by Noel Hynd
Depression. Frustration. Shattered nerves. Sweat glands that didn’t work any more or never stopped working.
When would she meet another man? A special man, like Robert had been. Would she ever meet one or would she turn into an old crone? She wanted children. She wanted a marriage. A solid marriage. One in a church like she had always imagined. Maybe she could even have a normal life to go with it if she wished and prayed and worked for it long enough.
Her eyes slid away from the window for a moment as she spotted Federov, moving through the cabin, smoking a small cigar. Marriage. He was probably deadly serious when he kept flirting around the issue. She met the notion with amusement and disgust. She knew she could never love a man like that. And as far as needing a woman to whip his business concerns into shape? He didn’t need a wife so much as he needed a secretary of state.
The aircraft’s engines hummed smoothly. They hit a little pocket of turbulence, then the air smoothed out. She continued to think. She tried to assess where she was on this case.
What did she know?
It was suddenly the silly season again. Sometimes her mind had a habit of collapsing into nonsense, into gibberish, when she was over tired. Self-defense, she wondered. Did it shut down when she was on overload?
She asked herself again. What did she know? Que sais-je? as the French philosopher Montaigne had once asked four centuries ago. Montaigne, whose early works had dealt with spiritual pain and death, concepts very close to her right now. But his later works, after he had had a lifetime to think things over, had been reduced to a few concepts that were very simple, including one that greatly appealed to her: that a person must discover his or her own nature in order to live in peace and dignity.
Had she discovered hers? Had Federov discovered his, which was why he seemed more at peace with himself and the world than when last she saw him?
What about Peter? What about Rizzo? What about her friend Ben back in Washington? She had no idea what Montaigne knew but she knew what she knew.
Que sais je? Montaigne had often asked that question as a way of suggesting that he, or anyone, didn’t really know much of anything.
She asked herself again. What did he know?
She tried to clear her head and force the analytical parts of her mind into overdrive.
What did she know?
She knew that Jeffrey Dahmer had been the first criminal to rivet her in horror when she was about twelve years old, and she knew that Ally McBeal had been her favorite TV show in college. She also knew that someone had swiped a “lamentation” from a museum in Madrid, that at least a half dozen people had been killed over it so far, if not more, that there had been some sort of transaction involved, money to finance something, that the Russian-Ukrainian mob still controlled many ships in the Mediterranean, that Peter was capable of killing people, just like Federov, that this “source” whom they were going to see had better have some good info to make the trip necessary, and that most stolen artwork was never recovered. But she also knew enough to know how much she didn’t know; namely, where this case was ultimately headed.
“Water?” came a voice next to her.
Federov had slid into the seat next to her. He handed her a bottle of water. She accepted it. In his other hand, he held something. A book.
“I want to ask you something,” he said in English. “You might be the only one I know who can tell me.”
“Go ahead,” Alex said. “Ask.”
He turned the book over on his lap, the battered front cover facing up. It was thin and plain white with black Cyrillic lettering. She looked down at it and read.
Title and author:
“Yes?” she answered, after a glance. “I know it.”
“What is this?” he asked. “I was told by a friend I should read it.”
“In English it’s called The Cherry Orchard. It’s by Anton Chekhov, a great Russian writer.”
“He’s alive, Chekhov?”
“No, no. He’s been dead for many years, Yuri. This is a play. A drama. Theater.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Who gave this to you?” she asked.
“There’s a cafe I go to in Geneva. There are some young Russian emigres who go there to drink, smoke, and gossip. This one girl, very pretty, very lovely. She was an actress in Moscow and St. Petersburg. She gave this to me and told me I should read it. She said she once played the part of a girl named Varya. She wants to play the role again and wishes me to finance a production in French.”
“I know the character,” she said.
“You’ve read this?”
“Yes. And I once saw the play performed in London.”
“What is it about?”
“If I remember correctly,” Alex said, “it’s about an aristocratic white Russian woman and her family in Yalta about a hundred years ago. They return to the family’s estate just before it is auctioned to pay the mortgage. They’ve lost most of their family fortune. The play ends with the estate being sold and the family leaving to the sound of their beloved cherry orchard being cut down. Varya is an adopted daughter, a mysterious girl who is central to the story.”
“Ha!” he laughed. “That’s very old-style Russian. They probably sat around trying to figure out what to do and meanwhile their home disappeared.”
“That’s exactly what happened,” Alex said.
“Then I don’t need to read it. And the story shows the merits of having money,” he said. “If the family still had money, even if they had stolen it from someone else, their estate would not have been sold.”
“That’s very Russian too.”
“What is?”
“Your attitude.”
He laughed again. “That is the way of the world,” he said. “And that’s new-style Russian.”
“But it’s not the morale that Chekhov wanted you to take from the story.”
“No? Then what is?”
“Read the play,” she said. “Then you tell me what you think the author had in mind.”
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “This young girl whom I know, the actress,” Federov said, “she wants me to finance a small theater production in Geneva so she can play the role again. This time in French.”
“And will you? Finance it?”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
“If she sleeps with you, you mean.”
“Maybe,” he said again. “She is very pretty, the way young Russian girls are very pretty at age twenty. If she became my mistress, I would do that for her.”
“Does she know that?”
“I’ve told her.”
“And what did she say?”
“She gave me the play and told me to read it.”
Alex laughed out loud. “Then you should read the play,” she said. “Do yourself two favors at once.”
“I had an uncle who was an actor,” Federov said. “He was always reading plays and performing. He did Chekhov too, but I never paid much attention.”
“Well, now you have the time. So you can read.”
“There were a lot of Jews in his theater.”
“So what?”
“I’m just saying,” he said. “There were a lot of Jews.”
“Every time I think you almost might be a normal human being you do something to undermine that notion and offend me.”
“What did I do to offend you?” he laughed.
“How much longer is our flight?” she asked.
“Not much longer,” he said, taking back the book. “The trip will be worth it,” he said. “I know that’s something that worries you.”
“I just need to get a job done,” she said.
“Oh, you will,” he said. “I have a matter or two to attend to myself. So this is not bad.”
She nodded. He gave her a friendly tap on the nearest knee, stood, and went back to sit with his bodyguards. They were playing cards. She watched him put the book aside. Alex glanced across the aisle. Peter was smiling, having listened in on the entir
e exchange.
A few moments later, she felt the pilot reduce the thrust of the Cessna’s engines. They had started their descent into Genoa.
FIFTY-SIX
ROSANATO, VILLA MALAFORTUNATA, ITALY, SEPTEMBER 16, 7:24 P.M.
T hey touched down at the landing field in Italy less than an hour later. The field was small and serviced private planes only. It was adjacent to the much larger Genoa airport. The terminal was small, and they walked through customs with barely a nod from the Italians at each of their passports.
Then they were in a parking area. It was past nine in the evening and they walked to a van. Rizzo was already there, having connected earlier with Federov’s driver, a young Italian kid with a distinct northern accent. Alex pegged him as a Genovese, but wasn’t sure.
They piled into the van, the driver, Rizzo, Federov, and Alex, and one of the bodyguards, Dmitri, who came along. The driver also had some sandwiches in a box, with some more bottles of water.
“It’s not far from here,” Federov said. “The house where we are going.”
“Are you taking some precautions?” Alex asked. “About being followed?”
“Of course,” Federov said.
Federov gave the Italian kid a nod and they took off. They were on a motorway within a few minutes. The sandwiches were passed around with the water. They were lifesavers at this point. They hit a village that had a surprising amount of activity for the hour. But it was very late summer, so the Italians were enjoying evenings in their cafes, dining, laughing, and drinking.
Minutes later the van rolled to a halt in front of a public garage, part of a gas station. The garage appeared to be closed, but when the driver of the van honked twice, a large door came up noisily and automatically.
The van rolled in. Federov instructed everyone to get out and move quickly. He led them to a BMW SUV, a big overpowered Black Mariah of a vehicle that had a new driver and its engine running. The group quickly jumped into the SUV, all except for Federov’s bodyguard Dmitri, who jumped into a second car by himself, a compact Fiat. Obviously, the bodyguard knew the directions and grudgingly, Alex had to admire the efficiency of Federov’s team, even in retirement.
Another door rolled upward in the rear of the garage.
Dmitri hit the gas on the Fiat with a sharp jerk and rolled out first, followed quickly by the SUV. Federov sat up front, his broad shoulders more than filling the seat. The new driver, another Italian kid in a white open-collared shirt and a cigarette over his ear, floored it.
Alex was in the backseat sitting in the middle between Rizzo and Peter. Out they rolled into the darkness.
They went through some side streets with the driver following the first car closely but constantly checking the rearview mirror. But there were no other cars behind them, and they seemed to be traveling cleanly.
No watchers, no shadows. At one point they passed a police vehicle but it gave them no notice. There was no traffic. The driver drove fast but smoothly. Half a moon was shining on northern Italy. They hit one of the older highways that meandered upward along the shore and then along cliffs where the guardrails had been badly dented from years of haphazard driving. At one point on a curve, there was a section that had been knocked out by a car that hadn’t quite navigated the turn, either through fog, Alex guessed, or the fog of beverage. But then they were racing down a hill again.
Federov broke out a pack of his inevitable cigarettes, lit one, and offered the pack around the car. Everyone declined except the driver, who lit his smoke from his boss’s. Peter made a point of lowering his window by a quarter.
Within fifteen minutes, they were off the motorway and onto a narrow back road. They cut through several residential neighborhoods. New houses, very middle class. No one spoke. The driver had one of those new European sky radio stations that was playing bouncing European pop which fit the occasion as well as anything. Alex liked the music.
Then they went down a final street and Alex could see that the bodyguard in the lead car, Dmitri, had pulled to a stop in front of a house. Dmitri stepped out of his car, and Alex saw he was holding a pistol and waiting.
But there was no reason for alarm. She saw no one else, and she knew he was just doing his job, providing cover. The SUV rolled into the driveway of a house that had its lights on.
The driver hit his horn once and cut his lights into darkness. The downstairs lights in the house went off. Federov raised his meaty left hand to indicate that everyone in the van should remain quiet and still as a precaution. Alex’s lateral vision caught sight of Dmitri standing in the driveway, his gun still drawn, his arm at his side, also smoking a cigarette, watching the house.
Then the driver flashed his lights twice.
From within the house, the downstairs lights flashed twice in response.
“Okay,” Federov said.
The car doors opened, and they all slid out, Alex exiting on the side of Peter who offered her a hand, which she accepted.
They walked up the front path to the house. The door opened and they went inside. The place was furnished with surprising comfort. They were met by another Russian who must have been six and a half feet tall. He wore a black leather jacket despite the warmth of the evening and went by the name of Grisha. Grisha wore a nine millimeter automatic on his right hip. Alex counted him as another one of Federov’s transplanted hoods from Ukraine. When he nodded to Alex and shook her hand, he nearly crushed it. And he was on his best behavior.
“How’s Ahmet today?” Federov asked in Russian, which Alex followed easily.
“Better,” Grisha answered, whatever that meant. He didn’t expand.
“He doesn’t have a telephone does he?” Federov asked.
“No, sir.”
“Does he take walks?”
“No, sir. Not unattended.”
“What does he talk about?”
“Not much, sir.”
“Good,” Federov said. “Does he have a weapon at all?”
“Just a knife. Makes him feel safe.”
They both laughed.
“Should I take it away from him?” the guard asked.
“Don’t bother,” Federov said. “Any little boy can play with a knife. Maybe he’ll cut his wrists later and solve a problem for us.”
Dmitri thought this was funny. So did Federov. Rizzo rolled his eyes.
Another man, whom Federov addressed as Ramiz was waiting for them in the living room. He was a small man in his fifties with a sharp intelligent face. Alex took one look and knew he wasn’t there for his muscle, so he must have been there for another reason. She soon learned: he was a Federov employee who served as an interpreter in Arabic.
Ramiz sprang to his feet, respectfully and fearfully, when he saw Federov. He joined in the group. They walked to some steps and went upstairs. They headed to what was the master bedroom suite of the new house, Grisha leading the way.
He pushed open a door without knocking, and the whole group walked in.
The room had a claustrophobic and condemned feel. It smelled of sweat, cigarettes, and some spice that she couldn’t place, maybe curry. Alex saw a frightened man on a bed, skin of mocha hue, unshaven for several days. This was Ahmet. He was dressed in jeans and a sports shirt. He had a paring knife by his side. Nothing special, just the type of thing that a chef might use to chop celery.
“Get up,” Federov ordered.
The man was pale and as jittery as a frightened cat. He couldn’t take his eyes off Alex when the visitors arrived and surrounded him.
“Hello, Ahmet,” Federov said in English.
Ahmet nodded and continued to stare at Alex. First at her breasts, then at her face.
“We’re going to talk about what happened,” Federov said. “You’re going to sit at that table over there and you’re going to tell us everything you know, everything you’ve done.”
Ramiz jumped in, translating into Arabic. As Ramiz spoke, Alex glanced to her right. There was an oblong table, large enough to seat
twelve, the type that might be used for conferences. It was so big that it might have overpowered the room, except a wall had been taken down with sledge hammers-a huge gaping gash-and the hole led into the next room.
There was some back and forth in Arabic between the hostage and Ramiz, who blurted out several things quickly. He spoke with great animation and shook his head in Alex’s direction. He indicated that he had issues with Alex being there.
“What’s his problem?” Federov asked. “Doesn’t he know he’s not allowed to have problems?”
Ramiz turned back to Federov. Ramiz spoke with a very precise brand of English, almost too perfect, as if he had been educated at British schools, same as Peter.
“Signor Ahmet has informed us,” Ramiz said evenly, “that he feels he is being mistreated here. He further adds, and I quote directly here, that he refuses to speak at all in front of this woman.”
“Why not?” Federov asked.
The hostage must have understood the question because he offered several utterances in Arabic. Ramiz gave it a moment, as if he were trying to add some delicacy to it. Then he translated.
“Ahmet says he has no desire, sir,” Ramiz said, “to be put on display for one of your cheap filthy whores.”
Alex blinked. So did Rizzo. Federov nodded pensively. A second passed, during which the prisoner appeared as if he thought he had scored an important point.
In one movement, Federov pulled back his enormous fist and blasted Ahmet in the side of the face. He held him in place with one hand and then delivered a second blow right after the first. Same location.
Never in Alex’s life had she seen such a pair of devastating punches thrown by a bare hand. She had gone to prize fights a couple of times with friends in Los Angeles, had sat close to the ring, and had seen the fists land. She had been at hockey games when players had squared off right on the other side of the glass. But she had never seen a one-two punch like this.