You went too far this time, she thought. She remembered what her therapist had told her at one of their first sessions. When you’re upset, count to ten before you open your mouth. Especially if you’re not sure what’s going to come out.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. Seven. Then leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Eight. Nine.
Ten. She let out her breath. “There’s always a story behind the story, R.J. And that takes time to find. Especially if someone doesn’t want us to find it.”
“You’re forgetting I was a reporter once too,” he said. “Hard as that may be for you to believe. When I was in Dallas—”
“This isn’t Dallas. With all due respect, R.J., I know this city. I know how it works. I—”
The smile came back. “Are we going to play the townie card again? That’s getting a little old, isn’t it? My one-year anniversary is next month. The sky hasn’t fallen, has it? We’re all still here.”
“There are a lot fewer of us.”
“That’s everywhere, not just at the Observer,” he said. “We’re still doing our best, fighting the good fight. There are people here doing outstanding work. Our talent pool’s as deep as it’s ever been.”
She felt the anger coming. Do not engage.
“About this John Doe,” she said.
“If you want, make a call on it later, see if they have an ID or cause. No need to write it.”
“I was going to run it by Rick.”
“You just ran it by me,” he said. “I’m your supervisor. No reason to involve anyone else.”
“I just thought he might—”
“Forget it. In the meantime, Ted Bryson’s got a lot on his plate over the next few days. I’d like you to touch base with him, see if you can help.”
She felt heat coming to her face. “What do you mean, ‘help’?”
“Check in with him, see what he’s got. He’s following the State House renovation, and the president’s coming to town again next week, so we’ll need at least two advances on that. I was thinking you could live-tweet his visit and speech. That’ll help increase your profile online. You can coordinate all this with Ted. I’m sure he’ll value your experience.”
“He’s only been here three months. And I’ve been in this business ten years longer than he has.”
“There are other criteria besides longevity,” he said. “Ted was one of my key people in Dallas. I was happy to finally bring him on board here. I know he’ll do great things.”
“In the meantime, we’re laying off people who’ve worked here for years. With institutional knowledge we’ll never get back.”
“Even more reason why we all need to be team players these days. There’s no room for prima donnas.”
“I’ve never considered myself a prima donna,” she said. “I’ve done my job and I’ve worked hard.”
“No one’s saying you didn’t. And don’t think I’m not aware of your skills. Everyone knows you’re good at working a source. And you did a great job with that story on the vets and their unemployment checks. We got a significant number of hits on that.”
“Pension.”
“What?”
“Pension checks. Not unemployment.”
“You know what I mean.”
“If you value my work, why are you treating me like this?”
Don’t cry, she thought. Don’t let the bastard see it.
“These things are never personal, Tracy. You should know that by now. I hate to say this, but if you don’t agree with our direction, then maybe you need to reevaluate your role at this company.”
There it is, she thought. Out on the table. No veil, just threat.
He picked up a pen, tapped it on the open planner in front of him.
“Are we done?’ she said.
He set the pen down. His expression softened, a peace offering.
“Tracy, we all know reporters are territorial. It’s their nature. But there’s no room for turfs here anymore. We pitch in where we’re needed. Understood?”
“Understood.” She got up, felt unsteady on her feet.
“Ted’s out today,” he said. “He’ll be back tomorrow. See what he needs, all right?”
He picked up his desk phone. When she was at the door, he covered the receiver with a hand, said, “And Tracy?”
She stopped, turned back to him.
“I know you may not have liked what you heard, but I’m glad we got the chance to talk. My door’s always open. And story for story, you’ve been doing excellent work lately. I mean that.”
“I live to serve,” she said.
Back at her desk, she booted up her computer, scrolled through emails, deleting them as she went. Press releases, sunglasses ads that had gotten through the spam filter, a newsroom-wide message for a retirement party for someone in Sports she’d never met.
Only two emails were from readers. The first wanted an update on a story she’d written last month, about a strip-mall doctor charged with selling bogus cancer drugs made in Pakistan and smuggled into the U.S. She’d developed the story based on a tip, had gotten Health and Human Services—and eventually the FBI—involved. She’d have to make some calls, see if there had been any movement in the case.
The second email was a complaint—in all caps—that the daily horoscope hadn’t run in that morning’s paper.
The doctor story followed a series she’d done about veterans at a run-down residential hotel on Roosevelt Boulevard being scammed out of their checks. The two stories had kept her blissfully busy for a solid three-month stretch, working on her own, staying out of the office as much as possible, talking to sources, doing interviews. It was the happiest she’d been in years. She’d thought two strong enterprise stories back to back would earn her some breathing room with Harris, but they hadn’t.
Calm down, she thought. It’s not worth getting upset. Things are what they are. Deal with it.
When she pulled out of the lot, the Toyota’s check-engine light went on. Something else. The Corolla was twelve years old and pushing 160,000 miles. But with things as they were at the paper, she couldn’t risk taking out a loan for a new car.
As she drove, she heard the muffler rattle, louder than it had been that morning. Something loose under there, and getting worse. When she’d been with Brian, he’d taken care of their cars, done most of the work himself. Another thing she missed.
She beat the worst of the city traffic on the way home. The forty-mile drive to New Hope was a longer commute than she’d wanted, but it was a different world out here, farms and woods and pastures. It felt far away from the city.
She’d rented a one-bedroom fieldstone carriage house on the property of a larger estate, surrounded by woods. The three-story main house had been divided into bed-and-breakfast rooms, and there were weddings on the great lawn almost every weekend. On warm nights she’d sleep with the windows open, listening to the wind in the trees, the gurgle of the creek that ran across the front of the property.
She’d stopped at a farm market on the way, bought things for a salad, knew she wouldn’t have an appetite for anything else. In the kitchen, she set the bags on the counter, dropped her cell and the lanyard with her Observer ID into the wicker basket there.
The smell from the rowhouse was still on her. It’s your imagination, she thought. Scent memory. But a shower wouldn’t hurt.
As soon as she hit the couch, she felt her energy vanish. She booted up her MacBook on the coffee table, checked her LinkedIn account. No new contacts or invitations. Scrolling through her Connections, she saw the names and profiles of others she’d worked with at the Observer, all laid off from the paper over the last two years, most still looking for jobs.
It had seemed like a weekly event for a while, watching people clean out their desks and carry boxes down the hall to the elevator. Those who were laid off had their computer profiles wiped and their phone extensions disconnected even before they got the news.
She clicked over to her private e
mail box. Nothing new. At the bottom of the list were the emails she’d saved from Brian. The last ones.
She didn’t blame him. There’d been too many nights and weekends apart, random and unpredictable hours that made no sense to anyone outside the business. The truth was she’d made her choice.
Powering down the laptop, she looked at her reflection in the dark screen. Maybe it’s time to finally get serious about going back to school, she thought. You’re thirty-six. It’s not too late. Or maybe it is.
She forced herself to get up and into the bathroom. She showered, changed into jeans and sweatshirt. In the kitchen, she chopped vegetables for the salad, lost interest halfway through. She wasn’t hungry after all.
She put everything in the refrigerator, opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass, took it back to the couch.
Something will come along, she thought. Something’s out there right now, waiting to happen. What was the saying? “Whatever it is you’re seeking is also seeking you.”
It’s on its way, even if you can’t see it yet. You have to believe that. If you don’t, you’re done.
She found the remote under a seat cushion, turned on the TV. She drank wine, flipped through channels, couldn’t concentrate. The plan for tonight: Drink the rest of the bottle. Order a pizza if you get hungry. Call in sick tomorrow, watch Netflix all day, work on your résumé. Fight the urge to call Harris and quit.
Her glass was empty. The kitchen seemed far away. For the first time in months, she wanted a cigarette.
Six
When the two Russians came into the room, Lukas turned away from the open window and said, “You’re late.”
Penskoff shrugged. He wore a topcoat over a suit, had his hands in his coat pockets. Lukas assumed he was armed. The bodyguard, whom Lukas didn’t know, stood behind him. He’d dressed the part—silk shirt open at the neck, leather jacket, sunglasses at night.
Tariq closed the door behind them, locked it. The bodyguard looked at him, then back at Lukas, who gestured to the battered table in the center of the room, the chairs around it.
“Finally,” Penskoff said. “We do our business face-to-face. Like men.”
Lukas looked back out the window. It was raining lightly, the street three floors below slick with it. They were in an old hotel in Budapest’s Eighth District, far from the golden spires of the city center. Ten p.m. and the street was empty except for a gray Mercedes parked at the curb, Penskoff’s driver at the wheel.
He pulled the shutters closed. He’d paid the old man at the front desk fifty dollars U.S. for the use of the suite for the evening, and no questions had been asked. It was a high-ceilinged room with a small bedroom and bathroom. Random pieces of furniture, paper peeling from the walls, water stains on the ceiling.
“You have my money?” Penskoff said.
“Cash this time, as requested.” Lukas took the black canvas sports bag out from under a chair, set it on the table. He was jet-lagged and impatient. Wanted to get this done.
The bodyguard drew an automatic from a shoulder holster, went into the bedroom. Lukas looked at Tariq, who shrugged. They heard the bathroom door open, the bodyguard checking inside. He came back out, nodded at Penskoff, slid the gun back in its holster. Lukas saw it was one of the cheap Makarov knockoffs that were flooding Eastern Europe.
“We finished with the drama now, the guns?” Lukas said. “Can we sit, talk like adults?”
“Ja zdes’ radi deneg,” Penskoff said.
“Let’s speak English, Yuri,” Lukas said. “Better for everybody, so there’s no misunderstanding.”
“You turn your back on your mother tongue?”
“My mother was born in Odessa, it’s true. But my father lived in Knin his whole life, short as it was. I grew up in Virginia, went to college in Texas. So, please, no more about the motherland.”
“Knin? Then he was a Serb. And so are you.”
“I was once,” Lukas said. “Now I’m an American.”
He pulled out a chair, sat. Penskoff took one opposite. His bodyguard stood behind him. Tariq stayed at the door.
Penskoff looked back at him. “And your friend there who doesn’t speak. He is also from—where you say?—Texas?”
“Tariq’s a man of few words. He keeps his own counsel.”
“An Arab.”
“Let’s stay on topic,” Lukas said. He was already tired of this room, this man, his smell of stale cigarette smoke and heavy cologne.
Penskoff dug into an overcoat pocket, came out with a pack of Sobranies. “There was a time when your boss would have been here himself.”
“I speak for him, Yuri. You know that. That’s why he sent me. To do business, not discuss ancient history.”
“He is an important man now, that I understand. He sits down with the oilmen, the politicians. He’s too important to meet with an old friend.”
Penskoff took out a cigarette, put the pack away. The bodyguard leaned forward with a gold lighter. Penskoff bent to the flame, puffed. The acrid smell of the tobacco filled the air.
“There’s no disrespect intended, Yuri,” Lukas said. “But you’ll believe what you want, I guess. So let’s get to it.”
He pulled the bag closer, unzipped it. The bodyguard’s hand went into his jacket again. Lukas looked at him, took out the thick manila envelope, set it on the table. The bodyguard let his hand drop.
Lukas said, “Ty russkiy?”
The bodyguard hesitated, then nodded.
“Ne pugaytes,” Lukas said. “Take it easy.” Tariq still watched from the door.
Penskoff looked at the envelope. “How much?”
“Open it and see.”
“How much?”
“The balance. Fifty thousand.”
“One hundred. That is what was agreed. What was owed.”
“Those AKMs had Chinese markings, Yuri. They were supposed to be Romanian, from the Sadu plant. That is what was agreed.”
“Yebat. What is the difference?”
“If we’d wanted AKs from China, we’d have bought them from the Chinese, at a better price. But we wanted Romanian. We paid for Romanian.”
“You accepted the shipment. You sold it already, I am sure. You made your profit—”
“That has nothing to do with our deal.”
“—and now you want to go against what was agreed.”
“Fifty thousand is good money for what we’re talking about,” Lukas said. “I think it’s fair.”
Penskoff’s face grew red. “Ublyudok.” Bastard.
Lukas looked at Tariq, then back at Penskoff. “I’ll ignore that. But it brings me to the next issue. We’re out of this business now. No more buying, no more shipments. This is the last time we’ll meet. So take your money and go.”
Lukas slid the envelope across the table toward him. Penskoff looked at him, didn’t touch it. Lukas could see the anger there now, the older man trying to decide how to respond.
Lukas turned to the bodyguard. “You speak English?”
The bodyguard looked at Penskoff, who ignored him, then back at Lukas. “A little.”
“What’s your name?”
Penskoff put a hand atop the envelope, pushed it hard across the table. It slid off the edge and into Lukas’s lap. Penskoff flicked his half-smoked cigarette onto the floor, sank his right hand deep in his overcoat pocket.
Lukas set the envelope back on the table. “All right. If that’s the way it is. You don’t want it, don’t take it.”
“He wants to fuck me? Tell him he can go fuck himself, and his errand boy too.”
Lukas exhaled, sat back. “Tariq.”
When the Russians turned to look behind them, Lukas took the Walther from the open bag, the suppressor already threaded into the muzzle.
The bodyguard’s hand moved. Lukas shook his head, his finger on the trigger. Tariq stepped away from the door, out of the line of fire.
Penskoff looked at the Walther. “You are foolish. You are making a foolish mistake.”
“I’ve made them before.”
“There is a man downstairs, with the car. When he doesn’t hear from us—”
“He’s already dead,” Lukas said. “I knew you wouldn’t take the deal.”
Penskoff looked at him for a long count. Lukas could hear his breathing. Then, slowly, he took his right hand from his pocket. It was empty. He leaned forward, reached for the envelope.
“No,” Lukas said. “Negotiation’s over.”
Penskoff looked at the gun, drew his hand back.
To the bodyguard, Lukas said, “I’ll ask you again, what’s your name?”
The bodyguard looked at the gun, knowing there was no way he could reach his own in time. “Sergei.”
“Okay, Sergei,” Lukas said. “I want you to watch this, what’s going to happen. Don’t move. Don’t do anything, just watch.”
The piano wire caught the light. It looped around Penskoff’s throat, drew tight. He tried to get his fingers under it, too late, and Tariq pulled back hard on the garrote’s wooden handles.
Penskoff clawed at the wire, kicked out. His shoe thudded into the underside of the table, and the chair went over backwards. Tariq rode him down, crouching behind him, twisting the handles in opposite directions.
Sergei didn’t move. Lukas kept the Walther on him.
Penskoff’s heels scuffed the bare floor. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The wire had vanished into the loose skin of his neck. His face purpled, tongue pushing out through swollen lips, eyes wide. His right heel beat a pattern on the floor.
Tariq put a knee in his back, held him that way. Lukas could smell it then, the emptying of the bowels. Tariq gave a final pull, released the handles, stepped back. Penskoff slumped to the floor.
“Sergei,” Lukas said. “Have a seat.”
The bodyguard’s face had gone pale. Lukas nodded at a chair. Sergei pulled it out slowly, sat.
“How long have you worked for him?” Lukas said.
Sergei looked at Penskoff’s body, blood beginning to pool around the head.
“Answer him,” Tariq said. He was flexing his fingers to get the circulation back.
Some Die Nameless Page 4