by David Duffy
“Huh. I hadn’t thought about it quite that way. I wonder … Remember the other day, we talked about how Irina’s the one calling the shots but I couldn’t see her motivations? I think you just put your finger on it.”
“Power trip?”
“Control. Power. And in this particular instance, revenge.” I called Foos on the cell phone that came with Warren Brandeis. “How’s the kid?”
“Just woke up. We’re starting to talk. How’s his old man?”
“Not so good. He admitted killing Coryell.”
Foos was silent, something else he does when he doesn’t have anything constructive to contribute.
I said, “I’ll tell you the rest when I see you. Right now, I need to know if Irina still has her phone offline.”
“Hang on, I’ll check.… Still offline.”
“Keep an eye on it. I have a feeling it’ll be back on shortly.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“What are you thinking?” Victoria asked.
“Business first. You want the ConnectPay servers?”
“You serious?”
“It’s either you or Nosferatu. You’re a lot prettier. Nicer too, most of the time.”
That got me a whack across the back of the head, but it was playful—I think.
“I suppose there’s a price,” she said.
“Of course. This is a capitalist country, as you keep reminding me.”
“Why is it now you’ve decided to listen? What do you want?”
“Couple weeks at the Gage Hotel?”
That got me another hug and kiss. “When can we leave?”
“You’ve got your case, remember?”
“All too well. That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I’m guessin’ your mouth will be involved before too long.”
I smiled and kept silent to show I was trying. The Brandeis cell phone buzzed.
Foos said, “You hung up too fast. Someone’s trying to reach the Russian chick. Six calls since four o’clock yesterday. Just a number, no name, must be a disposable.”
He read off the number. Didn’t mean anything to me.
I broke the connection and dialed the number. A man answered, speaking Russian. “Who the hell is this?”
I recognized the voice from the night on Tverskaya and ended the call. Konychev had Brandeis’s number now but that didn’t change anything.
“Konychev’s been trying to reach Irina since yesterday afternoon,” I said to Victoria. “They’re playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game, those two, although mongoose-cobra might be a better description.”
“Dammit. Remember the question about why Homeland Security let Konychev into the country after DoJ and State were keeping him out?”
“Sure.”
“I’m gonna break the rules. This could cost me my job so bear that in mind when you go off to do whatever you decide to go off to do.”
“Okay.”
“It wasn’t DHS, it was us, DoJ, my office. We got DHS to front it so we wouldn’t be seen suddenly reversing ourselves”
“Very tricky. Foos will be impressed.”
“You’re not telling Foos, remember? You’re not telling anyone.”
“Right.”
“Konychev came to us, last month, through umpteen lawyers and intermediaries. He offered a deal. Everything he knew about the Baltic Enterprise Commission and its U.S. affiliates, including everything he knew about one Taras Batkin, in return for immunity, freedom of entry, and cessation of our investigation into his affairs.”
She had my full attention.
“When last month, the first approach?”
“December fifth.”
“Right after the Tverskaya attack. He was asking a steep price.”
“It was a tough call. I wasn’t remotely happy about it. But we were nowhere on the case, we needed a kick-start, and it’s not my job to prosecute Russian hoods unless they’re carrying out their hoodlumming here. Which we believe Batkin is. I made sure we weren’t prohibited from turning what we knew about Konychev over to the Russian authorities. We went to the CPS, by the way. They’re the only ones over there I even partly trust.”
“I’ll tell Aleksei next time I talk to him.”
“I already did.”
I could hear her.
“So?”
“So, we had Konychev, secluded, while we debriefed him. He’s evasive to say the least.”
“Surprised?”
“Don’t start. It’s been difficult, a real pain in the ass, not to tell tales out of school. Then he starts wandering off the reservation. That visit to Leitz was the first. The lunch on Madison Avenue that your pal Ivanhoe latched on to was the second.”
“Now he’s flown the coop?”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Lucky guess. Rooted in the assumption that it’s the reason you’re telling me all this. And it’s Ivanov, not Ivanhoe.”
“It’s a good thing you were a spy, because you’d make a lousy diplomat.”
“At the risk of making another diplomatic faux pas, you’re not the first with that observation. Where were you keeping Konychev?”
“Don’t ask too many details. Hotel suite in Midtown.”
“Security?”
“Couple of FBI. But their orders were to keep others out, not necessarily hold him in. We relied on his own sense of self-protection.”
“Self-interest might have been a better premise. When’d he blow?”
“Yesterday, not long before I called you.”
“He’s been playing you.”
“Tell me something I don’t goddamned know.”
The temper was in countdown mode.
“How about some coffee?”
She went to the kitchen to get it.
“There’s something else. We had the suite wired, in case he got talkative.”
“He would have checked for that.”
“No doubt. But the FBI does what the FBI is trained to do.”
Like the Cheka.
“He didn’t talk much, mostly football and crude jokes—almost as bad as yours—and mostly in Russian. But there was one thing. He got a call, Sunday morning. His cell phone, we could only hear his side, but whoever it was had clearly called about Batkin. Konychev said something like, ‘Shit, we won’t get another shot at him now. Not like that.’”
I drank my coffee. “Doesn’t add up.”
“Why not?”
“Batkin told me he made a deal with Konychev. Not voluntarily, they had guns to their heads—Kremlin guns. You don’t renege on that—at least not overtly—unless you want to spend twenty years in Siberia. Konychev was playing a more subtle game. He was going to give you enough to hang Batkin in a U.S. court—ice him in a way that couldn’t be traced.”
“You Russians play too much chess. I’m a simple country girl. Konychev tried to kill Batkin and missed. He said he wouldn’t get another shot. I’ve got the tape.”
“Hang on. He was speaking Russian.”
“Sure. His English stinks.”
“So what you have is a translation?”
“Of course. My Russian’s no better than his English.”
“Where’s the recording?”
“At the office. Why?”
“Can I listen to it? Your translator might have got it wrong.”
“I don’t know, shug … I’m already out on a pretty long limb.”
“I wouldn’t ask unless I thought I could help. It might make a big difference.”
She eyed me long and straight.
“What the hell? It’s only another couple years in the hoosegow.”
She dialed a number and spoke briefly before she handed me the receiver.
“They’re teeing it up. That section.”
A faint but angry voice came over the line, speaking rapid-fire Russian full of slang and expletives. Hardly surprising the translation got screwed up. I handed
back the phone.
“Well?” she said.
“Konychev used an expression—pizda lasaya. Means ‘cocky cunt,’ more or less. ‘We won’t get another shot at that cocky cunt.’ Your translator assumed he was referring to Batkin. He got it wrong. Irina was the target.”
CHAPTER 48
Foos called again.
“New data in the Dick. That cell phone called Leitz an hour ago.”
“Shit.”
I dialed Leitz’s number. No answer.
Victoria said, “What’s wrong? You look like you just saw that guy, Nosferatu.”
“I did. I gotta get back to Leitz’s. Konychev’s headed there—or Nosferatu is.”
“You sure?”
“Board lock.”
“Wait! If you’re right, it’s dangerous. Let my people handle it.”
“No time.”
“Nine-one-one. Cops can be there in minutes.”
I was halfway to the door.
“Konychev’s after the kids and the computers. He thinks Leitz knows where Andras is, and he’s the link to Irina. So yes, call nine-one-one. I can use the help.”
“Turbo, please! Don’t go. I’m scared.”
She had tears in her eyes to prove it. I came back and took her hands in mine.
“You’re right back where you didn’t want to be. I’m sorry. But neither of us is going to think much of me tomorrow if I stay here.”
“Okay, I’ll go with you.”
Before I could respond, she said, “I know. Bad idea. Dammit.”
“I’ll be back before your dragons can get warmed up. Promise,” I said.
She looked deep into my eyes before she swallowed and nodded. I took that for permission and kissed her.
“Make that call to the cops.”
It was snowing hard when I reached the street, already an inch or more on the ground. I ran, cursing myself for giving Konychev and Nosferatu too much time.
Leitz’s door was ajar. No one leaves a door open in New York. Nothing to do but keep going, even if someone was on the other side.
I kicked the door wide and backed away in case the someone had a gun.
Nobody fired. I peeked around the frame. The entrance hall looked just like it had ninety minutes before. Plus blood.
A wet trail across the stone floor. I stepped in and listened. Not a sound, but I could feel people in the house. I followed the trail to an open door at the back. It led down a hall to an enormous kitchen. The Filipina maid lay next to the center island, her dress and apron soaked in red. No pulse from her neck.
I grabbed a kitchen knife, found a back staircase and climbed as quickly as I dared. The staircase bisected a narrow hallway on the second floor before it climbed another flight. A large, airy office to my right. Jenny Leitz sat with her back to me, wearing black, bent over a desk, her head turned to one side. I stifled a cry and put my hand to her neck. I knew the answer before I felt the cooling skin. With luck she’d never heard him coming. I took my hand away and made a promise—he’d know I was there, right before he followed her out of this world.
Anger stomping caution, I ran the corridor to the front of the house. I came out at the center hall staircase. Cold air cut through my clothes. The drawing room was untouched but one French door banged in the wind. I leaned out in time to see a long overcoat turn right up Madison, worn by a tall man with a pulled-forward face.
I took the stairs two at a time, caution forgotten now, and barreled through the Rothko chamber. Leitz slumped behind his desk at an awkward angle.
“LEITZ!”
No answer.
He was fastened to his chair with a hundred yards of duct tape. The sleeves of his cashmere sweater were shredded from elbow to wrist, long red slashes ran down his forearms. The carpet was soaked in blood. I slapped his face. No response. I cut the tape. The arms fell away and kept running red.
I don’t know much about bleeding. I called 911 and held his arms above his head, hoping somehow he’d bleed to death more slowly, or maybe the ambulance would arrive in time. I fought to hold down lunch as my shoes squished in the red-soaked rug.
Movement from Leitz. He opened his eyes, ever so slowly, as if the effort was almost more than he could manage. Probably was. He struggled to focus. I think he recognized me because he tried to speak.
“Rest easy,” I said. “Help’s on the way.”
The lips fought to work themselves around a word.
“Just hold on,” I said.
“An … Andras?”
“He’s okay. I still have him. Don’t worry.”
“Tha … That’s who…”
“That’s who they were after, right? Is that what you mean?”
I think he nodded before he slipped into unconsciousness.
Victoria said the cops would get there quickly. She was wrong. But the ambulance was fast, and a second one arrived a minute after the first. I heard the EMS guys shouting downstairs. I yelled, and a man and a woman rushed in and took over. I found the other team and took them to Jenny’s office in the back and the kitchen below.
I went through the rest of the house, still carrying the kitchen knife, but found nothing. While I searched, I called Victoria to tell her I was okay, then Foos.
“What should I say to Andras?” he asked.
“He’s going to blame himself, and he won’t be all wrong this time. But don’t spare the details. He’s got to face up to some ugly realities, one of which is Irina’s been playing him like a well-stocked hand. Tell him another thing—she’s out of cards now. She’s a dead woman unless he wants to try to save her.”
CHAPTER 49
I made the Super 8 just before 3:00. Four inches of snow on the ground, gusty wind whipping the blanket of flakes in the air. The radio promised five inches more. “Local accumulations could be higher,” the announcer added for good measure. Traffic moved at the pace of a cold snail. I was feeling the lack of sleep, but adrenalin was keeping exhaustion at bay, at least for the moment. I told it to keep pumping.
“How’s my dad?” Andras was in my face as soon as I opened the door. His eyes were red, his face full of fear and worry.
“I don’t know—that’s the truth,” I said. “They were taking him to the hospital. He was still hanging on and I’m sure the docs will do the best they can.”
“Which hospital? I’ve got to get there.”
“I understand how you feel, but no go. The one thing your dad was able to ask was about your safety. I told him you were okay. We’re going to keep it that way.”
“Turbo’s right,” Foos said. “Nothing you could do. We got other things to worry about. Tell him what you told me.”
He looked from Foos to me and back again. He had to be struggling with a hundred conflicting emotions.
“Let’s sit down,” I said.
I took the corner of the bed, and he sat on the desk chair.
“You can’t change what’s happened,” I said with a gentleness I hardly felt. “You can change what’s going to happen. That’s what your dad would want you to do. Think about that before you answer the questions I’m going to ask.”
He looked away.
“PAY ATTENTION, MAN!”
I’m not sure I’d ever heard Foos yell before. Andras jumped like a cornered fox.
“It’s Irina, isn’t it? She got you to hack into ConnectPay, right?”
“NO!” he shouted. The force of his own voice took him aback.
“Okay,” I said. “She didn’t. I believe you. Tell me what happened.”
“I hacked ConnectPay. That was my idea. But…”
I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I looked at Foos, who nodded.
“It was Irina’s idea to steal the money?”
I took the absence of protest as assent.
“And again in November?”
He dipped his head slightly.
“She got you to place the worm that corrupted the BEC’s data?”
“Yes,” he whisper
ed.
“And when you found Uncle Walter in his office, you called her? She said, ‘Take the servers’?”
“Yes.”
I could have asked, what was he thinking? His uncle was dead, he’d stolen eight million dollars from organized crime. Did he really think he could just go back to Gibbet School and pretend nothing had happened? No point—he hadn’t thought. He hadn’t thought at all. He’d just done as she told him. Maybe it was youth and naïveté, maybe it was first love or blind love, maybe it was just plain stupidity. Two kids, each for their own reasons, had taken down one of the Internet’s top criminal enterprises. In some eyes, they might have been heroes, but in the ones that counted now, they were just targets to be eliminated, the sooner, the better.
“Okay, I understand what you were doing,” I lied. “What about Irina? What was she up to?”
Silence.
I wanted to slap him, then drown his head in the sink. Jenny killed, his father hanging by a thread—because of him. I managed to stifle all that.
“Listen to me. This isn’t about you and your promises anymore. They killed Jenny. They tried to kill your father. They tried to kill Irina Sunday morning. She was the target, not her stepfather. Do you understand that?”
He looked at the ground.
“Do—you—know—where—she—is?”
He looked up. “We … we always agreed if there was a problem … if something happened, we’d meet at my dad’s house in Millbrook. No one ever goes there anymore.”
“Where in Millbrook?”
“White Horse Lane. Only house on the road. It’s more like … a farm. We used to have horses. But not since…”
Daria died, unless I missed my guess.
Foos was already at the computer, pulling up a map. I looked over his shoulder. White Horse Lane was a mile-long cul-de-sac that ran southeast off Route 44, several miles north of town. Foos switched to a satellite image. Rolling fields interspersed with patches of forest the fields had been carved out of. New York horse country. Few roads. He zoomed in on a large farmhouse with an equally large barn, garage, smaller house, pool, and tennis court. The main house, guesthouse, and garage were arranged like a backward “7” with woods north and west. The barn was a hundred yards to the east. The driveway, an extension of the road, split into a “Y,” one prong leading to the barn and the other hooking in front of the main house at the top of the “7,” the guesthouse, set back from the corner, and the garage at the bottom of the long side. The closest road to White Horse Lane, other than Route 44, was Caldecott Lane, another dead end, about a half mile south.