by M. K. Gilroy
PART TWO
We have to distrust each other.
It is our only defense against betrayal.
TENNESSEE WILLIAMS
15
MEDVED WOKE FROM a nightmare. He was in the woods outside of Vologda, the grimy, crumbling, industrial city he grew up in until his mom moved he and his three sisters to Moscow.
It had started so pleasantly. He was walking with his mom, hunting for mushrooms. But then his mom was no longer there and he was with Ilsa. Then he was with his roommate from Riker Island. Bobby.
Even when he was awake, Med could never remember his last name. Bobby was from Highpoint, North Carolina. He got into a bar fight on his first and only trip to New York City. He swore he killed the man in self-defense. He stabbed and slashed the man with a hunting knife he kept strapped to his lower right leg. Fifteen times. The judge and jury decided the last fourteen stabs and slashes put into question his plea of self-defense.
Then it was suddenly dark and Med was alone. He was lost. He heard the howl of a wolf and started lumbering the opposite direction. But another howl sounded ahead. He went down another path and there was a third wolf. It didn’t look like him but in his dream he knew it was Vladimir Zheglov. Pasha’s death angel. Waiting for him.
Then the Bear was awake, sweating and trembling. Pasha will have Vladimir hunt me until the day I die, he thought. Med was staying in a small guest room over the detached garage at the Pakhan’s estate. They had talked late into the night. The Pakhan wanted to know everything about Pasha’s operation; who was moving up or down the ladder of influence. Genken kept coming back to the warehouse in Queens. Medved had never been there. He had been given the general area but was to call for final directions while in route. Med wanted to be more helpful. But you can’t tell what you don’t know.
Better not to lie. Maybe the Pakhan does have special powers to know.
Med stood up and scratched his shaggy beard. A bead of sweat rolled down his spine into the small of his back. He shivered. He rarely dreamed or, if he did, he rarely remembered one so clearly. The doctor said he had sleep apnea that needed to be treated. He wasn’t sleeping well enough to sink into REM, the place where dreams begin and come alive.
Doctors don’t know everything. Maybe I don’t want to sleep better.
He reached over to turn on a light but as his hand neared the pull chain, he heard an explosion of sounds from the main house. He wet his pants. He moved to the window and saw—and felt—a kaleidoscope of flames from the muzzles of automatic rifles. Kalashnikov AK-47s. What the . . .
Med had gone to sleep thinking he might survive the wrath of Pasha, though the shadow of Zheglov would follow him everywhere. He was with Aleksei Genken after all. The Pakhan.
In a nauseating flood of dread, Med realized that maybe not even Genken could save him.
Could it be? Would Pasha be so bold? Would he move against the man?
Med peaked through the window slats as an explosion opened a gaping hole in the side of Genken’s house. The Bear fell backwards.
No question. Pasha was making his move. Would the other brigadiers of the bratva follow him? They would if he succeeded.
I can’t sleep. Is it the music with the pounding bass in the room next door? Or is it the couple going at it in the room on the other side of me? Or is it the fear of contemplating just how many germs are in this dirty, dingy room? I finally found a vacancy at a motel on the edge of Manhattan and Harlem. No way could I stay with Klarissa after what I saw.
Did I just see what I think I did in the lobby of the Sheraton? Would my sister do that to me?
I consider pounding on the walls on each side of me. I don’t have the energy to be ignored.
“Nazar, you are now my Medved—my Bear. I have work for you to do.”
The Pakhan had been so reassuring. Med’s head spun as men came and went and Genken worked the phones.
Before dismissing him to get some sleep in his guest room . . . or was it a prison room? . . . Genken took a call and roared in laughter, looking at Med the whole time. When he hung up, he walked over to his fax machine that had sprung to life. He picked up the single page and handed it to him.
“Med . . . the runner in the park . . . of all things . . . it was a detective from Chicago. You have a problem. And since you are now my bear, we’ve got a problem. Your runner was police. That is a bad thing. A very bad thing. It’s always better to be friends with the police, not enemies.”
“What must I do to fix this?” Med asked, eager to please—and stay alive.
“We will instruct you in the morning. Tonight, study the paper I have given you. Memorize every detail. Make sure you can recognize her face no matter what she is wearing.”
Med nodded numbly as he looked in the dark eyes of Detective Kristen Conner.
“Med, look at me,” Genken said.
Medved looked in his eyes.
“I don’t have to tell you. You already know what you must do. We will find a way to get you to Chicago. But realize you will never be safe until she is dead. That is rule number one in the bratva.”
Med nodded in agreement.
“Consider this a test. Do the deed. Then come home and we will see what else what we have for you.”
That’s when Med was finally escorted to his room. They hadn’t armed him—and the door to his room was locked from the outside. Not good signs, he knew, but he was alive and death would wait at least another day.
Another explosion and round of automatic gunfire sounded. He got off the floor and lumbered across the room and checked the handle. Locked, just like he knew it would be. Now what? Sporadic shouts, screams, and gunfire continued across the driveway.
I am not a lucky man, he thought with a sigh. I suppose I was lucky when I married Ilsa and we made it to America. But nothing ever changed. My entire life has been a battle to survive.
Med could barely breathe from fear. He cursed his bad luck again. But he had to admit his troubles tonight were his own doing. He had drunk two bottles of vodka. He had to pee. So he had trudged down the path into Central Park to relieve himself and missed picking the man up. Who knows, he might be with Pasha, carrying a Kalashnikov, right now.
The gunfire died down and picked back up.
You are alone in the woods. The wolves are before and behind you. What do you do now?
The answer was easy. A bear would stop running and climb a tree. He looked at the ceiling. In the corner was a small wood-framed square. Could it be? He moved a chair over, stood on it, and pushed. A miracle. It was unlocked. The attic door opened with a spring release. A small ladder was folded into the opening. He pulled the end of a rope and lowered it. He quickly ducked when an explosion boomed and a ball of flame lit up the night sky. Staying low, he looked around the room. He opened the door of the small bathroom, grabbed the towel, he had used, and wiped everything down. He crawled over to the bed and straightened sheets, pillows, and bedspread. He moved the chair back in place and picked up his filthy, smelly clothes. He started up the ladder, tossed the clothes through the opening above him, and squeezed through the hatch. He reached down and pulled up the ladder, folding it one section at a time. He fumbled around until he found a small handle and clicked the door in place, something the last person up here hadn’t done. He breathed slowly. It was completely black in the attic.
He poked around with his foot and located a piece of plywood resting on ceiling joists. It wouldn’t be comfortable and his wet pants were itching him. But there was adequate heat so no problem. He was alive. He was Russian. That made him a survivor. He just might live to see another day. He would miss Ilsa, but there was nothing he could have done to save her.
What about the detective in Chicago? He had her name. She identified him. He would have to do something about her. The Pakhan said he would never be safe with her alive.
Herr Hiller drummed his fingers on his polished oak desk. He looked at the clock on his bookshelf. Four in the morning. Eleven o’c
lock at night in New York City.
He had arrived in Geneva on the last flight from JFK, landing at almost midnight. He knew he would not be able to sleep so he had his chauffeur bring him straight to his office on the Rue de la Servette to watch the completion of his services.
The name of the street described the man and his work. He was a servant. He had created a small fortune for himself and his family by handling certain types of transactions, where two or more parties didn’t want a transaction to be known—and didn’t trust each other. He served as the bridge of trust and circumspection. People were happy to pay his exorbitant fees.
It did not matter if the two parties failed to meet the conditions of the final transfer . . . his fee was paid up front and was nonrefundable.
Somehow he was not surprised that neither the American nor Russian had punched in the code.
As a servant, it was not his job to judge. But he saw signs of trouble when he was called into the room to activate a sequence that would download to the Russian a large file and initiate shipment of a small package, while wiring to the American what he assumed was a large sum of money. Once done, his server would be wiped clean with a sophisticated electronic scrubbing program. Retrieval of what had transpired would be impossible no matter what level and sophistication of tools were used.
Hiller had explained slowly and carefully that if either party failed to input the required code, there was nothing he could do to rectify such an unfortunate error, not by choice, but due to the design of the system. That was the beauty of his service. He knew nothing and could do nothing once the wheels were set in motion. That fact kept him safe.
The clock was silently ticking. He felt an uncustomary sense of unease.
It is impossible to judge what you don’t know. But he would be glad when this business was done.
Perhaps it was time to take his wife on an island vacation.
He looked at the screen. He heard the sound of a tiny blip and the whir of fans as the scrubbing program went into effect. That was only the tip of the iceberg. The real data was in the deep web. Not all the intelligence services of the world could put together what had just been torn apart and scattered in an ocean of non-indexed data.
Somewhere warm and sunny. That is what he would do.
16
“SO KRISTEN, WHAT has brought you here today?”
My eyes narrow. Is she being polite or is she really asking why I am here? CPD is outsourcing more and more services, including psychological testing and therapy. Surely they provided her with a report on why I am required to be here.
“CPD policy,” I answer tersely.
She pauses with raised eyebrows. Zaworski warned me to at least pretend to appear warm, open, healthy, and normal. “We need you working,” he said.
“Which I think is good,” I quickly add. “I’m way overdue. I’m glad to be here.”
How stilted did that sound?
“Okay. And what do you hope to see happen in our sessions?”
“Uh, basically I want to . . . uh . . .” What I want to say is get this over with, but I behave myself and say, “make sure I’ve properly processed a couple violent incidents that have been part of my job experience.”
“Do you want to tell me about them?” she asks, perhaps a faint smile at the corners of her mouth.
“Just to clarify, are you telling me to tell you about them in question form or actually asking if I want to?”
“Which should it be?” she asks primly, looking me in the eyes serenely, though she is starting to give little kicks with her high heeled right foot that is dangling from her crossed legs. That means I am irritating her or making her nervous. I’m not a psychologist but I do have some psychological insights.
I try not to let her see I’ve noticed, but she does, and stops. She recrosses her legs with left on top and smooths an imaginary wrinkle from her black skirt. We are sitting in two facing chairs, leather on wood, ergonomic design, probably very expensive. I’m thinking she is late thirties or early forties. Black hair—might be some subtle hints of red and purple from a bottle—pulled back in a loose French braid. Knee-length black skirt, white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and a lovely purple cardigan. Or eggplant. Nice. Maybe I should look at upgrading my wardrobe. She is holding an electronic tablet with a thin stylus poised over the screen for taking notes. Or she’s watching screaming goats with the sound turned off and is pretending to listen to me.
I hear Zaworski’s growl echoing in my mind: “Behave. This is serious.”
“I think I’m getting off to a bad start and being difficult,” I say contritely. “It’s an occupational hazard. I’m used to being the one who does the questioning. I apologize.”
“No need to apologize.”
“Sorry about that.”
Now she’s really making me nervous.
“Where should I start?”
“Where would you like to start?”
Just tell me what you want lady. I’m exasperated but trying not to show it. Just hit it, Kristen, I say to myself. I walk through the main points of the Cutter Shark case in the next fifteen minutes, concluding with our violent encounter. For some crazy reason I show her the scar on my wrist and knee and then spend the next twenty minutes talking about my soccer career. She looks like she might ask a question so I keep momentum and plow right into my last case, the murder of billionaire heir Jack Durham, which ended with me in an apartment with a dead body. It takes fifteen minutes.
“I think that’s everything,” I say, coming up for air.
“I understand you were witness to a murder yesterday morning as well?”
“Not exactly a witness. The murderer fled before I got there.”
She watches me.
“That really wasn’t CPD business.”
Her look remains impassive but she jots down another note. That might not have been the right thing to say.
A soft ping sounds from her desk. She looks at her oversize man watch. I wonder if that might signify she is more motivated by control and power in her dealings with clients, but I stifle the temptation to broach the subject.
“I’m afraid that our time is up.”
Whew. I’m relieved. That wasn’t so bad.
“Shall we make this our regular time to meet each week?”
Uh oh.
“Ummm . . . earlier is actually better for me. Once I hit the office and we get rolling on things it’s sometimes hard to pull away from a case.”
“Are you planning to go back to work?” The eyebrows are back doing their thing.
“I was certainly hoping to. I had quite a bit of down time last year after the Cutter Shark case. I took a couple months off.”
“I thought you were part of a training program at the FBI Headquarters in Quantico.”
“Well, I was. But I spent a lot of time rehabbing my knee and then I went to classes so it kind of felt like a vacation.”
“I see.”
I wish I did. I’m pretty good at reading people. She has the therapeutic neutral look down to perfection.
“Is there a problem with that? I really would feel better working than sitting around.”
“You love what you do, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I should have an initial report to your Human Resources Department by early next week. It will be up to them.”
It’s Tuesday. I landed at 10:30, took a cab to the Second, met with Zaworksi for fifteen minutes, then headed to Dr. Jeana Andrews’ office in Wrigleyville for our two o’clock appointment. I can’t believe I’ll be sitting the pine the rest of the week.
“Is there any way we can expedite the report?”
“Why the hurry?”
“I do better when I’m moving, when I’m busy.”
“Is it possible that slowing down right now might not be a better idea?”
“Look . . .” I take a deep breath. Slow down. Don’t attack. “I will confess I’m not the most
expressive person, though that doesn’t mean I’m not introspective and self-aware. But I know myself. I love my job. I have no qualms about my actions in putting away a serial killer. I have no qualms about defending myself against a murderer.”
“What about your dad’s death?”
Oh boy . . . she did read her notes. I’m not going to tell her that my sister is dating a guy I thought I was dating less than twenty-four hours ago.
“That hurts every minute of every day. But I deal with it and am dealing with it. All the more reason to work.”
She looks at me long and hard. She glances at her watch.
“I’ll see what I can do, Detective Conner.”
“Thank you, Dr. Andrews.”
“Next Tuesday at . . . ?”
“Is eight too early?”
“Let’s say nine.”
“Sounds good.”
I was actually hoping to be in the office by nine but don’t want to seem difficult. I add the appointment to the calendar on my iPhone.
“I’ll be here with bells on.”
We shake hands and I exit her office into the empty waiting room. I wonder why we couldn’t have kept going if no one else is waiting to meet with her. Next week might not have been necessary. It then occurs to me that this is not going to be finished to her satisfaction in two or three weeks. How long is she expecting us to meet?
I exit the waiting room and walk down the hall to the bank of elevators. I put on my coat in the lobby. It’s a gray, windy, freezing Chicago day. Lake Michigan is threatening to dump another load of snow overnight.
With bells on? What does that even mean?
Am I really going to be in therapy for an extended period of time? Inconceivable.
17
“GOOD TIP, CONNER, tell your mom thanks. She rocks.”
My mom rocks?
Blackshear called as soon as I pulled into traffic. I’m still driving Klarissa’s Nissan GTR, which will do 160 miles-per-hour—though not advisable in Chicago’s winter land. It has bluetooth and I’m hands-free. My beat-up Miata with a couple plugs on the dashboard that don’t work is in the shop. I was planning to drive Klarissa’s car for a week. Not after what I saw. I wanted to drop it off at her condo and then get a cab to the shop before it closes tonight. It was kind of settled that I’d live in Klarissa’s place for however long she is in New York or until she wants to sell the place. After her betrayal? No way. I’ll pack my stuff and go to Mom’s house tonight. I wish I hadn’t given up the lease on my apartment. I’ve never felt quite right there since I discovered I had an electronic stalker. But this new arrangement is unacceptable.