In for a Ruble

by David Duffy

  At 7:30, two bodyguards checked the street. It had been plowed twice in the last thirty-six hours, but the asphalt was still covered with a layer of slush and ice, on top of which was two inches of snow. That didn’t stop the guards from calling the driver to bring the car. Usually, the parking space in front of the house was kept clear by the city, and one of the guards would hold the door while two more escorted Batkin from the house across twelve feet of sidewalk into the rolling fortress.

  This morning, four feet of packed snow occupied the limousine’s parking spot, deposited there by the Department of Sanitation’s snow plow garbage trucks. Batkin’s bodyguards had hacked a narrow, slush-filled channel from sidewalk to street, not unlike the Gulag laborers who dug Stalin’s canals in the 1930s with exactly the same tools. When the guards checked the street, all they saw were neighbors shoveling the sidewalk. The armored limo pulled up at the end of the snowbank canal. One guard opened the door. Two others brought Batkin and the girl out. As they picked their way toward the car, one “neighbor” to the east and another across the street opened up with mini–Uzi machine pistols hidden beneath their overcoats. The guns fire nine-hundred-fifty rounds a minute, although each magazine holds only thirty-two. It looked like the shooters got off a couple of clips each when I surveyed the damage a few hours later. Two bodyguards died in an instant. Batkin was lucky. He pushed Irina to the ground and his leather-soled Italian loafers slipped on the ice. He ended up on top of her in the slush, bullets pummeling the packed snow all around. One more bodyguard was wounded, and another hit the eastern “neighbor” square in the chest with four nine-millimeter slugs. The other shooter ran for it, the Mercedes in hot pursuit, but the car was as useless as the Potemkin on the slippery pavement. The driver lost control and piled into a row of parked vehicles, totaling two Range Rovers. The man disappeared down Madison Avenue. When Batkin pulled Irina up, she bolted in the other direction. He tried to chase her, but she was hightailing it down Fifth before he got halfway to the corner.

  I know how it happened from the news reports—four TV crews, with helicopters, were on the scene in minutes—and from Batkin himself. Once he’d recovered, he called me.

  * * *

  I wasn’t aware of any of this until Foos phoned at 8:50 and said in his usual succinct style, “Better turn on your TV.”

  Victoria was explaining the finer points of obstructing justice. To be fair, her concern for me and the law she was sworn to uphold was equally genuine. That didn’t stop it from grating. I hadn’t had near enough sleep to make up for the night spent watching the playhouse, the events of the day and last night’s vodka, which left a dull thudding at the back of my head. I’d hoped the combination of exercise and cold air would clear it away, but the downtown streets were too slippery to run without risking broken bones. I’d settled for a chilly walk around southern Manhattan that cleared nothing. I was in no mood to argue my case over breakfast—aware I didn’t have much of a case to argue. I tried to hide behind the position that I couldn’t do much of anything until I knew more about what was going on, even though I didn’t have any immediate idea how I was going to find that out.

  Victoria wasn’t buying any of it, which had her on the subject of obstruction when Foos called.

  “Somebody took a shot at your ambassador buddy.”

  “He’s not a buddy. You mean shot, like murder shot?”

  “I mean a hundred of them. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  I turned on the TV and was treated to an aerial view of East Ninety-second Street. Both ends of the block were jammed with police cars. I could see what looked like a limo piled into parked cars on one side. A breathless voice-over announcer recounted sketchy details of the assassination attempt.

  “He wants you up there, ASAP,” Foos said.

  “Who?”

  “The ambassador. Who else?”

  “He called?”

  “Couple minutes ago. Said your cell phone’s off and to get you a message to meet him at his house as soon as possible.”

  “How’d he sound?”

  “How do you think? Somebody just tried to kill him. Bad way to start the day.”

  Victoria had gone to the bedroom when the phone rang and reappeared wearing one of my black turtlenecks, the core of my winter wardrobe. It was almost big enough to fall off.

  “You need some color in your closet. Everything you own is black, gray, or beige.”

  “I think you made that point once before.”

  “Didn’t take. Like everything else I say. Something besides turtlenecks and T-shirts would be nice too.”

  “Cuts down on decisions. Think of all the time I save.”

  “So you can get into more trouble. What’s going on?” She pointed at the TV.

  “Somebody tried to assassinate Taras Batkin.”

  “Jesus! Here?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s East Ninety-second Street.”

  She approached the TV and stood fixated as the announcer repeated the few facts they had. I poured some coffee and gave her a cup. She barely noticed it was in her hand. When the newscast cut to a commercial, she shook her head and said, “That’s impossible. This is New York.”

  “Happens in Moscow all the time.”

  “That’s different. That’s … We have rule of law here, goddammit.”

  She was angry. This was an attack on her country, and on her, as well as Batkin.

  Having no answer, I shook my head. “He wants me to come up there.”

  “Who?”

  “Batkin.”

  “What?! He wants to see you?”

  “Foos says he called a few minutes ago.”

  “You can’t go up there.”

  “Why not?”

  “After everything we talked about? He’s a criminal! He’s…”

  “That doesn’t mean I am.”

  “Don’t you understand anything? After yesterday? And last night? You just keep … I can’t deal with this. I gotta get going. I’ve gotta get out of here.”

  She started for the bedroom, stumbled and fell against the couch. I was there in an instant, helping her up, making sure she wasn’t hurt. I tried to hold her but her fists pummeled my chest.

  “Vika! Stop! I’m just going to talk to the man.”

  “I want that girl in my office before noon!”

  She pulled away from my embrace and holding up the turtleneck all but ran to the bedroom, the door slamming behind her.

  I stood in the middle of the floor, arms suspended in the air, the TV news announcer prattling away behind me. I had no idea what he was saying. I was still there when she reemerged, fully dressed, and walked out the door without saying good-bye.

  This time, I did follow, as far as the elevator.

  “Vika, I’ll do what I can about Irina. But tell me what’s wrong.”

  She shook her head.

  “Is that no? Why not?”

  She looked up, eyes full of tears. “If you think about it just a little, you’ll figure it out. Just bring the girl. I have to go.”

  The elevator arrived with a chime, and she got on, keeping her back to me. She didn’t start to turn around until the door was closing and the cab dropped from sight.

  CHAPTER 37

  Controlled bedlam at Madison and East Ninety-second. The cops had the block sealed. News crews, reporters, and onlookers jostled for position. A major catastrophe and everyone wanted a piece of the action. The police were edgy, as was the crowd, even though at 10:40 A.M., three hours after the attack, there wasn’t much left to see. The bodies and the limo had been removed. All that remained was a snow-covered street filled with cops and emergency workers milling around.

  The snow slowed everything. I’d walked from the Ninety-sixth Street subway station, thinking about Victoria and Batkin, Irina and Andras and Leitz, trying to put the pieces together. I had assumed Victoria’s case was against Konychev, hence her unwillingness to talk about him. Now, it appeared it could be Batkin—or both of them. Konychev
had to be Suspect Number One for this morning’s attack. One or the other or both would be going after Coryell’s missing computers. But if Nosferatu had killed Coryell, presumably he had them. Konychev was after Andras and Irina. Batkin appeared unaware of his stepdaughter’s involvement in the destruction of his business. Alexander Lishin had been murdered, presumably by one partner or the other. The disintegration of the BEC ownership structure, as well as the business itself, had to be total. One thing was clear—Irina stood at the center of it all. Maybe that’s what Victoria meant when she said I’d figure it out. That seemed too easy, but it was certainly why she told me to bring her in. Still, I felt like I needed a scorecard.

  In New York, everyone is responsible for clearing the front of his or her own building, which means the city’s sidewalks get shoveled in patchwork fashion. Park Avenue is lined with big apartment buildings, and they have staff, and the staff have shovels, snowblowers, and salt. The side streets, lined with town houses, were uneven going—clear in front of several houses, then a foot of snow for half a block. The temperature had risen overnight then dropped back into the low twenties at daybreak, adding a crust of ice—and another layer of shoveling difficulty. One blessing was lack of wind. The late morning was clear and dry—the exact antithesis of the way I felt. My brain resembled the sidewalk—a slushy, opaque, half-frozen patchwork of a few clear facts and a lot of buried connections waiting to be shoveled out. Beria joined me briefly as I walked, the first time I’d seen him in days.

  Don’t forget about me. I’m still part of this.

  I told him to beat it.

  The police wouldn’t let me into Batkin’s block until I phoned, and he sent one of his remaining battalion of bodyguards to fetch me. A chorus of “Hey! Who’s he?!” rose from behind as the police moved the barrier to let me through. A broad-backed man, whose forebearers probably shepherded my fellow zeks to work in the forests of the Kolyma camps, led me silently down the icy block. I noted the crumpled sides of the parked cars and the bloodstained snow bank riddled with bullet holes. I had the memory of another ice- and snow-crusted time and place—a prison camp covered in the blood of its unfortunate inhabitants. I was one of them, I’d been lucky enough to escape, and now I was walking back in under my own power, drawn by a fellow sufferer whose motive matched the bloody snow in its opacity. Beria watched from Batkin’s door, grin in place. Victoria’s admonition to figure it out knocked hard at my brain.

  The transition from crime-scene street to Batkin’s neoclassical living room jarred. He sat in a maroon velvet armchair, surrounded by royal greens and golds and reds. The room was smaller than Leitz’s, but the high ceiling gave it grandeur, as did the paint, wallpaper, and fabrics, none of which came from Home Depot. He was wearing a dark purple silk robe, ankle-length, with what was almost certainly a mink collar. Russian funeral suit in a czar’s palace. His hairpiece was in place. Had it remained intact during the shooting? A half-full brandy snifter sat by his chair. He looked up as I entered, gray-blue eyes difficult to read—sad, certainly, but still hard.

  “Thank you for coming on short notice. Drink?”

  “I’ll join you.” If that collar was mink, the brandy was probably good. No point in not being sociable, and it might help melt the ice upstairs—or so I told myself. He pushed his robed body to its feet and went to a large, heavy sideboard holding decanters and glasses. He was moving all right, but perhaps not with the full confidence of purpose he’d had Wednesday at my office. Dark blood clotted on the half-moon forehead and plump left cheek. The side of the pyramid nose was scratched as well. Minor injuries, under the circumstances. He brought me a snifter and indicated I should sit.

  “Irina’s gone,” he said.

  I stifled a curse. If anyone acted foolishly, I half expected it to be Leitz, not an experienced hood like Batkin.

  “What happened?”

  He told me about the attack.

  “Did you argue?”

  He shook his head. “We probably would have, but I couldn’t get her to talk. Her mother’s away—in Moscow—and Irina went to her room as soon as she got here. Refused to come out. I tried to talk to her through the door, but…”

  He sipped his brandy while I considered the irony of a Chekist unable to interrogate his own family.

  “And this morning?”

  “We were going to church. I thought maybe it would help her…”

  He trailed off as if unsure what kind of help was being sought.

  “What can you tell me about this … this group she was involved with?”

  I noted his use of past tense and thought to correct him. He mistook my hesitation.

  “Remember my tattoos. I doubt you can shock me.”

  Having no idea what was going on, or whose side anyone was on, or even what sides were available to join, half of me decided this was an instance where evasion, rather than honesty, was the best policy. The other half, thinking about Victoria, said the best way out of this mess was to put my cards on the table, as I knew them to be, and look for an opportunity to walk away. As that half climbed to 60 percent, I told him about the Players, minus names and addresses. I also omitted, for the moment, the Walter Coryell–ConnectPay connection and Andras Leitz.

  As I moved deeper into the story, Batkin stood and walked around the room, glass in hand. I couldn’t see what he was thinking, he kept his back to me for the most part. I could only imagine the impact, even on a Gulag- and Cheka-hardened psyche. I’d warned Leitz about how the last case had ended badly for everyone involved. This one was going places I could never have contemplated.

  When I finished, Batkin shook his head, his back to me still, and said, “She’s always been a troubled child. I blame her father.”

  He would. “Why do you say that?” I asked, mainly to keep the conversation moving.

  “Alexander Petrovich was the antithesis of a family man. He never should have married. He treated Alyona like a doormat, running around on her with a new woman every week. He didn’t care if she found out, he didn’t give a damn how much he hurt her. It was even worse for Irina. He ignored her, as if she was someone else’s child. When she tried to get his attention, he threatened Alyona, screaming at her to get the girl away from him before he beat her.”

  Again, he was using the past tense. He could have been referring to the marriage. He could have been talking about the late Alexander Lishin. He could have played a role in his death. He could have read Ibansk, as I had last night. I kept silent.

  He took a swallow of brandy. I sipped while I waited. Wherever it was from—Cognac, Armagnac, somewhere else—it was a far cry from Marianna’s Presidente. He swallowed some more and put the glass on the mantel.

  “Who has the group’s computers?”

  Time to evade, if not outright lie. “I assume they’re still in the building in Crestview.”

  “Address.”

  A command, not a question. I shrugged, only a little uncomfortable at pointing out the viral nature of the Internet to a man who’d built a business based on it.

  “Any number of clients have downloaded any number of pictures and videos. I haven’t searched the Web, but…”

  His hand cut me off, the voice testy. “Yes, I know all that. I want the address.”

  “Main Street, above the liquor store. Fire escape is the best way in,” I added helpfully.

  “Who else was involved in these … Players?”

  I shook my head.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You asked me to find out what she was up to. That was the deal. No reason to drag anyone else into it.”

  “They’re already in.”

  “They’re kids. Fucked-up kids, but kids. They have parents and stepparents too.”

  He nodded slowly. He didn’t like my answer but he wasn’t going to budge me off it.

  “Who was behind the attack this morning?” I asked, only partially to change the subject.

  Batkin watched me carefully. The eyes
were still clear—they showed no fear, nor effects of the brandy.

  “The obvious candidate is Konychev. But as much as I hate him, I have a hard time believing he would be that stupid. Even if he had been successful … he knows the price as well as I do.”

  “Revenge for Tverskaya?”

  “I had nothing to do with that!” He spoke too quickly and realized it. “It’s also not his style.”

  “If you say so.”

  “How much do you know about my esteemed friend, Efim Ilyich?” Batkin asked.

  “What I read on Ibansk.com. You and he don’t get along.”

  “Don’t put too much faith in that son of a Cossack whore. Ivanov makes up half of what he writes. One day he’ll pay for the lies he tells.”

  Usual Cheka knee-jerk response. He managed to get deep under the organization’s skin. One reason I did have faith in Ibansk.

  “So you and Konychev are actually pals?” I said, perhaps more provocatively than I meant.

  “I loathe the stinking pedik. But we made a deal. Neither of us wanted to make it—we both would have preferred to finish the other off. However, we had … encouragement. The kind only a complete fool would disregard. I’ve upheld my end. But now … Enough of that. Find Irina.”

  I had to find her anyway, but I wanted out from under any obligation, if only to straighten things out with Victoria. Besides, I’d done what he asked.

  I said, “That’s not part of our deal. I’ve done what we agreed on.”

  He picked up his glass and returned to his chair. He sipped slowly, looked at me for what must have been two or three minutes before he said, “I have the information you want.”

  I sat back, stunned by the claim, but also by how he, or anyone, could have discovered anything this fast. I’d heard nothing from Sasha.

  “How?”

  “Your man was slow. He was also … diverted. While he was down a blind alley, I had my own people searching. Some things aren’t that hard to locate if you know where to look.”

  “And?”

  “Find Irina.”

  “We had an agreement.”

  “I’m making a new deal.”