“I’ll take Esther some tea and one of the poppy seed rolls. Don’t go away.” She put a cup of tea and a roll on a tray and took it to her aunt.
Ivanov closed his eyes against the stabbing pain from the Pole’s botched stitches the days before. He hoped he wouldn’t have to ask Esther to drive him to a clinic in Brooklyn after all.
The sun poured through the kitchen window, warming him and taking his mind off the pulsing foot. He sipped the tea, devoured one of the rolls, and was starting on a second one when Toba returned, her dark eyes fixed on him. She put down the empty tray and sank into a chair opposite Ivanov, continuing to stare at him.
Esther wandered in from her television, silent and wary.
Squinting at the women, he sat up. “What? You both look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe we have.”
“The TV,” said the older woman.
“What about it?”
“Dimitri. You’re on television.”
Chapter 75
“It’s not me.”
Esther was having none of it. She and Toba stared at the TV news. “It looks like you.”
“Doesn’t even come close,” Ivanov growled from the couch.
“It’s you.”
The artist’s police sketch on the noon news bore a striking resemblance to him. Esther and her niece Toba kept glancing at the television, then back to Ivanov, then back to the television. Finally, the newsreaders moved on to something else. Esther muted the talking heads’ blather.
“They say you’re involved in two killings in California. Is it true?” Toba stood apart from Ivanov as though he were diseased. Her aunt threw both arms around her, certain they had a madman in their house.
“You can’t stay,” Esther insisted. “If they find you here we’ll be arrested for hiding you.”
“I’m not hiding,” said Ivanov, rising from the couch. “I’m visiting. And that’s not me on the screen. This is probably more of Verlov’s bullshit. He’s thrown me to the cops for some reason.”
“Like maybe being involved in a certain shooting the other night?”
“More bullshit.” Ivanov’s face hardened. “Hey, Esther, do not believe everything you hear. They’ve got me mixed up with someone else who looks like me.”
“So you’re innocent,” she said. “You still have to leave, Dimitri.”
“Okay, I’ll go…”
The women sighed as one.
“When it gets dark,” he said. “I’m not going out in broad daylight. It’s too risky. Verlov probably has guys looking for me.”
“It’s a shame,” said Esther, dripping sarcasm, “especially since you’re not involved in either of those two crimes, eh?”
“Shut up!”
“Why should I? You’re the one who came barging in here. You’re the one they’re after.”
“Esther, you got a big mouth. I’m telling you to shut the fuck up. I’ll leave when I’m ready, not before.” Glancing at a wall clock, he said, “I’ve got five hours to kill—”
Esther, defiant, taunted. “I hope that’s all you kill.”
Shouting, “Enough!” Ivanov struck her with an open hand.
Falling to the floor, Esther cowered at the foot of the sofa, a hand at her mouth, the kimono riding up over doughy thighs. Stunned, Toba knelt to comfort her aunt. Blood trickled from Esther’s lips and both women glared at him. Taking a stuffed chair opposite the couch, Ivanov pulled out his Glock 22, resting it in his lap. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Dimitri.”
Unmoved Ivanov said, “Clean her up, Toba. She opens her mouth again and—”
“And what? You didn’t have to hit her, bastard.”
“I didn’t hit her, I slapped her. There’s a difference.”
Ignoring Toba, his charade of an impromptu social visit exposed, Ivanov thought about his situation—hobbled, identified on TV, no wheels, no mates, and running out of options. Unless he got to Levich, help from that quarter was out of reach. Verlov was the key. He had to be dealt with, and fast.
A seething Toba went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water for her shaken aunt. Huddling together on the couch, the two women stared at Ivanov with undisguised fury. Despite their palpable anger he remembered something Sergei had once said about Verlov’s weak spot. The outline of a plan took shape. Alone, he would have to take the fight to the Ukrainian usurper. No other way. There was no choice. It would have to be tonight.
Chapter 76
When it got dark Ivanov commandeered Esther’s car along with her as driver. He had her cruise past Dagmar Danilev’s modest house. Verlov’s newly hired byki were sitting in a parked town car. The glowing red tips of cigarettes belonging to the two lookouts betrayed them.
Verlov was likely inside, bedding Dagmar for the night.
“Go around back,” ordered Ivanov. “Make a slow pass through the alley but don’t stop.” She did as told. The back of Dagmar’s house was unguarded.
Ivanov crowed to his reluctant chauffeur. “Cocky sonofabitch. He leaves the rear of the house open.”
White-knuckled, Esther clung to the wheel. “Maybe a trap,” she said.
“You don’t understand men like Verlov,” said Ivanov. “He thinks it’s smart to have those two wolves on duty out front. They might as well be wearing a big neon sign. Then he leaves the back porch unguarded. What kind of fool does that?”
“Stop at the mouth of the alley,” he ordered, “and let me out.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to hurt me?”
“Wait here. Keep the car running. I won’t be long. You’d better be here when I get back. If you’re not here then I will hurt you. Understand?”
Wide-eyed and nodding, she did as told. Stopping at the alley’s entry, she let Ivanov out and put the car in park. Gambling on his cobbled-together plan, Ivanov worked his way along the alley, hugging shadows of backyard fences, garages, and the occasional hedge. Feral cats perched on garbage cans fled his approach. He reached the chest-high chain-link fence surrounding the Danilev house. The excitement of what he was about to do overpowered any pain he might have felt. Whatever humiliation he had suffered at Verlov’s hand was about to be erased forever. He slipped through the gate and gained the back porch without being heard. It had been deceptively easy.
What if Esther is right? he wondered. What if it is a trap?
The weight of the Glock 22 in his hand dispelled any fear. Caution was for cowards.
Ivanov crept toward the back door, silently cursing his throbbing foot, the sutures loosening with each step he took. Another score yet to settle.
He stuffed the pistol in his waistband and used a plastic credit card to force the door’s lock. It yielded on his second try. He stepped inside a dimly lighted back hallway with ancient linoleum flooring, hideous flora wallpaper, and tin ceiling. Standing like a statue, Ivanov slowed his breathing and pounding heart.
Muted moans, cries, and grunting escaped from the master bedroom to his right. He imagined a writhing Dagmar pinned beneath a sweating Verlov just feet away.
Ivanov eased along the narrow back hall, feeling for the bedroom’s doorknob with a gloved hand. He pushed open the door, the sounds of hurried rutting masking his footsteps. Pointing his pistol at a tangled mound of heaving sheets, Ivanov barked, “VERLOV!”
He fired four times. White flashes. Screams.
It was over in seconds.
Ivanov backpedaled from the room, retracing his footsteps to the kitchen, then the porch. He stumbled down the steps, heading for the alley.
No waiting car. No Esther.
Bitch. You’ll pay.
Ivanov fled the alley for a gap between two houses opposite. He ignored his leaden foot in flight and emerged on a parallel street, euphoric at what he had done.
Two blocks from the scene, Ivanov hailed a gypsy cab amid the sirens. He directed the driver to Lydia’s street and got out mid-block. Paid and dismissed, the taxi
headed back to Brighton Beach Boulevard to troll for night owls. Inside the bungalow’s iron gate, Ivanov found the front door key beneath the stone urn. He limped inside, placed the Glock inside his shoebox safe, and sank down on the couch in Lydia’s front room.
Chapter 77
At ten o’clock the next morning, Nash and Wolf met Royce in a hookah bar in Brooklyn’s Sheepshead Bay. Despite the mid-morning hour, the café’s interior was dimly lit. Furnishings were limited to small round tables in the front room and pillows piled on thick carpet in a semi-private alcove in the back. Nash’s informer, Anatoly Feldman, had picked the spot and was due in thirty minutes. Royce had claimed a back room corner where he fashioned a perch out of embroidered cushions piled on the floor. Contentedly puffing a silver hookah, Royce hailed the two. Lean, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, Royce wore two day’s worth of stubble, baggy fatigue pants, black high-tops, and a gray hoodie in which he hid his handgun.
Wolf introduced the two. “Nash, meet Royce, former Army Ranger and cop. He doesn’t suffer fools lightly but he makes the occasional exception…me, for example.”
Royce blew a perfect smoke ring, flashed a Cheshire grin, and shook Nash’s hand. “Writer, huh?”
“I am,” said Nash. “We’re meeting one of my sources, Anatoly Feldman. He suggested this spot. Not my first choice.”
Royce laughed, a good sign.
“Obviously he didn’t want to chance a meeting in Brighton Beach,” said Nash. “Probably didn’t want the wrong people to see us together.”
“Feldman’s Armenian,” added Wolf. “Has family ties to the Russian mob. We’re here to watch Nash’s back while he pumps this guy.”
“We sitting in?” said Royce.
Nash said, “No offense, but he’d never go for that.”
“We’re strictly security,” said Wolf.
“If Feldman makes you guys I’ll be sure to tell him you’re with me,” said Nash. “He’s more likely to talk if it’s just the two of us.”
Drawing deep on the hookah, Royce nodded, sending a pair of smoke rings to the ceiling. Nash looked at Wolf and gestured to a low table along the wall. “I’ll take a spot over there,” he said.
“We’ve got you covered. Make sure you stay in sight. If Feldman wants you to go somewhere with him, say no. Got it?”
Nash pushed an ottoman against the wall, then signaled a server and ordered a pot of black tea and pastries for his expected guest.
Glancing down at Royce, Wolf asked, “What are you smoking?”
“Coffee and vanilla. Smooth. Try it.” He offered the mouthpiece to Wolf, who declined.
“Don’t know what you’re missing, man.”
“Yes, I do. I’ll cover the entry,” he told Nash and took a seat in the front room where he could see the other two. Royce looks the part, thought Wolf, smiling. He might be a Ranger and an ex-cop, but he’s perfect for this job. A dangerous chameleon.
If Feldman sought anonymity in his meeting with Nash, he didn’t show it. He arrived in a lime green jogging suit, turning heads despite the café’s dim interior. Rotund, hawk-nosed, with hooded eyes and an unruly head of graying hair, Feldman sported a nervous facial tic and an attitude.
Plopping down on a pyramid of pillows, the Armenian said, “Why I agreed to meet with you I’ll never know. Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time? You nearly got us both killed. After this we’re done.”
“Consider me curious, Anatoly. Curious about rumors I’ve heard of a special book your fellow gangsters want. What’s so important about it, anyway?”
Feldman eyed the pastries and teapot. Snapping his fingers for a server’s attention, he ordered vodka instead.
“Little early for that, isn’t it?”
“I need it. About this book, eh? Pay attention, I’m only going to say this once. Go ahead, make notes.” Feldman rattled on, pausing only when the delinquent server arrived with the vodka. He dismissed her with a scolding frown. Feldman spoke in low, rapid whispers, answering Nash’s patient questions. The vodka helped. Forty minutes later, he got to his feet and slithered away.
Wolf waited ten minutes before joining Nash. “Get everything you needed?”
Nash put away his notebook. “And then some. You can’t make this stuff up. Well, I suppose you could but who would believe it?”
“Care to explain?”
“Later.”
“Now what?” said Wolf.
Already on his cellphone, Nash held a finger to his lips. Wolf wandered to Royce in his corner. “I’d say we’re done here.”
Royce uncoiled. “That was one nervous dude.”
“That’s what happens when you play both sides.”
“Got something for you in my car, Wolfman.”
“Good. Felt naked in here. This could get dicey before we’re done.”
“Be prepared. That’s my motto.”
“Works for me.” Wolf glanced at Nash who had ended his call. “Let’s pack up. I think he’s on to somewhere else.”
“Good. This place is too dark, too confined, and too expensive.”
Nash overheard the remark. “Then you’ll like the next spot. We’ll meet my banker friend in the open, a cemetery.”
“Love the symbolism,” said Royce.
“Being in the open has its own particular set of risks,” said Wolf.
“Not a problem,” said Royce. “I’m good to go.”
The three went out into sunshine, Royce in the lead to check the street.
Chapter 78
Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn
Wolf and Nash drove north on Ocean Parkway, Royce following. They left the parkway, heading west along the wooded margins of the cemetery’s 478 acres. Entering the main gate’s Gothic Revival arches, they followed a serpentine road to their rendezvous point—the graveyard’s iconic Pierrepont family tomb, an arched edifice crowning a leafy man-made rise.
A tour group had abandoned the tomb and was descending the knoll. Following a backpedaling guide lecturing among the headstones, one dozen people made their way to the road. As the group filed past Wolf noticed a single car parked fifty feet ahead of them, its driver nowhere in sight.
“Your banker friend is here.”
Wolf and Nash got out of the car as the last of the gawkers hurried to catch up with the group.
“Do you know who is buried here?” said Nash.
“No clue.”
Royce came up behind them, humorless. “Lots of dead people.”
The writer spread his arms. “Boss Tweed, Louis Tiffany, and Leonard Bernstein, among the many famous and infamous.”
Royce eyed the retreating tour and the surrounding crypts. Splitting to keep his distance from the other two, he headed up the hill. Circling right, he flanked the Pierrepont tomb to his left. Nash approached the ostentatious sarcophagus.
“Royce always like this?”
Wolf, his eyes on the rows of headstones and statues, answered without looking at Nash. “Always. He’s got us covered. Good man to have on the job. You’ll see.”
At the crest, a lone figure in a tan raincoat stepped from behind entwined stone angels. “Over here.”
Wolf drifted past the family monument, hand in his jacket.
“The banker. It’s okay,” said Nash. “Stay behind.”
Melting into the graves, Royce disappeared. From his position next to a gnarled tree, Wolf kept Nash and the raincoat in sight. A decent shot from this range, he thought. Certainly makeable if they stay where they are.
They did. Nash scribbled notes, took an envelope, and wrote some more. The other man talked with his hands and, at one point, made a call on a cellphone, which he offered, to Nash. A movement caught Wolf’s eye. Royce, barely visible, had changed positions.
A black car passed on the road below, drawing Wolf’s attention. Two men got out, one carrying a bouquet. The pair paused behind Nash’s car, then walked to a headstone steps from the road. A silent moment at the stone to lay flowers on the g
rave, a return to their car, and then the men were gone, to Wolf’s relief. An hour passed. The meeting broke up. Wandering down the hill like a bereaved mourner, the raincoat got in his car and left. Nash lingered at the Pierrepont’s elaborate tomb, Wolf close behind. As a precaution, Royce stayed out.
“Another fruitful meeting, I hope,” said Wolf.
“Interesting,” said Nash. “Two years ago my source helped shepherd the charter for a boutique bank—New Amsterdam Global Bank and Trust. Says once they were up and running he was given a title, a desk, and not much to do. They handled mostly commercial accounts from European banks and the occasional private client. They were moving a lot of money from day one. But he didn’t think what they were doing passed the smell test. He asked too many questions. Last year he was let go with a nice severance package.”
Wolf said, “This is the guy who got busted for insider trading, right?”
“The same. He was advising the bank on an unofficial basis. Took the job to make a living.”
“Guy’s gotta eat,” said Wolf. “Does he think the bank’s in bed with the Russian mob?”
“Something like that. He gave me names, dates, and a list of clients. He said he talked to the feds but didn’t think they were interested.”
“I think I know the end of this story,” said Wolf. “The bank’s a Laundromat for the mob. Part of your story right there. Now what?”
“And now,” said Nash, “we go back to our hide. I need to wrap my brain around everything these two sources have told me. It’s almost too much information to digest. I want to see what gold I’ve panned so far.”
“And later?”
“Later, we go into the lion’s mouth.”
“The nightclub?”
“Caspian Nights,” said Nash. “It’ll shake things up.”
“Bearding the lion in his den, as they say. When do we go?”
“Give me one day to put my notes in order. Say, where’s Royce?”
Wolf turned in a circle, his eyes on the tombs. “Oh, he’s out there somewhere playing ghost.”
“Interesting character.”
“That,” said Wolf, “is an understatement.”
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