Avenue of Thieves

by Sean Black

  “Checked in on her an hour ago. She seems a lot perkier. I think she’s just happy to be home.”

  “That’s good,” said Lock.

  “Maybe things are starting to settle down,” said Ty.

  “Either that, or this is the calm before the storm.”

  Dimitri walked back down the stairs. He clapped Ty on the shoulder. “That’s the best Anastasia has looked in weeks. Whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it. Perhaps you can see if you can cheer up that wife of mine while you’re at it. What do you say?”

  Ty gave a nervous smile as Lock studied the carpet at his feet.

  “In fact, why don’t you both join us for dinner?”

  “That’s not really how it works,” said Lock, stepping in to save Ty any further embarrassment.

  “I insist.”

  33

  Ty pulled Lock to one side as they made their way into the dining room.

  “Can’t you make an excuse for me?” said Ty.

  “What am I, your mom?”

  “Come on, man. This is going to be awkward as all hell.”

  Lock wasn’t going to lie. He found Ty’s discomfort a rare ray of entertainment among all this chaos. “I thought nothing happened.”

  “It didn’t,” Ty protested.

  “So what’s the issue?”

  Dimitri and Elizabeth walked down the stairs together and into the hallway. Elizabeth had changed into a figure-hugging dress and had put on make-up. She looked every inch the glamorous wife of one of New York’s wealthiest men. A snapshot taken right now would have made their life seem perfect to many people, Lock reflected. Dimitri Semenov seemed to have it all.

  “Problem?” said Dimitri, as he spotted the two bodyguards’ conspiratorial huddle.

  Ty saw his chance to extract himself. “No problem, but someone should probably keep an eye on the camera feeds.”

  “We have one of McLennan’s men on that,” said Lock. “You can take over after dinner.”

  Ty shot Lock a death-stare as Elizabeth bore down on them.

  “You know what they say?” she said, linking her arm through the African American Marine’s arm.

  “What’s that?” said Ty.

  “All work and no play. Now why don’t we have ourselves a little pre-dinner cocktail?”

  “Not for me,” said Ty. “I’m still on duty.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Elizabeth, sounding like she’d already had a drink.

  Behind them, Dimitri caught Lock’s eye and shrugged. “This is my wife’s way of punishing me for my many indiscretions. She likes to humiliate me in public.”

  “You don’t look humiliated.”

  “Oh, I’m not,” said Dimitri. “She just looks ridiculous.”

  “I heard that,” Elizabeth shouted over her shoulder. “Now can I get anyone else a drink?”

  Lock was starting to think that Ty might have had a point. They should have found some pretext to duck out of this. There were few things Lock enjoyed less than being trapped in the middle of someone else’s domestic drama. Unfortunately it was often part of the job. For some reason bodyguards were often seen as substitute therapists. And, unsurprisingly, being hit on or propositioned also seemed to come with the territory.

  Lock watched as Elizabeth poured herself and Dimitri drinks. She handed one to her husband. The body language between them was weird. Lock was no psychologist, but it was if all the sniping was for the benefit of the evening’s audience.

  Madeline walked into the drawing room. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had to finish up a few things at the office.”

  “I asked Madeline to join us,” said Dimitri.

  “Oh, good,” said Elizabeth, her tone layered with a faint hint of sarcasm. “Drink?” she added, holding up her glass.

  “Gin and tonic, please,” said Madeline.

  “Well, help yourself. You know where everything is,” said Elizabeth, stalking back to Ty. “Tyrone, why don’t you show me your gun?”

  Dimitri sat at one end of the dining table, his wife at the other end. To no one’s surprise, and everyone’s embarrassment, she had insisted that Ty sit next to her. Lock was on Dimitri’s right, with a good view of the window that faced onto the street. Madeline was the gooseberry in the middle.

  It may have been the most awkward dinner party Lock had attended, but he had to admit the food was excellent and plentiful. Unfortunately, so was the wine. Elizabeth had already worked her way through her cocktail and was on her third glass by the time the entree was served by the family’s chef.

  Ty, tired of being asked suggestive questions, looked down the table at Dimitri who, despite his wife’s behavior, seemed to be in a relaxed, expansive mood. Lock guessed that this had been the pattern of their relationship for a while now.

  “You mind me asking you something?” Ty said to their host.

  “Of course not.”

  “How come you and the other . . . What do they call them? Oligarchs. How come you guys made all this money?”

  To Lock’s surprise, the question didn’t appear to annoy Dimitri in the slightest.

  “I guess that we saw opportunity where others didn’t. While everyone around me was panicking about the collapse of the old order, I could see the new one. One like America where there was freedom, and opportunity. If you were prepared to risk everything.” He smiled before continuing, “Which is easy when you don’t really have anything.”

  At the far end of the table, Elizabeth held up her hand, rubbing her thumb and the tip of her index finger together. “Here we go. Time to break out the world’s smallest violin. My husband loves telling people about how poor he was. In fact, he loves it almost as much as cheating on me.”

  Dimitri straightened in his chair, ignoring his wife’s barbs. “Let me tell you all a joke that explains how things were. And how I was able to do so well. You know I started selling cars, right?”

  He looked around the table.

  “So back then, even if you had the vouchers, or the money, or a connection in the Communist Party, you had to order your car years ahead. So one day Ivan goes to check on his order. He’s already been waiting for four years. Anyway, he goes to the official at the factory and they tell him, ‘Ivan, we’re very sorry, but you’re going to have to wait three more years for your car. But, I promise you, three years from today, it will be ready.’”

  Dimitri looked around his guests, pausing for effect. Lock had to give it to him, he was actually a pretty decent storyteller.

  “Ivan is disappointed, but he’s already waited for four years. Really, what’s another three on top of that? But he asks the official, ‘And this car, will it be delivered in the morning or the afternoon?’ The official’s puzzled. ‘Why does that matter?’”

  Dimitri took a sip of wine.

  “‘Well,’ says Ivan, ‘I already have a plumber booked for the afternoon.’”

  Everyone laughed politely, apart from Elizabeth.

  “What I did,” Dimitri went on, “was make sure that if you wanted a car, you could have a car.”

  “If you had the money,” said Elizabeth.

  “Of course,” said Dimitri. “That’s capitalism. Supply and demand.”

  “You should ask my husband how he got the cars,” said Elizabeth. “While you’re at it, ask him how he made all this money. He liked to make out he worked for it, but that’s a lie.”

  Dimitri’s expression shifted. Now he was getting annoyed. “That’s enough, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth Semenov was not for being shut up. Not by anyone, and certainly not by her husband. “He stole it. And when he was caught he got on a plane from Moscow and came here and claimed asylum. Isn’t that right, darling?”

  “My wife inherited her money,” said Dimitri. “She’s never had to dirty her hands. Not once.”

  “That’s not true. I was working when you met me.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure organizing charity events for a non-profit was how you paid for your apartme
nt on Park Avenue and your accounts at Bergdorf and Chanel.”

  “This meal is absolutely delicious,” said Ty, trying to reroute the conversation as Dimitri and Elizabeth drew daggers at each other from opposite ends of the table.

  “I’ll admit that I was fortunate in my upbringing,” said Elizabeth, “but I’ve never stolen. I’ve never cheated.”

  “Never cheated?” said Dimitri. “Come on, Elizabeth. We both know you’ve had affairs.”

  “Only after you did.”

  “So why do you stay?” Dimitri asked her. “If it’s so terrible, so awful living with me. You and I both know why.”

  Elizabeth Semenov slammed her hands down on the table, sending a fork flying. It landed with a rattle on the floor. “Oh, fuck you.” She got up, a little unsteady on her feet. “You think I won’t leave? Just watch me.”

  Lock looked down the table at Ty, both men thinking the same thing. If she was even vaguely serious, this could be all kinds of bad. Lock was hoping it was just an idle threat, something people said in the heat of an argument. He wasn’t about to intervene in someone else’s squabble. Not unless he had no alternative. This was a textbook example of why professional boundaries were so important when it came to close protection. No good ever came from being drawn into a client or principal’s dramas.

  They watched as Elizabeth stormed out of the dining room. Dimitri pushed back his chair. “She’s been under a lot of pressure. Anastasia being sick and then everything else. I’ll speak to her.”

  “Maybe give it a minute. Let her cool down,” suggested Lock.

  A few seconds later she stormed back in, went to where she’d been sitting and picked up her wine glass, waving it in the air as she launched back into her threat to leave, taking their daughter with her. “You don’t believe me? Well, you just watch me. I’m taking Anastasia and I’m going to the Hamptons, away from all this … all this … toxic bullshit of yours.” She took a breath. “Tyrone, come with me. You can help us pack.”

  Ty didn’t move. Lock knew he wouldn’t. If there was one thing Ty would like less than some rich white woman thinking he’d be her sex toy, it was being spoken to like Elizabeth Semenov had just spoken to him.

  Lock had known his friend long enough to be sure that Ty didn’t play those games. He had boundaries. He expected people to respect them. And woe betide anyone who didn’t.

  Ty stared at her. He didn’t move.

  “Tyrone,” she repeated.

  Seconds passed. With glacial slowness Ty got to his feet, but he stayed standing next to his place at the table. “Listen, lady, and this applies to both of you,” he said, taking in Dimitri too. “You’ve got a sick little girl up in that room. Whatever the deal is between you, that’s your business, but she doesn’t need to be listening to the two people she’s counting on to sit down here getting sloppy drunk and tearing each other apart like this.”

  “Who do you think you’re speaking to?” said Elizabeth.

  “You don’t want me to answer that,” said Ty. “Believe me.”

  Thankfully, Elizabeth Semenov wasn’t drunk enough to say anything.

  “You take your daughter and leave here, that’s your right,” continued Ty. “I can’t imagine any court, or anyone else, would be able to stop you. But right now everyone is under threat. Not just your husband. So what are you going to do for security? You wanna tell me that?”

  “We have people.”

  “Right now you have half a security team,” said Ty. “Less than half. And with this Red Notice, good reinforcements are going to be hard to round up. Yeah, sure, you can go hire a bunch of chumps who look the part. New York’s full of guys like that. But they won’t keep you safe. So do everyone here a favor and wake up to what’s going on.”

  “Dimitri, are you going to let him speak to me like that?” she said, appealing to her husband.

  “It’s been a long day, Elizabeth. For everyone.”

  Her eyes were wet with tears.

  Lock noticed that, through all of this, Madeline hadn’t said a word. He imagined she’d been party to more than a few of these rows and wanted to keep her job.

  “Fine. I’m going to bed,” said Elizabeth, turning back around.

  Silence descended in the dining room as they listened to her clatter up the stairs.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Dimitri, mostly directing his apology to Ty, who had sat down to finish his meal.

  Ty stopped chewing and waved his fork. “No offense taken. People have said way worse things to me.”

  “That’s true,” said Lock. “Some of them have been true too.”

  Ty poked his knife at Elizabeth’s plate. “Anyone mind if I . . .?”

  “Go ahead,” said Madeline.

  Ty reached over and moved what was left on Elizabeth’s plate onto his own and went back to eating like nothing had happened. Rather than shouting, if Elizabeth had wanted to get a reaction from the retired Marine all she’d needed to do was pick up his plate.

  “Elizabeth may have a point,” said Dimitri. “The beach, the clean air, the open spaces, it might do Anastasia some good. I know you can’t cover both residences, but I could work from there, for a while at least. The city can be oppressive at times, especially if you feel like you can’t leave.”

  Lock left aside that his wife had wanted to go to the Hamptons precisely to get away from him. Instead he focused on the other problem with the idea. “That’s true,” he said. “I’m sure everyone could benefit from a change of scene. But in the city you’re surrounded by people. Cops too. It’s a much more secure environment.”

  “Try telling poor Ruta that,” said Dimitri.

  “Generally more secure,” said Lock. “You go out to the Hamptons, there’s a fraction of the number of law enforcement officers there are here. Sure it might be easier to see a threat coming, but so what? Manpower’s limited.”

  “So we stay here?”

  “It’s your call,” said Lock, “but that would be my advice. The Hamptons are not generally considered a defensible position.”

  “You’re right,” said Dimitri. “It’s safer here.”

  34

  Ninel took off the headphones and placed them on the table in front of Alexei.

  “Very good work,” she said to the young hacker.

  “There’s less compression on the new phone we gave her. It makes the audio much clearer.”

  She looked up at him. “You can take a break if you’d like.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked her.

  He was reluctant to leave, she could tell. In most ways they had very little in common. But they were both workaholics. When he had been putting together the rig to control the cars she had seen him pull regular twenty-four-hour work sessions, bolstered only by caffeine and sugar.

  He might not have been the most brilliant computer and systems hacker that Russia had produced, but he had to be the hardest-working. He was tenacious, never giving up until he had the problem solved. Perhaps that was something else they had in common, although she suspected what drove them was very different.

  Alexei seemed to relish the intellectual challenge. Ninel was driven by something much more primitive.

  “Yes, go on,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She waited until he had left before walking over to the filing cabinet in the corner of her office, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out two sets of plans.

  Laying them on the table, she ran a finger over both. The new bodyguard, Lock, had been correct. So had his partner. Dimitri Semenov and his family were much safer in the city than at their house in the Hamptons.

  Both homes had high-level security features. But the property on Surfside Drive was far more exposed. It was low-lying. It faced the ocean. Crucially, as Lock had pointed out, it was quiet. The privacy it offered was also its weakness.

  The pressure being applied to Dimitri was working. But not in the way Ninel intended it to.

  He wasn’t the only on
e facing pressure. Questions were being asked back home about her methods. Some had deemed them too audacious. Traitors like Semenov were to be punished. Money that had been expropriated was to be recovered. Those had been the instructions from the very top. But there were other voices. Some in the Kremlin were advising caution.

  Ninel was a long way from being told to stop what she was doing. But the suggestion had been made that maybe she should pull back a little on the throttle.

  She had argued that it would be a fatal mistake. If Dimitri was allowed to regroup, all this chaos would have been for nothing. You needed to force home your advantage when you were winning.

  That was what she planned on doing. But she needed to have deniability. If not for her then for her superiors. For this next part she would have to make the same trade-off that she had when she was recruiting Grigor Novak.

  She walked back to the filing cabinet. This time she opened the top drawer. She drew out three files, opened them on the table, and studied the photographs of the three men.

  35

  The three men dressed as if they were back in Moscow in 1990s, not present-day Brooklyn. Stonewashed denim jeans, wife-beater shirts with no sleeves, chunky gold chains and, the trademark of all Russian émigré gangsters, black leather jackets.

  Between them they were responsible for hundreds, perhaps thousands of crimes, ranging all the way from theft and burglary to extortion, blackmail and murder. The oldest and brightest of them, although that wasn’t saying much, was Viktor, a broken-toothed strip-club owner with a love of violence and, Ninel suspected, a deep-seated hatred of women.

  The club was in the still-to-be-gentrified part of Brooklyn, far from the waterfront and the views to the Manhattan skyline. It was midday, and Ninel was running on under five hours’ sleep.

  The barman studied her with curiosity until she asked for coffee and told him she was there to meet with his boss. He went to get him, came back, told her that Viktor was in the office and would she like to have her coffee in there?