The little girl nodded, solemn but not distressed anymore.
“Thank you,” I said, bowing. Max understood the thanks were for Immaculata, and the bow for him. I knew what it had cost him to use his precious child in any kind of experiment. But he was right—it was the only way to tell.
I didn’t need my voice to say goodbye to Pansy. The Mole showed me where she was buried, her grave nestled in a triangle of rusting steel girders, long lengths of rebar wound through it to make a wreath. It was strangely beautiful, like the charred ground beneath a launched rocket.
Mama had given me a box of brilliantly colored little papier-mâché constructions. “Burn when you say goodbye to puppy. Be waiting for her in new place.” Each was a perfectly rendered miniature. Everything Pansy could ever want, even an exact replica of her treasured giant rawhide bone. And a sheepskin mat that looked as if it had been cut from the original.
I’d seen those symbolic representations for use at funerals in Chinatown shops, but never ones like these. Mama had to have custom-commissioned them. And brought them over to Max’s place herself. It was the first time I’d ever seen her outside her restaurant.
“What about the play money?” I asked, expecting her to tell me a dog wouldn’t need money.
“Real puppy. Send real money,” she said. And handed me a thousand in crisp new centuries.
We all have our beliefs. Mama lived hers.
Standing there, I realized I couldn’t say anything. I’d said it all while Pansy was with me. Said it the only way that ever counts … with my behavior. Nothing to say, but I stood there for a long time. First trying not to cry. Then letting it go.
Belle was there, too. In that same graveyard. Belle, who loved me and died for me. I didn’t miss her any the less after I’d settled her score. Didn’t hate myself any the less for having put her in harm’s way, either. But I gave her the respect she’d earned, honoring that she’d gone out the way she’d wanted to.
Belle had drawn a pack of squad cars off me, out-driving the best NYPD had and making it back to where we were supposed to meet. But they’d poured enough lead into her that all she had left was the strength to say goodbye.
You can never really balance the scales. Taking a life doesn’t return the one the killer took. But any death of a loved one is a test of faith. And my religion is revenge.
With Belle, he’d been easy to find. I knew who he was. Her father. I knew what he was, too. So killing him was even easier.
With Pansy, I didn’t know who. Not yet. But when I did, it would play out like this: they were gone, or I was.
“I’ll see you soon, girl,” is all I could make myself say to her.
The Mole set up the meet. He’d done it before. It was always the same—I wanted something from them or they wanted something from me. Money never changed hands. What we traded was information. Or work.
“Dmitri is ex-Spetsnaz,” the unremarkable man said. He was a little shorter than me, slim, with dark wiry hair and leathery skin that made him look older than he was … I guessed. He wasn’t one I’d ever seen before, but his eyes had the same look they all have.
“What’s that?” I asked him.
“The elite of the Russian military. Like the Special Forces or the SEALs. But now, in today’s Russia, they are not heroes; they are throwaways. They are paid nothing, they live in squalor, they have no prospects.”
“So they hire out?”
“Some do. Not all. Some are loyalists to the core, waiting for the return of Communist Russia. But most of them could not survive without some other employment.”
“Dmitri?”
“Dmitri is a criminal. He was a criminal in Russia; he is a criminal here. But his group is small. Operatives for hire, not what you Americans like to call ‘organized crime.’ His group has no foothold that would interest the Mafia, so he has no basis for a partnership.”
“What kind of foothold would interest them?”
“Gas stations are one example. The Mafia arranges for all the stations to buy bootleg and avoid the gas tax, which is enormous. Then the profits are divided. Money laundering is another. There are many small businesses in the Russian neighborhoods. All-cash businesses. But Dmitri is no businessman, despite his opinion of himself.”
“So he could have just been hired to do the job?”
“An assassination? Certainly. But it is not likely.”
“Why?”
“It was too elaborate. You have been alone with this man, more than once, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So he had many opportunities. Dmitri has military training, but he is no master tactician. If he had been paid—paid enough—to risk a homicide, he would have acted on it when he had the chance, not given you so much time to ascertain his intent.”
“Is he an enemy of your people?”
“Perhaps once.” The man shrugged. “If he was paid to be so, perhaps again. But all Dmitri wants now is money. A pogrom would not bother him morally, but he would not participate unless he was paid. And now in Russia there is no one to pay him. Afghanistan was their Vietnam. But, unlike America, they never recovered.
“The IMF had to bail the Kremlin out after it defaulted on its own bonds, and devalued the ruble. There is no ‘Russia’ anymore. And what shreds are left would not, could not spend the time or the resources to keep our people imprisoned. A little corruption, a little bribery, yes. After all, Russia was once the ultimate bureaucracy. But there is no government policy preventing our people from coming home.”
“Still, you know a lot about him.…”
“We know a lot about many people. They are not our people, but they could be of use, someday. In our trade, today’s enemy is tomorrow’s asset.”
“Would you know who his second-in-command is?”
“They are no longer military, Mr. Burke. No more chain of command. He has fellow thugs, that is all. He is the boss, not the general.”
“So if he were to step down …?”
“Hah! Dmitri would never step down. Ever. And should he be … removed, there would be the usual scramble for power. An orderly succession is highly unlikely.”
“But, eventually, no matter who took over, you would know, right?”
“Yes. They have no secrets from us. Some we buy, some we … acquire. But all we get, eventually.”
“Thank you. For all this. I know the value of information. If I can ever be of service to you …”
“You are with our brother,” the man said quietly, for the first time including the Mole in his glance. “This is for him, not for you.”
I had to play it as if the Israeli’s info was gospel. And I had to play my lone ace very carefully. You only get one chance to take advantage of someone believing you’re dead.
I took another ten days to set up a meet with Dmitri. The prelims were handled over pay phones. I was a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy, voice-filtered. The “buyer” was a crazy old man with maybe six months to live—advanced aplastic anemia. He wanted some surface-to-air missiles so he could bring down one of the camouflaged helicopters ZOG kept sending over his compound. That way, he could show the whole world the kind of covert surveillance the Jewocracy was conducting against patriotic Americans.
Not only that, the old man was psycho enough to pay retail. A sweet score for Dmitri. Ten points to me for the steering, talked down from twenty-five.
But Dmitri wasn’t moving from his restaurant. Dealing with strangers, that was the only place he’d do business, no exceptions. The guy was in a wheelchair, too fucking bad—they could just wheel him in. And no problem about an interpreter—Dmitri was proud of his English.
“No,” I said, flatly.
“They’d never—”
“No,” I told Michelle again. “If this doesn’t work out, it’s going to be messy.”
“And you think I can’t—?”
“It’s not for you,” I said. “That’s the end of it.”
“Because …?” she insis
ted.
“Because they won’t recognize me. I won’t look like this forever, but, for now, I’ll get right past their screens,” I said, wondering even then if I was being honest with myself. “But anyone would know you again, honey.”
Michelle loved to shop, but she wasn’t buying any of my lame flattery that night. “Who, then? You think Max is going to be able to disguise himself. As what? The Mole? Sure! And don’t even think about the Prof or Clarence; the last time a black man was in that neighborhood was before the Russians took over. They’d get more eyeballing than a porno movie. But a woman in a nurse’s outfit … Just think about it for a minute.”
“I …”
“Oh, wait here. I’ll be back,” she snapped.
We had almost three more hours to keep planning before Michelle returned. Only now she was a blonde, with skin tanned so deeply she looked like a Puerto Rican in a wig. Her heart-shaped face was roundish now, her full lips were much thinner. And her eyes were a bright, fake blue. “Who’s going to recognize me now?” she demanded.
The Prof looked her over appreciatively. “You don’t loosen up on that skirt, they gonna follow you home anyway,” he said.
“Fine!” Michelle snapped back, in no mood to play. “I’ll be in a nurse’s uniform, remember?”
“I know a better way,” I said.
“You are sure of this?” the Israeli asked me.
“Are you asking if I’m guessing, or if I’m lying?”
“If you are guessing, you are a fool. And we will not work with fools. If you are lying …”
“He is not lying,” the Mole said quietly.
The Mossad man turned to face me, his dark eyes trying to hold mine. But his eyes were a normal person’s, working as one. So he had to settle for only one of mine at a time, and it threw him off. “Dmitri is going to sell SAMs to Nazis, that is what you are telling us?”
“Not German Nazis. Not some remnants from World War II. American Nazis. A few assorted freaks with Master Race fantasies.”
“So? Such people are no threat to us.”
“That’s right,” I told him truthfully. “But Dmitri’s a merchant. If he’ll sell to Nazis, he’ll sell to Arabs.”
“All Arabs are not our enemy. That is what you Americans believe, perhaps, but it is wrong. Only a tiny minority thwart the possibility of peace between us.”
“A tiny minority’s enough, today. Arab extremists in America aren’t any different from our home-grown Nazis. They both like to blow things up. The World Trade Center, Oklahoma City … what difference? You know how it works. They may hate each other, but when it comes to Jews, they’re all of one mind.”
“You are saying … what?”
“It’s what you said. Dmitri was in Spetsnaz, so he was military. Elite military. And there’s no doubt that tons of heavy weapons were left over when the U.S.S.R. came apart. It’s out there, and it’s for sale. Hell, I’ve even heard talk about plutonium.…”
I let my voice trail away, watching his eyes. He was good, but I caught the spark, used it to jump-start the rest of my pitch: “But what Dmitri’s outfit’s running here isn’t military supply,” I told him. “It’s just straight crime product: drugs, whores, gambling, loan-sharking, extortion. When I wanted to work that shipment of guns to the Albanians, I dealt with Dmitri personally, not his crew. The ordnance part is all his … his own separate piece. You understand what I’m saying?”
“That is why you wanted to know who Dmitri’s successor would be, yes?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“It would be nobody from Spetsnaz. He was a rogue even within his own unit, in Russia. Whoever replaces him will be a gangster, not a soldier.”
“Without access to the military stuff, then? Without the contacts?”
“Yes. Of course. Dmitri would never share such …”
As his voice faded, he finally found my good eye. And held it this time.
I shaved carefully—no picnic with my distorted depth perception. Spent some time looking at my face in the mirror. My new face. A nerve jumped in my right cheek, the bullet scar at the center of the tic. I pressed against the spot and the tic died.
The ambulette was a converted Chrysler minivan, painted a dull beige, with red crosses on both sides and the back. It cruised the Brooklyn block slowly, searching for an opening. Finding none, it double-parked right in front of Dmitri’s joint. The light-bar on its roof went into action, indicating pickup or delivery. The driver dismounted, came around to the curb side of the van, opened the sliding door. A hydraulic device noiselessly lowered a wheelchair to the street. Inside was a man wrapped against the fall cold in a heavy quilted robe. The driver became an attendant, wheeling the man onto the sidewalk. He returned to the van, pulled the sliding door closed. Then he pushed the wheelchair inside the restaurant.
A short, squat man with dense black hair covering the backs of his hands came from behind a small counter to the right. He stared expectantly, but said nothing.
The driver, who looked like Central Casting for Aryan—tall, well built, blond-and-blue—said, “Dmitri?”
“Over there,” the squat man said, pointing at a table to the left, where a thick-bodied man in a dark suit sat alone, his back to the wall.
The driver pushed the cripple over to Dmitri. The Russian didn’t offer his hand. Just watched, taking a long, deep drag of his cigarette. The red Dunhills package was on the table to his left.
The cripple waved his hand vaguely at the attendant, who immediately turned smartly and walked out of the restaurant. The attendant paused on the sidewalk for maybe five seconds. Then he re-entered the ambulette, climbing behind the wheel.
I was alone with Dmitri.
“So?” is all he said.
“You don’t recognize me, old friend?” I asked him.
“No. How would I—?”
“Listen to my voice, Dmitri. Listen close. You’ve heard it before. On the phone. In person. When we were packing that satchel together a few months ago. Remember?”
“You’re …”
“In my hand, under the tablecloth, there’s a .357 Magnum. Six heavy hollowpoints in the chamber. Listen.…”
The sound of the hammer clicking back was a thunderclap in the silence between us, as distinctive to Dmitri as a cancerous cell to an oncologist.
“We are not alone here,” he said, calmly.
“Every one of your men’s behind me. They couldn’t get between you and the bullets.”
“Perhaps not. But you would never—”
“I don’t care,” I said softly. Giving him time to read my face, see that I meant it.
He nodded slowly. “What do you want?”
“Good,” I said, acknowledging his understanding. “You thought I was dead, right?”
“Everybody thought you were dead,” he said, shrugging.
“Sure. There’s only two ways it could have gone down. Either you set me up, or someone set you up.”
“There is another way.”
“And what’s that?”
“Burke, this was business. You understand? Just business. These people come to me. They say their child is kidnapped. And the man who has him will return him for money. They want me to deliver the money. And they will pay for that service. I tell them, of course we will do that. I would have sent one of my people. But then they say there is a condition. It must be you who delivers the money.”
“Me by name, right? So they knew …?”
“That we had done business together? Yes, I think. Otherwise, why would they think I could …?”
“All right. So you knew it was me they wanted. And that it was no kidnapping.”
“That I did not know. It is all over the street, how you feel about kids. And about those who … use them. I thought perhaps they wanted someone who might do more than just pick up the child.”
Dmitri was good. That last bit was a slick stroke. “But they didn’t approach me themselves,” I pointed out, nice and calm.
“If they had, would you have done it?”
“Not without references.” I took a slow breath. “So you’re saying that’s what they paid you for, huh?”
“It is all how you look at it. I did not think it was a plan to murder you. Otherwise, why put all that money into your hands?”
“Because if we hadn’t counted it—together, remember?—I wouldn’t have gone out that night.”
“I did not know, I tell you.”
“Which means the hit squad wasn’t yours.”
“If it had been mine, you would not be here.”
“They were pros, Dmitri. They just got a little unlucky. And a couple of them got dead.”
“Ah. This I have not heard.”
“Okay, who was it who hired you?”
“That I could not say.”
“You mean, won’t say, right?”
“It would be bad business. They were clients. They paid for a service. I delivered that service. I have a reputation.”
“Me, too.”
“Yes. You are a professional, as I am. I don’t believe you would attempt to kill me in my own place. And, anyway, what would you kill me for? I am not going to tell you their names. And you’re alive.…”
“They killed my dog.”
“Your … dog?”
“My dog,” I said, willing the trembling out of my voice. I wouldn’t say her name in front of this … professional. “So that’s enough. For me, anyway. Enough for me to blast you right here. Either you give up the names, or I pull the trigger.”
“That is a child’s bluff,” Dmitri said gently, spreading his hands wide. “I am sorry, Burke. But you—”
The explosion sucked all the sound out of the room in its wake. Dmitri slammed back into the wall, gut-shot. I stepped out of the wheelchair, hit the switch on the armrest, took a deep breath, and walked around to where Dmitri lay on the floor. He looked dead. I put three rounds into his face. His head bounced on the floor. When it came to rest, his brains were outside his skull.
The compartment under the wheelchair was spewing thick yellow smoke. I stepped through it and saw two men with Uzis standing in the entranceway to the restaurant. As soon as I emerged, they started blasting away—shooting high, the spray keeping everyone on the ground. I walked toward them, then between them, and jumped into the passenger seat of the van. The engine was running, the van was already in gear, the driver holding his foot on the brake … and a semi-auto in his hand. The spray-team piled in behind me, and the van took off.
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