In for a Ruble (42 page)

“I got sandwiches from the deli. Something to drink?”

“Beer?”

“Is that a good idea? Never mind, I thought you’d ask, so I got that too.”

She brought a bottle of Heineken, a tasteless brew, but I wasn’t about to say so.

“Perfect,” I lied.

She smiled, and I reached for her hand.

“I’m trying,” she said. “But, as you pointed out, you don’t make it easy.”

“I’m trying too,” I said, biting back doubt. “I’m not very good at it.”

“You can say that again.”

“Want to hear about Stamford?” Get the sincerity ball rolling.

I took a long swallow of Heineken. It tasted better than I remembered.

“Go easy, shug. If I know you, you’re not done for the day.”

She didn’t know the half of it. I put down the beer and picked up a sandwich. In between bites, I told her about Batkin, what he’d said about the BEC, Irina taking off, Thomas Leitz and Nosferatu, and Andras—the note and the overnight odyssey from the Regency to the Doubletree to the Super 8.

“Did you really have to call Nosferatu and rile him up?”

“I wanted the kid to hear what he’s up against and I wanted Nosferatu chasing me.”

“Exactly my point.”

“He doesn’t know where we are now.”

“He knew where to find you that night he beat you up.”

She was right. Arrogance … I chewed another bite of sandwich.

“What are you going to do about Leitz?”

“Don’t know.”

“He should be prosecuted. He could maybe plead it down to manslaughter, but he’s looking at prison time for sure.”

“I figured that.”

“And?”

“I told him to go to the police. But he’s got a terminally ill wife and a seriously screwed-up kid. Not going to do anyone any good if he’s in the slammer.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it.”

“It is the circumstance.”

“Circumstances get considered at sentencing time. The law says you can’t go around breaking people’s necks.”

She staked out the position I expected her to, and I couldn’t argue against it. But coming from a system where the law could be made up on the spot by anyone carrying a card that said ChK, GPU, NKVD, KGB or FSB, I had a hard time seeing it with such absolute clarity.

“I can tell we’re gonna keep having this argument,” she said.

“That’s a good thing, from my point of view.”

She smiled. “At least you’ve answered one question.”

“What’s that?”

“Why they did it—the kids. Some kind of power trip.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You said they were all abused—that was the common bond—usually by a family member or someone close to them. The abuse wasn’t just physical—it takes its psychological and emotional toll too. This was their way of getting back at their abusers. They owned these guys, their customers, psychologically speaking. They told them when to tune in, made them shell out thousands—tens of thousands—to watch. They were the performers, but that didn’t bother them. It was all about control, psychological control. Power trip, like I said.”

“Huh. I hadn’t thought about it quite that way. I wonder … Remember the other day, we talked about how Irina’s the one calling the shots but I couldn’t see her motivations? I think you just put your finger on it.”

“Power trip?”

“Control. Power. And in this particular instance, revenge.” I called Foos on the cell phone that came with Warren Brandeis. “How’s the kid?”

“Just woke up. We’re starting to talk. How’s his old man?”

“Not so good. He admitted killing Coryell.”

Foos was silent, something else he does when he doesn’t have anything constructive to contribute.

I said, “I’ll tell you the rest when I see you. Right now, I need to know if Irina still has her phone offline.”

“Hang on, I’ll check.… Still offline.”

“Keep an eye on it. I have a feeling it’ll be back on shortly.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“What are you thinking?” Victoria asked.

“Business first. You want the ConnectPay servers?”

“You serious?”

“It’s either you or Nosferatu. You’re a lot prettier. Nicer too, most of the time.”

That got me a whack across the back of the head, but it was playful—I think.

“I suppose there’s a price,” she said.

“Of course. This is a capitalist country, as you keep reminding me.”

“Why is it now you’ve decided to listen? What do you want?”

“Couple weeks at the Gage Hotel?”

That got me another hug and kiss. “When can we leave?”

“You’ve got your case, remember?”

“All too well. That’s what I wanted to talk about.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m guessin’ your mouth will be involved before too long.”

I smiled and kept silent to show I was trying. The Brandeis cell phone buzzed.

Foos said, “You hung up too fast. Someone’s trying to reach the Russian chick. Six calls since four o’clock yesterday. Just a number, no name, must be a disposable.”

He read off the number. Didn’t mean anything to me.

I broke the connection and dialed the number. A man answered, speaking Russian. “Who the hell is this?”

I recognized the voice from the night on Tverskaya and ended the call. Konychev had Brandeis’s number now but that didn’t change anything.

“Konychev’s been trying to reach Irina since yesterday afternoon,” I said to Victoria. “They’re playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game, those two, although mongoose-cobra might be a better description.”

“Dammit. Remember the question about why Homeland Security let Konychev into the country after DoJ and State were keeping him out?”

“Sure.”

“I’m gonna break the rules. This could cost me my job so bear that in mind when you go off to do whatever you decide to go off to do.”

“Okay.”

“It wasn’t DHS, it was us, DoJ, my office. We got DHS to front it so we wouldn’t be seen suddenly reversing ourselves”

“Very tricky. Foos will be impressed.”

“You’re not telling Foos, remember? You’re not telling anyone.”

“Right.”

“Konychev came to us, last month, through umpteen lawyers and intermediaries. He offered a deal. Everything he knew about the Baltic Enterprise Commission and its U.S. affiliates, including everything he knew about one Taras Batkin, in return for immunity, freedom of entry, and cessation of our investigation into his affairs.”

She had my full attention.

“When last month, the first approach?”

“December fifth.”

“Right after the Tverskaya attack. He was asking a steep price.”

“It was a tough call. I wasn’t remotely happy about it. But we were nowhere on the case, we needed a kick-start, and it’s not my job to prosecute Russian hoods unless they’re carrying out their hoodlumming here. Which we believe Batkin is. I made sure we weren’t prohibited from turning what we knew about Konychev over to the Russian authorities. We went to the CPS, by the way. They’re the only ones over there I even partly trust.”

“I’ll tell Aleksei next time I talk to him.”

“I already did.”

I could hear her.

“So?”

“So, we had Konychev, secluded, while we debriefed him. He’s evasive to say the least.”

“Surprised?”

“Don’t start. It’s been difficult, a real pain in the ass, not to tell tales out of school. Then he starts wandering off the reservation. That visit to Leitz was the first. The lunch on Madison Avenue that your pal Ivanhoe latched on to was the second.”

“Now he’s flown the coop?”

“
How the hell do you know that?
”

“Lucky guess. Rooted in the assumption that it’s the reason you’re telling me all this. And it’s Ivanov, not Ivanhoe.”

“It’s a good thing you were a spy, because you’d make a lousy diplomat.”

“At the risk of making another diplomatic faux pas, you’re not the first with that observation. Where were you keeping Konychev?”

“Don’t ask too many details. Hotel suite in Midtown.”

“Security?”

“Couple of FBI. But their orders were to keep others out, not necessarily hold him in. We relied on his own sense of self-protection.”

“Self-interest might have been a better premise. When’d he blow?”

“Yesterday, not long before I called you.”

“He’s been playing you.”

“Tell me something I don’t goddamned know.”

The temper was in countdown mode.

“How about some coffee?”

She went to the kitchen to get it.

“There’s something else. We had the suite wired, in case he got talkative.”

“He would have checked for that.”

“No doubt. But the FBI does what the FBI is trained to do.”

Like the Cheka.

“He didn’t talk much, mostly football and crude jokes—almost as bad as yours—and mostly in Russian. But there was one thing. He got a call, Sunday morning. His cell phone, we could only hear his side, but whoever it was had clearly called about Batkin. Konychev said something like, ‘Shit, we won’t get another shot at him now. Not like that.’”

I drank my coffee. “Doesn’t add up.”

“Why not?”

“Batkin told me he made a deal with Konychev. Not voluntarily, they had guns to their heads—Kremlin guns. You don’t renege on that—at least not overtly—unless you want to spend twenty years in Siberia. Konychev was playing a more subtle game. He was going to give you enough to hang Batkin in a U.S. court—ice him in a way that couldn’t be traced.”

“You Russians play too much chess. I’m a simple country girl. Konychev tried to kill Batkin and missed. He said he wouldn’t get another shot. I’ve got the tape.”

“Hang on. He was speaking Russian.”

“Sure. His English stinks.”

“So what you have is a translation?”

“Of course. My Russian’s no better than his English.”

“Where’s the recording?”

“At the office. Why?”

“Can I listen to it? Your translator might have got it wrong.”

“I don’t know, shug … I’m already out on a pretty long limb.”

“I wouldn’t ask unless I thought I could help. It might make a big difference.”

She eyed me long and straight.

“What the hell? It’s only another couple years in the hoosegow.”

She dialed a number and spoke briefly before she handed me the receiver.

“They’re teeing it up. That section.”

A faint but angry voice came over the line, speaking rapid-fire Russian full of slang and expletives. Hardly surprising the translation got screwed up. I handed back the phone.

“Well?” she said.

“Konychev used an expression—
pizda lasaya
. Means ‘cocky cunt,’ more or less. ‘
We won’t get another shot at that cocky cunt.
’ Your translator assumed he was referring to Batkin. He got it wrong. Irina was the target.”

CHAPTER
48

Foos called again.

“New data in the Dick. That cell phone called Leitz an hour ago.”

“Shit.”

I dialed Leitz’s number. No answer.

Victoria said, “What’s wrong? You look like you just saw that guy, Nosferatu.”

“I did. I gotta get back to Leitz’s. Konychev’s headed there—or Nosferatu is.”

“You sure?”

“Board lock.”

“Wait! If you’re right, it’s dangerous. Let my people handle it.”

“No time.”

“Nine-one-one. Cops can be there in minutes.”

I was halfway to the door.

“Konychev’s after the kids and the computers. He thinks Leitz knows where Andras is, and he’s the link to Irina. So yes, call nine-one-one. I can use the help.”

“Turbo, please! Don’t go. I’m scared.”

She had tears in her eyes to prove it. I came back and took her hands in mine.

“You’re right back where you didn’t want to be. I’m sorry. But neither of us is going to think much of me tomorrow if I stay here.”

“Okay, I’ll go with you.”

Before I could respond, she said, “I know. Bad idea. Dammit.”

“I’ll be back before your dragons can get warmed up. Promise,” I said.

She looked deep into my eyes before she swallowed and nodded. I took that for permission and kissed her.

“Make that call to the cops.”

It was snowing hard when I reached the street, already an inch or more on the ground. I ran, cursing myself for giving Konychev and Nosferatu too much time.

Leitz’s door was ajar. No one leaves a door open in New York. Nothing to do but keep going, even if someone was on the other side.

I kicked the door wide and backed away in case the someone had a gun.

Nobody fired. I peeked around the frame. The entrance hall looked just like it had ninety minutes before. Plus blood.

A wet trail across the stone floor. I stepped in and listened. Not a sound, but I could feel people in the house. I followed the trail to an open door at the back. It led down a hall to an enormous kitchen. The Filipina maid lay next to the center island, her dress and apron soaked in red. No pulse from her neck.

I grabbed a kitchen knife, found a back staircase and climbed as quickly as I dared. The staircase bisected a narrow hallway on the second floor before it climbed another flight. A large, airy office to my right. Jenny Leitz sat with her back to me, wearing black, bent over a desk, her head turned to one side. I stifled a cry and put my hand to her neck. I knew the answer before I felt the cooling skin. With luck she’d never heard him coming. I took my hand away and made a promise—he’d know I was there, right before he followed her out of this world.

Anger stomping caution, I ran the corridor to the front of the house. I came out at the center hall staircase. Cold air cut through my clothes. The drawing room was untouched but one French door banged in the wind. I leaned out in time to see a long overcoat turn right up Madison, worn by a tall man with a pulled-forward face.

I took the stairs two at a time, caution forgotten now, and barreled through the Rothko chamber. Leitz slumped behind his desk at an awkward angle.

“LEITZ!”

No answer.

He was fastened to his chair with a hundred yards of duct tape. The sleeves of his cashmere sweater were shredded from elbow to wrist, long red slashes ran down his forearms. The carpet was soaked in blood. I slapped his face. No response. I cut the tape. The arms fell away and kept running red.