Last to Fold (11 page)

I kept scrolling and found what I was looking for, back in early May.

WHERE’S RATKO?

One of Ibansk’s more colorful, up-and-coming criminals (God knows, we have up-and-comers aplenty) has suddenly dropped from the scene.

In the all-night-world all over Ibansk, from Moscow’s chanson clubs to Mayfair’s casinos to New York’s oh-so-hip (or should that be SoHo hip?) city-that-never-sleeps nightspots, the young and the reckless, feckless but rarely checkless, are asking the same question—Where’s Ratko?

He cut—still cuts? (in Ibansk one must always ask)—a wide swath, does/did young Rad Rislyakov, who goes by
nom de guerre
Ratko Risly these days, owing to his uncanny resemblance to Dustin Hoffman. He is also resident high-tech guru in the Badgers’ criminal empire. Tech-savvy denizens may remember the electronic heist of 100 million identity files from the American retailing giant T.J. Maxx. The U.S. Justice Department made a splashy indictment of the participants a few years later. But Ivanov is told they didn’t get the mastermind—or half the take. Ratko Risly made his Badger bones on that scheme.

I remembered that scheme. It had been the first really big heist of identity information—the one that put large-scale ID theft on the map. At least forty million accounts, maybe as many as a hundred million, as Ivanov claimed. Front-page news at the time. Front-page news again a few years later when one of the hackers heisted another hundred million credit card numbers, demonstrating the old fool-me-once/fool-me-twice adage was as apt as ever. Foos was bemused by the brazenness—the hackers literally reeled in their prey with a laptop and some wireless equipment readily purchasable on the Internet, sitting in a car in a strip mall parking lot. He was more appalled by the near total lack of security on the part of major retailing chains. Most of all, he wondered what the thieves planned to do with all those names and numbers.

It appeared Rad Rislyakov—Ratko Risly—was a big-time player, which didn’t mesh on any of a number of levels with the lowlifes supposedly working for him, and certainly not with the three Ukrainians I’d met last night in Jersey City.

Ivanov had more to add.

Ratko burns the candle at both ends—on three continents. For the last few months, he’s been seen in the company of an auburn-haired, blue-eyed creature, as gorgeous as any beauty in Ibansk—no exaggeration, Ivanov swears!—but then he and she dropped out of sight. Ivanov is doubly curious because heretofore Ratko has been seen mainly in the company of pretty young men. A foot in each camp, perhaps.

Did the Badger Brothers rein in their wayward genius, fearing he could flame out? Ivanov hears he’s been busy building a new profit center for the Barsukov empire—a high-tech, hush-hush money laundry capable of making billions vanish into the international ether. Perhaps he was attracting the wrong kind of attention to his own exploits. Many avenues for Ivanov to explore. Stay tuned!

Could there be two Rad Rislyakovs? Unlikely. The photo in my pocket of Eva Mulholland—an “auburn-haired, blue-eyed beauty” if there ever was one—made it more so. But if Ratko was such a big-shot, globe-trotting, jet-setting, high-tech crook, why was he pretending to screw around with penny-ante kidnapping?

One more manifestation of Fucktown?

One way to find out—ask.

*   *   *

It was still early, but Chelsea bustles at all hours, especially along Sixth Avenue, where the big discount emporia have reclaimed the elegant limestone buildings constructed originally as department stores for the carriage trade. Times change. In New York, commerce adapts and carries on. Yet Mother Nature can work her will, even in the concrete jungle, and this morning, the heat sucked life from the street. A cab dropped me outside Rislyakov’s luxury loft conversion. (New York is still waiting for its first nonluxury conversion.)

The lobby was all blond wood and stainless steel. A uniformed doorman, Hispanic, early thirties, sat behind a circular counter. I told him who I was there to see.

He shook his head. “Not home.”

“When was the last time he was home?”

“Can’t say. We’re not allowed—”

I slid a Department of Homeland Security ID card across the blond wood. A forgery, a good one, a gift from a Russian FSB officer for whom I did a favor. The man looked down at the card and up at me.

“You’ll be helping your country. Rislyakov runs with a suspicious crowd, Middle East connections, if you know what I mean.”

“I had no idea. He’s … He’s always been polite to me.”

“Of course he has. No way you could know. When did you last see him?”

The man thought for a moment. “Couple months, now that I think about it. He didn’t say anything about going away. But that’s not unusual.”

“Anyone else asking for him?”

He hesitated. I tapped the card on the counter. “Couple of guys—foreign guys, Russian maybe, I’m not sure. Big men, thick accents. They come by every few days. Gave me … They wanted me to call them when Mr. Rislyakov returns. I wouldn’t, of course.”

“Of course. You have the key to the apartment?”

“I can’t—”

“You heard of the Patriot Act?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gives us the power to prosecute people who prevent us from stopping a terrorist incident before it occurs.”

“Hey! I never—”

“Of course you didn’t. Key?”

He opened a drawer and handed across a ring. “You want 7B. Left off the elevator.”

“Thanks.” I put a fifty on the counter.

“That’s not necessary, sir. I didn’t realize … I’m glad to help.”

“Don’t worry. The Patriot Act created a special fund for situations like this. Consider it a thank-you from a grateful government.”

I headed for the elevator before he could think too much. One reason I chose to live in America is that I agree with Churchill. Democracy is the worst form of government yet invented—except for all the others that have been tried. Proof point—the Patriot Act is exactly the kind of law that could’ve been enacted by the Communist Party Central Committee. I assuaged the mild guilt I felt over the Homeland Security ruse with the argument that it was a lot less harmful than the fear I’d instilled in Jersey City last night.

The elevator opened onto a small hallway with five doors. I rang the bell for 7B and waited. Nothing. I rang again. No sound from within. I unlocked the door and entered.

The air was hot, still, and stale. No one had been here in weeks, if not months, as the doorman said. A large, open, modern space that resembled the lobby in its use of wood and steel. A lot of Sheetrock painted white, big windows out to Sixth Avenue. Double glass muffled the noise from the street.

The space was neat and clean. No clutter. I spent a short hour going through it. At the end, I had a portrait of a young man with expensive taste in design, clothes, furniture, toiletries, and sex toys, but not much else. A lot of things were missing—a computer, for one, for a reputed geek, but maybe he had a laptop he took with him. Also photographs, mementos, notes, files—all the things that accumulate in life, even a young one. Remove the clothes and toiletries and it was as if no one lived here; the apartment could have been a sale model. Nothing here for me. On the way out, I noted a stack of books next to an easy chair. Ross Macdonald and Graham Greene,
Travels with My Aunt
on top. At least Ratko had good taste in writers.

I went back to the lobby and gave the keys to the doorman. His eyes traveled to two large men sitting on black leather chairs. They were as broad and coarse as the decor was sleek and trendy. Pasty faces, cheap suits, unfriendly eyes. One of them stood and came toward me.

“Dobrya utro,”
I said. “Good morning.”

“Yeb vas,”
he replied. “Fuck off.”

“Thought so.”

“Thought what, asshole?”

“
Urki
muscle. You work for Lachko?”

“Don’t fuck with us.”

“Fine. See ya.”

As I turned I started a count in my head. I got to eight.

“Wait.” He wasn’t quick, but the dimwit’s brain was starting to function. “What do you want here?”

“See Ratko.”

“What for?”

“Friend of friend.”

“He ain’t here.”

“So I’m told. But if he’s not, why are you?”

“Fuck off.”

The brain had apparently maxed out. He went back to his seat and took out a pack of cigarettes before remembering he couldn’t light up inside. He put them back in his pocket with a curse. These weren’t the Badger’s best men. One more try wouldn’t do any harm.

“Hey, I’ve been trying to call Ratko, but nobody answers. When’s the last time anyone saw him?”

“Fuck off.”

That seemed to be the extent of his conversational repertoire. They would certainly report my presence. Question was, did I want to make it easy for Lachko to know I was interested.

Couldn’t hurt.

Bullshit.

It could hurt in the extreme.

That didn’t stop me from saying, “Tell Lachko, Turbo sends his regards.”

Neither man looked up as I walked out the door.

*   *   *

Five phone messages from Bernie at the office, two from last night and three this morning. One from Gayeff, curt but informative.

“Guys left at six. One went out to a shelter, came back with clothes. The two we followed went straight to SoHo, 32 Greene. Couldn’t see the buzzer, but there was no one home. Followed them to Manhattan Beach. Same addresses you had. One more thing. Somebody followed us following them. Blue Chevy Impala. Probably a rental. New York plates but couldn’t get the number without getting spotted. Car stayed at Greene Street when we went back to Brooklyn.”

Who the hell could that have been? And where did they pick us up? The hotel? Montgomery Street? Maybe Marko and his friends were sharper than I thought. But I still had the money. I checked the safe, just to make sure.

I gave Foos and Pig Pen a rundown on the night’s activities. The parrot gets obstreperous if he’s left out of the loop.

“Wait a minute,” Foos said. “You telling me this guy Risly pulled off the T.J. Maxx job?”

“That’s right.”

“Shrewd dude. That was one ballsy hack.”

“See what the Basilisk can find on him. He goes by Risly and Rislyakov. His apartment is 663 Sixth. SoHo address is 32 Greene.”

“Sure.”

I had gotten some coffee and a traffic update from Pig Pen when Foos’s baritone rumbled through the office like close-by thunder. The last bites of a bacon-egg-cheese-grease-on-a-roll concoction sat on tinfoil on his desk. My doctor is constantly on my case about blood pressure and cholesterol. He has me on statins, and I watch what I eat. I tried to compare notes once with Foos, but he just grinned and said he had no issues. I think he was swallowing a cheeseburger at the time. Like the Ralph Lauren girlfriends—life just isn’t fair.

“No Rislys or Rislyakovs at 32 Greene. But there is a Goncharov. Number 6A.”

“Goncharov?”

“Alexander.” He banged on the keyboard.

“Ratko has a sense of humor. The Russian poet Pushkin’s first name was Alexander, and his wife’s name was Goncharova.”

“Hilarious. The Rislyakov side of his personality has a gambling problem. Accounts at four online casinos. Down about eight hundred grand, all told.”

“You don’t say?”

“I also say he’s three months behind on the rent in Chelsea. Eighty-five hundred a month. Sold the car in May—Audi TT—for eighteen grand. Stiffed the garage for two months before that. Prepaid Con Ed and Time Warner. Eight hundred and change. That covers Internet and phone.”

“Huh. Sounds like he was getting ready to run.”

“Yep. Goncharov’s up to date on the financial basics of life, but he’s accumulating credit cards and bank accounts. Eight Visas, five MasterCards, five Amex. Only just started using them, though. Been running up a Visa bill in Moscow the last eight days—six grand and change. Hotel, restaurants, a few shops. Huh, he used a Rislyakov Visa. Can you tell what this is?”

I leaned over his shoulder. “Looks like an undertaker.”

“We all gotta go sometime. Let’s see. He’s got bank accounts at Chase, Citi, B of A, and some locals. Twenty-two in all. Nothing much in them. Few hundred each. I’d say he’s getting ready to leave Rislyakov and his debts hanging, and switch to the Goncharov identity. Maybe he was arranging for Rislyakov’s funeral.”

“Funny. Phone calls?”

“Patience. On to those next.”

“Think I’ll pay a visit to Greene Street. Order another breakfast delight. On me.”

I went next door and called Bernie.

“I’ve got Mulholland’s money. And a possible line on the so-called kidnapper. Unless I miss my guess, he’s sleeping with Eva. Although he might be gay—or AC/DC.”

“Turbo! It’s already been a long day. Make sense. What happened last night?”

“The less you know, in your current capacity of practicing attorney, the better.”

“Just give me the basics.” Bernie’s twenty-five years in the CIA were spent mostly behind a desk. Sometimes he can’t contain his curiosity.

“Three Ukrainians, small-time hoods. I used some contract muscle. We shot one of them so they’d know we were serious, then faked killing another so his pals would talk. Oh, and we threatened to hunt down their families, kill them or worse. The last time I saw the Ukrainians, they were naked in bed together in a Jersey City rent-a-flop.”

“Okay, you made your point.”

“The Ukrainians are working for a guy named Rislyakov. He works for Barsukov.”

“That’s not good.”

“Yeah, but Rislyakov’s not where he’s supposed to be. Lachko’s got men out looking for him.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Rislyakov’s a geek playboy. Geek as in Gates, not Onassis. He probably has a gambling problem, and rumor is, he’s dropped from sight. Before he dropped he was seen a lot with an auburn-haired, blue-eyed beauty on his arm. Sound familiar?”

“I really don’t need this.”

“She’s still priority one, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ve got an idea where Rislyakov and Eva might be. I’ll be by later with the dough. Mulholland sprung?”

“Arraignment’s in an hour.”