Rasputin's Shadow

41

Koschey scanned the busy restaurant with laserlike efficiency, his trained eyes quickly locking on to the pretty, petite figure in the green-dragon dress that Sokolov had described to him.

Ae-Cha. Jonny’s cousin.

Heading toward the back of the place.

He streamed through the tables, his movement smooth, his body language unhurried and discreet. He knew how not to attract attention and pass unnoticed, regardless of how crowded a place was. He caught up with Ae-Cha just as she entered the kitchen. Before she even sensed his presence, his blade was pricking her lower back, his other hand clasped firmly around her upper arm.

“Keep smiling and don’t make a noise or a lot of people will die and you’ll be the first of them. You understand?”

Ae-Cha froze, then nodded nervously.

Koschey shepherded her forward, his stance casual despite his viselike grip on her arm, directing her toward the stairwell, smiling at her and at a passing waiter.

“Let’s go see Jonny,” he added, low and to her ear.

She nodded again, more controlled this time, as they passed another waiter and pushed through the doorway and into the stairwell.

“Quickly now,” he hissed.

She led him up to the top of the stairs and knocked on the metal door. There was no answer. She glanced at Koschey, who knocked on the door himself, mimicking her tap.

Still nothing.

He pressed the fiberglass-reinforced-plastic blade to her neck. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” she stammered. “He must have gone out.”

He pressed the blade harder as he studied her, ascertaining whether she was telling the truth. “Try harder.”

“This is his place,” she insisted. “If he’s not in there, he’s gone out.”

She was shaking too much to be lying.

He asked, “You have his number on your phone?”

Ae-Cha nodded.

“All right. Let’s go.” He herded her back toward the stairs. “And let’s hope you mean a lot to him.”

JONNY WAS GLAD TO have Bon along for the ride.

Bon was exactly the company he needed on the drive down to Brighton Beach. Someone who didn’t ask questions and did what he was asked. Most of the time. Plus the big guy was useful in a fight and knew how to party. Since Shin had swapped Colombian powder for formula powder-another member of the crew lost to trivial domesticity-he was no fun at all. Jonny could almost hear Shin’s teeth chattering nervously from the far seat, by the passenger window. But at least the bookworm had been useful tonight. If the van proved effective in some way, then it had to be worth something. Or maybe he’d just keep it. Ask Shin to break it down in his own time so he had a better chance of understanding it.

But first Jonny wanted to see what happened when he threw the switch with people around.

They took Van Wyck and then Belt and Shore, covering the twenty miles to Brighton Beach in less than half an hour. They followed Ocean almost to the water, then took the off-ramp back around to Brighton Beach Avenue.

Jonny knew all about the Sledgehammer. Mirminsky had a reputation for being as brutal as he was greedy. Deals with the kuvalda were always completely one-sided-honored or broken on a whim with no shame and apparently no fear of any retaliation. His guys may not have been the last ones to have Daphne-or maybe there was some kind of power play going on within Mirminsky’s crew-but either way the fat fuck had taken Daphne in the first place and was clearly up to his weasel eyes in the whole thing. Whatever the van did-if it did anything at all-was no less than the beetroot-eating bastard and his followers deserved.

It was Bon who had reminded Jonny about Mirminsky’s original bar-restaurant, Lolita, which sat at the top end of one of the streets that ran south from Brighton Beach Avenue. Atmosphère was way too hot at the moment. There were always paparazzi camped outside and Jonny had no interest in unwittingly frying the brain of a Knicks star and his reality-show starlet girlfriend, especially not since he was an avid fan. Lolita was an entirely different proposition, the clientele leaning more toward meatheads and past-their-prime platinum-blond gold diggers. Not that they’d find much gold on Brighton Beach Avenue other than what the local bratki wore around their necks.

They parked almost directly opposite the bar, which appeared to be full, even though it was midweek. Large windows on either side of the entrance gave a clear view of a crush at least seven deep facing the bar and several oversubscribed tables. A sizeable throng of customers stood outside, smoking and laughing. A small, wiry Uzbek-looking man wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and white leather boots was keeping the hard-core nicotine addicts amused-most likely with jokes that would make Louis C.K. blush. A tall, raven-haired woman teetering on six-inch heels was flicking her tresses from side to side, desperately trying to attract the attention of a young guy in a white T-shirt and fashionably torn blue jeans, who nonetheless appeared to be more interested in the short guy’s comedy routine. The rest of the group looked like gym-ripped thugs or low-level Mafiya enforcers-guys who would never pimp, run numbers, or distribute product across more than a few city blocks.

Jonny waited as Shin squeezed between the seats and went through the narrow doorway into the rear compartment before following him through, a pair of ear protectors already slung around his neck. He kept the cabin door open so he could see the restaurant from the back.

“Get behind the wheel,” he told Bon. “In case we have to make a quick exit.”

Bon did so. He then stuffed a couple of earplugs into his ears before slipping on a crash helmet. It was the best that Shin could manage at short notice.

“All set, Pulgasari?” Jonny asked him.

Bon always smiled when people used his nickname. He loved being compared to the giant, metal-eating beast of the infamous North Korean monster movie. He whacked his helmet hard with both hands, then nodded and gave Jonny a thumbs-up. Jonny couldn’t help but laugh at Bon’s antics as he donned his own ear protectors. Bon pulled out a small case from a pocket of his cargo pants and started to chop out some lines.

The van really was the perfect cover story, Jonny thought. Who was going to question a food-delivery vehicle anywhere near shops or restaurants?

Bon snorted a couple of lines and passed the remaining powder to Jonny, who sent them up his nose with minimal fuss.

“We ready?” he asked Shin.

Shin nodded, visibly jittery, and pulled on his ear protectors.

Jonny tapped Bon’s helmet and shouted out, “Let’s do it, oppa Brooklyn-style,” mimicking Psy’s Gangnam dance moves.

Bon made a big show of counting down with his fingers, like a TV producer, then flicked the switch to On.

With Jonny still bopping to an imaginary beat, they all stared out at the restaurant.

Nothing happened.

They waited ten, fifteen seconds. Nothing. Jonny turned to Shin and gave him a “What gives” gesture. Shin grimaced back an “I don’t know.” Jonny pointed at the laptop and mouthed, “Try another setting.”

Shin highlighted another preset button on the laptop’s screen and clicked it.

Still nothing.

At least, not for the first ten seconds or so.

Then it started.

I COULD SEE THE small crowd outside the restaurant as we got there and pulled in.

We climbed out and were met by the SSG who’d called us moments earlier, a young agent by the name of Jaffee.

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” he told us.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

“He’s bleeding badly. He’s got a big cut on his side,” he said, pointing to the back of his left flank. “He was walking with his friends and he just fell. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’d been stabbed.”

I muttered a curse and bolted toward the restaurant’s door, yanking my gun out and hoping we weren’t too late again. “Inside,” I told him, and Aparo as I rushed ahead. “It’s our guy. He’s here.”