Bolthole

by Jeff Mariotte

  Sam watched from his position eight or nine feet away. It looked like the situation was settled, and the other bouncers relaxed.

  Then Deeks spun around, whipping a leather sap from a pants pocket. He charged toward Belyakov. The Russian thug who’d backed him down before was off-balance, starting to sit behind one of the low tables. Marcella blocked the other nearest one.

  But Callen launched out of his chair as if shot by a cannon. He intercepted Deeks, who swung the sap at him. Callen threw out a forearm, stopping the weapon, and drove his other fist into Deeks’s midsection. Callen followed that with a snap kick to Deeks’s knee, knocking him off-balance, then an uppercut that dropped Deeks to the floor.

  By this point, all the Russians except Belyakov were on their feet, and the one who’d confronted Deeks had drawn a small pistol from somewhere.

  Sam and the other bouncers converged on the scene. The whole place had come to a standstill. Music still played, but the dancer on stage stood at the edge, amid tossed dollar bills, watching. None of the patrons were looking at the girls, and even those dancers who’d been engaged in lap dances had stopped their writhing to observe the action.

  Sam got a grip on Callen’s shoulder. “You need to come with me,” he said. He eyed the Russian thug, who had already made the gun disappear. “You, too,” Sam said. “And you, sir. We apologize for the inconvenience, and I’m sure we can reach a resolution that’s satisfactory to all involved. Please, five minutes in the office and we’ll get this all straightened out.”

  While that was going on, another bouncer had helped Deeks to his feet. Blood trickled from the left corner of his mouth, and he was going to have some bruising. He shook off the bouncer’s hand and said, “Babe, it’s really time to go. I’ll buy you a dancer someplace else, where they cater to Americans. Come on.”

  The bouncer tried to lay hands on him again, and Deeks swatted him away. “Hands off!” he said. “We’re leaving, don’t worry. And we would never come back to this hole, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

  Kensi whined something else—she was disturbingly good at whining, it turned out—but she took Deeks’s hand and led him toward the door, followed by two bouncers who would make sure they didn’t turn around and come back for more.

  Belyakov muttered something to his thug, and then nodded. “Five minutes,” he said to Sam. “I have never been treated with such disrespect in America.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” Sam said. “We’ll get it all worked out back here.” He went first, glancing behind him to make sure they were following. He pushed through the Dancers Only door, and led them down a hall tinted with pink lights, past the dancers’ dressing room and into Jerry LaDue’s office.

  LaDue was gone, but four LAPD officers waited inside, weapons drawn.

  “What is this?” Belyakov demanded. “We will leave now.”

  “Not so fast,” Callen said. He had brought up the rear, and blocked the door to prevent anyone from exiting. He kept up the Russian accent, though. “We have some things to work out still.”

  “What things? If this is some kind of trap—I have many good lawyers. The best. I will own this place, and all of you besides.”

  Sam put his hand on the Russian thug’s shoulder. “Let’s have that piece,” he said. “Nice and easy, too.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “The little nine-mil,” Sam said.

  The thug looked to Belyakov, who frowned and gave a nod. The man took the gun out between two fingers and handed it to Sam. Sam passed it over to one of the cops. “ID now,” he said.

  The thug drew a passport from his inside jacket pocket. Sam glanced at it and handed it over to the cop. “Don’t suppose you have a concealed carry permit, Anatoly Pankin?”

  “Your Second Amendment—”

  “Doesn’t apply to visiting Russian tough guys. And you’re in California, where the laws are relatively strict even for locals. Maybe you should have gone to a strip club in Arizona or Texas.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Belyakov demanded.

  “You’re Slava Belyakov,” Sam said, intentionally pronouncing the Vs. “You’re rich. Big deal. We have billionaires here, too.” He gave Pankin a shove toward the cops. “Get him out of here.”

  “Anatoly Pankin,” one of the cops began as his partner cuffed the Russian. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”

  “You’ll be out by morning,” Belyakov said in Russian.

  “Don’t count on it,” Sam added, also in Russian.

  The cops took Pankin out through the back door, leaving Sam and Callen in the office with Belyakov. “Now it’s just us,” Sam said. “And you’re down one man. Lucky for you this man here—what’s your name?”

  “I am Grisha Koslov,” Callen said.

  “Lucky for you Mr. Koslov is on the scene. He saved your ass once tonight already. I think he deserves a little something for that, don’t you?”

  “If this is a shakedown—” Belyakov began.

  Sam cut him off. “Not a shakedown. You’re going to offer Mr. Koslov a job. You’re going to tell your guys that Pankin got arrested, but that you were impressed with Koslov’s reflexes and you offered to bring him on as a replacement until Pankin’s back.”

  “Guys who can handle themselves, I can always use.”

  “Good. Now this next part’s a little more complicated. You’re expecting to make a deal for a precious artifact, from Iraq.”

  Belyakov’s eyes widened and one heavy eyebrow arched up, but he offered no other signs of surprise. Sam continued. “I know you want to add it to your collection, but that’s not going to happen.”

  “The future is hard to predict, no?”

  “Not this time. You can buy it, but you’re not keeping it. If you say anything to anyone about this conversation, or if you try to lose Mr. Koslov here, or do anything at all that’s contrary to what I’m saying, you won’t like the consequences.”

  “Which are?” Belyakov asked.

  “Let’s just say most of the Patriot Act is still in force, and Gitmo’s not closed yet. It’ll be decades before you see Mother Russia again, and in the meantime your businesses will have to struggle along without you. And without whatever assets you might have parked in this country.”

  Belyakov gave a dry chuckle. “So much for the home of the free, eh?”

  “Nobody’s violating your rights, Belyakov. We could send you away right now, but instead we’re giving you a chance to prove you’re a law-abiding visitor to these shores. Do we have an understanding?”

  The Russian didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded his agreement. “Da,” he said.

  “Good. Go back out there and introduce Koslov to his new coworkers. Good luck, Mr. Koslov.”

  “Thank you,” Callen said, still using his Russian accent. “You are pretty decent guy, I think. For tool of oppressive capitalist state.” He tossed Sam a grin, then followed Belyakov back to the floor.

  24

  Granger had finally admitted that he was lost.

  He had tried to bring up a map on his phone, but the signal was so bad he couldn’t connect. He couldn’t call Ops, either. He guessed that everybody in the vicinity was using mobile phones and tablets at the moment, or the fire had taken out some cell towers. Or both, most likely. At any rate, currently the phone was effective as a flashlight or a paperweight, neither of which he had any use for.

  He was sure he’d set off on the correct dirt road. After a few miles, though, it turned out to have more branches than a river, many of which didn’t even show on the satellite view he could bring up on his phone then. He tried to intuit the way to go by studying the condition of the roads he saw, seeing which ones were more traveled, or which seemed to angle in the right direction. He was thrown off, too, by smoke filtering the day’s last sunlight, and the dust of the few other vehicles that tore past him, hurrying out of the hills. A couple of the drivers shot him surprised looks, no doubt not
expecting to see anyone climbing toward the fire, but none slowed to answer questions. He tried to flag a couple down, and got only a dust-caked face for his trouble.

  Granger had a superb sense of direction, and an almost uncanny ability to navigate urban landscapes. He was generally almost as good in the wild, but as the years had passed, he’d found himself needing those skills less and less. Consequently, he was a little rusty. He knew where he needed to be, he was just having a hard time finding a pathway to that place.

  Every now and then, when the angle was right, he could see flames higher up in the hills. Smoke was everywhere. Airplanes and helicopters buzzed overhead constantly; the choppers, he guessed, mostly belonged to news organizations or incident response teams trying to gauge the situation from the air. The small planes were probably dumping loads of fire retardant. He hoped not to drive through a cloud of that. Already, his eyes stung from the smoke, and he felt like the smell of the fire was seared forever into his nostrils.

  The truck’s radio still worked, so he was able to follow the news. Coldwater and Benedict Canyons had both been evacuated, he’d learned. The fire was believed to have started by accident, probably by a campfire that hadn’t been adequately contained or extinguished. It had almost reached the crest of the Hollywood Hills, and though fire spread uphill more easily than down—because the heat raced upward, drying out the fuel above and creating perfect conditions for its advance—that didn’t mean the San Fernando Valley was out of danger. At the same time, it continued moving down the canyons toward West Hollywood and Beverly Hills on this side. There were plenty of homes up in the canyons, lots of them expensive, but if it reached Beverly Hills the property damage estimates could spike into the hundreds of millions in no time.

  Granger wasn’t too concerned about that. Those people had insurance. They’d have plenty of time to get out of the way, even to grab some choice possessions, if they could pick between their Hockneys, their Warhols, and their Monets. No, his concern was for the people who lived in the canyons who weren’t mega-wealthy, who had small homes on dirt roads, where everything they owned could go up in flames with almost no warning.

  And his concern was for Stacey Quan’s horses. There were three of them. Mutts, she called them. She prized them for their personalities, not their bloodlines. Their names were Salt, Pepper, and Allspice. Cooking was her other favorite pursuit, one that had led her to open the restaurant down in the Valley that had paid for the Coldwater Canyon land and the horses she kept there. Appropriately enough, Salt’s coat was almost pure white, Pepper’s was a charcoal gray, and Allspice’s was mottled, with grays, blacks, and browns in almost equal parts.

  Granger’s presumed obligation for three weeks had been to feed, water, and groom the horses, and to occasionally let them out to exercise. He had expected to muck out the stables once, and to get in a trail ride or two. The idea that he might have to race a wildfire had never entered into the discussion.

  But he’d told Stacey he would “take care” of them, and taking care, to him, included not letting them burn to death. So he kept pushing up the hill, trying to keep edging right. At some point, he needed to reach Coldwater Canyon Drive, and he would need to cross it. He hoped that this high up, it would be open, and he’d be able to take pavement to the actual dirt road off which Stacey’s gate stood. There was a four-horse trailer parked near the stable, and her truck had a tow hitch. If he could get there, then getting out wouldn’t be a problem.

  As his mother had been so fond of saying, however, “That’s a pretty big ‘if.’”

  * * *

  Callen accompanied Belyakov back to the table, where his entourage waited with varying degrees of anxiety. Most were at the edges of their seats, and on their feet when they saw the boss coming. One was otherwise occupied, finally getting his lap dance from Marcella. She looked like she was enjoying herself, but Callen knew that was part of the act, necessary to bring in the kinds of tips that could make the gig bearable. Since she’d had to endure two guys—including Deeks—yanking at her limbs, he hoped the Russian would tip extra.

  He also hoped he hadn’t hit Deeks too hard. Sometimes the guy got on his nerves, and he might have let that affect the force of his punch.

  Belyakov leaned in and explained what had happened to Pankin. The “official” version wasn’t so different from the truth, so he didn’t embellish and he sounded convincing. There was always the chance that Belyakov and his men had some sort of prearranged code word that would tip them off about Callen’s real loyalties, but if there was, he didn’t notice it, or see any unexpected reactions. Pankin wasn’t that popular with the other guys—a couple of them offered variations of “good riddance.”

  Callen took that as a sign. Even among Russian thugs, it didn’t pay to be too dour and grouchy. He would play it the other way, then. He pasted on a smile and was upbeat from the start. “It’s a strange way to get a job,” he said in Russian, when Belyakov introduced him. “But I’m glad to get to work with you guys. I’ve heard of Mr. Belyakov, of course, and always admired his accomplishments.”

  “Where are you from?” one of the men asked. That was always the beginning of one of the riskiest parts of any undercover. No matter what he said, someone in the group would know somebody from there.

  Fortunately, Callen had done his homework, and he’d been more than adequately backstopped. “Originally? Novgorod,” he said. “But I’ve been here for more than ten years. Closer to fifteen, really, because most of the last ten were spent at USP Lompoc. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to speak Russian.” He let loose a hearty laugh. “It feels good!”

  He could tell by the expressions on their faces that at least a few of the men knew what USP Lompoc was. The United States Penitentiary there was a medium security prison, with a maximum security Special Housing Unit. Serious people did serious time there.

  He’d been thoroughly briefed on what the organized crime situation had been in Novgorod fifteen years earlier, and the Lompoc stretch gave him an excuse for not knowing all the current players. A couple of guys offered names of people they’d known, back then, and Callen was able to respond believably. He was fluent in Russian, and spoke like a native, but the time in the US would also explain any slipups he might make.

  Certainly, not all of Belyakov’s men were necessarily connected to the Russian crime scene. But the chances were good that several were. Russian capitalism had grown up like a weed, suddenly and without having the ground prepared for it. Those who prospered, with few exceptions, operated in the shadowy turf that joined the government and the criminal underworld. Belyakov moved easily in that realm, and it made sense that he surrounded himself with people who had connections in both places.

  Belyakov ran through the men’s first names. Callen memorized them, but decided he would pretend he hadn’t. He didn’t want to come across as smart as he was. They’d be more likely to underestimate him if they thought he was a little slow. Just a happy, kind of dumb guy whose skills tended toward violence: that was the impression he wanted to give.

  The man named Evgeni was finally finished with Marcella, or he’d run out of cash. Either way, she gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, spun around in case anyone else wanted a dance, then wandered off to earn tips somewhere else. He had a head like a cinder block, with a bad haircut that made it look even squarer. Vadim was slender and dark, wearing a black leather jacket over a black silk tee shirt and black jeans. Yegor had a proto-beard—three or four days of growth—and a tattoo of a dagger that entered his right collarbone, “disappeared” under the skin, and emerged again at the left. Callen knew that one—it meant the man was a convicted killer. He couldn’t see how many drops of blood might surround the dagger’s tip, which often correlated to the number of years on his sentence or murders committed. Pasha was quiet; Callen got the impression that he was shy, but he was big and his nose had been broken a couple of times. He had fists the size of canned hams, and it wouldn’t be wise to un
derestimate his violent proclivities.

  “We should go,” Belyakov said. “Get Grisha settled in the house. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  A couple of the guys grumbled, but everyone knew who the boss was. Belyakov put a hundred dollar bill on the table as a tip, and they left the club with Pasha in the lead, then Belyakov and the rest. Evgeni sidled up alongside Callen, shoulder to shoulder. “You will like the house,” he said in English. He spoke with his head tilted down, only his eyeballs looking up. “Big pool, with girls always there.”

  “I can’t wait,” Callen said in Russian.

  If nothing else, he had learned where Evgeni’s interests lay.

  25

  Belyakov had a pair of matching black Navigators, and everybody piled into those. Callen made a point of taking a long look at the junker Toyota he’d driven to the club, then pulled the keys from his pocket and threw them at the car. They hit the front passenger door and dropped to the pavement.

  “You’re just leaving it?” Vadim asked. “Isn’t there paper?”

  “Not in my name,” Callen said with a grin.

  As soon as they were inside the SUV, Belyakov lit a cigar. As if that equaled permission, Vadim and Yegor lit cigarettes. By the time they reached the house in Brentwood, the interior was thick with smoke. Callen thought about the fire in the hills—Hetty had said Granger was running an errand up there—and figured this was how it must feel to be trapped inside it.

  Evgeni was right about one thing. He did like the house. It spoke to Callen of old Hollywood money. The property was hidden behind a high wall, and seemed to be full of trees. The house itself was rambling, as if instead of being built all at once, it had grown organically from the soil. The walls were adobe, the roof an undulating sea of red tiles. Inside, the walls had been whitewashed, and bright Mexican tile accented them in unexpected places; on the risers of stairs, above windows, edging curved niches. The floors were Saltillo tile. The doors were wood, heavy, with black iron hardware. The furnishings were surprisingly modern and bland, not much more elaborate than what a medium-end hotel might offer; Callen figured they were rented for the occasion, and would be trucked out as soon as Belyakov was gone.