Marked Man II - 02 (3 page)

“There’s some guy knocking on all the doors. Looking for his girlfriend sounds like.”

Uri’s curiosity in the noise had already ceased. He was intensely studying the patterns in the hotel room’s carpet. The voice from outside kept going for several more minutes, a vague hum of discontent. Agent Hinckley kept watching at the window.

“Don’t they have anybody to deal with this kind of thing?”

Reclining in his lazy nest of pillows Agent Winstone shrugged.

“Peace of mind costs money.”

The sound of the disturbance got louder and Agent Hinckley commented that the man had walked upstairs and was now knocking at the second floor rooms.

“He sounds drunk. I’m going to go tell him to knock it off.”

After he picked up the electronic key card for the room Agent Hinckley walked to the door and swung it open. He paused in the doorway and told the other FBI man not to go anywhere, and to make sure not to answer for anybody but him. A rush of hot, dry air came in before the door clicked shut.

Uri shivered and glanced over at Agent Winstone on the bed. He was staring.

“Vat? Vat is it?”

“Nothing.”

The FBI man searched around in the sheets and covers until he found the TV remote again. While Uri was sleeping the game must have ended because the show playing was just a rehash of highlights from around the league. Two sportscasters were arguing whether a base runner should have been called safe or out. The TV replayed the slide into third base from one angle, and then another. Agent Winstone pressed a button on the remote and the sound of the sportscasters debating grew and filled the room.

“Vat are you doing?”

Agent Winstone had gotten up from the bed and was scrutinizing Uri from across the room. He replied that he was not doing anything as he twisted his feet into his shoes without unlacing them first. The volume on the TV turned up higher.

You can clearly see here from this angle that Robinson does not bring the tag down in time to reach Munoz before he reaches the bag… Yes but that’s really a technicality, when the throw beats the runner by that much the umpire is going to call him out nine times out of ten regardless of what happens with the tag… That may be true but that doesn’t make it right… Now Tom Ianucci got ejected for arguing the call as you see here and he had to know they were going to toss him but sometimes you have to make a stand...

The rules of baseball existed in some intangible universe that could only be reached by light speed travel, as far as Uri was concerned. Basically, somebody threw a ball, somebody else hit the ball, and then a bunch of other guys tried to stop him from running around. That was the extent of Uri’s expertise. The finer points of the conversation were lost to him. As the volume kept going up Uri felt increasingly frustrated by this. Why could they not agree on what happened on the play? After all the two men were watching the exact same thing over and over and over again. Why did they have to be so opinionated about it? More importantly, why was it so loud?

All of the muscles in Uri’s face and neck tensed and bulged. He cringed and covered his ears to drown out the baseball talk but it came pounding through his eardrums all the same.

Agent Winstone had removed his glock from its holster. He calmly walked over to the desk and picked up the chair, then braced it against the door so it could not be opened from the outside. Uri observed this with a detached kind of fascination. The FBI man checked the window, pulling the curtain aside to have a look. Whatever he saw or didn’t see seemed to satisfy him. He reached for the coat rack and pulled down the rain jacket he’d been wearing when he arrived. In the front pocket Agent Winstone found a silencer, which he screwed onto the end of his glock.

Uri grew agitated when the FBI man made his way towards where he was sitting. He pointed the gun at Uri but he did not shoot. Uri contorted in the chair like he was tied to it even though he was not, and he gritted his teeth.

“Vy are you doing zis? Vy?”

The FBI man sneered and kept his aim steadily trained on Uri. He kept coming closer, slowly. Judging from the commentary the baseball broadcasters were winding down their disagreement.

...Well Ianucci can expect to get a heavy fine and maybe even a suspension for this… You just can’t pick up a base and throw it around like that anymore… He made his point. Sometimes as a manager you have to make your point and defend your guy even if you know that it’s an argument that you’re going to lose…

Agent Winstone stopped when he was just a couple of feet away from where Uri was cowering in his seat. He lifted his arm and pressed the cold tip of the silencer against Uri’s greasy forehead. Uri’s eyes were squeezed shut so tight it was physically painful.

“
Vous avez casse’ la foi.
”

Hearing the emperor’s tongue seemed to shake Uri out of his shell of despair. His eyes opened wide and Uri let out a bellowing yell as he lunged forward and charged the FBI man. The glock fired once before he collided with Agent Winstone and the two of them tumbled onto the floor, wrestling and reaching for the gun that had fallen in the struggle.

Uri had been hiding in hotel rooms for three months. Before his arrest he was strung out on meth, pills and vodka. What little muscle he’d kept from his days of high school track and field had long since withered, but Uri fought with a ferocity and a passion that took Agent Winstone completely by surprise.

They’d told him that Uri would be a slam dunk. He would barely put up any resistance whatsoever. An easy forty grand as could possibly be earned. But this, this wiry strong menace with red hair and bad breath was something else entirely. Uri Grigoriyevich was not only determined, he was winning. Even though Agent Winstone was slightly out of shape he would have laughed if anyone told him he could lose a contest of strength to this miserable Russian speed freak. But there he was, clawing at Agent Winstone’s face, and pulling ever closer to the glock waiting on the carpet…

The television switched to a commercial. An ad for erectile dysfunction came on, blaring an extensive list of side effects and warnings. Despite being locked in a life and death struggle Agent Winstone caught himself wondering imprudently how awful it must feel like to have an erection lasting longer than four hours.

Whatever infinitesimal distraction was provided by the commercial, it was all that Uri needed. With one final push he got hold of the glock. He brought it to bear on the FBI man’s face and pulled the trigger. Agent Winstone stopped struggling and his body went limp. Blood poured into the carpet from a hole in the back of his skull the size of a golf ball.

Holding a sore spot on his abdomen, Uri got to his feet. He kicked the dead FBI man and almost stumbled over him but he caught himself. Uri staggered across the room towards the TV. When he got there he bent over, then turned the volume all the way down. He spat on the carpet which was changing from chamois to ruby.

“Commercials. Alvays ze Americans vit commercials.”

A much longer rant about the nefarious nature of manufactured desire was on the production line in Uri’s mind but a sharp pain made him bite his tongue. Uri took the chair away and pulled on the doorknob. The wave of heat even in the dead of night staggered him.

Above the sky was overcast, and the moon was not visible. The clouds further out to the east were brightened by the reflected brilliance of the city’s lights. Uri swallowed and wiped a stray bead of sweat from his brow, then started walking up the outdoor hall. Somewhere below on the first floor he could hear the other FBI man’s voice. He was telling the loud man that it was very late and he was disturbing the hotel’s customers and that it was past time for him to go home.

Uri was about to call the FBI man’s name when he realized he could not remember it. Something to do with water. Or water coolers. The names on the water coolers. Thinking about water made Uri suddenly aware that he was very thirsty and would have given anything for a cool, clean, refreshing tall glass of it. Uri stopped ambling along and leaned up against the wall. He allowed his body to slide down to the floor. Uri decided that he would wait for the other FBI man with the name that had something to do with water to come back up on his own. There was no need to go running around the hotel looking for him. Uri could yell just the same sitting down as he could on his feet. Maybe he would remember the agent’s name, if he just laid down for a little while.

Yes, Uri was sure that eventually it would come to him.

Chapter Two

“All rise. The honorable Judge Moore residing.”

With a creak of her knees, detective Bollier got up along with everybody else and waited until the judge told them it was ok to sit again. While the bottle of Canadian Club was tremendous company, hosting it always meant a late night and little sleep. The ache in Bollier’s bones was always worse when she hadn’t slept.

Judge Moore was already sweating profusely when he clapped his gavel and told the court to be seated. Those heavy black robes couldn’t breathe easily, Bollier thought. The judge spoke.

“Misses Cavanaugh. Are you ready to proceed?”

“I am your honor.”

Kelly Cavanaugh rose from the prosecution’s table. She was one of the district attorney’s most capable and savvy operators. When Bollier heard that she would be leading the team for Shirokov’s trial she allowed herself the first real glimmer of hope that he might actually be convicted. The case was solid but not ironclad. All of the drugs the DEA seized back on Riis Landing were not terribly difficult to link back to Shirokov and his gang, but there were still a lot of loose ends. By no means was the outcome a guarantee.

Too much of the DA’s case was built around Uri Grigoriyevich and the information he’d provided. If the defense could manage to successfully discredit him, things might get shaky.

Bollier pushed her doubts out of her head and listened to Cavanaugh address the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, before the prosecution calls its next witness I would like to take a moment to speak about what happened here yesterday. You’re all familiar with Avi Solomon. I’m sure you’ve all seen his commercials on late night TV even before you saw him here in court.”

A few of the men and women in the jury’s box nodded their heads.

“Mister Solomon fancies himself a kind of celebrity. He represents rap moguls and Wall Street sharks and organized crime bosses from all over the city. He probably thinks that because he’s been on the cover of GQ that the normal rules don’t apply to him. But the fact is what he did yesterday was reprehensible. By going out of his way to attack the prosecution’s key witness he deliberately planted a seed of doubt in your hearts. Before you have heard anything our witness has to say, he’s already pitting you against him.”

The lawyers surrounding Shirokov all stood up at once to object. Judge Moore sustained the objection and told Cavanaugh to produce her witness now or never. She agreed to do just that, but got one parting shot in, telling the jury to “trust your own judgment, not mister Solomon’s.”

From the back of the courtroom an officer came forward and made the announcement.

“The state of New York calls forward one Uri Grigoriyevich.”

A low murmur spread through the crowd. Bollier turned her head to watch him coming in, the same as everybody else. Thirty seconds passed and nothing happened. The court officer cleared his throat and made the call for the star witness to appear again, speaking a little louder this time.

“The STATE of New YORK calls forward URI Grigoriyevich.”

A minute of awkward silence elapsed before Bollier knew that something was wrong. Before arriving in court Bollier had set her phone on vibrate. A chill crawled up her back when she felt it buzzing. She fished the phone out and read the message from Special Agent Kyle Clemons:

Bad news. Call me ASAP.

Bollier excused herself out of the aisle and hustled out of the courtroom. The lobby was mostly empty save for a couple security guards and lawyers coming and going with their clients. Bollier dialed the number and began walking down the hall, the sound of her high heels echoing off the marble with each stride. When Agent Clemons answered he sounded completely despondent and Bollier felt her stomach drop.

“Detective. Thanks for calling.”

“What’s up Kyle? Are you ok?”

Agent Clemons let out a very tired sigh.

“I’m fine. Uri not so much. He’s dead.”

“WHAT?” The detective’s shriek reverberated through the chamber, turning more than just a couple of heads. Bollier lowered her voice and walked faster. “How is that possible? He was under 24 hour guard wasn’t he?”

“I’m not sure exactly how it happened. But it looks like he tried to make a run for it, got into a tussle with one of my agents. Killed him, but caught one in the stomach during the struggle. He didn’t make it very far.”

“Why would he run? Why now?”

“Last night, last chance before he had to go through with it.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“He’s dead. I identified the body just a couple of minutes ago at the coroner’s office.”

“No I mean I don’t believe he would run. You know what I think.”

“Leslie.”

“Don’t.”

“That’s crazy. They couldn’t possibly have gotten to the FBI. It’s just not possible.”

“Kyle you really need to wake up. If you don’t I’m afraid they’re going to get you too.”

“Les. I know you’ve had a tough year. A tough decade, shit. But just because something goes wrong doesn’t make it part of some grand conspiracy. That’s exactly the way Uri thought. Completely paranoid, out of his mind. You’re starting to sound just like…”

Before her friend and confidante could finish the sentence Bollier cut him off by ending the call. She did not want to resent him for saying something he would later regret. Obviously he was frustrated, probably exhausted, not himself. Bollier could forgive him for calling her paranoid or even comparing her to a cretin like Uri Grigoriyevich but she was livid with his naiveté.

The Russians had infiltrated everywhere, gotten to everyone. What made the FBI so special? They were just ordinary people, albeit with a little more ambition and networking skill, but they were people all the same. People could be bought. People could be corrupted, or blackmailed, or murdered. There were no exceptions. If the Italian mob and a couple rogue CIA operatives could kill the President then what would stop the Russians from killing or bribing federal agents and bringing them into the fold? Kyle Clemons was being worse than cruel: he was being foolish. And that was something that the detective did not pardon.

Bollier rushed back into court to find the place in a general uproar. Shirokov, Solomon and the other lawyers were laughing so hard they almost looked shit-faced. Cavanaugh’s face looked like the color of a plum tomato. Judge Moore was banging his gavel repeatedly and calling for order. Once the clamor died down he asked for help.

“It appears that the prosecution’s key witness has gone missing. Does anyone have any idea just what in God’s name is going on here?”

Even though she felt she might be crossing a line, detective Bollier felt obligated to raise her hand. Judge Moore squinted through his glasses at her.

“Yes? Who are you miss?”

“Your honor my name is Leslie Bollier and I’m a detective with the New York Police Department. I played a part in investigating the defendant.”

“And do you have any knowledge as to the whereabouts of Uri Grigoryawhatsit?”

“I do your honor.”

“Would you be so kind as to share that with the court?”

Bollier was about to drop the bomb when Avi Solomon stood up and shouted an objection.

“Your honor! This is completely irregular. This woman has a clear bias against my client and is a partisan entity. If she’s going to share information…”

Judge Moore cut Solomon off with a ferocious hammer of his gavel.

“MISTER Solomon. I am going to get to the bottom of this right now whether you or anyone short of the Governor has anything to say about it. Miss Bollier, please proceed.”

“Thank you your honor. Just a few minutes ago I received a call from a friend of mine in the FBI who was assigned to guard Uri Grigoriyevich.”

“And what news did this FBI source have?”

“He’s dead. He suffered a gunshot wound last night.”

Compared to the chaos that followed, the mess that greeted Bollier when she ventured back into the courtroom was nothing. Every single person seemed to be shouting over each other. Reporters in the back room were furiously scribbling notes or running out to the lobby to call their editors with the scoop. The prosecutors, including Cavanaugh were yelling across the divide at Shirokov’s defense team.

It was only a sliver of a second, and she only saw it out of the corner of her eye, but Bollier could have sworn that she saw Shirokov smile and wave at her.

After Judge Moore finally quieted the crowd he addressed the detective again.

“Is there anything else that you can report at this time?”

Bollier flashed a glance at Shirokov and cleared her throat.

“Yes your honor. It is my personal belief that the defendant hired an assassin to kill Uri Grigoriyevich so that he would not be able to testify today.”

If the judge did not look pleased with Bollier’s theory the defense team went ballistic. Solomon demanded that Judge Moore find Bollier in contempt of court and have her removed from the premises. The other lawyers echoed his idea like angry, but well-trained parrots. Bollier heard one of the journalists in the back chuckle and let out a very loud “ho-ly-shit.”

Eventually Solomon got what he wanted, but only because Judge Moore ordered that the court room be cleared of everyone except the defendant and the attorneys. He shut down the proceedings and vowed to resume the trial another day when more facts had come to light regarding the fate of the witness. 

Bollier left feeling light-headed but defiant. For her trouble she would more than likely be barred from returning to watch the trial unfold, but it felt worth it. If the Russians were going to break every rule then to hell with the rules. Three months had passed of watching, waiting, and letting the gears of justice grind forward. And for what? Because Shirokov was simply willing to go further the case was hanging on the edge of a cliff.

The state could write all the laws, and hire all the cops and agents to enforce them, but at the end of the day the real power lied in violence. Violence got things done. Violence got results. Gandhi could have gone on a hunger strike for a thousand years and India would still be under British rule if others hadn’t taken up the sword in support of the cause. The abolitionists could have protested and petitioned until they were blue in the face but the slaves would not have been freed without the help of violence.

Thinking like this made Bollier feel ashamed. She had been such a bright idealist at one time. She resented Shirokov and the other Russians for this most of all. It was worse than killing her partner, or kidnapping her, or threatening her life through her oldest friends. The Russians had changed the very way she thought about the world, and that violation was the most upsetting of all.

The guilt in turn made Bollier angry. For three months she had been playing by the rules, holding the leash on a far more effective weapon. When Bollier got home she poured herself a double whiskey neat. She stood by the tall window overlooking 8th avenue for a long time, sipping and watching a sweltering summer day turn to a beautiful summer evening, and feeling bitter she could not enjoy it. When the last of the drink was gone she picked up her phone and dialed the most recent burner number for Jordan Ross.

It was time to get back to violence.

...

Jordan Ross met the detective on Weehawken
Street by the old hotel as planned. They walked north along the Lincoln Highway with a mostly-unobstructed view of the Hudson River. Kayakers paddled by in twos and threes, merrily stroking their way along with the current. Jordan watched them somewhat wistfully and tried to remember the last time that he’d done anything active for the sheer fun of it.