The Crasher (55 page)

“I think you do. What ever happened to Little Lord Fauntleroy? I never hear you talk about him anymore, I mean your sainted
cousin, of course, Alex Rossiter, the man who taught you everything. Can it be this paragon of virtue has dropped you now
you’ve been in this trouble? Where has he been when you needed him most? Has he called? Is that why you’ve turned into such
a limp dishrag?”

She began to steam. He was glad to see it. He went on, “Cousin Alex doesn’t come around much anymore, does he, Ginny? I’m
sorry to tell you, but I don’t think Alex is the sunny little choirboy you’ve always thought… there’s something going on,
isn’t there, Ginny?”

She shut her eyes. First Petersh, now Johnny. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She had to confide in someone, and who else but
Johnny?

“Well?” Johnny pulled her onto his lap. All the fire went out of her. She didn’t resist. “Tell me, baby, tell me what’s eating
you up? What are you hiding from me?”

And she told him. It just poured out-about her fears when Alex became involved with Svank; about his erratic behavior; his
“entailed” gifts, his long absences, his silences; and finally, in a tearful burst, about the hideous discovery of the Villeneva
jewels hidden at the bottom of her toilet tank, and their disappearance the night of Svank’s death.

Johnny sat in silence, his mind racing, trying to grasp what
he’d just been told, never dreaming he’d hear anything like this. He knew from the Art Loss Register and from Trager how hot
the Villeneva jewels were. The police suspected that although they were eventually destined for a major drug dealer, they
could possibly still be in the U.S., hidden until everything cooled down.

Frankly, he hadn’t cared that much. After the shock of learning about Ginny’s involvement, persuading her to talk to the police,
and Stern’s subsequent exoneration, he’d thought he’d put the Svank case behind him.

Now he shook his head in disbelief. It was inconceivable that all this time the precious gems had actually been planted in
this down-at-the-heel loft, in a toilet tank of all places. From everything he’d learned about this thief, he knew he was
a particularly cool customer, but this was cool enough to freeze the mind.

If Ginny’s fabled cousin, Alex Rossiter, really turned out to be the main hand in the Villeneva affair, it wasn’t too farfetched
to believe he was responsible for other equally “cool” acts of daring thievery, major thefts which led right back to Svank.

It was ironic. Just when he’d least expected it, just when he was trying to cheer Ginny up, she’d put straight into his hands
the identity of the missing person in the Svank puzzle, the “new” man on Svank’s team, the one who the FBI knew had dared
to disobey the boss and been sent for some tough “orientation” to the back streets of San Juan.

Again Johnny asked himself, was it really possible that Ginny’s cousin could be the man the FBI had been after, the small
fish in a vast, money-laundering sea of crime, plucked out for bigger things by the biggest fish of all, only to disgrace
himself with Svank, the boss, soon after?

Johnny hadn’t said a word and Ginny, white, wan, was looking at him in fear. He tightened his arm around her. “Ginny, I can’t
believe what you’ve been going through… and you never told me.” Again he shook his head in disbelief. “Am I such an ogre?
Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid… I wanted to find out what was going on first” She turned to him, saying earnestly, “I still find it impossible
to accept that Alex is a thief. If you knew him as I do, you’d understand. He’s been such an inspiration to me my whole life.
If I told you, you’d have had to go to the police. I couldn’t let that happen until I heard what Alex had to say-”

“Well, what did he have to say?”

Ginny blinked back tears. “That’s the problem. I haven’t had enough time to talk to him… and Petersh was here this afternoon,
asking me questions about Alex. He knows, somehow, that Alex and I are cousins-probably through Oz…” Some of her steam came
back when she said Oz’s name. “Damn him to his metaphysical hell forever…”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, forget it.” She jumped up, agitated. “I’m sure Petersh knows what Alex has been up to… says he’s wanted by Interpol,
the FBI. I’m sure Svank is behind all this, that Alex thought he could play in his league and then got out of his depth. Alex
isn’t a crook. If I could only spend time with him and ask him about everything, I’m sure it could all be explained.” She
looked at Johnny beseechingly. “Could you help me find him?” She paused, not sure whether to go on, then, “Remember after
Esme’s wedding, the night when I said I didn’t want to go home ever again? I meant it. The jewels were still here in the loft,
like something evil… when I said I wanted to meet your father, you were so mad, but it was because I thought if he knew the
story, he’d know what to do, he’d find Alex and find out the truth. I know it sounds crazy…”

He should have been furious, humiliated, but he wasn’t. Instead he realized how strong Ginny must be; most women he knew would
have broken under the strain of all she’d been through.

“When did you last see him?”

She hesitated. Even now, despite Alex’s “the truth and nothing but the truth” avowal, she couldn’t tell anyone-not
even Johnny-her deepest fear-that Alex was involved in Svank’s death.

“I thought I saw him the other day when I went to look at the Barneys cloak. I was sure I saw him with Poppy-you know, Poppy
Gan. I jumped out of the cab, nearly got myself killed, but with all the traffic and crowds, I lost them.” She bit her lip.
“I used to think Alex had a thing for Poppy. Perhaps he does, I don’t know.”

“Calm down, Ginny. Think. When did you actually see him, talk to him, face-to-face?”

There was a too long silence and finally Ginny whispered, “He called right after I saw him with Poppy. That was the first
time in ages. He promised he would come to see me that weekend, to explain everything, that if he didn’t call himself to tell
me when he was coming, Poppy would-but he didn’t come.”

Then-another overlong pause—“You know, his mother died, remember I told you, my Aunt Lil? She died the day I went with you
to the D.A.’s office. When I got home, Alex came by on his way to the funeral. I haven’t heard from him since-or from Poppy.
Her phone never answers…”

Johnny looked grim. After the decision he’d made in Washington, he’d concentrated on writing about problems where he could
make a difference. Goddammit, he didn’t want to reenter the Svank cesspool. He’d just received a ton of mail after telling
a story that, for once, elevated hope and belief in society. It was based on the news he’d heard from Sister Cochrane, about
the redemption of “Madame Sacks to Saks.” After his relentless pieces, she’d been taken off the streets and saved by modern
medicine and her own renewed faith. He’d been able to report that “Madame Saks,” Rosemary, was even teaching again in a school
run by caring nuns, one of whom, Sister Cochrane, was determined not to let her slide back into the abyss.

All the same, he knew there was no way he would be able to convince Ginny what a lowlife criminal her cousin Alex Rossiter
really was, unless he could present her with undeniable
facts. That shouldn’t be difficult now, he reckoned, and it would be a pleasure to help Mr. Rossiter get what he deserved.

“I’ll help you find him, Ginny,” he said slowly. He came over to her and took her in his arms. “No more depression. Put on
your glad rags. We’re going to hit the town.”

A flashbulb went off as they left the loft, she in the sleeveless copper-colored tunic, with sheer dark brown hose.

The ice was broken. She threw back her head and smiled. So she’d get used to being photographed; she’d get backing for her
designs; Johnny or his father would find Alex, who would prove his innocence in Svank’s death; and everyone would live happily
ever after.

They walked hand in hand toward a new bistro, Erica’s, where Johnny said the homemade pâté and fresh French bread would make
a new woman of her. She tried to shake off the feeling they were being followed. She’d already showed Johnny too much of a
sad-sack side and she didn’t want to spoil the evening. On the way back to the loft the feeling persisted. She told herself
she was being paranoid.

To her surprise, Johnny told her he couldn’t stay the night. “Something’s come up-I have to go back to Washington at the crack
of dawn.” Even so, he didn’t leave until nearly two A.M., so she was still asleep when her mother woke her with a call around
nine the next morning.

“Ginny, have you heard from Alex since we last spoke? Do you know where he is?” Her mother’s voice wobbled the way it always
did when she was worried.

“No, I wish I did.” Ginny was about to tell her mother about Alex’s visit, supposedly on the way to the funeral, when there
was a loud click on the line.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, Mother. What about Alex?” Another click, faint this time.

“Someone from the FBI was here,” Virginia Walker whispered into the phone. “He wanted to know if we’d seen him. I told him
about the last visit-”

“Did you tell him about London, about the story in the-” There was the faint click again. Ginny stopped, frowning, fully awake
now, tense. Prickly sweat dripped down her back. “Mums, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back.”

“Oh, Ginny, do you have to? I really need to talk to you now.”

“I’ll call you back, Mums, really I will,” she said softly. “In less than an hour, when I go out. Love you.”

Ginny hung up and stared at the phone, which had suddenly become an enemy.

She wasn’t being paranoid.

The night before she had been followed and now her phone was being tapped.

Like Alex, she was under somebody’s surveillance.

“Vladamir Owzvankigori…” Quentin Peet enunciated each syllable precisely and with relish. “What an absolutely perfect specimen
of evil in mankind.” He paused dramatically, waiting for Johnny to put down his glass.

“D’you know, Johnny, I have a theory. It can never be proved, of course, but I believe Mr. Owzvankigori attributed the end
of the Cold War more to Gorbachev’s weakness than to American strategy and tenacity. Around that time-in eighty-eight or eighty-nine-in
order not to make a similar mistake and risk the collapse of his own considerable empire, he began to use the strong-armed
methods of another Georgian bandit, Dzhugashvili, or Koba as he also was known between his many arrests and escapes. If Koba
had nine lives, Owzvankigori surely had twenty…”

Johnny knew better than to interrupt his father. He didn’t know what on earth he was talking about, but he did know that in
his own good time, QP would come to his point, and it would be a good one.

Meanwhile the evening, which he’d dreaded since receiving his father’s fax, was turning into something he never expected,
a warm and wonderful occasion, without one cross word so far. His father was in a rare, expansive mood, encouraging
him to talk about himself, seeming genuinely interested in everything he had to say.

He’d summoned up his courage to tell him about the book on modern society he was halfway through; with the help of a young
woman, who, he was surprised to find himself saying, “I’ve become very fond of…” So far, he hadn’t gone any further.

He hadn’t seen his father since the momentous night at the library. Nothing unusual in that He only had to pick up the paper
to know, more or less, where QP was or where he’d been, as usual risking his neck in the world’s biggest trouble spots, in
and out of Bosnia and, igniting a quickly burned out flash of envy, in Bogotá, Colombia.

Then the fax had arrived, giving him a choice of three dates for dinner, something unusual in itself; his father usually took
for granted that he would be free to see him whenever he suggested-or rather commanded-it. The fax had added he had “something
important to discuss.”

Johnny had been on tenterhooks, waiting for the “something” to drop with the impact of a bomb all through the three courses.
Now, mellow and increasingly relaxed with good wine and food, he was actually sorry the evening was drawing to a close.

In the dimly lit, hushed library where they were having coffee and after-dinner drinks, Peet beckoned to the waiter to refill
their glasses with the Cockburn reserve port, kept in a special bin for him and a few other connoisseurs, at this, his favorite
club.

He settled back against the comfortable old leather armchair, savoring the deep, ruby-red liquid. “Of course, you know who
I’m referring to, son, one of the most brilliant minds of the decade, Vladamir Owzvankigori, otherwise known as Svank. He
will go down in the annals of the twentieth century as one of the most Machiavellian, brilliant hoods in history.”

Johnny nodded dutifully. “And Dzhug… whatisname… Koba the Greek, where does he come in?”

Quentin Peet let out a great roar of a laugh, which Johnny attributed more to the amount of alcohol his father had consumed
than to the wit of his question. “No vacillating Greek, son. Dzhugashvili was born in Georgia, where it’s believed Svank came
from, Dzhugashvili, who changed his name to Koba and then to Stalin, man of steel. Svank liked that. I think Stalin, the old
man of steel, became his role model during the last decade, when-it’s just beginning to be understood—Svank did away brutally
with anyone he thought stood in his path, old friends, associates, wives, mistresses, you name it….”

His father’s tone grew more serious. “My spies tell me you’ve been on the Svank trail, too. Have to admit, Johnny, I didn’t
like it much when I first heard about it… made me realize”—he swallowed down more of the port—“made me realize I haven’t been
much of a father, haven’t kept in touch as I should, but perhaps I’m not such a swine after all. I was worried, you know,
thought you might get hurt.” He leaned over and clumsily patted Johnny’s knee. “Don’t get in too deep, Johnny. Svank’s gone,
but the cesspool he created is still very much there”