Rasputin's Shadow (13 page)

I
didn’t sleep well.

It often happened to me when I was faced with too many unknowns on a case, when my mind had too much room in which to roam. So I got up earlier than usual, showered, and drove in to Federal Plaza, thinking I’d get a jump on the day and have some decent time to prep properly before our face-off with the Sledgehammer.

The news that greeted me was mixed.

On the one hand, the two dead Russian heavies had been positively identified and did, in fact, turn out to belong to the Sledgehammer’s
organizatsiya
. That was enough for me to put our plan into motion. I called up the DA’s office and made an appointment, then called a judge I knew would look favorably on what we were planning. We needed to get the paperwork sorted out and have everything in place as quickly as possible, before we went to see the
vor
.

The bad news concerned the two suits who had died with Adams and Giordano.

They weren’t carrying any IDs, but we got hits off their prints. Problem was, the hits were for two Army grunts who’d been killed in Iraq back in 2005.

Which was worrying on many levels.

It wasn’t that easy to swap people’s fingerprint files around, even in an age where everything was stored on servers and it could be done remotely. You had to know where to find them, and—keyboard wizards like my friend Kurt notwithstanding—there were all kinds of authorizations and firewalls that were very tough to get past. Also, these guys were packing Glocks and were chatting to the two detectives when they were gunned down—and it was at the scene of an active investigation. All of which only confirmed to me that something dirty was going on here, and that the players involved didn’t necessarily want us to know they had a hand in the game.

I’d need to look over my shoulder more often until this mess was put to bed.

I was back at my desk and trawling through the most recent NCIC entries on Mirminsky when Aparo came in looking uncharacteristically spooked.

“Ballistics came in from the shootings at the motel,” he said, holding up a file. “You ready for this?”

He had my attention. “What?”

“Same gun,” he said.

He wasn’t making sense. “What do you mean, same gun?”

“One gun. All seven vics.” He stared at me like he couldn’t believe it either. “It was one shooter, Sean. He took them all out on his own.”

I froze, right there.

One shooter?

I was still replaying what I’d seen in my mind’s eye and trying to imagine how it might have gone down when my phone beeped. I glanced at the caller ID. It was an unidentified caller. For a second, I considered ignoring it—then I remembered my pet hacker and his penchant for the cloak-and-dagger. I raised an index finger at Aparo in a hang-on gesture and picked up the call.

“Tell me, briefly,” I said.

“I’ve got something,” Kurt replied, his voice echoey and disembodied from the Skype call.

“Great. But I’ll need to call you back.”

“Not possible. Bat-phone’s outgoing only. I’ll call you back. Half an hour okay?”

“Perfect.” I hung up and parked my anticipation while I focused on Aparo again.

Fortunately, he seemed so mired in the ballistics conclusion that he didn’t bother asking who had just called.

“That’s . . . that’s some shooter,” I said.

“Yep.” His face furrowed even more. “We’re gonna need Kevlar balaclavas.”

I shrugged. “No point. I don’t think this guy would have much trouble putting his slugs through the eye sockets.”

“Well, that’s comforting.” Aparo shook his head slowly. “What if it was Sokolov?”

I wondered about that. Whoever it was, I couldn’t say I was looking forward to meeting him.

***

I
WAS OUTSIDE THE
building at the agreed-upon time when my phone rang.

“Can you talk now?” Kurt asked. The echo on the line was disconcerting.

“You’ll have to speak up, Mrs. Takahashi,” I told him. “The line’s terrible.”

His voice increased in volume and clarity. “I’m almost eating the microphone, so you’d better be able to hear me now. And
konnichiwa
to you, too.”

“You said you have something?”

“Do I ever,” he said proudly. “I’ve been on this nonstop since last night. I ran all the parameters as agreed. Cross-referenced several databases, including the Enrollment and Eligibility Reporting System and the RAPIDS credential issuing repository. Long story short, I’ve got seven names. All with the necessary clearance. All with disciplinary warnings. All company lifers. Two went through the internal alcohol-addiction program and have stayed clean. So far. One is currently on a course in London: ‘Global Security and China: The Paradox of Capitalism.’ Which sounds riveting. One was involved in a fatal car crash and now uses a wheelchair, so I suspect you don’t want to mess with him. Three were warned about sexual harassment, so I figured they all had potential, and one of them I really like, a guy by the name of Stan Kirby.”

“Tell me more.”

Kurt was clearly thrilled by this undertaking. “He’s in his mid-fifties. Decent-looking guy, not that I’m into that kind of thing. His mid-level diplomat parents sent him to Vassar, after which his act of rebellion was to get himself recruited by the CIA. He’s been there ever since—twenty-four years as of last November—and is currently a senior intelligence analyst with Level 2-B clearance. He’s got full benefits and is in line for the company’s top-tier pension package.”

I still couldn’t believe the information someone with Kurt’s skill set could dig up so fast. “So what’s the leverage?”

“Almost every Thursday night, going back over seven months, he hits the same cash point after work. Sevenish. Pulls out three hundred bucks.”

“Maybe he’s loading up on cash for the weekend?”

“Plausible, but here’s the thing. He works at Langley, his home’s in Arlington, and the cash point’s in Georgetown. He’s overshooting his house and going all that way to Georgetown to get some cash, then turning around and heading home? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe he’s spending it on something local.”

“My very thought. And I kinda doubt he’s handing it over to some homeless shelter. I think he’s up to no good. And here’s the kicker,” Kurt added. “Same night? Every week? His wife’s got an evening yoga class. Seven till nine.”

This made it sound a lot more promising.

“Okay, see if you can find out what he’s doing with the cash.”

“Already on it, my liege. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

Then something clicked. “Hang on, you said Thursday, right?”

“I sure did.”

Thursday. As in tomorrow. And from the way he said it, Kurt was clearly also on the same track.

“I’m on it,” he assured me. “Keep your phone handy.” Then he clicked off.

***

M
IRMINSKY’S PLACE WAS CALLED
Atmosphère, written the French way, with the accent, and pronounced “atmos-
fair
,” as befitted any self-respecting high-end nightclub in the Meatpacking District.

It was the Sledgehammer’s latest venture, the flagship of his burgeoning empire, and it was huge. Even during the day, with no pounding music or heaving bodies or dizzying light shows on display, you could easily feel what it must be like in full swing. The place was an opulent maze of black velvet, chrome, Swarovski crystals, and weird opaque glass that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. It was unbelievably flashy, although surprisingly tasteful. It had to be, given the globotrashy clientele Mirminsky was after, the Aston Martin–driving European high-fliers and homegrown hedgies whose tabs ran to thousands of dollars a night and the models and Kate Middleton clones who orbited them.

A couple of Cro-Magnons in black suits and dark shirts led us to Mirminsky, and we found him seated at a large banquette, three associates around him. Judging by their furtive looks, I’m pretty sure they weren’t discussing the DJ’s playlist for the night. Mirminsky didn’t exactly light up when he saw us, and his comrades withdrew as we arrived, wisely.

The Sledgehammer was heavier than I’d imagined from the surveillance pictures I’d seen in his file. He’d clearly been feasting on the bounties of life in America in more ways than one. His beady eyes, which looked more reptilian than human, studied us unblinkingly as he invited us to sit down.

He raised a full cocktail glass at us. “Can I offer you a drink, gentlemen? I know you guys never drink on duty, but you really should make an exception in this case. This is very, very special. We call it a ‘Green Feeling.’ You try?”

I smiled. “Love to, Yuri. It sure looks good. Thing is, if we did take you up on that, where do we draw the line? Some caviar canapés? Some of your lovely ladies? Maybe a couple of E’s and some blow?”

Mirminsky smiled back, a forced, cold smile that so clearly had zero connection to what was really swirling behind those shifty slits. “You just name your pleasure, my friend, and leave the rest to me.”

“You know something? I’m a cheap date. I don’t need the Champagne and the caviar.” I pulled out two shots of his dead underlings from my inside pocket and laid them out in front of him, then tapped them with two fingers. “All I need right now is to know what these guys were doing at a motel on Howard Beach yesterday and what’s going on between you and Leo Sokolov.”

I studied his face as I said it, but I didn’t expect to see anything. There was no tell there. Mirminsky was too much of a pro for that. He didn’t even grimace at the sight of the dead men. Instead, his face tightened with concentration that was followed by confusion. “I’m sorry, Agent—”

“Reilly,” I offered.

“—Reilly, I don’t know these men. Should I?”

I gave him a dubious look. “I think so, Yuri. They’ve got these tattoos on them. It’s like they’re animals that have been branded, and those brands lead right back to your ranch.”

The Sledgehammer laughed, making his eyes disappear altogether. “My ranch? I like that. Maybe I’ll call my next club that. Could be fun. A tribute to a great American tradition.” His face morphed into humble contrition. “Maybe they did work at one of my clubs. The problem is, I have so many employees. Maybe they were waiters, or bouncers. Maybe we caught them stealing from the till, or worse even. Anyway, if they ever did work for one of my many enterprises, I have no doubt they were fired for being”—he looked for the word—“undesirable.” He smiled smugly, like we were done.

“And Sokolov?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It’s a very common Russian name, Agent Reilly. Like Smith, or Jones. And my memory just gets worse by the day.”

“Tell you what, Yuri. Go see an herbalist and get some memory-boosting supplements. ’Cause you’re going to need everything you have locked away in that cesspool of a brain when we haul your ass in for conspiracy to murder two homicide detectives. Because in this country, that’s a crime we never, ever let slide. The file on this case—it’ll never get closed, not until we’ve got whoever did this.” I let him stew on that for a moment, then I put on a more détente-esque expression. “You lost two men out there, Yuri. So did we. So unless you enjoy having federal agents watching over every breath you take, you might want to cooperate with us on this one and help us get whoever did this.”

I gave him a pointed, questioning look.

Mirminsky frowned, like he was processing it all. Then his face broke out in another pervy-uncle smile. “If I hear anything, anything at all, that can help you, I’ll be sure to call you, Agent Reilly. You have my guarantee.”

There was no point in sticking around now that I’d delivered our message, so we followed our steroid-boosted tour guides back out into daylight.

Aparo and I walked past a van that I knew to be one of our mobile listening posts—the ones the judge had signed off earlier on that morning—and got into our car.

Mirminsky, I hoped, was about to discover that his privacy settings weren’t anywhere near as robust as he imagined.

S
okolo
v sat on the creaky bed in the small bedroom of the second-floor apartment above the Green Dragon and stared at the cell phone he had taken from Yakovlev after shoving the man out his window.

He had tossed and turned all night, finally falling asleep not long before dawn. He wasn’t used to staying up that late. It was something he hadn’t done with any regularity, not since first arriving in the United States. He and Daphne had found a way to make their lives dovetail, even with her recent move to alternating shift schedules. They had been comfortable in what seemed like perfectly complementary patterns. At least until his past had crashed right through his present with all the subtlety of an eighteen-wheeler.

He had already established that the last call placed by Yakovlev was to a DDI number at the Russian consulate. Which wasn’t surprising, given that he worked there. It was where Sokolov would start, but so far, he hadn’t dared test the number. He didn’t want to make contact until he was ready. He’d removed the SIM card and battery from the cell phone as soon as he’d put enough distance between himself and his apartment to stop and take a breath. He knew that nowadays, locating someone via a live cell phone was a relatively simple task. As an engineer and a scientist, the advent of cell phones had in fact fascinated him. He had become an expert on cell technology, something that had spurred him to renew his own research and advance his work into realms that would have sounded like science fiction a mere decade or two earlier.

Realms that, at the time, he couldn’t resist exploring even though he knew they would only lead to trouble.

Ironically, his work could now prove to be crucial in saving Daphne—and himself.

After replacing the SIM card and battery, he powered up and immediately pressed the Dial button. The call rang through for four long rings, then someone picked up.

And said nothing.

Sokolov grasped the phone close to his ear, also saying nothing. He could hear some faint breathing on the other end.

He imagined that whoever picked up the phone was probably surprised as hell to see the caller ID displaying their dead colleague’s name. And whoever it was probably figured it could only be one of two people: either a cop investigating Yakovlev’s death, or Sokolov himself.

After a few drawn-out seconds, the male voice said,
“Da,”
flatly and questioningly.

Sokolov felt his throat tighten, then he said, “
Eto ya
. Shislenko.”
It’s me. Shislenko
.

More silence.

Sokolov guessed that whoever was on the other end probably wasn’t alone and was almost certainly starting a recording and initiating a trace.

“Prodolzhat,”
the man then said.
Continue
.

Sokolov’s heart was punching its way out of his chest. “You have my wife,” he said in Russian. “And I have what you want. So here’s what we’re going to do. I will call you back at exactly eight o’clock to tell you when and where we make the exchange. There will be no discussion.”

He clicked off and swiftly removed the battery and SIM card.

He stared at his shaking hands.

What the hell are you doing?

He sucked in some deep breaths and tried to calm himself. He could feel a headache galloping in.

The only thing you can
.

He stayed like that, immobile, for a few minutes, questioning himself, second-guessing his actions. Then he pushed the doubts away and stood up.

He got dressed, collected the small number of possessions he had with him, and left his room.

He had an errand to run.

***

“H
E JUST CALLED
. He’s going to call again at eight. He wants his wife back.”

Koschey listened as Oleg Vrabinek, the Russian vice consul and the city’s senior SVR operative, relayed the little that Sokolov had said.

“All right,” he told Vrabinek. “Call me as soon as he contacts you again.”

He killed the call and glanced in the direction of the small office, where he was keeping Daphne. This was good. Sokolov was feeling brave. He was offering a trade. He was willing to expose himself.

Koschey couldn’t really ask for more.

He’d need more muscle, though. Just in case. Even though it was an added complication, he had no misgivings about killing the two
bratki
at the motel. He couldn’t let them live. For one thing, they had been sloppy. Yakovlev had failed, and they had been compromised. Proof of that was how easily the Americans had found them. And despite the strict code of silence he knew any
bratok
would follow religiously, Koschey couldn’t count on that silence. He needed that silence to be permanent, and there was only one way he knew of to guarantee it.

Beyond the risk of exposure, leaving those two
bratki
alive would have left him open to another, greater risk, one he was even more keen to neutralize: he didn’t know how much they knew. They’d spent several hours babysitting Sokolov’s wife. Koschey didn’t know how much Sokolov had told her, nor did he know what she’d told them. And given what was at stake, given the potential involved, Koschey really didn’t want anyone running around out there who knew, especially not a couple of lowlife incompetent
gopniki
.

He had a couple of potential sources who could supply him with the muscle he needed, but in a moment of inspired perversity, he decided to go back to the original source. Doing that opened up all kinds of interesting possibilities.

He pulled up the number he’d been given by Vrabinek, and, liking his plan more and more with each passing second, dialed the
vor
they called the Sledgehammer.