Destiny's Pawn

by D. A. Keeley

  “That’s Peter O’Reilly,” he said to Ted.

  Ted turned to see the white-haired man pointing at the Escape’s window sticker and nodding encouragingly at his wife as they talked.

  “Can this wait?” Steven asked. He turned up the collar of his ski jacket, cupped his hands, and exhaled into them, warming them with his breath. “The O’Reillys bought their last two vehicles from us. This is a slam dunk.” Steven smiled playfully at his brother. “Christ, even you could get a commission on this one.”

  Ted wasn’t smiling. “Who is home during the day?”

  “What do you mean? I need to go to these people, Ted.”

  “I need to know who has access to my apartment.”

  “Access? What are you talking about?” Steven sighed. “Look, it’s cold out here. What are you asking?”

  Ted could feel his face getting red. The last time he’d had a sensation like this was his first day on-air—so nervous he’d felt nearly out of control. He wasn’t nervous now. He was angry. But he was nearing the edge of self-control, nonetheless.

  “Someone was in my fucking apartment, Steven. Who was it?”

  The elderly man in the red flannel hunting jacket heard the profanity and looked at them, clearly insulted that someone used that language in front of his wife.

  “Keep your voice down, Ted. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Look at me, Steven.”

  “What?” Steven focused on his brother now. “You’re sweating and pale. You sick?”

  “I might be. Someone went into my apartment when I wasn’t there.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m missing something.”

  Steven’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? Was it something important?”

  “Very.”

  The brothers stood looking at each other.

  Steven started to speak, but then closed his mouth.

  “I’m telling you,” Ted said, “it was very important.”

  Steven looked at him, their eyes locking. “Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath. “I need to wait on this customer.”

  Then he walked away.

  11:15 a.m., Garrett Station

  “There’s not much there,” Stan Jackman said to Peyton.

  She sat next to him, looking at printouts and spreadsheets he’d gathered.

  Jackman had an office next to Hewitt’s in Garrett Station. The office was a concession of sorts: since his heart attack, Jackman was doing very little field work, an unspoken accommodation he hated. To that end, Hewitt had given him his own office, making him the only field agent to have one.

  Peyton looked around the office. “Very nice.”

  “The framed photos are new. I figure Mike doesn’t have to do this. He knows I can’t do what I did, and if this was the southern border, he couldn’t hide me in here. They’d have me on disability and I’d be retired and bored out of my head. That’ll still probably happen, but I’ll stay as long as I can.”

  “You mind doing research?”

  “Something like this is fun. I found a shitload on Dariya Vann.” He paused. “Is Stone joining us?”

  She shook her head. “He’s in the woods.”

  “At the shack?”

  She nodded.

  “Anyway, Dariya Vann was a big TV reporter in Ukraine. And Ted Donovan was an up-and-coming TV reporter here.”

  “What happened to Ted Donovan?”

  “He walked away from the TV news job to work for his brother.”

  “For more money?”

  “Far less, according to his tax returns.”

  “You’re good,” she said.

  “I can’t do much. But I still know the right questions to ask. Mitch Cosgrove dug up the financials.”

  Cosgrove was unique among Border Patrol agents—a former CPA. This background offered a rare skill set, and Hewitt had snatched him up when his resume had crossed the PAIC’s desk.

  “Any idea why Ted Donovan would walk away from TV news?”

  Jackman shook his head.

  “Think his brother offered him partner status in the dealership?”

  “Nothing in Ted’s financials indicates that.”

  “Where does he spend all his money?”

  “His Visa bill says he eats at Tip of the Hat most nights. Ten, twenty bucks. Four or five nights a week.”

  “I’ll look into it,” she said.

  “And he worked at WAGM,” Jackman said, “or whatever the local TV station was called back then. I went over there. The place is full of mostly young reporters trying to make a name for themselves so they can move up and move out. No one remembers Ted Donovan. He worked there for about ten years, then more than fifteen years ago, he left.”

  Peyton thought about that. Ted Donovan hadn’t moved up and out. He’d walked away from his journalism career but had remained in the region.

  “Did Ted graduate from Emerson?” she asked.

  “No, actually. He dropped out.”

  “Do we know why?”

  Jackman shook his head. “Dariya did the same thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly that. Dariya Vann also dropped out.”

  “When?”

  “Here’s where this gets interesting, Peyton. Neither man attended a class after spring break 1990.”

  “Emerson College keeps attendance records for twenty-five years?” she said.

  “Not attendance records,” he said. “I found something better.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’m getting to that,” Jackman said, “but before I forget, did you know Ted Donovan traveled to Donetsk recently?”

  “I didn’t,” she said, “but it makes perfect sense.”

  1:45 p.m., Garrett Station

  “Thanks very much for coming in,” Peyton said to Dariya Vann.

  Stan Jackman sat beside her. Hewitt was to the other side. They were letting her lead.

  A manila folder lay before her. She didn’t look at Dariya’s attorney, Bobby Gaudreau, or Dariya’s sister, Bohana, who sat, bookends to each side of Dariya Vann, because she genuinely wasn’t glad to see either of them. Gaudreau and Bohana would only stall the information-

  gathering process, and she knew it.

  Dariya didn’t reciprocate the greeting.

  “How have you been since our last talk?” she said.

  Dariya looked at her, then at Gaudreau, who took the cue.

  “Why are we here, agent?”

  “I have no idea why you and Bohana are here,” Peyton said, “but Mr. Vann has graciously agreed to meet with me. And I’m here because I work days this month.”

  “Cute,” Gaudreau said. “Stop wasting my client’s time.”

  “I was going to offer coffee. Mr. Vann, you look exhausted. Late night?”

  Dariya shifted in his seat. He didn’t like the question. Why? What had she said?

  “He’s jet-lagged,” Bohana explained.

  “Mr. Vann,” Peyton continued, “it must be nice staying with Bohana and seeing people you’ve missed.”

  Dariya looked at Gaudreau, who shrugged.

  “We’re just talking,” Peyton assured Dariya.

  “Yes, I’ve missed my sister.” Dariya smiled at Bohana.

  “And Ted?”

  Vann’s eyes swung back to Peyton. “Ted?”

  “Well,” Peyton said, “you went to college with Ted. And about a week ago, Bohana told me she met Steven through a friend of her brother. That brother is you. And that friend would be Ted, with whom you attended Emerson College.”

  Dariya sat looking at her, the wheels clearly turning. “I guess we both went there,” he said after several moments.

  Jackman was writing; Hewitt was leaning
back in his chair, listening intently.

  “I don’t remember saying that,” Bohana said.

  “No?” Peyton said. “We were at your house around three in the afternoon. I was there to see how Aleksei was adjusting.”

  Bohana said to the table, “I don’t recall that conversation.”

  “Coincidence,” Dariya said, dragging the second i to a long e, “if we both there.”

  Gaudreau sat like a seventh grader who didn’t see the pop quiz coming.

  “It must be nice to catch up with Ted,” Peyton said.

  Dariya shrugged.

  “Were you and Ted close at Emerson?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know each other?”

  “I see him.”

  “Where? In what capacity?”

  He looked at her, not understanding.

  “In class? In the hallway?”

  Dariya shrugged.

  “Peyton,” Gaudreau said, “what are you driving at?”

  Peyton opened the folder. “You were both journalism majors and had several broadcast media classes together during the 1989–90 school year.”

  “Do you expect my client to remember that? That was a quarter-

  century ago.”

  Peyton smiled at Gaudreau and looked back to Dariya. “You actually had several classes together during an eighteen-month span. And you and Ted were close friends, isn’t that right?”

  Dariya shook his head. “Not close.”

  “That’s interesting. Remember Frank Griffin?”

  Dariya sat up a little straighter. “Who?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you remember him. He sure remembers you and Ted. I talked to him this morning. He’s retired and lives in Florida now. But he spoke about how hard you worked to learn English.”

  “I don’t know him,” Dariya said, but his voice was soft as if he realized the futility of his denial.

  “Frank Griffin oversaw a maintenance crew you and Ted were on as work-study students. Frank was in that same job for thirty-five years. Says he never forgets a face. Speaks highly of you both. Says it was clear that you and Ted were”—she shifted her papers in the folder until she found one, pointed to a line of text, and read—“‘really good friends. Both good boys.’”

  “Where is this going, agent?” Gaudreau said. “Someone remembers my client from more than twenty-five years ago?”

  “We’re just looking for honest answers,” Hewitt said. “Would you like tea, Bob?”

  “First time someone’s offered tea. No thanks.”

  Peyton knew what Hewitt was doing: playing good cop to her bad.

  She went on. “You told me you brought your son here.”

  Dariya nodded.

  She wished she’d been able to record the conversation overheard in the Donovans’ driveway. But that hadn’t been possible. Now she was forced to rely on memory and to use what she’d learned that night to get more information or to force Dariya Vann or Ted Donovan to say something that filled in a blank for her. At a time when technology dominated information-gathering processes, it was far from a perfect science. And with a lawyer in the room, it was a gamble. But Dariya Vann wouldn’t be in the country long. She had to roll the dice.

  “That’s not true, Dariya. And we both know it.”

  “I brought Aleksei here.”

  “Ted Donovan bought a round-trip ticket to Ukraine and flew there just over a month ago. We have copies of his boarding pass. He never flew back, though, never got on the return flight. And we both know why.”

  “We don’t need to sit here and listen to your speculation.” Gaudreau closed his briefcase.

  Peyton never took her eyes off Dariya Vann. “Because you offered up your son. You needed a way into the country.”

  “Let’s go, Dariya.” Gaudreau was standing.

  “Come on.” Bohana tugged her brother’s arm.

  Dariya didn’t stand. He remained seated across from Peyton, staring hard at her.

  “Your son told me what it was like traveling with Ted. I’d call him a child-abuser. You call him a business partner.”

  “Come on.” Bohana pulled her brother’s forearm.

  This time he stood and followed them out, never turning back.

  When the door closed behind them, Hewitt turned to her. “You better know what you’re doing because you just played your hand.”

  “Not the entire hand,” she said.

  “You have more?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got more.”

  7:30 p.m., Razdory, Russia

  Nicolay could barely understand what this skinny twenty-something with unkempt hair and tattoos on his ropey forearms said. Although both men spoke Russian, it was like listening to another language. Like the summer he and Victor spent in Milan, and he’d tried to pick up Italian.

  “Are you sure Victor Tankov wants me to do this?”

  “Yes,” Nicolay said. “He’s been having computer problems.”

  “Is the machine slow?”

  Nicolay wasn’t sure what Yevgeniy meant. “Yes,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t be,” the wispy man said. “Plenty of RAM.” His fingers danced lightly across the keyboard.

  Nicolay watched him; this youngster with a soul patch didn’t do the two-finger peck that Nicolay used. Yevgeniy had been here twenty minutes. RAM space and gigahertz—Nicolay had no idea what those words meant.

  They sat side by side in the den, the hulking sixty-year-old and the skinny, pale expert with three silver hoops in his left earlobe. The den was on the first floor of the sprawling country home, one of the Victorian’s eight bedrooms converted to an office. Since Victor’s health had declined, Marfa had spent a lot of time in this room, on this computer. But Victor—the champion boxer bracing himself against the ropes rather than go down—had insisted on managing the finances himself. For as long as he could. Whatever it took.

  It had taken a lot. Now he was bedridden.

  And Nicolay had walked in on Victor’s conversation with Marfa, had heard Victor promise her full access to the accounts until the purchase. Then Victor said he felt uneasy.

  So Nicolay knew what he had to do.

  “No,” the lanky man dressed in black said, “there’s nothing wrong with this computer. What are you having trouble doing? Give me something specific to work on.”

  Nicolay pointed to the screen. “I need to open that.”

  “That file?” Yevgeniy’s fingers tapped lightly. Then his head shook back and forth. “Well, that’s the problem. It’s a locked file. You need the password to open it. That doesn’t have anything to do with the software or the machine. It’s password protected.”

  Nicolay pulled his chair closer. He understood those words, password protected. Knew precisely what they meant to him here and now.

  “I need to see what’s inside that and to open that email account.”

  “You need passwords.”

  “What if I lost them? Can they be opened?”

  The skinny man pushed away from the machine and turned to face him, studying Nicolay’s face. “This is Victor Tankov’s summer home. And you’re asking me to break into his personal email. The other file is some sort of financial document or record.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve heard what happens to people who screw with Victor Tankov.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “He put an ice pick through one guy’s hand, didn’t shoot him until twenty minutes later. Wanted to watch him suffer first.”

  “You have no reason to worry.” After all, Nicolay thought, it hadn’t been Victor who’d done that. “I’m in charge of this computer.”

  Yevgeniy looked at him. “You’re in charge of it?”

  “Yes. The record and email accoun
ts are mine.”

  “Then how’d you lose the passwords?”

  “I forgot them. I have several passwords.”

  Yevgeniy had heard that before; in fact, he’d even made the same mistake. He sat thinking about the request, balancing it against what he knew of Victor Tankov.

  He blew out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

  Nicolay stood and took out his wallet, handed him some money.

  “People don’t usually pay us in cash.”

  “This isn’t for the bill.”

  Yevgeniy leaned back in the chair, staring at the money Nicolay held. “Well, it’s not like you’re asking me to hack into a website or something.”

  Not yet, Nicolay thought.

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the requests I get,” Yevgeniy said. “Yeah, I can open that for you.”

  Nicolay leaned back in his chair, looked out the window, watched young Rodia skating on the frozen pond, and waited.

  An hour later, when access to the file and email had been granted and the bank account had been opened, he paced the floor of his bedroom, thinking about Victor, about the life Victor had given him, and processing what he’d learned.

  4:45 p.m., Garrett High School

  “Well, how was it?” Michael asked Davey Bolstridge.

  They were alone on the bleachers in the Garrett High School gymnasium following preseason practice.

  Michael had been kneeling, making easy tosses to loosen up when he’d seen Davey enter the gym. Wearing the white mask, Davey had shuffled slowly to the sideline. Coach Rowe had hugged him, and one by one, players approached to do the same. Sam Tilton, a sophomore now, who as a freshman had been taken under Davey’s wing, had hugged the senior and returned to the batting cage with tears in his eyes.

  “I didn’t recognize him,” he kept saying. “I didn’t recognize him at first.”

  “He’s still the same guy,” Michael had told everyone.

  Now the gym was empty, the last well-wisher having left.

  “It wasn’t great.” Davey pulled the white mask off and flung it. “I felt like a freak, the way everyone looked at me.”

  The mask floated away from the side of the bleachers, drifting to the gymnasium floor like a discarded paper caught by a wind gust.

  “You should keep that on.”

  “What difference does it make?”