by David Duffy
“That’s not it.”
“Polina’s playing with your head again. You, of all people, should know what she’s capable of. She’s a pathological liar, the ultimate narcissist. Why are you asking me all these questions? Why is this any of your business?”
He was angry. Or his anger, like hers, was covering something else. He was stonewalling about Eva, just as Polina had stonewalled about Ratko. Six hundred million dollars is plenty of reason to stonewall, but despite what Iakov said, Polina had never been greedy—venal, to use his word—in my experience. Self-centered, insecure, needy, narcissistic, volatile, yes. She craved security—emotional security—and attention. Money was part of that, but only part, a means not an end. People change, but not that much. Iakov was wrong about her—or pretending to be. Iakov didn’t make many mistakes.
He was watching me. “Get yourself out of here,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
I gave his hand a squeeze and exhaled slowly as I went down the carpeted hall. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. He probably did.
* * *
A black Suburban with tinted windows was parked outside. The driver’s window slid down, and Coyle waved me over.
“Visiting another sick friend?” he asked. Hard to say whether he wanted me to hear the sarcasm or just wasn’t bothering to cover it.
“That’s right. You guys finally twig to the fact he’s in town?”
“We get precious little help from the citizenry these days. You have no idea how this particular Barsukov got sick, of course.”
“He was shot.”
“Thank you for that piece of news. By whom? When? Where?”
“Wednesday night, he says. Didn’t see the shooter.”
“You in the neighborhood?”
“Nope.” Once again, technically true.
“What were you talking about up there?”
“Moscow. The old days.”
“What about money? Especially money moving from Moscow here—or vice versa. You talk about that?”
“Not a word. Sorry.”
“Bullshit.”
“You guys heard of the Slavic Center for Personal Development?”
“This some kind of joke? I’m not feeling funny.”
“Serious question.”
Coyle looked around inside the SUV. I could see Sawicki in the passenger seat. Maybe one or two more in the back, behind the dark glass. He turned back to me and shook his head. “Okay, so what?”
“Barsukov front. They got branches everywhere they got banks. New York Slav House is down on Second, between Eighth and Ninth.”
“So?”
“I was there earlier today. Saw two women go in, empty-handed. They came out with two others, carrying big shoulder bags. They spent the afternoon hitting half the ATMs in Fairfield County.”
I couldn’t see through the dark lenses of his Ray-Ban aviators, but I’d have bet anything on the eyes narrowing.
“How do you know this?”
“Hold on.” I punched Gina’s number. “Can you talk?”
“Sure.”
“Where are you?”
“Train back to New York, thank God. We just passed Greenwich.”
I said to Coyle, “They’ll be in Grand Central in half an hour, getting off a New Haven train.”
“Descriptions.”
I told Gina to describe the four women and handed over the phone. When he gave the phone back, I said to Gina, “You got a list of the banks you and Stripy visited?”
“What the hell you think I’ve been doing all day, my nails?”
“E-mail it as soon as you can. Enjoy your date.”
“Thanks. I meant what I said about owing me.”
“Put in for overtime.”
“Dammit, Turbo—”
I cut her off. Coyle was talking on his cell phone. When he finished, I said, “I’ll send you a list of the banks they hit tomorrow.”
He took off the sunglasses. The eyes were indeed narrowed. “How’d you know about the Slavic Center?”
“Private sector legwork.”
“Uh-huh. If it were up to me, I’d haul your ass downtown and let Sawicki spend the rest of the night trying to establish a meaningful relationship. His family fled Poland one step ahead of the Red Army. He hates Russians. But you’ve got a date with the boss.”
“My lucky day.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be too sure. Based on her mood an hour ago, you’d be better off with Sawicki.”
CHAPTER 25
Once again, I arrived at Trastevere feeling hot and sticky. The owner greeted me with a smile and a handshake. He took me to a table in the front where Victoria was waiting. She looked cool. I felt limp.
She didn’t get up. “Giancarlo, I gather y’all have met Mr. Vlost. He’s been known to do inappropriate things, so we may not be here long. If I leave, make sure he pays.” She turned to me and smiled sweetly, or as sweetly as an alligator can.
I heard her talking, but truth be told, the words didn’t register. The Russian language is full of slang, and Russian slang is full of improbable expressions, few of which translate well. They do capture the essence of the situation, however. The one that came to mind was vafli lovit, which means, literally, standing around with your mouth open long enough to catch flying dicks. The package Armani had obscured Thursday was on full display tonight. A yellow-gold silk dress came to a V at the top of her chest. Her skin was naturally brown, not acquired at the beach, and smooth. The raven hair fell around her shoulders and shone. A jade pendant and earrings played with the green eyes. No glasses tonight. I could only imagine the hips and legs beneath the table, but by then I realized how long I’d been vafli lovit, so I sat down. Victoria had a martini in front of her. I ordered the same, with Russian vodka.
She wasn’t finished with me yet. “All right, you fast-talking, ex-socialist son of a bitch, y’all tell me right now how you know what you know.”
Coyle wasn’t exaggerating. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t shown up last night.
“Privacy is an elastic concept.”
“Don’t give me any Russian fast-talking bullshit. How’d you get my number? How’d you know about my bank account? And this restaurant?”
I guess I like to court danger, because I thought briefly about telling her where she lived and how much she paid, but I didn’t think Trastevere could withstand the eruption from the Vesuvius across the table if I did.
“I didn’t break any laws and I didn’t peep through any peepholes, I promise. There’s lots of information out there if you know where to look.”
She cooled—a little. “My number is unlisted.”
“Ever order from a catalog? Call customer service?”
“Sure, but I don’t give them my number.”
“You don’t need to. Computer reads it as soon as it answers the phone.”
“You mean…”
“Yep. You and thirty million other people who think an unlisted number is a way to buy privacy. Child’s play, really. Telephone number’s like a digital tag. As good as a Social Security number. Once you have that…”
“So what else do you know?”
“Pretty dress. Bergdorf or Bendel’s?”
“Fuck you!” She slapped me, hard—and loud.
Giancarlo appeared. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine.” I rubbed my cheek. “I said something I shouldn’t have. One more bruise. Won’t happen again.”
He frowned, put down my martini, and left. I turned back to Victoria. The Millenuits pout hit me harder than her hand.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for. It’s just, this kind of thing really pisses me off.”
“Generally or just when it strikes close to home?”
Her hand was in the air again before I could turn. It stopped midway across the table and returned to her lap.
“If you’ll excuse me for saying so—and not hit me again—I’m a little surprised this is new to you. Give
n your job and all.”
She sipped her drink and shook her head. “My background is white-collar crime—corporate fraud, accounting cover-ups, insider trading. I’m not an expert on identity theft—as you apparently are.”
“In that case, I’m happy to help. What would you like to know?”
“Where you spent Wednesday night. What you want with Rad Rislyakov. And Lachko Barsukov. And Iakov Barsukov. You did say you’d explain over dinner. Here I am—all ears.”
She smiled and took another sip. Giancarlo returned, and I let him prolong the truce while he recited the specials.
“You order,” I said.
She told him we’d both have the seafood salad and wild mushroom fettuccini. “And bring a good Barolo. Don’t worry about cost. He’s buying.”
I was going to pay for my sins. I steered the conversation toward safer ground.
“Your father was French?”
“Via New Orleans. My mother, Scottish, via east Texas. They lasted about as long as every other Franco-Anglo attempt to get along. My old man lit out for California shortly after I was born.”
“Tu parles français?”
She shook her head. “Like Loretta says, ‘If you’re lookin’ at me, you’re lookin’ at country.’”
The designer number she was wearing had as much to do with country as I do with Tanzania. “Loretta?”
“Loretta Lynn. She’s kind of a hero for me.”
“See, there’s something I didn’t know.”
“Y’all want to keep talkin’, you’ll…”
The twang was pronounced tonight. So was her temper.
Giancarlo brought the first course and the wine. “You’ll like this. It’s an ’89.” He poured her a small taste, which she swirled and sipped. She smiled broadly at him, and he grinned back.
“Perfect,” she said, and I had the distinct impression she was referring to more than the flavor.
Giancarlo poured. I took a small swallow. I know a little about a lot of things, but wine isn’t one of them. I like it fine, but I prefer beer and vodka. I thought that could be about to change as layer after layer of flavor filled my mouth. Victoria was eying me appraisingly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite like that.”
“You’re not likely to again.” She tucked into her salad.
We ate in silence for a while. The seafood was almost as good as the wine.
“I’m waitin’,” she said.
“Petrovin tell you about Iakov?”
She looked up, confused. “Petrovin? Who the hell’s Petrovin?”
My turn to be confused. “Russian law enforcement officer? Eye patch? Linen suit? He was in your office yesterday.”
“You mean … He told you his name’s Petrovin?”
“Actually, he told me his name isn’t Petrovin, but that’s how he introduced himself. He was being cautious.”
“Are all Russians crazy?”
“Dostoyevsky would tell you probably. Chekhov would disagree. Zinoviev would blame the system.”
“You’re all full of horseshit, that’s for sure. Give me Hemingway any day.”
We weren’t going to agree on literature. “What’s Petrovin’s real name?”
“Uh-uh. He may be crazy, but I’m sure he has reasons, especially when it comes to trusting you. Back to business. Rad Rislyakov.”
“You’re interested in his money laundry.”
“What do you know about that?” she snapped.
“He built it for Barsukov. He uses the information he hacked from T.J. Maxx to create synthetic identities, and he uses those identities to create bank accounts to move money through. He’s got an army of couriers working ATMs all over the Tri-State Area. I happened on a few earlier today. Told Coyle an hour ago where to find them and one base of operation.”
“You didn’t say anything about this the other day.”
“Didn’t know anything about it the other day.”
“You set off my bullshit meter every other time you open your mouth. How do you know what you know?”
“I did some digging. I got lucky. Some of Rislyakov’s associates aren’t very bright.”
“A nonanswer if I ever heard one.”
I raised my glass. “Wine’s excellent.”
“You said your interest in Rislyakov had nothing to do with mine.”
“That’s true.” I debated briefly whether to go on, but I knew I would. You have to give a little to get a little, or perhaps more to the point, I was enjoying myself and her company. Or I do like to live dangerously.
“Rislyakov whaled Mulholland.”
“What? He’s the one?”
“Uh-huh.”
The green eyes grew brighter. “You know that for a fact?”
“Yep. He was blackmailing Mrs. Mulholland.”
“How? Why?”
“I’m going to plead privacy on the how. It doesn’t have an impact on Mulholland, his bank, or the money laundry. The why I don’t know. Except that Ratko had a gambling problem. He might have needed money fast.”
“Had?”
Mistake. She was sharp. “He went through rehab. It took.”
She eyed me over her fork, uncertain what she believed. “How do you know all this?”
“Same way I know about Bergdorf.”
That bought me time, at least. She chewed her salad. I took a bite and resolved to be more careful.
“Back to Mulholland. Why’d Rislyakov phish him? Don’t tell me he just got lucky.”
“That question bothers me, to be candid. I don’t have a good answer.”
“Have you asked Rislyakov?”
“I told you the other day—we’ve never met.”
“Just checking.” She stopped the questions long enough to eat and think. I did the same. The food was every bit as good as last night.
“Tell me about Barsukov—you and Barsukov. Both Barsukovs.”
“That’s complicated. There’s a lot of context.”
“We’ve got half a bottle of wine and the pasta coming. Dessert, too, if we’re still talking. Was Wednesday really the first time you’d seen him in twenty years?”
“Scout’s honor.” Cheka honor wouldn’t mean anything to her.
“Not likely. Scout, I mean.”
Maybe I should’ve stuck with it. I thought about what I was going to say. Suppressing my past had blown up one relationship. Would putting it out there, right up front, ignite another? The lifelong need to skip over, to prevaricate, to hide my past, was missing—for the first time. The sense of liberation wasn’t jarring—but I think the ground shifted beneath the table.
“My link to the Barsukovs is Iakov, the father. He got me out of the Gulag and into the KGB. I owe him pretty much everything.”
“You were in the Gulag? Like whatsisname … Solzhenitsyn?”
“Born there. My mother was a zek, a prisoner. Earned my own ticket back as a teenager. Safe to say I would have died there—years ago—without Iakov.”
“This sounds like a good story, for once. Go on.”
“You really want to hear it?’
“You have my full attention.” The green eyes said she wasn’t lying.
“I was born in Dalstroy, a complex of camps in Siberia, the day Stalin died. March fifth, 1953, also the day Prokofiev died, but no one remembers that. My mother spent most of her life in the camps. I never met my father. We were released—she and I—in the amnesty after Stalin’s death. She died on the way home. I grew up in an orphanage, got in trouble, got sent back.”
“Hold on! You’re going too fast. Why was your mother in the Gulag?”
“No real reason. Millions of people were arrested, incarcerated, released, incarcerated again, executed, all for no reason whatsoever. Other than Stalin’s insanity. The entire Soviet system was based on betrayal—friend against friend, wife against husband, father against son. We were all complicit, the Soviet people, I mean. One big way the Party kept control. The biggest betrayal
of all was the Gulag itself—prisons, work camps, execution chambers, all set up by Russians for Russians who had done nothing, except they’d been betrayed. We’ve never come to terms with what that means. As a result, I’m a zek, and that’s a shameful thing to be. In the eyes of other Russians, I’ll always be a zek. When they see me, they see someone they betrayed. They can’t deal with that, so they transfer the betrayal to me. It’s my fault. I was a prisoner because I betrayed the Party and the state.”
“Jesus! You all are crazy!”
“I won’t deny it. It’s like when Winston Smith and his lover betray each other at the end of 1984. They do it because they’re forced to by Big Brother. It’s not their fault, but once they do, they can no longer look each other in the eye. That was Soviet society, in a nutshell, in fact, not fiction. Still is, to a bigger extent than anyone wants to admit. Solzhenitsyn was one of the few who bucked the system, the culture, the whole deal, by writing about it. Telling the truth for everyone to see. He blew the lid off. But it takes more than one explosion to revolutionize a system that shaped generations. I’ll get off my soapbox now.”
“No such luck. What about Iakov? And the KGB?”
“I have a facility for languages, and between the orphanage and the camps, I picked up a bunch. That got the attention of the KGB, and they offered me a way out. Iakov was already a fast-rising officer, the Cold War was heating up, and he understood we needed people who could make their way, operate—fit in—overseas. Smartest man I ever met. He ended up the number two man in the whole organization—on merit, not political connections.”
“So you went to work for the same people who put your mother in prison?”
“Life’s full of ironies, especially if you’re Russian.”
She shook her head. “Christ. Tell me about the spy part.”
A waiter removed our plates and put two bowls of steaming pasta on the table. The mushroom aroma floated upward. Giancarlo offered Parmesan and pepper. I took another sip of wine. The flavors were separating, becoming more distinct—raisins, berries, and something like tar. I didn’t know tar could taste good.
“The spy part’s pretty mundane. No James Bond. I collected information, a lot of it from newspapers, magazines, TV. Sometimes, I tried to get American experts to work for us. I also tried to stop Soviet experts from being recruited by your CIA. Occasionally, I got Soviet experts to pretend they were working for the Americans when they were still working for us. A big game, really.”