“The sooner she’s free, the sooner your son will be treated.”
He exhaled, his nostrils flaring like a bull’s. “Fine. We have concluded our business here. Marcus will get his daughter, and I will get my son.”
“Actually, no.”
“No … what?”
“No, we’re not done here.”
“Oh?”
“We have more to talk about.”
He squinted at me.
“Just a few questions about Anya Afanasyeva.”
He drew breath. I knew then I had him.
“Where did she pick up such a lousy Georgia accent?”
77.
Roman Navrozov took from his breast pocket a slim black box with a gold eagle on the front. Sobranie Black Russians. He carefully withdrew a black cigarette with a gold filter and put it in his mouth.
“This is a no-smoking room, yes?”
I nodded.
He pulled a box of matches from his front jacket pocket. He took out a match and lit it with his thumbnail. He put the match to the end of the cigarette and inhaled. Then he let out a long, luxuriant plume of smoke between his rounded lips.
Navrozov didn’t just smoke Russian cigarettes; he smoked like a Russian too. Russians, especially older Russians, hold cigarettes the way Westerners hold a joint: between the thumb and forefinger. Habits like that never go away.
“Anya Ivanovna really was not a bad actress at all,” he said. “But she was not, shall we say, Meryl Streep. Clearly she needed to do more research into the State of Georgia.”
I had no reason to think that Marshall Marcus was lying about how he met the woman who called herself Belinda Jackson. He was the victim, after all. And when he’d met her at the Ritz-Carlton bar in Atlanta, he must have known she was an escort. A horny old goat like Marcus could tell, the way a spaniel can smell game.
He just didn’t know that she was no longer employed in that capacity by VIP Exxxecutive Service.
She was employed by Roman Navrozov.
My cyber-investigator had checked on the dates of her employment by the escort service and confirmed my gut instinct. Then, as he traced her background, he was able to dig much deeper than Dorothy ever could, since he had access to certain archives and records in New Jersey that she didn’t.
The woman who changed her name to Belinda Jackson, who’d dropped out of the School for the Performing Arts in Lincoln Park, New Jersey, had in fact enrolled under her real name. The name on her birth certificate: Anya Ivanovna Afanasyeva. She’d grown up in a Russian enclave in Woodbine, New Jersey, the daughter of Russian émigrés. Her father had been an engineer in the Soviet Union but could only get some low-level desk job at an insurance company here.
That was about the sum total of the facts I knew. Everything else was informed guesswork. I imagined that Anya sought work as a call girl only when she couldn’t get work as an actress. Or maybe out of some sort of rebellion against her old-fashioned émigré parents.
“I assume you provided Anya with a complete dossier on Marshall Marcus,” I said. “His likes and dislikes, his tastes in movies and music. Maybe even his sexual peccadilloes.”
Navrozov burst out laughing. “Do you really think an attractive and sexually talented woman like Anya needs a dossier to capture the heart of such a foolish old man? It takes very little. Most men have very simple needs. And Anya more than met those needs.”
“Your needs were simple too,” I said. “His account numbers and passwords, the way his fund was structured, where the critical vulnerabilities were.”
He gave a snort of derision that I assumed was meant to be a denial.
“Look, I’m familiar with the history of your career. The way you secretly seized control of the second-largest bank in Russia, then used it to take over the aluminum industry. It was clever.”
He blinked, nodded, unwilling to show me how much he enjoyed the blandishment. But men like that were unusually susceptible to flattery. It was often their greatest vulnerability. And I could see that it was working.
“The way you stole Marcus Capital Management was nothing short of brilliant. You seized control of the bank that handled all of Marcus’s trades. You actually bought the Banco Transnacional de Panamá. Their broker-dealer. It was … genius.”
I waited a few seconds.
Strategic deception, in war or in espionage, is just another form of applied psychology. The thing is, you never actually deceive your target—you induce him to deceive himself. You reinforce beliefs he already has.
Roman Navrozov lived in a state of paranoia and suspicion. So he was automatically inclined to believe that I actually had a shooter positioned in an empty office across the street—not just a remote-controlled light switch that I could turn on and off by hitting a pre-programmed key on my cell phone. George Devlin, of course, had designed it for me and had a colleague in New York set it up: That kind of technology was far beyond my capabilities.
And he had no reason to doubt that I had people in the adjoining rooms. Why not? He’d do it too.
Same for the staged video that Darryl had taped earlier, with the help of a buddy of his who’d agreed to wear a straitjacket wired with a squib and a condom full of blood. A buddy who trusted Darryl’s assurance that his H&K was loaded with blanks, not real rounds.
Roman Navrozov believed the whole charade was real. After all, he’d done far worse to the spouses and children of his opponents; such cruelty came naturally to him.
But what I was attempting now—to pull information out of him by convincing him I knew more than I did—was much riskier. Because at any moment I might slip and say something that would tip him off that I was just plain lying.
He watched me for a few seconds through the haze of his cigarette smoke. I saw the subtle change in his eyes, a softening of his features, a relaxing of his facial muscles.
“Well,” he said, and there it was, the proud smile that I’d been hoping to provoke.
In truth, it was sort of genius, in a twisted way.
If there’s some hedge fund you want to loot, all you have to do is buy the bank that controls its portfolio. Obviously that’s not going to happen with most normal hedge funds, which use the big investment banks in the U.S. But Marcus Capital wasn’t a normal hedge fund.
“So tell me something,” I said. “Why did you need to kidnap Marshall’s daughter?”
“It was a salvage operation. A desperation move. Because the original plan didn’t work at all.”
“And the original plan…?”
He sucked in a lungful of smoke, let it out even more slowly. Then fell silent.
“You wanted the Mercury files,” I said.
“Obviously.”
It made sense. Roman Navrozov was a businessman, and certain businessmen at the highest levels traffic in the most valuable commodities. And was there any commodity rare than the deepest darkest intelligence secrets of the world’s sole remaining superpower?
“So were you planning on selling the black-budget files to the Russian government?”
“Black budget?”
“Maybe that’s a term you’re not familiar with.”
“Please. I know what black budget is. But you think the Mercury files have something to do with America’s secret military budget? I am a businessman, not an information broker.”
“They contain the operational details of our most classified intelligence operations.”
He looked at me in surprise. “Is that what you were told? Next you will tell me you believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy as well.”
Then his mobile phone rang, emitting that annoying default Nokia ringtone you used to hear everywhere until people figured out how to select a different one.
He glanced at the display. “The cutout,” he said.
My heart began to thud.
78.
Kirill Aleksandrovich Chuzhoi drove up the long dirt road, chest tight with anticipation.
He didn’t enjoy wet work,
but sometimes he had no choice, and he did it efficiently and without hesitation. Roman Navrozov paid him extremely well, and if he wanted loose ends tied up, Chuzhoi would do whatever it took. For God’s sake, he’d even gone down to Boston to take out a low-level drug dealer inside FBI headquarters! He had attracted too much attention and would very soon have to leave the country. He could work for Navrozov elsewhere in the world.
No, he didn’t much enjoy that kind of job. Whereas the contractor—the zek, the convict who’d done time in Kopeisk, was reputed to enjoy killing so much that he preferred to draw out the process, in order to make it last.
In this man’s line of work, such a disturbing streak of sadism was a qualification. Maybe even necessary. He was capable of doing anything.
He made Chuzhoi extremely uncomfortable.
Chuzhoi knew very little about the zek beyond this. And of course the owl tattoo that disfigured the back of his head and neck. He knew that the Sova gang recruited the most brutal inmates at Kopeisk.
Chuzhoi, who had trained in the old KGB and later climbed the greasy rungs of its main successor, the FSB, had encountered this type on a few occasions and had put a few in prison. The most successful serial killers were like that, but they rarely got caught.
With his shaved head and his staring eyes and his grotesque tattoo and his bad teeth, the contractor knew he frightened people, and he surely enjoyed that. He viewed all others with contempt. He considered himself a more highly evolved species.
So he would never imagine that a washed-up old silovik, a former KGB agent, a lousy petty bureaucrat, could possibly attempt what Chuzhoi was about to do.
The element of surprise was Chuzhoi’s only advantage against this sociopathic monster.
An overgrown lawn came into view: wild, almost jungle-like. In the midst sat a small clapboard house. He parked his black Audi on the gravel driveway and approached the front door. It had started to rain.
Chuzhoi wore the same nailhead suit he’d worn in Boston, tailored to fit his broad physique. He moved with his accustomed air of authority. His long gray hair spilled over his shirt collar.
His trusty Makarov .380 was concealed in a holster at the small of his back.
The green-painted door swung open suddenly, and a face came out of the darkness. The shaved head, the intense stare, the deeply etched forehead: Chuzhoi had forgotten how fearsome the man was.
Something about his amber eyes: the eyes of a wolf, wild and feral and ruthless. Yet at the same time the eyes were cold and disciplined and ever calculating. They studied his acne-pitted cheeks.
“The rain has started,” Chuzhoi said. “It’s supposed to be a bad storm.”
The zek said nothing. He glared and turned around, and Chuzhoi followed him into the shadowed recesses. The house had the stale smell of a place long closed up.
Was the girl here?
“You have no electricity?” Chuzhoi said.
“Sit.” The zek pointed to an armchair with a high back. It was upholstered in little flowers and looked like something chosen by an old lady.
Of course, the zek had no right to speak to him this way, but Chuzhoi allowed him his impertinence. “The girl is here?” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. It was so dark he could barely see the sociopath’s face.
“No.” The zek remained standing. “Why is this meeting necessary?”
Chuzhoi decided to meet brevity with brevity.
“The operation has been terminated,” he said. “The girl is to be released at once.”
“It’s too late,” the zek said.
Chuzhoi pulled a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket. “I will see to it that you are wired your completion fee immediately. All you have to do is sign these forms, as we’ve already discussed. Also, in consideration of your excellent service, you will receive a bonus of one hundred thousand dollars in cash as soon as the girl is handed over.”
“But ‘terminated’ is not the same as ‘concluded,’” the zek said. “Was the ransom not paid? Or were other arrangements made?”
Chuzhoi shrugged. “I am only a messenger. I pass along what the Client tells me. But I believe other arrangements have been reached.”
The zek stared at him, and Chuzhoi, hardly a delicate man, felt a sudden chill. “Do you need a pen?” he said.
The zek came near. Chuzhoi could smell the cigarettes on his breath.
The zek gave a hideous grimace. “You know, we can go into business for ourselves,” he said. “The girl’s father is a billionaire. We can demand a ransom that will set us up for life.”
“The father has nothing anymore.”
“Men like that are never without money.”
A sudden gust of wind lashed the small window with rain. There was a rumble of distant thunder.
But why not offer him whatever he asked? It was all irrelevant anyway. He’d never get a cent.
The zek put his arm around Chuzhoi’s shoulder in a comradely fashion. “We could be partners. Think of how much we can make, you and I.”
His hand ran smoothly down Chuzhoi’s back until it lightly grasped the butt of his pistol. As if he knew precisely what he would find and where.
“Last time you came unarmed.”
“The weapon is for my protection.”
“Do you know what this is?” the zek said.
Chuzhoi saw the wink of a steel blade, a thick black handle.
Of course he knew what the thing was.
In the calmest voice he could muster, he said, “I am always happy to discuss new business opportunities.”
He felt the nip of the blade against his side.
The zek’s left hand slid back up his spine to his left shoulder, the long fingers gripping the shoulder blade at the front. Suddenly he felt a deep twinge and his left arm went dead. Chuzhoi sensed the man’s hot breath on his neck.
“I know the Client’s ransom demands have still not been met,” the zek said. “I also know he has made a deal to give me up.”
Chuzhoi opened his mouth to deny it, but the blade penetrated a little more, then pulled back. The pain was so intense it made him gasp.
“If we are to do business together, we need to trust each other,” the monster said.
“Of course,” Chuzhoi whispered, eyes closed.
“You need to earn my trust.”
“Yes. Of course. Please.”
A tear rolled down his cheek. He wasn’t sure if it was from the physical pain of the zek’s pressure point or simple fear.
“I think you have some idea where the girl is located,” the zek said.
Chuzhoi hesitated, not wanting to admit he’d had the man followed after their last meeting. That would only enrage him.
Chuzhoi had ordered the follower to keep the surveillance discreet. In fact, he’d stayed back so far he’d lost him.
But … was it possible the zek had detected the surveillance?
Even so, Chuzhoi had only an approximate location of the burial site. He didn’t know the name of the town. The county, yes. Hundreds of square miles. So what? That was as good as nothing.
Before he could think how to reply, the zek spoke. “A man with your experience should hire better eyes.”
Chuzhoi felt the blade again, white hot, but this time the zek didn’t pull back, and the pain shot up to the top of his head and down to the very soles of his feet. Heat spread throughout his body, or so he thought, until he realized that in fact his sphincter had given way.
In desperation he cried, “Think of the money—!”
But the knife had gone in deep into his stomach. He struggled against the zek’s iron embrace, retched something hot, which burned his throat.
Outside the wind whistled. Rain spattered the clapboard sides of the house. It had become a downpour.
“I am,” the zek said.
“What do you want?” he screamed. “My God, what do you want from me?”
“May I borrow your mobile?” the zek said. “I’d like to make a
phone call.”
79.
“Put it on speaker,” I told Navrozov.
This was it. The call that told us either that the kidnapping had been successfully called off, or …
Navrozov answered it abruptly: “Da?”
“Speaker,” I said again.
To me he said, “I don’t know how to do this.”
I took it from him and punched the speaker button, and I heard something strange, something unexpected.
A scream.
* * *
AND THEN a man’s voice, speaking in Russian.
I could make out only intonation and cadence, of course, but the man sounded calm and professional.
In the background was a continuous whimpering, a rush of words that sounded like pleading. I set the phone down on the desk, looked at Navrozov, whose face registered puzzlement.
He leaned over the phone, not fully understanding the concept of a speakerphone, and said, “Kto eto?”
The calm voice on the other end: “Vy menya nye znayete.”
“Shto proiskhodit?” Navrozov said.
“Who’s that?” I said.
“He says the contractor is not available to speak but he can pass along a message—”
The whimpering in the background abruptly got louder, turned into a high, almost feminine shriek that prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. A peculiar gargling sound, then a rush of words: “Ostanovitye!… Ya proshu … pazhaluista prekratitye! Shto ty khochish?… Bozhe moi!”
Navrozov looked stricken. His face was flushed, his features gone slack as he listened.
“Nye magu … nye … magu…”
The pleading voice in the background grew fainter.
“Who is it?” I demanded.
Then the calm voice was back on speaker. “Someone is there with you?” the man said, this time in English. “Tell Mr. Navrozov that his employee will no longer be reporting back to him. Good-bye.”
A few seconds of silence passed before I realized that the connection had been severed.
I had a sick feeling. I knew the worst had happened. So did Navrozov. He hurled the phone across the room. It hit a bedside lamp, knocking it to the carpeted floor. His face was dark, mottled. He let loose a string of Russian obscenities.
Buried Secrets (Nick Heller) Page 24