by David Duffy
CHAPTER 47
Too much to process, and no time.
One imperative—get Petrovin on a plane. If the Cheka got wind of his presence on this killing ground, he’d be a dead man the moment he set foot on a Moscow street, maybe sooner. No one could know he’d been here—ever.
I pulled Iakov’s airline ticket from his pocket—miraculously, it hadn’t been shredded. He was still traveling as Andropov. He had a passport in the same name. I held both out to Petrovin. “Exchange the ticket, take a ride home on the Cheka. Dump the passport in Paris. I’ll take care of things here.”
He looked skeptical. “How are you going to do that?”
“I’ll think of something. If you don’t go now, you won’t anytime soon. We both know what that means. Leave the machine gun. Dump this cell phone, too—with the passport. It doesn’t mean anything now. There’s a Beretta over there. Iakov’s.”
He found the pistol while I laid Iakov on the ground. We moved outside the fence.
I tossed the detonator and pistol in the backseat of the Lincoln. “There are two of Lachko’s men and a bomb in the trunk.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“But not smart. Thanks for saving my skin.”
“The first ex-Chekist should live long enough to learn what it feels like.”
I gave him the hard drive. “Take this. Kosokov’s bank records—but you know as well as I do, the Cheka will never allow a trial, not a real one.”
He nodded. “They squelched the official investigation back then.”
“Your friend Ivanov won’t feel so constrained.”
He smiled. “I can almost guarantee that.”
I got some rags out of the back of the Valdez. “You’d better move. I’ve got some rearranging to do, before the police arrive.”
“Do you … do you ever visit Moscow?”
“Had a trip planned a couple weeks ago, before events intervened.” That seemed like a different era.
“Look me up next time. You’ll find me—”
“I know,” I said. “I know everything I need to. Get going. I hear sirens, and I’ve got work to do before they get here.”
That was a lie, but certainly a short-lived one. He had to realize the truth, too—neither of us wanted to broach the subject. There’d be time enough later—if he got on the plane and I stayed out of jail.
He held out his hand, and I took it. I wanted more than anything to pull him to me, but I gave him a firm grip, avoiding his eye, looking past his shoulder to the main road.
“Go.”
He went. I watched him trot out to the service road and disappear into darkness. I ran back with the rags to wipe down the machine gun he’d used, work Iakov’s prints over it, and help the lifeless hands fire a quick burst into the mud. I laid the body down again. The sirens came into range shortly after.
CHAPTER 48
I stayed out of jail—but it was close.
I used one of the eight stories the naked city keeps retelling—this one, the falling-out among thieves over a girl, specifically Iakov and Sergei, who, in my version of the tale, was sweet on Polina and intent on revenge. Iakov foresaw that and lured him to JFK with two of Lachko’s thugs waiting. Sergei anticipated the trap and disposed of the thugs, and he and Iakov fought a Cheka-urki duel to the death. I had phoned Iakov to say good-bye, and he had called me to Kennedy. I arrived too late to stop the bloodshed.
I needed one supporting fact. Just before the cops arrived, I got Foos and the Basilisk to tap into the Big Dick and adjust the location of my cell phone call to Iakov. Dzerzhinsky would have killed for that capability.
Tell a lie, but stick to the plot—one more proverb. I made up the plot and held on, all the way through the weekend. I doubt they believed me, but they didn’t care much about a couple of dead Russians either. It helped that I was able to give them a front row ticket, as Foos put it, to Lachko’s laundry. They’d be able to watch every dollar moving through Ratko’s washing machines. It also helped that there was no one left to contradict me.
Except Victoria, who wasn’t buying any of it. “Where’s Petrovin?” she asked, after Coyle and Sawicki finally let me go. “He said he was going to JFK. Where is he? Don’t tell me you didn’t see him. Don’t tell me you don’t know. I don’t believe it.”
We were sitting across from each other at the counter in my apartment. I was sipping vodka, my first in four days. She had a glass of wine.
Coyle and Sawicki hadn’t asked about Petrovin, which meant they hadn’t known to ask, which meant Victoria hadn’t told them to ask, which meant that maybe she wasn’t going to throw my ass in jail after all. Maybe. Once again, I found the idea of lying to her impossible. But I couldn’t tell her what had happened either.
“I can’t tell you,” I said. “I can’t tell anyone. Ever.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“You covering your ass or his or both?”
“It’s complicated. Goes all the way back to the Gulag.”
The glass was halfway to her mouth when the green eyes froze. She returned the wine to the counter. “Jesus Christ, he’s your son, isn’t he? The one you left with your wife.”
I nodded.
“You told me his name once…” She pulled at memory. “Aleksei.”
I nodded again.
“That’s Petrovin’s name, his real name—Aleksei. Aleksei Tiron. Wait … Polina was his mother!”
I could only sit there silently, filled with sadness and pain.
“Christ! How long have you known?”
“Since Thursday.”
“Does he know—about you, I mean?”
“I think he’s known longer than I have.” I remembered his words almost a week ago—right here at this counter.
I couldn’t help thinking you’d make a good father.
If we both live long enough to get to know each other better, I’ll tell you the story. That might explain things. I’d like to hear yours, too. That could explain more.
“He did go to the airport, didn’t he?” Victoria said. “He was at JFK.”
“Don’t ask me that.”
I watched her work it out—she knew enough to put the story together and come out somewhere close to the truth. I sipped my vodka as I wondered what she’d do.
“I warned you—twice.”
“I know.”
“Remember that promise about not breaking my heart?”
“Yes.”
“You’re awfully damned close.”
She went back to her thoughts.
I made a silent bet on her leaving.
I won.
“I might call tomorrow. More likely, I won’t.” She put down the empty glass, collected her stuff, and went. No kiss, just as she’d said. I didn’t try to stop her.
The door closed, and I heard the elevator chime in the distance when it arrived to carry her off. I stayed right where I was, drinking alone at the counter where I’d told myself I didn’t want to end up drinking alone. I didn’t bother to question or rethink or look for options. There wasn’t a damned thing I could do.
I poured another two fingers and put the bottle away.
Love’s a bitch. But it’s got nothing on that pig fate.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Anyone interested in the history of the Gulag should read Anne Applebaum’s absorbing and heartbreaking account, Gulag: A History (New York: Random House, 2003). The impact of the Gulag on the Russian psyche is movingly explored in The Whisperers: Private Life in Stalin’s Russia by Orlando Figes (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2007). David Remnick’s Lenin’s Tomb: The Last Days of the Soviet Empire (New York: Random House, 1993) is a page-turning account of the fall of the Communist Party and the Soviet Union. Spy Handler: Memoir of a KGB Officer by Victor Cherkashin with Gregory Feifer describes the daily dealings, activities, and thoughts of a senior KGB officer stationed in the United States. Robert O’Harrow Jr. tells in quietly chilling fashion how everythin
g we do these days is watched, recorded, and manipulated in No Place to Hide (New York: Free Press, 2005).
I am very fortunate to have had two terrific editors at Thomas Dunne Books: (in chronological order) John Schoenfelder and Brendan Deneen. I am grateful to both for their ideas, insights, assistance, and good cheer. My gratitude also to Tom Dunne.
Numerous people read and commented on various drafts of assorted stories that resulted in this one. I am grateful to all for their time and suggestions: Richard Bradley, Charles and Sandi Ellis, Sheila Geoghegan, Bill and Carmen Haberman, Cindy and Steve Heymann, Bill Hicks, Bruce and Turi MacCombie, Myra Manning, Colin Nettelbeck, Dan Paladino, Jonathan Rinehart, John Sanchez, Elena Sansalone and Jan Van Meter, David Stack, Curt Swenson, Peter Standish, and Albert Zuckerman.
I must also thank a marvelous copy editor, India Cooper, who saved me from a multitude of mistakes.
Special thanks to Sarah Haberman. Extra-special thanks to Polly Paladino, whom I will never be able to thank enough.
Last in mention, but first in my heart, is my wife, Marcelline Thomson, who urged me to write this story and then had to put up with me while I did.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
LAST TO FOLD. Copyright © 2011 by David Duffy. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Duffy, David L.
Last to fold / David Duffy. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-62190-2
1. Espionage, Soviet—Fiction. 2. Spy stories. gsafd I. Title.
PS3604.U377L37 2011
813'.6—dc22
2010042129
First Edition: April 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-6805-8
First Thomas Dunne Books eBook Edition: March 2011