Red Dawn Rising (Red Returning Trilogy) (31 page)

“A dock in Brooklyn. I don’t know where he goes when I drop him off. There’s always a car waiting.” Evgeny made a move toward him. “I swear it!” the man yelled. “He’s got a house somewhere over there, a big place like a museum or something, his driver told me. Lots of art.”

Something flared in Evgeny’s memory. He leaned close to the man. “What kind of art?”

“Don’t know. Just art. The driver says he’s crazy about it.”

“Antiques, too?” Evgeny pumped, drawing an inquisitive stare from Ava.

“I don’t know about no antiques, buddy. All I know is he likes art. Period.” The man dabbed at his bloody pants. “Hey, you gonna do something about this bleeding?”

“You ever pick this guy up around the South Street Seaport?” Evgeny asked, ignoring the man’s question.

“Yeah, a few times. He’s got a place down there, too. He’s got ’em all over the world, I hear. Must be some big mobster. Don’t know.”

“What kind of car meets the boat?” Ava jumped in, still eyeing Evgeny curiously.

“Big black Beemer. But sometimes it’s a black Range Rover. The guy’s got money.”

Evgeny wasn’t listening anymore. He remembered the night Pavel Andreyev had summoned him to an apartment near the South Street Seaport. Evgeny had heard it belonged to an arts-and-antiques dealer who used to work at the Kremlin.

“And now the bigger question,” Ava continued. “What does he look like?”

The captain thought. “Not too tall. Kind of skinny. Not a lot of hair. Nice dresser.”

Evgeny sorted through a mental file of former Kremlin types. No matches surfaced right away. But now he had landed on a more promising lead. The Seaport apartment. The FBI had already searched the UN apartment Jordan Winslow had directed them to, finding no shred of evidence.

“Get your boys in here to take care of this guy and the others,” Evgeny told Ava. “You and I have someplace else to go.”

Ava raised a questioning brow.

“I’ll explain later. Better make your call.”

It didn’t take long for the agents on the river to swoop in and take charge of the captain and his vessel. Evgeny knew they would wait for the beer runner to return, then hunt down the third member of the crew. As for the black vehicles belonging to the Architect …

“Do you know how many black BMWs and Range Rovers there are in this metro area?” Ava asked as they left the boat. “And records don’t show which ones belong to Russian expats.” That had quelled Evgeny’s urgings to track the cars. He had a more urgent pursuit anyway.

Back in the van, Evgeny told Ava about the Seaport apartment and his
brief
connection to it. “That’s where I went to report to Pavel Andreyev the night I failed to capture Liesl.” He wouldn’t look at Ava. “I knew he was just a guest there, that the owner traveled a lot—just some vague being I never gave thought to.” He fumed. “It has to be him!”

“Can you find this place again?”

“Hang on.”

As Evgeny swung the van onto a southerly route to Lower Manhattan, Ava called Cass at the number attached to the phone Evgeny had provided. That piece of logistical planning had impressed Ava, who still hoped to bring Evgeny in and convince him, in whatever way it took, to apply his considerable spy craft to U.S. interests.

It was nearly eleven, and the flight from Charleston earlier that morning seemed days ago. Ava tried to ignore the creeping fatigue in her body, preferring to picture herself asleep against Ian’s shoulder through most of the flight.
Ian
. Almost sixteen years older than she, he’d captured her heart without meaning to. No one knew how much she loved him, including him.

“Yes, ma’am?” Cass answered in a sleepy voice.

“Okay, Cass. You’re on. Tell the agents to take you to the beach house right away and get started on those files. You’ll have to let them oversee the search.”

“Can Jordan and my mom come, too?”

Ava grimaced. Jordan would be a help, but she wasn’t sure about the mother.

“I can’t leave her here by herself, even with bodyguards,” Cass insisted.

“Okay, but hurry. And Cass, we have reason to believe Hans is being held captive by these people. It’s critical that you stay close to your security detail. At this moment, the people who took Hans are probably looking for you.”

Chapter 34

T
he black BMW pulled up to the two-story Brooklyn house. Two men hauled a still-bound Hans from the back seat as Ivan and Sonya followed them inside. Ivan was angry that Sonya had left the front drapes open, inviting anyone with a flashlight to look inside. Though the former estate was walled with gated entrances that were usually locked, Ivan had been surprised before by curious neighborhood kids. More than once, they had scaled the brick wall and set off to explore the abandoned buildings of this long-closed arts college. He was sure they’d been drawn by that ridiculous cow outside the front gate. “An already warped sense of art gone utterly haywire,” Ivan had complained to Sonya.

“Take him to the basement,” Ivan ordered the men, two of his most trusted aides, neither of whom spoke more than a smattering of English.

“Are you so sure we were not followed, Ivan?” Sonya asked before heading to her upstairs bedroom.

“Go to sleep, Sonya,” he responded impatiently, dismissing her fears. When she left, he retreated to the small study from which his friend Boris had once managed the affairs of the college. “A euphemism, for sure,” Boris had once admitted. “No accreditation. No diplomas. Just a small colony of artists joyfully engaged. And filthy rich!”

Ivan remembered the times he’d come to America with fabricated
papers
and headed for this isolationist compound in the midst of teeming Brooklyn. He and Boris Reznik had fled Russia soon after the collapse of the Soviet empire. Boris, a Russian Jew with wealthy American friends, had reveled in the artistic and financial freedom that America, and his generous students, had afforded him. He had repeatedly chided Ivan for clinging to dreams of a Russian resurgence. “Your new world order is foolishness,” Boris had scoffed. “Noble but foolish. Come and luxuriate here with us. We want nothing more than to live as we choose and savor each decadent morsel of American life.” Then he’d bellowed with laughter and handed Ivan another glass of ice-cold vodka.

The old oak floor squeaked beneath the antique rugs as Ivan crossed the study to the fireplace. He added a handful of kindling, two fat logs, then struck the match—much like the orderly progression of sabotage. And revenge.
Such a satisfying word
, he thought, tumbling the two syllables about in his mouth.

As the dry tinder caught, he poured cognac from a nearby decanter and lifted it to the flames, watching the fiery liquid dance inside the crystal snifter. “Wrong, Boris,” Ivan said to the flames. “I do
luxuriate
in ways you couldn’t know.”

Now an invalid living in Manhattan with his daughter, Boris had never asked how Ivan had acquired his wealth. The truth was, the Kremlin insider, before abandoning the sinking Soviet ship, had helped himself to government funds he believed he was entitled to. In the chaotic aftermath of the Soviet Union’s collapse in 1991, certain accountants were too busy treading water to notice the grievous imbalance of their books. Ivan wondered if they ever noted the disparities but dared not insinuate blame. He’d invested the confiscated capital wisely and multiplied it many times over.

Besides his strategically located residences around the world, his private plane and helicopter, his boats, his Savile Row suits, and his well-paid troupe of strong-armed attendants, the luxury Ivan enjoyed most was his front-row seat at the rise and fall of an American president. It was coming soon.

As he swirled the cognac in the sparkling glass, he remembered the cracked pottery on which his mother had served him food as a child, with never enough to satisfy his hunger. She’d scrubbed the homes of the
Kremlin
elite and tended their thankless broods, then returned to care for her young son in the hovel they shared with another family. Then Ivan simply turned off the offending memories and let them drain away, like the foul-smelling sulfurous water that trickled from the faucets of his childhood. There was work to do.

He lifted his phone and summoned the photographic signal that would launch the next stage of attacks on this gluttonous country. With his fingertip, he traced the image of the bandaged ear, the haunted eyes of the artist who’d indulged the thrashings of his own mind, of his own knife-wielding hand. Ivan wondered what had drawn him so to Vincent van Gogh’s fatalistic self-portrait. Even though supposition held that the artist’s self-mutilation had sprung not from the toxicity of his genius but from the unintentional ingestion of lead paint.

Still, Ivan preferred to look upon the image as the glory of an injured warrior, even though the battle raged within himself. That, Ivan could relate to. And so he’d chosen the famous painting as the final signal to his loyal troupe of saboteur-spies spread across this land. When they received the text and opened the image, they would know exactly what to do. The death rattle of American dominance and Travis Noland’s reign would begin.

Ivan looked at his watch. Captain Cyrus Neale would launch the massive, coast-to-coast strike with one shocking opener, a horrific teaser of what was to come. He and Sonya would watch the spectacle from shore. Seconds later, his chopper would whisk them away and deliver them to a safe haven. Ivan had many from which to choose.

The door to the basement opened, and one of his men advised him that the captive below was demanding a word with him.
Why not?
Ivan considered.
The man hasn’t long
. “Tell him I will be there in a moment.” Ivan first needed to confirm the coming afternoon’s pick-up time by the boat crew who’d just deposited him, Sonya, and Hans in Brooklyn.

When the aide left, Ivan dialed the captain’s phone but got no answer. He dialed again, then again. He had demanded they be available at all times for his call. Now he was angry. He dialed another of the crew. Still no answer. His instincts released a sudden charge. He revisited Sonya’s question.
Are you so sure we weren’t followed?

Ivan sprang from his chair and hurried to the basement. He charged at Hans. “What have you done?”

Hans turned bleary, red-tinged eyes on him. “Evidently something else I’m not aware of,” he moaned sarcastically.

“Did someone follow you to the dock?”

Hans sighed. “I don’t know,” he droned. “I seem to have a deplorable lack of knowledge, wouldn’t you say?”

“Straighten up,” Ivan commanded.

But Hans was tied to a chair. “Why don’t
you
straighten up, Ivan!” he cried, the sound of one resigned to his fate and no longer fearful. “You’ve had your fun. Now why don’t you take your fat friend upstairs and get out of here. You make me sick.”

The blow across his cheek came swiftly from Ivan’s own hand.

Hans absorbed it but kept charging. “That’s the coward’s way. Hit the man who can’t defend himself. Shoot at the innocent piano player and go after a man’s child because she dared to interfere with your noble plans.” Hans looked fiercely at Ivan. “What drives you, Ivan? Are you really such a Mother Russia patriot? Or just a lunatic?”

Ivan raised his hand again.

“How about the other cheek this time?” Hans jeered, turning his head the opposite direction.

Lowering his hand, Ivan eyed him savagely. “Where is your stepdaughter?”

“Make that
daughter
.” Hans preened with a mixture of triumph and pain. “And didn’t you hear yourself tell me she was in South Carolina? If anyone followed me, it wasn’t
my child
.”

Sonya’s agitated voice sounded at the top of the basement steps. “Ivan, come quickly!”