Russian Roulette

by Austin Camacho

  “Another?” she whispered.

  “He followed your father from the Russia House that night, hoping to persuade him to remain silent. What he didn’t know is that his wife never named him as the father. She just wanted you yanked out of school, and figured that letting your dad know you got knocked up would do the trick.”

  Now Krada sat up. “He didn’t know it was me?”

  “No, asshole,” Hannibal said. “Actually, he accused Boris. That’s what set off the fight they had before you got there. But you didn’t see any of that, did you? You just hid in the shadows like the coward you are until Boris and his boys were gone. Then you went up, expecting to talk to Nikita, maybe threaten him, I don’t know. But instead you found him beaten, battered, maybe unconscious. Your problem was 90 percent solved.”

  “Nikita was helpless,” Ivanovich said, poking the side of Krada’s head with the muzzle of his pistol. “So you pitched him off the roof, you heartless bastard. You even took his watch off and took his wallet.”

  “And you said he killed Mama too?” Viktoriya asked. “That’s impossible.”

  “No, girl, it ain’t,” Hannibal said, pulling a chair over and dropping into it. “Aleksandr just took the murder weapon off him, an exotic caliber you don’t see much around here.”

  “But there was no reason,” Sidorov said, holding Viktoriya’s arm as if she might faint and fall.

  “You’ve got to understand,” Hannibal said. “When Nikita died he left far less than anyone expected, and the mob did nothing for her. Boris sent her money out of guilt, but had to stop when the half million disappeared and he had to go underground. Dani Gana sent her money from a bank back home, kind of a bribe to get her to keep other men away from Viktoriya here. But that stopped once he was certain the girl would marry him. So things were getting a little tight for Raisa. She had no more pockets to tap. But then Viktoriya called this bum again.”

  “You were calling him?” The hurt in Ivanovich’s voice was palpable. To her credit, the girl met his eyes without blinking.

  “I’m thinking she told him every time anything important happened,” Hannibal said. “But again, Mrs. Krada heard it and figured she’d try the same trick twice. Only this time, when she called Raisa, she told her who the culprit was. Raisa was more desperate than angry. Her daughter was about to leave her in the dust.”

  “Oh dear,” Sidorov said. “She tried to blackmail him.”

  “Bingo,” Hannibal said. “She called him to demand money, and let him know why. Now, Krada here is no killer, but once a man kills another human…”

  “For some, it gets easier each time,” Ivanovich said.

  “So he took his little, quiet, easily concealed target pistol over to Raisa’s house, plugged her, and ran off. And you never even suspected it was him, did you?” Hannibal turned to Viktoriya.

  “Daddy and Mama?” she said, looking at Krada as if he was a new kind of lizard she had not seen before. “How could you? I love you. I loved you.”

  Ivanovich looked at her face, now with tears streaking down it, and then looked at Sidorov’s shocked expression and Hannibal’s look of contempt. Then he looked down at Krada, who forced a terrified smile. Ivanovich nodded and grinned back.

  “Smiling in their faces,” he said, “while filling up the hole. So many dirty little faces, in your filthy little, worn-out, broken-down, see-through soul.”

  Hannibal knew he was the only person in that room who recognized the Nine Inch Nails lyric, and he knew what came next. Ivanovich pulled Krada to his feet.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Hannibal asked.

  “You are not a killer,” Ivanovich said in a very level, businesslike voice. “I will take this one to a good place and dispose of him. He won’t be found for days and even when he is, he won’t be identifiable.”

  Krada’s eyes flared wide, as if it had never occurred to him that such a thing could happen to him. He turned to Viktoriya, who looked at the carpet. Hannibal got to his feet.

  “No, Aleksandr. I have to take him to Rissik. He deserves the collar for bending the rules for us the last few days, and this man needs to face justice.”

  Ivanovich dismissed Hannibal’s words with a puff of air. “Your justice system isn’t worth shit. My way, the world is rid of a cockroach for good. Your way, he probably goes free.”

  “Come on, Aleksandr,” Hannibal said. “I’ve got the murder weapon in my pocket. Besides, he’s going to confess to everything. Won’t you, dickhead?”

  Krada looked from the pistol in Ivanovich’s hand to his eyes, swallowed hard, and moved his head up and down like a drinking bird. Hannibal wrapped his hand around Krada’s arm. He hadn’t seemed so small when Hannibal was sitting in his house.

  “Let me take him, Aleksandr,” Hannibal said, ignoring the gun and fixing his attention on the real danger, Ivanovich’s eyes. It was one of those times when six seconds felt like a lifetime and Hannibal forgot to breathe.

  “All right,” Ivanovich said. “But not without me.”

  Hannibal let out a long breath, filled his lungs again, and nodded. He pulled the door open.

  “You can’t just leave us here,” Sidorov said. Hannibal had forgotten the other two were in the room.

  “I must go with you,” Viktoriya said. “Aleksandr will kill him if he gets the chance, but not if I am there. And I need to hear Jamal confess to his murders so there can be no doubt.”

  All eyes turned to Viktoriya, showing varying degrees of surprise.

  “All right, I guess my car can hold us all. It’s a fitting way for this to end, anyway.”

  “The only fitting way for this to end is death,” Ivanovich said.

  * * * * *

  Rolling west on Capitol Street en route to Rissik’s office in Fairfax, Hannibal had Sidorov in his rearview mirror. His face jiggled as they bounced over potholes, but he stared straight ahead, his hands on his knees. He probably felt useless, but he served an important purpose. He separated Viktoriya, behind Hannibal, from Krada. This was good, because from the way Viktoriya was staring at Krada, she would be touching him if she could. And then Ivanovich would kill him.

  Ivanovich sat beside Hannibal, literally riding shotgun. He held his automatic pressed against the deep tan upholstery of the seat back, its muzzle just below the top edge. He sat turned toward Hannibal with his eyes locked on Krada’s face. Krada sat with his hands folded in his lap, perspiration dripping down his mahogany face.

  “I thought you were taking me to Fairfax County,” Krada said to Hannibal in the rearview mirror. The smell of his fear filled the car. “Isn’t that where you said the detective was that you could trust to keep me alive for trial?”

  “Waste of time,” Ivanovich said.

  “We should be on the beltway, then,” Krada said.

  “Just making a little detour,” Hannibal said. “Dr. Sidorov doesn’t need to ride with us into Virginia. I offered to take him home, but he asked to be dropped at the Russia House.”

  “How could you?” Viktoriya asked, seemingly out of nowhere. “How could you kill my parents?”

  The traffic lights on C Street gave Hannibal ample opportunities to turn and talk to his passengers. “You got an answer for that one, Krada?”

  Krada broke eye contact with Ivanovich long enough to turn to Viktoriya. “You think it was selfishness? No. I had to protect my job so that I would be able to make a life for you.”

  “For this you pushed my father off a roof,” Viktoriya said. But why did you take his watch off him? Why take his wallet away? ”

  “I’m sure he heard somewhere that suicides often leave their valuables behind,” Hannibal said. “Not that he’d have been very worried about that. He knew damned well that if the suicide story didn’t stick, someone else was already set up to get the blame. In fact, even Boris Tolstaya himself thought he was responsible for Nikita’s death.”

  “You imagined that a woman would love you after you destroyed everything she loved?”
Ivanovich asked. Then he turned to Viktoriya.

  Hannibal couldn’t see what Viktoriya’s face might have told Ivanovich. He was fully occupied scanning his three mirrors and traffic ahead. The hair on the back of his neck tingled and stood erect. He crept up on a yellow light on Constitution Avenue, and then pressed the accelerator to the floor, pushing the Black Beauty through the intersection as it turned red. He changed lanes without signaling and lodged his car between two slow-moving vehicles. Ivanovich never looked at Hannibal, but he did draw a second pistol and turn around to watch out the passenger window.

  “How many?”

  “What’s going on?” Sidorov asked.

  “We’ve picked up a tail,” Hannibal said. Even as he said it, he spotted what he believed to be a second car pacing him just a little ahead of his car. “My fault.”

  “Not the time,” Ivanovich said. “Get us someplace private.”

  But passing between the National Mall and the Museum of Natural History, Hannibal knew the sudden danger was his fault. He let his guard down after he was certain he had the murderer. They could all die for his carelessness.

  “I’ve picked up the second car,” Ivanovich said. “Silver Honda Civic, right? The backseat man is holding an auto pistol.”

  “They’re serious,” Hannibal said.

  “Who do you suppose?” Sidorov asked, with a calm that surprised Hannibal.

  “Mob,” Ivanovich said. “Still looking for the money. If they think Viktoriya has it they will take her. And kill me and Jones for interfering.”

  “I have nothing to do with any missing money,” Krada said. “Let me go.”

  “This was your choice?” Ivanovich asked Viktoriya. “At least Gana tried to protect you. And I have always been here.” Hannibal could hear the depth of the pain in Ivanovich’s voice. He tried to focus on driving through downtown DC at the start of rush hour, the two cars pacing his own.

  “I’m not willing to let you go, Krada,” Hannibal said, driving a little faster. “You’re the prize at the bottom of the box. But the doc here, they don’t need him any way.”

  “Agreed,” Ivanovich said.

  “Can’t you just call the police?” Viktoriya asked.

  “Maybe,” Hannibal said, easing to a stop at a light. “But there’s no point getting Dr. Sidorov mixed up in that either. I’m going to pull over at that next corner. We’ll just let you out and let them follow us all the way to a police station.”

  Hannibal had cut left on Fifteenth Street and followed it around, keeping the Washington Monument on his right. Part of him wished he was out there with those camera-carrying tourists, or the homeboys involved in some fierce Frisbee tossing. He figured the closer he stayed to the monument area, the safer they all would be. What kind of an idiot would start trouble just a few blocks from the White House? The loop segued into Seventeenth Street, which was a traffic squeeze with cars that had just come into the city over the Memorial Bridge. He no longer saw either of his chase cars.

  “We might have caught a break, gang,” Hannibal said, turning right to get back on Constitution, which at that point was a wide two-way street. There were three lanes going each way but the cars parked on both sides made the two outer lanes useless. After another five blocks he pulled over to double-park in front of the Federal Reserve Building and issued instructions to each of his passengers.

  “Viktoriya, sit tight. Krada, get out and stand by the car with your hands on the trunk. Dr. Sidorov, get out and walk straight into the Federal Reserve. There are armed guards in the lobby, and there’s also a phone. Wait ten minutes and call a cab home. Aleksandr, watch Krada. If at any time he loses physical contact with this vehicle, shoot out his right knee. Everybody got it? OK, move.”

  The door opened and Krada moved with care to the side of the car, resting his palms on the trunk. Sidorov patted Viktoriya’s knee the way an uncle would. Then he leaned forward to address Hannibal.

  “Thank you for everything,”

  Sidorov stepped toward the building at a normal pace without a backward glance. Hannibal took those few seconds to consider where he was. The black granite Vietnam Memorial stood just over the hill in the park across the street. It was designed like a slash in the earth. If he walked across the street and down the path he could point to the exact spot where his father’s name was engraved on that wall. And that led him to consider the nature of devotion.

  “You’re still hooked on her, ain’t you?” he asked the back of Ivanovich’s head.

  Without turning, Ivanovich replied, “Sometimes, when nothing seems worth saving, I can’t let her slip away. All right, Krada, back in the car.”

  Hannibal knew the sound that came next, although most people would mistake it for a loud cough. Krada’s body snapped backward as if pulled by invisible wires. Before Hannibal could turn he heard Ivanovich’s elbows hit the Volvo’s roof and two guns roared as one. When Hannibal did see the black BMW moving down the road, its back window was spider webbed from the impacts of two bullets. Then Ivanovich bounced back into his seat.

  “Move!”

  “Not without the prize,” Hannibal said.

  Ivanovich said something rude in Russian, snatched Krada off the sidewalk, and tossed him back into the car. Viktoriya was lying across the seat, so Krada landed partially on top of her. She screamed and sat up, slapping at blood in her hair.

  Hannibal ground the gas pedal into the floorboard and pulled out into traffic the instant Ivanovich was back inside, letting his forward momentum slam the doors shut. His jaw was clenched tight as he spurred the car forward.

  “You have them again?” Ivanovich asked.

  “Black Beemer ahead. Silver Civic behind. They’re a lot ballsier than I thought. Gunfire in broad daylight in front of the Federal Reserve Building? A couple blocks from the Lincoln Monument? What’s the matter with these morons? And why the hell shoot Krada?”

  “He was with us,” Ivanovich said. “Guilt by association. And I’m sure he never saw it coming. Will you call the police now?”

  Hannibal grinned. “They’d hang you up by your thumbs, buddy. I’m pretty sure you don’t have licenses for those two handguns you just discharged in the middle of the city. Besides, we got to keep on the move. If these guys find us waiting for the cops, they won’t hesitate, they’ll just shoot. So by the time the cops found us, it would all be over anyway. Unless…”

  “Yes?”

  “Unless we find a safe place to sit for a while.”

  Hannibal hit the ramp to I-66 with everything the Black Beauty could give him. As he reached the top of the curve he was staring at a bank of dark, forbidding clouds. Hannibal rarely prayed, but he did at that moment. He prayed that they would not be hit with another cold rain that afternoon. He expected to be outdoors for quite a while.

  Traffic was only moderate, so on the downhill run he was able to slide into the farthest left of the three lanes as they hit the Roosevelt Bridge.

  Behind him he heard Krada coughing and Viktoriya sniffling. In his rearview mirror he saw her stroke Krada’s head in an affectionate way. Then she slammed her fist down onto his right shoulder and shouted, “You bastard!”

  “Hang onto something,” Hannibal said. The bridge was less than a half-mile long and the first exit was coming up on the far end. The BMW was not far in front of him, the Civic only one car behind. Traffic was moving at a smooth seventy miles per hour, despite the fact that they were driving directly into the setting sun.

  “Come on, baby,” Hannibal said under his breath. Then he slapped the shifter down into second gear, popped the clutch, and yanked the wheel to the right. He could almost hear the other drivers cursing him as he shot across two lanes of traffic onto the off ramp. In the past, in New York or even in Germany, his maneuver would have raised a chorus of horns, but for some reason Washington drivers rarely honked at idiots.

  Hannibal’s tires squealed only a little as he pulled into the parking area and rolled to the far end. When he cut the eng
ine he noticed that Ivanovich was staring out the back window.

  “I think that worked,” the assassin said. “Between your speed and driving into the sun, neither of them could get to the ramp in time to follow us.”

  “They’ll be back,” Hannibal said. “Uspensky doesn’t pay these boys to quit. Come on.”

  He got out of the car and opened the back door to help Viktoriya out.

  “Where is this?” she asked, looking around at the parkland surrounding the parking area and the welcome center at the far end.

  “Welcome to Roosevelt Island,” Hannibal said. “Ninety acres of woods and marshes and swampland. By the time those clowns figure out how to turn around and get back here, we’ll be well hidden in those woods and waiting for help to come.”

  “We might not be moving too quickly,” Ivanovich said. He had Krada out of the car, but the Algerian was leaking life into a little pool. Lucky for him, he had passed out. Lucky for him, but real bad news for Hannibal.

  “How bad?” he asked, walking around the car.

  “Two inches high and to the left of the heart,” Ivanovich said. “Without care real soon, he will never be able to confess to anything.”

  “Shit!” Hannibal’s eyes darted around. The parking lot was empty but for the cars he assumed belonged to the employees. Roosevelt’s memorial was not very popular during the week, especially after summer ended. The island officially closed at dark anyway, which wasn’t all that far off. Taking Krada with them seemed pointless. Leaving him to die seemed inhumane. The Russian mobsters had stolen his neat, tidy ending and Hannibal wanted to hate someone for that. He chose Krada.

  “Sit his ass next to that Land Rover,” he said, pointing at a nearby vehicle. “If he’s still alive when the owner comes out, maybe he’ll get medical care. If not, he gets the sentence you’d have given him anyway.”

  Ivanovich was quick to comply, wiping his hands on the dead man’s jacket afterward.

  “And now?”

  “Now we head for the trails,” Hannibal said, moving off at a slow jog. “There must be a couple miles of trails wandering all over this place. It will take your pals hours to find us in here.”