by Andrew Grant
* * *
—
The driver checked the interior of the car very thoroughly when he dropped it around the corner from the limousine depot. The folder was definitely gone from the backseat. Klinsman must have taken it. Along with all of its contents. All the documents that outlined in great detail a fatal flaw that had come to light in a well-known company’s signature product. They confirmed that its regulator knew all about the problem. A confidential memo from a PR consultant suggested a range of strategies to contain the fallout when the bad news inevitably broke. The president of finance had projected the losses she expected to ensue. Their broker had forecast the hit their share price was likely to take. To ensure that these points were clear, graphs were included. They showed a series of red lines plunging relentlessly toward catastrophe. Even the most hopeful scenario ended with a total wipeout.
The driver couldn’t resist a smile. He just wished he could snag a seat at Klinsman’s next dinner party. Shorting is dangerous, Ro Lebedow had said. The losses can potentially be infinite…
I’d been to McGinty’s bar before and I hadn’t hated it. They had good coffee, and when the barman saw I was there with a bunch of cops he added a generous dose of whiskey without feeling the need to ask. Or to charge. The ambience was pleasant, too. The bar itself was long, with plenty of space to sit without feeling crowded. It was made of solid mahogany, darkened over time and wearing the kind of shine that only comes from years of polishing by hand. Its wide array of dings and dents weren’t hidden or disguised. No one had tried to repair them, either. Rather than being shunned as signs of age or disrepair, it was like they were welcomed as distinguished witnesses to all the scenes that had played out there over the last three quarters of a century.
I hadn’t hated the place when I last visited. It was different this time. Sheets of coarse, heavy plywood had been dropped on top of a few rows of upturned beer crates near the wall between the bar and the door. A microphone stand had been thrown on top. A few multicolored lights on wobbly tripods were set up on either side. A battered speaker cabinet perched on each corner. And a computer monitor was fixed to each one.
It was Hell. Otherwise known as Karaoke Night.
Someone had once told me that in Japanese, the prefix ka meant without. That was plausible for karate—without weapons. The guy claimed that on the same lines, karaoke was without instruments. I wasn’t so sure about that. I might have believed him if he’d said without shame. Without self-respect. Without the opportunity to relax without some idiot plaguing you to make a spectacle of yourself despite an utter lack of talent. Robson evidently didn’t feel the same way, though. He’d put in a request before even ordering a drink, and the instant his song started he leaped onto the stage, a whisker away from smashing his head into the air duct that was suspended from the ceiling. He’d chosen “Freedom! ’90” by George Michael. And he did a good job with it. I didn’t want to walk out in the middle of his performance, so I ordered a second cup of coffee and stayed in my seat at the bar. Robson soaked up the applause when he reached the end of his final chorus, then jumped down and came across to join me, still radiating heat and energy.
“You should try it.” Robson waved for a beer. “You might enjoy it.”
“I’m out of here.” I slid a twenty under my coffee mug and stood up. “If Atkinson ever shows, tell him I got sick of waiting. Or that I got sick. Your call.”
A crowd had gathered in front of the stage to watch a woman I recognized as a vice cop from the fifteenth precinct singing “Like a Virgin,” and that delayed me long enough to bump into Atkinson just inside the doorway.
“You’re not leaving?” Atkinson looked genuinely surprised.
“I say this with love, Detective, but if you ever trick me into visiting a karaoke bar again, I’ll kill you and your entire family.”
“You should sing something. Shake this horrible mood you’re in.” Atkinson grinned. “How about ‘Eye of the Tiger’? Can’t you see yourself, stalking your prey in the night?”
I glared at him.
“Maybe a duet, until you’re more comfortable. ‘Out in the Fields’? ‘Dancing in the Streets’? No? OK. I get it. No singing. But at least let me buy you a drink.” He nodded toward an empty table near the door. “I want to thank you for the tip about the bent judge. Him, his crew, it’s huge.”
“Sure. That would be nice. I’ll have a coffee.”
“So how did you find out about the whole bribery thing? An operation like that, there’s a lot of moving parts.”
“It was no biggie. Hang around the courthouse long enough, you hear people talking. Do you think you’ll be able to make the case?”
“Definitely. Rooney was on the job a lot of years. He knows how the game’s played. He’s giving us chapter and verse. And we got another lucky break. A guy came forward, said he’d been approached by Rooney, and volunteered to wear a wire. The weird thing is that he’s not one of Steven Bruce’s clients—but gift horses, right?”
“You’ve got to love it when a citizen chooses to do the right thing.”
“You do. It certainly makes my job easier. And talking of doing the right thing, I owe you an apology. About the Pardew file. I never really believed you’d find it. I made that clear a few times, and I wasn’t subtle. But I was wrong. You came through. I never should have doubted you.”
“I’m happy I was able to help.”
“You never told me where it was.”
“I found it shoved in a closet.”
“A closet you just happened to look in?”
“You know how it goes. Better lucky than good.”
“You’re not going to tell me where it really was, are you?”
“And lose my air of mystery?”
“Oh, is that what you have? But all right. The hint is taken. I’ll say thank you and leave it at that.” Atkinson paused and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Strange coincidence, you finding Pardew so close to your house.”
“Small world.”
“I’m glad you turned him in. Imagine the scenes if my partner, Kanchelskis, had found him floating in the East River.”
“Like you once said, that guy has an oversuspicious nature.”
“Be honest a second.” Atkinson leaned in close. “Weren’t you tempted to take care of things for yourself? Not even for a second? I kind of thought that might have been your goal all along.”
I shook my head. “When I got back from the army and found my father was dead, it looked like Pardew wasn’t even going to stand trial. That’s what I couldn’t live with. But is he guilty? Did he cause my father’s heart attack? I don’t know. The evidence isn’t clear. As far as I know. Better to leave that kind of a decision to a jury.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Can I get you another drink?”
I was about to accept when Robson started singing again. “I Will Survive.” “Another time?”
“Sure.” Atkinson stood and we shook hands. “One other thing. I nearly forgot. Here’s another coincidence for you. That guy Klinsman, who you thought was hooked up with Chinese Intelligence? He’s been arrested. Insider trading. He bought a whole bunch of shares that were in the process of skyrocketing. A buddy in the SEC told me about it. He said they got a tip to check the computer at his apartment in some fancy building on Billionaires’ Row. They found an email on it—a trace anyway, because Klinsman had tried to wipe the disc. It was full of confidential details about a patent the company had just won. Klinsman denied all knowledge. He claimed he’d been forced to buy the shares—and make a huge loss—because of a failed attempt at short-selling. He even produced a stash of documents showing the company was in all kinds of trouble. They were forgeries, of course—real good ones—but they wouldn’t have helped, anyway. He bought the shares. That’s a fact. So either way he was acting on illegal information. It’s still a cri
me, even if you screw up and burn a load of cash.”
I couldn’t hold back a smile.
“What’s so funny? I thought you’d be disappointed that he turned out to be a rogue trader, not a spy or a secret agent.”
“It’s just that when I first heard of the guy, he was pissed because someone had burned down his big house. Now he’s going to a different kind of big house. I feel like that brings a little balance to the world. It restores my faith.”
Mrs. Vincent had been cremated a week ago, but now she was back. She was thinner than I remembered. Her hair was longer. Her skin was chalky white. She was surrounded with a pale, glowing mist. And she was smashing holes in my living room wall.
“What kind of ghost uses a hammer?” I turned on the light and flapped my arms in a vain attempt to dispel the plaster dust that was already starting to cling to my clothes. “I thought you guys could walk through walls.”
Mrs. Vincent suppressed a sneeze, lowered her hammer, and turned to look at me. A hint of a smile played across her face. We stood in silence for a moment, comfortably sharing space at close quarters as we’d done a million times before, then she leaned down to switch off her camping lantern. When she straightened up again she had a small pistol in her right hand. “Hello, Paul. You’re home early.”
I’d seen that kind of pistol before. In a glass case. It’s known as a PSM, because Pistolet Samozaryadny Malogabaritny is such a mouthful. Although the name isn’t as exotic as it first seems. It translates as compact self-loading pistol. It was designed for officers of the Red Army high command but quickly became popular with other branches of the Soviet military. It was admired for its compact dimensions. And for its ability to propel one of its special bullets through fifty-five layers of Kevlar.
One branch of the military had adopted the gun with particular enthusiasm. The KGB.
“Do I need to call the Cold War Museum?” I gestured to her pistol. “Tell them one of their exhibits is missing? Or did you get that thing someplace else?”
“Have you found it?” Mrs. Vincent gestured toward the wall. “Do you have it?”
“If you go all Marathon Man on me, this is going to take ages. So stop with the pronouns and tell me what you’re looking for.”
“The recording device.”
“Why would there be a recording device in my wall?”
“Your mother put one there.”
“She couldn’t have. She never set foot in this house. My father didn’t buy it until after she was dead.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about your mother. She designed a listening system that the FBI used in this house.” Mrs. Vincent reached around and tugged at a mesh of copper wires that was visible through one of the holes she’d broken in the wall. “She helped them install it here. And she died here.”
“She died at the house in Westchester.”
Mrs. Vincent shook her head. “In this house.” She walked to the doorway and pointed to a spot on the floor with her foot. “Right here. She was shot in the neck. She bled to death.”
“Did you shoot her?”
“No. But I was here when it happened. I saw.”
“How on earth did you come to be here?”
“That’s a long story.”
Very slowly, and with an eye on her gun, I moved across and lowered myself into one of the chairs. The one Robson normally uses, because it was farther away from her. “I’m not going anywhere. Are you?”
Mrs. Vincent hesitated, and shifted her weight between her feet. “I just want the device. Then I’ll go.”
“Do you know what it looks like?”
“No.”
“Where it is? There are lots of walls in this house.”
Mrs. Vincent didn’t answer.
“Do you really think you’ll find it?”
Mrs. Vincent stayed silent.
“What’s so important about this thing, anyway? Whatever’s on it, whatever it reveals about you, no one would come looking. You’re officially dead. Why wouldn’t you stay that way?”
“And go where, Paul? And do what? I’m sixty-seven years old. I don’t want to start my life all over again. I’ve done that too many times already. And how would I find a place to live? Where would I get the money for food? I realized I just want to be back in Westchester, doing what I was doing.”
“So why run in the first place?”
“Protocol. A little bird told me you’d hired a security company. As soon as they started work they’d discover the monitoring system. They’d find the recorder. You’d listen. I couldn’t be around when that happened. So I pulled the rip cord. That’s what I’m trained to do.”
“Then why come back?”
“I got to California, where my fictitious friends are supposed to be. I had the pre-prepped documents dated and sent to Ferguson. And that’s when everything started to unravel. I’m a relic, Paul. My motherland’s gone. My handler’s gone. The rest of my escape route was gone.”
“So you thought you’d resurrect yourself?”
Mrs. Vincent nodded. “I figured I’d claim there’d been an admin screwup. Mistaken identity. It would be easy to prove I was alive, after all. But first, I needed the recorder.”
“What’s so important about it?”
Mrs. Vincent didn’t respond.
“If you’re worried about admitting you were a KGB agent, I have news for you. That rabbit’s out of the hat. And I knew my mother was an electronics engineer. I just didn’t know who she was working for. So what happened? This place was a Soviet safe house, and the FBI bugged it with her system?”
“It was still experimental. Your mother shouldn’t have been here. The whole thing was—how do you say it?—a cluster fuck. There was shooting. A grenade. You lost two. Us, one. Plus I was injured.” She rolled up her sleeve and revealed her scar. “Here. And I almost lost the sight in one eye. I couldn’t work in the field after that.”
“I understand cluster fucks. I’ve been on the wrong end of a few myself. But why were you here? Was your cover blown? Were you running?”
Mrs. Vincent shook her head. “I was called here for a briefing. New equipment.”
“Why would you care about that being recorded? Everything from the eighties has been obsolete for years.”
“I don’t care about the briefing. It’s my voice. It’s on that tape. Speaking English, to the other agent before the technician arrived. That was the rule. We were never allowed to talk in Russian. If anyone else heard that—Joe Public, the authorities—who cares? But you? You were in Military Intelligence. You were trained how to listen. You’d recognize my voice. Know it was me.”
“And now I’ve found out, anyway.”
Mrs. Vincent nodded. “Which is a problem. And there’s only one solution, as far as I can see.”
She raised her PSM. Looked me in the eye for ten hour-long seconds. Then reversed the gun and handed it to me. “I’m throwing myself on your mercy, Paul. One professional to another. I’ve said enough. Do what you think’s right. I won’t fight you.”
The gun nestled comfortably in my hand, reassuringly solid and heavy.
“After my mother was dead and you couldn’t return to the field, how did you end up at our house? The KGB wasn’t known for its child-raising program.”
“I wasn’t sent there because of you. Your father was the target. Close surveillance.”
“My father was a businessman. He had nothing to do with counterintelligence.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about your father. A lot I could tell you, if I have the chance.”
“My father was a pacifist and—” I was interrupted by another voice in my head. Pardew’s. He’d said my father wanted to clear the place out…“Wait. My father knew about my mother’s monitoring system being here?”
“Of course.�
��
“He knew she died here?”
Mrs. Vincent nodded.
“That’s why he bought the place?”
She nodded again.
“OK. Some pieces are falling into place, but I need to think for a moment. Make sure I’m seeing the full picture. So, come. Sit.”
Mrs. Vincent took the seat I normally used, but within a couple of minutes she was fidgeting like a two-year-old. “I need to do something. How about a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“Your father always liked tea at times like this, when he needed clarity.”
I thought about my father for a moment, and the predictability of his habits.
“Actually, that’s a good idea. We should have some tea. I’ll make a pot.”
“No, I’ll do it.” She reached across and touched my arm. “You have a lot to process. And I looked after you for lots of years. I’ve missed it.”
“I don’t know. There’s a door leading out of the kitchen. What’s to stop you from running?”
“What would be the point?” She stood up, stretched her arms out wide, and turned a full circle. “I don’t have the recorder. That’s the time bomb I came to defuse, and it’s still ticking. Unless you decide to stop it.”
“OK. Fair point. Let me help you, then. It’s my buddy’s kettle, and it’s really weird.”
“I can manage! I think it’s fair to say I’ve used more kettles and made more cups of tea in my life than you ever will.”
“All right. But one other thing. There’s only one real cup, and it isn’t clean, so you’ll have to use disposable ones. And me, I don’t take milk.”
* * *
—
Mrs. Vincent returned ten minutes later. She was using the glass turntable from the microwave as a tray to carry three paper cups. Two were full of tea. The other, some milk.
“You choose.” She set the tray on the table between us and sat back down.
I started to reach for the cup that was closer to me, then changed my mind and stretched across to take the other. “I’ll leave you the one with room for milk.”