Uncomprehending, he stared out at open sky and the unmistakable Boston skyline at night. Lights twinkled like luminous pearls suspended in water. Beacons of red atop spires rising high into the night mist pulsed.
``Where are we?’’ Brant asked.
``Welcome to Agincourt Towers,’’ Volodin said, spreading his arms as if to embrace the very space in which they stood. ``This is one of my condo developments. Like it?’’
``I’ve seen better,’’ Brant said in response.
``It doesn’t look like much at the moment, but give it another couple of months. This is going to be one of the premier condominium developments in downtown Boston. Come closer, you can see where they’re putting the swimming pool.’’
Brant brushed Volodin’s offer aside. He was no fool. He wasn’t going to go any closer to the edge of the floor plate than necessary.
A gust of wind sent paper and grit flying into the air. Brant’s eyes watered.
``Over here will be the kitchen,’’ Volodin said, stepping over a stack of concrete blocks. ``Granite countertops. Two industrial-style ovens. Recessed lighting. All the modern conveniences. I’m told Americans love to entertain. The living room will have floor-to-ceiling windows. Imagine what it will be like when it’s finished. Perhaps you will want to buy a place. Maybe a two bedroom on one of the top floors. I can reserve you a unit. Maybe we can arrange a small discount, yes? Between friends.’’
``What do you want, Volodin? You didn’t go to all this trouble to play real estate agent. Why did you bring me here?’’
Volodin scowled, a look of mock disappointment marking his round, fleshy features. The scar on his cheek seemed to ripple and writhe as if alive.
``You are an interesting man, lieutenant. You are a student of many things. Philosophy. The sciences. Human relations. A potent mix.’’
Brant held his tongue. His legs still wobbled. Small tremors made his muscles shake like jelly. His stomach turned, as if he would vomit at the smallest provocation.
``Do you have nightmares?’’ Volodin asked, his eyes widening to catch Brant’s reaction.
Nightmares? What was he getting at? Brant said as much.
``Your military service,’’ the gangster continued, gloating broadly as he demonstrated the depths of his knowledge and the extent to which he knew Brant’s story. ``I believe it was the Army, am I correct?’’
Brant said nothing.
``You applied to West Point Military Academy but didn’t get in. That was a disappointment. Your father didn’t take it well. A failure. How am I doing?’’
``If you know so much, why ask?’’
Volodin smiled but continued.
``You didn’t like being sent home with your sister while your father roamed the world. All those boarding schools. The ritualistic hazing, the isolation, the regimentation. And yet you wanted to be an officer in the Army. Why was that?’’
``Can we just get on with it?’’
Volodin chuckled. He was enjoying the taunts and the spooning of information.
``Fathers and sons. A difficult relationship, yes? And complicated in your case.’’
``None more than most.’’
``That’s not true. I know more about you than you realize, lieutenant. Maybe even more about you than you know yourself. Does that make you uncomfortable?’’
``A little,’’ Brant said truthfully.
``What about your father? You must have resented him, yes? He left you alone. He didn’t even support you when you tried to get into West Point. What kind of father would do such a thing?’’
``He’s a creature of his time.’’
``Is that so?’’ Volodin asked, his eyes widening again. ``Is that so?’’
``How could I resent him? I didn’t even know him.’’
``Quite.’’ Volodin puffed his cheeks. ``Tell me about Afghanistan.’’
``It’s a country bordered by Pakistan in the south and east. Landlocked. Islamic. Official languages are Pashto and Dari.’’
``Tell me about what happened to you in Afghanistan,’’ Volodin said, ignoring Brant’s attempts to be flippant. ``The real story. Not the one in the file.’’
The file? So Volodin had access to Brant’s military history. What else did the gangster know? How deep had the Russian insinuated himself into Brant’s life? The question itself was a provocation, if not a violation.
The story of Afghanistan was no straight narrative, of course. It was his first tour. He’d been in Helmand Province and on patrol, part of a deployment to bolster the British presence. They were in a field with rows of mud walls, five feet high with grapes. Then an opening, a poppy field and a ditch running the length of the field. There were wires sprouting from the ditch so the infantry was called in to check for an IED. They waited for half an hour, squatting in a field of mud with the sun over head, flies buzzing in clouds and, in the distance, the whump whump of helicopter blades. After a while, the infantry guys gave the all clear. But it was too late. Out of nowhere, an RPG blast. Bodies flew. Legs, arms, a helmet ripped from a buddy’s head. Chaos ensued.
Brant woke in a military hospital in Kandahar, one of three in the patrol to survive. While only lightly injured, he’d been deeply scarred. He was done with the Army, at least as far as he knew at the time.
He’d spent two more years working as a private bodyguard in Afghanistan before leaving for good. Why had he stayed behind? It was a question he asked himself, but no answer seemed to satisfy.
His father had berated him upon his return, eager to squeeze out the smallest of details, curious about what had been behind the mission that had sent him and his patrol to the hospital.
Brant had held his tongue, holding fast to his vow of eternal silence delivered during a debrief to the ears of a pug-faced man with a stammer and a lisp.
``We’re like the Church of Scientology,’’ the man had said with a wry smile. ``There’s no way out.’’
Brant’s father had been apoplectic at the subterfuge. Shortly after returning stateside, Brant had announced his intention to become a cop.
``You don’t have the balls for it,’’ his father had said, shaking his head in disgust at the mere thought.
The taunt had been one too many. Brant had reached out and cuffed his father on the side of the head, knocking the old man on his ass. Jerry Brant responded with a self-satisfied cackle. They’d barely spoken since that day.
``Can we get on with it?’’ Brant asked, growing irritated and weary as he pushed the memory of his father aside. Volodin’s probing had exposed a weakness, something the gangster could exploit.
Volodin shrugged. ``Have it your way. Just remember the offer. Corner apartment. View of Boston Common. Absolutely spectacular.’’
``The point?’’
Volodin resumed his seat, urging Brant to do likewise. ``As I said, we have a little problem.’’
``From where I’m sitting, Sergei, the problem is yours, and it’s about to get a lot bigger.’’
``Stay with me for a moment, please.’’ Volodin mimicked a prayer as he clasped his hands together. ``You see, I’m afraid I wasn’t quite truthful when last we met. You asked me about Allison Carswell, and I may have indicated I didn’t know her.’’
``May have indicated?’’
Volodin shrugged sheepishly. ``Maybe it was more than an indication. The truth is, Ms. Carswell was well acquainted with my associates. You know Aleksey and Pyotr?’’
The two Dimitri brothers stepped out of the shadows. Brant had known Aleksey was nearby. He hadn’t realized Pyotr was standing guard, too. Not that he should have been surprised. The brothers moved as one. They were like electrons occupying the same orbit.
``We’ve met,’’ Brant said, his voice as toneless and flat as possible.
Pyotr grunted. Aleksey mimicked his brother. Both crossed their arms in defiance.
``That’s quite enough,’’ Volodin said, staring the brothers down with a withering look.
``What abo
ut Carswell?’’ Brant asked.
``As I was saying,’’ Volodin continued, ``Ms. Carswell had come into contact with our little group here. The details are irrelevant.’’
``So what’s the point?’’ Brant asked.
``Well, it’s simple really. It’s come to our…my…attention that Ms. Carswell stole something of value from me and I need it back. I’d offer you money, but I don’t imagine you’re the kind of cop that would accept a bribe.’’
``Screw your blood money, Volodin. What was it? What did she take that was so valuable that you had to kill her?’’
``Kill her?’’ Volodin straightened in his seat. ``I didn’t kill her. That’s not my style.’’
``What about Muscles and Hungry over there. I’d bet it’s their style.’’
Volodin turned to the Dimitri brothers. ``The lieutenant wants to know whether you killed Ms. Carswell. Do either of you know anything about the circumstances of her death?’’
The Dimitris looked at each other and shook their heads, dismissing the notion as if it was unthinkable.
``There, you see. Neither of them know anything about Ms. Carswell’s death. I’m sure we can ascertain their whereabouts on the night she was killed if we need to do so. Would that satisfy you?’’
``Nothing would satisfy me, Volodin. But let’s leave that aside for now. Tell me more about what she’s supposed to have taken.’’
``Well, that is quite interesting,’’ Volodin said, almost licking his lips with anticipation. ``As you know, Ms. Carswell was a biomedical researcher. Her work took in many different facets of gene sequencing. Much of the work she did at Genepro was of a highly sensitive nature. It seems she took it upon herself to take much of the proprietary information she had accumulated in her time as an employee.’’
``What kind of proprietary information?’’
``Different modalities for gene sequencing. Patent applications. That sort of thing. Nothing very exciting outside her narrow band of research. But still quite valuable within the context of the biomedical community.’’
``If it isn’t of any consequence, why are you so interested in getting it back? And more to the point, why would someone have killed her for it?’’
``I never said she was killed for it. As to your other point, you know I was one of Genepro’s angel investors. Genepro may have failed, but the intellectual capital the company had is still quite valuable. There’s no reason the work can’t live to see another day. Molecular medicine is the future.’’
``So I’ve heard,’’ Brant said sarcastically. ``Why are you telling me this?’’
``Ah, that is where our interests overlap,’’ Volodin said. ``I think we can have a partnership, yes? Something that benefits both of us. I want you to find out what she did with my very valuable information and I want you to get it back for me.’’
Brant eyed Volodin warily. ``What makes you think I’d help you, Volodin? Christ, you almost killed me to get me here. Not a very good start to a partnership.’’
``You’re very tenacious, Lieutenant Brant. I like that very much about you. Most cops are stupid. You on the other hand, you’re a thinker. You can see the big picture.’’
``Sorry to disappoint, but I think I might be missing something here.’’
``Yes, you’re right about that.’’
Volodin reached into his pocket. By habit, Brant’s right hand shot to the leather holster in search of his gun only to realize it had been taken by the Dimitri twins. Volodin smiled at the futility of Brant’s reaction.
``Do you think I’m that stupid? Your gun will be returned to you when we’re finished here.’’
Volodin’s smile widened as he handed a folded photograph to Brant. Jonas recoiled as his eyes focused on the child at the center of the picture.
``You know this boy, yes?’’
``I know him,’’ Brant stared at Ben’s bright, beaming smile.
``He’s a lovely boy,’’ Volodin said. ``You know, if you’d done the job correctly in the first place, if you’d found out who killed Ms. Carswell, then none of this would be necessary. Now I’m afraid things are a bit more messy. I hate to do this kind of thing, but I wanted to give you the proper motivation. Do I have your attention now?’’
Brant fumed and seethed. Bile burned at the back of his throat but not because of the beating or its aftermath.
``You really are a bastard, Volodin. And when this is over I swear I am going to get you and see to it that you are put away for a very long time.’’
Volodin smiled. ``That may be, but we have a deal, yes? You will help find this material Ms. Carswell stole from me?’’
``I don’t seem to have a choice.’’
``You see, a partnership. We agree on things already. This is going to be productive. I knew from the moment I heard you’d been assigned to the Carswell case that this was going to work out for the both of us. And now look at us. A virtual merger of equals. As the Americans say, a win-win.’’
Volodin grinned with the enthusiasm of an extremist.
``You’re not my equal, Volodin.’’ Brant almost spat the words. ``I have your word you won’t touch Ben if I take you up on this little charade?’’
``My word. Absolutely.’’
Brant rose from his chair. A not unpleasant buzz greeted him as the blood rushed to his head. The moment passed.
``Take Mr. Brant home,’’ Volodin said to the Dimitris. ``See that he’s tucked in safely.’’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next few days were a blur.
As promised, the Dimitris returned him home. The Hyundai showed up on the curb outside the townhouse the following morning. The Beretta had also been returned.
Marcellus found him in the foyer, curled into a ball and shaking like a baby. She wrapped him in a blanket and sent him to bed, a look of stern rebuke mixed with concern on her face.
At first, Brant had no idea where he was. Had he been in an accident? Had he hurt someone? He wavered, traversing a thin line between consciousness and sleep. Marcellus fed him soup, toast and painkillers. Her voice was a soundtrack grounding him to the present.
The next morning he awoke with a fever and tremors running the length of his body. He was delirious. He called out for Maggie. Waves of nausea left him breathless and weak. His left shoulder, the one that had taken the worst of the beating, ached.
``What have you been up to?’’ Marcellus tutted scornfully as she placed a cold compress to his forehead.
He didn’t answer. His body was floating. His mind was in turmoil.
Ben appeared at his side, but just for a moment. Tears ran down the little guy’s cheeks as he surveyed the wreckage. Marcellus shoed him away, promising that whatever ills his father faced were temporary and benign.
He longed to console his son, but lacked the energy to speak in full sentences.
``We need to get you to a doctor,’’ she said when the fever refused to break.
Brant grunted in protest. Or thought he did. The world tilted on its side.
Time seemed to pass as if in an alternate universe.
Awake, Brant inspected the hospital room. Shadows ran along the ceiling. The bed adjacent was empty, its sheets stripped, the mattress stained. Outside his door, a nurse guided the tentative footsteps of a robed patient attached to an IV drip.
A doctor appeared by his bedside carrying a set of MRI films in an oversized envelope. He was a mere kid, underweight, undernourished and overconfident. He smiled when Brant vomited into a plastic bowl.
``We’ve given you something for that. You should start to feel better soon.’’
An IV line ran from his forearm to a clear plastic bag hanging on a pole by his bedside. Wires had been attached to his chest. A heart rate monitor chirped enthusiastically.
``Why am I here?’’ Brant asked.
``You were running a high fever. Your sister was concerned the bullet in your head had shifted.’’
``Marcellus?’’
``
She’s downstairs with your son. They went to get something to eat.’’
``How long?’’
The doctor tapped the leg of his pants with the films. ``You were brought in yesterday afternoon. The fever’s down. Vitals are good. You can go home as soon as you feel up to it. You took quite a beating. What happened?’’
``I fell,’’ Brant said after a moment of thought.
``Fell? You mean down a flight of stairs or something?’’
``Yes.’’
The doctor pulled something from the pocket of his white lab coat.
``Can you sit up?’’
``I think so.’’
Brant dangled his feet off the edge of the bed. The doctor pricked the side of his face with the end of what resembled an oversized toothpick.
``Can you feel that?’’
``Yes.’’
``Any difference between the right and the left?’’
``I don’t think so.’’
The pricking continued, first the forehead, then the cheeks, then the chin. The doctor repeated the examination on each side of his face. When he was satisfied, he pressed Brant’s eyelids shut with his thumbs.
``Try to open your eyes.’’
Next, the doctor placed his right hand against the left side of Brant’s forehead.
``Try to move my hand. Okay, now smile. Like this.’’
The doctor’s face broke into an exaggerated grin. Brant mimicked the doctor’s action.
``No neurological damage. That’s good.’’
``Can I leave now?’’
``We need to report this,’’ the doctor said. ``Your sister says you’re police.’’
``No paperwork,’’ Brant replied. ``Please.’’
The doctor hesitated before turning anew to the MRI films.
``I checked your records with the other hospital. The bullet in your head is nonferromagnetic. We were able to put you in the MRI for a scan. Do you remember?’’
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Page 19