The Birthday Girl (16 page)

'Russians?' Nelson repeated. It was the last thing he'd expected to hear.

'Yeah, but not just any old Russians,' Derbyshire said. He took a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from the pocket of his raincoat, tapped one out and stuck it between his lips. 'Russian gangsters. Mafioski, the newspapers call them. I've included a few of the choicer cuttings in the envelope.' He patted his pockets, looking for matches. 'They're brothers. Gilani and Bzuchar Utsyev. Bzuchar lives in Brighton Beach. He owns a couple of restaurants, a trucking company and a taxi firm. He's just opened a marina up in New York State. But the bulk of his income comes from drugs, extortion and prostitution. Have you got a light?' Nelson shook his head. Derbyshire waved at the waitress and mimed lighting his cigarette. She came over with a book of matches. Derbyshire winked and lit up, exhaling through clenched teeth as if reluctant to allow the smoke to escape.

Nelson toyed with his mug of coffee. 'Gangsters?' he repeated. 'You're telling me they're gangsters?' 'Uh-huh. Damn right. The younger brother - Gilani changed his name - to Sabatino, of all things.'

'Sabatino?'

'Yeah, don't ask me why. Sal Sabatino. He lives here in Baltimore. Runs a nightclub, but I couldn't find too much on him. He keeps a lower profile than his brother. Everything I could get is in the envelope.' Derbyshire leant forward as if he was frightened of being overheard. 'They're worse than gangsters, Lennie. Bzuchar's a psychopath, by all accounts. Worse than Al Capone, worse than Dillinger, worse than any Mafia don you've ever heard of. They left Russia in the late eighties. God knows why, because they'd already made a fortune out of the black markets. They come from a place called Chechenya - it's close to the southern borders of the old Russia, between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea. It declared itself a republic when Gorbachev split the country up. The whole country is run by mobsters - it's the Russian equivalent of Sicily.'

Nelson picked up the envelope and slowly turned it in his hands. 'The evidence is all in here?' he asked.

'What you've got there is what I got from the lawyer's files, and from the New York Times cuttings library. But if you want the real dirt, it's gonna cost more.'

'How come?'

'Because all the good stuff, the stuff about their illegal operations, came from a friend of mine in the FBI. If you want paperwork to back it up, he's gonna want a payoff.'

Nelson tapped a corner of the envelope on the table. 'How much will your friend want?'

'It's gonna cost five.'

'Five hundred?'

Derbyshire sneered at the banker. 'We're not talking about running a licence plate through the MVA computer, Lennie. We're talking about FBI files.' He drained his glass noisily, then banged it down with a dull thud. 'Five thousand. And you're not gonna be dealing with me - I'll put him in touch with you.' .

Nelson considered the detective's proposal. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money, but if it proved beyond a doubt that Ventura Investments was a money-laundering vehicle run by gangsters, it would be a major coup for him, and the death knell for Walter Carey's career. Put like that, it was an attractive proposition. 'Let me read this first,' he said. 'If I need more, I'll get back to you.'

'Fine,' Derbyshire said, holding out his hand.

Nelson took a cheque from his inside pocket and slipped it over the table to the private detective. Derbyshire took the cheque, scrutinised the figures and the signature, and pocketed it. He pointed a warning finger at the banker, and narrowed his eyes. 'Whatever you do, don't tell anyone that I was involved in this. These guys are killers. My life is on the line here.'

'What do you think I am?' Nelson replied. 'You think I'm going to admit that I know what you've been doing? You're a professional consultant, nothing more. That's what you're shown as in our accounts, and that's all I know.'

Derbyshire shook his head. 'No. That's not good enough. I don't want my name connected with this at all. I don't wanna be 126 STEPHEN LEATHER on any file, I don't wanna be on any computer.' The detective's face was flushed and he was sweating. 'You know what banks are like. They leak information like sieves. If I'd known that the Utsyev brothers were involved I wouldn't have touched this case. For any amount of money. They're fucking animals, Lennie. They make the Mafia look like Mormons.'

Nelson flicked the edge of the envelope with his thumbnail. Derbyshire wasn't faking, trying to drive up the price. He was genuinely scared, and he didn't look like the sort of man who'd scare easily. 'Okay, Ernie. I'll be in touch.'

'Yeah, well, when you do, don't mention their names, either on the phone or in writing. If you want the FBI guy to get the stuff for you, tell me you want the football statistics. I'll then get him to contact you direct. Remember, it'll be five grand.' Derbyshire stood up and leaned over the banker. His face was so close to Nelson's that Nelson could smell his milky breath. 'Watch your back, Lennie. That envelope could be the death of you.' He raised his eyebrows and nodded, then turned on his heels and walked quickly out of the coffee bar, his coat flapping behind him like a loose sail in the wind.

Freeman knew it was bad news even before he picked the fax up off his desk. He'd been in one of the development labs with Josh Bowers, discussing a potential modification to the MIDAS deployment system over chicken salad sandwiches and cans of 7-Up, and when he arrived back in his own office his secretary was missing and the fax was face down next to his in-tray. If it had been routine it would have been in the tray with the rest of his correspondence. If it had been good news then Jo would have rushed up to him, waving it like a victory flag, her cheeks flushed with excitement. No, it was bad news, and before he read the first words his stomach was churning with the realisation that CRW hadn't got the Middle East order.

He read the brief letter with a heavy heart, though he was enough of a realist to know that it wasn't unexpected. Despite THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 127 Anderson's unflagging confidence, Freeman had suspected that the Arabs wouldn't come through, that their trip to the States was nothing more than a holiday for the wives and that CRW's demonstration had been just a window-dressing sideshow. 'Shit, shit, shit,' he said, screwing the fax up into a tight ball and tossing it into a wastepaper bin. He flopped down into his chair and beat a tattoo on the desk with the palms of his hands. The day hadn't been a total loss. The Thai Army had just reordered another fifty of the MIDAS systems for use on their border with Laos, and a dealer in Hong Kong had been on the phone first thing that morning about a possible deal with Vietnam. The Vietnamese border with China was heavily mined, and they were still discovering minefields left by the Americans. Freeman tried to look on the bright side, but there was still a hard ache in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he worked, the company was continuing its inexorable slide into oblivion. It was starting to look more and more as if Lennie Nelson was right. Drastic downsizing at home with manufacturing sub-contracted overseas might be CRW's only salvation. But he knew that Katherine would never stand for it. To her CRW was more than a business. It was a monument to her father.

Jo appeared in the doorway, a nervous smile on her lips as she looked to see how he was taking it. Tm sorry,' she said.

Freeman held his hands up, palms showing, and grimaced. 'Gotta roll with the punches,' he said.

'There'll be other orders,' she said, leaning against the doorjamb.

'Sure,' he said. $?�

'Really. I can feel it. And my psychic said there was going to be a lot of activity at work.'

'Your psychic?'

'Sure. I see her every two weeks. She's never wrong. Well, hardly ever.'

'Yeah? Next time you see her ask her where I left my gold pen, will you? It was a present from Katherine and she'll kill me if I've lost it.' Freeman grinned to show that he really wasn't upset about not getting the order.

Jo laughed, relieved, and went back to her desk. Freeman swivelled in his chair and stared out of the window, a faraway look in his eyes. Anderson drove into the parking lot and into his reserved space. Freeman watched him sit for a while before he opened the door of the Corvette. He wondered if Anderson had already heard the news. The financial director was sitting with both hands on the steering wheel, his head slightly forward as if at any moment he'd rest his forehead between them. When he finally got out of the car and pulled his briefcase off the back seat he'd regained his composure. He seemed light on his feet, as if a puppeteer's strings were attached to his shoulders, lifting him with subtle jerks as he walked.

Ernie Derbyshire sucked on his cigarette as the escalator whisked him up from the platform and into the bedlam that was Penn Station. Rush hour was in full swing and the waiting area was packed with commuters scanning the overhead monitors for their trains home, briefcases tightly gripped, hands hovering over hidden wallets, feet ready for the dash down to the train so that they could be sure of a seat. Penn Station at rush hour. Hell on earth.

Short-skirted hookers prowled through the crowds, cruising for after-work action like sharks looking for food, hips swaying, lips parted and breasts pointing like anti-aircraft guns at any likely target willing to pay fifty bucks for half an hour of illicit sexual contact. Pimps in jeans and bomber jackets watched from the sidelines like trainers waiting for their horses to perform, one eye looking for possible Johns, the other on the lookout for the transport police. Pickpockets were out in force, singly and in groups, watching for the tourists and out-oftowners who lacked the street smarts of native New Yorkers. The less subtle practitioners of theft, the muggers and handbag snatchers, loitered by the toilets with the patience of spiders.

No one gave Derbyshire a second look. Not the hookers, not the pickpockets, not the muggers. He blended into the crowd THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 129 like a chameleon: too tired to want sex, too down-at-heel to have a wallet full of cash, too nondescript to be remembered. He passed through the main concourse like a shadow, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes shifting from right to left, his cigarette held tightly between his lips.

Commuters burst into action as the announcer gave details of the next Metroliner to Washington, DC. They poured down the stairs to the platform, eager to get home. Derbyshire hunched his shoulders in anticipation of the chill wind that he knew would be waiting to greet him outside the station. Unlike the fleeing commuters, he had no wish to escape the city. It was his home, and despite the daily murders, rapes and muggings, he felt safer in New York than he did anywhere else in the world. He turned to look at a station clock and licked his lips. Time for a drink, he thought, and then maybe a cheeseburger and a night in front of the TV. He remembered the cheque that Nelson had given him. It was Friday. He mentally cursed himself for not asking for cash. He wouldn't be able to deposit it until Monday, and until he did, it was nothing more than a piece of paper. It wasn't that he was short of money - he had several bank accounts, both in the US and in Switzerland - it was more that he hated loose ends, and an uncashed cheque was the worst sort of loose end. He was so busy thinking about the piece of paper in his inside pocket that he didn't see the two men until they were upon him, one on either side, gripping his arms with hands as strong as pincers, smiling as if they were long-lost friends.

'Smile, you piece of fucking shit,' said the one on his left, a bruising linebacker of a man with a dark wool overcoat and a thick red scarf around his neck. The man's left hand was thrust deep into his pocket.

The man on Derbyshire's right was a slightly smaller man with an unkempt moustache and orange-peel skin. His hair was slicked back and he had a shaving burn where his neck met his chin. His right hand was also hidden in the pocket of his raincoat. He stepped closer to Derbyshire and pressed whatever it was he was hiding against Derbyshire's groin. 'You're not smiling, shitforbrains,' he whispered, an insane grin on his face, his voice a nasal New Jersey whine. 'Smile or I'll blow your nuts off.'

Derbyshire smiled weakly. Orange Peel nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'Now, let's go for a ride.'

Derbyshire started to protest but the gun was pressed against his groin once more and he did as they wanted. He knew there was nothing he could say: they were just messengers, come to bring the bad news. He knew too that there was no point in struggling. They were professionals, bigger, stronger and faster than he was. He shuddered and the two pincers tightened as if the movement was a prelude to an escape attempt. 'Okay, okay,' he muttered.

The two heavyweights gently frogmarched him out of the station and towards a taxi rank where the drivers of yellow cabs waited with ill humour. A black Towncar pulled up with a squeal of brakes and Derbyshire was hustled into the back seat. Four hands patted him down as the Towncar accelerated away from the kerb. 'I'm not carrying,' he said.

'We'll check for ourselves, if you don't mind,' Orange Peel said.

. The driver, a bull-necked giant wearing Ray Bans, gave a quick look over his shoulder as he powered through an amber light. 'Got him, then?' he asked redundantly.

The two heavyweights ignored the driver. Red Scarf thrust his left hand into the pockets of Derbyshire's pants and pulled out his wallet. Derbyshire said nothing. This wasn't a mugging. Red Scarf flicked through the credit cards and driving licence, and sneered at the few banknotes the wallet contained. 'Times tough, are they?' he said, slipping the wallet inside his overcoat. He checked the pockets of Derbyshire's jacket and pulled out the envelope containing Nelson's cheque. Derbyshire's face remained impassive. He was in deep shit, no doubt about it, but he didn't want to give the messengers any idea of how worried he was.

Red Scarf flipped the envelope open with one hand and slid the cheque out with his thumb. He whistled theatrically and showed it to Orange Peel. 'Business must be looking up,' he said.

The body-search over, the two men sat in silence, their guns still hidden in their coats. Derbyshire put his head back and THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 131 stared at the roof of the car, wondering if he'd be able to put together any sort of workable cover story, and if he'd get the chance to tell it.

The car headed for the Lincoln Tunnel, joining the converging ranks of cars and trucks fleeing Manhattan. Derbyshire looked surreptitiously out of the side windows, half hoping that he'd see a police car, but knowing that even if he did there'd be nothing he could do. Before he'd have time to react, he'd have a fist in his groin at best, a bullet at worst, and the Towncar was as soundproofed as a brass coffin. The homebound commuters were all on automatic pilot, their eyes staring blankly ahead, listening to their car stereos or talking on their cellular phones or picking at their various orifices. A normal Friday rush hour.

Freeman knocked on his daughter's door. 'Mersiha?' he called. There was no answer, but Freeman didn't open the door. Ever since she'd first arrived in his home he'd known how important it was that she have her own space, a sanctuary where she could hide from the world, if that was what she wanted. He never entered her bedroom without her permission. He knocked again.

'Come in,' she said, her voice slurred with sleep.

He pushed open the door. 'Are you decent?' he said, knowing that she would be. He'd never seen her naked. Even before she began to develop the physical signs of womanhood she was shy, and he had always respected her desire for privacy. She had the quilt pulled up to her chin when he looked in. She was squinting at her bedside clock. 'What time is it?' she asked.

'It's late,' he said. 'Almost eight o'clock.'

Mersiha groaned. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I forgot to set the alarm.'

'That's okay - I haven't had breakfast yet. You get ready, I'll put the coffee on. Do you want anything to eat?'

'A high-cholesterol, low-fibre Scottish fry-up?' she said.

'Your request is my command, Oh mistress,' he said. 'Get a 132 STEPHEN LEATHER move on,' She giggled but kept the quilt under her chin as he closed the door.

Freeman was frying eggs, using a spatula to splash hot fat on the yolks, when she appeared in the kitchen. She was dressed for sailing - black Levis, Reeboks, a baggy white pullover and her hair tied back with a red bow.

'Get the orange juice, pumpkin,' Freeman said, sliding the eggs on to their plates. From the grill he added bacon, sausage and halved tomatoes and put the plates on to the table with hot toast and butter. Mersiha filled glasses with fresh orange juice from the automatic juicer and sat down opposite him.

She picked up her knife and fork and set to with a vengeance. Freeman watched her, amazed at the speed with which she tackled food. She always finished everything on her plate as if she never knew where her next meal was coming from. It didn't take a psychiatrist to understand why she ate the way she did. It wasn't too many years ago when she'd been close to starvation.

'What?' she said.

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'You're staring at me,' she said, her eyes shining.

'You're so pretty. I can't believe I have such a pretty daughter.' Mersiha tutted and raised her eyebrows, but she was clearly pleased by the compliment. 'I bet you say that to all your daughters,' she said.

'Only the pretty ones.' Freeman started eating his breakfast, but he was only halfway through by the time Mersiha had finished. 'Get the sandwiches - they're in the fridge,' he said. 'Grab some cans of Coke too.'

'You made sandwiches?' she said, impressed. 'You'll make someone a great wife.'

'Watch it,' Freeman laughed. Mersiha picked up his duffel bag and put it in the boot of the Lumina while he finished eating. She was in the passenger seat when he came out, her seat belt already in place.

'Did you say goodbye to Katherine?' Freeman asked. *�

'She was asleep,' Mersiha said quickly. Freeman looked at her. There was something in her tone which suggested that she THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 133 hadn't tried to say goodbye. She turned away and looked out of the window. 'This is going to be a great day for sailing,' she said. 'Look at the tops of those trees.'

Freeman smiled despite himself. Mersiha had Katherine's knack of changing the subject. He started the car and headed down the driveway. In his driving mirror he caught sight of Katherine watching from the bedroom window. He waved his arm out of the window but he didn't see her wave back.

The drive to Annapolis took less than an hour. Mersiha chatted happily, about school, about sailing, about her fast approaching birthday. Freeman had suggested that they arrange a party for all her friends, but Mersiha kept insisting that she'd rather have a quiet dinner. 'Just you and me,' she said.

'And Katherine,' Freeman said.

'Yeah. Of course.' Her voice had gone suddenly cold at the mention of Katherine. Freeman didn't ask her what the problem was, and within seconds she'd changed the subject again, asking him when the boat was due to be lifted out of the water for its anti-fouling treatment. Art Brown's file on Mersiha had emphasised how pointless it was to confront her directly. She would react by dodging the line of argument, and if pressed she'd withdraw into herself and simply stop talking. Freeman had noticed that himself, of course, but seeing it written down on medical reports made it appear to be a genuine mental problem and not just shyness.

The file had also spelled out Mersiha's reluctance to make friends, something else which Freeman and his wife had noticed. Brown had hypothesised that the early death of her real parents and brother had left her incapable of making emotional commitments, that she was frightened of letting anyone get close in case they were also taken from her. That made sense to Freeman, but once again it had seemed that all Brown had done was to state the obvious. And a reluctance to hang out at the mall with the local cheerleaders didn't explain her sudden coldness towards Katherine. Getting to the bottom of that was going to take some gentle probing.

Brown had been right about Mersiha's file being little more than a diary. He'd been very efficient in recording the sessions,

all with dates and times, presumably to help with his billing, but Freeman had discovered no insights into the workings of his daughter's mind. If he'd seen the file sooner, he would probably have suggested to Katherine that they put an end to the treatment. Brown himself admitted several times in the file that he was making little progress in persuading Mersiha to open up. The key to her problems, Brown said, lay in what happened to her as a child, but she had built an impenetrable wall around that part of her life.

Freeman could barely imagine what it would be like to lose both parents at such an early age. It was no wonder that she always seemed so interested in what he was doing and where he was going. Having lost her real parents, she must have lived in fear that her adopted family would also be taken away from her, no matter how many times Freeman reassured her that she was in America to stay. The violent death of her brother, the attempt to kill her in the basement, her time in the Serbian internment camp, any one of those events would be enough to scar a child mentally for life. It was a constant source of wonder that Mersiha hadn't turned out to be a bed-wetting sociopath rather then the bright, beautiful girl she was. Sleepwalking, insecurity and a little secretiveness were a small price to pay for what she'd been through.

She looked across at him and smiled. Her teeth were perfect, her smile that of a cover girl, and it was all natural - she'd never needed retainers or any dental work beyond a couple of small fillings which the dentist blamed on too many sweet things when she'd first moved to the States. Freeman wished that her real parents could still be around to see how their girl had grown. They'd have been very proud.