by M. K. Gilroy
“Where are you?”
“I don’t have long to talk.”
“We need to meet. Now.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Are you in Chicago?”
“I don’t have long to talk. You asked me to call.”
“You know your friend is singing, right?”
“Not for sure, but I figured he was.”
“We love his music so much we have plans to send him a special package.”
“He will appreciate that.”
“Yes he will. Why don’t you keep doing what you are doing until he gets that. Then come home and you and I will have a nice coulibiac together. My wife makes the best. With sturgeon. We might have a nice position for you at the store. Are you interested?”
“I like coulibiac.”
“Good. We’re losing customers and need someone who can help tidy up the shop.”
“I’ll think.”
“Think hard, my friend. The window for being welcomed back into the family as a son won’t stay open long. If you see Sandy, tell him hi for me. He has a little work for you to do.”
“Why me? He can handle his city just fine.”
“With all the storms that have blown through, his major power lines are down. No real electricity until the power company gets things fixed.”
“I’d hate to get electrocuted because the power company is having serious quality control issues.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been underwhelmed by the quality of the product and the customer service.”
There was a pause and Luytov said, “Okay. I can understand your concerns. How about if you work outside the company?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think of yourself as an outside consultant. I’ll text you a number.”
Vlad hung up and I turned off the phone. He powered on the matching Nokia. Who to call? No one. His gang was dead, in prison, or already worked for a different brigadier. Touch bases with Sadowsky? Nah. Too big of a risk. He powered the phone off.
East or West?
Zheglov loaded the trunk. He pulled into a gas station and filled up the tank. Return to the family or go his own way? What was his own way? What could he do? Medved was the smart one. At least he knew how to drive a truck. My skills are more specialized. I can’t think of anything else I could do to make a living.
He turned west toward Chicago. If Luytov was truly the Pakhan this would be the only route home to the bratva.
67
NO ONE IS happy. Blackshear had written up a neat and tidy—and winnable—murder-one case against Nancy Keltto for the District Attorney’s office. Not as an accomplice but as the one who wielded the weapon. Now there is a witness who says her boyfriend was there. She says the witness needs to be looked at. It’s getting messy.
I don’t know whether Zaworski or Don is madder at me for speaking to Nancy Keltto at the hospital, but Don is walking the request to break the seal on Bradley Starks’ files to the Cook County courthouse at this very moment.
I’m unhappy because I’m twiddling my thumbs waiting for the doctor to make his rounds and release me. He’s late again.
Zaworski said I can’t come into the office today, not even to review my case files on the Cutter Shark. However, he didn’t specifically say I couldn’t do anything office-related. I called Dr. Jeana Andrews office and rescheduled a therapy session for mid-afternoon. I’d better be out of here by then.
It was still hovering around ten degrees but the roads were clear all the way back to Chicago. The heat was on Sadowsky with the CPD and FBI so Luytov sent Zheglov to a shestyorka—a volunteer who wasn’t actually a member of the bratva—to meet with him at George’s Diner on South Pulaski in Alsip.
Vladimir arrived thirty minutes early, which wasn’t enough time for his liking. But it gave him just enough time to survey the area and do a quick tour through the restaurant, including the men’s and women’s bathrooms. When his contact drove into the parking lot in a gleaming black S-Class Mercedes and walked into the restaurant, Vlad nodded to the bathroom. He locked the door and gave the man a rough and thorough body search.
Satisfied, Vladimir led the unnamed man into the dining space and the two sat across from each other. Vlad was hungry and ordered a big breakfast with coffee. The man ordered a bagel and coffee, probably for appearances, as he never touched either.
The man finally slid a single sheet of paper across the table to Zheglov.
“You may ask any questions you like and I will tell you anything I know,” the man said.
“First. Are you connected to Sadowsky?”
“Yes and no,” the man answered.
“Explain.”
“I do work for Sandy from time to time. But not on this one. He doesn’t know I’m meeting you.”
Zheglov nodded.
“If I eventually need help, will he?”
“He won’t be happy he’s been left out. But if Luytov gives the order, he will obey.”
Vlad looked down. There were three pictures from different angles and outfits. She was a pretty girl. Dark brown hair—maybe a touch of red that might be real—big intense eyes, tallish, and very fit based on a shot of her punching a large boxing bag. There was a list of places she could be found, including her office address at the Chicago Police Department’s Second Precinct, her condo, a health club, an indoor soccer facility, a church, a couple coffee shops, and her mother’s and her sister’s homes. He folded it twice and slipped it into a pocket.
“Second question.”
“Anything I can answer I will.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does she matter to us?”
“That’s the first question I was told you would ask. Here’s what I know to tell you. Not my words—I am only repeating what I have been told by Luytov’s sovietnik. First Gleb believed the information coming from the NYPD. The detective didn’t witness the murder. She just showed up while Kublanov was supposed to be securing Frank Nelson. Gleb had his people talk a closer look. The cops were putting the bratva off her scent. She is definitely FBI. She spent time at Quantico last fall. She’s connected to the deputy director of counterterrorism. No way was she in Central Park by accident. She was part of an operation against the bratva.”
“A bad operation that has led to many deaths. Even if she is FBI, does it matter? Why rattle our saber against the Feds for something that is already dead? I see only troubles for us.”
“I was told you might see it this way. What I can say is we have been wounded but need to show we can fight back if we are to get back to business as usual. Our biggest weapon against US law enforcement is money, but close behind is fear. We must maintain that.”
Vladimir shrugged.
“I am only reporting what I was told. I am not savvy to such matters. Gleb Luytov sent a personal message for you. If you want out, go. Leave now. Just don’t come back.”
Vlad poured more sugar in the coffee and stirred it, pondering as he watched the black liquid circle in slow patterns. Just go? He doubted it. There was a chance a backup team was close. But even if he could, where?
“Is there anything else?” the man asked.
“Yes. Give me your car.”
“Certainly,” he said, sliding his car keys across the table.
The two men went to the parking lot and shifted contents between the trunks.
A ninety thousand dollar automobile. That was too easy Vlad thought. Maybe I don’t have more because I haven’t asked for more. I’ll call Luytov when I’m done and tell him to wire money somewhere while I lay low.
68
WILLINGHAM HUNG UP the phone and looked at Reynolds. It was seven in the morning, noon in Geneva. Herr Hiller was flown in a military jet home to confirm what he was happy to share with a joint team of officers from the CIA, FBI, US Military Intelligence, and Informationsdienst des Bundes—the Swiss secret service.
“T
he deal didn’t go through. The Russians didn’t get the PathoGen research.”
“We’re sure?” Reynolds asked.
“Heinrich Hiller is a very frightened and subsequently forthcoming man. Henry opened his computer and showed how his system works. He provided every scrap of information and password. The deal didn’t happen and the money is moving in small chunks through a random network he has no access to. He doesn’t even know the account the money came from nor where it will end up. His services are dirty but brilliant.”
“Can we walk the cat back and identify who sent the money?”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’ve got a team of techies on it. What we do know for sure right now is both parties failed to enter the codes that would initiate the transaction. Francis Nelson didn’t because Nazar Kublanov panicked and killed him. Pasha Boyarov missed his deadline because he knew Nelson was dead.”
“So mission accomplished, sir?”
“Doesn’t feel like it, Austin, but yes, we blocked the first stage of a bioterrorism threat that may have been aimed at US soil. All Boyarov can give us now is details on the US bratva. Not a bad haul even if it does feel a little hollow.”
“You really think we got enough? Do you believe what you’re saying?”
Willingham sighed and said, “We’ll make some arrests and shut down some operations. But they’ll all be replaced over time. We don’t have the resolve to do what it takes. The lines are blurred between crime and legitimate business. Too many of our best and brightest feather their nests by looking the other way and letting things go. When we do get serious, the legal process is stacked against timely justice. So do I believe we did good? Sure. Why not? Did we get enough to offer him Witness Protection? Nah. I may be getting too old for this.”
“You’ve been telling me that for five years, Bob.”
“But this time I think I mean it.”
“Can I ask a favor?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Quash this plan with the Cutter Shark that Van Guten is working. It has disaster written all over it.”
“I’m not sure I can, now, Austin. It’s already in the works—Herr Hiller would be proud of it.”
“I’m not letting this go,” Reynolds said.
“I know you won’t.”
“I want one other thing right now, Bob.”
“Name it.”
“Let me rock Boyarov’s world today—and back me up.”
Reynolds and his team barged into Boyarov’s cell at 7:30 a.m. and manhandled him to the interrogation room. No food or beverage, just an assault of questions for five hours.
“Pasha, I need to leave town a few days,” Reynolds finally said, standing up. “One of my stops will be to the Hoover Building in D.C. I’m not sure you’re upholding your end of the deal. Not for me to decide. But I’m going to suggest you be moved to the general prison population.”
“You can’t do that, Special Agent Reynolds,” Pasha sneered. “We signed papers. But nice bluff.”
“Actually Pasha, even if you’re right and I’m bluffing, you already know we can do whatever we want . . . if you don’t cooperate . . . and really, even if you do cooperate. But like I said, it won’t be my call. I’ll just make my personal recommendation. If you’re still in this area of New York Metro in three or four days, I’ll see you then. If not, I’m not sure who your case worker will be.”
“My deal was with Deputy Director Robert Willingham. He’ll set you straight.”
“I’m sure he will. Bob and I are having dinner tonight. I’ll let him know you don’t like the way I’m thinking. Or you can just smile, look at the mirror or one of the cameras, and tell him yourself right now.”
“You won’t put me in the yard.”
“Why not? You’re a tough guy. You should be fine.”
Pasha snorted. “You wouldn’t do it. I can’t fight everyone the brigadiers would send at me. But then you’d get nothing for all the time and effort you’ve put into me. You wouldn’t get what I know up here,” he said, pointing a finger at the side of his head.
“Bringing you in hasn’t cost us that much. You were desperate. That made you a cheap date. So no big loss for us if something unfortunate were to befall you. In terms of what you have up there”— Reynolds jabbed a finger in the direction of Pasha’s head—“you haven’t told us much of anything and frankly, we’re not convinced you know as much as you think you do.”
“I know plenty. I would have been Pakhan.”
“Then why was Moscow setting you up to take the fall after you delivered them their bio goodies?”
“Wouldn’t have happened.”
“We’ve got a Sergei Teplov in custody who says differently. We’re thinking about giving him the deal we offered you.”
Pasha turned white. Throwing Teplov’s name in the conversation was Reynolds’ first bluff—but Boyarov fell for it and started talking. This actually worked a lot better than I thought it would, Reynolds thought.
69
“WHERE YOU AT, KC?” Don asks.
“Driving up to Wrigleyville for an appointment with my doctor.”
“Why aren’t you meeting him at the hospital?”
“I was released.”
Is it a lie that I’m not telling Don that the doctor I’m meeting is Dr. Andrews, my therapist? How far does the sin of omission go?
He’s not interested and plows in, “Three things you need to know. Do you have a second?”
“Shoot.”
“First, the judge broke the seal on Bradley Starks’ juvenile record. Man oh man. This is a troubled youth with a long list of crimes, including some serious violence. He put a vice principal at his middle school in the hospital. The guy turned around in his office and Bradley hit him in the back of the head with a bronze bookend that was sitting on the guy’s desk.”
“How is he even in public school?” I ask. “Shouldn’t he be in a juvenile detention center?”
“That’s the second thing you need to know. Get this. Ed Keltto showed up in court to volunteer to be Bradley Starks’ mentor. If I’m reading the transcripts right, that swayed the judge to let him serve an in-school suspension and go on probation until he graduates from high school, if and when that happens. Did Nancy tell you that when she talked to you?”
“No. But she pointed us in that direction.”
“She probably felt too guilty to tell you one more time what a good guy her husband was.”
“So what happens next?”
“Blackshear and I are meeting up in your old neighborhood along with a couple of uniforms. The uniforms will take Bradley to Cook County juvenile. We’ll question him there.”
“Does that change anything for Nancy or Levin?”
“Not until we talk to the kid. But it might.”
“How’s Blackshear taking it with his righteous arrests up in the air?”
“He’s not happy but he’s got his head on straight.”
“Wow. Nancy wasn’t lying about Bradley being in trouble. Why does this make me feel so lousy?” I ask him.
“Because it is. You ever get the feeling society is falling apart?”
I can’t answer. When I’m with my family, life feels pretty normal. Maybe even sweet sometimes—except when I think my baby sis is cheating on me. But this is so messed up that I wonder what in the world is going on that so many people are on the edge or over the edge of self-destruction and taking others with them.
“Third,” he announces.
There’s a dramatic pause.
“I gave Zaworski my letter and signed the papers before I hit the road tonight. It’s official. In two weeks I’m a civilian.”
No question this was coming. It still feels like a punch in the gut. I’m slow on relationships and don’t want a new partner. I’ll miss him and his expensive shoes, suits, and ties. He dressed our little team up. I’ll even miss his disapproving comments on my wardrobe and attempts at humor. If he hadn’t resigned, it was only a matter of ti
me before he got promoted. But he’d still be around. It’s good to have a few friends who understand you.
Martinez. Blackshear. Zaworski. I have other friends—but I guess what Barnes said was right. I’m not always a team player. I’m not a free spirit as anyone can tell you—but I do hold the world at bay. I’ll still have old timers like Scalia and Soto watching my back, though I’m not sure Soto understands anything about me except my need to keep my hands up when I fight.
“You’re not saying anything, KC.”
“Sorry. I was just trying to figure out what turn to make. Congratulations, Don. I’m happy for you. And I mean that.”
I think I am. But I’m sad too. Does that make it a lie?
I think Dr. Andrews is in shell shock. There was no pushing and prodding to get me to open up this session. I hit her with everything right out of the gate. I started with Squires’ resignation and moved straight into my dad’s death. I wove in Ed and Nancy Keltto and unfinished business with the Cutter Shark case. I told her about getting caught up in internecine warfare with the Red Mafiya—and about the Bear’s attack and my subsequent dream. I can’t believe I remembered the word internecine. Inconceivable. I moved on to Reynolds and what happened between Reynolds and my sister but didn’t. I left out my feelings on a man getting killed before my eyes during the Durham case but brought up that maybe I should have accepted the job offer with the FBI that Willingham put together. By the time I told her how much I like coaching my niece’s soccer team, even if our team name is the Snowflakes and our jerseys are yellow, she had put her iPad down and given up taking notes.
“You have a lot on your mind,” she said.
I wanted to ask her how that made her feel but bit my tongue and just nodded.
“So how do you cope?” she asked. “What is your secret?”
“Do you believe in God?” I asked back.
“What I believe is not relevant,” she said.
“It is if you really want to know how I cope,” I said.
She didn’t answer but picked up the iPad and wrote a note with a fancy stylus.