There was no hesitation from him. “I would be a fool not to fear him. So would you.”
“What would—” My tongue wouldn’t work right. My body, generally smarter than my brain, had already chosen its course. “What would I have to do?”
“We must go and see him. He knows where we are. It is best to go to him before he comes again.”
My chest, already tight, was getting to the point of shutdown. “What would happen if I said no?”
“He will come again, but this time he will come for us all.”
“Then what choice do I have?”
12
BO HAD OTHER BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO, SO HE TOOK off and left me pacing around the big house. I checked on Harvey several times. He never moved.
Timon had joined Radik for guard duty, so I didn’t have to worry about the house being safe. That left me free to devote all my energy to worrying about my meeting with Tishchenko. Before he’d left, Bo said he would set something up for the next day. The sooner the better, he said. Easy for him to say.
I went back to Harvey’s office and turned on his computer. It would take a while to get fired up. I checked my watch. I felt as if I’d lived three days in the past twelve hours, and yet it was just after midnight. I thought about calling Dan again but then remembered that Felix had left me two messages. It never bothered Felix to get a phone call in the middle of the night, so I dialed him up.
“Hey, Miss Shanahan. You’re up late.”
“We found Harvey. He’s home, and he’s fine, thanks to you. He was exactly where you said he would be.”
“That’s awesome news. Tell him I said hi when you get a chance.”
“I will. I hope you called because you found Rachel.”
“No, but I’m working on that. The medicine she’s taking is Thyroxine.”
“Great.” Apparently, the Walgreens firewalls were as porous as expected, at least for Felix. “What does that do?”
“Well, the thyroid hormones, thyroxine and triiodothyronine, are tyrosine-based hormones produced by the thyroid gland. They act on the body to increase the basal metabolic rate, affect protein synthesis, and increase the body’s sensitivity to catecholamines, which is, like, adrenaline. An important—”
“Felix.”
“It gives her thyroid a boost. Nothing serious.”
“Have you tried her husband yet?”
“I didn’t get this until a few hours ago. I think it’s probably too late for a real pharmacist to call, but I didn’t know what time zone he’s in because if he’s out west, then I could totally call him, or I could have two hours ago. I could call him in Hawaii if he’s there. But now it’s kind of too late to get him anywhere.”
“Sorry, but I couldn’t have helped you anyway. I don’t know where he is.”
“That’s cool. I’ll just call him tomorrow first thing.”
I watched Harvey’s desktop laboring to snap to. It reminded me that Felix had a T3 connection. “Are you at home?”
“Yes.”
“Can you do a quick search for me?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Look up something called the vors.”
“Like V-O-R-E-S? V-O-A-R-S?”
“I don’t know.” I used the heel of my hand to rub my left eye and then my right. “Throw some options into Google with Russia and Ukraine, and see what comes up.”
He started doing the Felix Thinking Song as he moved through his searches and scanned his screen. It was like being on Jeopardy. I got up and started to wander so I wouldn’t fall asleep. Felix didn’t seem ever to sleep. Before he went wireless, I used to find him by following the cables through his apartment. He didn’t own a desk, and he liked moving around to work, on the theory that some spots in his living space were luckier than others. The luckiest spot of all was the balcony. He was probably there, slumped in a chair so that all you could see from the back were the tips of his spiky hairdo peeking out. Dan had made him cut off the bleached tips he had sported in Miami. No employee of his was going to look like “some fucking birthday cake.” Even without the outward manifestation, Felix was still the accidental anarchist, the kid whose irrepressible enthusiasm and daffy hyperintelligence led him inevitably to places he shouldn’t be to do things no one was supposed to be able to do.
“This is really interesting shit, Miss Shanahan.”
Felix had never used to cuss until he started working for Dan. Since I had introduced them, I felt vaguely responsible for his corruption. On the other hand, the reason I had met him in the first place was that he was a gifted hacker.
“What’s interesting?”
“Vors v zakonye. It’s Russian for ‘thieves in law,’ and they’re the real power inside the red mafiya. Did you know that in Russia they spell mafiya with a y?”
“Thieves in law?” No wonder Bo hadn’t been able to translate. I didn’t even know what it meant in English.
“From what I can tell, they’re like, um, the Justice League of criminals in Russia.”
“The Justice League?”
“Oh, yeah.” His tone changed entirely as he gave his full attention to filling the void in my education. “To be in the Justice League, you have to be Superman or Batman. The best of the best. Not just a hero but a superhero. Green Lantern or the Martian Manhunter. You have to be smarter and stronger and more powerful than the bad guys. Except in this case, they’re, you know, the bad guys. The worst of the worst, I guess. Not the Justice League but—”
“The vors. I’m following you.”
“Vory. More than one is vory. They live by their own code. That’s why they’re called thieves in law.”
“What are their laws?”
“Um…”
I had made it to the kitchen, which was dark except for the dim light over the stove. The china cups, saucers, and teapot I had washed were still sitting on the counter, exactly as I’d left them.
“Well, it goes without saying that you can never rat out one of your brother vory, but you also aren’t allowed to work. In the old Soviet Union, if you got caught on any of the official work rolls, they’d kill you.”
I opened the cabinet where Harvey kept the china service and stacked everything away.
Felix went on. “You couldn’t serve in the army. Basically, you couldn’t serve the interests of the state in any way. The only way you’re allowed to make money is to steal it. Or play cards. Did you know the most revered criminals in Russia were the pickpockets?”
“I did not know that.”
“Me, neither, but it’s true. And here’s the really bad news. Since the Soviet Union fell, the Russian mafiya and the vory have gone global. They’re like Microsoft, spreading their brand of evil all over the world. They can’t be stopped.”
“Do you see anything there on tattoos?”
“Tons. Tattoos are a really big deal with these people. First of all, you can’t just get tattooed with something because you think it’s, like, really cool. You have to earn one before you can have it, and the more you have, the more respected you are.”
“Like Boy Scout badges.”
“Exactly.”
“Earn it by—”
“Mostly murder. The other thing is you can also get killed if you get a tattoo you didn’t earn. How do you think they keep track of who has what tattoo? Do they have a database or something? They would probably need some kind of a special scanner.”
“I don’t know, Felix.”
“How come you’re interested in vory, Miss Shanahan?”
“I’m scheduled to meet one tomorrow. I think he might have been the man who took Harvey. He might be a little ticked off at us.”
There was a long silence. Felix was hardly ever speechless. It was unnerving.
“I’ll be all right, Felix. Bo will be there.”
“Oh, I wasn’t worried about that. I was just wondering…can I come with you?”
13
A PHONE WAS RINGING. THE SOUND WAS LIKE A PATIENT, persistent w
orm burrowing ever deeper into the apple that was my consciousness. The ringing stopped. Maybe I was dreaming.
I opened my eyes, and I was looking at the elaborate tinwork that was the ceiling of Harvey’s office. What had apparently been quite an elegant feature back in the day was just one more thing Harvey couldn’t take care of. The sun streaming in through the east-facing windows illuminated the tarnished and discolored condition. It was in need of a good polishing or…whatever one did to maintain a tin ceiling. Why had I never noticed before?
I had fallen asleep sitting up. When I tried to lift my head from the back of the couch, my neck muscles objected fiercely. I was trying to gather my wits when the ringing started again. It was my ring tone, but the sound was muffled. I followed the sound to the crevice between two couch cushions.
“Hello?”
“It’s time to go.”
“Bo?”
“The meeting is set. Tishchenko is waiting for us.”
Crap. I sat up straight and nearly knocked my laptop to the floor. I’d forgotten about the meeting. That was one of my wits I had failed to gather. “Where are you?”
“Out front.”
I wobbled to my feet and peered through the front window. The way the light hit the hood of his silver Mercedes, it seemed pretty early in the morning. “What time is it?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?” I rubbed my eyes.
“He is a busy man. He will not wait long.”
Right. Busy doing what vory do at seven in the morning. Maybe getting a new tattoo. “All right. Just give me a second to check on Harvey. I’ll be right out.”
I hung up and searched for my shoes, black leather lace-ups with thick soles that were kind of clunky and a little hard to misplace. I looked under the couch and behind the desk and found them under the side table next to the wingback. As I put them on and tied them, I wondered what the dress code might be for meeting a vor. Jeans, a polo shirt, a windbreaker, and clunky work shoes were all I had to offer.
I found a clean shirt upstairs in a spare dresser where I kept a few essentials. Harvey was facedown in bed with one arm flopped over his head. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could hear him snoring. Next stop was the medicine cabinet. I went with four ibuprofen for my stiff neck and a Pepto-Bismol chaser straight from the bottle. Then I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of grapefruit juice to wash away the filmy pink residue. Feeling marginally fortified, I grabbed my backpack, took a deep breath, and headed out the door to my first-ever breakfast meeting with a Russian mobster.
The name of the café was Grigorii’s. It was in a part of town I had never been to and saw no reason ever to visit again. Bo got out of the car, straightened his jacket, and buttoned it. He looked as if he’d gotten himself spiffed up for his first Communion. It wasn’t anything overt, but he wasn’t his usual awe-inspiring self. It made me nervous.
There wasn’t much to Grigorii’s. It was a dim space that smelled of bacon grease. The foam tiles that made up the low ceiling were stained with brown water blossoms. The predominant feature was a long bar along one wall. The tables had no cloths, and the chairs had no padding or upholstery. It had the look of a campus coffee bar but the feel of something else. Something defiant and political, as if the place itself resented even being in the United States. Almost an entire wall was draped with a yellow and teal flag, which I assumed was Ukrainian. Another wall was adorned with yellowed newspaper articles affixed with brittle Scotch tape. They emanated from a solid center like a newsprint sunburst. I was willing to bet they were not from the city section of the Boston Globe.
Every once in a while, a harsh blast of laughter would issue from a corner where a group of men who hadn’t shaved in a while sat around one of the larger tables. It wasn’t the fun kind of laughing but the edgy and wicked and loud kind. There had been an eruption when we walked through the door.
I leaned in toward Bo. “How do these men…how are women treated in this culture?”
“Not well, but they respect strength wherever they see it. I know of one Ukrainian hit man who took his wife along to do his murders.”
“Great.” I felt much better.
The opposite corner of the place was occupied by a wiry man sitting in a corner by himself reading a newspaper and smoking. He probably knew that smoking in a restaurant was against the law. He seemed to have mighty powers of concentration.
Bo approached the man behind the bar and spoke to him in a language I didn’t understand. I didn’t know if Bo spoke Russian or if the other man spoke one of the languages from the broken country of Yugoslavia. Either way, they communicated just fine.
As the bartender watched, Bo took the .357 from his shoulder holster and laid it on the counter. The two of them looked at me. I followed Bo’s lead and laid down my Glock, which looked puny next to Bo’s howitzer. The bartender tilted his head toward the smoking man. We were allowed to pass.
When we got to the booth, Bo did the talking. Again, I couldn’t understand, but it felt like some kind of tribute. He gestured first to himself and then to me. I tried to look less terrified and more honored, but it was hard, because at close range, Drazen Tishchenko was a terrifying man.
He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with a face made by God but substantially rearranged by man. His nose was too thick, his mouth was a grim, crooked line, and his ears seemed to be too low on his head, as if someone had grabbed them by the lobes and yanked. Most disturbing were the tattoos. They slithered out from under the collar of his tight black V-necked sweater, up both sides of his neck, and into his hairline. They covered both his forearms and even his hands and fingers. If murder was how you earned your badges in this Boy Scout troop, then Drazen Tishchenko was an Eagle Scout.
But I didn’t need the tattoos to tell me he was a killer. He told me with his eyes. I looked into his eyes and felt the value of my life drop to nothing.
“Step out,” he said in English. He made a motion with his hands as if he were reeling me closer. “Do not be afraid of me.”
I stepped forward so that I was next to Bo instead of behind his right shoulder. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“Do you speak Russian like my friend Djuro?” It took me a second to realize he was referring to Bo by his given name.
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“We will speak English, then, so you will understand. Please, sit with me.”
Bo and I sat on one side of the booth, Tishchenko on the other. I slipped in first, giving Bo the outside in case he had to make a quick move. It didn’t matter. If he did, we were both dead. Undoubtedly, everyone in the place was armed and dangerous and belonged to Drazen.
“What would you like?” he asked me.
“I’m fine.”
He sat back so that only his fingertips still touched the table. “What is your name?”
“Alex. Alex Shanahan.”
“Short for Alexandra?”
“Yes.”
“Sashen’ka.” He clasped his hands and pushed them forward on the table. “Please, Sashen’ka, you will order something.” It didn’t seem like a request.
“I’ll have a cup of tea. Thank you.”
“Yes. Very good.”
He called over to the bartender, held up two fingers, and pointed to his own empty espresso cup. He was ordering for Bo. Interesting. I wondered how well these two men knew each other.
“My friends, what can I do for you?”
I glanced at Bo to see if I was supposed to talk, but he took the lead.
“I lost a friend yesterday. Someone came into his home and took him away.”
“This is sad news.” Tishchenko shrugged. “But what concern of mine?”
“We made a mistake,” Bo said quietly. “We are here to ask your advice.”
“What mistake?”
“We took him back.”
Tishchenko’s gaze slid over to me. Whether he had known all along we had been the ones or whether he figured it out righ
t then, I couldn’t tell. But he knew now. “What is this man’s name?”
He was looking at me, so I answered. “Harvey Baltimore.”
“And who is he to you? Is this man your father?”
“He’s my business partner. He’s also my good friend. He’s also…he’s sick.” I glanced at Bo. I wasn’t sure how much to say. “He has multiple sclerosis. We were afraid if we didn’t get to him soon, he would die.”
A small boy appeared from behind the counter. He had a sucker in his mouth and a tray in his hand. On the tray were two steaming cups of espresso, which he distributed to the men. He put the small carafe of milk, the little pot of brewing tea, and a cup and saucer in front of me. He handled it all like a pro, despite the fact that he couldn’t have been even seven years old.
He grasped the tray under one arm, put his other hand on Tishchenko’s shoulder, and casually leaned in toward him. Maybe he was there to pull a thorn from his paw.
Tishchenko put his arm around the boy, pulled him close, and kissed him on the top of his head. “My grandson.”
The boy’s face was vulnerable and mischievous at the same time as he whispered something in the older man’s ear.
Tishchenko laughed, spoke to the boy in his language, and shooed him away. As his grandson wandered off, Tishchenko called out to the bartender, who nodded in return.
“Such a smart boy. He wants ice cream, but he knows his mother won’t permit treats before school.”
I looked over. The man at the bar had an ice cream scoop out.
Tishchenko stirred milk into his cup. When he picked up his spoon, Bo did, too, but I let my tea steep. I was afraid to handle anything hot with my unsteady hands.
“Do you think this man, Harvey Baltimore, might have something of value? Is that why he would have been taken?”
“He doesn’t have any money.”
“Whoever took him, I do not think it would be for money. There are easier ways to get money, you know?” The corners of his mouth quivered into what might have been a smile. “Something he knows, perhaps?”
“We do not know why he was taken,” Bo said. “We know that if he had died, whatever he might know would have died with him. Perhaps the people who took him did not know that.”
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