Wolf's Vendetta

by Craig MacIntosh

  “Sorry about being out of touch,” said a convincingly contrite Wolf. “There’s lousy phone reception where we’re staying.”

  “Where’s that, Canada?”

  “Just about. A friend’s cabin north of Albany.”

  “Geez, why didn’t you say something? We made arrangements for you to stay in the city, you know.”

  Wolf said, “We didn’t think it was safe.”

  “My lieutenant will be happy to know his wandering witnesses are back in town.”

  Willis brushed ashes from his shoes. “One of the neighbors called to say someone was rooting around in the place. We gambled it might be you guys.”

  “Nice to know the place is being watched,” said Nash.

  Willis shrugged. “Good neighbors. What can I say?” Glancing across the street, he said, “Actually, that’s not the reason I’m here.”

  Nash stiffened. Wolf waited for the next question.

  Willis nodded at the blackened brick walls. “You gonna rebuild?”

  “If the city doesn’t condemn it.”

  “Do yourself a favor, don’t bother rebuilding. Better yet, take the settlement money and run.” Stooping to pick up a cracked brick, Willis said, “Old bricks like these get baked and they may turn to dust sooner than you think. I’d bet this wasn’t the first fire.”

  Nash played the innocent. “It was for me. I’ll see what they offer before I make up my mind. So, what can we do for you?”

  Willis tossed the brick and rubbed the dust from his hands. “I read the report on what happened. The arson investigator says it was deliberate. No question about it.” Sniffing the stale air, he said, “You can still smell the gasoline. That never goes away. We haven’t ID’d the bodies yet.”

  “No surprise,” said Wolf. “But we know one of them was our guy.”

  “So I heard. Sorry about that.”

  Wolf gambled. “What’s going on across the street?”

  “Oh, that,” said Willis. “Some building inspector found a body on the second floor. Looks like he might have been there a while.”

  “That must have been a shock,” said Wolf.

  “Yeah, I bet it was.”

  “A homeless guy?”

  “Who knows?” Willis wandered to the nearest window and looked across the street, his back to Wolf and Nash. “Did you happen to notice any activity over there? I mean, while you were using this loft? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Not that I recall,” said Wolf. “We were preoccupied.”

  “You, Mr. Nash?”

  Shrugging, Nash repeated Wolf’s words. “Like he said, ‘We were preoccupied,’ Detective.”

  Willis said, “If you notice anything funny once we pack up, let us know. People coming and going. Drifters. That sort of thing.”

  He studied the remnants of the loft. “Hope you come out okay on the insurance, Mr. Nash.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pausing on the top step, Willis said, “We’ll try to get you closure as soon as we can.”

  “Not an easy job,” said Wolf. “Any timetable on when our friend’s body will be released, Detective?”

  “That’ll have to come from the medical examiner’s office. Give them a call by week’s end. Ah, one more thought,” said Willis, poised to leave. “You ought to keep an eye open. The Russkis are still out there.”

  “Will do,” said Wolf. “As soon as we’re done here we’re going to ground again.”

  “Good plan. Remember, they have long memories and they don’t look kindly on losing four of their own.”

  “Royce was worth one hundred of them, Detective.”

  Chapter 101

  The Russians did not come that day.

  The insurance agent handling the destroyed loft called Nash when he and Wolf were back on the road, heading north to Royce’s cabin. The building and its contents had been declared a total loss. The company proposed a generous settlement. Wolf and Nash spent the evening discussing the offer while feeding kindling to the cabin’s cast iron stove.

  “Take it,” counseled Wolf. “You can rebuild or go abroad, or go back to Santa Barbara and write that novel you said you always wanted to.”

  “Maybe later. I want to hang around and see how people react to next month’s Times Sunday Magazine cover story on the Russian mob.” Nash had found a receptive audience at the magazine after prolonged discussions.

  Wolf shook his head. “You can do that from the comfort of your beach condo. You don’t need to make yourself a target by staying here.”

  “I’m anonymous. I’m not getting the byline,” grumbled Nash. “I only turned over my first draft because they agreed to run it after reworking it.”

  “You knew that was the price for getting it into print.”

  A moody Nash threw another piece of bone-dry maple in the fire and shut the iron door with a poker. “I know. A guy’s got a right to bitch about it if he wants to.”

  “Let it go,” said Wolf. “The point was to get the story out there.”

  “Okay, it’s going to be out there, then what?”

  Wolf warmed his hands at the stove. “The last time we went into town I checked train timetables using the coffee shop’s Wi-Fi. I plan on going back to Washington a few days ahead of your piece running in the Times. I want to make a house call on an old acquaintance. Keep Royce’s car as long as you need it. You’re welcome to stay here in the meantime.”

  “You’re coming back then?”

  “Affirmative. Once the medical examiner releases Royce’s body I’ll head back to make arrangements for his funeral with his ex-wife. He wanted his ashes scattered here. She never liked being in the woods, but I’m going to make damned sure he gets his wish.”

  They sat in silence. Wolf fed another foot-long piece to the flames in the stove’s belly. The fire licked at the wood, popping sparks in the mound of glowing embers. He shut the stove’s door. “Take the money, Nash.”

  “I’m thinking about it. Don’t want to make a decision I might regret.”

  “Take your time. How about we head back to Albany in a couple days? You can drop me at the train station so I can catch a shuttle to Penn Station and from there, Union Station in Washington. Keep the Glock,” said Wolf. “It’s frowned upon to pack a weapon on board a train. No need to attract attention. Hopefully you won’t need it, but you never know.”

  “That leaves you unarmed.”

  Wolf said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I can find a sharp stick or a rock somewhere. I’ll be okay.”

  “If I know anything about you, you’ll be looking for trouble once you get to Washington.”

  “Me? I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Chapter 102

  Levich didn’t waste time. Constantly on the phone, he made dozens of contacts in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem from a list he had compiled over the years. Courting the influential, he met for lunch in the hotel’s Club Lounge, seducing the impressionable with first-class meals served with a view of the aquamarine sea. Writing checks on his newly opened account, Levich seeded charities run by rabbis, a support-starved Jewish antiquities museum, a private girls’ school, a struggling health clinic, and an ultra-orthodox yeshiva desperate for funds.

  Collecting praise, goodwill, and grass roots connections in the first eight days, Levich extended his stay at the Renaissance Hotel by an additional week. During that time the exiled godfather hooked the first of his politicians. A conservative member of the Knesset took the bait through word of mouth. A confidant of one of the rabbis running a charity, the greedy politico walked away with an envelope stuffed with five thousand of Levich’s dollars. It was a start. The money, like Levich’s other largesse, was an investment.

  Viktor brought Realtor Ari Berezov to Levich’s suite. Seeking a home where he could entertain in privacy, Levich was prepared to spend well to permanently anchor his roots in Israel.

  Over tea, Berezov showed a portfolio of secluded, tasteful homes in southwest Tel Aviv’s Neve Tzedek neighbo
rhood. “You will love this district,” he promised. “Many influential people reside here. A former prime minister, several cabinet members, successful artists, and highly decorated IDF generals make their homes here.”

  “In America,” said Levich disingenuously, “I was just another ordinary businessman in New York. I lived in a modest five-room apartment. I valued my privacy and my security. Crime can sometimes be a problem in New York, you know. Given human nature I assume the same is true here, yes?”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Berezov. Winking, he said, “Rumor has it several Mossad veterans live quiet lives along these shaded streets, so rest assured your security concerns will be of no concern.”

  “I take you at your word. Any suggestions as to a particular home?”

  “Ah, for a client with your tastes and requirements, I have several choices in mind,” he beamed. “With your permission I will arrange some showings, should you wish me to do so.”

  “I would like that. Viktor, you will come with us, of course.”

  “Of course. My pleasure.”

  As Berezov discreetly busied himself with brochures and city maps, Viktor leaned close to Levich’s ear, whispering, “We really should meet with Uri Koronsky first. He has been waiting to see you.”

  “Of course, Viktor. First, let’s see what Mr. Berezov has for us.”

  “Koronsky is not used to waiting. Those seeking his favor are the ones who usually do the waiting.”

  “Well, let us send a message, Viktor. I am not seeking his favor. When we do meet it will be as equals. We’ll meet when the time is right, not before. And I will pick the time.”

  “I do not think he will take kindly to such an affront.”

  “Maybe a little affront goes a long way, eh? Trust me, Viktor, Koronsky can wait.”

  All smiles, Levich rose and ushered Berezov to his suite’s door with the understanding they would begin their search on the morrow.

  The next day, Levich looked at homes in the city’s Neve Tzedek quarter. Like all enterprising realtors, Berezov showed his client a house exceeding the budget they had agreed upon. Aside from the price, the house proved too extravagant for Levich’s needs. A second home too small, a third too modern, a fourth in need of nagging repairs.

  On the second day, the first house they toured again topped the budget. But the fourth place, on the district’s Kfar Saba Street, met Levich’s expectations. Berezov offered up a whitewashed, walled, two-story garden villa built in faux Moroccan style with a central courtyard, fountain, and rooftop area for entertaining—furnished.

  “This will do,” declared a pleased Levich.

  Within three days, his offer was accepted.

  A week after taking possession, and with Viktor at his elbow, Levich spread his wings. A cook-cum-housekeeper was hired, as was a gardener. Moving ahead, Levich offered his trough to a member of a cabinet sub-committee. Next, a Likud firebrand bellied up to Levich’s banquet table and left with a hefty sum he promised to add to the party’s coffers. Whether the money ended up where it was pledged was not Levich’s concern. Two more members of the Knesset—noisy anti-government troublemakers with small armies of admirers—took his money and spread the word of his generosity. By then, Levich was ready to meet key players in Israel’s organized crime world—the affronted Uri Koronsky among them.

  Chapter 103

  Wolf caught the Empire Service’s 1:10 p.m. train and arrived at Penn Station without mishap. Ninety minutes later, he was aboard the Acela Express, heading to Washington’s Union Station. Wolf arrived in the capital, flagged a taxi, and rode in silence, his mind on Nash, Royce, and the man he had come to confront.

  At his condo’s doorstep, Wolf gave the placid Tunisian driver thirty dollars and hurried inside. He made a sweep of his place, found nothing amiss, and spent an hour on the computer, checking emails.

  Still no word about Colter’s family. Odd. The effort to flesh out Colter was beginning to look like a permanent dead end. Abandoning his search, he next scoured the net’s White Pages for information on the State Department’s Nells. Amazing what’s out there, he thought, making notes. There were five Nells listed, none named Robert. There was, however, a C. Nells on a fashionable Georgetown street Wolf recognized. He copied the address.

  He slept four hours, rose before dawn, and slipped unseen into the lower-level garage. He drove away in his BMW, his goal: to confirm the Georgetown address as Nells’s.

  Leaving Alexandria, Wolf took the George Washington Memorial Parkway northwest along the dark Potomac, eventually passing an awakening Reagan National Airport. He crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge, circled the Lincoln Memorial, and headed north past the familiar State Department complex. Wolf made good time in the nearly deserted streets. On P Street NW, he bypassed an idling delivery truck and turned right on Twenty-sixth Street NW where he parked mid-block.

  Piece of cake.

  Wolf killed his lights and engine, his BMW now one of twenty-some cars lining both sides of the street. The trip from his house to Georgetown’s East Village district had taken just twenty minutes. But then, that was done in pre-dawn traffic. A daylight run would not be as easy. But a first try to fix the location was a precautionary reconnaissance.

  The coveted neighborhood, less than ten miles from his Alexandria townhouse, might as well have been on another planet. Nells had done well for a career diplomat—his home a wide, two-story Federal-style brick house. Painted a tasteful cream, with a trio of tall windows and black shutters on both levels, it was trimmed with white stone details. Lining sidewalks on both sides of the street, mature trees added leafy charm. Wolf imagined the professional ranks on this street living in cloistered comfort.

  He strolled to the end of the block, to his right, a tiny coffee shop. He ordered an espresso and pastry from the moon-faced Asian woman, bought a paper, and went back to his car, his eyes taking in every detail. A few lighted windows winked on in upper floors of homes in the pre-dawn darkness, the street’s residents stirring.

  Wolf sipped in silence, one eye on Nells’s home in his rearview and side mirrors. A light went on upstairs behind gauzy curtains. Forty-five minutes later, Robert Nells, his signature bow tie and tweeds peeking from under a gray Burberry wool cashmere topcoat, came out the front door, newspaper and briefcase in one hand, ceramic travel mug in the other.

  Gotcha, Wolf said to himself, smiling.

  Nells got into a late-model, dark blue Lexus and pulled from the curb. After noting the time and jotting down the license plate for future reference, Wolf got out and did a recon on foot, this time studying Nells’s house. A sturdy wooden ramp with a railing led to a side door. A taxi stopped in front of the Nells residence. A small brown woman got out and walked around the side of the house, using the ramp, a bulging bag in her right hand.

  Maid? Home health care worker? Interesting.

  Wolf sat for thirty minutes until a light shone in the far right, second-floor window. Two shadows, one taller than the other, shuffled past filmy curtains.

  So much for privacy, he thought. So, an invalid. A complication? Maybe.

  Having seen enough, Wolf drove away, retracing his route to Alexandria. Later that day, he called the Nells residence, got someone with a thick Hispanic accent.

  “Good afternoon. Is this Maria?”

  “No, señor, this is Consuela.”

  “Of course, Consuela. May I speak to Mr. Nells, please?”

  “Señor Nells will not return until six this evening. Do you perhaps wish to leave message?”

  Wolf declined. “No. Just an old school friend calling. Nothing important. I shall try again later. Gracias, Consuela.”

  Wolf drove back that evening to confirm his observations. A man of habits, Nells returned home between 6:00 and 6:05 as he would on the following two days. The maid, or personal care attendant, had been there both days, giving Wolf a fix on her routine as well. She always stayed fifteen minutes past Nells’s arrival before a taxi fetched her at 6:20. Wolf
had been there both times, timing the unsuspecting pair to make sure. That interval between Nells arriving home and the attendant leaving would be crucial. Give or take a minute or two, the behavior of both was predictable. Nells would likely be upstairs, the maid downstairs, anxious to leave, maybe watching for her ride. Playing the “old friend” Wolf would time it just right, arriving just as the taxi showed.

  This is too easy.

  Chapter 104

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  The next day, Nells showed at 6:05. Parking the Lexus three cars back from Wolf, he carried the same briefcase up the front steps and went inside. Fifteen minutes later, Wolf spotted the approaching taxi and got out of his car. Crossing the street, he timed his arrival perfectly—rapping the heavy brass knocker at the exact moment Consuelo opened the varnished black door. Startled by the stranger in front of her, she opened her mouth to say something but Wolf spoke first. Disarming her with a smile, he said, “Ah, Consuelo. Buenos noches.”

  Hesitating, she looked beyond him at the waiting taxi, unsure.

  “We meet again,” said a cordial Wolf. “Is Señor Nells home?”

  As if cued, the taxi driver tapped his horn impatiently.

  “Sí. Uh, yes, he is just home. And you?”

  Wolf gently pushed past her, saying, “Colonel Forester. We’re old friends. Classmates. He must be upstairs, right? It’s okay.”

  The taxi’s horn sounded. Behind his smile, Wolf blessed the driver.

  Just inside the entry, Wolf gestured to the cab. “Don’t let me hold you up, Consuelo. I’ll wait downstairs for Robert…Señor Nells.”

  Winking at her, he said, “Go on. I’ll be fine.”

  Shrugging, the perplexed brown woman left Wolf standing in the doorway and charged down the sidewalk to her ride. At the cab, she paused, looking back. Waving to her, Wolf shut the door and locked it in case she changed her mind.