Destiny's Pawn

by D. A. Keeley

  “Has he contacted you since he left yesterday?”

  “No. And I sent a few texts.”

  “Tell me how he looked when he arrived.”

  “It wasn’t so much his breathing. He was sweating, his hair was messed up, and his face was red. His mother said she didn’t know where he was. Is he in trouble?”

  “We don’t know, Davey. You’ve known him a long time?”

  “Since as long as I can remember. We were going to room in college. But …”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Was he even eighteen? He had seen his last Christmas. Her mind ran to Tommy. Was she spending enough time with him? Her roles of mother and agent clashed far more often than she’d like. This week had been a perfect example.

  “Where do you think Michael might be? Is there any place he might go?”

  “To hide? Not really, just the shack in the woods. But you know all about that.”

  She did, but no one had looked there.

  1:15 p.m., Garrett Station

  “Change in plans?” Peyton asked as she entered the front door.

  “Yeah.” Hewitt was holding a manila folder. “No need to go to the shack again.”

  “You found Michael?”

  “Possibly. We’ll follow it up before you hike a couple miles in the woods.”

  Peyton saw Sandy Teague sitting at her desk with Aleksei Vann.

  “We had Sandy bring Aleksei here,” Hewitt said. “He didn’t want to leave school. He’s missing a math test.”

  “Wish some of that would rub off on my son,” Peyton said. “Why does he need to be here?”

  Hewitt looked around to make sure Aleksei was out of earshot. “Because we don’t know what Dariya is up to, and he’s used the boy once. I don’t want him doing anything stupid.”

  “You’re talking about a potential hostage situation,” she said.

  “Just taking precautions. That’s all.”

  “Tell me about Michael,” she said. “His friend says he looked pretty rough yesterday.”

  “Ever hear of a StingRay?”

  She nodded. “Phone tracker, yeah.”

  “We found his phone,” Hewitt said. “ICE is on the way. We probably won’t wait for them, but they’re coming.”

  ICE was Homeland Security’s branch of law enforcement, the Border Patrol’s investigatory brethren. She knew things were moving along now. She’d missed something.

  “What’s going on, Mike?”

  “Logan Airport surveillance picked up two people entering Boston from St. Petersburg, Russia, in the last few days.” Hewitt opened the folder and handed Peyton two photos: one was of a man in his sixties with a thick white beard; the other was of a woman, much younger, wearing dark glasses and designer clothes.

  “Who are these people?”

  “This is Victor Tankov’s longtime right-hand man, Nicolay Fyodorov. Tankov is a notorious Russian mafia figure. He’s also personal friends with Vladimir Putin. He’s one of the guys who had assets frozen by Obama in an attempt to squeeze Putin into leaving the Ukraine.”

  “This is where Dariya Vann comes in,” she said, “isn’t it?”

  Hewitt nodded. “The woman is Tankov’s daughter, Marfa Tankov. Remember when you said Dariya’s arrival was important because it shows they’re getting ready to move the painting after twenty-five years? Well, it would make sense that these are the buyers.”

  “That’s why ICE is coming aboard.”

  “Victor Tankov is notorious. And artwork is a hot item right now among organized crime members. Usually, there’s no black market for stolen Rembrandts because there’s nothing you can do with them. You can’t display them, and it’s hard to sell them because you can’t have anyone authenticate them. But Tankov is dying. Cancer.”

  The comment reminded her of Davey Bolstridge, who wasn’t a criminal. Just a simple teenager who wanted to go to college and room with a friend.

  “So Victor Tankov wants to own the painting before he dies?”

  Hewitt shrugged. “Or he wants it for the reason most people like him do: It’s a great bargaining chip, should he—or Nicolay or Marfa—get caught. Two years ago, a guy convicted of fraud, murder, and money laundering copped a plea and got only ten years in a federal country club when he traded a Rembrandt.”

  Peyton shook her head. “That’s disgusting.”

  “The judge said the Rembrandt was worth it. And now all of those guys know about it.”

  “So Victor Tankov sent Nicolay and Marfa to get the painting?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “How is he buying it, if his assets are frozen?”

  “I said some of his assets are frozen. He has lots of assets and more cash than you or I can imagine, Peyton.”

  “Do we know where they are?” she asked.

  “Ramirez is working on that.”

  “Where does Michael Donovan fit in?” she said. “His parents deny that he’d have anything to do with his uncle.”

  “Maybe, but it’s becoming harder and harder to imagine that he’s not with them.” Hewitt took the pictures back and slid them into his folder.

  She looked at the one conference room in the back. Ramirez was there. He had a laptop open and something Peyton had never seen before.

  “That looks like an old VCR,” Peyton said.

  “That’s the StingRay,” Hewitt said.

  She’d never seen one before, but knew it acted like a cell tower and tricked a cell phone into giving it data. It could also locate cell phones, even when they weren’t in use.

  Peyton was in the break room spreading cream cheese on a bagel when she heard the commotion.

  “Frank,” Ramirez called, “you’d better come look at this.”

  Peyton beat Hammond to the conference room. Ramirez was looking at a GPS map of the area. A dot pulsated on the screen.

  “I know where that is,” Peyton said. “That’s the Hampton Inn in Reeds.”

  1:30 p.m., a dirt road near Paradise Court

  Nicolay climbed a ridge and crouched behind a balsam fir, where he lay the guitar case down in the snow and opened it. A red hawk circled overhead. He’d parked the rented Camry to the side of the dirt road. If it had been summer, he’d have driven it farther off the road and parked in a wooded area. But that wasn’t possible with four-foot snow piles lining the dirt road. He had binoculars around his neck and wore a black knit cap, black gloves, a dark hoodie, and Gore-Tex boots. He was prepared—and willing—to spend a long time outside, if it came to that.

  A slight breeze tickled the treetops, and light snow drifted down. He could see his breath in the afternoon air, but the sun was bright and warm on his back. The case, although shaped like a guitar, was foam lined and contained a 9mm handgun and a 12-gauge as well as ammunition for each. No one in Boston knew Victor was dead yet, and Victor had done a guy a favor in Europe once, so the case and its contents had been free.

  Nicolay used binoculars to look at the house. What was going on? The email that led him here said Marfa was meeting Pyotr, but Pyotr was nowhere in sight. What he did see were three others—two men nearly fifty and one teenager. What the hell was going on?

  He wanted to speak to Marfa alone, to tell her what she would do, and to explain how she would do it: the funds were to be moved directly to his account. But the additional men complicated things. If they were working with her, they might very well have to go. The thought made him wish he’d requested a long rifle with a scope; a shotgun would do little from the ridge.

  He hated it when a part of his plan needed to change.

  When he’d been younger, his confidence never wavered. Who had written the line, “You have youth, confidence, and a job. You have everything”? Hemingway? Nicolay knew, at sixty, he was no longer the man Hemingway described. But he
had something Hemingway hadn’t considered: anger. Marfa had taken two things from him—his best friend and a great deal of money that he rightfully deserved.

  He would get even for Victor.

  And he would get what he had coming.

  He jacked a round into the chamber of the 12-gauge, tucked the 9mm into his waistband, and started moving tree to tree, edging closer to the house.

  1:45 p.m., the Hampton Inn, Reeds

  Hammond, Hann, and Ramirez along with Hewitt, Jimenez, and Peyton arrived in one black Suburban and one Border Patrol Expedition. No flashing lights. No sirens. To passersby, they could’ve been arriving for a late lunch meeting. Except, behind the tinted windows of the Suburban, Ramirez was in the back with his laptop open.

  When the Suburban stopped, Hewitt hit the brakes on the green-and-white Expedition. He got out and walked to the FBI vehicle, talked to Hammond for a few minutes, then returned.

  “I’m going to the front desk to show some photos,” Hewitt said.

  “Will the StingRay lead us to the phone?” Peyton said.

  “Not to the exact location.” Hewitt turned and went into the hotel lobby.

  Jimenez watched Hewitt walk away. “Are we going room to room?”

  “I don’t know,” Peyton said, “but if the desk people don’t recognize the pictures, there won’t be much choice.” She could see Hewitt talking to a blond woman at the front desk.

  Jimenez looked at the four-story hotel. “Doable, but it’ll take a while.”

  Peyton got out of the Expedition and walked to the Suburban. She opened the back door and slid in.

  Ramirez looked surprised to see her. “What’s up?”

  “You tell me,” she said.

  “I got a hit on Aleksei Vann’s phone.”

  “Just that one?”

  “So far.”

  “And it’s here?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “If we go room to room, it could take forever,” Hann said. She took her glasses off and squeezed the bridge of her nose.

  Peyton got out of the Suburban and stood thinking.

  “So where does this leave us?” Peyton said.

  Hewitt and Hammond had their people huddled between the vehicles. The sun reflected off the wet street and icy snow, and Peyton wore sunglasses and a ski cap.

  “What’s bothering you, Peyton?” Hewitt said. “You look impatient.”

  “This feels like a setup. Only one cell phone? And it’s Aleksei’s, the expendable one.”

  “What are you saying?” Hammond said.

  “I’m saying, I bet the phone is in one of these garbage cans.” She pointed to the receptacles around the parking lot. “They have something to move. It makes sense to draw some of us here.”

  “I’m getting three phones now,” Ramirez said.

  “That changes things,” Hewitt said. “Sounds like a meeting.”

  “Let’s spread out and go floor by floor, room to room,” Hammond said. “Someone stay out here.”

  “Excuse me.”

  They turned to see the blond woman from the front desk.

  “Agent, may I have a word?”

  Hewitt walked to her. She spoke. He nodded, looked at Peyton, and said, “Yes, I’d like to see it.” He followed her inside and returned holding a plastic garbage bag.

  2:35 p.m., Garrett Station

  “Are they legit?” Hewitt asked Ramirez.

  Ramirez, Hann, Hammond, Peyton, and Hewitt were in the break room. Three cell phones were on the picnic table.

  “Are they actual phones owned by Marfa Tankov, Aleksei Vann, and Ted Donovan? Yes, they appear to be.”

  “And they didn’t lead us to anything,” Hewitt said. He was looking at Peyton. “What tipped you off ?”

  She shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

  “If you’re right,” Hann said, “it means they’re still in the area.”

  “You didn’t find Michael Donovan’s phone?” Peyton asked.

  Ramirez shook his head. “And I haven’t picked it up yet, either.”

  “Nicolay Fyodorov’s phone?” Hammond asked.

  “No,” Ramirez said.

  Peyton picked up the phones. “Which one is Marfa Tankov’s?”

  Ramirez pointed.

  Peyton tried to access the phone; it was password protected. “Can you open it?” she asked.

  Ramirez took it. “Probably. Why? If she planted it for us to find, I’m sure she wiped it.”

  “Most likely,” Peyton said. “But let’s leave no stone unturned.”

  “I get it,” Ramirez said. “Give me some time.”

  3:10 p.m., 12 Higgins Drive

  Peyton waved to Margaret Jones, Tommy’s bus driver.

  “Hi, Peyton,” Margaret said through the open driver’s side window. “I saw you on CNN this afternoon. You were walking around the Hampton Inn.”

  Peyton couldn’t remember seeing a CNN van, which made sense; the reporter would’ve flown into Reeds and rented a car. Regardless, a CNN reporter obviously followed them from Garrett Station to Reeds.

  “It’s finally feeling like spring,” Peyton said.

  Margaret had been Tommy’s bus driver for as long as Peyton could remember. Her husband Bill was his Little League coach.

  “Can’t talk about it?”

  “Not unless you have information for me.”

  “Wish I did.”

  “Thanks for driving my son. Tell Bill I say hi.”

  “You got it,” Margaret said and pulled the narrow driver’s-side window closed before driving off.

  Tommy wore his backpack and a Patriots sweatshirt as they started up the driveway.

  “Where’s your coat?”

  “In my bag.” He smiled.

  She reached down and squeezed his knee. He jumped and laughed.

  “Tickle point,” she said. “I know them all. And I’m deadly with them. Where’d you get the sweatshirt?”

  “Stone. When I spent the night, it was cold. He gave it to me, said to keep it.”

  “The other night?” she said. “When we went to his cabin?”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty cool. I wish we bought a cabin on the lake.”

  “We’d have to give up the house,” she said, “and then you probably wouldn’t have your own bathroom. But there are plenty of places for sale.”

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  She stopped walking and stood stock-still in the center of the driveway, then pulled out her phone. She dialed her real estate agent Kathy St. Pierre.

  “Mom, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing, sweetie. It’s just that there are too many places for sale.”

  Kathy answered, and Peyton heard the eagerness in the agent’s voice. Unfortunately for her, Peyton wasn’t looking for a home to buy.

  She was looking for a desperate seller.

  Fifteen minutes later, she thanked Kathy St. Pierre and turned to Tommy, who was doing homework at the kitchen table.

  “I hate to do this again, Tommy.”

  “I know what you’re going to say: Gram is on her way to stay with me.”

  Her stomach sank. This day, she’d spent time with a seventeen-year-old with only months to live. And here she was leaving her own son—whom she’d seen for all of an hour in the past twenty-four—to go back to work. Worse, he could predict her abandonment.

  “That’s right, pal. I’m very sorry.” She turned and stared out the window over the sink at the snow-covered back lawn.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I know you work hard. And I know you do it for me.”

  “Wow, thank you, Tommy. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Stone told me some stuff.”

  She heard the single horn honk in the driveway: her mother Lois’s cue that sh
e’d arrived.

  “I want to hear about that later, okay?” she said and dashed out the door.

  4:15, dirt road near Paradise Court

  “You’re sure this is it?” Hewitt said, climbing out of the Expedition.

  They’d parked at the end of the dirt road and gathered at the back of the huge Ford vehicle. Hewitt took a 12-gauge and pumped a round into the chamber. Peyton felt for her .40 on her right hip. She also took a 12-gauge.

  “No,” Peyton said. She closed the passenger door quietly. “I’m not sure of anything. But Kathy St. Pierre is the region’s busiest realtor, and she rented this house to a man with a Russian accent just a few days ago. And he rented it for only one month.”

  Using the toe of his boot, Ramirez crushed an ice ball. “Who would rent someone a house for only a month?”

  “Someone who’s been trying to sell since the damn feds closed the military base and took half the region’s population with it.”

  “I do believe I struck a nerve,” Ramirez said.

  “When the Cold War ended, Washington closed Loring Air Force Base. The region’s economy hasn’t been the same since.”

  Ramirez shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “This political debate is fascinating,” Hewitt said, “but I’d like to see if the painting is in the house. Put your earpieces in. We don’t know much about these people, so proceed with caution.”

  “They’re Russian mob,” Ramirez said.

  “They’re art thieves,” Hewitt said.

  “I don’t want the painting damaged,” Hammond said. “Take it slowly.”

  They started to walk toward the house. Peyton and Hewitt were on the north side of the road walking up a ridge, Ramirez and Hann were in the woods on the opposite side of the road, and Hammond was walking on the side of the dirt road.

  “There’s a Camry with Massachusetts plates on it,” Hammond said. He felt the hood. “Hood’s cold.”

  “We’ve got something,” Peyton said. “Empty guitar case. It’s lined with foam and looks like it held a long gun and a pistol. Tracks lead to the house.”

  “Wait for us,” Ramirez said. “Hann and I are crossing the street.”

  “This is a road, city boy,” Hammond said. “Not a street.”