The Altar Girl (17 page)

I started to leave but she tugged on the sleeve of my coat.

“One more thing,” she said, leaning into me. “Ignore what I said before. Stay away from that Bohdan Angelovich. He was bad news from the moment he came out of the womb. His mother was a pathological liar and so is he. Don’t believe a word he says. Promise?”

“Yes, Mama. I promise.”

“Good. Now don’t forget. Send me that big check soon.”

Kisses and advice in exchange for money. That was a new one, I thought.

I kept my head down as I headed for the stairs for fear someone would recognize me and call my name. I couldn’t imagine stopping to reminisce and wasting more time, but I didn’t want to be rude to good people. I held my breath until I got to the door and exhaled when the sunshine hit my face outside the school hall.

My relief didn’t last long.

Donnie Angel’s van sat idling in front of me.

CHAPTER 25

E
XHAUST BILLOWED FROM
four tailpipes, accompanied by an intermittent rasp. The two men who’d snatched me off the streets of Manhattan stepped out of the van. One of them threw a cigarette butt onto the ground and stomped it out. The parking lot was filled with people carrying Easter baskets. Some were milling about chatting; others were climbing into their cars. A line of vehicles was waiting by the exit. There was no way for the van to leave the parking lot, and they couldn’t kidnap me right behind the church in front of a hundred people.

Could they?

I turned and headed toward my car. Their appearance was so audacious, the sight of the van so disturbing, that I began to run. I sprinted down the sidewalk from the school past the church. When I caught up to a dozen people headed for their cars on the street, I stopped and looked over my shoulder.

I didn’t see the two men. They weren’t on my heels. A wave of relief washed over me. Then I spotted them, leaning against the back of the van, staring straight at me. As soon as our eyes met, they climbed into the van without saying a word to each other. The brake lights flashed red. The driver was shifting into gear, I thought. They were going to follow me. They were coming after me.

The rectory obscured the school parking lot, but I could see traffic backed up at the intersection to the main road where I was parked. The van couldn’t have followed me if it wanted to. I had an advantage. I could escape.

Only after driving away in my mother’s Buick and seeing no van in the rearview mirror did I remember the white Honda parked a mile away from my mother’s condo in Rocky Hill. I realized there was no need for them to follow me closely. They knew exactly where I was going.

I powered through a yellow light and cursed the car’s lack of acceleration. I considered driving directly to New York City in my mother’s car. That would have allowed me to escape whatever Donnie Angel had planned for me at my mother’s condo. But then what? My mother would have been stuck at home with no car. She couldn’t have operated the Porsche’s manual transmission, and even if she could have driven it, the keys were in my pocket.

I took the exit for Rocky Hill and rounded the twenty-four-hour supermarket. But the white Honda was nowhere to be seen. My car was right where I’d left it across the street from my mother’s home. I circled around the block three times. Two men were fixing the roof. One of my mother’s neighbors was washing his SUV in his driveway. I tooted my horn and waved. He waved back.

That gave me all the confidence I needed to make the switch. I parked the Buick, got into my own car, and drove to the Super 8 to check out of the motel. Fifteen minutes later, I merged onto the Merritt Parkway, my preferred route to New York City. It snaked through western Connecticut via valleys, dips, and blind brows. Trucks were not allowed on the parkway, and in a worst-case situation, the van couldn’t have kept pace with my car.

After an hour of driving, I pulled into a rest stop to use the facilities. I bought a Diet Dr Pepper and a Three Musketeers bar, and only after medicating with some chocolate did the obvious occur to me.

My mother was not at risk. My brother was not at risk.

I was perfectly safe.

My mother’s final words were prophetic. Donnie Angel was a pathological liar.
Don’t believe a word he says.
Donnie Angel had implied he’d kill me and my family if I didn’t leave Hartford immediately, which was to say, if I didn’t stop asking questions. In fact, per my mother’s assertion, he was lying. He had no plans to kill any of us.

Another death or disappearance would be bad for business. Three more deaths would be infinitely worse. Donnie couldn’t afford any adverse attention from the police or the community. There was too much money at risk. The art and antiquities smuggling ring in which my godfather had participated was too profitable. The last thing Donnie wanted was more trouble. What Donnie needed more than anything was a return to normalcy. And if he wanted a return to normalcy, it meant I was no longer useful to him. He no longer needed me to ask the questions no one would answer for him.

The conclusion was as clear as the whipped nougat was delicious: Donnie Angel had found the money. Whether it was my godfather’s cash, or some art or antiquities that hadn’t been sold yet, I wasn’t sure. But in either case, I’d accomplished his mission, even though I hadn’t achieved my goal. I still didn’t know who’d killed my godfather or why.

I threw the wrapper in the garbage can in the parking lot and sipped my Diet Dr Pepper in my car. After liberating myself in Donnie Angel’s van, I thought I’d never act on emotion again. I assumed I’d crossed a threshold of cumulative adversity such that I’d remain calm and analytical under any circumstances. Now I knew that was wishful thinking. My wiring had not changed. I was no action hero. I didn’t relish conflict or confrontation, and the threat of violence still scared me. It always would. I was still the same person as I’d always been with one exception. I’d proven to myself that I could do the unimaginable if it was necessary to complete my mission.

Donnie Angel’s use of leverage was unoriginal and unsurprising. He’d threatened my family. The effectiveness of his threat was equally unsurprising. I cared so much about my mother and brother that I’d lost my composure, did exactly what he wanted me to do, and ran. In a way, that infuriated me. My relationships with both my mother and brother were frayed or broken. The more I tried to mend them, the worse they got. My mother had told me I was to blame for my husband’s death. My brother had asked me to do him a personal favor and fuck off. I wanted to care less about both of them. Yet no matter how hard I tried to detach myself from them, I couldn’t.

Time passed. Fifteen minutes, half an hour, and then a full hour. I listened to some classical music and sought inspiration as to what to do next. I used the facilities again. When I returned to the car, the logical course of action was obvious to me. A change of scenery would clear my mind and help me think more rationally. The smart move was to return to New York City.

I pulled out of my parking spot and headed toward the entrance ramp for the parkway headed south. When my cell phone rang, I considered ignoring it, but then a vision of Mrs. Smith having a car accident flashed before my eyes. It’s illegal in Connecticut to hold a cell phone and drive at the same time, and I hate steering a car with one hand, so I pulled over before getting on the ramp, and answered it.

It was Paul Obon, my booksmith friend and walking encyclopedia on all matters pertaining to Ukraine.

“It took awhile,” he said, “but I finally heard back from an old colleague in Crimea.”

“Crimea?” The events of the day had dulled my memory. I’d forgotten I’d asked him to make some inquiries regarding the company that had paid for my godfather’s tickets to Ukraine.

“The Black Sea Trading Company is an export company specializing in floating crafts.”

“Boats?” I said.

“Fishing vessels, commercial and recreation. It started as a state-run enterprise and was eventually bought by a man named Boris Takarov. He was a career foreign service officer for the Soviets. When basic industry was privatized in 1996, he had the necessary connections as an insider to get control of the business.”

“Foreign service officer. What does that mean?”

“Takarov was stationed in West Berlin from 1946 to 1950, and then spent twenty-one more years in Vienna, Amsterdam, and Rome.”

“He was a diplomat?”

Obon chuckled. “Yes, in the Russian sense. He was a spy. He was NKVD and KGB.”

“If he was NKVD from 1946 to 1950 and stationed in West Berlin . . .”

“He was one of the Soviet officers assigned to the administration of Displaced Persons camps.”

I made an obvious deduction from my mother’s insight. “He was SMERSH.”

“It’s impossible to know for certain, but yes, Takarov may have been SMERSH. The Russians began installing the infrastructure for their spy operations in Western Europe immediately after the war. And they did so with the full cooperation of their European and American allies, unwitting as it may have been. The Soviet officers assigned to the DP camps were hand-picked not only to help repatriate the refugees considered to be traitors and collaborators, but to burrow into the fabric of European society. Takarov may have been one of them.”

Whether he was SMERSH or not, Takarov had been stationed in the DP camps. That meant he might have known my godfather. That explained their connection, but not their personal history.

“Is the Black Sea Trading Company involved in any other exports?” I said.

“Such as?”

“Arts and antiquities.”

“Not on record. But a business like this . . .” Obon hesitated as though he were searching for the right words. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if the shipbuilding was now a front for other businesses as well.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Takarov died six months ago. His sons inherited the business. His sons are the subject . . . the subject of rumors.”

“What rumors?”

Obon paused. This time I had the sense he was more concerned about what he was about to reveal than finding the right words. A note of caution peppered his voice. “There have been accusations that they have a more profitable family business on the side. That they are colleagues of a man named Milanovich.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Of course you haven’t. That’s how he likes it. Milanovich is the most dangerous man alive that no one has ever heard of. Number three on the FBI Most Wanted list. He is the global head of the so-called Russian mafia.”

Marko. All I could think of was my brother. At a minimum, he’d taken a job as protection for my godfather during a delivery, not knowing he was getting involved in mob business. The more frightening scenario was that he had lied about the depth of his involvement, and he was either my godfather’s silent partner or the man who’d murdered him.

“Now I want to emphasize,” Obon said, with a note of urgency, “that both the Takarovs have vehemently denied such rumors, and to date they remain just that. I’m telling you about them just in case . . . so that you understand . . . if you are involving yourself in their business in any way . . .”

I had no interest in their merchandise, money, or business. All I cared about was finding out what happened to my godfather and my family’s safety. I thanked Obon for his concern and thoughtfulness.

“The Black Sea Trading Company’s floating craft business,” I said. “Do you know where their top three importers are located?”

His voice turned faint as I heard the sound of papers shuffling. “I have that here somewhere.” A ten-second pause followed. “Thirty-two percent Russia. Seven point eight percent Turkey. And five point five percent of their goods are imported by buyers in the United States of America.”

Black Sea Trading had an established exporting process to the United States. They knew how to package, ship, insure, and deliver. I imagined they had connections at ports in the United States as well as Crimea. I wondered how hard it would be to hide stolen arts and antiquities in a boat.

I thanked Obon and told him I’d be in touch. After hanging up I remembered my mother’s unexpected warning not to dig into my father’s past. I’d meant to ask Obon to do some research on him, but in the heat of the moment I’d forgotten all about it. Just as well, I thought. That was a matter for a later date.

With my engine still idling, I hit *67 on my cell phone to block my identity and called Brasilia. I let it ring eight times but no one answered. It was approximately 5:30 p.m. and I knew their business didn’t pick up until later in the evening. Still, it was a Saturday, and I was surprised someone wasn’t manning the entrance, collecting cover charges, and answering the phone. Then, as I was about to hang up, I heard a quick, coarse hello. It was a familiar voice and tone, one that told the caller he hated to answer the phone for any reason, and he enjoyed surprise phone calls even less, which is why he refused to carry a cell phone.

Marko hadn’t worked last night, but he was working tonight.

I hung up without saying a word. By not identifying myself, I’d preserved the element of surprise. The latter was necessary because there was no reason to expect my brother to be more welcoming this time. Our discussion wasn’t going to be a colorful and cordial affair like the blessing of the Easter baskets. This meeting was going to be the essence of familial darkness, the stuff that led one to close the curtain behind him, kneel before God, and confess one’s transgressions. The stuff that left emotional scars forever and ruined lives.

I zipped down the parkway, took the first exit, looped around to the north side, and gunned the engine.

Fear, prudence, and Donnie Angel be damned.

I was headed back to Hartford.