World Without End

Home > Other > World Without End > Page 18
World Without End Page 18

by Chris Mooney


  But the look of mild retardation was deceptive, for while Misha's younger associates tended to view him as some sort of middle-aged professional wrestler whose body had turned to hard fat from years of steroid abuse, the fact was that Misha was one of the Red Mafiya's most feared enforcers. His cruelty was legendary. Raymond recalled one story of how Misha made a woman eat a bowl of what he called homemade Grapenuts: small rocks and sand mixed with milk. When Misha finished force-feeding the nineteen-year-old prostitute, he threw her into an ice-cold bathtub, tossed in a plugged-in radio and took pictures while the electricity thrashed her body. He later sent copies of the pictures to the young girl's family.

  Misha walked up to Raymond's table. The waiter, his throat working nervously, slid out a chair next to the window.

  "What's with you and the foo-foo food?" Misha asked as he sat down, his voice a dry wheeze. He sounded like an emphysema patient. He folded his hands on the table and grinned, while chewing a thick wad of gum. He snapped the gum and said, "You ain't going faggot on us, are you?"

  His English was excellent, his speech patterns and colloquialisms molded from hanging out with members of the Italian mob and from watching The Sopranos, which he thought was the funniest comedy show on TV Raymond looked around him to make sure no one was within hearing and then leaned in closer to Misha. The warm, pleasant air, once rich with the fragrance of wine and gourmet food, was now fouled by Misha's cheap cologne and the combined stench of cigar and booze.

  "Misha, we talked about this."

  Misha said nothing, just smiled. His brown teeth were small and pointed, carnivorous, useful for when he bit women during sex. It was his way of branding them, he said. His black hair and goatee were trimmed close to the skin, and his dark eyes had the vacuous look of a tunnel.

  "Relax, Ray, the fed dies don't know I'm here."

  Typical mob mentality; neither Misha nor his cohorts knew the meaning of discretion. They imagined themselves as gods who could walk on water, above the laws of man, and as a result, came and went without thought or consideration for the aftermath their actions always produced. Raymond remembered a story about Misha from his Brighton Beach days when, in a parking lot in broad daylight, he grabbed a fellow Russian gangster by the throat, picked him up with one hand while the other pumped nine shots from a Beretta into the man's stomach in front of seven eyewitnesses, all of whom later stated that they hadn't seen the shooter.

  That sort of intimidation may have worked with the locals, but it wouldn't fly with the FBI's Russian mob unit, whose members were working around the clock investigating Misha's boss, the seemingly untouchable Alexi Zvereva, on several stock scams on Wall Street. The thought of what they would find made Raymond cringe.

  "What's wrong, Ray? You look like you're going to have an accident in your pants." Misha snapped his gum and without moving his eyes from Bouchard said to the waiter, "The fuck you staring at?"

  "I didn't want to interrupt your conversation, sir. I was waiting for you " "Give me a menu."

  "We're leaving," Bouchard said.

  "No, we're not" Misha replied and snapped the menu out of the waiter's hands. Raymond shooed the waiter away, and then leaned in closer to Misha.

  "You know how dangerous this is," Raymond hissed, his face flushed.

  "You talking about the John McFadden spy case that's all over the news?"

  "That and the fact that the FBI has you and your boss locked in its crosshairs. This this is insane. I'm leaving."

  "Keep your ass parked in that chair."

  Misha said it in such a way that Raymond didn't move. He moved back a little but kept his hands folded on the table. Misha smiled.

  "Seriously, what's with this place? Everyone acts like they got something plugging up their butthole look at those two faggots in the corner staring at me. I got a bad case of BOor something?"

  Bouchard, sensing that the attention in the room had turned to them, said, "Misha, please. You're creating a scene. At least watch your language and keep your voice down."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Misha said, waving his hand dismissively. He looked over the menu, blew out a long pink bubble and then snapped it.

  He handed the menu back to the waiter and said, "I'll have the caviar for starters, the good stuff, not the cheap shit, followed by the chef's tasting menu. And bring another bottle of this foofy wine. Then I want you and your buddy over there leaning against the wall to scram.

  Be fucking polite and give us some privacy."

  Raymond shifted in his chair. The wine was over three hundred dollars a bottle.

  "Excellent choice, sir," the waiter said and turned, thankful to be gone.

  Misha watched the waiter leave and then surveyed the room, watching with amusement as everyone turned back to their plates and conversations.

  "What were you doing in that apartment?" he asked.

  Fuck. He's been following me.

  Misha looked back at Bouchard for an answer.

  "Interviewing a source," Raymond replied and felt a sinking feeling inside his chest. He glanced out the window and looked at the people bundled up in their coats walking along the sidewalks under the streetlights and the bald trees, a knot twisting inside his stomach. If he finds out what happened, he'll hand it over to his boss, andAlexi will have another fucking thing to hold over my head.

  Not unless you kill them off, a voice countered.

  "Why are you following me, Misha?"

  "Alexi wants to make sure nothing happens to you. You're our most prized asset." Misha grinned and blinked an eye at him.

  "By the way, I appreciate you letting my boys take a look around Del-burn. The place was a gold mine of info on this cocksucker Angel Eyes."

  "I didn't sanction your men to destroy my communications systems."

  "I wanted it to look authentic. The boys at Delburn didn't mind."

  Raymond had authorized the hit. It didn't bother him. He felt no guilt because this was business. His men understood that when they signed on.

  "Because of what you did at Delburn, I have no way of knowing what Conway talked about inside the lab," Bouchard said.

  "I was there. He didn't say anything interesting." Misha grinned and blew out another bubble.

  Raymond looked at Misha, at his big shit-eating grin, and thought, Go ahead and keep smiling, you stupid fucking pig. Your days are numbered.

  "Relax, it was a clean hit," Misha said.

  "Looks like Angel Eyes raided the place and then went ape shit Now all you need to do is press a few buttons on a keyboard and these guys will disappear."

  "It doesn't work that way."

  "Pin it all on Angel Eyes."

  Raymond had pinned it on Angel Eyes. In fact, he had planted electronic trails suggesting that John McFadden, the CIA operative turned Russian spy, had access to certain restricted computer folders on the IWAC group. McFadden was viewed as the source of the leak. But that didn't mean Raymond could be careless.

  "Look, my boys took care of Delburn," Misha said.

  "But you're not living up to your part of the bargain."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Conway. He comes charging inside Praxis like fucking Rambo and tries to take us down. You were supposed to take care of him."

  "I led him right to you."

  "And the fucker survived. I would have killed him except you wanted to make it look like an accident. Like him and that guy Randy Scott got into it and Conway shot him. Next thing I hear a fireman rescued him."

  "It wasn't us."

  "Then who the rack was it?"

  "Maybe it was an actual fireman."

  The waiter came by with a crystal bowl of caviar surrounded by crackers on a china plate and set in on the table in front of Misha. The Russian's eyes didn't move off Raymond's face. He kept staring and chewed his gum as the waiter opened the second bottle of wine and exited.

  "One of my guys, he stuck around and guess what he sees?" Misha said.

  "He sees this guy w
ith a shaved head, he's not a fireman or policeman, this guy goes running inside Praxis and comes out carrying Conway. You know how I know Egghead isn't legit? The real firemen and police arrive, and Cueball bolts."

  "Misha, I don't know what you're " "Hey, don't interrupt, it's bad nicking manners. So we're inside the lab, downloading the new software into the suit, just like you told us to do, and then out of nowhere this skinny fuck Randy Scott, a member of your team, tries to shut us down. And here's the fucking kicker. We leave with the suit and take it to the safe house just like you said and now we can't get the fucking thing to work because the software your guy downloaded into the suit is fucking encrypted."

  "I didn't have anything to do with that."

  "Someone told Randy to do it, and the guy only reported to one guy."

  "You have Dixon. Ask him."

  "He don't know the code."

  "Then he's lying to you."

  "See, here's the thing, Ray. I know when a guy's lying to me, and this guy Dixon, he ain't lying. He don't know shit." Misha swiped his index finger through the crystal bowl and then sucked the caviar off his finger and pointed it at Bouchard.

  "You're a smart guy, Ray. You've been playing this game for a long time. You know what it takes to work a good scheme. You know what I think? I think maybe one of your CIA pals rescued Conway. I think maybe you called the firemen and police yourself. I think you're trying to figure out a way to fuck us. If I was in your shoes, I'd be working day and night trying to figure out a way to not only get myself off the fish hook but to find a way to take Alexi off the board. And me."

  "The deal was for me to deliver the suit. I held up my end of the bargain. As for this temporary wrinkle " "It ain't a wrinkle, it's a major fucking problem. Without the decryption code, the suit is useless. Dixon don't know it. I'm thinking Con-way does. He may have heard things while he was inside the lab, and he worked with that guy Randy, right?"

  "You want my permission to go pick him up? Fine. You've got it."

  "He won't give the code to me."

  "He will if you apply the right pressure."

  "I can chop off Conway's fingers and toes one at a time, and he'll never hand the code. He'd rather die. He's actually one of these moral motherfuckers who's got a conscience and is all patriotic and shit." Misha blew out a bubble; it was spotted with bits of caviar.

  "I think you're being a tad melodramatic."

  "The problem is that you pencil-pushing types can't spot real talent when you see it." Misha reached inside his suit jacket and came back with a matchbook. He tossed it on the table.

  "That's my cell phone number. I'm going to leave a present for Conway.

  Once he opens it, he's going to be calling you every five minutes. Call me when he gives you the code."

  "And if he doesn't deliver it?"

  "Then kiss your balls good-bye, 'cause I've got my orders to turn you into a fucking limp dick. And that's just the appetizer. I'll send you some pictures, give you some choices for the main course."

  Misha stood up and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, then wadded it up into a ball and stuffed it inside the bowl of caviar, his eyes smiling. Without a word, he turned and sauntered out of the room just as the waiter came by with the first course.

  His meal and evening ruined, Raymond asked for the bill. He paid in cash, the one remaining commodity that didn't leave an electronic trail, and left the restaurant.

  Halloween night and the evening air had a sharp chill. Raymond Bouchard bundled up his coat, about to take a brisk walk to clear his head when he saw a white Fox 2 5 news van pull up to the side of the road. Owen Lee was behind the wheel, his bloodless face as white as parchment as he motioned for Raymond to get inside the van.

  The crude Russian gone, the restaurant settled back into its warm luxury.

  "This has certainly been a night of surprises," Faust said.

  Gunther nodded. He rubbed the back of his neck, working it like he had a muscle spasm that wouldn't go away.

  "Misha always manages to leave an impression," Faust said.

  "And quite the odor." A few minutes had passed since Misha had left, and the air still lingered with the stench of dried sweat and testosterone mixed with wet cigars and cheap cologne. Gunther stared at the now-empty table where Bouchard and Misha had sat and wondered what it would be like to kill such an animal.

  As if reading his mind, Faust said, "Misha is very dangerous, Gunther."

  "You've told me that before."

  "Icarus was warned not to fly too close to the sun. The boy didn't heed his father's advice and, as a result, the wax that affixed his wings to his back melted. He plummeted into the sea. Promise me you'll stay away from him."

  "That might be difficult now that he's involved with this case."

  "Leave Misha to me."

  "What do you think is his connection to Bouchard?"

  "I'm sure that will become known soon. Imagine, Raymond Bouchard connected with Misha Ronkil. The gyre is widening, Gunther. The falcon can no longer hear the falconer."

  "You're speaking in riddles again."

  "Raymond's world is beginning to unravel. Didn't you get a good look at his face? It's not surprising. The arrogant can never see how they set the stage for their own demise."

  Gunther nodded. Using his fork, he pushed his meat around his plate and then said, "What do you think Bouchard was doing inside that apartment?"

  Faust smiled pleasantly.

  "Trying to keep his world from unraveling."

  Gunther looked up from his plate and put his fork down.

  "You don't seem concerned about any of this," he said and settled back in his chair.

  "Concerned? No. Raymond lacks creativity; his thought process is dreadfully linear. True, he took us by surprise in Austin, but the men working for him collectively suffer from folie a deux. It makes their thinking and their actions for this next stage highly predictable."

  Gunther nodded, not really understanding.

  "You haven't touched your meal," Faust said. He, of course, was not eating. He did not eat out at restaurants, even ones as splendid as Aujourd-hui. All those diseased hands touching his food, plates, and silverware the thought was nauseating. But he did partake of the wine, knowing of its well-documented medicinal value, and asked the wine steward to leave the bottle on the table without opening it. First Faust had wiped down the bottle using the sterilized swabs he kept in a kit on his breast pocket, and then he had wiped down the glass.

  "You saw the front page of the New York Times'?" Gunther asked.

  "The article about the CIA mole, Peter McFadden." Gunther knew that McFadden was Faust's CIA contact.

  "Yes. It's all over the news."

  "Aren't you worried McFadden might blab on us?"

  "No."

  "I envy your confidence."

  "There's no reason to worry. McFadden doesn't know about us." And he'll be dead by the end of tomorrow, Faust added privately. He had several other contacts besides McFadden, contacts well placed with the CIA and FBI.

  "Mr. McFadden is not what's really on your mind, is it?"

  "It's the suit."

  "I thought so. You feel you let me down."

  "If I had arrived there just a few minutes earlier "

  "I asked you to stay and help Mr. Craven get set up to retrieve the fingerprints. We fed the fingerprints to our FBI contact and now know that the CIA is involved. I asked you to go inside the lab to rescue Stephen and you did. You were the one who discovered the phone call on Stephen's cellular phone." The name John Riley and the phone number had been displayed on the phone's LCD screen.

  "Come, Gunther. We have much to celebrate."

  "They're questioning McFadden around the clock. He's all over the news and so are you. They're blaming you for what happened in Austin. We're out in the public eye. It's only going to get worse."

  "We know that a high ranking CIA field officer is not only involved with a prominent figure from the Russian Mafiya
, he's somehow connected to the stolen military suit from Praxis. We know this because the men who entered that Beacon Hill condo were the same men we saw at the skydiving school in Texas."

  "We should have bugged the place first. That way we could have heard what went on inside Riley's condo. But we sat back and let those CIA dudes " "We'll find the answers soon enough, Gunther. That's why I had you place the call to the Boston police. Let them do the work for us."

  "Another contact?"

  Faust smiled.

  "This evening was intended to be a celebration, not a business meeting.

  Please. Relax and enjoy yourself."

  "Everything's unfolding around us, and you're acting like it's no big deal."

  "You should really try painting, Gunther. It helps soothe the mind."

  "One last question."

  "For you, anything."

  "All these years I've worked with you to steal this technology " "We're not stealing, Gunther. We're keeping these weapons out of the hands of animals like Raymond Bouchard and Misha."

  "I know. I understand."

  "Then what is your question?"

  "What are you doing with all this stuff?"

  Faust's eyes were lit with a private thought.

  "All good things, Gunther, come to those who wait."

  Inside the back of the Fox 25 News van was a mobile operations center used for surveillance. The interior was warm, the darkness cut by the light glowing from the four flat-screen color monitors with interior shots of John Riley's condo. The space between the wall-mounted surveillance and computer equipment was narrow but roomy enough to allow Raymond Bouchard to cross his legs. He leaned back in his chair, drumming the fingers of his left hand across the console as he watched the monitor on his left: two Boston detectives, their hands covered in latex, stood above John Riley's body while a crime-scene photographer took pictures.

  "Who called the police?" Bouchard asked, and yanked his attention to Owen Lee, who sat in the chair next to him.

  "You know what this is?" Lee slid an object down the console. It was roughly the size of a golf ball, black, and mounted on a small stand that had a wire running from it. What held Raymond's attention was the small lens inside the ball's center.

 

‹ Prev