Rasputin's Shadow

37

Jonny turned left off Crocheron onto 169th Street and slowed his Kawasaki down to a crawl. He circled the entire half block at walking speed, scanning left and right for any sign of cops, and saw none.

The van was still where he’d left it-parked in an alleyway behind the tree-lined suburban street, the rear license plate backed against a wall and the front one hidden by a Dumpster that he’d pushed against it. He hadn’t wanted to drive across the bridge or through the tunnel in the van, not with its partly spiderwebbed windshield or its other assorted bullet holes. He figured that if there hadn’t already been an APB out for the van before his conversation with the feds, there had to be one now.

He needed to get the van off the street, fast.

He was also eager to see what made it so special to Sokolov. But that would have to wait. Regardless of how desperate he was to flick the metal switch and see what would happen, this wasn’t the place to fire up a siren that was so loud it required ear protection.

He chained his bike to a solid iron fence at the mouth of the alley, then walked back and rolled the Dumpster away from the front of the van.

He climbed inside and started the engine.

His first thought was to find somewhere around the mess of access roads where the Cross Island and Grand Central parkways met by Alley Pond Park, but he immediately dismissed the idea. Although the traffic noise would mask the sound of the siren-or whatever the hell it was-he knew there were traffic cameras there and he couldn’t afford to be spotted.

The other option was much better. His gang had a warehouse off Powells Cove Boulevard, close to the water. There were no houses on the block, just a lumberyard on one side and a waste-management company on the other, both of which would be deserted at this time of night. He also knew there were no cameras at all on the side of the lumberyard that faced Long Island Sound.

He set off, and given how late it was, the streets were empty. He was there in no time.

He parked the van alongside the graffiti-covered warehouse and gazed out across the water. If the siren was seriously loud, it might even be mistaken for a boat’s foghorn. Certainly, unless they were standing right next to the van, no one would suspect the battered white panel van with the refrigeration unit bolted to the top. Besides, the place was quiet as death.

He gazed at the button for a long time, then without further thought, grabbed a pair of ear protectors, slipped them on his head, and flicked the switch.

Nothing.

Not even the faint sound of a siren.

Only total quiet.

He pulled off the headphones.

Still nothing.

He flicked the switch back to off and shook his head.

He could feel a headache coming on. Little wonder, considering the way things had gone since Sokolov had come to see him two days earlier. And now his blood brother, the boyfriend of a cousin who was more than a sister to him, was dead, and he was in the crosshairs of the feds. Now that his brother was no longer running things, Jonny was supposed to be keeping everything ticking over while his boss was in Miami, not dragging the gang into an unwanted spotlight.

He cut himself a couple of lines and snorted them. One of the benefits of being so high up the supply chain was near-constant access to high-grade product, and this was certainly a privilege he didn’t want to lose.

He took a few breaths and let his heartbeat go back to normal after the initial hit of the powder.

The whole thing was ridiculous. Surely the switch had to do something.

He had the key in the ignition and there was definitely power to the electrics.

Then he realized that he still hadn’t looked properly inside the van’s main compartment. He’d been so preoccupied-first with Sokolov, then with his wife-that he hadn’t even opened the back for a good look.

It was time to remedy that.

He climbed out of his seat, opened the cabin door, and squeezed through the narrow doorway.

The rear compartment was neat and tidy. It was lined with a hard white plastic surface, like the inside of a fridge. It was mostly empty, apart from a big metal storage box that was bolted to the cabin’s floor. Along the opposite wall were four low black boxes that were also firmly attached in place. These looked like old PC towers, but they seemed new and had small panels with red and green LEDs and digital displays on them. A thick but tidy stream of wires linked everything. More wires ran up the inside of the van and into the refrigeration unit, while others disappeared into the base of the partition behind the driver’s position.

The storage box was secured by a bar and a large padlock, but there was no key for it on the van’s key ring.

Jonny left the van and went looking for something with which to force the padlock.

It didn’t take long. A length of rebar was lying on the ground about twenty feet away, probably from the waste-management yard.

He brought it inside the van and used it to bust the padlock. On the third attempt and to the soundtrack of him cursing out loud in Korean, it popped open.

The box was stuffed with elaborate electronic gear. It was like some kind of mega-stereo that someone had built themselves, a metal rack covered with dials, meters and sockets. An abundance of wires crisscrossed between them.

Apart from a laptop secured to the top of the stack, he had absolutely no idea what any of it was. Whatever it was, it was complicated.

After a few minutes spent staring at the boxes’ contents and trying to divine what they were there for, he decided to bring in an expert.

He took out his cell, dialed, and waited.

A sleepy voice answered.

“Shin,” he said, “get your ass over to the chop shop. There’s something you need to see.”