The Sins of the Father

by Mark Terry

  He pushed through the throng at the bar, using his elbows to lean in between a redhead in a denim mini-skirt and skintight white-T-shirt undulating to the beat and a gray-haired man in jeans, a turtleneck and a sport coat. “Hey,” he said as Derek edged in. “Watch it.”

  “Sorry.”

  The bartender was a short, squat, barrel-chested Russian with a walrus mustache and bulging biceps in a black T-shirt. Derek pointed to a beer. The bartender handed him the bottle and Derek passed him a ruble note. He leaned forward. “Viktor Simonov here?”

  The Russian stared at him, squinting. “American?”

  “Does it matter to you?”

  The bartender shrugged, turned his back on Derek and moved down the bar to re-fill a drink for a couple college-age kids. Derek sipped the beer. The dancing blonde said, “Hey, wanna dance?”

  “Buy you a drink?” he countered.

  She nodded.

  Another bartender approached. Derek pointed to the blonde and she shouted, “G&T.”

  The bartender nodded and fixed the drink. The blonde shouted, “Hey, thanks! I’m Sally.”

  “I’ve got a boat named Sally,” Derek said. “The Salacious Sally.”

  She laughed and took a slug of her gin and tonic. “Cool! What’s salacious mean?”

  “Lustful.”

  She giggled. “Got that right.”

  He tipped his beer to her and grinned.

  “Cool! What kind of boat?”

  He told her it was a 60-foot Criss-Craft Constellation. She took that in and said, “Cool! Where is it?”

  “Chesapeake Bay.”

  She blinked. “In the states?”

  “Uh-huh. Just outside Baltimore.” He held out his hand. “I’m Derek.”

  The first bartender Derek had spoken to interrupted. “What do you want here?”

  Derek turned with a cocked eyebrow. “I’m still working on my beer. How’s your drink?” he asked Sally.

  “Good. Thanks.”

  To the bartender, Derek said, “We’re good. Thanks.”

  “Nyet,” the bartender said. “I’m Viktor. What do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Viktor just glared at him. “What do you want?” His English was pretty good, though accented.

  To Sally, Derek said, “I’ll talk to you later, maybe. I’ve got to talk to this man.”

  “Look for me. I’m salacious.” She pointed at him and laughed.

  Sally disappeared into the crowd. Derek sighed—all business and no pleasure, you fool—and turned back to Viktor and said, “Someplace private?”

  “What do you want?”

  With a sigh Derek leaned forward until his mouth was close to Viktor’s right ear. “The Red Hand.”

  He sat back on the stool.

  Viktor blinked. “Get out of here.” He turned and slid away up the bar.

  Turning, Derek looked around to see if salacious Sally was in sight. No. Bummer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Konstantin weaving through the crowd. Had it been ten minutes already? He caught the Russian’s eye and pointed at Viktor. Konstantin nodded and squeezed up to the bar.

  Watching from the far end of the bar, Derek saw instantly that Viktor had good instincts—one look at Konstantin and he glanced uneasily toward Derek. They spoke briefly and Viktor poured Konstantin vodka and moved away, back toward Derek. As he passed Derek, Viktor muttered, “We have company.”

  Derek sipped his beer and considered how to play it. The next time Viktor swung by, Derek asked him when he would be free. Viktor, who might have been a terrific bartender and an uncanny judge of law enforcement personnel, wasn’t so hot at keeping a poker face. He glanced nervously at Konstantin.

  Grabbing Viktor’s sleeve, Derek pulled him close and said, “He’s with me and we can talk unofficially or officially. Decide.” He let go and Viktor reeled back as if on a bungee cord. His ruddy expression grew pale and his fists clenched. Then he said, “Out front in fifteen minutes. We’ll go for a walk.”

  “It’s cold outside, Viktor.”

  Viktor shrugged. “Fifteen minutes.”

  Derek nodded and finished his beer. When he was done he set the bottle on the bar and shouldered his way out of the pub. Konstantin joined him on the street. It was cold. Freezing drizzle hung in the air, coating everything with a thin scrim of ice.

  “He said he’d meet us out front in fifteen minutes. Is there a rear entrance?”

  “I’ll go cover it. Text me when he shows up.”

  Derek nodded, burrowed into his borrowed leather coat, reached into the Audi and popped the ushanka back on his head and leaned against a lamppost, despising the Russian spring, which seemed suspiciously like a Baltimore winter. People went in and out of the bar. A few people walked down the street. Traffic here was light. He kept his eyes open and his head up and paid attention to anyone that showed any particular attention to him.

  A few minutes later Konstantin came around the corner with Viktor. Viktor’s hands were cuffed behind his back and he was cursing in fluent and ugly Russian. Konstantin said, “Tried to sneak out the back. Get in the car, Viktor.” He pushed him into the rear seat. Derek climbed in next to him. Konstantin got in behind the wheel and pulled away.

  Viktor whined, “I need to get back to work. Where are we going?”

  “Cooperate and we’ll drive around and drop you back at your job,” Konstantin said. “Otherwise, I’m sure I can find a nice cell for you at Lubyanka where nobody will remember who you are for a few days. Or weeks.”

  “I didn’t do anything! Who are you guys! What do you want?”

  Derek said, “I was told you know something about the Red Hand.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  Derek sighed. “What’ll it be, Viktor? Do we have to beat the shit out of you? Or, I’ve got money.”

  “Thousand bucks, U.S.”

  Derek snorted. “Beating the shit out of you is sounding better and better all the time.”

  “Hey, you mentioned the money.”

  “So I did. Tell me something about the Red Hand I don’t know. Better yet, tell us something my friend doesn’t know.”

  “I know who runs it.”

  Konstantin cocked his head so he could see Viktor in the rearview mirror. “Name?”

  “He goes by Z.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “That’s not very helpful. Where are they located?”

  Laughter. “They’re everywhere, man. The Red Hand is everywhere.”

  “Maybe you could be a little more specific,” Derek said. “Because if you’re jerking me around I’m going to kick you out of this car without slowing down.”

  “Moscow. St. Petersburg. Novosibirsk. Everywhere.”

  “What do they want?”

  Viktor grinned. “They want a new Russia.”

  “And Z, he’s going to be the head of the new Russia?”

  “The new tsar. Maybe.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I listen.”

  Derek hit him. It was a snapping backhand to Viktor’s cheekbone. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to make him sit up and pay attention. “How do you know all this?”

  “I’ll kill you, you bastard!”

  “Get in line. How do you know this?”

  “I used to belong.”

  “Used to?”

  “Before they started getting organized. Used to be a bunch of us, ex-army, get together, drink, play cards, go out in the woods hunting, talk about the good old days when the Cold War was hot and the Republic was the most powerful country on the planet.”

  “But they’re getting organized.”

  “Yeah. They steal things. Weapons. Sell them for money.”

  “Who is Z?”

  “Don’t know. But the rumor is, Z is someone in the government. Someone high up. Someone who might come to power if things changed.”

  Derek coul
d tell from the hunch of Konstantin’s shoulders and the tilt of his head that he found this information interesting.

  Suddenly Konstantin spun the wheel of the car and skidded around a corner on the slick road. Punching the gas, the Audi’s engine roared and the car lunged forward. “We’ve got company,” Konstantin said.

  Glancing back, Derek saw a familiar black BMW racing after them.

  Irina Khournikova sprawled on the cot in her cell, listening and thinking. Lev… what did the Red Hand want? What was going on?

  Well, at least she had clothing now—shoes, socks, camo pants, a white T-shirt.

  And she supposed she had a plan. She had been here—wherever here was—for a long enough time to get a sense of the routines and the schedules, to see who would come by and who would not. Mostly she was ignored. The only visitors she ever had were the monster, Igor, and more recently, the bitch, Zoya.

  Igor was working his way up to something, to force himself on her, to let out his violence on her. Zoya was more of a cipher, self-contained, watchful. Zoya reminded her of a leopard, watching its prey. Irina was far more wary of Zoya, who she suspected wanted to just kill her and get rid of a potential problem. Igor wanted a playtoy. Zoya wanted her dead and gone. It was only because of Yakov’s desire to use her background and skills that she was kept alive.

  As she listened, she realized it was closing in on what she thought of as shift change. She didn’t know if it was, exactly, just that around this time of the evening people seemed to come and go. She prepared herself. This was the time she would receive her food. Usually Igor brought it, but not always. Sometimes it was a young man or woman that looked at her with contempt or curiosity, but rarely said anything. She ran through in her head what she intended to do: escape or die.

  For Lev.

  She sat up as the door opened. Igor stepped in. “Stand up,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Irina squinted at him and stayed where she was. “Fuck you, Igor.”

  Igor laughed and stretched his arms, his thick biceps bulging. “Somehow I thought you would say something like that.” He stepped over to her and kicked her in the thigh. With a yelp Irina rolled off the cot and onto her feet. Her gaze flickered to the open door.

  “Just you and me, sweetheart. Zoya and Yakov are out and about, so it’s just you and me. We’re going to party.” He stepped closer. She lashed out with one foot. It caught him on his inside thigh, about three inches lower than she had aimed. He grunted and swung at her. For his size he was pretty fast. She got an arm up, but his big fist struck her arm, almost knocking her down.

  And then he was on her, catching her by her shirt and flinging her at the wall. She slammed into the cement block, the wind knocked out of her, dropping to her knees. He kicked her, but she folded over his foot with both arms and twisted. With a shout Igor tumbled to the concrete floor. Sliding around, Irina slammed her elbow down in the center of Igor’s chest, following with a ridge hand to his neck.

  He coughed, trying to suck air into his damaged throat. Irina jumped to her feet and kicked Igor in the ribs. Twice. Like she was hitting the soccer ball for a goal. Something cracked. She hoped the ribs splintered and punctured a lung and he choked to death on his own blood. He was still between her and the door. As she moved to go around him, he climbed to his feet. His eyes flashed with hatred. “I will kill you.”

  “You had your chance.”

  Igor pulled a handgun from his belt. She sprinted for the door. Igor fired. The impact of the bullet knocked her against the doorframe. Pain radiated outward from her upper back. Collapsing against the wall, she turned to face her attacker, using the wall for support.

  Igor lunged at her. Despite her injury, she was ready. Just as he got within range she thrust her knee into his crotch. With a groan he leaned forward. She hit him in the neck with the edges of both hands. The blows simultaneously struck the carotid artery, the jugular and the vagus nerve, causing lethal damage. Igor fell to the hard floor, thrashing, hands scrabbling at his ruined throat.

  Irina knelt down and picked up the gun, checked it was loaded. Her left side felt numb. She’d taken a bullet to the back, just below her shoulder. The sense of creeping numbness was spreading, but this was her only chance.

  She fished in Igor’s pants pocket and came up with a set of keys. She peeled him out of his jacket, finding a stocking cap in one pocket. Nausea washed over her. She struggled into the jacket, pulling the cap over her head.

  Outside the cell was a long corridor. Again, she had the sense of being in the basement of a school or abandoned military base. Moving as fast as she could, she hurdled up a flight of stairs into another corridor. As she stepped out, a voice shouted at her. Turning, she raised the gun and fired. More shouts.

  She ran for the doors, the sound of people running after her.

  Bursting out of the building, she saw it was dark and bitterly cold, sleet lancing across the sky. Off to one side were a dozen vehicles. She lurched toward them, punching the button on Igor’s key fob. The headlights of a Mercedes flashed.

  Behind her were shouts. Gunfire split the air. Not turning, she rushed to the Mercedes and flung open the door, tumbling in.

  Before shutting the door, she fired back at the running figures. With numb fingers she jabbed in the key and fired up the engine. Stomping on the gas, the heavy car’s wheels spun in the slush, caught hold and she rocketed toward the main gate, which was closed.

  Two of the Red Hand jumped toward her, assault rifles raised. The window exploded inward, scattering safety glass all over her. Irina bent over, foot pressed to the floorboards.

  With a crash the car hit the gate, which exploded under the impact.

  Not knowing where she was, she aimed the car at the main road and tried to hang on. A glance in the rearview mirror told her they were in pursuit.

  The world grayed around the edges. Irina fought to stay conscious, to keep the car on the road. In the distance she saw a glow of lights. She didn’t know if it was Novosibirsk or Moscow or St. Petersburg, but that’s where she was headed, just as long as she could—

  Another vehicle closed in behind her. She heard the distant sound of gunfire and felt something pluck at her ear. Another shot. Then another.

  Irina pushed the car even harder, squeezing every horsepower out of the engine.

  She was flying down the road at almost two hundred kilometers per hour when she saw the lights of Moscow in the distance. Her heart leapt at the thought she was this close to home.

  Then two vehicles closed in and more gunshots rang out. A wheel blew. Something slammed into her leg. Then something struck her head and the last thing she remembered was the car spinning, spinning…

  Konstantin careened the Audi around another turn. Behind them the BMW sped up. A crack! and the rearview mirror exploded from a bullet striking it.

  In the rear, Derek reached out and caught Viktor by the throat and squeezed, pressing him back against the seat. “Who did you call?”

  Viktor’s eyes widened. He tried to pull away from Derek, but with his hands cuffed behind his back, there wasn’t much he could do. “No … no …. one.”

  Derek shook him by the throat. “You’re lying! Who did you call!” Another bullet pinged off the roof of the car only inches above their heads. Derek ducked low, taking Viktor with him. He hissed in the Russian’s face, “Tell me!”

  “Vitaly … my friend Vitaly.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That an American—you—was asking around about the Red Hand.”

  Konstantin took another sharp turn. The Audi skidded. The rear caught something—a telephone pole, a street sign, a parked car, something—with a huge bang!, jolted, then righted itself. The rear window pocked as a bullet struck it.

  Derek yanked out his gun, rolled down his window, leaned out and fired two rounds back at the BMW, then ducked back down.

  “Vitaly who?”

  “Abrikisov. He’s my cousin.”

>   “And he’s in the Red Hand?”

  Viktor nodded.

  “How do we contact him?”

  Viktor shook his head. Derek punched him in the face. Blood spurted. Derek patted down the Russian, came up with a wallet and a cell phone. He flipped open the phone and fussed with the menu, not the easiest thing to do without speaking Russian. After a moment he found the recent calls page. He pocketed the phone.

  Another bullet struck the rear window. This time the glass spiderwebbed. Konstantin swore in Russian, the tone unmistakable.

  Derek popped up and fired through the rear window, which exploded outward into a million cubes of safety glass. He took close aim at the BMW, only a dozen yards behind them. They must have been speeding through the streets of Moscow at close to a hundred miles per hour. Swaying, he aimed at the driver, emptied the Beretta and dropped down below the seat again, knowing he didn’t have a tremendous amount of protection there. He ejected the magazine and slapped in his spare.

  He glared at Viktor. “Whoever’s trying to kill us doesn’t care if you get killed too.” He popped up and fired through the window. He hit something, because the BMW swerved, sideswiping a truck and going into a spin.

  Then Derek jolted sideways. Konstantin swore, fighting the wheel as the Audi hit ice and skidded. A loud swooshing sound reverberated and the world became a spinning, tilting cacophony of motion and sound as the Audi rolled. Derek clung to a seatbelt, but it was torn from his grasp. Everything became chaos.

  Then silence.

  A second or a minute or an hour later, Derek groaned. “Everyone okay?”

  “Sort of,” Konstantin said. The Audi rocked upside down. Konstantin hung from his seatbelt. “You?”

  Derek lay crumpled on the interior ceiling of the Audi. His body, which had already been through plenty, ached, but he didn’t feel anything that felt like a significant injury. “Viktor?”

  No response. Looking around, Derek couldn’t see the man anywhere. Where was the Russian snitch? More importantly, where was Derek’s gun?

  He spotted it and snagged it. Contorting, he crawled toward the open rear window, slithering through onto the icy pavement. Climbing slowly to his feet, he saw the crumpled figure of Viktor a dozen feet away. When the Audi had rolled he must have been flung from the vehicle through the window. Approaching, Derek knelt down, glancing around to see where the driver of the BMW might be. The BMW was thirty yards away, engine still idling, but nobody sat behind the wheel.