Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  Wolf crouched, keeping his distance from the sprawled figure. He waved the handgun. “Huh, so much for Lenin’s speeches. Going for this pistol was foolish of you.”

  Kirov raised his bloodied forehead from the floor. “Who are you? If you want cash you come to wrong place. I keep very little on the premises.”

  “I don’t want money, Mr. Kirov, I want a name.”

  Wolf brought the knife-edged hardcover down on the prone man’s right hand, breaking the wrist. A howl of pain filled the store.

  “One name and I am gone.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Tough guy, huh?” Wolf used the book to break the second wrist. More howls of pain. More defiance mixed with cursing.

  “Here’s what I’m going to do, Kirov. You have a lovely little shop here. Lots of beautiful books. I’m told your collection of antique maps is unique. But when I look around, what do I see? A fire marshal’s worst nightmare.” Wolf flicked a lighter before the fallen man’s eyes. “Shame to see your livelihood go up in smoke.”

  “What do you want?”

  “One name.”

  “Who?”

  “You played chess with Professor Kurtzmann. He spoke of a Russian book with secrets. You talked to someone about this book. I want that name.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  Wolf started on Kirov’s ankles in turn, reducing the bookseller to tears.

  On one knee, out of reach, he played with the lighter, saying, “I doubt you could move fast enough to escape the fire if this place went up in flames.”

  Kirov whined. “Ahhh…bastard.”

  “Wouldn’t disagree with you. But you’re the one on the floor, not me. I can’t see you getting to your feet given the shape you’re in. A body like yours would melt like a candle in a fire.”

  Wolf plucked a parchment from a cabinet. He unrolled a czarist officer’s commission and held the lighter to a corner. The antique parchment’s corner curled in a tiny tongue of fire. He blew out the flame. “Can’t you see the whole place going up like that? Poof.”

  Blackened ash drifted in front of Kirov’s bloodied face. Wolf said, “I noticed you don’t have a sprinkler system. Shame. Lot of treasured stuff here. You probably didn’t want to spend the money, huh? Don’t know how that got by the inspectors.”

  Wolf tore the singed scroll in long strips and piled them in front of the prone Kirov. One by one, he burned the pieces, dropping the twisted ash on the floor. He did the same with two more collectibles. “A name, Kirov. Give me the name.”

  From a flat metal file cabinet with keys in the master lock, Wolf unfolded a medieval map of Europe, Wolf pretended to study it while flicking the lighter back and forth at the margins. Kirov broke.

  “Shurkov.”

  “Who?”

  “Leonid Shurkov.”

  “Is he vory?”

  A thumping sound. Kirov was nodding, his bloodied brow bumping the floor in defeat.

  “Where is Shurkov to be found?” Silence. Wolf repeated the question.

  “Van Nuys.”

  “You expect me to stand on a street corner and shout his name?”

  “A print shop. He has print shop there.”

  “Do better than that, Kirov. There could be a hundred, a thousand print shops in Van Nuys.”

  “Odessa Copies. On Raymer Street, near Sepulveda Boulevard.”

  Backing away, Wolf squatted on a step stool and used his cellphone to confirm what he had been told. “See. That wasn’t so hard was it?”

  “He will kill you for this.”

  “He’ll have to get in line.”

  Kirov fell silent, his immobilized bulk where Wolf had felled him.

  Wolf pocketed the Beretta and two cell phones he found, one on Kirov, another buried on the bookseller’s desk. “I’d love to stay and help you to your feet,” he said, “But I can’t lift heavy things. Besides, I have places to go and appointments to keep.”

  “Shurkov will come after you.”

  Wolf paused. “He’ll try, of course.” Heading for the shop’s service door in back, he said, “But first, he will kill you for talking to me, I think.” On the threshold he looked back at Kirov. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  From the floor. “Rot in hell!

  “After you, asshole.”

  Chapter 58

  Wolf phoned McFadden from the shaded patio of a coffee shop next to a theatrical costumes store. A snap-brim hat and a pair of black stage glasses sat on the table next to his Brazilian roast. A creased map of Southern California and greater LA sat in his lap.

  “Checking in, Sam.”

  “Bad news. Gary Kurskov died an hour ago.”

  An awkward pause. Wolf waited for McFadden to say something, anything.

  “Never regained consciousness. What a tragedy.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. That makes eight.”

  “Eight?”

  “The book. Kurskov was the eighth person to die because of the book.”

  “Way too high a price to pay, Wolfman. Maybe it’s time to think seriously about calling it off and coming in.”

  “Can’t. I’m too close, Sam. I got a name at my last stop.”

  “Good work. We could send the cops. And the feds might be interested.”

  “Let ’em do their own homework. Anything new with the cops?”

  “All they know is that Kurskov was translating sensitive material.”

  “Hmm, do they know what it was?”

  “No. Kurskov’s wife…widow…told them that it was important enough to make somebody threaten him.”

  “How’d they take the news?”

  “They got excited. They’re still at her place trying to tie up loose ends.”

  “Question: do they know we’re involved?”

  “No. She told them she didn’t know what he was looking at. Whoever whacked him trashed his computer as well.”

  “It may be splitting hairs, Sam, but what she said about not knowing what he was looking at was technically true. Are the feds sniffing around?”

  “They’re not players yet. But I’m sure they’ll be showing up here at some point. How much time do you need?”

  Wolf tossed his coffee cup in a trashcan and walked to his car. “Not sure. Four or five hours, maybe. Gonna recon my next stop.”

  “I hate leaving you out there on your own. I ought to be with you, man.”

  Wolf got behind the wheel, started the engine. “You’re in a good spot for now. You can’t be involved. Wouldn’t look good for both of us to be gone at the same time if something went wrong. Plus, you’ve got Reggie to think of.”

  “Are you doing your usual ‘scorched earth’ thing?”

  Wolf laughed. “Funny you should say that.” He scanned his cellphone’s GPS for the print shop’s Van Nuys location. “Don’t worry, Sam, I’m scrubbing as I go. I am the stranger with no name, an invisible man. I have a hunch this next stop may be the last one I need to make. If things turn out okay I’ll come in.”

  “Have you considered the possibility you might meet up with the animals who killed Kurskov?”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Wolf pulled from the curb. “That’s on my radar.” Patting his jacket’s pocket with the handgun in it, he said, “I picked up a little something to even the odds in my favor. But thanks for the concern. I’ll be careful, Dad.”

  Chapter 59

  Smashing and tossing his old phone, Wolf used a new one to call the writer Nash.

  “Checking in with you,” said Wolf. “First of all, I just got off the phone with McFadden. You should know Gary Kurskov is dead. He was tortured and killed by unknown assailants. For lack of a better diagnosis, the cops here are calling it a home invasion gone horribly bad.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Was it related to the data you gave me?”

  “McFadden and I agree it is definitely related. Kurskov apparently went outside to corrob
orate what he was seeing on that camera card I gave him.”

  “Sorry about his death, but him asking for outside corroboration was a dumb thing to do. What was he thinking?”

  “Dunno. Probably wanted to make sure he got it right.”

  “So what do the cops think?”

  “All they know is that Kurskov was working on something sensitive.”

  “Have they made a connection to the Russian Mafiya?”

  “Not yet. And as far as we know the FBI is not part of this.”

  “They’ll be involved before too long. The locals will ask for their help at some point. Are you and McFadden in danger?”

  “We have to go on that assumption. I’m out and about. McFadden’s staying close to home.” Wolf heard ice rattling in a glass. “And you? How’s your research going?”

  “I’ve shaken a few trees,” said Nash. “Made some contacts here and back east. I’m heading to New York next week to talk to some of the Old Guard Mafiya types. You want to come along, see how the other half lives?”

  “Thanks for asking, but for the time being I think I need to stay close to Sam and follow this to its conclusion.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I do have one question for you, though.”

  “Shoot…figuratively speaking, of course.”

  The two laughed. Wolf said, “What can you tell me about a Russian guy named Leonid Shurkov? He runs a printing shop in Van Nuys.”

  “Ah, yes, Leonid Shurkov. He was part of that second wave of immigrants. He’s Georgian. Did a lap in the gulag prior to arrival. Ran a Russian tabloid out here years ago when he first showed. He had his fingers into everything. He’s mobbed up. Rumored to still run crews in the Los Angeles area. Has to be in his late sixties.”

  “A bad actor?”

  “Oh, yeah. Shurkov’s the real deal. He was involved in suspect shipping at the Long Beach port—drugs, arms, and illegals. He got tangled up in bringing in girls from Eastern Europe. Couple of them suffocated on the way over. You could talk to the feds about him. They came to the table late, of course, but they probably have a file on this guy.”

  “So Shurkov’s someone to take seriously.”

  “Yeah, he’s a bad dude. Top of the food chain out here on the coast before he got some competition. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with these guys. They’re like gamecocks, bright plumage, puffed up, strutting and noisy. But they’re lethal, every one of them. Never trust them; never turn your back on them.”

  Wolf said, “Thanks for the info and the warning, Sean.”

  “Should I be asking why you’re calling about Shurkov?”

  “Uh, probably not.”

  Chapter 60

  After a leisurely breakfast, Ivanov gathered his meager belongings and paid his bill in cash. Outside the motel office he spotted the frowning Alexi leaning from the window of the white van they had used the day before.

  Ivanov opened the passenger side door and stared at Alexi. “You really think it’s smart to return to San Diego in the same vehicle?”

  “Why not? We were not stopped last time.”

  Ivanov slid into the passenger seat. “Yes, but Kurskov was alive the last time we were there. We may have been seen. The police will be vigilant.”

  Seemingly unconcerned about the risk, the big man shrugged.

  “Fine. Let us be off,” said Ivanov. “I am tiring of this back and forth. I miss New York.”

  “You will miss it here when you are up to your neck in snow. You will remember your time in California and wish you were here. You watch. I will be right.”

  “Just drive.”

  Alexi’s ragged laugh echoed in the van as they pulled into morning traffic.

  Ivanov glanced at his watch. To make this work I have to get him to stop somewhere before we get on the highway.

  They drove five blocks, leaving a livelier strip clogged with traffic for an anonymous industrial neighborhood of warehouses, auto repair shops, scrap yards, wholesale hardware depots and fenced car lots. Another series of traffic lights and they would join the interstate. Ivanov made his move.

  “Pull over,” he said pointing to a vacant lot between two buildings. “I have to piss.”

  “What? Why now?”

  “Pull over! You want me to make water in the van?”

  “Okay, okay. I pull over. Make it quick, eh?”

  Alexi turned into a vacant square of cracked asphalt between two stuccoed cubes. “Hurry!”

  Ivanov waved him into silence, got out, and made a show of relieving himself against a nearby wall. When he climbed back in the van he was pointing a Walther PPK at Alexi.

  “Fool, what are you doing?”

  “It’s simple. I am not going with you to San Diego, Alexi.”

  “You crazy? Shurkov told us to go back, to find that book.”

  “The police will be waiting for us.”

  “We follow orders, Dimitri.”

  “And which orders would those be?”

  His eyes on the gun, Alexi said, “To go back as Shurkov told us to do.”

  “I see. And once we have the book, will you do as he commanded you— kill me and leave my body behind for the police to find?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I overheard Shurkov telling you to kill me once we were done.”

  Alexi lunged at Ivanov, came up short because of the seat belt.

  Ivanov fired wide, hitting the driver in the left shoulder.

  Despite the seat belt, Alexi threw himself at Ivanov. With little room in the cab, the two struggled. The pistol went off, hitting Ivanov’s left foot. Screaming in rage, he elbowed Alexi in the face, breaking his nose. Freeing the pistol, Ivanov jammed it against the driver’s ribcage and fired three times, ending it.

  Alexi slumped against Ivanov, filling the space between the seats. Ivanov squirmed free of the dead man. Despite the fire consuming his left foot, he dragged, shoved, pushed Alexi’s corpse into the cargo space behind the seats. Exhausted by the effort, a grimacing Ivanov propped his foot on the driver’s seat to examine his wound.

  His toes were shattered. Not a fatal injury but still an unexpected turn, the bullet had exited the top of his foot, mangling the flesh. Blood seeped from a ragged hole in his shoe. In shock, but more determined than ever, Ivanov gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched in agony. He worked the bloodied shoe free, then peeled a soaked crimson sock from his foot.

  Have to work fast. No time to lose.

  Ivanov crouched in the cab, using the bloodied sock as a primitive bandage for his wound. He settled behind the wheel, started the engine, and inched toward the street. When traffic slackened he pulled into the closest lane. Every small bump and jolt of the pavement sent pain shooting through his foot. Blood pooled beneath the brake pedal. He drove for blocks, found a chain drugstore, and pulled to the curb. Ivanov wiped bloodied hands on a rag from the glove compartment and heaved himself into the passenger seat.

  He lowered the window and hailed a skinny black adolescent pushing a bike. “Hey, I need a favor.” The youth halted but kept his distance.

  Ivanov waved two fifty-dollar bills at the teen. “Hurt my foot. Can drive but I can’t walk. Would you be willing to buy me some bandages so I can fix things until I can get myself to a doctor?”

  The curious youngster eyed the bills and approached the passenger side window. Ivanov wiggled the cash. “Here’s money for some medical supplies, okay?” The kid inched closer. Ivanov showed a hundred dollar bill in his left hand. “Take the fifties, buy the stuff I need, and when you bring it back, the hundred is yours. Deal?”

  “What you need, man?”

  Ivanov scribbled what he wanted on a scrap of paper. “Here, take this list. They’ll have everything I want. You keep the change AND the hundred dollars, okay?”

  The teen snatched the notepaper. “That’s all you want me to do? Buy all this shit? Medical stuff, bleach wipes, new socks? What’s up with that? Slippers? Ma
n, this a lot of stuff. You sure?”

  “That’s it. See, I can’t walk. Can’t do it myself. Deal?”

  “Might need more money, man.”

  “One hundred is plenty. You get the bonus when I get the stuff.”

  The young cyclist came closer, peering in the window at Ivanov’s foot propped on the driver’s seat. “Man, that’s fucked up,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “You need a doctor, you know.”

  Ivanov nodded. “Yeah. It looks worse than it is. Okay, you do this for me? Take the money and get me what I need. Come back and the hundred is yours.”

  The grinning kid snatched the fifties. “Okay, man. Don’t go no place.”

  Ivanov laughed to disarm the boy. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere, do you?”

  “Hell no. Okay then. I be back.”

  He leaned the bike against the passenger door and disappeared in the drugstore. Twenty agonizing minutes later he returned, his arms cradling paper bags. The teenager passed the bags through the open window. “I got that cleaning stuff you wanted too, man. What you need that for?”

  Ivanov ignored the question and inventoried the supplies, his mood lightening. “Okay, you did good. Here’s that hundred I promised you.” He passed the bill to his impromptu Samaritan.

  “You crazy, man. But I take it.”

  “Thanks, kid.” Ivanov wormed his way behind the wheel, fighting the pulsing pain. He got back in traffic and drove until he found a deserted school parking lot next to a vacant playground. It took him a tedious, agonizing hour to clean his wounded foot, bandage it, and wrap it in surgical gauze. Ivanov slipped on a pair of clean dark socks and new slippers. He regained his confidence. He splashed bleach over the seats and dashboard in a cursory effort at cleaning the van’s cab. Ivanov stripped, changing into clothes from his carry-on luggage, then bagged bloody towels and clothing. He hobbled to a trashcan and dumped the bag. After tossing the Glock in a storm drain, he got back in the van, gobbled a handful of pain relievers, and got back on the highway. He found a long-term lot near the LA airport and parked. Ivanov wiped every surface he had touched, took the lot’s shuttle to the main terminal, and bought a one-way ticket on a New York flight.