“Give it a read when you can. It’s a collection of what we know about the symbols of the vory. Tattoos, codes, ritual questions and responses. These are practical tools, you understand, a means of transmitting secure messages without words. If you send a broken knife to another thief, it means death is on the way. It’s called a throw, a kind of symbolic shorthand, and it’s precisely the sort of thing that only someone like Vasylenko would know.”
Flipping through the folder, Wolfe saw a list of these significant objects, written in an old man’s spidery handwriting. “I’ll take a look. You said you had something else to tell me?”
“I did,” Powell said. “I’d like you to review some material based on something Tarkovsky told Maddy. She’s looking into it now, although I haven’t spoken with her since she left with him for Sochi—”
It took Wolfe a second to connect this statement with what she knew about the oligarch’s departure, which had been widely covered by the press. “Wait a minute. She’s on Tarkovsky’s yacht?”
“It’s strange, I know,” Powell said. “And it wasn’t my idea. But she’s aware that she needs to be careful. There’s more about this in the report. We can talk it over at the wedding, if not before.”
At the mention of the wedding, Wolfe glanced at her partner’s empty desk. Asthana had taken the rest of the week off, ostensibly to prepare for the ceremony on Saturday, which seemed to belong to another order of reality. All the same, there was no escaping their other concerns, so in the meantime, Asthana had been persuaded to take the lead in the hunt for the informant.
When Wolfe hung up a moment later, she realized that she was exhausted. After listening to Dancy, she no longer knew what she believed, about Ilya or anything else. All the same, she also knew that the solicitor, or his clients, might have good reason to place the blame for the escape on Ilya’s shoulders.
She was about to put the file aside when she was struck by another thought. Looking at the list of symbolic objects that thieves used to send a message, she ran her eye quickly down the column. An apple cut in half meant it was time to divide the loot. A piece of bread wrapped in cloth said the police were closing in. And a piece of rope or fabric with a knot in it—
Wolfe read the words, then shut the folder and sat back at her desk. She remembered the scrap of cloth that she had found at the house in Hackney Wick. It had been left under Ilya’s chair, tied in a loose knot. Most likely it was nothing. But she couldn’t help but wonder.
Because according to the file, it meant: I’m not responsible for what you’ve heard.
37
“This is the finest yacht I’ve ever seen,” Rahim said, looking out at the view from the sun deck. “Tarkovsky wanted something special. Fincantieri had just begun to move into megayachts, so they were eager to show off, but commissions had fallen through after the downturn. Tarkovsky acquired a ship that was under development when the buyer withdrew, but it still took three years to complete.”
Maddy thought briefly of what else Tarkovsky had been doing three years ago, when their paths had nearly intersected, and wondered if this yacht was a part of the same story. She and Rahim were seated in a pair of deck chairs at the highest point of the ship, a cantilevered umbrella shielding them from the sun. In the distance lay the coast of Odessa, startlingly clear in the morning light, as the yacht passed slowly through the waters of the Black Sea. “So what did he want?”
Rahim reached for his glass of mineral water, only to find it empty. Before he could say a word, a stewardess had already appeared with a fresh bottle. “Some owners charter their yachts for most of the year, while others conduct much of their lives on board. Tarkovsky is one of the latter. He wanted to keep an eye on his interests in the Black Sea and elsewhere, so he had some unusual specifications. If you don’t mind taking a walk, I can show you.”
“I’d love that, actually.” Maddy rose from her chair, her dress sticking lightly to her back, and followed Rahim to the starboard side. She had studied the yacht’s layout very carefully. Below her feet was the owner’s deck with Tarkovsky’s suite and separate staterooms for his family. Beneath it lay the bridge deck with the wheelhouse, the library, and the oligarch’s office, where Tarkovsky had spent much of the voyage meeting with executives from Argo and Polyneft.
Maddy had spent most of her own time on the two following decks, which housed the guest cabins, salons, and formal dining room. After this came the lower deck, including the galley, crew quarters, and tender bay, and finally the bottom deck, with its laundry, storage rooms, and eight diesel engines.
Rahim pointed over the railing toward the hull, which rose in a wall of gleaming white above the waves below. “You can’t really tell from here, but this yacht is an ice-class vessel. It has more watertight bulkheads, thicker plate, and stronger scantlings, so it can sail through polar ice if necessary. It’s designed for someone who wants to be ready for anything. Alarms, polycarbonate armor plating, and a few things I can’t talk about. The latest accessories from Bogotá, shall we say—”
Maddy saw that he was showing off for her benefit. “But that’s true of anyone who has the money to afford a ship like this. You make it sound as if Tarkovsky was more interested in something else.”
Rahim turned away from the view. “Again, it isn’t something I can talk about. But if I were concerned about what the future had in store, not just for myself but for the rest of the world, this is where I’d want to be.”
“That’s all very well,” Maddy said. “But what happens when you run out of gas?”
Rahim smiled. “Even there, you have options. Let me show you what I mean.”
She followed him down to the main atrium, where a spiral staircase wound around the elevator shaft, lined with silver leaf. In the salon, a pair of white flower arrangements in Swarovski vases flanked a large striped canvas, which Maddy had confirmed was a real Gerhard Richter. From the music room came the sound of a piano played with deft but impersonal hands, and as Maddy listened, she wondered how Tarkovsky’s daughter felt about her father’s intentions.
Rahim went to a touchscreen panel on the wall by the stairs. Maddy, who had seen identical screens in every salon, knew that they marked Rahim’s greatest contribution to the yacht’s design. Anyone on board, he had explained, could use them to dim the lights or check the weather, but with level-four access, one could control the entire ship from any point on the yacht.
Entering a code of four digits for the highest access level, Rahim called up a fuel report and pointed to the chart on the screen. “See, the main fuel tank has a capacity of a quarter of a million gallons. There’s another hundred thousand gallons on the shadow boat. At our current speed, we can go more than eight thousand nautical miles without refueling.”
Maddy studied the numbers politely. “And if the crew decides to abandon ship?”
“You downsize to the shadow boat,” Rahim said. “Or, in the most extreme scenario, to the expedition boat in the tender bay. There’s enough there to last Tarkovsky and a crew of three for months.”
Maddy laughed. “You make it sound like he’s preparing for the end of the world.”
Rahim restored the touchscreen to its basic level of access. “If you had his money, wouldn’t you?”
Maddy only smiled. For a moment, she felt oddly tender toward this awkward young man, who had no real idea of what she had survived. “Until the grid goes down, I say we enjoy ourselves. Maybe I’ll see you at dinner?”
“I’d like that,” Rahim said. Maddy smiled again and turned away. Feeling him watching her as she left the lounge, she wondered what he would have thought if he had known the truth about what had brought her here, or that she had been looking carefully as he punched in his access code. She had managed to catch the first three digits: a one, a seven, and a zero. And although she had not seen the fourth, she had a good idea of what it might be.
As Maddy mo
ved down the central companionway, she passed a stewardess, who had changed from her formal uniform into a polo shirt and shorts. The stewardess flashed her a smile, which Maddy returned with some uneasiness. Wherever she went, there was always someone on guest watch, keeping notes on what she liked for breakfast or how she took her coffee. For most passengers, such attention would be gratifying, but it also made it hard to go anywhere unobserved.
Heading down the corridor, Maddy reached her own cabin, which was one of eight staterooms on this level. Before unlocking the door, she knocked, but there was no answer.
She went inside, closing the door behind her. There was no sign of Elena. The room itself was immaculately furnished, with a view of the water not quite as spectacular as those in the other cabins but still sufficiently breathtaking. In her absence, the beds had been made and the laundry taken away.
Maddy went into the bathroom, where her toiletries had been subtly straightened beside the gold fixtures of the sink, next to a basket with ten different kinds of shampoo. Pulling her dress over her head, she ran the water in the tub, and she was about to undress the rest of the way when she heard the sound of her phone.
She ran back into the stateroom and opened the drawer of her bedside table. Inside, her phone was ringing. For a moment, she was tempted to ignore it, but she finally answered the call. “Yes?”
The voice on the other end was as distorted as before, and as soon as it spoke, she knew that there would be no real escape, no matter how far they sailed: “It’s time for the second part of your obligation.”
Maddy closed her eyes. In the bathroom, the water was still running. “Go ahead.”
“The yacht will be paying a port of call in Yalta tomorrow,” the voice said. “There’s someone there you need to meet.”
As she listened, Maddy seemed to feel the hood across her face even now. “How will I know who it is?”
“Don’t worry about that,” the voice said. “It will be someone you’ve seen before.”
38
At a porch on the outskirts of Yalta, the door opened a crack, revealing a woman in her forties. She was dressed in kitchen whites, with short hair and black eyes, and something in her features seemed familiar, although Ilya couldn’t quite place it. She looked them over warily. “Yes?”
Bogdan spoke first, giving her the ritual greeting. “Peace in your house, my sister.”
“Welcome with honesty,” the woman said without warmth. She glanced over at Ilya. “And this one?”
Instead of speaking, Ilya only unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and rolled up his sleeve. On the inside of his left forearm, still healing, was a blue tattoo of a coiled snake, its body in an intricate knot.
The woman studied the tattoo, her eyes rising briefly to take in Ilya’s face. At last, she opened the door all the way, standing aside to let them enter. Once they were inside, she closed and bolted the door behind them, sliding the pistol in her other hand into the pocket of her apron.
Ilya looked around the house. It was simply furnished and scrupulously neat, with a door in the front room opening into a tiny kitchen. Without asking for permission, Bogdan went in, checking the rooms one by one, while Ilya and the woman remained at the door, standing well apart from each other. After a pause, Ilya spoke quietly. “What is your name?”
The woman responded in a flat tone, her eyes still pointed straight ahead. “Katya.”
Taking in her thin features and watchful expression, he decided to play a hunch. “You were in Kachanivska?”
The woman turned to him for the first time, a trace of surprise crossing her face. “A long time ago. How did you know?”
“I can tell,” Ilya said. “People like us should know how to recognize each other.”
She looked away without replying. Ilya said nothing more, although he knew a great deal about women like this. After serving their time in prison, they got a respectable job in a new town, and although they were careful to seem above reproach, they remained in contact with the thieves. They swore never to marry, to give up all family, and to live and die as brides of the brotherhood.
It was easy to pity such women, but Ilya’s own position was not so different. Two days before, he had waited patiently as the tattoo of the snake was inscribed on his arm, the girl watching in silence as Dolgan did the work. Afterward, he had looked down at the bandage, on which a few spots of blood were visible, and could only think that he had been marked again, for all his attempts to break free.
A moment later, Bogdan returned to the living room. From his jacket pocket, he took a slip of paper and gave it to Katya. Unfolding it, she read the words in silence, then motioned for them to follow. Going into the kitchen, she opened a door set to one side of the stove and switched on the overhead bulb. She gestured for them to go down the stairs, but Bogdan shook his head. “You first.”
Katya complied without a word, with Bogdan and Ilya following close behind. After descending a few steps, Ilya found himself in the cellar. He saw that it was filled almost to the ceiling with neatly stacked boxes on pallets, some of which had clearly been there for years.
A heavy wooden table stood at the far end of the room. Going up to it, Katya asked the two men to set it aside, which they did. Once the table was out of the way, Katya knelt and turned back the square of carpet, revealing a trapdoor, which she unlocked and opened.
Ilya looked into the niche, which breathed a faint odor of metal and grease. In the dim light, he could make out an assortment of Tokarevs, a Kalashnikov, even a few of the old Stechkins. Ignoring these, Katya pulled out a bundle wrapped in a clean cloth. Inside was a pistol in a shoulder holster, which she handed up to Bogdan, who slid it inside his backpack. Rooting around for another moment, she came up with a black plastic box, which she gave to Bogdan as well.
When she was done, Katya closed and locked the trapdoor again. Bogdan tucked the plastic box under his arm. “That’s all?”
“That’s all I was asked to give.” Katya straightened up. “Put the table back, please.”
Walking past them, she headed for the stairs. As she went up the steps to the kitchen, something in the way her profile was caught against the light told Ilya, at last, where he had seen her face before. They were the same features, he realized, as those of the girl at Dolgan’s house.
When they emerged from the cellar again, they found Katya in the kitchen. “Is there anything else?”
“Food,” Bogdan said. “And a place where we can examine our goods in private.”
“All right, but quickly,” Katya replied. Leaving the kitchen, they followed her to the rear bedroom, which was empty except for a narrow bed, a dresser, and an icon of the Trinity on the far wall. Katya switched on the light and left without a word, closing the door behind her.
Once they were alone, Bogdan set the plastic box on the bed. Opening the backpack, he removed the pistol. With a grin, he ejected the clip, making sure that the chamber was empty, and handed over the gun.
Ilya studied it. A Glock 19 was not his favorite weapon, but it would do. He checked it carefully, noticing that a rail mount was attached to the barrel, and handed it back to Bogdan.
Setting the pistol on the bed, Bogdan undid the clasps of the plastic box and lifted the lid. Inside, embedded in foam molding, were a silencer and two other objects. Bogdan gestured at the components. “You know these?”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “But I haven’t used them before. You’ll need to show me.”
“It’s quite simple.” Bogdan removed the first object, a small black cylinder the size of his thumb. Picking up the pistol, he slid the device onto the rail mount and locked it in place. He pressed a button on the side, holding it down until a green light blinked on, and held it so that Ilya could see the camera lens. “Lithium battery. Six hours of run time. To transmit video, you slide the range switch here, then hold the button until the light goes to red.�
�
Bogdan pressed the button again, turning the camera off, and removed the second object, which was the size of a paperback book. “This is the repeater box. You carry it with you until you’re in position. Then you switch it on, place it in your line of sight, and it transmits the image to us.”
Taking the pistol, Ilya studied the camera on the barrel. “And where will you be?”
“Close enough,” Bogdan said. Taking the gun back, he slid off the camera and put it away. “Any questions?”
Ilya watched as he stowed the repeater box. “I still don’t see why this is necessary.”
Bogdan smiled, closing the lid of the box again. “We’ll know that Tarkovsky is dead when we see it on video. Otherwise, we would have no way to verify the kill. Or did you expect us to take your word for it?”
Ilya did not reply. Opening his pack, Bogdan slid the equipment inside and headed for the door. “Come on,” Bogdan said to Ilya, who had remained by the bed. “We don’t want to be late for your meeting.”
39
In the woods, beyond a stone wall, there stood a cottage out of a fairy tale, creaking softly as it revolved beneath the trees. As it turned slowly into view, Maddy saw that a cow’s skull had been nailed above the doorway. She began to move on, convincing herself that the dread she felt was only her imagination, and was genuinely startled when the door flew open to disclose the witch inside.
Maddy nearly dropped her shopping bag as the witch spun in her direction, grinning horribly, and extended a crooked finger. Hearing a chorus of squeals, she stood aside as a crowd of children rushed toward the witch, who cackled at them in Russian. Feeling strangely sick, she continued up the forest path, heading to where she would await the expected guest.
The yacht had docked in Yalta the night before. Earlier that morning, Maddy had disembarked with a number of other passengers, going past the sea terminal, which looked out on the gray, crowded beach, and continuing along an embankment lined with cypresses.
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