In for a Ruble tv-2

by David Duffy

  “Not voluntarily.”

  “Pervert.”

  “You don’t believe that. What about the scar?”

  “You’re not just a Cheka pig, you’re a Cheka pervert.”

  “Want to know what I think?”

  “NO! I don’t care what a Cheka pervert thinks.”

  Her voice said she did. But continuing this while she pointed a shotgun at my chest was foolish.

  “Why don’t you put the gun aside? I’ll sit right here. We can talk about it. I’m on your side, even if you don’t think so.”

  I eased myself onto an ottoman by the fireplace. It brought me a few feet closer, not that a few feet in the face of a twelve-gauge made much difference.

  “I told you, don’t treat me like I’m stupid. You are not on my side.”

  I kept an eye on the trigger finger. So long as it stayed outside the guard, I was okay. Maybe.

  “When did you last talk to your father?” I asked quietly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just a question.”

  She didn’t respond. The eyes clouded or seemed to. The light was bad, hard to tell for sure.

  “You and Andras riled up that nest of vipers—the BEC, I mean. Was that your intention—set father against stepfather against uncle? Or did you have a particular target in mind?”

  She shook her head again. She was smiling this time though.

  “Come on, enlighten me. You’ve got the gun. I’d like to understand. We’ve got time, nobody’s here yet.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to a Cheka pervert.”

  “You’re going to have to say something to someone, sooner or later.”

  That got me a quizzical look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We all have to answer, even if it’s only to ourselves in a mirror. That’s the way life works.”

  “Don’t give me any heaven and hell bullshit. They tried that at Gibbet. Chapel every morning. I’m way past that.”

  “I’m talking about right here, right now.”

  “It’s over for me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s over.”

  She said it like she meant it. The finger stayed where it was.

  “You sound like Andras.”

  “He doesn’t have a clue.”

  “Don’t sell him short, Irina. He’s confused, but he’s not stupid. Or evil. Bad breaks, sure. Like you’ve had.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know as well as I do. Things happen, not your fault, but they send you down a whole different road. It’s not too late to turn off. It never is.”

  “What the fuck do you know about it?”

  “I know because before I was a Chekist, I was a zek.”

  She put a pitchfork through that admission. “Big fucking deal. So was my stepfather—Vyatlag, Gorlag, wherever. He’s still a pig. So are you.”

  So much for the conversational approach. Time was working against me. Two could play the pitchfork game.

  “How old were you when he put his hand up your skirt?”

  “WHAT THE FUCK?”

  “Don’t play innocent, Irina. Uncle Efim. Thirteen, twelve?”

  “NO! YOU DON’T GET IT! YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!”

  The finger wrapped the trigger. That, I did understand. But I kept at it.

  “The Players. Andras and his uncle. Kevin. Andras told me about him, the others. That was the bond, right?”

  “NO! It’s between me and him. You have no… I don’t even know what you’re doing here!”

  I let that go and looked out the window—with one eye. After a minute or two, her eyes followed mine and the trigger finger loosened. I let my breathing come back to normal.

  “How many men outside?”

  That made her start—and the finger move.

  “What the fuck are you talking about now?”

  I put an edge of anger in my voice. Not that she’d care, but she was still a kid, twelve-gauge or no twelve-gauge. “Christ, Irina. You’re not stupid, as you keep telling me. I’m not either. You’re waiting for Uncle Efim. He called right after you turned your phone on. You told him where to find you, told him you’d be waiting. Then you called Uncle Oleg in Moscow. He gave you the number for a man in Brooklyn. He’s got men outside now.”

  “SHUT UP! I DON’T HAVE TO TALK TO YOU.”

  She was shouting but the finger stayed in place. I pressed on.

  “Your cousin—Tamara Konycheva. She’s been seen a lot with Uncle Efim. Even I know that.”

  I was looking for a button, and I’d pressed it. She closed her eyes. I got ready to lunge for the gun. She opened here eyes again. Even in the dark, they were filled with fire.

  “How long has he been sleeping with her?” I asked.

  “NO! NOTHING YOU SAY IS TRUE!”

  The denial came fast and angry.

  “Was he still sleeping with you when he started screwing her? Is that why you decided to go after the BEC?”

  She switched to Russian. “You fucking son of a whore and a diseased dog…”

  I went with Russian too. I wouldn’t get another chance at this interrogation. I put my best Cheka steel in my voice.

  “Here’s what I think happened. If I’m wrong on anything, say so. I think your uncle dumped you for your cousin. Last summer sometime. You were too old, used up. He decided to move on to prettier hunting grounds.”

  “Fuck your mother, you rotten bastard…”

  “You were pissed. You’re used to getting your own way. You and Andras and the other kids had been running the playhouse for a year or two. You knew about his computer skills. You also knew he had a crush on you. You were already bent on revenge when he told you about ConnectPay. So much the better. Frankyfun had been all over you since last spring. Did you know he was his uncle Walter or did that come later?”

  She’d leaned forward, pushing the gun in my direction at the start, but she backed off, resuming the impassive state, finger relaxed on the trigger guard, off-kilter grin on her face. She didn’t react to my question. The answer wasn’t important—to her or to me.

  I went back to English. “You strung Andras along while he worked his way through ConnectPay’s system and into the BEC. You got him to steal the three million in August. Had him make it look like Uncle Efim was cheating his partners, right?”

  The off-kilter grin widened.

  “You waited to see what happened. Nothing did. So you hit them again for five mil at Thanksgiving. Still nothing. You were frustrated. You were setting your uncle, dad, and stepdad against each other, but they weren’t biting, or so you thought. You were impatient. Plenty was happening, behind the scenes, you just couldn’t see it. Your uncle traced the hack—to Andras’s dad. They started digging into his company, his family. Karp came over to New York. He already knew Uncle Walter, of course, and he got him to put a bug on the computers at the Leitz office.

  “Something else you didn’t know—your father was running his own scam. He’d figured a way to rip off BEC clients, starting with ConnectPay, in a way they wouldn’t notice—and couldn’t do much if they did. Only he wasn’t cutting in his partners. He was going solo. Uncle Efim discovered that scam when he was looking for your thievery. I’ll ask again—when was the last time you talked to your father?”

  She shook her head.

  “You can’t hide, Irina. A week ago, two? At Christmas? You were in Moscow at Christmas. You must have seen him.”

  She nodded hesitantly. I had her attention now

  “I hope you said an affectionate good-bye. They pulled his body from under Moscova ice three days ago. He had a fireplace poker through his chest.”

  “NO! YOU LIE! CHEKA PIG!” She flipped onto her knees, leaning forward, pushing the barrel toward me. No more than six feet away.

  CRACK!

  She jumped.

  I dove.

  CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM
!

  Two handguns, two shotguns. More shots. Then silence.

  I looked up from the floor. Irina knelt in the chair, swinging the twelve-gauge wildly, her finger on the trigger, wrapped tight. She fought the urge to go the window. I kept my mouth shut and body still, hoping she’d forget all about me.

  Quiet outside, except for the whistling wind. A minute passed, then three, then five. Irina was fixated on the front door. I thought again about making a lunge for the gun, but I wouldn’t get halfway there.

  Another five minutes passed. She unbent her knees and flopped back into her chair. The shotgun stayed steady. When she got settled, I worked myself ever so slowly back up to the ottoman. She watched me from the corner of her eye. When I got seated, she swung the gun over to let me know not to move again.

  Voices outside, stamping feet. The front door swung open and Efim Konychev walked in. He flicked a switch, and I blinked in the light. He was wearing an overcoat and carried a large automatic in his right hand. His left shoulder was soaked in blood, but he wasn’t showing any pain. Irina swung the shotgun halfway between us.

  “Hello, Irina,” he said. “Not a very welcoming reception. Those men are dead, by the way. What’s the matter? You don’t love me anymore?”

  Behind Konychev stood Karp, holding a shotgun of his own. He closed the door as his eyes swept the room, taking in the layout, the girl, the gun, and coming to rest on me.

  He grinned.

  CHAPTER 52

  Konychev did his own survey of the room.

  “I’ve seen you before.” He spoke Russian.

  No benefit in bringing up where.

  “I remember,” he said. “Tverskaya. You were passing by. You have a talent for being in the wrong place.”

  “A lying, fucking zek,” Karp said. “I told you about him.”

  “He’s that one?”

  Karp nodded.

  “You’ll take care of it,” Konychev said.

  “He’s dead.” Another grin.

  Foos listens to a bluegrass song about dealing cards with death—the joker’s wild, the ace is high. Irina was the joker in this game, maybe my ace in the hole and my one hope for coming out alive, if I played her right.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” Konychev asked.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  I felt a twinge for Andras.

  “Think I give a shit? Where is he?”

  “Ask him.”

  He stayed with her. “Call him.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “You and he have caused a great deal of trouble with your stupid games.”

  “You had it coming.”

  Most kids would have sounded petulant, not to mention terrified. She didn’t. She sounded vengeful—and mean.

  “Get her phone,” Konychev said to Karp.

  Irina raised the twelve gauge. “Don’t.”

  Karp and his boss stayed where they were.

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “Kid doesn’t have a phone. Have a good trip to Jersey, Fish Face?”

  Karp glared. Konychev contemplated. I think Irina almost smiled. She didn’t like Karp any more than I did.

  Konychev took another look around the room. “Where are the servers?”

  Irina shrugged. “Not anywhere you’ll find them.”

  “They’re no use to you,” he said.

  “You want them, I have them.”

  “Irina, what are you so angry about? What have I done?” His voice was all saccharine now. Irina wasn’t buying any of it.

  “I WILL NOT BE TREATED LIKE A STUPID GIRL!”

  “Irina…”

  “I know exactly what you’ve been doing. And with whom!”

  The joker was taking the shape of a jealous queen.

  “Enough! Where are the servers?” Konychev said.

  “She doesn’t have them,” I said. “You fucked that up too, Fish Face. Stupid pizda.”

  Karp’s eyes told me I didn’t have long to live.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Konychev said.

  “What I said. You need better help.”

  “You have them?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know your game, but you’re bluffing.”

  “No bluff. I’m going to reach very slowly into my jacket for some papers.”

  Karp raised his shotgun until it was pointed squarely at my head. Hope filled his face.

  I pulled my jacket open in slow motion while I extracted the Kinko printout. I tossed the folded pages across the room. They landed at Konychev’s feet. Shotgun steady, Karp knelt and picked them up.

  Konychev grabbed them. His face darkened.

  “What do you want?”

  “Take Fish Face and beat it. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I don’t think so. I credit your industriousness. But you’re compromised like everyone else. You tell me where to find the servers. I make sure no harm comes to your lady friend.”

  “Lady friend?”

  “The charming U.S. attorney who has been my hostess these last few weeks. You can’t protect her. Not if you’re dead. Karp will take care of her as soon as he’s done with you.”

  No time now to think about how he came to have that information. I could only hope there would be later. Or that it wouldn’t be necessary.

  “Maybe he’d like to watch,” Karp said.

  “Maybe he would,” Konychev said.

  “Suppose she already has them?” I said.

  “That would be unfortunate.”

  I sat on my hand.

  “We seem to have arrived at a temporary stalemate,” he said. “But we have two guns, she has one, you have none. You have no friends here. Any way this plays out you lose.”

  I did have that joker. Time to put it into play.

  “Let’s go back to Sunday. Batkin’s house. Who were your men shooting at?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. So does Irina. You weren’t trying to kill him, were you?”

  He caught it. So did she. She straightened in her chair.

  “You wouldn’t murder Batkin, however much you might want to. He told me the same about you. The Kremlin won’t allow it. You two have a deal—Kremlin enforced. You’re not dumb enough—or angry enough—to buck that. Your men were shooting at Irina. You’re on tape cursing them for missing her. Fuck that up too, Karp? You’re building quite a track record.”

  I glared at him to make the point. He glared back with an intensity that told me I was on the right track.

  “I heard the tape, just this afternoon. You don’t mince words, Efim Ilyich. ‘We won’t get another shot at that used-up cunt. I should have finished her when I did her old man. She’s just an old whore anyway. I’ve had more fun in a brothel.’”

  Irina said, “Efim?” Her voice was barely audible. Beneath the word was a tone of steel.

  Konychev said quickly, “Irina, you have no idea… Don’t listen to him. He’s only…”

  “STOP!”

  “Has Uncle Efim told you about what happened that night on Tverskaya?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “The girl in the car. Tamara Konycheva, your cousin. I was there, like he said. I saw her. Three bullet holes in her back.” I looked at Konychev. “You were having a good time in the back of that Mercedes. She get you off before she bought it?”

  “He’s lying, Irina! He doesn’t know anything.”

  The shotgun swung in his direction.

  “She was dressed for a night on the town, Irina. Dress, makeup, plenty of cleavage. How old was she, Konychev? Fourteen? Thirteen? What’s too old for you, by the way?”

  “You bastard… You told me…”

  “Nothing’s too young for Uncle Efim,” I pressed. “You know that, Irina. This isn’t the first time he’s cheated on you? He keeps saying you’re the only one, but he keeps sticking it in younger girls, doesn’t he? How many times has he lied to you?

/>   “You bastard. You fucking bastard.”

  She said it to me, but she meant it for him. I kept my eye on her trigger finger.

  “Irina don’t listen. He’s manipulating you. You know I love you.”

  “SHUT UP!”

  The shotgun wavered. Karp moved.

  “DON’T!” I yelled.

  The gun steadied—on Karp. “Back off, fucker,” she said.

  Karp took a step back.

  “Is… Is it true?” she said. “Was Tamara in the car?”

  “Irina, he’s only trying…”

  “IS IT TRUE?”

  “It’s on Ibansk.com,” I said. “You follow that, don’t you, Irina? Posted yesterday. Ivanov says Tamara was the girl in the car.”

  “IS IT TRUE, YOU BASTARD?”

  “Irina, listen, I can explain. That’s not what this is about.”

  “Tell me she wasn’t there.”

  “Irina…”

  “NO! Tell me she wasn’t there. TELL ME!”

  “She wasn’t there.”

  He wasn’t convincing. She wasn’t buying.

  “Bastard! Lying bastard!”

  “If you don’t want to talk about Tamara, how about her father?” I said.

  Two heads swung toward me. Karp didn’t budge. He was looking for an opening.

  “I told Irina how his body was pulled from the Moscova three days ago. Fireplace poker through the chest. By the time that happened, he was happy to die. He’d been tortured, Irina, until he begged for it to end. Uncle Efim pulled your dad’s fingernails out one by one. No more of those, he went on to his teeth. He enjoyed it, your uncle did. So did Karp here. He did the dirty work. By the time they finally ran him through, there wasn’t much of a man left.”

  “Irina…,” Konychev said.

  “Is it true?”

  “I said, don’t listen.”

  “BULLSHIT!”

  I’d finally broken her shell. She wasn’t just angry anymore. Horror, real horror, terror mixed with fear, twisted her pretty face. The tough-girl façade fell away for good, leaving a broken, terrified teenager in its place.

  I pressed on.

  “You were there, weren’t you, Irina? There was some kind of fight. You got swiped with that poker. Hurt like hell, didn’t it? You were trying to protect your father, and Uncle Efim didn’t care who he hurt. You were already an over-the-hill, trash-heap tart to him anyway.”