Inside Man

by Jeff Abbott

  “I will say they are like the couple who can’t live together but can’t bear to be apart. You won’t find Galo with many girlfriends in his past. Zhanna looms too large. But they can’t date, they can’t be together, it couldn’t ever last. They collide for a while, they veer away, they collide again.” He crooked a smile. “There are a lot of repeating patterns in this family.” Yes, I thought. Of people cast aside.

  “You were his partner.”

  He sipped his tea. “He bought me out, early. It was more money than I’d ever seen in Russia, that was for sure. I was a fool but I liked flying more than business meetings.” He shrugged. “The spilled vodka. Or milk, whatever.” He took another sip of black tea, then glanced over at the waitress, who was helping another table. He pulled a flask from his pocket and dosed the tea. Raised it to me, I nodded. Which was the only acceptable answer to Sergei. He spiked my tea. “So. Some clients do not want Zhanna in charge. I do not want Zhanna in charge, for a different reason. I want her free and clear of that family. They asked me to…coordinate the transition. No one knows the business better than I do. So. Nesterov is from here. He has gone to work for this German woman, but I know him, I know his family.”

  “Does Zhanna know him?”

  “No. I have seen her fewer than a dozen times in the past twenty years.”

  “And they sent your friend.”

  “Yes. Who killed him? You?”

  “No.” I hesitated. “Galo. To save me, actually.”

  “I would have thought it was his nasty friend Ricky.”

  “One of them, maybe Ricky, wounded Marianne after she delivered the message that Zhanna was unacceptable.”

  “I heard,” he said. “And Zhanna will never give up now. I know my child.”

  “I’m not going to say anything to the Varelas about you,” I said. “But someone gunned for Cori. Was that you?” And I could see it—he wanted his revenge on Rey. He could have taken Cori from him. But why now? He could have killed or hurt Cori years ago. Why now? Because Rey would be less likely to strike back?

  Sergei folded his napkin. “I did not try to hurt Cordelia. I would not.”

  “Nesterov was in touch with the men who killed the man she hired to protect herself.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  I didn’t believe him. “Who are the clients?”

  He didn’t answer. I asked again.

  “I won’t tell you that, Sam,” he said. “Ever. There’s nothing you can threaten me with. They’ll take good care of me and if you keep your mouth shut, they’ll leave you alone.”

  “I can threaten you with the Varelas.”

  “You could, and you could see what happens. See if they get madder at me, or madder at you for digging into their business.”

  He had a point.

  He tossed money onto the table. “It was nice meeting you. I will wheel myself home.”

  “Don’t be silly, I’ll push you…”

  “I don’t want help from you or anyone else. Go. Let me think in peace.”

  I collected his money, and I paid for the bread, sausages, and tea, taking a few moments to settle the bill while he trundled outside. I followed him out of the St. Ekaterina.

  “The food’s my treat, Sergei,” I said. On the street I tucked his money into his jacket pocket as he began to argue, “No, that’s not necessary,” and I felt the plastic brick of a phone.

  I should have pulled it out and looked at it. It was just a phone. But I didn’t think. Everyone carries one.

  We were half a block from his apartment when the van pulled up fast behind us, its lights blinding me. I spun to face them and two men hurried out of the van. I’d left my gun in the car and I went into a fighting stance as they charged me, trying to get between me and Sergei.

  But then they Tasered me and I didn’t have much defense against that, the voltage dancing through me and they dragged me into the back of the van. Plastic handcuffs on me. I heard a man speaking, softly, Sergei answering. Laughing. A sack went over my head, but I heard the soft grind of Sergei’s wheelchair, motoring toward home.

  “You be a good boy for once,” a man said in Russian, and I was a very good boy as they drove me away.

  48

  THE PHONE, I thought through my daze. Sergei had his phone turned on inside his jacket pocket, someone listening on the other end who he’d called while he was in his bedroom. Oldest trick in the book, and because he was old and crippled and one-eyed I was stupid.

  My new friends didn’t drive me to an abandoned warehouse or a dump of an apartment or the beach to put two bullets in me. After the van stopped, they carried me out of the car. I felt myself hurried up a flight of stairs—still outside—and then the creak of a door opening. They shoved me into a chair and they handcuffed me to it, and then and only then did they pull the bag from my eyes. They dropped it in my lap. It was a Miami Dolphins tote bag. I blinked against the dim light from the lamp.

  A room. There were four windows across the wall, all with their shades drawn. I could smell spices and grease and so we were near a restaurant. On the other side of the shades was a soft rainbow glow of neon. But it was quiet. Not near one of the Miami nightclubs that didn’t get started until midnight or later.

  Four men. They were in dark suits and ties. All wore sunglasses that masked their faces.

  One held a police baton and he twirled it, letting it arc past his leg like he really wanted to find a target for it. A taller man stood next to him. He searched me. He took my keys, the phone I’d taken from Nesterov’s car, and my own phone.

  “Mr. Chevalier, we’d like to have a talk with you.” The tall guy next to the baton guy spoke in Russian. “Rey Varela asked you to protect his daughter. Bothering Sergei doesn’t accomplish that goal. We do not like you because…we don’t understand you. You are a stranger to us. So. If you want to protect Cordelia Varela, then I say now you take her credit card, go to Australia. Her father can afford it. We’ll ignore you. Take anyone else you want to take along, to feel safe. Keep her in Sydney. She’ll love it.” He spoke like he couldn’t quite string the words together and for a second I thought he was drunk.

  I made no motion, gave no sign I understood.

  “You do speak Russian, we are told?”

  I nodded.

  “You understand?”

  “Yes.” I understood more than he knew.

  “Will you do this?”

  “Why?”

  “Do as we say and you’ll be well rewarded.”

  “How do I know you’ll keep your word?” I said in Russian. I didn’t look at the tall man, I looked directly at the man behind him, curious if he, too, understood what I was saying. He glanced away and the tall man stepped into my line of sight, forcing me to look at him.

  “Oh, you don’t. But we will.”

  “Is this the part where you beat and torture me?” This I said in English, and he opened his mouth, and I said it again, quick, in Russian. I hung my head.

  “Not…unless needed. Leave the day after tomorrow. Tell Rey you are serious about getting his daughter away from this situation.”

  “What’s really going on here?” I said in English. “You’re Americans. I can hear an American accent in your near-fluent Russian. Why are you pretending to be something you’re not?”

  Talk about awkward pauses.

  “We are Russian,” the tall man insisted.

  “You want me to think you are, but you’re not.”

  They looked at one another. “I want to hear that guy in the back,” I said, and I jerked my head past the tall guy. “Say something in Russian. Right now. Tell me I’m a dumb, ugly loser. Tell me Merry Christmas. Tell me how to order a vodka.”

  “Say nothing to him,” the tall man yelled in Russian at the others.

  “Not very convincing,” I said, in Russian. I looked at one of the others. And I cussed him out, thoroughly, insulting every parent, sibling, and child he might have had.

  He bit hi
s lip like he couldn’t decide what to say.

  The tall man punched me. Hard. It hurt. Then he kicked me in my cut shoulder and I thought I would vomit from the pain. I fell back in the chair.

  “Do you understand what I said to you?” he whispered in Russian.

  I nodded.

  “Do as you are told.”

  “Iowa? Alabama? Where are you from, Fake Ivan?”

  He Tasered me again. I fell back and felt my brain dance. Then they left me alone, filing out of the room, locking the door. I could hear a soft murmur of voices, a tone of whispered discussion. I pulled the chair to the window, staggering. Looked out. It was Calle Ocho, most of the signs in Spanish, and I realized this was the same place where Ricky had come before he went to meet Galo and Zhanna at the nightclub. I’d parked on that side road, directly in front of where I was.

  The men came back in. The tall one was pissed. “We are going to let you go on your way.”

  I almost said, How’s Ricky, but then I would be admitting I knew who their mole was. And they might kill me for that.

  He punched me again. It seemed to make him feel better. “Now. You are going to do a favor for us, before you go to Sydney.”

  My lip bled. “Naturally.”

  “You are going to give this to Zhanna Sergeyevna.” And he put a little bag in my lap.

  “You want me to be your messenger? Your first messenger got killed, your second one got shot. No thank you.”

  He put the gun to my head. “I’d like to see some enthusiasm.”

  “What is it?” I asked, but what I thought is: They are very cautious how they deal with the Varelas. Why?

  “It’s encouragement to not pursue her new job.”

  “Well, if she doesn’t take the job, can I have it?”

  They all looked at one another. “Seriously,” I said, again in English. “I’ll take the job.”

  The tall man studied me for a full thirty seconds. “You’re very funny,” he said. “Work on your Russian; you are getting dumb with it.”

  They put the bag back on my bloodied head and hauled me down the stairs. The late-night street was quiet. No one noticed me being hauled like a sack of potatoes. They drove me back to Sunny Isles and set me down, uncuffed, in front of Sergei’s building. They gave me back my keys and my phone, politely dropping them in my lap.

  They drove off. I picked up the package and I walked to my car.

  I drove to the very expensive hotel on Key Biscayne. It was three in the morning, but there was a valet on duty and he stared at my bloodied lip as I handed him the keys.

  “Are you okay, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” A couple of other guests, returning from partying on South Beach, glanced at me and laughed. I probably did look funny.

  I went upstairs and in the room found Cori, asleep. She had to be utterly exhausted.

  Very quietly, I stripped and I washed the blood from my face and put a bandage on my chin. I opened the package. Inside was a mini MP3 player and a pair of ear buds.

  I tapped the Play button. I heard a click and an official-sounding voice announce a date many years ago. Then a woman’s voice, accented, speaking English: “Zhanna, please, no, have you lost your mind?…”

  “Take the pills, Mama.”

  “No, no!”

  “Take. The. Pills.”

  “I won’t, you can’t make me…”

  “When I tell Papa you’re nothing but a traitor, you’ve betrayed him…what will he do to you? I think he’ll do like he did to the first wife. Was it really suicide?”

  Sobbing. “Put that gun away, you won’t shoot me, I don’t believe it…”

  “Mama. I will shoot you. You know I will. Don’t act surprised. Now. You can suffer, or you can take the pills.”

  “I won’t…”

  “Mama. I will shoot you in the knees. I’ll cripple you. Then I’ll tell Papa what you did and he’ll do the rest. He’ll make you tell him who you work for.” And her voice became slow, cajoling. “This is best, all right? Best for us all.”

  And then the sounds of a struggle, a woman screaming, her cries suddenly muffled.

  The recording ended.

  I sat naked, shivering, bloodied, on the tile floor. I listened once more. Then I went into the darkened bedroom and found a pair of boxer shorts in my bag. I slipped them on and hid the MP3 player in my bag and collapsed into the bed next to Cori, my mind whirling with matricide.

  49

  YOU LOOK AWFUL,” Cori said.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  “Did you not sleep well?” She blinked at me. “Sam! You’ve been in another fight.”

  “Yes. You hit me in your sleep.”

  She sat up, touched my cheek with her hand. “Don’t lie to me.” She looked at me with real tenderness. I hadn’t seen that in a while. Cori, why couldn’t we be two different people, without all this mess?

  “Both your family and the clients are insisting you get out of town. Do you like Australia? I hear it’s wonderful.”

  “I’m not leaving you, or my family.”

  I called Room Service, ordered coffee and a continental breakfast for two. Cori nodded that that was fine. I wished painkillers were on the menu.

  “Did you make any headway on your financial research?” I asked.

  “No. I need to make some phone calls to Africa and the Middle East.”

  “All right. I’m going to ask you some questions about your family. But I don’t want you to read too much into it, okay?”

  “That sounds impossible.”

  “Tell me about Zhanna’s mother’s suicide.”

  “Why?”

  I looked at her. “No reading into my questions. I’m just trying to figure out some threads here.”

  Cori sat down on the edge of the bed. “Natalia left a note. She had been unfaithful to Papa. She said she could not bear the guilt.”

  “Unfaithful with whom?”

  “The note didn’t say.”

  “How did Zhanna take her mother’s death?”

  “She was upset, obviously. She had to see a counselor for a while. But she had Papa, so she thought she had everything she needed. She doesn’t much like damaged people. Her father. Her mother…”

  “Yet she’s in love with Kent. And someone as shallow as Z might see him as damaged.”

  “Well, Kent is useful to her,” she said.

  Gamble, I thought. “Did anyone ever treat it as murder?”

  “No, Sam. Natalia was never well. It was a shock, but it wasn’t, at the same time. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

  Breakfast came and we ate, and I drank the delicious coffee and I thought. Cori was quiet.

  “Do you think someone killed Natalia?” she asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” I lied. Telling her I had a recording of Zhanna killing her mother was a bomb, and the clients wanted me to do their dirty work and set off the bomb in the middle of the Varelas. They were using me. I wasn’t sure I was ready to be used.

  I got up. “I need to run some errands,” I said.

  “They’re going to think we’re in New York. If they call me…do I pretend to be in New York?”

  “Tell them you’re safe, but we haven’t left yet. I’ll explain to them.”

  “Papa won’t like you disobeying his orders.”

  “I think he might understand,” I said.

  She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I picked up Cori’s phone. She had her family’s numbers programmed in it, under Favorites. “Zhanna/Kent,” one entry read. I called. Kent answered. I hung up. Another said “Zhanna Office.” I tried; Zhanna’s secretary answered, said Zhanna wasn’t in this morning.

  Zhanna and Galo once had something going. Galo lived next door to his father, as did Zhanna. But after their meeting at Or, Galo had gone to a South Beach apartment. One that wasn’t in a Varela name.

  Everyone needs an escape route.


  I put the MP3 player and the ear buds in my pocket, and I left without saying good-bye to Cori. I thought I was doing the right thing, shielding her.

  I would regret that later.

  50

  ZHANNA ANSWERED THE door, dressed in yoga pants and a snug exercise shirt. She frowned at me. “I didn’t think Cori knew about this place.”

  “Cori didn’t tell me,” I said.

  “Galo has a big mouth.”

  She made the rude throat-cutting gesture she seemed to favor when upset. “Galo didn’t tell me either.”

  This she digested. “I thought you’d be on your way out of town by now.”

  “Can we talk?”

  She let me in, slammed the door behind me.

  “Shouldn’t you be babysitting the princess?” she snapped. “That’s your job.”

  “Last night I was given an audio recording of you killing your mother,” I said.

  She stared at me as I sat down. She laughed. She stopped. Then she laughed again.

  I stared back at her.

  “You must be joking.”

  “No. Would you like to hear it?” I held out the tiny player.

  She slipped in the ear buds. Listened. Her face went ashen then surged red, as though every atom of blood in her body rushed to feed her brain.

  “This is a lie.” She poked at the mini player’s buttons.

  “You can’t delete it that way. You have to do it when the player’s connected to a computer.”

  She ran into the kitchen and shoved the player down the disposal. The ear buds dangled in her hand, like spaghetti noodles. The disposal made a horrible crunching, grinding, breaking noise.

  “There are other copies, no doubt. You’re breaking your disposal,” I said. She stopped the grinding. She ran water into the sink like it made a difference. Then she turned away and she opened the refrigerator, studying the contents. She pulled out a bottle of dark tea.