This morning, she rose early and got dressed before Simon woke. From his grumpy attitude at breakfast, she figured he meant to skip out on her and do this interview solo. No way. If he found out anything about Gabe, she wanted to hear it firsthand. No sugar coating. No hedging on the truth.
She already knew the worst. Didn’t she? So here she was.
“Would you like some coffee, Harris?” Mascolo asked.
Caffeine, yes. The stronger the better. “Yes, please.” In the past, she’d have asked a fellow operative to call her by her first name. But strictly professional and formal was her new rule. The reason for her glasses. And last names only.
“Regular java,” the bulldog-faced DARK operative said with a half grin. “None of that flavored crap, um stuff.”
She pushed the glasses firmly on her nose and nodded. “Fine. Black, please. No sugar.”
“Be right back.”
With his official presence gone, she turned her attention to the interrogation on the other side of the glass.
The two men facing each other were a study in contrasts. Simon slouched in the metal folding chair at a battered wooden table. His hair defied taming, like its owner. Seen in profile, his look — scuffed leather jacket, faded jeans and curled upper lip — projected street tough. Anyone who didn’t know better would label him the suspect and the other man the official. Except for the metal cuffs locked on Wharton’s wrists.
Leo Wharton looked every inch the college football star and Army colonel he’d been. About six foot three and in his mid-forties, he wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a military cut. His biceps stretched the pressed cotton of his white monogrammed dress shirt. He sat at attention and glared at Simon with dark eyes like black coals.
Simon had introduced himself when the prisoner entered. For the past ten minutes, the two men had been waging a silent staring duel.
“Here you go.” The DARK officer handed her a steaming brew in a foam cup.
She thanked him and sipped the coffee — bitter and strong enough to power a SpaceX rocket — as she waited for something to happen. At this rate, they’d be here all day.
Wharton frowned and leaned forward slightly. “Either get to your questions or send me back to the safe house. At least there, I don’t have to look at your ugly face.”
Ah, finally. Simon had gotten the reaction he wanted. His opponent caved first.
Simon straightened his shoulders. “I understand your pal Viktor Roszca has a special consignment for sale. You know anything about a shipment from Cleatia?”
Wharton matched Simon’s lip curl with his own. “Roszca doesn’t confide in me.” He cocked his head. “What kind of shipment?”
The smuggled nuclear material hadn’t come up in the man’s last meeting with the arms broker. Maybe he didn’t know. Then how would this line of questioning lead them to Roszca’s hideout?
Her chest tightened. When would Simon ask about Gabe?
“I don’t buy your ignorance act.” Simon shrugged. “You might not be Roszca’s confidant, but you’re on the grapevine. Or you were.”
Wharton said nothing.
Perhaps the man’s fear of Roszca’s reprisal kept him silent.
Simon continued evenly, “Anything you tell me won’t be used in your case. That’s the main reason your lawyer okayed this interview.”
Still mute, Wharton stared at the scuffed tabletop.
“Too bad your clients will miss out on this chance. You could’ve made enough to retire. Oh, sorry. You are retired.” Simon grinned.
“You should do stand-up on The Comedy Channel,” Wharton said, his face impassive. “You won’t get anything out of me.”
Simon slid a single sheet of paper across the table. “Roszca might not think so when he sees this press release that the New York DARK office will send out after I leave.”
As the former colonel read the three paragraphs, beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. So the possibility that Roszca might think he blabbed did strike fear in his heart. The press release was a bluff, but Wharton didn’t know that.
Encouraged, Janna inched closer to the glass.
Chapter 5
“NOT TOO CLOSE, Harris,” Mascolo said. “He can see your shadow.”
Janna curtailed her impulse and backed up a step.
“If you help me out,” Simon continued, “I’ll tear this up. No word of our discussion will reach the media.”
Hatred burned in Wharton’s black eyes. His shoulders bulged as he curled his big hands into fists. “How do I know I can trust you to keep your word?”
“You don’t.”
After a few minutes of a new staring session, Wharton sagged, apparently conceding defeat. “I don’t know much. The shipment’s about five kilos of weapons-grade uranium.”
Elbows on the table, Simon leaned forward into the other man’s space. “If it’s going to the highest bidder, how’s he running the sale?”
Wharton wiped sweat from his upper lip with his manacled hands. “He’s arranged a summit for the big players. A private auction.”
“Where’s this summit to take place?”
The arms dealer shook his head. “I don’t know. Roszca has a hideaway somewhere. I don’t when.” Once again, he sat at attention, smirking. “You feds picked me up too soon for me to get any further.”
“Where is this hideaway?”
Wharton shifted in his chair. “We’re done here. I’ve told you all I know. Now tear up that press release.”
“One more thing.” Simon fanned out the set of still pictures from the tapes.
Janna held her breath. Her chest tightened so much she thought it might crush her lungs.
“I need names for some of these guys.” Simon tapped a finger on Gabe’s forehead. “This one, for instance.”
Wharton’s mouth turned down at the corners. He shook his head. “Roszca likes to entertain. He invites lots of people to his dinners. I saw this man a few times. Don’t know his name or his game.”
Janna’s heart sank. What did she expect? That Wharton would finger Gabe as an undercover fed? All his recognition of Gabe accomplished was to verify what they already knew.
Except that Wharton had seen Gabe more than once. What did that mean?
***
In the afternoon, Simon and Janna toured coffeehouses in the Eastern European sector of the East Village, where Mascolo indicated the two Cleatians worked.
Doubtful that the two low-level goons knew anything helpful. Simon wanted to get the interviews out of the way fast so they could fly back to Washington. Then he could dump the thorny internal mess in Ramsey’s lap. What he couldn’t dump was his creeping grime of keeping secrets from Janna.
A quick return to D.C. would also mean avoiding a second night of her feminine scent and soft sighs.
Finally, at the last coffeehouse on Second Avenue, they found one of the thugs. Dmitri Tarlev was wiping down a stained oak bar in the back, where they served liquor as well as coffee and pastries.
Janna spoke to the red-haired man in his native language. To Simon’s untutored ear, Cleatian sounded sort of like Russian. He didn’t understand a word, but knew from her reaction that Tarlev agreed to meet with them. DARK would think he ought to be suspicious of her translating. Dammit.
After they left the bar, she said, “The other man, Kravka, didn’t show up for work today, but Tarlev will bring him to meet us at a bar he told me about.”
That was the good news. The bad news was the time — after midnight.
One more night at the Delancey Hotel. With Janna.
After midnight also meant backup from local DARK. No venturing into Russian Mafia territory that late at night without support. They could lose more than the envelope of cash in his pocket.
He searched for a way to leave Janna at the hotel in safety, but she couldn’t teach him enough Cleatian or Russian in eight hours. His protective instincts would only get him in deeper t
rouble with her than he already was for trying to duck out on her that morning. Condescending, patronizing, she’d say. She was a fully trained tech officer. She carried a weapon like he did and didn’t need a protector.
But the mere thought of those two gorillas anywhere near her made his stomach muscles seize up.
***
At midnight, the Astor Place subway stop bustled with New Yorkers headed to and from bars and restaurants in the East Village.
“The Danube Bar and Restaurant is on the corner of Jaffe and Stanislaus, a block past Saint Mark’s Place,” Janna said as they exited at street level. “Tarlev said it’s beside this deli.” She pointed to her guidebook. “This is such a quaint district.”
Simon glanced at the page. When she bought the city guidebook, he’d thought it was a good ploy, camouflaging themselves as tourists. More obvious than a phone app. But really she probably wanted it for research as much as for cover. She was the most curious woman — correction, person, male or female — he’d ever met.
And the most enigmatic. What the hell was she wearing those black-rimmed glasses for? He’d looked through them when she left them on the nightstand. Clear glass. She was hiding behind them. But why?
He wanted to rip the glasses off, bury his fingers in her hair and pull her into his arms, but he kept his hands to himself. She’d made it clear that she didn’t want him touching her, that she still mourned her damn hero. Once the truth came out, Harris wouldn’t be anybody’s hero. What would that do to her? Something he shouldn’t concern himself with. They weren’t really friends again. And nothing else was possible. No relationship for him.
Less pain when everything inevitably went to hell.
They walked briskly past closed shops and vendors’ locked carts. On the long blocks that formed Saint Mark’s Place, a few shops and sidewalk vendors stayed open for business, catering to the late bar crowd.
Good. The more people around, the safer he felt. Their backups — a man and woman on foot — picked them up when he and Janna left the subway. Another in a car would drive them away once the meeting ended.
Shops and vendors lined the street. Wasn’t a stretch to think that counterculture funk like vintage clothing, 1960s memorabilia and piercing shops fronted for drug sales. Or maybe his old DEA habits had made him too suspicious.
Janna wasn’t paying attention to the funky shops. He watched her gaze with longing at embroidered peasant blouses and silver jewelry from Ukraine and its neighbors.
“You lived in Ukraine with your parents once, didn’t you?” He immediately wished he’d stifled the personal stuff. Jamming his hands in his jeans pockets, he picked up the pace.
A wistful smile curved her lips. “I was very small, but I especially remember the decorated Easter eggs called pysanky. They make something similar out of wood in Cleatia. So intricate and beautiful. But I don’t see any of them here.”
“We have some time. You can look around if you want.” He should cut her some slack. He didn’t need to be such a hard-ass all the time.
She paused to look at a sidewalk table of carved wooden bowls and leather purses. “The bowls definitely have Ukrainian designs, but not the bags.” She picked up a red tote.
“These guys buy knockoffs,” he said. Street vendors all over the city sold fake designer watches, bags and sunglasses. He’d forked over a ten for shades that afternoon.
The vendor — a tall, thin man with bags under his eyes big enough to rival his wares — ambled closer to Janna. “You like?” And in a quieter voice, “Ve haf de labels.”
Her brow pleated. “What do you mean?”
“De labels.” He extracted a plastic box from beneath a cloth and opened it. “Ve haf de labels. You vant DKNY, Hermès, Prada. Ve haf. Stick on bag.”
Sure enough, inside the box were authentic-looking brass tags with those logos and more. Chanel, Coach, Gucci. To be matched to whatever bag the customer wanted with a hot-glue gun, also in the box. Simon sucked in his cheeks to hold back the laughter that bubbled up in his throat.
Color flared in Janna’s cheeks. She stuck her chin in the air and glared at the vendor. Witchy gray eyes glinting with steely purpose behind her lenses, she shoved the tote into his arms. “But that’s ill—”
“Sorry, man. We gotta go now.” Simon gripped her hand and dragged her toward their destination. “Chill, Officer Harris. We don’t want an international incident. And we don’t want to draw attention.”
If there’d been a cop around, she’d have hauled the uniform over to the vendor. Simon winced.
Behind them, the vendor shrugged and replaced the red bag on his table. The two DARK minders, expressions bland and unfazed, passed him.
“But … but,” she sputtered, “that man had fake labels for cheap bags. Piracy. It’s against the law.” She wrenched from his grasp but continued to walk with him.
“Ah, who’s he gonna hurt? No woman buying from a street hawker thinks she’s getting a real designer purse. A Gucci label makes a woman without very much money feel good, and the guy makes a living.”
“But Simon, rip-offs like that are illegal because they cheat the real designers.”
“Big deal. So the big boys lose a few pennies.”
“But we have to have laws and rules.” She shook her guidebook at him.
“Yes, Ms. Strictly-by-the-Rules. And rules—”
“Are made to be broken. Or challenged.” She finished his usual line for him.
“Like old times,” he said, enjoying her rare smile. “Our old argument. Feels good to be friends again.”
What a crock. As if they could be friends with him probing her. Ms. Strictly-by-the-Rules guilty of anything but loving her husband? He ached to ditch Ramsey’s dirty suspicions. What else he ached to do was hold her and press his lips to the soft skin of her temple. But reality and orders he hated brought him up short.
The Danube was on the next corner. They halted in front of the next-door deli, which was closing. The sandwich board being dragged inside by a stout waiter touted a stuffed-cabbage special. Aromas of cabbage and sauerkraut wafted out the open door.
“I’m ready to go talk to these guys,” she said, coolly professional again. Then she bit her lower lip as if to bite back nerves. “Wharton said Gabe met with Roszca more than once. Maybe they can tell us more about that and about Roszca’s plans, of course.”
“Look, I know Gabe was a great guy and all.” The words almost gagged him, but he had to start gently. “He was real competitive. Maybe he got into arms dealing for the money. There may have been a side to him you didn’t know. You two had the fairy-tale marriage, but you gotta be prepared for—”
“Don’t you worry about me.” Her anger at the shady vendor was nothing compared to the fire she unleashed on him. Her eyes shot mercury darts at him. “Whatever Gabe was doing with Roszca, I can handle it. Now let’s go inside and talk to the Cleatians, shall we?”
He raised his hands in defeat. She was tougher than she looked. The dignity and grace that had sustained her through Gabe’s funeral came back to him. “I’m cool with that if you are. Activate the recorder whenever you’re ready.”
Recording the interview was meant to keep her honest, but verifying her integrity was his plan.
Cheeks still pink with temper, she opened her purse for access to the button on the mini-recorder, then stopped. “One more thing, Simon. Leave my marriage out of it. You have no idea what my marriage was like.” She jabbed the button and stormed past him into the darkened cavern of the Danube.
She wove through trestle tables with people laughing and talking across tables. Patrons drank coffee, beer and wine and ate cheese blintzes and apple cakes.
Janna couldn’t believe she’d yelled at Simon that way. She immediately regretted blurting out that defensive line about her marriage. She didn’t want to pique his curiosity. She inhaled deeply to clear her head.
New York had banned smoking in restaurants a
nd bars, but other odors assaulted her in the murky atmosphere. Beer, vodka, tomatoes, a mélange of spices and more cabbage.
The Danube had tables in the front and a bar in the dingy back. She anticipated a sleazy tavern, but the reality was more an Old World-style pub, the social hub of the neighborhood. Couples and families were socializing in groups. The singing probably started after midnight.
The press of her compact Sig Sauer P239 semiautomatic beneath her arm reminded her that they weren’t here to soak up the atmosphere. Her heart rate kicked as adrenaline pumped. She’d forgotten to be nervous about her first field assignment. All the anxiety about Gabe and working with Simon had consumed her. She needed to be focused and sharp, not distracted.
Simon was peering at the sweets. They’d had dinner, but his sweet tooth could always go for a pastry. She used to bring him cookies whenever she made them. She shunted aside the pang of regret and told herself to be happy that they’d agreed on a truce. Now maybe they could work in peace.
Their truce raised another hurdle for her — a challenge to maintain her barriers. She couldn’t risk letting Simon see her troubles. He wouldn’t understand, and she couldn’t tolerate his revulsion.
She dismissed her worry and looked deeper into the gloom. The bar area was dim, with dark woods and a small number of even darker looking clientele drooping over what looked like shots of vodka. The lone drinkers were here, after all.
Behind her, Simon said, “There’s Tarlev in the corner.”
She turned toward where he indicated. In a back booth, the hulking enforcer was a rooted tree trunk with a crown of red leaves. He sat with his back to the wall, like an old Western gunfighter or the modern gangster he was. He listened with a furrowed brow to the man across from him.
“Who’s that with him? It’s not Kravka.” She remembered the man’s long, greasy hair. This man was older and bald.
Dark Rules (The DARK Files Book 3) Page 4