In an instant Tiger was inside the compound, a machine pistol in each hand. Even at his young age, he had already been a street soldier with the Dobriks for years, and he was well prepared for this moment. He charged toward the guardhouse, where two more guards had just emerged, scrambling to lock and load their weapons. Tiger cut them down.
Four dead. Two more guards remained.
Machine gun fire erupted from the nearest tower, strafing the ground at their feet as Klesko and Tiger sought cover behind the corner of the guardhouse.
“Cover,” Klesko said—speaking in Russian now—and dashed alone out into the open yard.
Tiger covered Klesko’s move by blasting the tower with automatic rounds. Klesko reached the opposite side of the yard, where the prison trucks were parked, and jumped behind the wheel of the nearest vehicle. He cranked the starter but it sputtered, resisting. Now gunfire hit the truck from above, and the bullets ripped down through the roof of the cab in a line, ending with one round tearing into the outside of Klesko’s thigh. He growled in pain but continued working the starter until the truck’s engine finally roared to life. Klesko immediately threw the gearbox into reverse and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The truck raced backward, crashing into the tower’s support legs with a loud crack! The legs bent under the weight of the tower shed, and within seconds the tower reeled and toppled onto the yard with a thunderous crunch, blasting apart and spilling the two remaining guards onto the icy ground, their bodies now broken. They tried to crawl for cover but Tiger was already poised over them with his guns freshly loaded. With a final auto-blast from Tiger’s weapons, the last of the guards were dead.
Klesko retrieved a set of keys from one of the fallen guards and turned away from the carnage, ignoring his own bloody bullet wound as he limped across the yard, Tiger staying with him as Klesko entered his old cell block. They opened the cell of Dal Yaminski, enemy of the state, thirty-year resident of ITK-61 and, other than Klesko, the youngest of the inmates.
Yaminski put up no resistance as Klesko herded him out into the passage and into Klesko’s own cell. Tiger was shocked at the sight of the space, filthy and cramped and hopeless, only a few spare boards nailed over the open window to fight back the fierce cold. Years spent here would be a living hell; Tiger wondered what kind of damage the experience would do to a man, what kind of father he had been left with.
Klesko shoved Yaminski down onto the rotten old mattress on the floor and, without hesitation, shot the man between the eyes.
Tiger understood. When the prison officials arrived later, Klesko wanted them to find a body in his cell, preferably one that would be difficult to identify. Tiger pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the mattress in several places. Within seconds the flames began to consume the corpse.
Tiger and Klesko departed the cell and moved through the rest of the block, opening all the doors to release the remaining prisoners. Most hesitated to leave their cells, clearly afraid. Tiger hoped they would eventually begin to disperse from the prison grounds, further confusing the work of the territorial police when they eventually arrived on the scene.
“Not men anymore,” Klesko said to Tiger, shaking his head in disgust. Tiger saw Klesko lose focus for a moment, as if forgetting the job at hand. The man’s eyes drifted past the fence, to the empty, frozen wasteland beyond.
“Too long in here,” Tiger said, his words bringing Klesko’s attention back. “They can’t imagine freedom.”
“Da,” Klesko said, then barked, “Move or burn!” He waved his gun in the direction of the prisoners; as smoke from the mattress fire began to fill the block, even the most feeble of them began to run outside and scatter.
Tiger and Klesko left the cell block behind them and walked calmly out through the open prison gate. They slid into Tiger’s waiting car—its engine still running—and drove away, Tiger steering them westward along the barren, icy road. The sight of ITK-61 retreated behind them, a column of black smoke rising up into the sky as Klesko’s old cell block began to burn in earnest.
“You are ready?” Klesko asked Tiger as they raced onward.
They were headed for a landing strip near the shore of the Kara Sea and from there, in a matter of days, to America.
“Da, otyets,” answered Tiger. Yes, Father.
SIX
It was just after six in the evening when Detective Atley Greer arrived at the Central Park West address where Claire Stoneman—apparently a high-end real estate agent—was showing one of her properties. A doorman escorted Atley to a private elevator, swiping his security card to allow Atley access. The elevator climbed thirty floors in eerie silence, finally opening onto the plush, carpeted entranceway of the building’s penthouse apartment. Atley found Claire Stoneman there, looking different than she had at their first meeting, seven days earlier. She seemed very professional and well put together now, dressed in an expensive blue-black suit, her hair recently coiffed, stylish but conservative.
Her look matched the setting perfectly: a ten-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment, directly overlooking Central Park. The floors were dark bamboo parquet, waxed and polished to a rich, exotic gleam. The great room was two stories high, its outside wall made entirely of glass, stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a clear panoramic view of Central Park. Atley had wondered how Claire Stoneman—a single mother—could afford the affluent lifestyle he had observed at her own apartment, and now he understood: the realtor’s commission on a topflight property like this one would be huge.
“Thank you for meeting me here, Detective Greer,” Claire said as she stepped forward to shake his hand. “I’ve already had four clients to see this home today, and I haven’t been able to get away once.”
“No problem,” said Atley. Claire took a deep breath and steeled herself, out of habit. “You have some news. …”
“Just an update,” said Atley. “It’s a week since we found the victim in Riverside Park. We’ve identified her as Sophia Manetti. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“I’m afraid not. I never met any of Wally’s friends—if that’s what the girl was—so whether or not they knew each other, I couldn’t say.”
“So far, we don’t have much on her,” said Atley. “She was a habitual drug user—a long record of arrests for methamphetamine—but we don’t have much else to go on at this point. Her autopsy revealed scars and broken bones that had healed on their own, over a long period of time. The result of serious abuse from an early age. Unfortunately, this is common among the street kids.”
“Are you going to ask me if Wally was abused, Detective?”
“No. I’m confident that’s not the situation with her.”
Claire gave him the slightest nod as a gesture of thanks.
“The girl was frequently seen in the company of your daughter,” Atley went on. “Up until several weeks ago, that is, but lately Sophia had been on her own. I made an effort to contact Wallis, in case she might have some information. She called me once, last Thursday, and left a message on my cell phone.”
Atley saw Claire’s ears prick up at this news, and suddenly he was regretful that he didn’t have more to tell her about her daughter.
“But she hasn’t contacted me beyond that,” he continued. “I can tell you that she sounded completely fine in her voice message. I’ve waited for her to call me again, but to be frank … I doubt reaching out to a cop will rank high on her priority list.”
“How did you locate her, Detective?”
“There are a few places where young people in your daughter’s situation will appear from time to time. Wallis dropped in at the Harmony House in Midtown last week, and one of the counselors there passed her my card.”
Claire was silent for a moment, deep in thought.
“You haven’t made much progress, then … with the Manetti girl’s case? What was her name?”
“Sophia,” Atley said. “People call her Sophie, on the street. Unfortunately, most of our leads have gone c
old. Our best shot is to have someone come forward with information to trade, and there’s a pretty good chance of that. We just don’t know if that will happen tomorrow or a year from now.”
“If you would keep me posted on her case, I would appreciate it. I realize the girl and I have no real connection, but …”
“I understand,” said Greer, and he did. The victim was not Mrs. Stoneman’s daughter, but she could have been.
SEVEN
It had been a strange week for the crew, beginning with Wally’s encounter in Brighton Beach and then their visit all together to the Hamlisch Brothers shop. There had been skepticism about the contents of the Brighton Beach file—on Jake’s part especially—but the value of the alexandrite stone had gone a long way toward convincing them that the contents of the file were the real thing. Of course, the specialness of the stone raised more questions than it answered. Why had Yalena included the stone with the Brighton Beach file? Was it just a gift for Wally, or did the stone have some significance beyond its use as currency? Wally had no idea.
Eight thousand dollars. Eighty Benjamins, crisp and clean, far more than any of them had ever seen in one place. Wally was anxious to get started on her search, but the opportunity to spoil her friends was irresistible. Unlike Wally, the others in the crew had led lives full of sadness and violence and deprivation, and Wally now had the means to make them feel special. She decided to put off her quest for just a few days; the four of them would have a weekend full of indulgence.
The surprise was, spending money was harder for the crew than they imagined it could be. They needed almost nothing, day to day, and owning things just slowed them down. Jake and Tevin had ridiculously campaigned for a Wii video game console, and the girls humored them enough to make the trip to an electronics store on Broadway to check it out.
“What are we supposed to do with one of these?” Ella asked as they stood in the video game demo space of the Midtown Best Buy. “Lug it from squat to squat?”
“That’s what shopping carts are for,” Jake said.
“Actually, no it’s not. And that screen is like seven feet across.”
Wally stood by and let them duke it out—that was always half the fun, anyway. Ella’s common sense won out, of course, and the guys had ended up just playing the demo machine for a couple of hours until a beefy pair of security guards suggested that it was time to move on.
The four of them did make some purchases. Ella had been coveting a pair of shiny new combat boots, and a trip downtown to a military surplus store fixed that, also netting a few thermal layers for everyone’s outfits. The girls refreshed their supply of mascara and trashy nail polish. They passed by a western wear store, which Tevin and Jake could not resist. They went inside and both bought real cowboy hats—Stetsons. They made it half a block down the street before Jake saw his own real world reflection in a store window.
“Oh man! I look like a douche!” he howled his buyer’s remorse out loud, ignoring the looks of amused passersby.
“Me too!” Tevin had to agree. “That had to be some kinda trick mirror in the store. We were robbed.”
“Why didn’t you two say anything?” Jake asked the girls with an accusatory look.
“I think you both look great,” Wally said with a straight face, but then her eyes met Ella’s and they burst out laughing.
“You guys suck,” Jake said.
The guys went back and returned the hats to a testy salesclerk. At a motorcycle-chic boutique in the Village, Ella bought a good-looking leather vest and Jake bought a studded leather belt by the same label. At an expensive outdoor supply shop, Tevin got a stylish messenger bag with reflecting straps. Wally picked up a colorful striped watch cap, very warm, but her biggest gift came from seeing the glee in her friends’ faces as they treated themselves.
They saw a couple of bad 3-D movies and ate like pigs, four meals each day, until even Ella seemed to lose interest. They went ice skating at Rockefeller, which was fun but insanely crowded. By Sunday afternoon, when the weekend of splurging was starting to feel anticlimactic, Wally had an inspiration; they jumped in a cab and headed for Madison Square Garden.
“The Knicks?” Tevin guessed, hopeful.
“Nope.” Wally kept them in suspense.
They reached the Garden and Wally led them to the ticket booth, where a video screen was playing a preview of the Cirque du Soleil show called KÀ, which seemed to be about futuristic space pirates. Wally had good memories of their performance called O, which Claire and Jason had treated her to for her eighth birthday.
“Oh, hell no,” Jake said. “Nothing with guys in tights.”
“Trust me,” Wally said, and bought four good seats.
The show was mesmerizing. Jake’s complaining stopped from the first explosive moment of gravity-defying action, and the staging of the show was unlike anything they had seen before, better than any special effects fantasy film because it was actually happening right in front of them. Even the corny outfits—lots of colorful jockstraps and feathers—seemed appropriate. By the time they walked out of the theater, the four of them were smiling and feeling as though their weekend had been perfect. Wally was grateful for how well things had ended; the next morning her energy would be focused squarely on the search for Yalena, and she was counting on the help of her friends.
Early Monday morning, Wally turned her attention once again to the contents of the Brighton Beach file. She was determined, this time, to keep her emotional responses to the items in check and try to view the file with scientific objectivity. As the others looked on, she laid the items out on the floor of the lobby and went over each piece closely, disappointed again by their terrible condition. In many cases the bad quality was due to water damage, but not all: some of the older documents had faded so badly that they were illegible. Most were in Russian anyway, and although she could afford to hire a translator, she doubted the ancient documents would have much relevance in the search for her mother. If her interpretation of the letter was correct, the contents of the file were meant to fill in blanks in Wally’s own history, not help locate Yalena.
Wally came to the two stapled pages that looked like a photocopied newspaper article. “There’s stuff still legible here.”
“That name …” said Tevin, reading over Wally’s shoulder. A partial line was still clear and un-smeared on the page, revealing what looked like most of a name: -amin Hatch. “I bet that first name is Benjamin. Benjamin Hatch.”
“Hold on a second …” said Jake, and he disappeared out the emergency exit, returning a few seconds later with a stack of newspapers tied together with string, probably bound for the recycling Dumpster. Jake ripped through the twine—his athlete’s muscles kicking in—and went through the pile, pulling out one example of each local paper. “We don’t know if the article is from a New York paper, but we can find out.”
“Right,” said Wally. “Smart, Jake.”
“See how much I have to offer, Wally?” he said with a wry look. “I’m not just pretty and powerful. I have a brain, too.”
“You’ve really opened my eyes here, Jake,” she answered. “Keep it up.”
Wally and Jake were often tied up in some sort of power struggle, but when it was time for him to step up for the group—or her—she had always been able to count on him. It made Wally feel grateful that he was pitching in to help now, however skeptical he was.
She held the fragment of the newspaper article up to each of the local papers in turn—the Times, the Post, the Voice, the Daily News, the Journal—and the type and format clearly matched one.
“Wall Street Journal, definitely,” Ella declared.
“We can check their archives at the library,” Tevin said.
They reached the Bloomingdale Library by ten o’clock and were first in line for an Internet terminal. Jake and Ella went to kill time in the periodical section, while Tevin went with Wally to her assigned computer, where she logged on to the Wall Street Journal archives. She search
ed for Benjamin Hatch and soon there it was, an article in the Small Business section of the Journal, May of 1992. It was a human-interest story mostly, relaying the experiences of entrepreneur Benjamin Hatch, who had tried to start an import-and-export firm in the new (back then) post-Soviet Russia. Hatch had encountered many problems, citing outdated business practices and corruption.
Hatch was described as a native New Yorker and former teacher. According to the article, Hatch’s business idea was to buy and relabel an inexpensive brand of vodka, popular in Russia but unknown outside the country. The packaging would be upmarket and sexy, and the advertising campaign would play on the idea that the vodka was a fresh, undiscovered treasure from behind the Iron Curtain. By the time of the article’s appearance, Hatch’s scheme had already fallen apart, though he gave very few details on the causes for his failure.
It was still unclear what connection there was between Hatch and Wally’s Russian mother, Yalena, or if he would know anything about how to find her. But there had to be a reason, Wally figured, why the Journal article on Hatch had been included in the Brighton Beach file. The only way forward was to find Benjamin Hatch and ask him. A Google search for Hatch yielded no results, other than the same Journal article, so Wally made the decision to spend $79.95 at one of the Internet’s Friend Search sites, which basically amounted to online stalking. The results came up within seconds, but unfortunately the search located 183 Benjamin Hatches of appropriate age (thirty-five and older) living in the U.S., many in far-flung destinations, including Hawaii and Alaska.
“Too many Benjamins,” Tevin said. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Wally and Tevin met up with Ella and Jake outside the library and gave them a look at the long list of Benjamin Hatches.
“Damn,” Ella said, perusing the long list. “So many.”
Wally pulled out her new cell phone. “Panama says I’ve got over a thousand minutes on here.”
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