Last to Fold

CHAPTER 22

I was moving more slowly than usual at 6:00 A.M., thanks to the vodka that helped ease last night’s pain. Mornings after evenings with Anna are often like that.

It had rained again overnight, and I ran through the warm, wet streets, thinking about my mother and grandfather, Polina, Lachko, and Ratko Risly. By the time I got home I was wishing I’d stayed in bed.

I brought up Ibansk.com while I drank my coffee.

Unless I missed my guess, my new friend Petrovin had a direct line to Ivanov. I wondered which one was jumping to conclusions, albeit correct conclusions. More immediately, I wondered whether Lachko and his father were reading Ibansk this morning.

“Ratko’s computer’s online,” Foos said when I stopped by his door a half hour later. “Did its self-wake-up–e-mail–data-processing–more-e-mail thing again this morning. Its new owner also did a full data recovery to see what he’s got. He found the two files that were removed, just like I did.”

“Uh-huh.” No doubt now a clock was ticking somewhere in Lachko’s fake palace. I went to the kitchen to get coffee. Pig Pen called as I passed his office.

“Lucky Russky?”

“Don’t know yet, Pig Pen.”

“Crap shoot. Seven?”

“Later. Maybe.”

“Cheapskate.”

“Don’t give up hope.”

“Cheapskate.”

I took my coffee and the hard drive with Eva’s computer contents back to Foos’s office.

“What’ve you got this time?” he asked.

“Eva Mulholland’s computer. She did a runner from the hospital yesterday. Went straight home, logged on to UnderTable, bought a bunch of ID info, and split.”

“Kid’s got an UnderTable account?”

“I’m guessing she’s using Ratko’s. By the way, all those spreadsheets on Ratko’s computer—seems he’s running a money laundry.”

“I figured that.”

“How the hell—”

“Has to be. Numbers tell stories, just like words. You give the computer to Barsukov?”

“Yeah. His father.”

“Good work. You delivered maybe the best money laundry in history back to the Russian mob. That lady prosecutor should toss your ass in the hoosegow.”

“She would, if she knew. I had my reasons. It was Barsukov’s anyway.”

“Oh. That’s okay, then.”

“You know how it works?”

“Pretty good idea.” He leaned back in his chair, which was hardly big enough to hold his bulk, and put his feet on the desk. He was warming up for one of his professorial lectures on the way the world functions—which, of course, only he understands. Once he gets up a head of steam, he’s hard to stop. On the other hand, he’s rarely wrong. I hoped this would be short.

“Got to thinking yesterday. What would require all those transactions, hundreds every day? I went back to the data. Looks like Rislyakov wrote a program that moves money from overseas banks into U.S. accounts, or from the U.S. banks overseas, every morning, in amounts below the reporting requirements. Before you can say wash and dry, the dough is moved again, in smaller amounts, small enough not to attract attention into new accounts—eight hundred fifty, nine hundred bucks a pop. People go around and withdraw equally small amounts in cash from ATMs and redeposit the bread into other accounts and voilà, clean cash. No trail.”

“That takes a ton of accounts—thousands, more.”

“Sure. Remember all those Social Security numbers he ripped off from T.J. Maxx—maybe a hundred million, right? Not worth jack on the market. Competition’s killed identity theft. Check UnderTable—prices are in the crapper. But put a new name with an existing Social Security number, open a bank account, and you’ve got an untraceable vehicle to move money through. The perfect washing machine. Automate the process and a computer drives the whole thing—orders the electronic transfers and sends out e-mails with instructions for the cash transfers. You recruit the labor and sit back and watch the money move. Even if a courier gets busted, or a bank’s security catches on, the accounts are pure fiction. Nothing to trace. Only a few hundred bucks in them at any given time. The potential loss is next to nothing.”

“Need a lot of people working ATMs.”

“True—but one guy can hit what, six an hour, doing five transactions each. That’s two hundred forty transactions in an eight-hour day. Say the average transfer is eight hundred bucks. Hundred ninety thousand dollars a day. One guy. Hundred guys—nineteen million two. Charge five percent, seven, maybe. Move three, four hundred mil a month. You do the math. Gotta hand it to him. Fucking brilliant.”

“Except he’s dead.”

He shrugged. “So Barsukov doesn’t run one of the hundred best companies to work for. Still a great scheme.”

“Can Barsukov run it without Ratko?”

“It’s automated. The computer’s the main thing. Barsukov’s got that, thanks again to you. It’ll run for a while on its own, but sooner or later, he’s gonna need two pieces that he’s missing.”

“The database—to create new accounts.”

“Very astute. And the code. There’s one piece of the app that’s missing, the one that turns all those numbers into transaction records. I’m assuming that’s one of the files Ratko removed—for security. It’s the right size. The way these things work—”

I held up my free hand. “This is all still guesswork, right?”

“Theory of relativity started out as guesswork.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Einstein. I suppose it’s my job to come up with the empirical proof.”

“You’re the one who wants to impress the hot U.S. attorney.”

“Yeah. Right now, though, I’ve got to find the girl. Promised her father, which was probably a mistake.”

“Given your recent track record and her old man, I’d agree.”

I could’ve thrown my coffee, but he had a point. “I need a list of calls to and from a cell phone. It’s a disposable.” I gave him Petrovin’s number.

“Anybody we know?”

I shook my head. “Russian mystery cop. Working with the hot U.S. attorney. Knows too damned much about me. I need to level the playing field.”

“On it.”

I brought up Eva’s computer and backtracked through her transactions at UnderTable, one of several Web-based identity exchanges in the Badgers’ criminal empire. Used to be, as Foos said, UnderTable and its sister exchanges, Cardshark and ID Warehouse, turned tidy profits. Identity thieves would put the fruits of their labors up for sale, other kinds of crooks would pay the going rate for credit card, bank account, Social Security, and phone numbers, and the Badgers would take a cut of every transaction—eBay for bad guys, complete with its own version of PayPal. But as some wise capitalist once observed, there hasn’t been a business invented yet whose profitability wasn’t eventually eroded by competition. Over time the going rate has declined from thousands to hundreds to tens of dollars. A few years ago, the forty accounts Eva purchased could’ve cost two hundred grand. She probably got them for ten, not that she cared, since, as I suspected, she used Ratko’s account for payment.

Eva wanted cash, not credit—she bought accounts with bank information and PINs included. If she knew someone who made cards, she could hit a dozen ATMs on the way to her dealer.

I plugged the names and account numbers into the Basilisk. It took a few minutes to troll the financial world before it confirmed my suspicion. Eva had checked into room 604 at the W Hotel on Union Square last night at seven forty-two under the name Elizabeth Long. So far this morning, she’d withdrawn nearly $7,700 from ten accounts at ten different ATMs, eight of which were clustered along lower Second and Third avenues, between Fourth and Fourteenth streets. Lots of young people gravitate toward the East Village, but Second Avenue in the single digits is also the longtime center of Ukrainian New York. I put Eva’s computer aside and opened Ratko’s. The home page for the Slavic Center for Personal Development came up again, as it had yesterday. Its mission was to “further the growth of Slavic communities worldwide” by “facilitating the social, cultural, and financial development of individuals of Slavic descent.” To this end, the center sponsored a wide array of “theoretical and practical programs on all aspects of Slavic life.” The center had offices in the major Slavic capitals, as well as Berlin, Frankfurt, Paris, Zurich, London, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas, and a half-dozen Asian cities. Slavs get around. Or Slav money. Laundered Slav money. New York’s “Slav House” was on Second Avenue between Eighth and Ninth. Multiple reasons for a visit.

Foos called as I passed his office. “That cell phone. Not many incoming calls. Mostly outgoing, to a number in Moscow.”

“And?”

“Basilisk has more trouble overseas. Europeans, including Russians, guard their data. So I used some old-fashioned technology and put the number into Google. Belongs to the Criminal Prosecution Service of the Russian Federation.”

First stop was the W. I dialed room 604 on the house phone and listened to the electronic ring until it clicked over to voice mail. I took the elevator to six, found her door, and knocked. No answer. She could be asleep. I knocked again—louder. She could be stoned. The Basilisk said she hadn’t checked out, but it wouldn’t know if she had simply split.

Next stop, Slav House.

The heat was having no apparent impact on lower Second Avenue. The sun-soaked late-morning sidewalks were crowded with people of all types and ages—tattooed students (no nontattooed students that I could see), moms driving baby carriages as if competing in a demolition derby, middle-aged men with guts stretching their wife-beaters, grandmothers carrying more shopping bags than age and physics said they should be able to lift. There had to be a score of ethnicities on the street—Slavs, Latinos, West Indians, African Americans, Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Indians, Pakistanis, Southeast Asians, Europeans of all origins, American white guys. Polyglot—one big reason I moved to New York. Lots of neighborhoods in this city have forfeited their personalities over the years to chain stores, outsized condo developments, and gentrification led by aptly named yuppies and dinks. Character still spilled out onto the street here from every crack and crevice of the brickwork. Except for the heat and the task at hand, I gladly would have found a sidewalk table, opened a beer, and spent a pleasant hour taking it all in.

The facade of Slav House, on the east side of the avenue one door off the corner of Eighth Street, was as run-down as the Slavic Center’s Web site was glossy. Dull green paint peeled off a cheap metal shell pasted to the brick of a four-story tenement sandwiched between an Indian restaurant and a cell phone store. The rest of the block was taken up with a deli, a newsstand, another restaurant (this was also one of New York’s Indian culinary centers), a dry cleaner, a pharmacy, two nail salons, and a hairdresser. Similar mix of businesses on the west side, also with apartments above, including one of the bank branches where Eva Mulholland had withdrawn somebody else’s money.

I held the door to Slav House for two young women on their way in. They flashed some kind of ID at the muscled guard in the shallow lobby, passed through a turnstile, and disappeared behind a curtained doorway beyond. Only one other door, in the wall behind the guard. Steel, with a big, reinforced lock. Beside the door, high up, was a window fitted with one-way glass.

The guard got off his stool as I approached. “You got ID?”

He spoke English with a heavy accent. I replied in Russian. “I just moved here. Friend told me you got lots of programs that can help.”

He switched languages. “What friend?”

“Nedelenko. Ilarion Nedelenko.” I wondered if he was still alive.

“Never heard of him.”

“I’m from Belarus, Minsk. Nedelenko said you can help people get started here. Jobs, contacts, networking…”

“I told you. Don’t know no Nedelenko. You want to come here, you have to apply. On the Web site.”

“Web site?”

“That’s right.”

“Nedelenko didn’t say…”

Three men in their thirties came in. Like the women, they flashed IDs to the guard and proceeded through the turnstile.

“Maybe I could talk to someone else. I was told—”

He shook his head. “No one here to talk to. I told you—”

“Yeah, I heard—Web site.”

“That’s right.”

“But you do run programs, right? Programs to help Slavic people.”

“Check out the Web site, pal. Everything we do is there. We don’t take in every Ivan off the street.”

“Okay.”

I returned to the hot sidewalk. No point pushing it—this time.

I went up the block showing the photo of Eva, asking if anyone had seen her. It was slow going. People were busy and not necessarily open to helping. Fair enough. They didn’t know who I was or what I was about. At one time, I could terrify anyone into talking just by flashing my KGB card. I don’t have that ability anymore (except with the occasional Nedelenko)—and I’m not sorry.

I canvassed the block between Ninth and Tenth, then crossed the street and worked the west side back down. Most of the people I talked to were immigrants with varying knowledge of English, but some also hid behind the pretense of not understanding. As much as I wanted their help, I couldn’t fault their reticence.

A salesman stood outside a mattress store across from Slav House smoking a cigarette, a white guy with a bad hairpiece about my age. He looked at the photo, furrowed his brow, looked at me, and said, “What’d she do?”

“Ran away, maybe. Drugs, maybe. Parents are worried.”

“They should be, maybe. See that over there?” He nodded at Slav House. “Opened a year and a half ago, maybe two. Folks go in and out all day. Funny thing, though. Lot of those folks ain’t Slavs, unless they got black Slavs, Puerto Rican Slavs, Asian Slavs I ain’t heard about. Lot of ’em are kids.”

“So?”

“They got those kids doin’ somethin’.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know. I do know they come and go in teams—three or four at a time. I live in Hoboken. Quiet neighborhood, working class, not a lot of strangers. Four times now, on my day off, I’ve seen these kids. I know ’cause I recognize them. They’re going through my neighborhood, doin’ somethin’, I just don’t know what.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Not a lot to do here all day when business is slow ’cept watch the street. I know most of them kids by sight.”

“You know this girl?”

“Yeah. Been seein’ her a couple months now.”

He spoke with a quiet certainty, not like a man with anything to prove.

“Remember when you last saw her?”

He started to reply but stopped all of a sudden and looked beyond me. His face changed, his voice, too. “Who’d you say you are again?”

“Just a guy looking for that girl.”

“Who’s that?”

I followed his line of sight to a man a few doors down, fumbling in his pockets like he was looking for something—or he’d just been caught looking. His white shirt and dark suit could not have stood out more against the street of T-shirts and tank tops.

I turned back to the salesman. “Probably FBI. They’re looking for the girl, too. She’s dating a Russian. Maybe a mobster. They think he might be with her.”

“You got lots of stories, pal. Selling mattresses sucks, but it’s got benefits, and my wife’s sick. I don’t need trouble.”

“There won’t be,” I said, pressing a couple of twenties into his hand. “You were just telling me the best Indian place around. That one, three doors down.”

The first voice came back. “You got that right. Enjoy your lunch. By the way, the girl came ’bout four o’clock yesterday and again this morning. I remember ’cause she’s one of the prettier ones. Saw her go into Slav House, but then I had a customer. Don’t know if she came out.”

He pocketed the money, crushed the cigarette under his heel, and went inside. I walked down the block toward the FBI man. He saw me coming and looked left and right, nowhere to run.

“I’m Turbo,” I said, extending my hand. He pretended to ignore me, studying the display of vacuum cleaners in the window of a housewares store.

“They say you shouldn’t buy anything but Electrolux. Just so you know, I’m going to grab some lunch in that Indian joint down the block. Then I’m meeting a friend, young woman I’m tutoring in Russian history, at the coffee shop. Then, depending on the time, I’ll either go back to the office or head uptown. Tell your boss I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”

He was still trying to ignore me as I walked away.

I got a table in the window and ordered lunch and punched Gina’s number on my cell phone. She answered right away.

“How’d you like another job?”

“Sure. I’m still broke.”

I gave her the address of the coffee shop. “Meet me there in half an hour.”

People came and went in groups of threes and fours from the Slavic Center as I ate. I mopped up the last of the sauce from a pretty good chicken tikka masala with an excellent nan, paid the check, and moved next door. Gina arrived five minutes later and, predictably, turned up her nose as soon as she walked in the door.

“Jesus, Turbo, what’s with this dump? There’s a Starbucks a block away.”

Gina’s a bright kid, smarter than most, but like much of her generation she’s been brainwashed by the Brand. Having grown up in a society where uniformity was imposed from on high—and any manifestation of individuality, no matter how minor, systematically crushed—I’ve never understood why Americans seek out, not to mention happily pay a premium for, sameness. I do my best to avoid chains of any kind. Scowling, she gave me a peck on the cheek and sat down.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t suppose they have cappuccino?”

I signaled the waitress and ordered a black coffee and a cappuccino. She wrote on her pad and left. I smiled at Gina. She didn’t look any happier.

I said, “Remember the girl on Greene Street?”

“Sure.”

“Her name’s Eva. Her boyfriend’s Ratko. Go over to the place across the street, Slav House. There’s a big guard just inside the door. Ask for Eva. Tell him she was supposed to meet you there.”

“Okay. What gives?”

“I’m looking for the girl. She was seen going in there.”

The waitress brought the coffee. Mine was hot and freshly brewed. Hers had a big mound of foamed milk on top. She sipped it carefully.

“Hey, not bad!” She smiled for the first time since she arrived. But she’d be back at Starbucks tomorrow. “Think it’s a drug den?”

“Possible, but more likely a front for something else. They threw me out, but I could’ve used the wrong name. I mean this—don’t go beyond the lobby. See what he says about Eva and beat it. If you’re not back on the street in ten, I’m coming in after you.”

“Got it. Let me finish this first.” I checked the street for the FBI while she sipped her coffee, using a spoon to make sure she got all the foamed milk, but he’d given up.

“Okay, I’m off,” she said.

“Walk around the block, so no one sees you come straight from here. Same thing on the way back.”

“Turbo, you’re paranoid.”

“Humor me.” Where I grew up, paranoia was one way you stayed alive.

She gave me a look that said paranoia was only one of my problems and headed for the door. She turned right and disappeared toward Eighth Street. Almost five minutes passed before I saw her again, on the far sidewalk, approaching Slav House from the north.

When she’d come to the coffee shop, Gina was simply but neatly dressed in a T-shirt and skirt, with her hair tied at the back of her head. Now the T-shirt was askew and hung loosely over her hips, and her hair was a mess. She walked slowly up the block, looking this way and that, unsure of herself and her surroundings. Before I started using college students, I’d hired out-of-work actors, but casting calls kept getting in the way of my assignments. Gina could have taught them a thing or two about conveying vulnerability. She stopped outside Slav House’s door, hesitant. She’d decided to improvise. I cursed silently.

She gathered herself up and went inside.

She took the full ten minutes. While I waited, I entertained myself with thoughts of all the bad things that could happen to her, how they were all my fault, and what I would tell her parents in Toledo. I was checking my watch for the fourth time when she reappeared. She held the door for a moment, then walked toward Eighth Street, tucking her shirt in as she went. I left money on the table and went up the block and across to meet her at the corner. She followed me to a Starbucks at Thirteenth Street.

“And what was wrong with the other place?” she said as I held the door. Sometimes you can’t win.

She had another cappuccino, I had another black coffee, and we sat at a table in the corner. She said, “I’m not sure what they’re up to, but that place is pretty creepy. The girl’s not there, or so they say, but they know her. Don’t like her, either.”

“They?”

“Two guys. The big guard and another guy, short, oily, black hair, mustache, accent from Eastern Europe somewhere. The guard got him when I asked about Eva. He’s in the room with the steel door.”

“What’d they say?”

“I told the guard I was supposed to meet Eva, like you said. He asked, ‘Eva who?’ I said, ‘Eva, friend of Ratko.’ That’s when he got the other guy, who wanted to know how I knew Eva, and I said we were friends. Then he said, ‘You tell that pretty girl she wants to come around here, bring her boyfriend. Otherwise, fuck off and don’t come back. Same goes for you.’ Then he went back to his room and I split.”

“Huh.” Word of Ratko’s demise hadn’t made it to Slav House.

Four young women came into Starbucks and went to the counter. I’d held the Slav House door for two of them. They’d been empty-handed then, I was almost certain, but now all four carried big shoulder bags, and one consulted a BlackBerry while she waited for her coffee. They spoke quietly among themselves. I couldn’t make out what they said.

I took a roll of bills from my pocket and gave Gina five twenties.

“Don’t turn around, but four women are about to walk out of here. I saw two at Slav House. Follow them and call me when you get a fix on what they’re up to. Don’t get too close. They might be looking for tails.”

“What if they split up?”

“Stick with the striped T-shirt or the white skirt. Here they come.”

Gina and I studied our cups. As soon as the door closed behind them, Gina gave me a quick peck on the cheek and followed. I finished my coffee and went to check the W once more.

CHAPTER 23

Gina called as I entered the hotel.

“I’m at Grand Central. They’re taking a train. What do you want me to do?”

“Stay with them. Buy a ticket on board. Keep in touch.”

I skipped the house phone and went straight to room 604 and knocked. I wasn’t prepared when a tentative, female voice said, “Y… y… yes?”

I could’ve bluffed my way in—“Maintenance, miss, here to check a leak”—but that wasn’t going to encourage her to talk.

“My name’s Turbo, Eva. I found you at Ratko’s on Wednesday. Got you to the hospital.”

A long pause, then the scratch of the security chain being engaged. The door opened a crack, and two blue eyes peered out. A shade lighter than her mother’s and as bright, clear, and questioning today as they had been blank and fearful Wednesday night. Blue-black circles underneath, but that easily could have been from lack of sleep.

“I d… don’t know you. Who’s R… Ratko?”

That threw me for a moment. “You probably know him as Alexander. Alexander Goncharov.”

Recognition. “Wh… wh… what do you want?”

“I want to talk. That’s all.”

“Who are y… y… you again?”

“Turbo. You remember anything about Wednesday?”

She shook her head slowly.

“You tried to shoot me. Remember that?”

“Whaaa?!”

“Twice. Once through the bedroom door, once after I broke it down.”

Something registered. Her face scrunched in concentration. “Alexander’s pistol…”

“That’s right.”

She reached for more but gave up. “Sss… sorry. I remember about the gun—the d… d… drawer where he kept it, that’s all.”

“That’s something.”

“Wha… what are you doing here? H… h… how… how’d you find me?”

“You used his account at UnderTable.”

Surprise, then realization. “Sh… shit. My computer. You were in my apartment? Wh… wh… who are you?”

“I get paid to find things. And people.”

“But who… Oh, I kn… know. My mother.”

“Actually, your father. He’s worried about you. They both are.” I gave Polina the benefit of the doubt.

“I don… I don’t have anything m… m… more to say.” She started to close the door.

“Your dad’s in a tough spot, Eva. You know he was arrested?”

That stopped her, for a moment. “What do you m… m… mean?”

“He’s being charged with some heavy crimes—at the bank. He says he can beat them, but the last thing he needs right now is to worry about you.”

“Who t… told you? My m… mother?”

“He did.”

She thought about that. She clearly cared for Mulholland, but maybe not enough. She pushed on the door. “Sor… sorry.”

“Wait.” I put my foot in the way. I didn’t want to do it like this, but we were going to get to the subject sooner or later, and there was no good way to tell her. “Bad things happened in that loft Wednesday—before I got there.”

“What? Wh… what are you talking about? Wh… wh… what kind of things?”

“Alexander.”

“Wh… wh… what about him?”

“I’m sorry, Eva. He’s dead. Somebody killed him, Wednesday night. I found the body.”

The blue eyes got big with fear and shock, then tears. I had the sense she knew already, on some level, but that didn’t make confirmation any easier to take.

I said, “I’ll tell you what I know if you let me in.”

She shook her head. “I d… d… don’t know you.”

“Of course not. You’re right. I’ll be downstairs, in the lobby. Take your time. I won’t make you go home or anywhere else you don’t want to. Like I said, I just want to talk. I’m sorry.”

I removed my foot, and the door closed softly. I sounded like a fool, but every messenger does, saying they’re sorry when they know they can’t do a damned thing to help.

I stayed a minute outside the door, listening to the sobs. When they didn’t stop, I went downstairs, wondering how long to wait and what to do when I reached whatever deadline I decided on.

Twenty minutes later I hadn’t made much progress, and had started thinking about Eva’s stutter and whether it was connected to her disfigured thighs, when Gina called again.

“You owe me—big-time. I’m in Stamford.”

“What’s wrong with Stamford?”

“It’s in fucking Connecticut.”

“You’re from Ohio, what’ve you got against Connecticut?”

“It’s not New York. Anyway, this is weird. One girl got off the train in Mamaroneck. Another in Greenwich. Striped Shirt and the other chick got off here. They split up, I stayed with Stripy. We’re doing a tour of ATMs. She’s at her third now. I can’t get close enough to see for sure what she’s doing, but I think she’s both taking money out and making deposits. Spends about ten minutes at each one. Strange, huh?”

“She choosing them at random?”

“She keeps consulting her BlackBerry. Whoops, we’re on the move again. Want me to call you back?”

“I’ll hang on.”

A few minutes passed before she came back on the line. “Another bank. Chase, second one on this trip. We’ve hit B of A, a credit union, FirstTrust, and Citi. How can one chick have so many accounts?”

“They’re not hers. Stay with her and let me know where she goes when you get back to town. Call whenever, I don’t care how late.”

“Whenever? Hey, I’ve got a date tonight. You don’t think she’s gonna—”

“I think the last stop on that train line is New Haven.”

“New Haven! Goddammit, Turbo, I—”

I closed the cell phone before her invective could cross the atmosphere. The elevator door opened. Eva stepped out and looked around until she saw me. She was dressed simply in jeans and a purple T-shirt, no makeup.

“Is this okay?” I asked as she approached. The eyes were puffy but still clear. “We can go somewhere else if you want.”

She shook her head and took the seat next to mine. In a few hours, the lobby bar would be a throng of loud music and postworkday revelers, but now it was almost empty.

“Would you like something? Coffee? Cup of tea?”

She shook her head again. “T… t… tell me about Alexander.”

“I will. You tell me something first. You really don’t remember anything about Wednesday?’

She shook her head. “I w… w… went to the loft—I kn… knew he was coming home. He’d t… tol… told me, but n… n… now I realize he forgot. He’s like that sometimes—sp… spacey.” Tears filled her eyes as she realized she’d used the present tense. She tried to shake them away. I went to the empty bar and returned with a stack of cocktail napkins. She used one to dab her eyes.

“I g… g… got there, and he was kind of nervous, j… jumpy. He said it h… h… had been a b… bad flight. I thought tha… that was the reason. Th… th… then the buzzer rang, and he said it was a g… guy he needed to talk to—b… business. He said to wait in the b… b… bedroom. I… I thought I’d take a shower, it was so hot and m… m… muggy. Tha… tha… that’s all I remember.”

“Until the hospital.”

“Y… yeah. I woke up, I didn’t know wh… wh… where I was, how I got there.”

“And you didn’t take anything? Any drugs?”

“N… n… n… no. I don’t do drugs.” She stated it as a fact, not a protest.

“You used to, right?”

“N… no. I smoke some grass. B… b… big deal. You’ve been talking to m… my mother. She’s got no c… clue, n… never has.”

“What about the rehab?”

She didn’t register surprise that I knew. “Tha… that’s her, too. She p… panics over everything. Smoke a joint and you’re h… h… hooked on heroin. It’s easier to go along, s… sometimes.”

It might have been the stutter—damned hard to fake—but I believed her. “You were totally out of it when I found you Wednesday. Blotto. Roofies, the doctors said.”

“I know. They t… told me, too. But I didn’t… I’d never touch something like that. That’s c… c… crazy.”

I still believed her. “Could Ratko, I mean, Alexander have—”

“No! He’d n… n… never. We w… were…”

Now she was protesting. I didn’t believe her, and she didn’t believe herself.

“Did he give you anything to drink? There was a can of Diet Coke by the bed.”

She thought for a minute. “Yeah. I w… went back to the bedroom, and he c… c… came back after me, w… with the Coke. Said I looked d… dehydrated from the heat.”

“Did you drink it?”

“I g… g… guess so, y… yeah.”

“He drugged you, Eva. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s the only way it makes sense.”

“B… but w… w… why? We were f… friends. We w… w… w… He loved me!”

She all but yelled the last part, another protestation. She caught herself and looked around, afraid to draw attention. No doubt she’d loved him.

“Where’d you meet him?”

She shook her head. “T… t… tell me what happened. At the l… l… loft. You s… said you would.”

“You’re right, I did. I got there around eight forty-five. I found two men in the hall outside the bedroom—Alexander and your grandfather, your biological grandfather.”

“Wha… what?”

“You recognized him. He scared the daylights out of you. Why’s that?”

“Grandpa? He was there?”

“That’s right.”

The fear was back. She pushed her chair away from the table. “I have to go.”

“Wait.” I took her hand, gently, but ready to hold on if she tried to run. “He’s not here now. He can’t hurt you. Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?”

She tugged a little, then relaxed and pulled her chair back. “Okay.” She started to sit, then straightened again. “W… wait. How do you kn… know my grandfather?”

“I’ve known most of your family for years, long before you were born.”

“H… how?”

“We all used to work together—in Russia.”

She backed away. “That m… means you w… w… were…”

“Don’t worry. Not anymore. I live here now. I work for myself. I took you out of there, remember? I didn’t leave you with him.”

She sat down slowly, still unsure.

I went on with the story. “Ratko was already dead. Iakov was wounded. There were bullet holes in the bedroom door. I think you heard the shots, got the gun, fired through the door, and someone fired back at you. There were two more bullet holes in the wall behind the bed. I think you must’ve hit whoever it was, because I could find only one bullet hole in the hall.”

She shook her head. “I d… don… don’t remember.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself. Rohypnol is a powerful amnesiac. You were aware something was going on, something that frightened you. So you got Ratko’s gun.”

“Why do you keep calling him Ratko?”

“His real name was Rad Rislyakov. People here called him Ratko Risly because he looked like Dustin Hoffman in the movie Midnight Cowboy. Any idea who could’ve shot him? Or your grandfather?”

“No.”

“You know he gambled?”

“S… sure. B… but he said he w… was over that.”

“You believe him?”

“Y… yes.” She seemed sincere.

“When you were with him, did he ever seem nervous or afraid? Like someone might hurt him?”

“No. I n… n… never n… noticed anything like that.”

I still believed her.

“Did you know he had an apartment in Chelsea?”

She paused, then shook her head. I wasn’t sure she was telling the truth.

“When did you meet?” I asked.

“W… wait. Wh… wh… what were you doing there—at the l… loft?”

“Looking for Ratko.”

She shot me a look just short of “Duh!”

“Sorry—but if I tell you, you’re not going to like it.”

She didn’t hesitate. “You’ve already d… done the w… w… worst you can d… do.”

I was trained to keep people talking. Coax, probe, know when to apply pressure. Work the psychology. Take advantage. Manipulate hopes, fears, and insecurities. I used to assuage my conscience with the assertion that it was all in service of a cause. The cause turned out to be bullshit, but at the time it was still a cause. Now? Why was I ripping up this girl’s life? She’d already spent most of it a trauma victim. Her boyfriend—that’s how she thought of him—had been using her. I’d more or less exposed that part of him. Now I had the chance to show her what a thoroughly nasty shit he was and drag her mother into the muck at the same time. Eva had never done anything to me, at least consciously, probably never done anything to anybody. I could’ve—should have?—walked away and left her to pick up the pieces. Instead I pushed ahead with the demolition, as I knew I would. If you’re afraid of wolves, don’t go into the forest, as we say.

“You know what phishing is?”

She nodded slowly.

“Ratko—Alexander—phished your father. About four months ago. He bugged all the computers in the apartment. He found something he was using to blackmail your mother.”

“She t… t… told you this?”

“No. She tried to keep it a secret. She’s still trying. You know Ratko was an identity thief. You worked his UnderTable account.”

She looked away and back again. “He said… he said it was a victimless c… crime. Credit cards, b… bank accounts, they all have in… in… insurance.”

“So some nameless insurance company is going to pay your hotel bill here.”

She looked away again. “Okay. He sh… showed me once. He was sh… sh… showing off. It was the f… first time I ever used it. I needed m… money, s… someplace to go.”

“Why not home?”

That got me the “duh” look again.

“Why’d you run from the hospital?”

She hesitated, then looked away. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

She didn’t answer and kept her eyes away from mine. “How much tr… trouble is my d… d… dad in?”

“A lot. Yet he’s worried about you more than anything. Probably do him a ton of good to see you.”

She nodded at that.

“What frightened you at the hospital?”

She looked at the floor.

“What did you mean by that note, the one in your apartment—‘You should have left me with Lena’?”

The shriek was muffled by the sob that came right on top of it. “N… nothing.”

“We both know that’s not true. You told your mother the same thing the last time you had a fight.”

She turned jittery, fearful. “Who told you that?”

“Your father.”

“I w… want to g… g… go now.”

She was halfway out of her chair, eyes darting left and right, around me. Her entire demeanor changed—from sorrowful and curious to caged and cornered. I was losing her. I took one more shot.

“Did you know Ratko worked for your father, your real father?”

“Whaaa?!” She swung back toward me, every inch of her trembling.

“What’s the matter?”

She shook her head violently as she backed up, knocking over her chair. She was out of my reach before I could stand.

“Eva—”

She bolted, straight out the front door. By the time I got to the street, she was half a block away, up Park Avenue, running fast. I let her go. I wasn’t going to catch her, and I’d lost her even if I did. But what was she running from, other than her entire family?

Three people could possibly shed light on that. Two of them hated my guts. A phone call confirmed Iakov was still at Mount Sinai. I caught a cab uptown.

CHAPTER 24

Another call. Gina said, “You have no idea how much you owe me.”

“He wasn’t your type anyway.”

“What? How the hell do you know?”

“If he was, he’d go to Stamford, pick you up.”

“New Haven, God damn it! Like you said. I follow Stripy back to the station, she gets on a train, joins up with the other chicks, now we’re all in fucking New Haven. Same thing there. The group split up, I stick with Stripes. We’re at our fifth ATM now.”

“Stay on her. She’ll head back to New York soon.”

“That a promise?”

“Trust me.”

Gina was still cursing as the cab pulled up at the Madison Avenue entrance to Mount Sinai. I paid the driver. Lachko’s men tried to block Iakov’s door, but I pushed through. He was awake, sitting up in bed, reading the Economist, looking much the same as yesterday.

“Why didn’t they release you?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning, they say now. Don’t ask why, no good answer. One more night. I hate this fucking city.”

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Ready to get out of here.”

“Tell me straight this time, what were you doing at Greene Street?”

He closed the magazine and put it on the bed beside him as he looked me up and down. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Not by choice.” I took a shot. I might lose a chess piece, but I’d gain information whether I was right or wrong. “You lied the other day. Rislyakov was helping you find Polina. But he crossed you. He found her, but he tried blackmailing her instead.”

“I don’t know anything about blackmail.”

“He gambled. He needed money.”

“I had the sense he was up to something. He flew back here before I could get to him, so I came over.”

“But you didn’t kill him?”

“What I told you Thursday was true. Someone shot both of us. Could have been you.”

I ignored that. He was playing his own chess game. “So what business does the Cheka possibly have with Polina?”

He smiled. “Where is she?”

“You first.”

He gave me a look I hadn’t seen in twenty years. The same look I got the day he called me in after I’d reported that Lachko was stealing. “I don’t know where your loyalties lie anymore, Turbo.”

“I still owe you everything. That hasn’t changed.”

“What about the Cheka?”

“I was reminded just the other day, there are no ex-Chekists.”

“You prepared to trade?”

“I can’t give you Polina.”

“Why not?”

“I gave her husband my word. He’s my client.”

“Why do I care about him?”

“You don’t. I do.”

He shook his head.

“I’ll help you as much as I can, short of that,” I said.

His face softened—a little. He didn’t like it, but I held the stronger hand.

“Polina stole a great deal of money. Six hundred million dollars—1998 dollars. Must be over a billion now.”

“Stole? From the Cheka?”

“She and Kosokov. I told you they were lovers. They had a business, with Lachko. Real estate, buying and selling apartments. Kosokov was the financier. They made a lot of money, but it wasn’t enough for her—or him. They were made for each other. Two most venal people I ever met.”

I wondered where he’d put his own sons on the venality ladder. “You never stopped watching her, did you?”

He just looked up at me. During the Disintegration, he was the one who told me she was sleeping with my fellow officers at Yasenevo. I never asked how he found out. I didn’t need to.

“We used Kosokov’s bank. I couldn’t stand the bastard, but he had the Yeltsin connection, and in those days, that was useful. He almost went bust in ’98, or so we thought. Turns out the bastard was playing a double game, financing the Chechens with our money. Why, I have no idea, except he was making a pretty kopek in the process. He was also moving money abroad as quickly as he could. He had a partner in the Chechen venture, a man named Gorbenko. I’ll admit to you now, in the privacy of this room, we covered up a lot about that piece of shit. He was one of ours, a true traitor—drunk, gambler, whoremonger—how he rose so high is an embarrassment. The Chechens turned him. Kosokov killed him, we know now—a falling-out among thieves. But if he hadn’t, we would have. I would have pulled the trigger myself.”

His voice rose in speed and intensity as well as volume, but he stopped suddenly, as if rethinking. When he continued, he spoke softly.

“We were onto Kosokov, finally, but Gorbenko warned him. A few days before we were ready to move in, Rosnobank Tower burned. Twenty-story steel building, melted. Sophisticated arson. Nothing left, no records, no money.”

I remembered that.

“Kosokov disappeared. So did Polina. And Gorbenko. Now we find out he was dead after all. She must have killed him, probably over the money. She’s like a praying mantis, master of camouflage, infinite patience, waiting for her prey. She bites the heads off her lovers as soon as they’ve satisfied her.”

I couldn’t argue the description.

“We had a lot to deal with, cleaning up the mess. I won’t say we did the best job. We had to choose between some lousy options.”

“That’s another lesson you taught me. Don’t look for a good choice in a bad situation, take what will work.”

He smiled. “It makes me happy you remember. We dealt with it, but we were still out the six hundred million. I’m responsible. It’s a stain on my record, my whole career. I haven’t stopped looking for her since. I want to make good while I still can.”

It all sounded plausible. It was the way he would think—especially about the stain. Perhaps too plausible. “Why’s Eva afraid of you?”

“What?”

“The other night. You terrified her. She recognized you, even through the drugs, and was scared to death. Why?”

“I have no idea. As you say, she was drugged.”

“She wasn’t drugged when I talked to her earlier today. She was still scared. Of you and Lachko.”

“That’s her mother’s doing. She’s poisoned the girl.”

“Maybe. Something is wrong with this whole setup, Iakov. How’d Rislyakov identify Polina?”

“As I already observed, he didn’t confide in me.”

“Here’s another thing. I’m pretty sure Polina doesn’t have access to anywhere near the kind of money you’re talking about.”

“How do you know that?”

“She couldn’t come up with a hundred grand to buy off Rislyakov.”

“She was always miserly as well as venal.”

“That’s not it.”

“Polina’s playing with your head again. You, of all people, should know what she’s capable of. She’s a pathological liar, the ultimate narcissist. Why are you asking me all these questions? Why is this any of your business?”

He was angry. Or his anger, like hers, was covering something else. He was stonewalling about Eva, just as Polina had stonewalled about Ratko. Six hundred million dollars is plenty of reason to stonewall, but despite what Iakov said, Polina had never been greedy—venal, to use his word—in my experience. Self-centered, insecure, needy, narcissistic, volatile, yes. She craved security—emotional security—and attention. Money was part of that, but only part, a means not an end. People change, but not that much. Iakov was wrong about her—or pretending to be. Iakov didn’t make many mistakes.

He was watching me. “Get yourself out of here,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”

I gave his hand a squeeze and exhaled slowly as I went down the carpeted hall. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. He probably did.

A black Suburban with tinted windows was parked outside. The driver’s window slid down, and Coyle waved me over.

“Visiting another sick friend?” he asked. Hard to say whether he wanted me to hear the sarcasm or just wasn’t bothering to cover it.

“That’s right. You guys finally twig to the fact he’s in town?”

“We get precious little help from the citizenry these days. You have no idea how this particular Barsukov got sick, of course.”

“He was shot.”

“Thank you for that piece of news. By whom? When? Where?”

“Wednesday night, he says. Didn’t see the shooter.”

“You in the neighborhood?”

“Nope.” Once again, technically true.

“What were you talking about up there?”

“Moscow. The old days.”

“What about money? Especially money moving from Moscow here—or vice versa. You talk about that?”

“Not a word. Sorry.”

“Bullshit.”

“You guys heard of the Slavic Center for Personal Development?”

“This some kind of joke? I’m not feeling funny.”

“Serious question.”

Coyle looked around inside the SUV. I could see Sawicki in the passenger seat. Maybe one or two more in the back, behind the dark glass. He turned back to me and shook his head. “Okay, so what?”

“Barsukov front. They got branches everywhere they got banks. New York Slav House is down on Second, between Eighth and Ninth.”

“So?”

“I was there earlier today. Saw two women go in, empty-handed. They came out with two others, carrying big shoulder bags. They spent the afternoon hitting half the ATMs in Fairfield County.”

I couldn’t see through the dark lenses of his Ray-Ban aviators, but I’d have bet anything on the eyes narrowing.

“How do you know this?”

“Hold on.” I punched Gina’s number. “Can you talk?”

“Sure.”

“Where are you?”

“Train back to New York, thank God. We just passed Greenwich.”

I said to Coyle, “They’ll be in Grand Central in half an hour, getting off a New Haven train.”

“Descriptions.”

I told Gina to describe the four women and handed over the phone. When he gave the phone back, I said to Gina, “You got a list of the banks you and Stripy visited?”

“What the hell you think I’ve been doing all day, my nails?”

“E-mail it as soon as you can. Enjoy your date.”

“Thanks. I meant what I said about owing me.”

“Put in for overtime.”

“Dammit, Turbo—”

I cut her off. Coyle was talking on his cell phone. When he finished, I said, “I’ll send you a list of the banks they hit tomorrow.”

He took off the sunglasses. The eyes were indeed narrowed. “How’d you know about the Slavic Center?”

“Private sector legwork.”

“Uh-huh. If it were up to me, I’d haul your ass downtown and let Sawicki spend the rest of the night trying to establish a meaningful relationship. His family fled Poland one step ahead of the Red Army. He hates Russians. But you’ve got a date with the boss.”

“My lucky day.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be too sure. Based on her mood an hour ago, you’d be better off with Sawicki.”

CHAPTER 25

Once again, I arrived at Trastevere feeling hot and sticky. The owner greeted me with a smile and a handshake. He took me to a table in the front where Victoria was waiting. She looked cool. I felt limp.

She didn’t get up. “Giancarlo, I gather y’all have met Mr. Vlost. He’s been known to do inappropriate things, so we may not be here long. If I leave, make sure he pays.” She turned to me and smiled sweetly, or as sweetly as an alligator can.

I heard her talking, but truth be told, the words didn’t register. The Russian language is full of slang, and Russian slang is full of improbable expressions, few of which translate well. They do capture the essence of the situation, however. The one that came to mind was vafli lovit, which means, literally, standing around with your mouth open long enough to catch flying dicks. The package Armani had obscured Thursday was on full display tonight. A yellow-gold silk dress came to a V at the top of her chest. Her skin was naturally brown, not acquired at the beach, and smooth. The raven hair fell around her shoulders and shone. A jade pendant and earrings played with the green eyes. No glasses tonight. I could only imagine the hips and legs beneath the table, but by then I realized how long I’d been vafli lovit, so I sat down. Victoria had a martini in front of her. I ordered the same, with Russian vodka.

She wasn’t finished with me yet. “All right, you fast-talking, ex-socialist son of a bitch, y’all tell me right now how you know what you know.”

Coyle wasn’t exaggerating. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t shown up last night.

“Privacy is an elastic concept.”

“Don’t give me any Russian fast-talking bullshit. How’d you get my number? How’d you know about my bank account? And this restaurant?”

I guess I like to court danger, because I thought briefly about telling her where she lived and how much she paid, but I didn’t think Trastevere could withstand the eruption from the Vesuvius across the table if I did.

“I didn’t break any laws and I didn’t peep through any peepholes, I promise. There’s lots of information out there if you know where to look.”

She cooled—a little. “My number is unlisted.”

“Ever order from a catalog? Call customer service?”

“Sure, but I don’t give them my number.”

“You don’t need to. Computer reads it as soon as it answers the phone.”

“You mean…”

“Yep. You and thirty million other people who think an unlisted number is a way to buy privacy. Child’s play, really. Telephone number’s like a digital tag. As good as a Social Security number. Once you have that…”

“So what else do you know?”

“Pretty dress. Bergdorf or Bendel’s?”

“Fuck you!” She slapped me, hard—and loud.

Giancarlo appeared. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine.” I rubbed my cheek. “I said something I shouldn’t have. One more bruise. Won’t happen again.”

He frowned, put down my martini, and left. I turned back to Victoria. The Millenuits pout hit me harder than her hand.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for. It’s just, this kind of thing really pisses me off.”

“Generally or just when it strikes close to home?”

Her hand was in the air again before I could turn. It stopped midway across the table and returned to her lap.

“If you’ll excuse me for saying so—and not hit me again—I’m a little surprised this is new to you. Given your job and all.”

She sipped her drink and shook her head. “My background is white-collar crime—corporate fraud, accounting cover-ups, insider trading. I’m not an expert on identity theft—as you apparently are.”

“In that case, I’m happy to help. What would you like to know?”

“Where you spent Wednesday night. What you want with Rad Rislyakov. And Lachko Barsukov. And Iakov Barsukov. You did say you’d explain over dinner. Here I am—all ears.”

She smiled and took another sip. Giancarlo returned, and I let him prolong the truce while he recited the specials.

“You order,” I said.

She told him we’d both have the seafood salad and wild mushroom fettuccini. “And bring a good Barolo. Don’t worry about cost. He’s buying.”

I was going to pay for my sins. I steered the conversation toward safer ground.

“Your father was French?”

“Via New Orleans. My mother, Scottish, via east Texas. They lasted about as long as every other Franco-Anglo attempt to get along. My old man lit out for California shortly after I was born.”

“Tu parles français?”

She shook her head. “Like Loretta says, ‘If you’re lookin’ at me, you’re lookin’ at country.’”

The designer number she was wearing had as much to do with country as I do with Tanzania. “Loretta?”

“Loretta Lynn. She’s kind of a hero for me.”

“See, there’s something I didn’t know.”

“Y’all want to keep talkin’, you’ll…”

The twang was pronounced tonight. So was her temper.

Giancarlo brought the first course and the wine. “You’ll like this. It’s an ’89.” He poured her a small taste, which she swirled and sipped. She smiled broadly at him, and he grinned back.

“Perfect,” she said, and I had the distinct impression she was referring to more than the flavor.

Giancarlo poured. I took a small swallow. I know a little about a lot of things, but wine isn’t one of them. I like it fine, but I prefer beer and vodka. I thought that could be about to change as layer after layer of flavor filled my mouth. Victoria was eying me appraisingly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite like that.”

“You’re not likely to again.” She tucked into her salad.

We ate in silence for a while. The seafood was almost as good as the wine.

“I’m waitin’,” she said.

“Petrovin tell you about Iakov?”

She looked up, confused. “Petrovin? Who the hell’s Petrovin?”

My turn to be confused. “Russian law enforcement officer? Eye patch? Linen suit? He was in your office yesterday.”

“You mean… He told you his name’s Petrovin?”

“Actually, he told me his name isn’t Petrovin, but that’s how he introduced himself. He was being cautious.”

“Are all Russians crazy?”

“Dostoyevsky would tell you probably. Chekhov would disagree. Zinoviev would blame the system.”

“You’re all full of horseshit, that’s for sure. Give me Hemingway any day.”

We weren’t going to agree on literature. “What’s Petrovin’s real name?”

“Uh-uh. He may be crazy, but I’m sure he has reasons, especially when it comes to trusting you. Back to business. Rad Rislyakov.”

“You’re interested in his money laundry.”

“What do you know about that?” she snapped.

“He built it for Barsukov. He uses the information he hacked from T.J. Maxx to create synthetic identities, and he uses those identities to create bank accounts to move money through. He’s got an army of couriers working ATMs all over the Tri-State Area. I happened on a few earlier today. Told Coyle an hour ago where to find them and one base of operation.”

“You didn’t say anything about this the other day.”

“Didn’t know anything about it the other day.”

“You set off my bullshit meter every other time you open your mouth. How do you know what you know?”

“I did some digging. I got lucky. Some of Rislyakov’s associates aren’t very bright.”

“A nonanswer if I ever heard one.”

I raised my glass. “Wine’s excellent.”

“You said your interest in Rislyakov had nothing to do with mine.”

“That’s true.” I debated briefly whether to go on, but I knew I would. You have to give a little to get a little, or perhaps more to the point, I was enjoying myself and her company. Or I do like to live dangerously.

“Rislyakov whaled Mulholland.”

“What? He’s the one?”

“Uh-huh.”

The green eyes grew brighter. “You know that for a fact?”

“Yep. He was blackmailing Mrs. Mulholland.”

“How? Why?”

“I’m going to plead privacy on the how. It doesn’t have an impact on Mulholland, his bank, or the money laundry. The why I don’t know. Except that Ratko had a gambling problem. He might have needed money fast.”

“Had?”

Mistake. She was sharp. “He went through rehab. It took.”

She eyed me over her fork, uncertain what she believed. “How do you know all this?”

“Same way I know about Bergdorf.”

That bought me time, at least. She chewed her salad. I took a bite and resolved to be more careful.

“Back to Mulholland. Why’d Rislyakov phish him? Don’t tell me he just got lucky.”

“That question bothers me, to be candid. I don’t have a good answer.”

“Have you asked Rislyakov?”

“I told you the other day—we’ve never met.”

“Just checking.” She stopped the questions long enough to eat and think. I did the same. The food was every bit as good as last night.

“Tell me about Barsukov—you and Barsukov. Both Barsukovs.”

“That’s complicated. There’s a lot of context.”

“We’ve got half a bottle of wine and the pasta coming. Dessert, too, if we’re still talking. Was Wednesday really the first time you’d seen him in twenty years?”

“Scout’s honor.” Cheka honor wouldn’t mean anything to her.

“Not likely. Scout, I mean.”

Maybe I should’ve stuck with it. I thought about what I was going to say. Suppressing my past had blown up one relationship. Would putting it out there, right up front, ignite another? The lifelong need to skip over, to prevaricate, to hide my past, was missing—for the first time. The sense of liberation wasn’t jarring—but I think the ground shifted beneath the table.

“My link to the Barsukovs is Iakov, the father. He got me out of the Gulag and into the KGB. I owe him pretty much everything.”

“You were in the Gulag? Like whatsisname… Solzhenitsyn?”

“Born there. My mother was a zek, a prisoner. Earned my own ticket back as a teenager. Safe to say I would have died there—years ago—without Iakov.”

“This sounds like a good story, for once. Go on.”

“You really want to hear it?’

“You have my full attention.” The green eyes said she wasn’t lying.

“I was born in Dalstroy, a complex of camps in Siberia, the day Stalin died. March fifth, 1953, also the day Prokofiev died, but no one remembers that. My mother spent most of her life in the camps. I never met my father. We were released—she and I—in the amnesty after Stalin’s death. She died on the way home. I grew up in an orphanage, got in trouble, got sent back.”

“Hold on! You’re going too fast. Why was your mother in the Gulag?”

“No real reason. Millions of people were arrested, incarcerated, released, incarcerated again, executed, all for no reason whatsoever. Other than Stalin’s insanity. The entire Soviet system was based on betrayal—friend against friend, wife against husband, father against son. We were all complicit, the Soviet people, I mean. One big way the Party kept control. The biggest betrayal of all was the Gulag itself—prisons, work camps, execution chambers, all set up by Russians for Russians who had done nothing, except they’d been betrayed. We’ve never come to terms with what that means. As a result, I’m a zek, and that’s a shameful thing to be. In the eyes of other Russians, I’ll always be a zek. When they see me, they see someone they betrayed. They can’t deal with that, so they transfer the betrayal to me. It’s my fault. I was a prisoner because I betrayed the Party and the state.”

“Jesus! You all are crazy!”

“I won’t deny it. It’s like when Winston Smith and his lover betray each other at the end of 1984. They do it because they’re forced to by Big Brother. It’s not their fault, but once they do, they can no longer look each other in the eye. That was Soviet society, in a nutshell, in fact, not fiction. Still is, to a bigger extent than anyone wants to admit. Solzhenitsyn was one of the few who bucked the system, the culture, the whole deal, by writing about it. Telling the truth for everyone to see. He blew the lid off. But it takes more than one explosion to revolutionize a system that shaped generations. I’ll get off my soapbox now.”

“No such luck. What about Iakov? And the KGB?”

“I have a facility for languages, and between the orphanage and the camps, I picked up a bunch. That got the attention of the KGB, and they offered me a way out. Iakov was already a fast-rising officer, the Cold War was heating up, and he understood we needed people who could make their way, operate—fit in—overseas. Smartest man I ever met. He ended up the number two man in the whole organization—on merit, not political connections.”

“So you went to work for the same people who put your mother in prison?”

“Life’s full of ironies, especially if you’re Russian.”

She shook her head. “Christ. Tell me about the spy part.”

A waiter removed our plates and put two bowls of steaming pasta on the table. The mushroom aroma floated upward. Giancarlo offered Parmesan and pepper. I took another sip of wine. The flavors were separating, becoming more distinct—raisins, berries, and something like tar. I didn’t know tar could taste good.

“The spy part’s pretty mundane. No James Bond. I collected information, a lot of it from newspapers, magazines, TV. Sometimes, I tried to get American experts to work for us. I also tried to stop Soviet experts from being recruited by your CIA. Occasionally, I got Soviet experts to pretend they were working for the Americans when they were still working for us. A big game, really.”

Until we caught one of our own people working for the other side. Then the consequences were deadly. I didn’t want to go into that now.

“What if you got caught?”

“It was my business not to. Besides, we all operated under diplomatic immunity. When I was stationed here, I was officially with the Soviet Consulate—cultural attaché, the last time. CIA does the same thing. There’s an unwritten agreement among the professionals—no physical harm. Catch ’em, throw ’em out, don’t hurt ’em. We all knew that if shooting started, it would be hard to stop. Basic self-interest.”

“How’d you do this recruiting?”

“You become a good student of human nature. Figure out what makes people tick, all the psychological buttons you can push. It also helps to get lucky. Believe it or not, your two most famous double agents, Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen, were volunteers, walk-ins. You had another one, Harold Nicholson, who was still trying to make a buck after he got caught, passing secrets from jail through his son. We used all the techniques you’d expect—bribery, blackmail, sex, appeals to ideology, although those were mainly for show. People have a remarkable propensity to get into trouble, as you know. We’d offer a helping hand.”

“You preyed on weakness.”

“It was business. Your side did the same thing. You do the same thing today.”

“That’s different. I’m dealing with criminals.”

“If you say so.”

We paused for more pasta. It almost put the salad and wine to shame.

“So what happened then?”

“Some bad luck. A decision that didn’t work out. My career dead-ended. I moved here.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“Let’s just say it was 1992, the Cold War was over, a bunch of things came together, I needed a change of scene. I’d done four tours in the States, two in New York. I liked it. It’s Moscow with rules—self-imposed, voluntary rules.”

“Okay, I won’t push it. Married?”

She wouldn’t ask that unless…

“A long time ago.”

She waited to see if I would say more. When I didn’t, she said, “You seem—how shall I put this?—very at home here.”

I smiled. I don’t know whether she meant it, but that was quite a compliment for someone in my line.

“Iakov taught me a valuable lesson. He talked about his days in Beirut and Istanbul and how much better prepared the Americans were for operating there because they came from a more open, more diverse culture. They obviously weren’t local, but they knew how to adapt. I had an advantage my fellow officers did not. I’d grown up surrounded by kids from all over—Germans, Poles, Romanians, you name it—in the orphanage and the camps. I was a chameleon. I could fit in with everybody. When I spoke Polish, I sounded like a Pole. When I spoke Hungarian, people thought I came from Budapest. When I was assigned here the first time, I watched TV—cop shows, sitcoms, even soaps. I read all the newspapers and newsmagazines. Also Rolling Stone and Popular Mechanics and the Village Voice. A lot of it I had to do in secret. Most of my fellow Chekists wore Soviet blinders—everything Western was suspect. They wouldn’t have understood. I was careful, and I got away with it. I learned to fit in. Your turn. I want to finish my dinner.”

“Okay. So happens you’re not the only ex-con at the table. Something I don’t tell everyone every day.”

“Things are looking up.”

“Don’t get excited. One of us rehabilitated herself.”

“See, once a zek…”

“I’m not Russian. You’re just another ex-socialist ex-con to me. Anyway, I grew up in a town called Thibodaux, in bayou country. My father left, like I told you. Mother married again—her third. Then she got banged up bad in a car accident. He was driving, smashed. After that she spent most of her time zoned out on painkillers. He tried to put the moves on me, but he was usually too drunk, and I stayed out of his way. One night, though, when I was seventeen, he spiked my soda with something—maybe my mom’s drugs—and I came to on the floor, him on top of me. I was stoned, but he was blotto, and I was able to wriggle away. I laid him out cold with a frying pan, stole his wallet and his car. I slept off the drugs and used his credit card to fill the tank and took off. Didn’t stop until I reached Miami.

“I moved in with my half sister, from my mom’s first marriage. Pretty soon her boyfriend was hitting on me. He was Cuban-Bolivian, so he took ‘no’ as an affront to his manhood. One night he caught me. My sister came home just in time and called the cops. They arrested him—and me, too, for stealing that bastard’s car. The Cuban got probation. I spent a year in a juvenile detention center.”

Based on the Soviet justice system, I’m in no position to pass judgment on America’s—but in addition to the innocent, it does favor people with money. The boyfriend could afford a lawyer. No one was interested in extenuating circumstances from a seventeen-year-old with a Bardot pout and an empty bank account.

“It was a good lesson,” she went on. “I met girls who’d been in there two, three times, they’re not even eighteen. I didn’t want that. I finished high school, worked my way through community college, and got to the University of Miami on ROTC. Degree in psychology. Did four years in the air force and got my law degree on Uncle Sam.”

“What led you to white-collar crime?”

“My first job after law school, at a Miami firm, one of the partners takes me to dinner, then to a motel. I refuse to go inside. He tells me my job depends on it. I say no. I get fired the next day, professional delinquencies, they said. They refused to give me my back pay.

“The money part was bad enough, but the allegation that I wasn’t up to the job really tore it for me. Who’d these bastards think they were? I had my sister take some pictures of me in my underwear. Wrote ‘Can’t wait till next time’ on one and mailed it to his home. Three days later, he appeared at the door screaming about his wife and marriage. I still had my service sidearm. It wasn’t loaded, but he didn’t know that.”

“Still play with guns?”

“Only when provoked.”

She returned to her pasta.

“What happened next?”

“One of my professors knew the DA, and he set me up there. Everyone else was doing drug cases, but I went after crooked businessmen. Why should they get a free ride? Ninety percent conviction rate over three years. I liked prosecuting, but I needed to make some money, so I joined another firm. I let it be known at the outset I didn’t want to be messed with, and I built up enough of a caseload that people left me alone. They merged with an Atlanta firm, then it merged with Hayes & Franklin. I was ready for a change of scene, too, so I asked to move to New York. My timing was good. A lot of big securities fraud cases were breaking, and all the white-shoe lawyers had long forgotten the little bit of criminal law they’d had to study in school. Pretty soon I was running the whole department. Billed eighty million last year, before I left.”

I let out a whistle. I couldn’t help it.

“Now you’re impressed. What is it about men? Sex and money always get your attention. You’re like all the rest—only interested in the same things.”

“The one thing I’m interested in is why Rislyakov phished Mulholland.”

The waiter cleared. We declined the offer of dessert. She ordered coffee.

“There is one thing you could do, if you’re so inclined. Kind of make up for all that spying on me.”

I wasn’t convinced I had anything to make up for, but I had no chance of winning that argument. “What’s that?”

“What you said about identity theft. It’s a world I know very little about. I need to know a lot more, and I prefer not to ask for an in-house tutorial.”

“Don’t want to demonstrate lack of knowledge?”

“Were you this obnoxious when you were a zek?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Some men I work with would feel right at home in your Soviet system. They resent a woman in my position. So, yes, I prefer not to advertise any gaps in my expertise.”

“Good a reason as any. Would you like to come up and see my databases?”

“When will you get it through your bald head that you are not funny?”

“Don’t you Americans have a saying about old dogs?”

“I don’t mind old. Presumptuous pisses me off.”

“And you carry a gun.”

“How about first thing Monday?”

“Fine. My office is at 88 Pine. Eight thirty?”

“Great. Thank you. I do appreciate it.” She looked around. “Hey, we’re going to close the place.”

I signaled Giancarlo for the check. I hope I kept a straight face when he brought it—$680, before tip. The wine was $475. Victoria was smiling.

“You’re right,” I said, handing over my credit card.

“About what? Men?”

“No. The wine. I won’t be having that again.”

A phone rang faintly. She reached for her bag and pulled it out. She didn’t say much, but I watched her face change as she watched me watching her. She was angry—not her temper flaring like earlier. It was more substantive than that. I hoped it wasn’t aimed at me, but I had the feeling I was in the line of fire, at least tangentially. Her only questions to the phone were “Where?” “When?” and “You’re sure?” After a few minutes, she said, “I’ll be there,” and put the phone back in her bag.

“Y’all are gonna tell me, goddammit, everything you know about Rad Rislyakov. Tonight.”

“What happened?”

“You already know. He was found in a marsh off Flatbush Avenue. Body was dumped there. He’s been dead since midweek.”

I kept a straight face. “There’s not much I can tell you.” Sounded stupid, but at least it was mostly truthful.

“Bullshit.” She wasn’t trying to cover the anger. “I’m not sayin’ you had anything to do with Rislyakov’s killing, but if you did, I’m sure as hell gonna find out.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Let’s go downtown. You can come up and see my corpse.”

I chuckled, I couldn’t help it. I think she did, too, just a little.

I followed her outside. A black Town Car idled by the curb.

“It’s gonna be straight business from here on, so I want to tell you I had a nice time tonight, most of it anyway. But if you want to see me again, socially I mean, assuming you’re not in jail, stay the hell out of my private life.”

“Suppose it’s your private life I’m trying to get into.”

“I don’t mind a full frontal assault. Backdoor tactics are different.”

“I’m just trying whatever door you leave open.”

“Just because you can pick the lock doesn’t mean it’s open.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You’d be wise to. Otherwise I’ll slam it in your face. There’s a cab.”

I’d assumed the Town Car was hers, but I was wrong on that count, too. The door opened, and Sergei and another man climbed out. Sergei showed us his gun.

“Get in the car,” he said.

“Let me put my friend in a—”

“Both of you, govnosos—shit-sucker. Get in.”

“No. She’s not—”

“In the fucking car!”

It was futile to resist, but I was going to try. Call it chivalry, pride, macho, or just not wanting to be railroaded by a couple of urki in front of Victoria. I took a step toward Sergei, who grinned. The other guy moved in to my right.

Victoria said, “Unless I miss my guess, that’s a Beretta Tomcat, just like the one I own. Don’t be stupid.” She turned to Sergei. “Let’s go.”

She walked to the car, opened the door, and climbed in. Sergei looked disappointed he wasn’t going to get to slug me, but he followed her to the car, and the other guy shoved me in after them. The Lincoln took off down Second Avenue and again turned east toward Brighton Beach.

CHAPTER 26

Traffic was light, so we made the Badger’s palace in thirty minutes. Victoria sat silently through the ride, seemingly cool as ice. No way to gauge the temperature under the skin. Neither Sergei nor the driver said anything. I wondered if Lachko was aware of the identity of his other guest. If so, he was playing an aggressive hand, even for him.

The car went through the security check at the gate and pulled into the courtyard. I was yanked out, pressed against the steel, and patted down. Across the car, Sergei was getting ready to search Victoria.

“Hands off, Sergei,” I said. “Lachko won’t like it.”

“Fuck off.”

“She’s a U.S. attorney, Sergei. Top Fed, to you. She can bring every cop in New York to Brighton Beach. Boss want that?”

Sergei didn’t respond, but he didn’t search Victoria either.

I said to her, “You carrying your Beretta?”

“No.”

“Anything at all?”

“Pepper spray.”

“Hand it over and let him see your bag.”

She did as I said.

Sergei took the spray canister and looked inside the bag. “Okay.”

Victoria smiled at him and looked back at me. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Sergei told me to fuck my mother in Russian and led us into the palace, down the marble hall, through the Beidermeir reception room, and into Lachko’s office.

“Well, Electrifikady Turbanevich, you poisonous parasite, what is it I have to do to flush you from my system?” Lachko sat in a wheelchair tonight, wearing a gray tracksuit, papirosa smoking in one hand, cashews in a bowl next to him.

“Barsukov, Miss Victoria, Lachko Iakovlev Barsukov. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I apologize for interfering in your evening, but you were clearly in need of an improvement in company.”

“Turbo told me y’all were kinda insistent. He wasn’t joking.” She was laying the twang on thick and heavy.

“Ahhh. What else did my old friend tell you?”

“Y’all don’t get on so well anymore. And you’re a mean-ass son of a bitch.”

Lachko smiled as broadly as his cancer-stretched skin would allow, then laughed.

“What can I offer you, Miss Victoria?” Lachko asked. “Vodka, coffee?”

“Glass of wine, please. Red, if you have it.”

Lachko nodded at Sergei. “Turbo? Vodka?”

“Nothing for me.”

“Vodka, Sergei. That’s twice you’ve declined my hospitality, Turbo. We have our differences, sure, but that’s no reason to be uncivilized.”

I shrugged. Lachko scooped up some cashews. Sergei went off to get the drinks.

Lachko said, “I gather you two had a very relaxed meal. Almost three hours. I hope you didn’t spend all that time talking about me.”

Victoria had disbelief written all over her. “Y’all got an inflated opinion, you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You are a good actress, Miss Victoria. Better than many I’ve seen on your Broadway stage. You also have a battalion stationed across the street from my home, men with cameras, telescopes, microphones, and who knows what else. My opinion is my opinion, but it is not far-fetched.” He bit hard on a nut as if to emphasize his point.

Sergei returned with a tray. Victoria took her wine. I decided to have the vodka after all. Lachko thought he could intimidate Victoria. It would be fun watching him try.

Victoria gave him a long stare and shook her head. “My predecessor put those men there. Not unreasonable, given that you’re a mobster. I haven’t had time to think about them myself. Although I can’t imagine they’re earning the taxpayers’ keep watching a bunch of second-rate crooks in a dump like this, dolled up like a Vegas cathouse.”

The taunts registered. The black eyes turned blacker. I hoped she knew what she was doing—spearing Lachko’s vanity was playing with fire.

She took a sip of wine, wrinkled her nose, and set the glass aside.

“The wine not to your liking?”

“You get points for consistency, if nothing else.”

“Why’d you haul us out here, Lachko?” I said.

“A chance to talk, Turbo. And to meet the most attractive Miss Victoria, of course.”

“Hold the sugar, sugar,” she said. “You missed the opportunity for that.”

That got her another black-eyed stare.

“You want to talk, Lachko, that’s fine. Tell Sergei to take Victoria back to Manhattan.”

“In good time, Turbo. The matters I wish to discuss may involve her, too.”

“I’m all ears,” she said.

“Rad Rislyakov,” Lachko said. “I know you have an interest in him, Miss Victoria. You’ve had men not busy watching my home watching his.” He held up a hairy hand full of nuts. “Spare my patience, I don’t need to hear more about your predecessor.”

“What about Rislyakov?” I asked.

“Wednesday, when we picked you up on Greene Street, you were outside a building where he did business. You didn’t tell me.”

Victoria swung toward me.

“I see Turbo hasn’t told you about Greene Street either, Miss Victoria. Maybe you are in a similar position—you think someone is a better friend than he turns out to be.”

“Who said we’re friends?”

“You hear that, Turbo? Even Miss Victoria here questions your friendship. Perhaps you know something about Rislyakov’s death. How he became dead, for example.”

“What about it?” Victoria asked me.

“Rislyakov rented a loft at 32 Greene, 6A, under another name—Goncharov. Lachko didn’t know about it, which raises two questions.” I turned back to face him. “How’d you let that happen? You must be slipping. And what was Ratko hiding from you?” That got me the dark look and the sense that I’d pay a price in the not-too-distant future. “On the other hand, there are rare occasions when Lachko knows more than he lets on.”

“Rislyakov worked for me. No secret there. I’m the one who recognized the boy’s talent, saw his potential. I nurtured him. He was worth a lot of money to me.”

“You’re avoiding Turbo’s questions,” Victoria said.

“Turbo and his questions mean nothing to me. A raccoon has sharp claws, sharp teeth, a pea-sized brain, and a nasty disposition. It also carries rabies. If one crosses the road in front of your car, you either swerve around it or, better, run it over. You certainly don’t stop to talk. Miss Victoria, what do you think of Russia?”

“Don’t have much of an opinion. Y’all aren’t very funny, I know that much.”

“An assessment based on your acquaintance with our mutual friend here, no doubt. I mean Russia today, the country, Moscow, the capital.”

She shrugged. “What I read in the paper. What Turbo’s told me. I’m no expert, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Lachko chewed on a cashew while he watched her. “You do yourself a disservice. That’s your prerogative, of course. But you do me a disservice as well, which is stupid.” He spat into his bucket.

“You are—”

The right hand came up, smoking Belomorkanal between the fingers.

“You visited Moscow last month. You arrived at Domodedovo at ten o’clock on May fourth, BA flight eight seven four. You stayed three nights at the Marriott Tverskaya. You spent eight and a half hours at CPS headquarters in Ulica Otradnaja. You walked around Red Square, toured St. Basil’s Cathedral, and visited the old GUM department store. You did not pay your respects at Lenin’s Tomb. You did not visit Lubyanka. Pity. Would you like to know where you ate?”

“You’re well informed.” She was working hard to keep her temper under control.

“What did you discuss with the CPS piss-drinkers?”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes not budging from his. “As we say down where I come from, ain’t none of your beeswax.”

Lachko spat again and fired another papirosa. “Did Turbo tell you about the Cheka?”

“They arrest people for no good reason. You used to work for it.”

“The zek’s-eye view. I assume he told you where he came from.”

“For once, you assume right.”

That stopped him, for a moment. Not the implied insult, but that I’d told her. He hadn’t expected that.

“Things have changed since Turbo left Russia. He’s out of date. Nowadays we always have a reason.”

“If you say so.”

He chewed a cashew. “Russia is an international power—politically, strategically, economically, in all spheres. The Cheka watches out for Russia’s interests.”

“You left out criminally,” I said. “And the Cheka watches out first for itself.”

“I thought y’all were retired,” Victoria said.

“Didn’t Turbo tell you? No such thing as an ex-Chekist.”

“I’m the first,” I said.

“You’re a zek, Turbo. You’ve never rid yourself of the stench.”

Victoria picked up the wineglass, reconsidered, and put it down. “I hate to interrupt this stimulating cultural conversation, but you still haven’t told us why you brought us out here.”

Lachko nodded slowly. “Turbo and I have business to discuss. I wanted to make your acquaintance—since you take such an interest in my affairs. Also I wanted to offer a piece of advice. You appear to be an intelligent woman, despite your choice of dinner companions.”

“Like I said earlier, I’m all ears.”

“The pederasts at the CPS—don’t put too much faith in them. They get excited at the sight of naked buttocks, but they are as impotent as eunuchs.”

“I take it you don’t get along.”

“They exist because we have allowed them to exist. They are shit-chewing maggots, feeding on the waste of others. Soon they will be squashed like maggots. There is only one power in Russia today, and Turbo is right, we do take care of ourselves. Those who interfere…” He spat in his bucket.

“I’ll be sure to bear that in mind—but this ain’t Moscow. You’re just another two-bit hood here.”

She was pushing too hard. Color climbed up his pale neck.

“Our reach is as long as it needs to be. London, Zurich, New York…” He spat again.

“Y’all threatening me?”

“Sergei! We have no reason to detain Miss Victoria further. Have Dmitri take her back to Manhattan.”

“I’m in no hurry. I’ll wait and go back with Turbo.”

“Turbo could be here quite a while.”

“That’s okay. I’m trying to learn to enjoy your company. It’s a slow process.”

I was watching Victoria and Lachko. I didn’t see it coming and didn’t hear it until too late. The thunderclouds twitched. Sergei moved behind the stool I was sitting on and hit me full force in the left kidney. Sledgehammer fist, freight-train arm. The vodka glass went flying; the force knocked me to the floor. Pain shot through my torso, one searing explosion after another. I fought the overriding urge to vomit mushroom pasta on Lachko’s white carpet, although in a fleeting lucid moment, I wondered why I bothered. The white room spun. I thought I heard Victoria shout and Lachko laugh.

I have no idea how long it lasted, but after a while the pain started to recede, in both intensity and frequency. The room turned more slowly. I could feel the bile in my throat. I was covered with sweat.

“Pick him up,” Lachko said.

Strong hands lifted me back onto the stool. That set off more explosions. I held my head between sweaty palms until they passed.

Victoria said from somewhere, “Are you all right?” A stupid question if there ever was one, but I suppose she needed to say something. I tried to smile, but I’m not sure I managed. My voice came out as a croak.

“Cheka… entertainment.”

Victoria went over to Lachko, who was lighting another Belomorkanal. “Those men across the street. I can have them over here anytime I want.”

“Turbo, you are a lucky man. I think she likes you, although I can’t imagine why. They will find nothing, Miss Victoria, except a sick old man looking after an injured friend. Tell her we’re old friends, Turbo.”

“We’re… old… friends,” I repeated. I had no idea what he intended for me, but the first thing was to get Victoria out of here.

“I think you’re full of shit. Both of you.”

“I hear you’ve been creeping around Polina, Turbo. You didn’t mention that either.”

Uh-oh. How…

“Did Turbo tell you about his ex-wife, Miss Victoria? He was a big disappointment to her. She used to get sick to her stomach if I mentioned his name. You humiliated her, Turbo, rubbed her nose in the human waste of life. But you couldn’t tell her the truth, could you? Too cowardly, too scared.”

“What are y’all talking about?” Victoria said.

“Zek,” I managed to spit out. Even the one word hurt.

“She despised him so much she married me,” Lachko said. “That should tell you something, Miss Victoria.”

What the hell was he doing? Victoria was hanging on every word.

“Vengeance is a poor basis for a lasting union. We had a few good years and went our separate ways. Now I understand Polina’s living here, Turbo. On Fifth Avenue, no less. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Assumed you—”

“Bullshit,” he said. “You could easily have said something Wednesday. You chose not to.”

“Sounds to me like something else you didn’t know,” Victoria said to him.

“There’s very little I don’t know, Miss Victoria, when it concerns me. Even less I can’t find out if I care to. Would you like to know who you called from your hotel on Tverskaya? Or what you said? For such an attractive woman, you don’t seem to have much of a social life. All business, twenty-four/seven, as they say. Too bad. You should have a husband—or at least someone better suited than our retching friend here.”

I was listening to him but watching her. She kept a straight face, but he’d found a soft spot in the tough veneer she wore.

“Sergei, tell Dmitri to take Miss Victoria home,” Lachko said.

“Goddammit, you can’t make me leave.”

The thunderclouds twitched. Sergei maneuvered Victoria to the door. She objected loudly the entire way.

“Wait!” Lachko called. “I almost forgot. Did Turbo tell you where our mutual ex-wife fetched up?”

“Lachko, I…” I croaked.

“She goes by the name Felicity now, Felix for short, I understand. Married to a rich banker. Man named Mulholland.”

Victoria shouted and Lachko laughed as Sergei all but pushed her out the door. Again I tried to figure out what game he was playing. At least Victoria was on her way home. That was something.

Sergei came back and nodded at his boss. The thunderclouds twitched again. This time there was only one explosion as the hammer slammed into the left side of my face. A blast of pain, a burst of light as I fell through the air.

I don’t remember hitting the rug.

When I came back to wherever I was, I was lying on the floor staring at the chrome leg of a desk. Lachko’s desk. The finish was marred by a big scratch, which made me feel a tiny bit better. I stayed there a while, trying to find some part of me that didn’t hurt, hoping to collect whatever wits Sergei hadn’t knocked to Vladivostok. Didn’t feel like I had any. It dawned on me there was no sound in the room. That’s right—Victoria was gone. Where was Lachko?

I pushed myself to a sitting position, which got everything spinning. I waited until the room righted. A sponge-sized splotch of red on the white carpet. Good. I made a stab at standing up. Big mistake. I coughed and spat brownish green bile on top of the blood.

A clock chimed. One o’clock. Maybe everybody had gone to bed. Definitely time to go. I tried standing again and this time got to my knees.

Motion to my left. A wheeze, air sucked through a tube.

“Feel better now that you’ve had some rest?”

Sergei wheeled Lachko toward the desk. He fired a papirosa and blew smoke in my direction.

“You lied to me, Turbo. Multiple times.” He shook his head. “You should know better.”

“No,” I croaked.

“Don’t make it worse. You didn’t tell me about Polina.”

“Like I said…”

“Like I said—bullshit. You were going to stay away from Rislyakov, but you went straight back there. You told me this was about kidnapping. Bullshit. What the fuck ever made you dream I wouldn’t find out about your childish games? Do you think I’m senile as well as sick? You’ve always been enamored of your brain, but honestly, it’s your most feeble organ. More useless than your dick. I’m tempted to do you a favor and have Sergei sever both, but I need information first. Don’t even think about not telling me what I want to know.”

Lying—or telling the truth, for that matter—when you’re mentally impaired and have no idea what’s going on is just plain stupid. I wasn’t too enfeebled to recognize that. The sight of Sergei clenching and unclenching his fist made the logic irrelevant. First thing was to buy time, get some wits back. That meant telling Lachko at least some of what he thought he wanted to hear.

“I told you… truth as I knew it,” I said. Each word felt like a knife slicing into my guts. “Polina’s husband hired me. He got a ransom note. Turns out, Polina herself sent it. She… needed money to pay off Ratko. He blackmailed her.”

“Turbo, what is this fucking fairy tale? You are more moronic than even I thought possible. What the fuck? Polina was fleecing her husband because Ratko was blackmailing her?”

“That’s… right. I don’t know why.”

“Suppose I believe you—and I’m more likely to kiss your balls. What did Ratko have?”

“Her new identity.”

“Who was she hiding from?”

I just looked at him.

“Me? You pile absurdity on top of stupidity. Polina and I were finished years ago, long before she disappeared. We were separated. We’d made a deal. She was going to start divorce proceedings. She wasn’t going to try to clean me out, I wasn’t going to contest it. I couldn’t have cared less.”

He sounded sincere. If Lachko can ever be considered sincere.

“Iakov said she and Kosokov…”

“Yes, I know. They deserved each other.”

“He said Kosokov stole six hundred million…”

“Kosokov? Steal? Hah! This gets more fucked up with every word. A minute ago, Polina’s broke, she needs money. Now she has six hundred million. I do think my father’s finally losing his mind. Kosokov was so fucking thick he had to be led around by his member just to avoid walking in front of a bus. And you—you’re just trying to keep your shriveled skin from being peeled off its useless frame. Don’t bother. I intend to take care of that myself.”

I ignored the threat. He and Iakov told different stories. That was worth pursuing, if I had the chance.

“What did you find at Greene Street?” Lachko said.

“Iakov, Ratko’s body, suitcase, computer, Eva.”

“What about bullet holes in the bedroom door, two slugs in one wall, one in another, one in Ratko? Where’s the gun?”

“I took it.”

“What kind?”

“Glock, nine millimeter.”

“I want it. What else did you find on the computer?”

I grabbed hold of the desk leg with both hands and somehow pulled myself to my feet. I leaned on the red lacquer, out of breath, ready to throw up.

“Your laundry,” I gagged. We were going to get there sooner or later.

He thought for a moment, no expression on his withered face.

“How much does your friend Victoria know?”

No good answer to this question. “She knows. Don’t know how. She knew before I told her.”

“Bullshit. You were at the Slavic Center this morning.”

“Looking for Eva. Ratko had the home page on his computer. She ran from the hospital. You sent your men there.” A guess, but a good one.

I missed the eyebrows twitching, not that it would have made any difference. Sergei came across the room and hit me in the stomach. Another explosion and I was sucking rug shag again, looking for oxygen. I couldn’t take too much more of this. No one could.

Lachko and Sergei backed off. I spat again on the brown-red stain and tried to focus. Lachko kept his eyes on me as he chewed some cashews from his pocket. I was almost able to breathe at a normal rate when he said, “Someone copied a large database from Rislyakov’s computer, then erased it from the hard drive. That you?”

Were we finally getting to the point? “Not me.”

“You took the computer with you. You have a partner well known in technology circles. I want what was taken returned.”

I started through the motions of standing again.

“I don’t have it. I found the ransom note and Ratko’s blackmail note, like I told you. I removed them. You can confirm that. I didn’t touch anything else.”

“Turbo, you forget I’ve had the misfortune to know you from the time you crawled out of the Gulag. You learned to lie before you could walk.”

I might have pointed out we all did. He turned the wheelchair away. Leaning hard on the desk, I made it back to my feet. The exertion had me gulping air like I’d just sprinted two miles.

I saw eyebrows twitch this time. Sergei lifted me off the floor with one muscled arm, grinned, and hit me in the gut with the other. He let go, and I crumpled back at the base of the desk. The scratch was still there.

Lachko said, “I’m going to give you one more chance, although I have no idea why. Zeks can only be dealt with as zeks. They deserve no respect. They deserve nothing.”

He took a cordless phone from the pocket of his tracksuit and punched in a number. Lot of digits—overseas call.

“Good morning, Vasily. How are you today? How’s the weather?… Fine, fine. No, no change. There’s an old friend here with me. He wants to talk to you.”

Lachko pushed the speaker button.

“Ya sru na tvayu mat—I shit on your mother,” Lachko’s brother said.

“Hello, Vasily,” I replied, as evenly as I could.

“I understand you are feeling some pain. I thought news from home might brighten you up. I’m in a car with one of the Cheka’s best marksmen, in Ulica Otradnaja. You know it?”

CPS headquarters. Panic replaced pain. What time was it in Moscow? Pushing 2:00 A.M. here… 10:00 A.M. I pulled myself to my feet again, still leaning on the desk. Sergei backed off, about a foot.

“My friend and I are parked across from your son’s building. He’s on the second floor. I can see him through the window.”

I didn’t answer.

“We’ve been watching for an hour. Right now he’s talking on the phone. Wearing a faggy blue sweater, by the way. You should’ve taught him to be more observant, Turbo. But, of course, you weren’t there, were you? Never have been. He hasn’t noticed us at all, parked right across the street. Those CPS pediks are all piss-stupid.”

The unmistakable sound of a shell being loaded into a firing chamber ricocheted across nine thousand miles.

“Dragunov SVDS with a scope, in case you were wondering,” Vasily said. “Let’s see if your dumb-fuck kid puts in another appearance.”

Lachko said, “One more time, Turbo, where’s that database?”

“No! I don’t have it. I told you the truth!” I threw myself toward his wheelchair. Sergei knocked me sideways with his hip. Lachko shrugged.

Crack!

“NO! ALEKSEI!”

Time stopped.

Then the sound of a car engine starting and Vasily’s voice, low and quiet. “A warning, Turbo. Maybe your son needs a new window. Maybe he needs a new head. Understand, you prick. Doesn’t matter who they are—or where. We find them when we’re ready. Listen to Lachko. With luck, someday I’ll eat your blood over ice cream.”

Lachko pocketed the phone. “I want that database, Turbo. If you don’t have it, find it. You understand the consequences?”

“Yes.” Like a Cheka confession—meaningless, but what they want to hear.

“One more thing. Stay the fuck away from my family. Your business with Polina, whatever the fuck it was, is finished. Same goes for Eva. I will take care of them now. Understand?”

No point in arguing. I nodded assent.

“Good. Maybe you’re not as stupid as you always seem to be. This is from Vasily.”

Sergei hit me once more, this time in the gut. I collapsed to my knees, heaving, then vomited, finally, without control. I couldn’t breathe—but I could puke. Sometime during my seizure, Lachko left. Sergei waited until I was heaving dry, then grabbed the collar of my coat and dragged me down the hall and the stairs out into the courtyard. He and another guy dumped me into the open trunk of a car.

I hit my head and passed out again.