by David Duffy
An eye patch. Then a hand grabbed mine. “This way. Move!”
Petrovin pulled me to my feet and shoved me to the refuge of another pier. Eva Mulholland was huddled in the shadows, hair matted around her head, soaked shirt clinging to her frame.
Petrovin had traded his white suit for black jeans and a black T-shirt. He hadn’t lost any of his presence.
“I was following Polina,” he said. “I think you had someone on her, too.”
I nodded.
“She brought me here and went inside. That was four o’clock. Eva came at five. I waylaid her.”
I looked at Eva. “Why’d you leave the office?”
“She c … called.” Her voice was between a squeak and a whisper.
“And?”
“She n … needed m … m … me. Said I had to c … come. Then…”
“Then what?” Pretrovin said, with a gentleness I doubt I could’ve managed.
Tears welled. “She screamed. It w … w … was aw … aw … awful.”
“I know this place,” I said to Petrovin. “I’ll go.”
“You armed?”
“No. Are you?”
He shook his head. “Are you sure you’re in shape…”
“I’ll be fine. It’s an old fallout shelter, one big room. If I’m not back out in two minutes, get her out of here and find a cop.”
Nobody came or went while we talked. The rain picked up a little, then slowed. It was falling harder again when I took a breath and started for the rusted door a second time.
The padlock lay on the pavement, cut open, off to the side. Same one I’d bought two decades before, looked like.
I put my back to the wall beside the door, reached around, pushed it open a few inches. If anyone made any noise, it was drowned by the traffic rumble above. I peered into the dark. Couldn’t see a thing. There was a light switch to the right of the door. I’d been amazed years ago when it worked. Who was paying the bill? Where was the bill sent? I was just as amazed now.
I flicked the switch and gave the door a hard shove. It struck something. Glass broke. A trail of fire skittered across the floor around a stack of water drums—a whoosh and a flash and flames and shadows danced on all four walls. I could feel the heat and smell the oil.
Behind the drums a circle of fire raged, fed by kerosene-soaked blankets, flames leaping six to eight feet. In the center I could just make out Polina, tied to a chair, head falling forward. A funeral pyre of blankets burned under the chair.
No time. She’d be dead in a minute and the whole place an inferno a minute after that. Holding a dry blanket in front of me—an ineffective shield if there ever was one—I made my way around the fire circle to the back. No room between the fire and the wall. The designer of this execution chamber had done his work well. The heat scorched everything. The fire burned all around—no spaces, no breaks. My clothes would be alight in a second.
I held the blanket out in front and jumped through the fire. I screamed as the flames seared my skin, the smell of burning flesh mixing with kerosene. I wrapped the blanket around Polina, lifted the burning chair off the pyre, and ran through the other side, giving her a final shove as I fell to the floor and rolled, trying to extinguish burning linen and skin.
“STAY STILL!” Petrovin barked. I stopped, and he covered me with blankets. The burning eased. The smell remained. He took more blankets to Polina and covered her. As I sat up, I saw Eva by the door, her whole body shaking. She let out a wail—the sound of a lifetime of fear, pain, and sorrow reverberating around the stone walls before she collapsed to the floor.
“Get the fire out,” Petrovin yelled.
“Water drums,” I said. “Soak the blankets.”
He went to work on one of the metal cans. It took forever—probably just a few seconds—to get one open. We suffocated the kerosene-soaked blankets. The space filled with black smoke. The stench of fuel, wool, and flesh made me gag.
Polina’s clothes were badly charred, her skin black and red. The burns could be the least of her problems. She’d been worked over with a blade—disfigurement by a thousand cuts. The wounds puffed and oozed. I put my nose next to one; it reeked of kerosene. I fought the urge to throw up.
Her hands were bound to the back of the chair, and her feet to the legs, with duct tape wrapped thick. Tape covered her mouth. I looked for something to cut her free. A box cutter lay in a corner, blood on the blade. The torture weapon. I slashed the tape on her arms and legs and the chair fell away. I pulled the piece off her face as gently as I could. She was unconscious and barely breathing. I pulled out my cell phone. No way not to get my hands dirty this time.
Victoria got on the phone immediately. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” I lied. “Ambulance. ASAP. Front and Dover. In the bridge support. Felix Mulholland. Severe burns and lacerations. Loss of blood. Blood poisoning. She doesn’t have long. Cops, too. I’ll wait.”
She hesitated half a second, a hundred questions running through her mind. She didn’t ask one. “I’ll call back.”
Mulholland next. “Your wife’s badly hurt.” I repeated the essentials. “Ambulance on the way. New York Hospital?”
“Yes. I’ll meet her there. Tell me—”
“Time for that later.”
He understood urgency, too. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
Petrovin sat on the floor, Polina’s head in his lap. He stroked her hair. I thought I saw tears in his good eye, but that could have been the smoke. When he saw me looking, he put his finger to her neck.
“Pulse very faint,” he said.
“Odds aren’t good. Bastard worked her over with that box cutter and put kerosene in her wounds.”
“Jesus! What kind of…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. His shoulders started shaking, and a new look came over his face, one of barely controlled fury. He was close to explosion. Time to get him and Eva out of here.
“Take the girl and go somewhere safe, before the entire New York City police establishment arrives. She’s the target now. That fire was set; the door was booby-trapped. She was supposed to set it off—burn her mother to death before her eyes, herself, too, maybe. I’ll deal with the cops.”
He kept his eye on me as he stood, cool returning. “I don’t disagree with your assessment, but why are you doing this?”
“Why are you?”
Hard to make out in the dim light, but I think he smiled. “Perhaps we’re on the same side after all.”
“You’re the only one who ever doubted that. Does anyone know where you’re staying, anyone at all?”
He hesitated.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t go back there. Someone knew about Chmil, remember?”
I dialed the office. Foos was still there. “Emergency. I need hotels with vacancies, fast.”
“Give me five.”
“Call this number.” I gave him Petrovin’s cell phone.
Eva didn’t want to leave. She started screaming and dove at her mother. I put myself between them. Polina’s back was to her—Eva couldn’t see the extent of her wounds. Petrovin talked quietly in her ear from behind. I couldn’t hear what he said, but his calming influence took hold.
“Polina’ll be at New York Hospital,” I said. “Don’t answer your phone after my friend calls back. If I want to talk, I’ll call twice. I’ll hang up after the third ring the first time. Answer the second call on the second ring. You’d better move.”
Petrovin nodded and took Eva’s hand. He pulled her to the door. He turned back when he got there, looking at Polina on the ground.
“You know as well as I do there’s only one—”
“I know,” I said.
CHAPTER 40
The police got there first, the ambulance second.
I called Bernie as soon as Petrovin left. “I need a lawyer. Someone who can keep me out of jail.” I told him where I was.
“I heard about that place, back at L
angley. We never touched it, waiting for someone to return. How bad is it?”
So much for my irony. “Bad.” I gave him the details. “I’ve called Mulholland. Ambulance and cops are on the way. But your former partner’s going to have my ass.”
“Word is, she already has.”
“I’ve got newfound respect for the CIA. I still need help.”
“I’ll send Franklin to hold the fort while I arrange more heavyweight assistance.”
Victoria called just before the police arrived. “I’ve done what you asked. I’ve got a ton of questions, but I’m gonna let Coyle ask them on my behalf, at least to start. Remember what we talked about this morning—be straight with him. He’s gonna repeat everything you say word for word.”
The cops moved me outside, searched me, and asked a lot of questions of their own, which I refused to answer.
The paramedics wasted no time in taking Polina away.
“New York Hospital,” I said. “Her husband’s—”
“We know.”
An SUV carrying Coyle and Sawicki and the taxi with young Malcolm Franklin raced each other down the block and skidded to the curb in unison. Coyle headed straight for me. Sawicki tried to cut off Franklin, but he ducked under his arm and sprinted in my direction.
Coyle walked on by and went inside. Franklin slid to a stop by my side. “Don’t admit anything. I’ll do the talking.”
“Good advice,” I said.
Sawicki caught up and pushed himself in our faces. “I own your ass tonight.”
I did my best to smile. Franklin did his to look stern. We stood there until Coyle came back out.
“How much did you touch?”
“Don’t answer that,” Franklin said.
“That’s okay,” I said. “Pretty much everything. The door was rigged to knock over a kerosene lantern, which ignited a fire, which was going to burn the woman—Felix Mulholland—at the stake. She’d already been cut up bad. I got her out of the fire. I put out the fire. I called for help. Beyond that, talk to my lawyer.” I looked at Franklin, who didn’t look happy.
“What were you doing here to begin with?” Coyle asked.
I looked at Franklin.
“My client will answer all questions in due course.”
“Your client’s full of shit.”
“C’mon, Coyle, look at me. I’m cooked better than a backyard steak. I told you what I found and what I did about it.”
“I’m still asking what you were doing here to begin with. Taking a walk in the rain under the Brooklyn Bridge?”
I thought about trying to bluff. I might pull it off. I thought about my conversation that morning with Victoria and her admonition about playing it straight. I thought about the fact that I’d likely need her help—and Coyle’s—before this was finished. I weighed all that against the fact that this was Cheka business, family business—none of hers, none of his. I decided to tell the truth. Up to a point.
“Eva Mulholland—the daughter—got a call from her mother, telling her to come here. I followed her.”
“So you must have seen the guy who set the fire.”
“Uh-uh. I was late. I was in Brighton Beach—you can confirm that—and I had to trace the call through her cell phone. By the time I got here…”
“Where’s the girl?”
“You know the Russian working with Victoria? Eye patch, curly hair. Calls himself Petrovin, at least to me?”
Coyle nodded.
“He was following Felix Mulholland. She led him here. He didn’t like the setup, waylaid the girl.”
“Bull. He would’ve seen the guy come out.”
“There’s another exit, ladder to the bridge ramp.”
“So where are they?”
“The girl was in shock. He took her to get help.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“Think about it, Coyle. Guy brings Felix Mulholland here. Works her over. Makes her call her daughter. Daughter doesn’t show. He sets the trap and splits. I trigger it.”
“Okay, so who’s the guy? What’s he want with the Mulholland babe or her daughter? And how’d he know about this place?”
I’d gone as far as I was prepared to. I looked at Franklin. “Your move.”
He stepped forward. “My client will answer no further questions.”
He was trying to sound important, but he came across as silly. Not his fault—he was being trained to argue the finer points of securities regulation with the SEC. Coyle got that, too, and did his best not to laugh.
“All right, counselor. You and your client can accompany me and my partner back to the office. We’ll continue our conversation there.”
* * *
We continued until sometime after 2:00 A.M. Franklin was spelled at eleven by a criminal lawyer named Lieb who wasn’t any more effective in cutting off the questions, but when he said I wouldn’t answer, he sounded like he meant it. Coyle made me call Petrovin a couple of times, but he didn’t answer, as agreed. Sawicki wanted to lock me up overnight, but Coyle let me go—after I promised not to leave town and to produce Petrovin and Eva the next day, and Lieb promised that my promise was one they could bank on.
We rode a slow elevator to the street and walked out into the hot, damp night. Lieb flagged a lonely cab and offered me a lift. I said I’d walk. I wanted time to think.
The streets were empty. I should have gone home—I was tired and aching and scorched. I was also too keyed up for sleep and keenly aware that a clock hanging over the head of Eva Mulholland—maybe others, too—was close to running out. I thought about calling Victoria, but she was probably debriefing Coyle. The office was quiet, but I woke up Pig Pen when I turned on the lights.
“Russky. Burned crust.”
“Not crust, Pig Pen, me. Burned Russky.” I reeked of smoke and kerosene. He gave me the same stare I get from his owner when I utter a logical improbability and closed his eyes. His mention of crust reminded me I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. I found some bread, cheese, and vodka in the kitchen. I was chewing and sipping when the phone rang.
“Coyle says your story’s too fucked up not to be on the level. He also says you know damned well who set that fire and why it was set there.”
I was right about the debriefing. “And?”
“Between you and him, shug, I’m going with him.”
“Thank you for your support.”
“Seriously, are you all right? Coyle said you looked pretty messed up.”
“Your concern is touching. His, too. I’m self-medicating.”
“Uh-oh. Remember what happened last time you went on the vodka cure.”
She had a point. “I will. Where are you?”
“Office—but I can be at your place in ten minutes if you want to hold hands and tell me what’s going on.”
“That’s all I have to look forward to?”
“You’re a suspect, shug, and I’m beat. You gotta be, too. It’s 3:00 A.M.”
She was right—and I should have stayed where I was and started working through the Russian file on Ratko’s hard drive, my purpose in coming here in the first place.
“I’ll wait for you at the front door.”
CHAPTER 41
I overslept. I would’ve overslept more if Victoria hadn’t shaken me at eight, already fully dressed. We’d gone to bed and fallen asleep immediately, holding hands. Her only words had been “You look worse every time I see you.”
I’d taken a shower to wash off the kerosene smoke, and she’d made me ice the worst of my burns. I went along with that until she fell asleep, then tossed the ice in the sink and joined her in happy unconsciousness. The accumulating punishment was taking its toll.
She said, “You’re on your own again, which scares the hell out of me, but I figure you’ll find more trouble no matter what I do.”
I couldn’t argue.
“You know what’s good for you, you’ll get your pal Petrovin and that girl in to talk to Coyle.”
“My pal? I thought he was working with you.”
“He’s off the reservation. Just another ex-socialist to me now.”
“We do stick together.”
“That’s one thing, among many, I’m afraid of. You know who set that fire, don’t you?”
A question I could dodge, given the hour and everything that had happened. Given everything I feared could happen, a question I should avoid entirely.
I didn’t want to. Life’s not as easy as crossing a field, I’d told Bernie. “I have an idea.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “You gonna do anything about it—other than tell Coyle, which is what you should do?”
“I’m thinking about that.”
“Sugar, I said it before and I’ll say it again, ’cause we both know you’re thickheaded. You gotta choose. You decide to pursue this on your own, you’re on your own. You can kiss me good-bye, only there won’t be no kiss. I won’t have any part of it—and no part of you. It’s gonna hurt both of us, but that’s the way it is.”
She stood and straightened her skirt, the simple motion of her hands pulling my heart harder than anything in years.
“Let me know what you decide.”
She was gone before I could respond—if I’d had anything to say.
I lay there awhile, the aches, pains, and stings picking up strength with gathering consciousness. I started an argument with myself, even though I already knew the outcome, and kept it up while I dressed. I hit the steaming street and ran three miles at half my normal pace, then stopped at the cool gym and worked the weights until everything in my body said enough. I kept arguing while I went home, showered, made some eggs, drank some coffee, and sat at the counter alone debating whether I wanted to spend the foreseeable—and quite likely my entire—future sitting at the counter alone. Physically I felt better for my exertions. Emotionally I might as well have been marooned in a Siberian blizzard.
The office was empty. Foos had taken Pig Pen on one of his periodic outings. The parrot seems to enjoy them, but he’s always glad to get home to the traffic reports. The quiet was fine by me. I pulled up the file from Ratko’s database on the computer.
Whatever else Kosokov had been—arrogant, venal, stupid, depending on who you asked and who you believed—he was also meticulous. Ratko’s hard drive did indeed include the records of Rosnobank, at least those relating to the Cheka, annotated in painstaking detail by the banker himself. Every Cheka operation financed through Rosnobank from 1992 through 1999 was there—assassinations, at home and abroad (I recognized many of the names), funds channeled to pro-Russian political parties, insurgents and militias in the former Soviet Republics, money for pro-Cheka entrepreneurs buying up government assets in the early transition years. Thousands of transactions aggregating hundreds of millions of dollars, maybe more. The only thing Kosokov hadn’t provided was a total. Every transaction carried the approval of one of a half-dozen Cheka officers identified in code, although they must have felt increasingly imperious over time— in very un-Cheka fashion, they hadn’t tried hard to obfuscate. The approval that appeared most often was ChK22. I knew that designation.