Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

“I got the ball rolling. Started looking into the Russians. It was like lifting up the corner of a rug and finding a swarm of cockroaches. They were killing each other left and right. No finesse. Right out in the open. Like they didn’t care who knew it. They came over here, took a page from the Sicilians, and went them one better with the violence thing.”

  “Kurskov says this book shows their fingers in our banking system.”

  “They’re in deep. These days Russian mob money is everywhere. There’s too much cash being made to shut off the spigot. Our banks and theirs look the other way. There are two parallel governments running Russia: the Kremlin and the mob.”

  Wolf held out his mug. Nash refilled it with the blended Jameson. “Want to hear my theory about some of that confiscated mob money being used to fund a proxy war in Ukraine?”

  Nash emptied the bottle in his mug. “I know what you’re getting at. You might be on to something. But I’d have to talk to a lot of the right people to get a fix on it. Wouldn’t be easy to do given the situation.”

  “Could you do it?”

  “No question.”

  “But would you do it?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub.” Nash took the empty into the kitchen, came back with another bottle. He dropped on the couch, opened the bottle, and topped off his mug. “Good question. Not sure. The last time I broke a story on these animals it cost me.”

  “McFadden told me,” said Wolf, “about your wife’s murder.”

  No tears, only resignation on Nash’s face. “These guys have a certain primitive way of doing business.” He dropped a handful of ice cubes in his mug. “New York. I was an up-and-comer. Full of myself. Kept dancing closer to the flame. Couldn’t stop.” Turning to Wolf, he said, “There were warning shots fired across my bow but I didn’t feel a thing. Was so wrapped up in pursuing the story I left Danae—my wife—vulnerable.”

  His eyes following Nash, Wolf didn’t answer, just listened.

  “One night on Long Island someone wired a bomb to my car. There had been threats, notes. I was thinking, ‘What could go wrong?’ This was the land of the free and the home of the brave, you know.”

  Wolf held up a hand. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ve thought about it every day since then. Danae took my car that morning. Hers wouldn’t start. They must have tampered with it. One moment she’s there, the next moment, gone. Poof. Turned to ash.”

  “No suspects?”

  “No arrests. Lots of condolences. Flowers from one of the Russian bastards in Little Odessa I had been writing about. Imagine. This mob boss had the balls…the chutzpah to send flowers for my wife’s funeral.”

  “Did that prompt you to write your book?”

  “My exposé about the Russian mob? Yeah, I poured my heart into it.”

  “Must have shaken something loose.”

  “Hit the New York Times bestseller list for five weeks. Made the rounds on the weekend talk shows but nothing happened. Television. What a joke. Talk about short attention spans. The morning shows were no better. I’d get five minutes between the cooking segment and hemorrhoid commercials. Only the feds had shorter attention spans in those days.”

  “Is that when you moved out here?”

  “Yeah. The LA Times offered me a job. I got out of town. Was grateful. Then I ran into a shit storm after doing investigative pieces on the Rampart cop scandals. Sure, I won some prizes for my reporting but suddenly I was persona non grata all over again, this time with the cops. A pariah.”

  Wolf asked, “So you left the Times. What then?”

  Nash sighed. “I’d been doing long investigative pieces for Vanity Fair, the Atlantic, occasional profiles for Playboy, freelance pieces for Time. It paid the bills. Did a turn in Iraq.”

  “That’s where you met McFadden.”

  “Correct. Good guy. A patriot. And I don’t mean that lightly. Ran a tight ship…for an army guy. I came back. Drifted. Wrote screenplays. They’re gathering dust in my files—mob stuff, of course. Intelligent if I do say so myself. Not that infantile shoot-’em-up crap like you see on network TV.”

  “McFadden showed me that series of articles you did for Sports Illustrated on the Russian mob’s fingers in the NHL and the NBA. Solid reporting. Impressive. You nailed it.”

  “Thanks. But it didn’t move people, did it? We’re asleep at the wheel in this country. Sorry to say this, but the Russian Mafiya is here to stay.”

  “Hey, you’re preaching to the choir.”

  “Well, it’s a very small choir. One day we’re gonna wake up and find they’ve taken over the whole church.”

  “That’s why I was hoping this little book Colter and I brought back from Russia would open some eyes. I don’t think it’s too late to blow the lid off this. And I think we might be getting our ass in a sling if I’m right about this proxy war in Ukraine.”

  “Kinda like the ‘Contra’ war in Nicaragua, huh?”

  “And tweaking the Russian bear in Afghanistan in the eighties. Ancient history but yeah, something like that.”

  Nash flopped down in the chair at the computer. “I’ll think about it.”

  “I hope you do. This could save us a lot of trouble if we can head off this cluster fuck before it gets out of hand.”

  “Not…promising anything. Not saying…I won’t…help…” Nash drifted away without finishing. Nash laid back, in a leather recliner, his head resting on his chest, his breathing steady, his eyes closed.

  With their conversation over, Wolf abandoned the couch for the kitchen. He capped the remaining Jameson and made a pot of strong coffee. His day was running out of hours and he had to think about Reggie at her mother’s house nearby. They expected him for dinner. The last thing he needed was a DUI on his way back to Santa Barbara. Coffee and a run would cure that.

  Wolf downed a fresh cup of coffee, doffed his shirt, and slipped out the glass doors to the deck. He took the stairs to the beach and went for a bare-chested, barefooted, sobering jog. The wind had turned onshore, ruining the surf and scouring the sand with a sudden chill. He did one mile up, then retraced his own footprints, stopping to chat with the surfers who had abandoned the sloppy break and come ashore.

  By the time Wolf returned to the condo with a clear head, Nash was fast asleep. He scribbled his phone number and a brief note of encouragement for the writer, then let himself out the front door, locking it behind him. He would call tomorrow and hopefully get a decision to expose the secrets Colter had died to bring to light. If Nash agreed to sign on, all well and good. If not, Wolf would start his search anew, racing the clock to find someone willing to agree the gamble worth it.

  The next morning, during breakfast, Reggie took a call from Sam and after ten minutes of chatting, turned the phone over to Wolf. He excused himself from the table and went outside to talk.

  “Hey, Sam. What’s up?”

  “Two of your fan club came by the shop yesterday. FBI. Seems you’re a popular guy. The folks at State asked them to make a courtesy call. Guess your contacts in Washington would like to continue their conversation with you. You knew they’d track you down eventually.”

  “Well, at least we got in some quality time before they figured it out.”

  “I didn’t lie. I said you’d be back. That you were off making some contacts with people you knew.”

  “They buy it?”

  “Seemed to. And why not? It’s true. They left their cards. I told them you’d call when you checked in with me.”

  “Okay. I’m just waiting for Nash to make a decision about whether or not he’ll take on the story.”

  “Give me a heads up. Does he agree with you about the proxy war angle?”

  “He’s interested. Said he’d think about it.”

  “Reggie on to you?”

  “Not a peep. She did her best, Sam, but I didn’t give you up, man.”

  “Good. So, what’s the plan?”

  Wolf circled the pool, glancing in the ki
tchen window and catching Reggie’s eye. He waved. “I’ll check with Nash today. If he needs me I’ll stay on for a day or so if that’s okay with you.”

  “Do what you need to, Wolfman. No reason to hurry back.”

  “Appreciate it. And thanks for the news about those feds.”

  “You know they’ll be back,” said McFadden.

  “I’ll throw ’em a bone. Maybe call them when Nash signs on.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “There is no Plan B.”

  Chapter 50

  With Dimitri Ivanov not yet gone thirty-six hours, Verlov struck. His first victim: the swaggering, slow-witted Ivor Sergov. Netted outside the Crimean Nights by Verlov’s two drones, a tipsy Sergov was easily disarmed and bundled into the cargo space of a black van.

  Hooded and bound, the terrified Sergov pleaded for his life. To silence the babbling man, Verlov clubbed Sergov with a steel pipe. Later, Verlov tossed him from the van at the foot of a landfill, Sergov’s hands tied behind his back. Verlov drew a blade across Sergov’s throat and sent the dying Sergov stumbling down a slope of rotting garbage. In the morning, crews would find the bound corpse and call the cops. Sergov was not missed until twenty-four hours passed. It would take three days to ID the victim.

  In the meantime, Verlov made himself even more indispensible in Dmitri Ivanov’s absence. He was the picture of solicitous counsel to Boris Levich once news of Sergov’s death reached the mob boss.

  The old man gripped Verlov’s arm and whispered in his ear. “I want whoever is responsible for his death to know

  they will not escape punishment. Such a thing is an insult to me personally. To execute one of my men without permission must not stand. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course. You are correct. Such an affront will be seen as weakness unless we find those responsible and make an example of them.”

  Levich relaxed his iron grip and shuffled to an armchair. Waving Verlov to sit as well, he railed against enemies known and unknown. Nodding, Verlov encouraged Levich’s paranoia, planting seeds where he could. Stroking his chin as if thinking, he said, “Can you trust Anton Sheveski these days?”

  “Sheveski? Why would I not trust him? We have accommodated each other for years without a problem. No, I don’t think he would do such things.”

  Verlov shrugged. “You know best, of course. With your permission, Boss, I’m just thinking out loud. I know Sheveski courts your good will but I sometimes wonder if his words are genuine.”

  “You doubt the man’s sincerity?”

  “I doubt everyone’s sincerity where your well-being is concerned.”

  The sentiment brought a faint smile to Levich’s lips. With Ivanov gone, he was susceptible to such subtlety and Verlov played the concerned, loyal retainer to perfection.

  Levich pursed his lips. “There is Vasili Kirov. But we go back so far.”

  “Bonds sometimes outlive their usefulness despite their origins.”

  “Ah, Verlov. You may be right. Perhaps you hear things I don’t. Sometimes a man says things in the presence of others he would not dare to say to another’s face. You have heard such things, I suppose.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to question the loyalty of those you know so well. Still…I have overheard comments from time to time.”

  Levich thrust his head forward. “What things? What have you heard?”

  “It’s probably nothing. Idle talk. Forgive me for mentioning it. I don’t wish to upset you.”

  Digging his fingers into the armrests, Levich bristled. “Well, you have succeeded in doing just that. I want to know what you have heard.”

  “Some say that perhaps your…age has softened your awareness of what goes on around you these days.”

  Levich bolted from the chair and stabbed a bony finger in Verlov’s chest. “Who says such things? I’m soft, eh? I will make them regret such talk.”

  Verlov cast his eyes at the floor, feigning reluctance to surrender the offenders’ names. “Kirov and Sheveski among others,” he stammered.

  “Who else?”

  “Sergei Helinski thinks you’ve lost your touch.”

  “Dimitri Ivanov’s top man? Impossible. He’s loyal to a fault.”

  Verlov threw a dart. “Loyal, yes, but to Ivanov, not you. It pains me to say that.”

  Hands clasped behind his back, Levich paced, his head bowed. “It pains me more to hear it.”

  “Perhaps those I’ve mentioned were indiscreet, nothing more.”

  Whirling on Verlov, the old man barely contained his rage at the hints of disloyalty he was hearing. “Indiscreet, you say? In my position indiscretion is sometimes the handmaiden of disloyalty.”

  “True. It cannot be tolerated,” agreed Verlov. “But what’s to be done?”

  Silence. Levich wandered to a tall window, grasping the heavy drapes to steady himself. Moments passed. Unsure if he had overreached with his denunciations, Verlov kept silent. A gilded Romanov clock sounded the hour from a fireplace mantel.

  “Start with Helinski,” said Levich in a flat voice.

  “Start? What do you mean?”

  “You know very well what I mean, Verlov.”

  “As you wish, Boss. Am I to understand I have your—”

  Levich interrupted, his voice detached, robotic. “Yes. You have my permission to cut out this cancer before it spreads.”

  “And the others? Sheveski. Kirov.”

  “Must I do your thinking for you, Verlov?”

  “Of course not. Forgive me, Boss. I didn’t want to overstep myself.”

  “You may have saved me a great deal of trouble. How could I be so blind to such treasonous behavior behind my back?”

  Verlov oiled his blade. “How could you have known? Don’t doubt yourself, Boss.”

  “I never have, Verlov. And I won’t begin now.”

  Chapter 51

  Wolf’s phone hummed on the nightstand next to his pillow. He groped for the vibrating phone, picked it up, and glanced at the time.

  6:15. Who the hell? Wolf propped himself on an elbow. “Yeah?”

  Nash’s voice. “I’m in. Made up my mind last night. I’ve already made some calls to get more background on what’s in your little book.”

  Wolf felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “That’s good news, Sean. I know Colter would be pleased.”

  “I’ll want to talk to this Gary Kurskov to compare notes.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Good. I’ll pitch the idea to editors at Vanity Fair and the Atlantic for starters. If they like it we may find ourselves in a bidding war.”

  “Not ‘we,’ just you,” said Wolf. “This is your baby. Run with it.”

  “But you brought this to me, dropped it in my lap. You’ve got skin in this game.”

  “I’m just the messenger. You’re the wordsmith.”

  A pause, then, “Okay, have it your way. I appreciate the shot at it.”

  “I hope this hits the fan big time.”

  Nash laughed. “There’s enough to cover everyone involved.”

  “I’ll get on the horn to Kurskov to grease the wheels. And I’ll call Sam to let him know what we’re doing. Anything else I can do?”

  “No. I’ll take it from here,” said Nash. “I’ll try to keep your role in this as anonymous as possible unless you want credit.”

  “Any credit given should go to Dan Colter. He died to get this in the hands of the public.”

  “Okay. Shoot me that email with Kurskov’s contact info.”

  “Good. Oh, there is one thing you can do for me, Sean.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  “Tell Edie the waitress hello for me the next time you see her.”

  A laugh and then Nash was gone. Grinning, Wolf pounded the pillow. Gotta call Sam ASAP. He’ll want to know. Reggie and I can head back to San Diego. Mission accomplished.

  Wolf showered, shaved, and dressed. He made coffee in the bungalow and sat by a window wa
tching for lights to come on in the main house. An hour later, he crossed the lanai by the pool to join Reggie and her mom for breakfast. It was all he could do to keep the news about Nash a secret. Wolf played the perfect guest throughout the meal. He returned to the pool cottage and called McFadden at his office.

  “Good news, Sam. Nash’s taking on the story. He wants to talk to Kurskov to compare notes.”

  “That is good news, Wolfman. Gary’s out of town until tomorrow but I’ll tell him when he comes in. He’ll be anxious to help out.”

  Wolf said, “Thanks again for the intro to Nash. I think he’s going to do Colter proud. I owe you.”

  “No problem. When you get back let’s do some more range time.”

  “Outstanding. Maybe you can introduce me to that little redhead I saw in lane four the other night.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Wolfman. She can put a tight group dead center at fifteen yards.”

  “Sounds like my kind of woman.”

  Wolf hung up, opened his laptop, and checked his emails. Still no answers from former team members about Colter’s background.

  What’s with the mystery?

  There were four new messages from Nells at the State Department. He read them and trashed them all, then remembered McFadden’s warning about the visit the FBI agents had made earlier that week.

  I’ll call the feds when I get to Sam’s.

  Chapter 52

  Van Nuys

  Finally summoned by Leonid Shurkov, his mysterious host, Ivanov was told to be ready in five minutes. Alexi, the same taciturn chauffeur who had picked him up at the airport, was waiting outside the motel’s shabby office. The hulking driver crushed a cigarette under a heel and opened the town car’s door for Ivanov. “I am to take you to Shurkov.”

  Ivanov slipped in the backseat without speaking. After two days of bad food and ugly lodgings, the soft leather felt luxurious, the town car’s interior like a royal coach. A minibar held unopened bottles of soda water but no vodka. Russian language newspapers and magazines peeked from pockets behind the driver’s seat. Ivanov studied his surroundings for the next forty-five minutes. A hazy veil of smog hovered above the city. Toward the end of the drive the monotonous scenery changed. Storefronts and used car lots side by side with the occasional one-story, flat-roofed bungalows gave way to anorexic palms and office buildings plastered with “For Lease” signs.