Private Moscow

Chapter 69

Ghani took us back to Fisher’s apartment building where Leonid was waiting. I paid the Afghan cab driver a couple of hundred bucks for his help, and he went away smiling.

“Where to?” Leonid asked.

“Volkovo,” Dinara replied. “Yaroslavl Oblast.”

“Really?” the former cop replied uncertainly.

I nodded. “Karl Parker, Elizabeth Connor and Ernie Fisher were there as teenagers. We need to find out why.”

“OK,” Leonid said. “But it’s a long drive, especially in this weather.”

It wasn’t snowing, but the clouds were bruised and swollen and the air had sharp teeth.

“I’ll call Feo and let him know where he can collect his truck,” Dinara said.

“No,” Leonid responded. “We’ll take it. The heating in my uncle’s Lada still doesn’t work.”

Soon we were inside Feo’s truck with the heating on full as we sped through the city. While Leonid drove, I tried the Parker home in Long Island, but there was no answer. I dialed Justine and she responded almost immediately.

“Everything OK, Jack?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “How are things there?”

“The Otkrov story has broken and we’re catching some heat. Mainstream media is reporting the allegations, but some of the conspiracy bloggers are having a field day and digging through every high-profile case we’ve ever worked.”

“And our clients?” I asked.

“No one’s said anything,” Justine replied. “At least not yet.”

“No one will,” I remarked. “We’ll just get termination emails from their lawyers if things get too hot.”

“Speaking of heat, NYPD has been leaned on,” Justine revealed. “We’re not getting their cooperation anymore. Rick Tana, the detective in charge, says it’s come from City Hall, a precautionary measure in case Private really is in bed with the Ninety-nine.”

I sighed. “The Ninety-nine probably doesn’t even exist.”

“The lack of cooperation is making Sci and Mo’s lives more difficult, but they’re fighting on,” she said.

“I’ve got another battle for them. I need everything we can find on Karl Parker’s childhood,” I said. “And I want confirmation he never left America as a kid. Same goes for Ernie Fisher and Elizabeth Connor.”

“Why?” Justine asked.

“We’ve found a photograph that puts them in a small town a few hours north of Moscow. It suggests they knew each other as teenagers.”

“Photos can be faked,” she countered.

“This one feels genuine,” I replied. “And we have a witness.”

“People lie, and the best fakes always seem real,” Justine observed. “But I’ll ask Mo to look into it. Sci is in Washington checking the evidence from the Robert Carlyle crash.”

“Thanks,” I said. “One last thing. I just tried to call Victoria Parker, but there was no answer. Can you ask her to phone me as soon as possible?”

“Sure,” Justine replied. “What time is it there?”

“Ten,” I replied. “We’re heading out of the city to check out the place the photo was taken.”

“Be careful,” Justine cautioned, before hanging up.

“She doesn’t think the picture is genuine?” Dinara asked.

“She’s right,” I conceded. “It could be a fake.”

I took the photograph from my coat pocket. I’d put it inside a cellophane evidence bag to protect it. Everything about the old Polaroid seemed authentic, but Justine was right, it was not beyond the capabilities of a good forger.

“Of course, if it is real...” Dinara trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish her sentence.

I knew exactly what she was implying. If the photograph was genuine, there was a distinct possibility Karl Parker was a Russian agent. Was that what he’d wanted to talk to me about on the day he died? And if so, why now? I couldn’t believe my old friend, a man who’d served our country with distinction, could ever betray it. There could be a more innocent explanation, but I was struggling to come up with what that might be.

The possibility continued to trouble me as Leonid drove north out of the city into the frozen wilderness beyond.