by Neil Russell
“So how did you handle Manfred?”
“I bought the land and building where his gym was and gave it to Jimmy.”
“You what?”
“Gave it to Jimmy. And when Manfred hit a rough spot and missed a few rent payments, Jimmy stopped by and showed him the deed.”
“Fucking priceless.”
“Eventually, he got behind far enough that Jimmy evicted him, then he sold the building to some burger chain. Made a nice deal too. Tried to pay me back with interest, but I told him to use what he didn’t need to help somebody else.”
Archer let a moment go by, then looked at me. “Did Kim know about this side of you?”
“She started out asking questions.”
“So who helps you with yours?” she asked.
“My what?”
“Your demons.”
“What makes you think I have any?”
I could feel her eyes on me. “Because what you do is about coping. There’s something inside that hurts so bad that the only way you can handle it is by helping somebody else.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Someday, you’re going to tell me what it is.”
I smiled at her. “Don’t make book on it, Sigmund.”
At 5:45 a.m., we were sitting in a quiet residential neighborhood in St. Michaels, Maryland, watching the first rays of morning break over the Chesapeake. The houses were unpretentious, but that was deceptive. The St. Michaels waterfront is home to professionals and entrepreneurs who earn seven figures tapping into the trillion bucks the Feds ejaculate into the area economy each year.
Not many government types live in St. Michaels, but Army Chief of Staff Marlon Hood’s wife, Suzanne, was a Connecticut Wentworth—the same Wentworths who helped invent the New York Stock Exchange—so his paycheck was getting a lot more traction than most.
Archer and I watched a pair of pelicans glide just above the surface of the bay as they window-shopped for breakfast. It was so still that when my cell phone rang, it sounded like a fire alarm. Mitchell Adams was on the other end.
“They matched up a palm print in Walter’s house with that guy, Dante,” he said.
“I figured they might.”
“Unfortunately, he won’t be around to stand trial.”
“What happened?”
“They transferred him last night, and during processing he disappeared. A janitor found him in a stairwell…shanked in the neck.”
I wasn’t surprised. “Los Tigres,” I said.
Mitchell didn’t answer, then he said, “Rumor has it, it was a brother.”
I thought about it. A guy like Mitchell Adams would have connections and be owed favors. In his position, I’d have done the same thing.
When he decided I was on the same page, he said, “Before he died, he chatted a bit. Tino’s full name is Celestino Negroni. He’s from Apollonica, Corsica. I checked the place out with a pilot over at Air France. It’s rough country. Rougher people.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“There was a third guy. Tino’s younger brother, Nico. But nobody knows what happened to him. Dante seemed to think he was dead.”
Obviously, the guy who’d quizzed Bruzzi the Lesser in the stairwell had been more persuasive than the cops. It’s always easier when you don’t have to worry about civil rights. I was glad to have a name for the guy who’d killed Jimmy Buffalo. Nico Negroni. May the fuckin’ fish eat him twice.
I said, “Thanks, Mitchell. I hope you find some peace.”
“I appreciate the thought, but there’s no satisfaction in knowing a piece of shit is dead.”
“If it helps any, two pieces of shit,” I said.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Thanks for letting me know.”
General Hood came out of his house at six sharp and got behind the wheel of a red Infinity M-Class parked in the driveway. They say the fourth star is the heaviest, but Marlon looked like he was wearing his well. He was as ramrod straight as I remembered him, and if he’d had any more gold on his uniform, he’d have needed a forklift.
Hood had always been a soldier’s soldier, not just a guy who dropped by to get his ticket punched, so the show of fruit salad seemed out of character. Then I remembered that his boss, the Secretary of the Army, had recently had a heart attack, so he was probably spending a lot more time on Capitol Hill these days. And even politicians who don’t like the military give battle ribbons a wide berth.
Archer leaned forward and stared at him. “Jesus Christ, it’s the guy in Kim’s picture! You know him?”
“Marlon Hood. When I was at Bragg, he was Special Ops CO. But I was a sergeant, and he was a bird colonel, so we weren’t having dinner together.”
“Looks like he’s moved up in the world. I count four stars,” she said.
“Army Chief of Staff. Not a surprise. Marlon was nobody’s fool.”
Just then, the door of the house burst open, and a tall woman vaguely reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy came flying out in a rage, a coffee mug in her hand. Barefoot and wearing nothing but a yellow bathrobe with the front flapping open, she was shouting obscenities and giving the departing general the finger. Lady Suzanne, I assumed.
As General Hood backed his car into the street, the woman ran down off the porch and rifled her coffee mug at him. It bounced across the hood of the Infinity and shattered on the blacktop. The general gunned the car and took off.
“Probably forgot to mow the lawn,” Archer deadpanned. “You want a recount on the ‘nobody’s fool’ remark?”
I said nothing and started the SUV.
Archer turned to me. “So not telling me about the general was another one of your tests, huh, asshole?”
“A little while ago, I was a damaged soul with demons.”
“Hey, fuck you. How’s that for your soul?”
“Okay, you’re right. Sorry. Next.”
“So make it up to me. What else?”
“He’s the reason Bruzzi—and probably the other guy—had to come to the States. A general can’t travel outside the country without approvals all the way up the chain of command. And in Hood’s case, probably the president’s okay too. So whatever it is those three are doing, the general is driving the train—or at least thinks he is.”
I told her to turn on the laptop. When she had the right picture, I pointed out the suitcase and attaché. “They could have had emissaries do a simple exchange.”
“So there was something that they had to discuss. Why L.A.?”
“Probably a city of convenience. Far enough from Washington that Hood wouldn’t run into anyone he knew, and just one nonstop for the other guys.”
“But Kim was onto it regardless. It could have been Patagonia, and she’d have been there…with her camera.” Archer’s voice told me she was over her anger and proud of her sister.
As soon as he crossed the bay, Hood hooked a hard right at the first exit. I wasn’t ready for the move and almost blew by him. I thought he might have picked up the tail, but he pulled into a Starbucks, got out and never looked around. It was still early, and the place was mostly empty, so I parked and watched him buy a Washington Post from a machine and go inside. I gave him five minutes, then followed, leaving Archer in the car.
Hood had his coffee and a bran muffin and was seated at the very back of the L-shaped room. He was facing the door but absorbed in his paper. I made my way to his table, stopped and said, “You’re mighty cavalier about security, General. Don’t they insist on drivers for guys like you?”
His eyes shot up. It took him a second, then he broke into a broad smile. “Jesus Christ, if it ain’t the Duke of Delta Force. Excuse me, you must be a count by now.”
I laughed. “If you’re going to hobnob with the international set, you’d better brush up on your heraldry. No counts in the UK, General. And the British equivalent, an earl, is downwind from a duke. But I’m serious about the security. Not procedure.”
Hood smiled. “Sons of bitches hang around a
nd listen to all your business. Then they talk. Fuck that.”
“In other words, there’s a girlfriend someplace who doesn’t throw coffee cups.”
His eyes narrowed, but he recovered quickly. “No comment,” he said. “Besides, none of the guys in the driver pool has any combat experience. If the shit hit the fan, they might panic and shoot me. I handle my own security.” He tipped his chair back just far enough for me to see the chrome-plated, ivory-handled semiautomatic on his lap.
“You take that off a pimp?” I asked.
“Gift from some sheikh,” he grinned as he slipped the gun in his pocket. Then he got to his feet, came around the table and hugged me. “Goddamn, Rail,” he said, “it’s good to see you. Get yourself a cup of coffee and sit down.”
The hug didn’t fit with our relationship, so he was checking me for a weapon. I hoped he’d felt the Sig.
I pulled out a chair. “The coffee can wait.”
When we were both seated, he asked, “What are you doing way the fuck out here? And strapped?”
“You don’t believe in coincidence?”
“You’re driving a silver SUV, and you change lanes too much.”
I smiled. “One of the hazards of morning surveillance. Nothing to hide behind. I was hoping you might shed some light on why I’ve been summoned to your place of business. I hate meetings where I’m the only one who’s going to be surprised.”
Marlon Hood looked uncomfortable, and I suddenly remembered that even though he’d acted startled when I’d approached him, he hadn’t tensed up. And he hadn’t put his hand on the gun in his lap. I don’t care how cool you are, that green and gold General Staff badge on his right breast pocket put him near the top of Sandland’s hit parade, and he’d be getting regular briefings on a shithouse full of bad guys who’d like to earn their six dozen virgins by taking him out.
“So you were expecting me,” I said.
He looked at me. “You were as good a special operator as anyone I’ve ever known, so I put it down as a definite possibility. What do you think it’s about?”
I put my hand in my pocket and keyed my cell phone. Thirty seconds later, Archer came in carrying Kim’s laptop. I made the appropriate introductions, and we all sat. Archer opened the computer and switched it on. While it was warming up, I noticed that Hood was having trouble taking his eyes off the former model.
Archer did it for him. “Pay attention to the screen, General. My sister gave her life for this.”
Hood bristled. Flag rank officers live in a world where people jump up, salute then hang on every word. But he recovered and turned to Kim’s article on the laptop.
When he finished reading, Archer started the slideshow. I told her to run it manually. After the four Biltmore photos, I asked her to stop. To Hood, I said, “The white-haired gentleman is Gaetano Bruzzi, but maybe you can enlighten me about the guy with the steroid entourage.”
I watched the general. He seemed to be weighing something. “How long have you had these?” he asked.
“Since yesterday.”
Hood shook his head, then looked at Archer. “Whether you believe me or not, miss, I would never have sanctioned what they did to your sister. I don’t think Serbin would have either. That was all Bruzzi.”
Hearing the admission, I thought Archer might become emotional, but she held her iron and shot back, “I’m sure that was a great comfort to her as the bullet entered her brain. The last thing she probably thought was, ‘Boy, is General Hood gonna be pissed.’”
I let the moment sit. Marlon had my blood on his hands as well. Let him think about it.
Finally, he seemed to deflate. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Let’s start with Serbin,” I said.
“Konstantin Serbin. It used to be Colonel Serbin, but after the Soviet collapse, he discovered he could make more money selling tanks than commanding them. He also produces most of the steel in Eastern Europe.”
“A real go-getter,” I said, “but evidently, not everyone’s a fan. Presidents travel with less security.”
Hood nodded. “Serbin’s an egotist. He likes to make a show. But some of the extra guns are warranted. Time was, if you were a friend of the Kremlin, no one would breathe in your direction. Moscow has limited reach these days—and less respect. So certain people can’t be too careful.”
I nodded to Archer to advance the slideshow.
Hood said, “You haven’t asked me what we were doing together.”
“I don’t want the rehearsed answer, so I’ll come back to that,” I replied.
The two photographs of the unknown artist were next, and as they came up, I focused on Hood’s eyes, the way a magician does during a card trick. Right on cue, the general’s pupils dilated, meaning the picture triggered his brain’s recognition receptors. But he shook his head no, and I said nothing.
We went through the next photographs without comment. And then the blank screen with the Babushka caption came up. As soon as he saw it, Hood took a sharp breath.
“Familiar?” I asked.
He didn’t blink. “The buildings are the museums where the paintings from the Tretiakov Collection now reside. That was Serbin’s goal. The artists’ bodies weren’t recoverable, but by placing each man’s final work in the city of his birth, he was, in effect, taking him home—offering a kind of immortality. That blank screen refers to the painting by Illya Orlov. By far the most valuable of all of them. It went down on Egypt Air with…” He stopped and looked at me. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
No answer was necessary.
Hood took a sip of coffee. “You still own all those newspapers?”
“There are a lot of dead people, General. And I’ve got some attitude about being shot myself. This isn’t about a newspaper story.”
I saw him turn something over in his mind then look at his watch. He stood. “I’ve got two hours before I have to be on Capitol Hill. I drive fast, so try to keep up.”
29
Russians and Cities
Hood hadn’t lied. Gone was the commuter pace. I had to fight to stay up with him as he wove in and out of traffic at speeds topping ninety miles an hour. I dialed Eddie Buffalo and woke him up. When he heard it was me, he said groggily, “Let me guess, this isn’t an invite to Denny’s for a Grand Slam.”
“How soon can you get in the air?”
“At this time of the morning? Depends how quick I can find a copilot sober enough to read off the runway markers. Couple of hours maybe.”
“Make it less.”
“Where am I going?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll need to file some kind of flight plan.”
If anyone was watching, and they almost certainly were, they already knew I wasn’t in L.A., so they weren’t going to believe any flight plan Eddie filed anyway. But maybe we could make them work for their money. “Do paperwork for Chicago by way of St. Louis. Then change it midflight to Denver by way of Detroit,” I answered. “I want you laying up there at forty thousand feet about halfway across the country. Stay refueled, drive slow and make a couple of unexpected stops.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Memphis,” Eddie said. “Hear they got great ribs. This got something to do with the guy who killed Jimmy?”
“Yes.”
“Promise me you’ll let me tear those sons of bitches….”
“Get in the air,” I said.
I didn’t like cutting him off, but I didn’t want—or have time for—stupid talk. The kind that comes from rage with no outlet.
Also, since Marlon was doing his best to cause a twenty-car pileup, I really needed both hands on the wheel. I flipped the phone into Archer’s lap, told her to put it on speaker and called out Bert Rixon’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “Doesn’t sound like you were asleep,” I said.
I could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Brittany and I were just—”
�
��Bert!” I heard Brittany yelp. “Don’t you dare.”
“Hey, Rail is the one who told us to do it as often as we could.”
Bert’s voice sounded thicker than when we’d last spoken. I hoped it was just the early hour and not the disease accelerating. Archer smiled. “Bert, a lady doesn’t take out an ad.”
“I’m no lady, and if you could have heard her a few minutes ago, you wouldn’t confuse her for one either. Hell, I’d wear a sign if she’d let me.”
I had to swing across two lanes to avoid being sideswiped by a bread truck the general had cut off. “Bert, I need a favor. You up for a little work?”
“Name it. Brittany can only go for the gusto about three times a day, and I need something to do while she’s resting.”
Archer and I laughed. “Bert,” I said, “when you were in the prosthetics business, the Pentagon was a customer, right?”
“My biggest. But I never made a dime off them. Sold only at cost, and if some soldier didn’t meet the military’s criteria for an arm or a leg, we gave it to them.”
“Then I need you to track down one of those bureaucrat friends of yours and remind him of your generosity. Got a pen?”
“Nothing wrong with my memory.”
“Major Truman York. U.S. Air Force. Tanker pilot. Deceased. I need to know everything there is to know about his time in the service. His DD-214 will be a starting place, but it’s going to be deficient.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. If this guy York ever had so much as a hangnail, he’ll be in the medical database, and somebody will know how to get the rest. What else?”
“I want the same thing on an army four-star. Marlon Hood.”
“That name sounds familiar,” said Bert. “Should I know him?”
“He’s the Army Chief of Staff,” I answered.
“Current?”
“Current.”
“This should be interesting.”
“His bio will be on their website,” I said. “But if I’m right, it’ll be selective too.”
“That’s a switch. Usually, generals can’t blow their horn enough. By the time the PR guys get finished, a weather delay passing through Tokyo ends up sounding like a Far East Command.”