one. For example, what did Rislyakov lift from your computer, Polya?”

The ice was melting faster.

“The other question is, again, Polina had done such a good job of hiding herself, not the least part of which was marrying you. How did Rislyakov find her?”

Her hand darted under the cushion. I dove for the floor as she leapt forward. I heard the knife puncture the leather.

I rolled, trying to ignore screaming ribs, until I hit a table leg. I found my knees and came up to see Mulholland behind Polina, his arms wrapped around her. She was pulling and kicking, but he held on. The knife had cut a four-inch slice in the back of my chair.

I got to my feet, setting off more pain, and pulled out the blade. Steak knife, but long enough to do damage. I tossed it into the oversized fireplace. Steel rattled against stone, echoing around the bookshelves. I pulled up the cushion of the chair I’d been sitting in, then the others around us. There was a matching knife under each one. Set of six.

“Looks like you were expecting trouble from someone, sooner or later,” I said.

“You evil fucking bastard. You want to destroy me, that’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.”

“I think you should leave,” Mulholland said.

“I intend to, while I can. But we still have the murder issue. Someone else was at Rislyakov’s place Wednesday night. Polina had your driver follow me when I went to pay off the supposed kidnappers. I led him to Rislyakov’s, without knowing it.”

“Lachlan?”

Polina spat at me. It fell short.

“Conjecture, I’ll admit—but I can place him in a rental car at Rislyakov’s Wednesday morning. He was treated for a gunshot wound at Beth Israel Wednesday night. Ask him where he got his limp. Eva shot him, in her stupor, through the door. I have the gun. But I’m still more interested in the two questions I asked before the hostilities started. What did Rislyakov phish from your computer, Polya, and how did he know to phish you in the first place?”

Mulholland loosened his hold. Polina lunged, but he pulled her back.

“You warned me about the past catching up,” he said. “I didn’t believe you.”

He had the look of a man who was breaking under the accumulated weight.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid this is only the beginning.”

CHAPTER 32

Hazy sun baked the sidewalk outside. A scattered crowd soaked it up on the Metropolitan’s steps. I could just make out Gina among them. My phone buzzed.

“You look like hell,” she said. “What happened?”

“Everybody has a nice word to say. Lost weekend.”

“Lost weekend? Turbo, you need someone to take care of you.”

“That seems to be a growing opinion. Listen, I don’t know how long this is going to take. I’m going to send Mo up here to spell you with the Valdez. That’ll be your post. We’re going twenty-four/seven. Sheila will take over from her. You’re back on in the morning. Okay?”

“Got it. But…”

“What?”

“Do we have to use the Valdez? That thing’s embarrassing.”

“Nobody’s supposed to see you in it, remember?”

I should have caught a cab. Instead, I walked to Eighty-sixth Street and took the train. The walk aggravated the pain, but moving under my own steam felt good, despite the heat.

The subway ride made everything hurt more, but it was the quickest way to pull myself out of Polina’s world and back into reality. I scanned the faces on the train. No one paid attention to my stitched-up face. Subway etiquette—see everything, acknowledge nothing. Ordinary people, going about ordinary lives. No violence. No intrigue. No black pasts and mysterious presents all caught up with each other. Bullshit.

“Eight million stories in the naked city,” Lawrence Dobkin told American TV audiences every week for five years. We know better. There are only eight. They just keep getting told over and over again.

I hadn’t gotten an answer to my questions. Whatever/whoever Polina was scared of, she was more frightened of it/him than a murder rap. One more question burned—why had Ratko gone underground? He’d stiffed Lachko. He’d stiffed Iakov. Gambling debts were too simple an explanation. A hundred impassive faces on the subway car. None of them had an answer either.

The front door buzzer roused me from another netherworld, this one involving Pig Pen and Polina leering from opposite sides over my battered body. I was on the couch in my apartment, where I’d dozed off after lunch. My watch read 5:14. I’d slept almost three hours. Everything had stiffened. I almost needed a block and tackle to pull myself up. The buzzer buzzed again. Victoria, her patience intact. I hobbled to the intercom, pushed the button, opened my door, and waited. When the elevator arrived, Petrovin walked down the hall in his linen suit, grinning his relaxed grin—until he saw me.

“Someone with your appearance might want to ask his visitors to identify themselves,” he said as he extended his hand.

“My brain got rattled along with the rest of me.”

“Are you all right? You look…”

“I know. I feel just as bad, but I’ve had medical attention, and they tell me I’ll live. Lachko and I had an argument. He won.”

“Perhaps you will achieve ex-Chekist status. You certainly appear to be trying.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. Come in. Drink?”

“I’ll join you, if you’re having.”

“The first one’s purely medicinal.”

He followed me inside, leaving his messenger bag by the door. “I have the information you requested. I thought I’d come by. I don’t like phones.”

“You and every other Russian.”

“Another Cheka legacy.”

“Can’t argue.” I got the bottle from the freezer and poured two glasses. We took stools on opposite sides of the counter.

“Your health,” he said. “Looks like you need it.”

“Can’t argue that either. What did you find?”

“Your information was good, in part. Someone did shoot out a window at CPS headquarters Saturday morning. It was Tiron’s office. But, as I told you, Tiron wasn’t there. No one was hurt.”

“That’s good news. Thank you.”

He looked at me over the glass. “Good news—to a point. Whoever fired the shot almost certainly knew the window he was shooting at.”

“One more point beyond dispute.”

“There’s more. The slug was from a Dragunov SVDS. An assassin’s weapon. Cheka assassin.”

“I know. They were sending a message. I’ve read Ibansk.”

He gave me a sheepish look as he put down his cup. “We all do what we have to do. The light of day—maybe I should say dusk—is one of the few defenses we have left in Russia.”

“I’m not questioning motives, but I’ll be more careful what I tell you from here on. You’d better be careful, too. The Cheka will be looking into who’s feeding Ivanov, if it’s not already.”

“Of course. Ivanov goes to great lengths… well, you can imagine.”

“He—I’m assuming he—lives a lot more dangerously than most.”

“I won’t comment on your assumption. As to living dangerously, it’s no more risky now than it was in Soviet times.”

“One more thing I can’t disagree with. How well do you know him, Tiron, I mean?”

“We came into the CPS in the same class, and we’ve worked together closely on some things. A good man. When did you last see him?”

“Many years ago. But… his father and I were close, so when I heard the news…”

“Of course. I’d still be happy to give him a message.”

I thought about that a moment. Trust may be the most difficult thing a spy comes to grips with. Iakov taught me that. The working premise, of course, is trust no one, but the need to get things done chips away at that. You make judgments, recognize some will be mistakes, hope you don’t make too many. The man looking at me from his one good eye seemed like a good bet. At the same time, he was holding back. Then again, in his shoes, wouldn’t I do the same? Circles within circles. At some point you make a call.

“You and Ivanov are correct. The man with the gun was indeed a Cheka marksman. He was operating under orders from Vasily Barsukov. He was in the car with the shooter.”

Petrovin put down the glass, and his eye narrowed. “Jesus, that’s bold, even for the Cheka.”

“To state the obvious, it would be smart for Tiron to lie low for a while.”

“I’ll tell him, most certainly. But… May I ask how this involves you?”

“The Barsukovs are applying pressure. Not just to Tiron.”

He nodded and smiled. “We all know that. I must ask again—why does this involve you?”

“Lachko looks for whomever he can squeeze. Any connection is enough for him. I’m sorry to say, he knows me very well.” I hoped that would get him off the subject.

“What’s he want?”

“The database and code that run Ratko’s laundry. He thinks I know how to find them.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe.”

“You going to give them to him?”

“I don’t have them yet. If I get them, I’ll try to make a deal. That’s what he’d expect me to do.”

The eye narrowed again. “What kind of deal?”

“Depends on the cards I’m holding. Lots of interests to be taken into account.”

“Including Tiron’s?”

“Including Tiron’s.”

He smiled again. I returned it, which made my jaw ache. “Perhaps you’d like to play a card or two.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Rad Rislyakov.”

He watched me while he sipped his vodka. I sat still. If I didn’t move anything, most of the pain receded to a low-level throb.

“Vodka’s excellent,” Petrovin said after a while. “Tastes like home.”

“Help yourself.”

I slid over the bottle, and he poured.

“What caused you to join the Cheka?”

How much did I want to tell him? I thought—very briefly—about the truth, but as so often I pulled back to the sanitized version of my life story. No sense of liberation with a fellow Russian, even one who would barely remember the Soviet years. “I had a difficult childhood, no parents, lived in orphanages. My only skill was languages. That got the Cheka’s attention, and I didn’t think twice. They offered a way out… a way forward, something better even if I didn’t know what it was. Don’t put too much weight on the hard luck story, though. I also said there’s honor in serving one’s country. I meant that, too.”

“If you had it to do over, would you do different?”

I reflected on that. I knew the answer, but the question still demanded consideration. “I’ve never met anyone who’s been offered that chance, so I don’t spend much time thinking about it. Regret, remorse—sugar-coated poisons. You get dealt five cards in life, maybe seven, depending on the game. Sometimes you get to draw three more. You play them the best you can. I realized a long time ago, the goal is not so much to win but to avoid having to fold unnecessarily. Stay in the game. Make the other guy go out first. The only honest answer I can give you is, no, I wouldn’t make changes. No guarantee that whatever changes I made would lead to a better set of cards.”

“You might not look like you do this afternoon,” he said with a smile.

“I look like hell, true, but I haven’t folded yet.”

“You’re making me rethink my lifelong Chekist stereotype. Do you have family?”

I thought again for a while before I said, “No. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t step over a line. I couldn’t help thinking you’d make a good father.”

“That’s quite a compliment, especially for a would-be ex-Chekist.”

He nodded and went silent again. He was trying to make up his mind about something, and it wasn’t easy for him. Best thing I could do was stay out of the way. I poured a little more vodka and sipped slowly.

“Suppose I dealt your life-hand a wild card, the kind that could change everything you believe, every assumption you’ve made?”

“That would be some card. Guess I’d have to see it.”

“It will also make you immediately and desirably expendable, in the eyes of your former colleagues.”

“At least one of them already feels that way. Will I have to fold my hand?”

“Based on what you’ve told me, I don’t think so. Although it could well cause you to play differently from here on.”

“All right, I’m game. But tell me something first. How did you lose your eye?”

“You remember Andrei Kozlov?”

“Of the Central Bank?”

“That’s right. I was with him when he was assassinated in 2006. I was collateral damage—or maybe they just missed, in my case. We were working together at the time.”

“And you believe the Cheka was responsible?”

“Who else?”

“The jury said it was the former chairman of VIP Bank, if I remember correctly. Kozlov had suspended his license.”

His voice took on a hard edge, bordering on bitter. “We both know two things. There is no rule of law in Russia, and nothing has happened since the fall of the Yeltsin government that wasn’t cleared in Lubyanka.”

“I haven’t signed on to that platform yet, and I didn’t mean to start an argument. I was asking… You take a lot of chances. You’ve already paid a big price. What are you in this for? Love, honor, duty, revenge, money—what?”

He picked up his glass, saw it was empty, looked at the bottle, and put the glass back on the counter. “Not money. This suit is the most expensive thing I own. The rest—maybe some of all of the above. If we both live long enough to get to know each other better, I’ll tell you the story. That might explain things. I’d like to hear yours, too. That could explain more.”

The bitterness was gone and the relaxed grin back.

“Play the card,” I said, “if you’re still game.”

He paused, considering one more time, but not for long. “What I’m about to tell you only four people know. Used to be a few more, but the Cheka has been chipping away at our ranks, two so far this year. You’ll be on the list.”

“You’re repeating yourself. Tell the story.”

CHAPTER 33

“Fact number one—there was another corpse in the Valdai shelter with Anatoly Kosokov. Boris Gorbenko, an FSB colonel who was the point man on the 1999 apartment bombings. Fact number two—the bombings were an FSB operation from start to finish. Fact number three—Kosokov and Rosnobank financed them.”

Petrovin paused to pour some more vodka while I processed what he was telling me. Kosokov’s bank was a Cheka financing vehicle. The Cheka staged multiple bombings that killed three hundred people and pinned them on Chechen terrorists. There had been allegations at the time, but there almost always were, and I hadn’t paid them much attention. Now Petrovin was telling me the allegations were true. Kosokov financed the operation, and the Cheka started the second Chechen war. It should’ve sounded fantastic. Except it didn’t.

“You say these are facts. You have proof?” I said.

“We have Gorbenko—on videotape and a signed affidavit. You’d call it a confession. He was a weak man. We’d had our eye on him—he was one of the Cheka’s go-betweens with the Chechens. We wondered which side of the street he was playing. After the Moscow bombings we brought him in and sweated him, told him we’d let both the Cheka and the Chechens know he’d sold the other out. He turned, laid out everything, how he’d arranged for Gochiyaev to rent the storage spaces in the buildings, acquired the RDX explosive from Perm, how he directed Kosokov where and when to move money. He knew every supplier, every warehouse.”

“He could’ve told you what he thought you wanted to hear.”

Petrovin shook his head. “Remember the bomb that didn’t go off, in Ryazan? Putin was busy praising everyone involved for their vigilance, then two FSB agents were arrested for setting the explosives, and Patrushev tried to make that ridiculous claim about a training exercise?”

I nodded. Not the Cheka’s finest moment.

“Gorbenko tipped us to Ryazan, and we called the local police. He not only knew the location of the explosives and the time of detonation, he knew the names of the FSB operatives. We held those back. The local cops nailed them on their own, and they were exactly who Gorbenko said they’d be.”

“Why didn’t this come out at the time?”

“You know part of the answer. The Cheka slammed the lid on. Every attempt at the truth was corrupted. They wanted their war with Chechnya, they got it. They wanted Putin to replace Yeltsin. They got that, too.” His voice grew bitter again.

“And the other part?”

“We overreached. We believed Gorbenko, but we also knew he’d say anything to save his sorry skin, as you just observed. The Cheka was moving fast. If we were going to take them down, we needed everything ironclad. We sent Gorbenko to bring in Kosokov and the Rosnobank records.”

“Hold on a minute. This was 1999. If you don’t mind my saying so, you must have been a teenager.”

“True. I joined the CPS in 2004. Worked closely with a man named Chmil. He ran Gorbenko. He was murdered last year. Gunned down in his car at a stoplight. That’s why I said what I said earlier.”

“And Chmil told you all this, about Gorbenko?”

“He was still trying to build a case. I helped. And I’ve read the file. It’s closely guarded, even within CPS.”

I believed him. I also had the feeling their security wasn’t as good as they needed it to be, and Petrovin knew it, too. He wasn’t just playing with dynamite. He was tiptoeing through the entire Russian nuclear arsenal. His story was a conspiracy theorist’s dream come true. It went all the way to the top of the Kremlin. The apartment bombings and the second Chechen war put Putin in power. But if that was the case…

“Why hasn’t Ivanov run with it?”

“Patience. You’ll see.”

“All right. Go on.”

“Gorbenko arranged a meeting with Kosokov at his dacha in the Valdai Hills. This was about two weeks after Ryazan, October sixth, rumors were flying all over. Also turned out to be the day that Rosnobank burned. Chmil figured Kosokov wouldn’t show, but he did. Gorbenko was wearing a wire, connected to a recording chip taped to his back. We didn’t want to risk any of our people in the neighborhood. Gorbenko was supposed to convince Kosokov to cooperate with us, or at least get him to own up that he’d been the Cheka’s banker for years and specifically for this operation. We promised what we could—money, a new identity in a new country. Chmil didn’t believe it would be enough. He was right. Would you like to hear what happened?”

“You have the recording?”

“We got lucky. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.”

Petrovin retrieved a laptop from his bag. He clicked some keys. Faint voices emerged from the little speakers, talking in Russian.

“That’s Gorbenko, speaking first,” he said.

“You’ll never make it, you know. They’ll have men at every border crossing.”

“Let me worry about making it. If the Cheka’s as smart as everyone says it is, we’d all still be working for the Party.”

“Don’t be a fool, Anatoly Andreivich. Look what they did to your bank. They’re shutting everything down, erasing all the tracks, eliminating all the links. You’re a very big link. You and I, we’re the only two who could expose everything.”

“I’m counting on that fact to keep me alive. You made your deal, Boris. You’re on your own with it. I’ll take my chances by myself.”

“You’re crazy! The CPS can provide protection. We can bring the Cheka down. Yeltsin will have no choice but to purge the entire organization when people see what they’ve done. It’s their one big weakness. No one will have difficulty believing they murdered innocent Russians to pursue their own ends. Especially once you and I lay out the evidence. Like the Katyn massacre. There’ll be national outrage.”

“National outrage? Russia today? Hah! Don’t make me laugh. Neither of us will live to see it, in any event. Like I said, you made your deal. Good luck to you. I’m taking my evidence with me. My life insurance policy.”

The crash of a door. A new, female voice. “Tolik, I came as soon as I could. What the hell is going on? What are you doing here? Oh… Who the hell are you?”

Gorbenko said, “No names. Better that way. Call me Leo. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

I recognized her voice, but I still asked, “Who’s that?”

He stopped the recording. “Kosokov’s mistress. Your friend Barsukov’s wife, Polina Barsukova. There’s more. Remember, Gorbenko—Leo—is in the kitchen now. We think some time has passed. But here she comes.” He tapped a key.

Polina’s voice again. “Leo?”

“What the…”

“Move, out the door.”

“Kosokov, what the fuck is this? I have no time for…”

The shotgun roared.

Polina spoke again. “One barrel left. Move!”

A couple of minutes of indistinguishable sounds.

Petrovin stopped the tape. “We’re pretty sure Kosokov and Polina are taking Gorbenko from the house to the barn.”

“Over there,” Polina said when he started it again.

“What do you want?” Gorbenko said.

“We’ll get to that. Open that trapdoor.”

Silence, punctuated by a couple of grunts before Gorbenko spoke again.

“Look, Kosokov, I can…”

The blast from the shotgun cut him off. The sound of a bang, a thump, and another. Then silence. The speakers died. Petrovin looked at me with a grim expression. “She shot him in the chest. The thumps are the body falling down the stairs. Bomb shelter underneath the barn. Concrete construction, stocked with all the staples—food, water, even vodka. Must’ve dated from Soviet times.”

I’d been luckier than I realized a few hours earlier. “The recording survived all these years?”

“Amazingly, yes. The chip wasn’t damaged by the blast, and no one searched the body. Gorbenko was supposed to call that night—one way or the other. When Chmil didn’t hear from him, he went to the dacha the next morning. Nothing there, except the ransacked house, some blood, and the burned-down barn. We didn’t know about the shelter, of course. It had snowed all night. No way to tell who or what had come or gone. He made a decision to leave everything as it was. Remember, no one knew we’d turned Gorbenko. Maybe he was right, I don’t know. The investigation died, with the Cheka’s help.

“Then two weeks ago, some kids discover a trapdoor in the foundation of the barn. Under the trapdoor they find the shelter, and in the shelter, what’s left of two ten-year-old corpses, one shot, one burned at the stake. The amazing thing is, the local police notified us—not the Cheka. We were able to secure the site.”

“And make sure Ivanov announced the news to the world.”

He grinned sheepishly. “As I said before…”

I wasn’t listening. “When did you say the kids found the bodies?”

“Mid-May.”

That couldn’t be it. Ratko had phished Mulholland months earlier. “If Polina shot Gorbenko, then who killed Kosokov?”

“We still don’t know.”

“And that’s one reason Ivanov hasn’t run with the rest of the story.”

He nodded.

“The fact that Polina’s alive makes her a leading suspect, doesn’t it?”

He was lifting his glass, but he stopped midair and returned it to the counter. “You know she’s alive?”

I grinned, partly to cover my carelessness. I’d assumed he knew about Polina. All the wits Sergei had knocked out hadn’t returned to the roost. No harm done, that I could see, but I told myself to watch my step.

“You’re late to the party. Yes, she’s living here. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

He looked down at his glass. Perhaps I’d nicked his pride. “Where is she?”

“Could be I’m holding the bargaining chip now. Tell me about Rad Rislyakov.”

He shook his head.

“You know he’s dead? You can’t say anything that’ll hurt him now.”

He nodded.

“You were right the other day, your guesswork about Greene Street. I’d gone there looking for Ratko. I found the body. Iakov was there, too. He’d been shot, he said by the same guy who shot Ratko. I think the killer works for Polina’s current husband. I think she had him kill Ratko.”

I might have slapped him. He drew back, jumped up, froze for a moment, then walked around the room. When he came back, he said, “Why’d she do that?”

“Multiple reasons. Rislyakov was blackmailing her. He knew who she was, who she’d become. He horned in on a scheme she was running and was taking fifty percent not to tell Lachko. Then he got greedy and wanted a hundred thousand dollars, cash. I delivered the money to his people, and they led me to him. She had her husband’s driver follow me. I led him to Greene Street.”

He sat down again and rubbed his face. “What kind of scheme?”

“I don’t know, but I’m betting it’s connected to your two corpses. Rislyakov hacked his way into her computer several months ago. He removed a big file, without her knowing. He also learned enough to get close to her daughter—another way to keep tabs on Polina.”

“The auburn-haired girl?”

“That’s right. Her name’s Eva.”

That brought his head around, a funny look in his eye. “But you don’t know what he stole?”

“No. Only that she panicked when she found out.”

“How do you come to have all this information, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I had twenty-four hours with Rislyakov’s laptop, remember?”

“The one you gave Barsukov?”

“Yes. After I copied its hard drive and made a few programming modifications. Rislyakov put a keyboarding bug on Polina’s computer. I put one on his.”

He grinned. “You can see everything he does.”

“Cheka habits die hard.”

I poured a little more vodka and offered him the bottle. He shook his head. “Listen to this again,” he said. He pushed some keys on his computer, and the tape started.

Kosokov’s voice. “National outrage? Russia today? Hah! Don’t make me laugh. Neither of us will live to see it, in any event. Like I said, you made your deal. Good luck to you. I’m taking my evidence with me. My life insurance policy.”

The door crashing open. Polina saying, “Tolik, I came as soon as I could. What the hell is going on? What are you doing here?”

Petrovin stopped the computer. “Kosokov says he’s taking his evidence with him—his life insurance policy. Suppose that’s the records of his bank, all the Cheka’s transactions.”

“Okay, I’ll suppose. But he’s dead.”

“She’s not. Suppose that’s what she had on her computer. Suppose that’s what Rislyakov stole.”

“Dammit!” It made perfect sense. I did my own revolution of the living room. Polina was scared about Mulholland’s bank crashing. She was looking at being cut adrift again—bringing back every fear she ever had since she was a kid. She’d be terrified, desperate, just like that day at Kosokov’s dacha. She needed money. She used Kosokov’s file to put the bite on Lachko. He still had Cheka connections. They moved the payoff money through Ratko’s laundry—and Lachko assigned Ratko to figure out who was hitting on him. Ratko did just that and… No, he didn’t. He didn’t report back. Lachko was ignorant of Polina the day he hauled me out to Brighton Beach. Ratko had kept his discovery to himself and gone underground. Less than perfect sense. I returned to the kitchen.

“If you’re right, and that’s what Rislyakov stole, why didn’t he turn it over to his masters?”

Petrovin held out his glass. “Rislyakov was working for us. He was our man inside the Badger organization.”

I laughed. “I may be an ex-Chekist, Alexander Petrovich, but that doesn’t make me newly gullible.”

He shook his head. “Blood’s thicker than money, even in Russia.”

“Meaning?”

“Rislyakov had a conflicted relationship with his parents. They were dissidents during the Soviet years. His father spent time in the Gulag. Ratko competed with politics for his mother’s attention. He went through a rebellious phase, fell in with a bad crowd, but a couple of teachers recognized his technical brilliance and helped him get back on a straight path. He reconciled with his folks in the midnineties. He was living with them, while he was going to university, in an apartment on Guryanova Street.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Right. They were all supposed to go to their dacha that night, but he had an exam coming up and decided to study late at school. They stayed home—and perished in the bombing.”

“He blamed himself, of course.”

“Of course. He started hanging out with his old friends and caught the attention of Barsukov. Chmil was a friend of his mother. He spent years trying to convince Ratko that the bombings that killed his parents were a Cheka operation. Three months ago, something happened, and Rislyakov told him he believed him—and he wanted to get even. He offered to open up the Badger empire. Chmil was murdered before he could do anything about it.”

“Cause and effect?”

“I’m afraid so. We have a leak. That’s one reason no one knows I’m here.”

Not surprising. But that was a hard admission for him. I went around the counter behind him and moved some stuff in the sink, giving him time.

A couple of minutes passed before Petrovin said, “I think Ratko stole that file from Polina’s computer. It proved what Chmil had been telling him about the Cheka and the apartment bombings. After Chmil died, I tried to build a relationship with Rislyakov. Slow going—he was cagey, suspicious, as you’d expect. I didn’t push too hard. We were making progress; I saw him when he was in Moscow last month. He told me to come to New York, he had something to show me. I recognized Iakov Barsukov on the plane. I followed him to Greene Street. I was supposed to meet Ratko there the next day.”

Lots of reasons not to like where this was going. I needed time, alone, to work through that. “If Ratko was going to be your mole in the Badger den, why did he go into hiding? Lachko hadn’t seen him in months—that had him worried, suspicious.”

“I don’t know. We were concerned about that, too, of course. We asked him. He said he needed to do things his way. We didn’t have a lot of choice but to go along.”

“I think he was using you, just as you were trying to use him. Ratko had expensive tastes, in addition to the gambling. He was blackmailing Polina, remember? I think he was going to keep the laundry running. He was going to operate it himself and use the Rosnobank file to keep the Barsukovs at bay. Iakov didn’t follow Ratko to Greene Street. He had an appointment. Eva told me Ratko was expecting him. He wanted Iakov alone—and out of Moscow—when he told him what he had and how he planned to use it.”

Petrovin shook his head. “Ratko wanted revenge. I got to know him well enough to see that.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way. Ratko spent the last several years being tutored by Chekists. He was smart. He would have learned some things. Maybe you saw what he wanted you to see. And maybe, like Kosokov, he wasn’t convinced the CPS could close the deal—especially in today’s Russia. On the other hand, from his point of view, with the laundry, he’d keep his income stream and he’d hit the Barsukovs—Lachko in particular—where it hurts most, in the wallet.”

Petrovin started to object but stopped. He sat for a moment, then did another circumnavigation of the apartment. He didn’t like my theory, for lots of reasons, but he could see it fit the facts better than his own.

“Tell me something,” I said when he returned to the counter. “Suppose you had Kosokov’s bank records. Suppose you could tie the bombings to the FSB. It’s explosive information, to be sure, but realistically, a decade later, in today’s Russia, what do you expect to accomplish?”

“You gauging my ambition—or my naivete?”

“Only asking if you’re trying to change the world.”

He smiled once again. “There was a time, not too long ago, I would have said yes. Now… I’m just trying hard to hold on to truth as a concept. Not something we, as a people, are familiar with, except perhaps in our humor. It may take us somewhere, it may get pushed into a ditch, but if we don’t at least put it on the road… You’re probably right about Rislyakov. Still, we had to try.”

“You might still get what you want. That file’s out there somewhere.”

“I’d like to talk to Polina Barsukova.”

“Her name is Mulholland now. Felicity Mulholland. Married to another banker, Rory Mulholland. Nine nine eight Fifth Avenue. Be careful. She doesn’t like talking about the past. Even if there’s no history.”

He gave me a funny look.

I said, “In your investigation of Kosokov and Gorbenko—their bodies, I mean—did you come across anything related to someone named Lena?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Eva keeps throwing this line at her mother—‘You should have left me with Lena.’”

“Lena… Yelena… there’s something in the file. I’ve got it all on this.” He tapped the laptop keyboard. “Here we go. A doll—in the shelter. Under the stairs, female, plastic, forty-five centimeters long, blond hair, remnants of a peasant costume. Also a plastic doll’s suitcase, nine by six by three, with three dresses inside, mostly intact. Name handwritten on the inside of each one—Yelena.”

“Huh. If the doll was in that shelter, odds are she was, too. Maybe with two corpses. Can you get the doll sent here?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so. It’s a risk—no one knows I’m here, remember?”

“Have it sent to Victoria, or to me. That’ll give you some cover.”

“You believe it’s that important?”

“She’s a screwed-up kid. Mulholland told me she suffered some kind of childhood trauma. He doesn’t know what. She was at the dacha with Kosokov and Gorbenko. She might have seen what happened. I know she’s terrified of something. The doll could be the key—if I can find her, that is.”

He nodded. “I’ll call tonight.”

The buzzer sounded, and I shuffled over to the intercom. Vodka was definitely having a medicinal effect on movement. “Yes?”

“Your guardian angel. Who else were you expecting?”

“I’ve been advised to screen my guests.” I pushed the door release button and turned to find Petrovin next to me, putting his laptop back in the messenger bag.

“I’ll be going,” he said, taking my hand. “Three’s company, as they say. We’ll be in touch.” Haste in his voice, bordering on urgency. I had the feeling he didn’t want Victoria to know he was here, but when she stepped out of the elevator, he bowed in his formal Russian way and spoke a few words in her ear. She nodded in response before coming down the hall, smiling, briefcase in one hand, shopping bag in the other. She was wearing a sleeveless blue blouse over a knee-length black skirt. All the curves in place. I wasn’t ready for a guardian, but the angel set my heart racing.

She gave me a kiss on the cheek and pushed past me to the kitchen. “I gotta warn you, I’m not much of a cook, but I figured in your condition, you’ll take what you get.”

“I’m cooking, remember? What’s in the bag?”

“Chicken. I’m going to call Giancarlo. He’ll tell me what to do.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“You just go lie down. Dinner in an hour, I hope. You get any wine?”

“Still vodka and beer, sorry.”

“That’s got to change if I’m gonna keep comin’ around. Where’s the vodka?”

“On the counter. I’ll roast the chicken. You like lemon or onions?”

She turned, the vodka bottle in midair. “This about the chicken or control?”

“Probably both. It’s my kitchen.”

“In that case, you’re on your own. I’ll be right back. You got a wine shop in the neighborhood?”

“Liquor store, corner of Fulton, across from the Seaport.”

She was gone before I could say more. I melted some butter, chopped some garlic, parsley, and rosemary, grated some zest, squeezed some juice, mixed it all together with salt and pepper. I splayed the chicken, painted it all over with the butter-herb mixture, and put it in the oven, reflecting on the fact that none of this felt like it had taken any effort or caused any pain—but that could’ve been the vodka. I had just poured a small glass in celebration when the buzzer sounded Victoria’s return. She came down the hall carrying a bottle of something red, frowning. “Y’all need a new wine shop or a new neighborhood. Hope this stands up to your chicken. Corkscrew?”

I found one in the drawer and went looking for some mood music. Sketches of Spain was still on the CD player. I pushed PLAY and went back to the kitchen. She started around the room, wineglass in hand, too-small nose wrinkled in distaste, the rest of her smiling in fun.

“Wine not up to your standards?” I said.

“Passable, barely. Music sounds like a hermit’s funeral. Stoned hermit.”

“Not a Miles fan?”

“Ain’t no Bob Wills, that’s for sure.”

I switched to Bach cantatas. Her frown moderated a little. Bach wasn’t her thing either, but she didn’t complain. I left it on, hoping he’d grow on her. Bach usually does.

“What’s this?” She held up a small glass case with a medal inside.

“Order of Lenin.”

“Hey! That’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

“Used to be.”

“How’d you get it?”

“Recruited some useful agents.”

“So, you not only worked for the government that jailed your mother for no reason, you did such a good job they gave you a medal?”

“That’s right.”

“You weren’t kidding about Russian irony. How’d you make out with the ex-wife?”

“I survived.”

“Tell me about her.”

“That outfit is very becoming.”

“Your eyes are taking it off. Don’t change the subject.”

“It’s only fair. You undressed me.”

“Not out of choice. Come on, I’m curious.”

“I’m crushed.”

“Don’t be. We might get to what your dirty mind is thinking, but you’re not up to it yet. What about your wife?”

CHAPTER 34

“She was the daughter of a general in the GRU—military intelligence. Lithuanian mother. Her father distrusted me because I was KGB. He was a drunk, a bad drunk, so bad, he got run out of the army. Then he did some really stupid things and got sent to the Gulag. Family went from privilege to periphery to poverty. Polina was crushed; she doted on him. I don’t think she ever recovered, but I didn’t see it at the time.

“We were married in 1980, had a son in 1983. Partly because of her old man, and partly because of my own fears, I never told her about my past, my Gulag past. Iakov had buried that, or so I thought. We had our ups and downs, perhaps more than most. By 1989 it was all over. I hadn’t seen any of them since—until a week ago.”

“Okay, I’m hooked. What happened?”

“Nineteen eighty-eight, I was posted in the New York rezidentura for the second time. The rezident—chief of station—was one Lachko Barsukov, who was fast climbing a ladder many thought would end as chief of the entire KGB. But Lachko’s always been greedy. He and another guy were running a side business, ordering everything from champagne to truffles to designer dresses on the consulate’s tab, shipping it all home, where his brother sold it on the black market.”

“What’s that have to do with you?”

“One of my agents ratted him. Lachko screwed him on a deal, not knowing he was working for us. I turned Lachko in.”

“This is better than a soap opera.”

“Iakov leaned on me hard not to testify. I made the worst decision of my life—and I didn’t even know how bad it would turn out to be. Honor versus loyalty. I opted for loyalty.”

“Lots of people would have made the same choice.”

“True enough. It’s still the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. At the same time, I couldn’t deny Iakov—I still believe that today—so I was screwed no matter what I did.”

“You’re being too hard.”

“The story’s not finished. I’d already set certain processes in motion. Stopping them wasn’t so easy in the KGB. I recanted, prevaricated, tied myself in knots to back off. Lachko and Iakov had plenty of enemies—you don’t get to where they were without them. They thought they had Lachko in their sights. Ultimately, without me, there wasn’t enough of a case. Lachko got a slap on the wrist, but the damage was done. He was tainted. His climb to the top of the Cheka was over. He still blames me for that.”

“That explains his attitude the other night. But what’s this got to do with your wife?”

“Lachko wanted revenge. He mounted a campaign of innuendo, based on my zek past. He knew how to use that kind of information, especially in a closed system where everyone talks to the same people every day. Once started, a good rumor could spend weeks going round and round the circuit.”

“Wait a minute! Iakov didn’t do anything to help? He couldn’t get Lachko to stop?”

“Maybe he tried, I don’t know. We weren’t speaking much by then. But it’s also one of life’s lessons—don’t expect father to turn against son.”

“He hung you out?”

“He did what he thought was right.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. And you still stick up for this prick?”

“I still owe him. The whispers got around to Polina. She was horrified—at the idea of being married to a zek and at the prospect of her life crumbling again. I realize now how much I underestimated the dept of her insecurity. She married me as much for stability as for love. I was a Chekist on the way up, Nomenklatura, privileged class—important factors for someone who’d seen her family fall as far as she had. Then all that unravels—all at once. My KGB career is effectively over—and I’m a zek, beneath the lowest of the low, right down there with her disgraced old man. I can almost sympathize with her.”

“She didn’t sympathize with you.”

“No. She blamed me for the whole disaster. She took our son and left. I’d counted on something like that, but I didn’t appreciate how far she’d go. I found out when she started carrying on affairs with my fellow officers—three of them—in ways that were bound to bring notice. That sounds harsh, but I don’t believe there was any love involved on her part, only hatred and vengeance. She was out to ruin my career and make sure I couldn’t challenge over custody. She knew the Cheka had no room for indiscretion and her recklessness would mean my dismissal—or worse.”

“No wonder you’re the pain in the ass you are. What did you do?”

“I put an end to it. I found out before she got too far. Iakov tipped me off.”

“And?”

“I was drinking a lot—Russian response to everything, especially crisis, but one day I woke up and realized I had to take control. Life presents an endless series of choices, some bigger than others. Whatever Polina and I had was shattered, I understood that. I could’ve fought her for custody. Might’ve won, but I’d be out of a job and in no shape to take care of my son. Or I could make a deal with the devil—in this case, one of his earthly representatives. Polina could raise Aleksei, with my support. I wouldn’t interfere, I wouldn’t even be a known factor. As if I never existed, a zek’s destiny. In return she had to cease the campaign to ruin me, for the sake of the three of us. She took the bargain and so far as I know stuck to it. I didn’t reckon on her marrying Lachko, but I’m not omniscient. In retrospect, she was grasping for security and still trying to get even. He’d always had a thing for her, and he wanted to get even, too.”

“Perfect fit.”

“Yeah. Iakov pulled some strings and I was given an assignment in San Francisco. That was a time-buyer. I was back in Moscow in two years, behind a desk, which I hated. When the opportunity presented itself to call it quits, I did, and moved here. Started over.”

“That’s some story.”

I’d told it straight, as it seemed today, a couple of decades later. Memory simplifies, but it plays tricks, too, and the more time it has, the more mischief it gets up to. I tell myself I did what I did for the love of my son, and most of the time I believe it. Once in a while, though, I ask myself which is stronger—love or the instinct for survival? Then I’m not so sure.

The timer chimed. I took out the chicken and sprinkled some chopped parsley over the top. No fresh vegetables, so I resorted to frozen peas.

Victoria said, “What was… Petrovin doing here, if I’m not being nosy?”

So that was the exchange at the elevator—he was reminding her of his assumed name. “He had information for me. Something I asked about. Also, I think he wanted to tell me a story. He’s looking for help.”

“You going to give it to him?”

“Maybe. Turns out I have an interest in the same matter.”

“What’s that?”

“Do U.S. attorneys ever take time off, quit for the day?”

“Not this one. I’ve got a lot riding on the thing we’re working on—Barsukov’s money laundering operation. It’ll be my first big case if I can bring it, and it’s not white collar—it’s big-time organized crime. Petrovin… well, for one thing he’s Russian. Y’all are hard to read, if you don’t mind my saying so. For another, he plays his cards close to the vest. I’m not always sure what he’s up to. That makes an insecure country girl like me nervous. There—I’ve said it.”

I could have taken issue with every adjective—insecure, country, nervous—but I didn’t bother. She was trying to fool herself, trying to fool me, trying to charm, and succeeding, as she well knew, on the one out of three that mattered most.

“Your new friend Barsukov is applying heavy pressure to some of his old friends—including me—to keep his laundry running. That’s what Friday night was all about.”

“That’s why he beat you up?”

“That and the old scores I just told you about. Rislyakov had a database—the identity info he hacked from T.J. Maxx and the code that makes all the transactions make sense. Lachko thinks I know where they are.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe.”

“No bull.”

“I have an idea.”

“If you’re withholding evidence…”

“I’m not, at least not yet. If I find it, you’ll be among the first to know. Dinner’s ready.”

I quartered the chicken and put out two plates on the counter. We ate mostly in silence. I had a glass of her wine, which was nothing like Giancarlo’s Barolo. Something else to study up on.

“That was an excellent chicken,” she said, pushing the plate away. “You’re a good cook, among your other talents.”

“You haven’t begun to explore my talents.”

“I’ve learned humility ain’t one of them.”

“I have others.”

“Sugar, I’ll be honest. I’ve liked you from the first time I saw you—I have no goddamned idea why—and I’m hotter than the Texas Playboys to do something about it. But, like I already said, no hanky-panky with criminals. Deep down I really am a cautious country girl, and I still have no idea where you stand or what game you’re playing. If I end up having to come after you in a professional capacity, make no mistake, I’ll do that as hard as I know how. I don’t want my heart broken at the same time.”

I reached across and took her hand. “Vika…”

“Vika?”

“Sorry. Russian nickname. Just slipped out.”

“That’s okay. I never had a nickname. Didn’t like the obvious candidates.”

“We give everyone nicknames. I won’t break your heart. You can trust me because I know how it feels. I just told you the story. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

CHAPTER 35

The Chekist replayed the tape one more time. Just a fragment of sound, less than a minute, before the fire consumed the microphones. The flames whooshed and roared and popped. He could hear Kosokov shouting, the words impossible to make out. Then that other noise—squealing, high-pitched, rising in volume.

Now he realized after all these years, it was the girl. She must have been there the whole time. It was her in the horse stalls, not rats. He’d almost shot her. How the hell had he missed?

How had she survived the inferno? The only answer was the old shelter. Somehow she’d had the sense to seek protection there. Maybe that’s what Kosokov was yelling. He’d never know for sure. One more thing that didn’t matter.

She was alive, she was here, she knew who he was. That did matter.

She would have to be dealt with.

Before anything else went wrong.