The street was crowded with pedestrians. Random gunfire would not be a good idea.
“Turn left,” the voice said.
Kurtz did so. They walked for another block before coming to a parked car, a Honda Odyssey. The door slid open. “Get in,” the voice said.
Kurtz hesitated. A drop, a roll and a foot sweep might work. It might also get him killed…but getting into the car seemed like a really bad idea.
“You are thinking,” the voice said. “This is not good. You should not think so much. Whatever you are thinking would not go well for you.”
Inwardly, Kurtz shrugged. He got in the car. His assailant slid into the back next to him. The second man opened the left front door, sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine and took off into the evening traffic.
Carefully, making no sudden movements, Kurtz turned his head. “You,” he said.
The smiling face of Ilya Fedorov looked back at him. His brother, Dimitri, was driving.
“So,” Kurtz said, “what’s this all about?” He felt like an idiot even saying it, the bottom line being completely obvious. He was sitting in a car being driven somewhere he didn’t want to go by two guys he didn’t want to be with for a purpose that he would without any doubt whatsoever find unpleasant.
“You will see,” Ilya Fedorov said.
No shit, Kurtz thought. “Don’t want to tell me? Come on, you know you want to tell me. The bad guys always love to brag.”
Ilya Fedorov smiled. “In a more perfect world, I might argue with your designation of us as ‘bad guys,’ but sadly, you are correct. My brother and I are both ‘bad guys.’ I could say that this outcome was inevitable, considering our upbringing and our circumstances, but who even knows if this is true? Would we be the same men, if our circumstances were different?” He shrugged. “Such might be the case. Or it might not. In the end, the question has no meaning. Whether it is our circumstances, our nature or our destiny, we are what we are, and we will kill you without hesitation if we are required to do so. You should keep this in mind.” Dimitri Fedorov said nothing but caught Kurtz’ eye in the mirror and gave him a thin smile and a small nod of the head.
A philosophical bad guy, though, and hardly the idiot Kurtz had expected. Kurtz frowned. They hadn’t killed him yet, so presumably they wanted something.
The empty black hole in the barrel of Ilya Fedorov’s gun stared at him, unwavering. A Sig Sauer P220, 10 mm, not a cheap gun, the sort of gun that a man who cared about his work and took it seriously would carry. The car moved smoothly down the pavement. Inwardly, Kurtz shrugged and settled back into his seat. Sooner or later, he would know.
The trick was living through it.
They drove for almost an hour, crossing over the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn, then took Ocean all the way to the Belt Parkway. They turned off onto a small access road that led down to a small private marina on Sheepshead Bay and parked. Ilya Fedorov gave Kurtz a crooked smile and slid out of the car. “Get out,” he said.
Ilya Fedorov kept an eye on his business, Kurtz noted. His gun never wavered from the center of Kurtz’ chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kurtz noted that the stars were shining brightly overhead, the breeze was warm, and the air held a faint salt tang. Not much else to focus on, aside from the gun.
He got out of the car. They stood across from a boardwalk, on the other side of which floated a small yacht, perhaps fifty feet. “Come,” Ilya Fedorov said, and waved the gun barrel toward the boat. “You first.”
Kurtz stepped down the ladder onto a teak deck. Ilya followed, then Dimitri, who opened a wood and glass door and stepped into the main cabin. “Inside,” Ilya said. Kurtz went through the door, Ilya following close behind.
The cabin held a galley in one corner, with a table and benches set into an alcove nearby. A couch sat against one wall, under a long window, with two easy chairs under the opposite window.
Two women sat in the nook, both thin and average height, with black hair and dark brown eyes. They looked alike, probably related, Kurtz thought. They turned as the men came in. One of them looked at Kurtz and said, “This is him?”
“Yes,” Ilya Fedorov said.
The second woman said something in Russian. The first woman answered. Ilya Fedorov frowned. “My mother,” he said to Kurtz, “Nika Fedorov, and my Aunt, Olga Lukin,” he said.
Lukin…somehow, barely a surprise. Kurtz cautiously nodded. Aunt Olga stared at him. She said something else and Ilya Fedorov answered, then shrugged.
“My aunt is the mother of Vasily and Arkady Lukin,” he said. “She speaks little English.” Ilya Fedorov gave Kurtz an apologetic smile. “She says that you have been asking too many questions. She wished to see you and to look into your eyes before we kill you.”
Kurtz blinked. The boat’s engine, he noted, had started up. He could see Dimitri outside on the deck, untying the lines that held the boat to the dock.
“So now she’s seen me,” Kurtz said. “Does this make her happy?”
Ilya sighed. “Please believe me when I tell you that I hold you no ill will. My aunt takes a simple approach to problems, and she has always been known for the fierceness of her temper.”
Aunt Olga, who perhaps understood more English than she had let on, gave Kurtz a thin, cold smile.
“Sit down,” Ilya said, and waved his gun toward the couch.
Kurtz sat. Ilya sat opposite him in one of the chairs.
“You should not have visited the offices of Hotchkiss and Phelps,” Ilya said. “You should have stayed away from Donna Petrovich.”
The gun was still pointed at Kurtz’ chest. The gun was a problem. The last time he had been kidnapped and had a gun pointed at his chest, he had been fortunate enough to be wearing a bullet proof vest. Tonight, he was not so lucky. “So,” Kurtz said, “if you’re going to kill me anyway, you might as well satisfy my curiosity.”
Ilya Fedorov glanced at his aunt, who stared back at him and shrugged.
“Tell me if I’m correct,” Kurtz said. “I figure that one of you killed Steve Ryan. You waited for a family get-together, then slipped him a little cocktail spiked with Valium. Then somebody wrote a suicide note and forged his signature.”
Nika Fedorov looked at her sister and frowned. None of them said a word.
“Why?” Kurtz said.
Ilya shook his head. Nika Fedorov set her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. Olga looked at her sister and rolled her eyes.
“My cousin,” Ilya finally said, “Arkady. You know him?”
“Yes,” Kurtz said.
“Arkady has always been…different.” Ilya grimaced. “He had a difficult time growing up. When he was sixteen, he tried to commit suicide. It would not be too much to say that Donna Petrovich saved him.” Ilya shrugged. “My aunt and her husband were perhaps not as sympathetic nor as accepting of Arkady’s proclivities as they might have been. Donna was his friend. Donna understood him.”
“You didn’t want her to leave,” Kurtz said.
Ilya nodded. “That is correct.”
“You killed Steve Ryan so Donna would stay in New York, because you were afraid that Arkady Lukin would do what? Try to kill himself again?”
Ilya shrugged.
“And now this,” Kurtz said. “This is amazingly stupid. You had gotten away with it. The police have their suspicions but they have no evidence. There’s no way to prove anything. All you had to do was keep your mouths shut.”
Ilya Fedorov sighed. “It is not the police who concern us. There are others who are much quicker to act than the police and who require no more than a suspicion before they do so.”
Kurtz pondered this. “Alexei Rugov?”
Ilya Fedorov winced. “Among others.”
“Sergei Ostrovsky? Iosif Kozlov?”
Nika Fedorov said something in Russian. Olga Lukin shook her head and scowled.
“I think that we have said quite enough.” Ilya shook his head. “These are not names to mention lightly.”
He rose to his feet. “We have a long way to go before we reach our destination. The trip will take at least two hours. Get up.”
Kurtz rose.
“This way,” Ilya said. He pointed with the gun barrel toward a door opposite the deck, that opened onto a narrow corridor. They walked down the corridor, with Kurtz in front, and Ilya pushed open a door to a small cabin with a fold out bed, a desk and a chair. Another door led into a tiny bathroom. Ilya Fedorov grinned. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “The door has been reinforced. You will not be able to open it.” The door closed behind him. Kurtz could hear the lock click into place.
He released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, smiled, reached down to his ankle, pulled up the cuff of his pants and removed the gun from his ankle holster: a Glock 43, just a bit less than eighteen ounces, 9 mm ammo, seven rounds. Not quite the stopping power of his Sig Sauer but exceptional accuracy, especially considering the short length of the barrel. It felt good to have it in his hand. Comforting. Then he sat down to wait.
The room had one porthole but there was nothing to see except the water and the sky. The stars outside the porthole did not change, so presumably the boat was heading in a straight line. His captors hadn’t said where they were going but it wasn’t hard to guess: far enough from land so a dead body wouldn’t float back to shore. Ilya Fedorov had said ‘two hours.’ Kurtz was not a boat person. He had no idea how fast these things could travel. Far enough, he figured.
Kurtz flicked off the light, sat on the edge of the bed and waited. For nearly two hours, a very long, tedious two hours, nothing happened. Then, as he had expected, the lock clicked. The door swung open. Ilya Fedorov stood in the doorway, his gun pointed before him. Kurtz could see Ilya, outlined by the lights in the hallway, but Ilya could not see Kurtz.
Kurtz didn’t give Ilya a chance for his eyes to adjust. He shot him, once in the head. Twice in the chest. Blood sprayed back onto the wall and Ilya Fedorov dropped, already dead or dying, his gun clattering to the floor.
Kurtz picked up Ilya’s gun and ran.
It took no more than three seconds to reach the main cabin. Apparently, Dimitri and the two women had been playing cards. All three sat at the small table. Dimitri was fumbling for a gun as Kurtz burst into the room, the women staring in bewilderment.
“Freeze!” Kurtz said.
Dimitri stared at him, his face white. His hand, seemingly on its own volition, continued to rise. The gun swung upward. Kurtz fired.
Dimitri screamed. The gun flew from his hand and he clutched his shoulder, his right arm hanging limp.
“I would prefer not to shoot you,” Kurtz said to the two women, “but I will if you try anything stupid.”
They stared at him. Kurtz stared back.
“Now,” Kurtz said with a smile. “Where is the radio on this thing?”
The coast guard was used to dealing with emergency calls but a seemingly deranged person calling over a distress frequency claiming to be drifting somewhere in the Atlantic after having been kidnapped was not their usual sort of emergency. Still, they rallied quickly enough. Within an hour, a helicopter flew overhead, its searchlights shining down on the small yacht. An hour later, a 110-foot cutter hove to. Grapples were thrown. Sailors wearing life vests and carrying guns climbed down rope ladders to the deck.
Kurtz was ordered to give up his weapon and they were all taken into custody. Dimitri had lost a lot of blood but he was still, barely, alive. The two women did as they were told but said not a word.
Barent, Harry Moran and Lenore were waiting at the dock when they returned.
“It’s always something with you, isn’t it?” Barent said. Then he smiled weakly. “Good to see you’re alive.”
Kurtz hugged Lenore. She gripped him hard and breathed a long sigh.
“Let’s get you home,” Barent said. “Then you can tell us exactly what happened.”
Half an hour later, they were sitting around the kitchen table in Kurtz’ apartment. Barent and Moran had cups of coffee and a platter of cookies sitting in front of them. Lenore sipped a glass of white wine. Kurtz, who had missed dinner, had a roast beef sandwich, potato chips and a beer.
He told his story as he ate. All three listened intently, Barent or Moran asking a question now and then.
“Stupid of them not to search you,” Moran said when he had finished.
“It’s hot out. I wasn’t even wearing a jacket. They could see I had nothing above the waist, and I’m a doctor. Why would a doctor be carrying concealed?”
Barent frowned. “Yeah,” he said, “why would a doctor be carrying concealed?”
“What I don’t understand,” Lenore said, “is who exactly it is that they’re afraid of? Why would Alexei Rugov, Sergei Ostrovsky or Iosif Kozlof care about Steve Ryan?”
“That is a question, isn’t it?” said Barent. “Of course, you’re the one who mentioned those names, not them.”
“One mobster or another,” Kurtz said. “Why should we give a damn?”
Moran shrugged. “In the abstract, we don’t.” He stared into space, as if weighing the odds. “Unfortunately, a backhanded confession is not going to go very far in the courtroom. They’ll plead the fifth, or claim that you misunderstood them. You’re the one who said that they did it. They didn’t deny it but they didn’t come out and admit it, either. Any competent attorney will know enough to blow smoke up the jury’s ass. We’re not going to get a conviction on murdering Steve Ryan, not without at least a little physical evidence.”
“Kidnapping is a pretty good crime,” Kurtz said. “And how about attempted murder?”
Barent frowned. “They didn’t actually attempt to murder you. Presumably, they would have, but they hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
“Ilya Fedorov stated that they intended to murder me. His mother wanted to look me in the eyes first.”
Lenore grimaced. “Fucking bitch,” she muttered.
Barent shrugged. “Your word against theirs. I don’t think they’re going to admit it.”
“Kidnapping, then.”
“Yeah,” Moran said. “I think it’s pretty safe to say that they’ll spend a few years in jail for that one.”
“Then all’s well that ends well,” Lenore said.
Barent shook his head. “We know who tried to kill Arnie, in general terms at least, and we know who killed Mitchell Price, and now we know who killed Steve Ryan. The connection between all of these crimes is tenuous, at best. And we still don’t know who killed the Haywards.”
“Russians,” Kurtz said.
“Maybe,” Moran said, “but maybe not. So, it hasn’t ended,” Moran said. “Not yet. Not really.”
The next evening, a large young man knocked on Father Robert Kamenov’s front door. He was admitted. The two men sat in Father Bob’s study and spoke for a long time before the young man left.
Afterward, Father Bob finished his Scotch and rose to his feet. He stared at the phone for a long minute, thinking, then reluctantly shook his head. Some things were better said in person.
It was raining, a constant, steady drizzle. Father Bob sighed, grabbed his umbrella and kissed his wife. “I should be home soon,” he said in Russian, and headed out the door.
Chapter 27
The next night was clear and cloudless. The streets were crowded. One by one, twenty five young men wandered into a neighborhood in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. They looked like every other young man intending to spend time in the nearby bars and clubs, neatly dressed in dark pants and black shirts, without visible scars or tattoos. There was nothing about any of them to arouse suspicion.
Fifteen of these young men gathered into five groups of three men each. Each group wandered into a different small building fronting on the street. Two of each three came out less than ten minutes later, each group leaving one man behind. Four of the ten men who emerged had small red stains on their clothing, unobtrusive against the dark material.
The five men who had been
left behind ignored the dead bodies that were now piled in the corners of each room. Each man set up a stool by the window, opened a case and removed a Barrett M82 sniper rifle. The rifles were recently purchased and had never before been used. They were semi-automatic, designed for 50 caliber Browning Machine Gun cartridges. Each rifle had a suppressor attached. Each of the five men set up a tripod by the window, carefully aligned his rifle on the tripod, sat down on his stool and waited.
Across the street, five small groups wandered past five townhomes. The homes were constructed of red brick. They were well-kept, with stone walls separating them from the sidewalks, green lawns in front and walled gardens in the back. Each stone wall held an iron gate with a lock attached. Each gate led to a small brick walkway that ended at a flight of steps leading up to the front door. Beneath each flight of steps, an armed guard stood in a small alcove, on the other side of which stood a second door that opened into the basement of each building. The guards stared at every passerby on the street.
Each small group walked briskly along. They were animated, telling jokes in Spanish and English, embellishing their words with smiles, laughter and gestures. The guards noted them but quickly dismissed them.
Across the street, each of the five men sitting at their windows received a text message on his cellphone. Each leaned over his rifle, sited his scope on the chest of each armed guard and waited. Ten seconds later, each cell phone emitted a signal. Each of the five men then fired his weapon. Each of the five guards fell, the back of their chests exploding outward in a red spray.
On the street, each group of men pulled out handguns, shot the locks off each gate and charged inside. Two men crashed through into the basement. Two raced up the front steps, shot through the locked doors and ran inside.
Juan Moreno raised his head from the list of figures sitting on his desk. He was pleased. Business was good. Their profits were increasing, the narcotics supplied to his organization by the Russians, and supplied by his organization in turn to Javier Garcia, were making them all rich. He smiled. Very rich.
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