Russian Roulette hj-5

by Austin S. Camacho

  “There are times when one must lay low,” Ivanovich answered, stepping around the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling in the middle room. “This is one of those times.”

  They continued past the small table in what Hannibal sometimes referred to as his conference room and into his office. He poured the water into his coffee maker, wondering how close the police might be to finding Ivanovich.

  “Well, you must have been watching this guy for a while to be able to get that picture of him,” Hannibal said.

  “Yes,” Ivanovich said, pulling an airtight canister from a shelf behind Hannibal and handing it to him. “I was simply observing him, but as it turned out the FBI was watching him also. I was spotted but escaped before the agent could call in backup.”

  Hannibal poured beans into the grinder side of his coffee maker. It was a custom blend of Kenyan, Colombian, and Guatemalan coffees prepared for him by The Coffee Mill in Rehoboth Beach. It was much better than his captor deserved. He hated the fact that the proposed case was beginning to interest him.

  “So the FBI is also interested in this Gana,” Hannibal said over the whine of the grinder. “Is he Russian mob too?”

  Ivanovich paused at the same moment Hannibal did to enjoy the fresh aroma that the grinder ripped from the beans. Then he said, “I do not know. But Viktoriya’s father was, before he died. Nikita is no longer there to protect or advise her. She lives with her mother, Raisa, now. She seemed secure there until this Gana appeared in the city two months ago and leased Raisa’s second home.”

  “Also in the District?”

  “Yes. Both are in Woodley Park.”

  “Nice,” Hannibal said, pouring his coffee. “He must have plenty of cash to be staying up there. It sounds like your Viktoriya will be well taken care of.” He looked at Ivanovich who nodded with a thin smile, so Hannibal poured a second cup.

  “Perhaps.” Ivanovich accepted the cup and returned to Hannibal’s desk chair. “But I fear he may have come by the money dishonestly. If that is true, he could have worse enemies than the FBI. And if someone is out there who wants to hurt this man, Viktoriya could be hurt in the process. I will not allow her to be put at risk.”

  Hannibal stood at his desk, considering this enigmatic assassin and his request. Ivanovich was asking Hannibal to take a case he was sure he would accept from a different client and maybe from this man if they had not had this entire conversation at gunpoint.

  “You really love her, don’t you?”

  “How could that matter to your investigation?”

  “It has to do with your motives,” Hannibal said. “You must be desperate to be here, talking to a black detective because you figure I can help you find out the truth about a rich African foreigner. But why would I take your case? Do you really think you can force me to investigate at gunpoint? I could walk out that door and just keep going. Or, I could call the cops and let them come in here and yank you out. Why on earth would I invest any of my time and energy into helping you stalk this girl who doesn’t appear to need help or to be interested in you at all?”

  Ivanovich’s voice deepened and became a bit harder, as if he wanted to be very sure that Hannibal understood him clearly.

  “Because, my arrogant friend, I have very competent associates watching Miss Cintia Santiago, associate at Baylor, Truman, and Ray and daughter of Reynaldo Santiago who lives upstairs from you. My associates are invisible, obedient, and deadly. If you fail to find the answers I need about Dani Gana, your beloved Cintia Santiago will die.”

  2

  Wednesday

  Aleksandr Ivanovich’s words had echoed in Hannibal’s mind all night like a continuous tape loop. The loop continued to play in his head the next morning as he gathered Eddie Miller from his apartment just before dawn. Driving his black Volvo S60 downtown, Hannibal replayed every ugly word Ivanovich had said to him. The jarring statement that at least two trusted men were watching Cindy Santiago at all times. The declaration that her telephones were tapped and that Ivanovich could even tap into her BlackBerry messages. The warning that any contact with her would endanger her and her coworkers.

  He didn’t need to be told that letting any of his friends or neighbors know what was going on would put them at risk. All the men who lived upstairs had helped him on cases before. Sarge, Quaker, and Virgil were always up for anything but none of them would be able to deal with a professional killer like Ivanovich. And none of them could keep a secret from the fourth man who shared the building, Cindy’s father. With his Cuban temper, Ray Santiago would likely go racing right into the assassin’s sights.

  Worse, a firefight in the building would involve little Monte, the boy Hannibal mentored, and possibly his grandmother. Mother Washington would try to talk the killer out of the house, believing that prayer can solve any problem. Maybe she was right, but he would not risk their lives. This problem he would have to deal with on his own.

  All this occupied one compartment of his brain as he drove the car he called the Black Beauty into the parking garage under the building that housed the law offices of Baylor, Truman, and Ray. He stepped out of the car and looked around for a second before signaling Miller that it was safe to get out.

  “I thought we were going to the courthouse,” Miller said, looking uncomfortable in a suit that Hannibal suspected only left the closet for weddings or an Easter church visit.

  “You’ll be safe here until court time,” Hannibal said, keeping his eyes moving as he escorted Miller to the elevator.

  “I don’t think anybody’s going to bother me this close to the trial,” Miller said.

  Hannibal didn’t think so either. He was watching for other men. But it seemed he had guessed right. Cindy would head straight for the courthouse this morning and, with limited resources, Ivanovich’s people would be with her, not staking out her workplace.

  They carried little of the crisp morning air into the elevator with them, and warm, dry air greeted them as they stepped out of it. Hannibal was surprised to see lights on behind the office door and for a second he feared he had guessed wrong after all. Miller stepped back when Hannibal drew his weapon, gripped the doorknob, and pushed the door inward.

  Silence and a sweet aroma greeted his entrance. The outer office was empty except for Mrs. Abrogast, who was floating fresh begonias in a shallow bowl filled with water. The office manager turned toward the door with an expression that somehow combined an unimpressed smirk with a scowl of impatience.

  “Can I help you with something, Mr. Jones, or are you here to rob us?”

  “My apologies, ma’am,” Hannibal said, holstering his gun. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here this early. I thought I’d end up waiting for you in the hall.”

  “Someone has to prepare this place for the all the young lions,” she said, moving around behind her desk. Mrs. Abrogast was one of those lovable, blue-haired, old-school ladies who never smiled but loved her charges despite her constant criticism of them. This, and her stone visage, made her the perfect gatekeeper.

  “Well, since you’re here, I’d like to leave Mr. Miller with you,” Hannibal said.

  “You do know that Ms. Santiago is not in yet,” Abrogast said. “I’m the only one here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hannibal said, “but I have another case that I have to attend to. I’m pretty sure Miller here will be safe in your charge and the rest of the crowd will be in soon enough.”

  “You need to stop by more often, young man, and I don’t just mean when it’s business related,” she said, fussing with things on her desk as if Hannibal wasn’t worth paying attention to. “You give her more attention, or we’ll find someone else for her to waste her time on.”

  Hannibal leaned one palm on the desk. “You are absolutely right, Mrs. A. You don’t know how badly I wish I could be talking to her right now. But when you see her, give her this, OK?”

  He kissed the tip of a gloved pointer finger and pressed it on Mrs. Abrogast’s head. She gave him a skeptical glance
and a small piece of a smile.

  “That won’t hold her for long, young man.”

  Hannibal’s smile faded by the time he was driving north and west down Connecticut Avenue, the major thoroughfare that slices into the heart of Northwest DC. He was at the leading edge of rush hour, the sky not quite light thanks to low cloud cover, the pedestrians not quite awake. Heading toward Viktoriya Petrova’s place, he had more time than he wanted to consider Ivanovich’s threat against the person he cared most about in the world.

  It was a big stick, maybe bigger than necessary. After all, Ivanovich was not asking him to do anything illegal or that would put anyone at risk. In fact, Hannibal knew he might have taken the job anyway if Ivanovich had asked him nicely. It was nothing that would make him even think about putting his woman at risk, and he saw no reason to leave an alarming note for her at work or make any attempt to inform her of the situation because it would only frighten her. Besides, he might be able to end the case quickly. He would start by talking with Gana; his girl, Petrova; and her mother. If the man had nothing to hide, Hannibal would know right away.

  To reach the Petrova house Hannibal drove past the Omni Shoreham Hotel and down the block he called restaurant row in his mind. He had once counted twenty-five international restaurants on that one city block. Most of them pumped hypnotic aromas into the street. Crawling through traffic with his windows down, Hannibal found the scent of food changing with each breath.

  He drove past stately rowhouses whose ornate architecture cast him back a century or so before trees and lawns took over and the rowhouses gave way to upscale single-family houses. These were not the contemporary dwellings sprouting like kudzu all around the Beltway, but old-school mansionettes, most of which were still inhabited by old money.

  Hannibal was watching the numbers on the mailboxes. After he drove past the Petrova house, he turned the corner and parked almost at the end of the block. He was dressed for business in black suit and gloves and his ever-present Oakleys, but he didn’t feel conspicuous. In that neighborhood, most people would assume he was a member of a government or private protective service, or perhaps working at one of the nearby embassies.

  It was a crisp day, as if all the trees in the neighborhood were working overtime on oxygen production, and he wanted to walk the area a bit before knocking on a stranger’s door. On a whim, he decided to walk toward the closer corner and stroll up the block to pass the house that backed to the Petrova residence. It also belonged to Mrs. Petrova and was leased to Dani Gana. If Hannibal got lucky he might even catch a glimpse of Gana, although he still wanted to speak to Mrs. Petrova first.

  A brown suit caught his attention as he walked. It was wrapped around a man holding a camera. The camera’s lens was big enough that the man had to support it with his spare hand. He was leaning against a brown Saturn wearing New Jersey plates, itself more out of place on that block than Hannibal’s Volvo. The longer Hannibal looked at the man, the less he seemed to belong there. He was trying to be casual but was watching for something at the other end of a steep driveway. If Hannibal was judging the distance to the man’s position correctly, the house he was watching was the Petrova rental property. That was enough to make Hannibal want to know more.

  He could walk straight down the sidewalk to greet the stranger, but instead he crossed the street. Soon he was standing behind the man, separated by a narrow strip of asphalt. The white, modified split-level house stared down from its perch surrounded by a variety of foliage. A tall bank of hedges offered the house some privacy. Hannibal wondered if Dani Gana could have done anything to warrant being stalked by paparazzi.

  The stranger with the camera let any random sound yank his attention to the left or right. When he looked uphill through the hedges, he lifted the camera to his eye, as if using the lens as a spotting scope. Could this be the man Ivanovich saw watching Gana?

  Hannibal waited for a taxi to pass before stepping into the street. He walked at a normal pace, not trying to conceal his presence, yet the stranger looked startled when he heard Hannibal’s voice beside him.

  “What are you doing here?” Hannibal asked.

  The stranger’s head whipped around and his right hand slid into his jacket as if he were looking for something. “Get away from here. I’m authorized. I’m INS.” He pulled out a badge but Hannibal ignored it. He looked at the man’s suit, his shoes, and the quality of his haircut. He was soft around the middle and his sandy brown hair was just a little too long. His shoulders were slight for a man Hannibal’s height.

  “No, you’re not,” Hannibal said.

  “Sure I am. Now beat it. I’m following a suspect.”

  Hannibal glanced at the fake badge and wondered if “special agent” Ben Cochran had used his real name on it. Having seen the real thing so many times, he didn’t have to stare long to see this badge was made from a much cheaper metal. Not that it mattered, since nothing about this man’s style, appearance or approach felt like a real INS agent.

  “You’re not immigration and you’re not FBI. So who are you?”

  Cochran hesitated for a moment, then lowered his hand and put his badge away. “Who said I was FBI?”

  “A guy I know, but he must not have gotten a good look at you.” Hannibal watched Cochran’s eyes wilt.

  “OK, look, I’m really a private detective.”

  Hannibal leaned back against the car, side by side with Cochran. “Wrong again. That’s my gig and I know every private op licensed to work in the District.” It was a casual lie, but he had little fear of contradiction.

  “So you’re watching Gana too?” Cochran asked. Hannibal smiled and Cochran took that as his answer. “I’m from out of town. I’m here helping a friend who wants to know who Gana really is. Damn, I hate being stuck in the Ramada day after day, but I told my pal I’d help him out, you know? I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you’ll just…”

  The sound of an engine starting spun Cochran around toward the house. A black Mercedes had pulled out of the garage and was idling in front of the house. When the driver got out, all Hannibal could see was dark skin and a dark suit. The driver went to the door, walked a woman to the passenger side, and opened the car door for her. Then the man walked around to the other side of the car. As the driver was about to open the car door, Hannibal heard a click beside him.

  “Got it,” Cochran said. At the other end of the driveway, the driver’s head snapped up. He had heard the camera. The thin eyebrows on that dark face pushed together and Hannibal felt a wave of hate roll downhill. Still unseen, he walked a few feet down the street and crossed, keeping his pace casual.

  Cochran, on the other hand, giggled in a high-pitched voice and yanked at his own car’s door handle. He placed the camera on the passenger seat, got in, and slammed the door.

  Cochran and his car were slow. He got it started and was just pulling into the street when the Mercedes roared down the driveway. Cochran yanked the wheel to the right but not fast enough. The right quarter panel of Gana’s Mercedes creased the little Saturn, cracking a headlight and forcing it over against the curb. Both drivers jumped out of their vehicles, but Cochran held a camera while Gana held a knife.

  3

  Hannibal wasn’t sure what he expected from his first good look at Dani Gana, but this was not it. Black marble eyes were set deep in a polished teak face, only a bit darker than Hannibal’s, with features that reminded him of a Lebanese neighbor he once had. Black, straight hair lay facing forward and hanging over the edge of his forehead. Rage widened his eyes, clean whites showing around the marbles.

  Gana was not a big man but his shoulders were wide and his hands were big enough to make the folding fighting knife look smaller than Hannibal knew it was. When he spoke, he surprised Hannibal again. His voice dipped to an unexpected register, below baritone but not quite bass.

  “Is it worth dying for?”

  Cochran looked perplexed until Gana nodded at the camera. Cochran looked from the camera to the
wide blade and back again. Cochran held the camera out away from his body. Gana snatched it with his left hand, held it high over his head, and slammed it down to the street. The snapping of plastic and the crackle of glass breaking dominated the street for a moment. Gana nudged the remains of the camera over behind his front tire. Then he took two purposeful steps toward Cochran. Hannibal touched his automatic and prepared to stop the action from going any further.

  The passenger side window lowered, and a warm, accented voice said, “Darling, it is not worth it.”

  The rage flew from Gana’s face as he turned to the car. All Hannibal could see inside was hair, black and shiny as a raven’s wings, flowing in a cascade of curls halfway down a woman’s back. This would be Viktoriya Petrova, Hannibal assumed. Her voice had been enough to break Gana’s rage. In a moment he would become more aware of his surroundings.

  Hannibal turned and walked away at a casual pace. Behind him, he heard low conversation between Gana and Viktoriya, then Gana’s door opened and closed. He heard the Mercedes pull away in the opposite direction. He heard the finality of the camera being crushed under the tires. And he heard Cochran mutter a single profane epithet before he too drove away.

  Hannibal continued without a backward glance. When he reached the corner, he crossed to the side on which Gana lived. Only then did he look up the block, but both the Saturn and the Mercedes were gone. He continued to the next corner, turned again, and found himself in front of a long winding flight of stone steps. He started up them, between waves of purple, blue, and white flowers growing out of an evergreen plant. Daffodils scattered among the ground cover nodded their yellow heads at him as he passed.

  A broad patio ahead held a wrought iron table and chairs where two people sat separated by a large French press coffee maker and a pair of cups. The woman was in her forties, with hair cut in a trim bob that left a thick slice of hair to hang at an angle between her eyes. It was the same ink black as the woman in the Mercedes. This would be Raisa Petrova.