by David Duffy
Until we caught one of our own people working for the other side. Then the consequences were deadly. I didn’t want to go into that now.
“What if you got caught?”
“It was my business not to. Besides, we all operated under diplomatic immunity. When I was stationed here, I was officially with the Soviet Consulate—cultural attaché, the last time. CIA does the same thing. There’s an unwritten agreement among the professionals—no physical harm. Catch ’em, throw ’em out, don’t hurt ’em. We all knew that if shooting started, it would be hard to stop. Basic self-interest.”
“How’d you do this recruiting?”
“You become a good student of human nature. Figure out what makes people tick, all the psychological buttons you can push. It also helps to get lucky. Believe it or not, your two most famous double agents, Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen, were volunteers, walk-ins. You had another one, Harold Nicholson, who was still trying to make a buck after he got caught, passing secrets from jail through his son. We used all the techniques you’d expect—bribery, blackmail, sex, appeals to ideology, although those were mainly for show. People have a remarkable propensity to get into trouble, as you know. We’d offer a helping hand.”
“You preyed on weakness.”
“It was business. Your side did the same thing. You do the same thing today.”
“That’s different. I’m dealing with criminals.”
“If you say so.”
We paused for more pasta. It almost put the salad and wine to shame.
“So what happened then?”
“Some bad luck. A decision that didn’t work out. My career dead-ended. I moved here.”
“That’s not very specific.”
“Let’s just say it was 1992, the Cold War was over, a bunch of things came together, I needed a change of scene. I’d done four tours in the States, two in New York. I liked it. It’s Moscow with rules—self-imposed, voluntary rules.”
“Okay, I won’t push it. Married?”
She wouldn’t ask that unless …
“A long time ago.”
She waited to see if I would say more. When I didn’t, she said, “You seem—how shall I put this?—very at home here.”
I smiled. I don’t know whether she meant it, but that was quite a compliment for someone in my line.
“Iakov taught me a valuable lesson. He talked about his days in Beirut and Istanbul and how much better prepared the Americans were for operating there because they came from a more open, more diverse culture. They obviously weren’t local, but they knew how to adapt. I had an advantage my fellow officers did not. I’d grown up surrounded by kids from all over—Germans, Poles, Romanians, you name it—in the orphanage and the camps. I was a chameleon. I could fit in with everybody. When I spoke Polish, I sounded like a Pole. When I spoke Hungarian, people thought I came from Budapest. When I was assigned here the first time, I watched TV—cop shows, sitcoms, even soaps. I read all the newspapers and newsmagazines. Also Rolling Stone and Popular Mechanics and the Village Voice. A lot of it I had to do in secret. Most of my fellow Chekists wore Soviet blinders—everything Western was suspect. They wouldn’t have understood. I was careful, and I got away with it. I learned to fit in. Your turn. I want to finish my dinner.”
“Okay. So happens you’re not the only ex-con at the table. Something I don’t tell everyone every day.”
“Things are looking up.”
“Don’t get excited. One of us rehabilitated herself.”
“See, once a zek…”
“I’m not Russian. You’re just another ex-socialist ex-con to me. Anyway, I grew up in a town called Thibodaux, in bayou country. My father left, like I told you. Mother married again—her third. Then she got banged up bad in a car accident. He was driving, smashed. After that she spent most of her time zoned out on painkillers. He tried to put the moves on me, but he was usually too drunk, and I stayed out of his way. One night, though, when I was seventeen, he spiked my soda with something—maybe my mom’s drugs—and I came to on the floor, him on top of me. I was stoned, but he was blotto, and I was able to wriggle away. I laid him out cold with a frying pan, stole his wallet and his car. I slept off the drugs and used his credit card to fill the tank and took off. Didn’t stop until I reached Miami.
“I moved in with my half sister, from my mom’s first marriage. Pretty soon her boyfriend was hitting on me. He was Cuban-Bolivian, so he took ‘no’ as an affront to his manhood. One night he caught me. My sister came home just in time and called the cops. They arrested him—and me, too, for stealing that bastard’s car. The Cuban got probation. I spent a year in a juvenile detention center.”
Based on the Soviet justice system, I’m in no position to pass judgment on America’s—but in addition to the innocent, it does favor people with money. The boyfriend could afford a lawyer. No one was interested in extenuating circumstances from a seventeen-year-old with a Bardot pout and an empty bank account.
“It was a good lesson,” she went on. “I met girls who’d been in there two, three times, they’re not even eighteen. I didn’t want that. I finished high school, worked my way through community college, and got to the University of Miami on ROTC. Degree in psychology. Did four years in the air force and got my law degree on Uncle Sam.”
“What led you to white-collar crime?”
“My first job after law school, at a Miami firm, one of the partners takes me to dinner, then to a motel. I refuse to go inside. He tells me my job depends on it. I say no. I get fired the next day, professional delinquencies, they said. They refused to give me my back pay.
“The money part was bad enough, but the allegation that I wasn’t up to the job really tore it for me. Who’d these bastards think they were? I had my sister take some pictures of me in my underwear. Wrote ‘Can’t wait till next time’ on one and mailed it to his home. Three days later, he appeared at the door screaming about his wife and marriage. I still had my service sidearm. It wasn’t loaded, but he didn’t know that.”
“Still play with guns?”
“Only when provoked.”
She returned to her pasta.
“What happened next?”
“One of my professors knew the DA, and he set me up there. Everyone else was doing drug cases, but I went after crooked businessmen. Why should they get a free ride? Ninety percent conviction rate over three years. I liked prosecuting, but I needed to make some money, so I joined another firm. I let it be known at the outset I didn’t want to be messed with, and I built up enough of a caseload that people left me alone. They merged with an Atlanta firm, then it merged with Hayes & Franklin. I was ready for a change of scene, too, so I asked to move to New York. My timing was good. A lot of big securities fraud cases were breaking, and all the white-shoe lawyers had long forgotten the little bit of criminal law they’d had to study in school. Pretty soon I was running the whole department. Billed eighty million last year, before I left.”
I let out a whistle. I couldn’t help it.
“Now you’re impressed. What is it about men? Sex and money always get your attention. You’re like all the rest—only interested in the same things.”
“The one thing I’m interested in is why Rislyakov phished Mulholland.”
The waiter cleared. We declined the offer of dessert. She ordered coffee.
“There is one thing you could do, if you’re so inclined. Kind of make up for all that spying on me.”
I wasn’t convinced I had anything to make up for, but I had no chance of winning that argument. “What’s that?”
“What you said about identity theft. It’s a world I know very little about. I need to know a lot more, and I prefer not to ask for an in-house tutorial.”
“Don’t want to demonstrate lack of knowledge?”
“Were you this obnoxious when you were a zek?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Some men I work with would feel right at home in your Soviet system. They resent a
woman in my position. So, yes, I prefer not to advertise any gaps in my expertise.”
“Good a reason as any. Would you like to come up and see my databases?”
“When will you get it through your bald head that you are not funny?”
“Don’t you Americans have a saying about old dogs?”
“I don’t mind old. Presumptuous pisses me off.”
“And you carry a gun.”
“How about first thing Monday?”
“Fine. My office is at 88 Pine. Eight thirty?”
“Great. Thank you. I do appreciate it.” She looked around. “Hey, we’re going to close the place.”
I signaled Giancarlo for the check. I hope I kept a straight face when he brought it—$680, before tip. The wine was $475. Victoria was smiling.
“You’re right,” I said, handing over my credit card.
“About what? Men?”
“No. The wine. I won’t be having that again.”
A phone rang faintly. She reached for her bag and pulled it out. She didn’t say much, but I watched her face change as she watched me watching her. She was angry—not her temper flaring like earlier. It was more substantive than that. I hoped it wasn’t aimed at me, but I had the feeling I was in the line of fire, at least tangentially. Her only questions to the phone were “Where?” “When?” and “You’re sure?” After a few minutes, she said, “I’ll be there,” and put the phone back in her bag.
“Y’all are gonna tell me, goddammit, everything you know about Rad Rislyakov. Tonight.”
“What happened?”
“You already know. He was found in a marsh off Flatbush Avenue. Body was dumped there. He’s been dead since midweek.”
I kept a straight face. “There’s not much I can tell you.” Sounded stupid, but at least it was mostly truthful.
“Bullshit.” She wasn’t trying to cover the anger. “I’m not sayin’ you had anything to do with Rislyakov’s killing, but if you did, I’m sure as hell gonna find out.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Let’s go downtown. You can come up and see my corpse.”
I chuckled, I couldn’t help it. I think she did, too, just a little.
I followed her outside. A black Town Car idled by the curb.
“It’s gonna be straight business from here on, so I want to tell you I had a nice time tonight, most of it anyway. But if you want to see me again, socially I mean, assuming you’re not in jail, stay the hell out of my private life.”
“Suppose it’s your private life I’m trying to get into.”
“I don’t mind a full frontal assault. Backdoor tactics are different.”
“I’m just trying whatever door you leave open.”
“Just because you can pick the lock doesn’t mean it’s open.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“You’d be wise to. Otherwise I’ll slam it in your face. There’s a cab.”
I’d assumed the Town Car was hers, but I was wrong on that count, too. The door opened, and Sergei and another man climbed out. Sergei showed us his gun.
“Get in the car,” he said.
“Let me put my friend in a—”
“Both of you, govnosos—shit-sucker. Get in.”
“No. She’s not—”
“In the fucking car!”
It was futile to resist, but I was going to try. Call it chivalry, pride, macho, or just not wanting to be railroaded by a couple of urki in front of Victoria. I took a step toward Sergei, who grinned. The other guy moved in to my right.
Victoria said, “Unless I miss my guess, that’s a Beretta Tomcat, just like the one I own. Don’t be stupid.” She turned to Sergei. “Let’s go.”
She walked to the car, opened the door, and climbed in. Sergei looked disappointed he wasn’t going to get to slug me, but he followed her to the car, and the other guy shoved me in after them. The Lincoln took off down Second Avenue and again turned east toward Brighton Beach.
CHAPTER 26
Traffic was light, so we made the Badger’s palace in thirty minutes. Victoria sat silently through the ride, seemingly cool as ice. No way to gauge the temperature under the skin. Neither Sergei nor the driver said anything. I wondered if Lachko was aware of the identity of his other guest. If so, he was playing an aggressive hand, even for him.
The car went through the security check at the gate and pulled into the courtyard. I was yanked out, pressed against the steel, and patted down. Across the car, Sergei was getting ready to search Victoria.
“Hands off, Sergei,” I said. “Lachko won’t like it.”
“Fuck off.”
“She’s a U.S. attorney, Sergei. Top Fed, to you. She can bring every cop in New York to Brighton Beach. Boss want that?”
Sergei didn’t respond, but he didn’t search Victoria either.
I said to her, “You carrying your Beretta?”
“No.”
“Anything at all?”
“Pepper spray.”
“Hand it over and let him see your bag.”
She did as I said.
Sergei took the spray canister and looked inside the bag. “Okay.”
Victoria smiled at him and looked back at me. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Sergei told me to fuck my mother in Russian and led us into the palace, down the marble hall, through the Beidermeir reception room, and into Lachko’s office.
“Well, Electrifikady Turbanevich, you poisonous parasite, what is it I have to do to flush you from my system?” Lachko sat in a wheelchair tonight, wearing a gray tracksuit, papirosa smoking in one hand, cashews in a bowl next to him.
“Barsukov, Miss Victoria, Lachko Iakovlev Barsukov. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I apologize for interfering in your evening, but you were clearly in need of an improvement in company.”
“Turbo told me y’all were kinda insistent. He wasn’t joking.” She was laying the twang on thick and heavy.
“Ahhh. What else did my old friend tell you?”
“Y’all don’t get on so well anymore. And you’re a mean-ass son of a bitch.”
Lachko smiled as broadly as his cancer-stretched skin would allow, then laughed.
“What can I offer you, Miss Victoria?” Lachko asked. “Vodka, coffee?”
“Glass of wine, please. Red, if you have it.”
Lachko nodded at Sergei. “Turbo? Vodka?”
“Nothing for me.”
“Vodka, Sergei. That’s twice you’ve declined my hospitality, Turbo. We have our differences, sure, but that’s no reason to be uncivilized.”
I shrugged. Lachko scooped up some cashews. Sergei went off to get the drinks.
Lachko said, “I gather you two had a very relaxed meal. Almost three hours. I hope you didn’t spend all that time talking about me.”
Victoria had disbelief written all over her. “Y’all got an inflated opinion, you don’t mind my saying so.”
“You are a good actress, Miss Victoria. Better than many I’ve seen on your Broadway stage. You also have a battalion stationed across the street from my home, men with cameras, telescopes, microphones, and who knows what else. My opinion is my opinion, but it is not far-fetched.” He bit hard on a nut as if to emphasize his point.
Sergei returned with a tray. Victoria took her wine. I decided to have the vodka after all. Lachko thought he could intimidate Victoria. It would be fun watching him try.
Victoria gave him a long stare and shook her head. “My predecessor put those men there. Not unreasonable, given that you’re a mobster. I haven’t had time to think about them myself. Although I can’t imagine they’re earning the taxpayers’ keep watching a bunch of second-rate crooks in a dump like this, dolled up like a Vegas cathouse.”
The taunts registered. The black eyes turned blacker. I hoped she knew what she was doing—spearing Lachko’s vanity was playing with fire.
She took a sip of wine, wrinkled her nose, and set the glass aside.
“The wine not to your liking?”
“You get points for consistency, if nothing else.”
“Why’d you haul us out here, Lachko?” I said.
“A chance to talk, Turbo. And to meet the most attractive Miss Victoria, of course.”
“Hold the sugar, sugar,” she said. “You missed the opportunity for that.”
That got her another black-eyed stare.
“You want to talk, Lachko, that’s fine. Tell Sergei to take Victoria back to Manhattan.”
“In good time, Turbo. The matters I wish to discuss may involve her, too.”
“I’m all ears,” she said.
“Rad Rislyakov,” Lachko said. “I know you have an interest in him, Miss Victoria. You’ve had men not busy watching my home watching his.” He held up a hairy hand full of nuts. “Spare my patience, I don’t need to hear more about your predecessor.”
“What about Rislyakov?” I asked.
“Wednesday, when we picked you up on Greene Street, you were outside a building where he did business. You didn’t tell me.”
Victoria swung toward me.
“I see Turbo hasn’t told you about Greene Street either, Miss Victoria. Maybe you are in a similar position—you think someone is a better friend than he turns out to be.”
“Who said we’re friends?”
“You hear that, Turbo? Even Miss Victoria here questions your friendship. Perhaps you know something about Rislyakov’s death. How he became dead, for example.”
“What about it?” Victoria asked me.
“Rislyakov rented a loft at 32 Greene, 6A, under another name—Goncharov. Lachko didn’t know about it, which raises two questions.” I turned back to face him. “How’d you let that happen? You must be slipping. And what was Ratko hiding from you?” That got me the dark look and the sense that I’d pay a price in the not-too-distant future. “On the other hand, there are rare occasions when Lachko knows more than he lets on.”
“Rislyakov worked for me. No secret there. I’m the one who recognized the boy’s talent, saw his potential. I nurtured him. He was worth a lot of money to me.”