by David Duffy
I slid a Department of Homeland Security ID card across the blond wood. A forgery, a good one, a gift from a Russian FSB officer for whom I did a favor. The man looked down at the card and up at me.
“You’ll be helping your country. Rislyakov runs with a suspicious crowd, Middle East connections, if you know what I mean.”
“I had no idea. He’s … He’s always been polite to me.”
“Of course he has. No way you could know. When did you last see him?”
The man thought for a moment. “Couple months, now that I think about it. He didn’t say anything about going away. But that’s not unusual.”
“Anyone else asking for him?”
He hesitated. I tapped the card on the counter. “Couple of guys—foreign guys, Russian maybe, I’m not sure. Big men, thick accents. They come by every few days. Gave me … They wanted me to call them when Mr. Rislyakov returns. I wouldn’t, of course.”
“Of course. You have the key to the apartment?”
“I can’t—”
“You heard of the Patriot Act?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gives us the power to prosecute people who prevent us from stopping a terrorist incident before it occurs.”
“Hey! I never—”
“Of course you didn’t. Key?”
He opened a drawer and handed across a ring. “You want 7B. Left off the elevator.”
“Thanks.” I put a fifty on the counter.
“That’s not necessary, sir. I didn’t realize … I’m glad to help.”
“Don’t worry. The Patriot Act created a special fund for situations like this. Consider it a thank-you from a grateful government.”
I headed for the elevator before he could think too much. One reason I chose to live in America is that I agree with Churchill. Democracy is the worst form of government yet invented—except for all the others that have been tried. Proof point—the Patriot Act is exactly the kind of law that could’ve been enacted by the Communist Party Central Committee. I assuaged the mild guilt I felt over the Homeland Security ruse with the argument that it was a lot less harmful than the fear I’d instilled in Jersey City last night.
The elevator opened onto a small hallway with five doors. I rang the bell for 7B and waited. Nothing. I rang again. No sound from within. I unlocked the door and entered.
The air was hot, still, and stale. No one had been here in weeks, if not months, as the doorman said. A large, open, modern space that resembled the lobby in its use of wood and steel. A lot of Sheetrock painted white, big windows out to Sixth Avenue. Double glass muffled the noise from the street.
The space was neat and clean. No clutter. I spent a short hour going through it. At the end, I had a portrait of a young man with expensive taste in design, clothes, furniture, toiletries, and sex toys, but not much else. A lot of things were missing—a computer, for one, for a reputed geek, but maybe he had a laptop he took with him. Also photographs, mementos, notes, files—all the things that accumulate in life, even a young one. Remove the clothes and toiletries and it was as if no one lived here; the apartment could have been a sale model. Nothing here for me. On the way out, I noted a stack of books next to an easy chair. Ross Macdonald and Graham Greene, Travels with My Aunt on top. At least Ratko had good taste in writers.
I went back to the lobby and gave the keys to the doorman. His eyes traveled to two large men sitting on black leather chairs. They were as broad and coarse as the decor was sleek and trendy. Pasty faces, cheap suits, unfriendly eyes. One of them stood and came toward me.
“Dobrya utro,” I said. “Good morning.”
“Yeb vas,” he replied. “Fuck off.”
“Thought so.”
“Thought what, asshole?”
“Urki muscle. You work for Lachko?”
“Don’t fuck with us.”
“Fine. See ya.”
As I turned I started a count in my head. I got to eight.
“Wait.” He wasn’t quick, but the dimwit’s brain was starting to function. “What do you want here?”
“See Ratko.”
“What for?”
“Friend of friend.”
“He ain’t here.”
“So I’m told. But if he’s not, why are you?”
“Fuck off.”
The brain had apparently maxed out. He went back to his seat and took out a pack of cigarettes before remembering he couldn’t light up inside. He put them back in his pocket with a curse. These weren’t the Badger’s best men. One more try wouldn’t do any harm.
“Hey, I’ve been trying to call Ratko, but nobody answers. When’s the last time anyone saw him?”
“Fuck off.”
That seemed to be the extent of his conversational repertoire. They would certainly report my presence. Question was, did I want to make it easy for Lachko to know I was interested.
Couldn’t hurt.
Bullshit.
It could hurt in the extreme.
That didn’t stop me from saying, “Tell Lachko, Turbo sends his regards.”
Neither man looked up as I walked out the door.
* * *
Five phone messages from Bernie at the office, two from last night and three this morning. One from Gayeff, curt but informative.
“Guys left at six. One went out to a shelter, came back with clothes. The two we followed went straight to SoHo, 32 Greene. Couldn’t see the buzzer, but there was no one home. Followed them to Manhattan Beach. Same addresses you had. One more thing. Somebody followed us following them. Blue Chevy Impala. Probably a rental. New York plates but couldn’t get the number without getting spotted. Car stayed at Greene Street when we went back to Brooklyn.”
Who the hell could that have been? And where did they pick us up? The hotel? Montgomery Street? Maybe Marko and his friends were sharper than I thought. But I still had the money. I checked the safe, just to make sure.
I gave Foos and Pig Pen a rundown on the night’s activities. The parrot gets obstreperous if he’s left out of the loop.
“Wait a minute,” Foos said. “You telling me this guy Risly pulled off the T.J. Maxx job?”
“That’s right.”
“Shrewd dude. That was one ballsy hack.”
“See what the Basilisk can find on him. He goes by Risly and Rislyakov. His apartment is 663 Sixth. SoHo address is 32 Greene.”
“Sure.”
I had gotten some coffee and a traffic update from Pig Pen when Foos’s baritone rumbled through the office like close-by thunder. The last bites of a bacon-egg-cheese-grease-on-a-roll concoction sat on tinfoil on his desk. My doctor is constantly on my case about blood pressure and cholesterol. He has me on statins, and I watch what I eat. I tried to compare notes once with Foos, but he just grinned and said he had no issues. I think he was swallowing a cheeseburger at the time. Like the Ralph Lauren girlfriends—life just isn’t fair.
“No Rislys or Rislyakovs at 32 Greene. But there is a Goncharov. Number 6A.”
“Goncharov?”
“Alexander.” He banged on the keyboard.
“Ratko has a sense of humor. The Russian poet Pushkin’s first name was Alexander, and his wife’s name was Goncharova.”
“Hilarious. The Rislyakov side of his personality has a gambling problem. Accounts at four online casinos. Down about eight hundred grand, all told.”
“You don’t say?”
“I also say he’s three months behind on the rent in Chelsea. Eighty-five hundred a month. Sold the car in May—Audi TT—for eighteen grand. Stiffed the garage for two months before that. Prepaid Con Ed and Time Warner. Eight hundred and change. That covers Internet and phone.”
“Huh. Sounds like he was getting ready to run.”
“Yep. Goncharov’s up to date on the financial basics of life, but he’s accumulating credit cards and bank accounts. Eight Visas, five MasterCards, five Amex. Only just started using them, though. Been running up a Visa bill in Moscow the last eight days—six grand and change. Hotel, restaura
nts, a few shops. Huh, he used a Rislyakov Visa. Can you tell what this is?”
I leaned over his shoulder. “Looks like an undertaker.”
“We all gotta go sometime. Let’s see. He’s got bank accounts at Chase, Citi, B of A, and some locals. Twenty-two in all. Nothing much in them. Few hundred each. I’d say he’s getting ready to leave Rislyakov and his debts hanging, and switch to the Goncharov identity. Maybe he was arranging for Rislyakov’s funeral.”
“Funny. Phone calls?”
“Patience. On to those next.”
“Think I’ll pay a visit to Greene Street. Order another breakfast delight. On me.”
I went next door and called Bernie.
“I’ve got Mulholland’s money. And a possible line on the so-called kidnapper. Unless I miss my guess, he’s sleeping with Eva. Although he might be gay—or AC/DC.”
“Turbo! It’s already been a long day. Make sense. What happened last night?”
“The less you know, in your current capacity of practicing attorney, the better.”
“Just give me the basics.” Bernie’s twenty-five years in the CIA were spent mostly behind a desk. Sometimes he can’t contain his curiosity.
“Three Ukrainians, small-time hoods. I used some contract muscle. We shot one of them so they’d know we were serious, then faked killing another so his pals would talk. Oh, and we threatened to hunt down their families, kill them or worse. The last time I saw the Ukrainians, they were naked in bed together in a Jersey City rent-a-flop.”
“Okay, you made your point.”
“The Ukrainians are working for a guy named Rislyakov. He works for Barsukov.”
“That’s not good.”
“Yeah, but Rislyakov’s not where he’s supposed to be. Lachko’s got men out looking for him.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Rislyakov’s a geek playboy. Geek as in Gates, not Onassis. He probably has a gambling problem, and rumor is, he’s dropped from sight. Before he dropped he was seen a lot with an auburn-haired, blue-eyed beauty on his arm. Sound familiar?”
“I really don’t need this.”
“She’s still priority one, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ve got an idea where Rislyakov and Eva might be. I’ll be by later with the dough. Mulholland sprung?”
“Arraignment’s in an hour.”
“Good luck.”
Pig Pen was watching as I headed for the door.
“Au revoir, parrot.”
“Adios, cheapskate.”
The Basilisk was humming as I passed through its core.
CHAPTER 12
Lower Greene Street was quiet in the late-morning haze. The bazaars of Canal Street bustled at the far end of the block, but only a few cars and fewer pedestrians passed 32 Greene. A gray eight-story loft building with a cast-iron facade that needed paint. The hand-lettered sign by the buzzer for 6A read GONCHAROV. I pushed the button, waited, pushed again, waited and pushed again. I pushed the other buzzers to see if I could at least get into the building. That didn’t work either.
I crossed the street and looked up. The windows on the sixth floor needed washing even more than the facade needed paint. I took out my cell phone and found the number I wanted.
“Gina,” the clipped voice answered immediately.
“I know that. I called you.”
“Turbo!”
“Want a job?”
“Does it involve running around sweating buckets in this fucking heat?”
“Involves watching a building. From the street. No shade.”
“And the hottest friggin’ day of the year.”
“You want the job or not?”
“Yeah. I need the bread. But I’m only good till six. I’ve got a job at the library for the summer. It’s air-conditioned.”
“That’s fine. I’ll spell you then. Thirty-two Greene. We’re interested in 6A. I just want to know who comes and goes. I’ll wait across the street.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty tops.”
I often use college students for simple research or observation jobs. They’re good at blending into the background. I know because I was trained to be, and I recognize the talent. Gina’s a junior at NYU and one of the best—smart, quick, intuitive, tenacious. All attitude with a mouth attached, but she doesn’t have the two annoying habits that afflict three-quarters of America’s youth: ending every sentence as a question (I’m told that’s called “uptalk”) and injecting the word “like” into every third phrase she speaks, the San Fernando Valley’s most pronounced contribution to the culture. Fascism isn’t good for much, but a dictatorial approach to language has its merits. One of the few things the French and I agree on.
I leaned against the brick, but it was too hot. As I straightened, a Town Car parked down the block. A man got out and came in my direction. Same breed as the thugs at Ratko’s apartment building. My message had traveled fast. Did he know about Goncharov’s studio, or had he followed me?
He opened his coat to show the automatic in his waistband. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’re already late. Fucking traffic.”
“No good. Tell Lachko—”
“Get in the fucking car. Now!”
He had the gun halfway out when I said, “Okay. Quick call first.” Who knew how many men Lachko had here. I wanted to warn off Gina.
“No calls. In the car.”
He climbed into the Lincoln after me. Another side of Russian beef was behind the wheel. He smelled of sweat and tobacco in equal measure.
“Move,” the man said. The car took off, rattling as it accelerated on the cobblestones. I didn’t ask where we were going. At the corner, the driver turned east across the bricks of Grand Street toward Brighton Beach.
* * *
Don’t buy the house, buy the neighborhood—another Russian proverb. Exactly what Lachko Barsukov did.
Lachko owned a full square block in Brighton Beach. On two sides, he left the existing houses. The other two blocks he demolished and constructed a replica of the Beloselsky-Belozersky Palace, an enormous baroque-neoclassical pile of pink stone, gilded columns, and marble statuary that must have a hundred rooms. The original stands on Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg’s main drag, a bigger-than-life billboard advertising excessive opulence and reminding us why the tsars had to go. The Badger’s reproduction was evidence that both the wealth and ostentation of the New Russians were on a scale with their predecessors’.
Two guards approached the car while it idled outside a massive iron gate. The driver put down the window, and one of them signaled someone somewhere. The gates swung open. The Lincoln pulled into a courtyard and parked to one side. It looked out of place next to a refurbished ZiL limousine, doubtless belonging once to a Politburo boss, a red Bentley, and a white stretch Hummer. Another two men approached as we got out of the car. One held a gun while the other patted me down. Then he pointed to a door across the courtyard.
Yet another man waited at the door and took me up a flight of marble stairs and down a long marble corridor to a reception room furnished entirely in Biedermeier. He knocked once on a paneled door, entered briefly, then stepped back. In I went. I wasn’t ready for the sight.
Lachko and I had once been close, as close as two men can be who don’t like each other. His father, Iakov, the man who had guided my early career in the Cheka, also welcomed me into his family. I loved him like the father I never knew and tried to love Lachko and his brother, Vasily, too, but affection doesn’t necessarily pass down generations. Iakov was the glue, and over time, Lachko and I moved apart, old planks separating with age and wear. Then events intervened, and whatever glue was left was burned—scorched would be more accurate. Ivanov said he was sick. Ivanov had a spy.
Lachko was about my size and build—or had been the last time I saw him. Disease had taken sixty or seventy pounds, and overfed muscles were now starved and atrophied. He was wearing a silk polo shirt, warm-up jacket, and t
rack pants that probably cost more than one of Mulholland’s suits. They couldn’t disguise the devastation. His cheeks and lips, once plump and heavy, now pulled against the bone. Two enormous dark black eyebrows hung over what was left of the face, thunderclouds ready to erupt. The withdrawal of flesh made them all the more pronounced. The eyes beneath hadn’t changed—they were as cold and gray as ever. He had a plastic oxygen tube in his nostrils and a Belomorkanal smoking in his right hand.
The room was all white—walls, carpet, furniture, marble mantelpiece. The sole exceptions were a bright red lacquered desk and the pile of pillows on his white leather daybed—an array of red, green, and gold, too many to count. The effect was quite striking and very Russian, in its gaudy kind of way. We’ve never been known for subtlety.
“Greetings, Electrifikady Turbanevich, you shit-eating son of a whore fucked up the ass by her pederast father,” Lachko wheezed in Russian, smoke floating from his mouth. “I hope you don’t mind paying a visit to an old, sick friend.” He stopped to cough.
Russians excel at vocal vitriol. The language facilitates improbable, attention-grabbing slurs, and Lachko was well practiced at the verbal body slam. To respond was simply to invite more.
“Lachko, I am sorry. I heard about your illness. I hoped it wasn’t true.”
“Bullshit. You’d dance on my grave naked. These fucking doctors. They say I have cancer. They may be right. They say it can be treated, maybe. They may be right about that, too. They tell me to stop smoking. Fuck what they say. What can I offer you? Coffee, beer, vodka?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Vodka, Sergei,” Lachko said to a large, well-built man in a silk suit and wraparound mirrored sunglasses. “Two glasses. You will drink with me, Electrifikady Turbanevich. We have not had many opportunities recently, and who knows how many we have left.”
I thought he was referring to his disease, but the grim grin on his withered lips told me to think again.
Lachko picked up a couple of cashews from the crystal bowl on the table beside the bed and dropped them, one by one, into his mouth. He chewed slowly. He’d eaten the nuts for years—in a small way, they were part of the reason for our rift. He used to smuggle them by the bushel, intended for a store serving the nomenklatura, the privileged class, but diverted to the Barsukov private stock.