Russian Roulette hj-5

by Austin S. Camacho

  Ray leaned back, took another swallow of beer, and looked at Hannibal “This guy’s part of the case you’re working?”

  “Uh huh. It would be nice to know where he goes. He’s not local. He’s from Algeria, just renting a place in Woodley Park.”

  “Really?” Ray said, slipping the paper into his shirt pocket. “One of my drivers is from Algeria. I got a lot of guys from Africa and the Middle East, and a good handful of West Indians too. And there’s that Panamanian guy.”

  “Sounds like you got a regular rainbow coalition going on there, buddy,” Hannibal said.

  “Not quite,” Ray said. “I only got one white guy driving, and I’m pretty sure he’s gay.”

  Less than an hour later, Hannibal was walking Ray to the building door.

  “You sure you won’t come with?” Ray asked as he stepped out onto the stoop. “You know Cindy’s always glad to see you.”

  “No, man, you need your father-daughter time. Besides, I think I’ll make it an early night. Later.”

  Hannibal closed the door and counted to ten to make sure Ray wasn’t going to double back for something he forgot. Then he marched to his office door, unlocked it, and stepped through. It locked behind him when he closed it.

  Ivanovich was staring at the computer monitor, apparently surfing the Web. His left hand was lying beside his pistol. He glanced up when Hannibal entered, then turned back to whatever he was looking at. Hannibal’s headphones hugged Ivanovich’s head. Hannibal’s eyes traced the cord back to his bookshelf stereo. A compact disc was spinning in the player.

  “You went in my tunes,” Hannibal said through clenched teeth. Ivanovich cocked an eyebrow at him and uncovered his left ear.

  “You went in my tunes,” Hannibal repeated.

  “You make it sound as if I had violated you,” Ivanovich said. He was smiling, but Hannibal was not. Ivanovich eased his hand onto the butt of his gun. “You have an interesting and surprising collection.”

  “You were expecting the collected works of Barry White and George Clinton?”

  “I wasn’t expecting this.” Ivanovich unplugged the headphones and the industrial thump of Nine Inch Nails filled the room.

  Broken, bruised, forgotten, sore,

  Too fucked up to care anymore,

  Poisoned to the rotten core,

  Too fucked up to care anymore!

  “That figures,” Hannibal said. “Trent Reznor’s nihilistic lyrics are just perfect for a heartless assassin.”

  “Nihilistic?” Ivanovich grinned again, tapping the tip of his silencer against the desk. “Not a word, or even a concept I would have expected from you. But then, you couldn’t be stupid and do what you do. In fact, you must understand human motivations better than most.”

  “Yeah, I’m a regular Dr. Phil,” Hannibal said, dropping into his visitor’s chair. “You want a report of today’s progress?”

  “That would be good. I was about to order Chinese. What do you like?”

  “It ain’t bad enough you bogart my office? I got to eat with you now?”

  Ivanovich’s eyes moved down and his smile faded. For a moment, Hannibal thought he had touched something tender.

  “No,” he said, his eyes returning to Hannibal. “It is not required that you eat with me. I simply ask you to. Heartless assassin is a lonely life. Even more so for the assassin who has a heart and cannot be with the one he wants to protect. This feeling you now know. In any case, I would have enjoyed a conversation about nihilism, and Kierkegaard’s view of self-actualization. I know you think of such things. Who do you have to discuss them with?”

  “I…” Hannibal lowered his eyes and his voice. “I, um… I like General Tso’s chicken.”

  8

  Thursday

  The next morning found Hannibal parking in Dani Gana’s driveway. His day had begun with a long run, a hot shower, and a modest breakfast. Then he spent the better part of an hour on the telephone with Jamal Krada. The history professor was excited to have come up with a short quiz that he was certain would catch up anyone who was just pretending to be Algerian. Hannibal copied down the questions and answers, then discussed them with Krada. It seemed important to make sure he understood enough background to catch someone who had a surface knowledge of the subjects he would bring up.

  As he approached the door, Hannibal mentally rehearsed the conversation he expected to take place inside. But as he reached for the doorbell he heard a scream. It was short, but it was definitely a scream. His right hand dropped to the doorknob while his left reached under his arm. The doorknob turned. Unusual in this city, but not unexpected in this neighborhood.

  Hannibal slid his Sig Sauer P229 free of its shoulder holster as he stepped inside, wondering if Gana was finally showing his true colors to the girl. His visit to Krada’s house had shown Hannibal the level of respect Algerians show their women. The front room was dark, all light coming from the kitchen. Fearing for Viktoriya’s safety, Hannibal moved along the wall in silence. As he approached the kitchen, the smell of fried potatoes hung in the air. Had she burned his hash browns? Would that spark a slap in their culture?

  He saw them before they saw him. Gana was running water on his hand in the sink. The woman across the room looked frightened but unhurt. Viktoriya Petrova was a couple of inches taller than her mother but otherwise she was what Raisa Petrova’s graduation photo would have looked like. Her skin was very fair with a hint of rose coloring, and the curls of her shiny black hair rolled down to her shoulder blades. When she saw Hannibal step out of the shadows, gun first, her hands shot out toward him as if she could stop him with her palms from across the room.

  “No, please, don’t shoot my husband.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Gana asked, his voice rumbling.

  Hannibal holstered his weapon. “Sorry. I heard a scream and I guess I just reacted by reflex. Husband?”

  “A civil ceremony this morning,” Gana said, turning off the water and picking up a dish towel. “Not that it is any of your concern. In fact, there is nothing happening in my home that concerns you.”

  “Really?” Hannibal asked, walking across the room toward the sliding doors. “Is that blood on the doorsill there? Sure looks like blood.”

  Viktoriya looked at Gana while Hannibal touched his finger to a small red stain just above the door handle. There was not enough to indicate a stab or gunshot wound, unless a lot of cleanup had taken place before the scream.

  “Oh, Dani was over there after he cut himself,” Viktoriya said.

  “Yes, I was trying to help in the kitchen. I guess I shouldn’t try,” Gana said, wrapping the towel around his hand.

  “Really?”

  “I must have leaned against the door there for a minute while I was shaking my hand, trying to control the pain. I realize now that Viktoriya did scream when she saw me bleeding, but, really, it’s minor.”

  It sounded like a hasty attempt at damage control to Hannibal, but he could hardly justify asking Gana to unwrap his hand to prove there was an injury. He had no idea what might have actually happened in that kitchen, but he could see that the girl was unharmed. Besides, he wanted to preserve his status as invited guest long enough to gather more information.

  “I guess that’s none of my business,” he said. “You know the reason for my visit.”

  “Yes,” Gana said, leaning on the sink. “There are people who question my identity.”

  “People?” Viktoriya asked.

  Gana waved the question away. “Your mother has already told Mr. Jones here that I am living in exile from my native Algeria. He does not realize how far reaching a jihad can be in the Moslem world.” He turned to Hannibal. “You must see that I cannot give you my real name. In fact, I am hoping to convince you not to share what you have already discovered.”

  “I won’t tell anyone anything if you convince me that you’re not a fraud.”

  “But how can he do that without revealing his family name?” Viktoriya a
sked.

  Hannibal pulled a chair out from the table, spun it around backward, and sat. “I think I’ve come up with a solution. I don’t have to know your name to do my job, just be sure that you’re really from Algeria. I consulted with a subject matter expert. He gave me three questions that, if answered correctly, would make him pretty sure that a person was a native of Algeria. Are you game?”

  “You Americans have a word for this kind of thing,” Gana said. “This is bullshit.” He stalked toward the back door where Viktoriya met him.

  “Dani,” she said, “you don’t want to do anything that will make Mother doubt you. Why not just answer his stupid questions?”

  “You mother will not doubt me,” Gana replied, his smile slowly returning.

  “All right then,” Viktoriya said, sliding her fingers down the buttons of his shirt. “Then consider whoever this is that Jones is working for. Would it not be better, safer, to get that person out of our lives?”

  Gana closed his eyes. Viktoriya traced his jawline with her first two fingers. Gana’s shoulders dropped and he returned to the table.

  “All right, Jones, if it will put this inquisition to rest.” Gana dropped into a chair on the opposite side of the table. “What kind of questions do you have?”

  “Well, for example: what happened in fourteen hundred ninety-two?”

  Viktoriya’s brows furrowed. “Columbus?” Hannibal showed her his palm, indicating that she needed to be quiet.

  “That is the year my people immigrated,” Gana said. Viktoriya’s face showed her confusion, so he continued. “Algeria’s original people were the Berbers. She was occupied by the Phoenicians, by the Romans, and then the Arabs, of course. But in 1492, Spain expelled their Jews and my people, the Moors. They moved en masse into Algeria and settled there.”

  Hannibal nodded. “Thanks for the history lesson. Now, can you tell me what Hoca looks like?”

  Gana looked puzzled for a moment, but then smiled. “I see. You probably mean Hoja. Hoca means teacher in Turkish, and the character is Turkish, but his name is Hoja. I can see that the difference in pronunciation would be difficult for your Western tongue.”

  “Yeah, curse my Western tongue. What did he look like?”

  “This was a good choice,” Gana said, smiling again and nodding. “Only Americans would describe your Santa Claus correctly. Hoja is also a character of myth, sort of a roly-poly man in a turban who always rides in on a donkey. In the stories he is a crafty fellow, who pun ctures the pompous by pretending to be naive. Sort of a wise fool. There are dozens of stories. Would you like to hear one?”

  “That’s all right,” Hannibal said.

  “I’m glad you paid attention in school,” Viktoriya said, pulling one of Gana’s legs out and settling her petite behind on his lap.

  “These are things you learn in your home or in the streets.” Gana said.

  “Yes, like how to enjoy your tea at the right hour,” Hannibal said. “What was your favorite tea for the tea hour back home, Mr. Gana?”

  “Ahh, the tea hour,” Gana said, and his eyes seemed to drift back into the past. “In my home there were three of them, always in the same order. My favorite was the first, the strong tea. Strong like life. The second was bitter, like death.” He turned to Viktoriya and his voice softened. “The third tea was sweet and symbolized love.”

  “So if you only wanted one, you would take the first?” Hannibal asked.

  “That would be rude. If you only want to take one, you should wait for the last, which is the worst. Now, anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  Gana seemed to have warmed to this game. He sat with his bride’s hand in his, looking eager to prove himself again.

  “Just one more thing,” Hannibal said. “When you wandered into your local cafe, what was your favorite local beer?”

  Gana chuckled and wagged a finger at him. “A trick question. You know full well that local cafes don’t serve beer in my country. I used to get mine at international hotels or the embassy. And my favorite was Stella Artois.”

  “I grew up in Germany,” Hannibal said. “I know that’s a Belgian beer.”

  “Yes, but it is brewed in Algeria as well, under Belgian control. If you insist on a truly local beer, then I would choose Tango, which is OK but a little sweet for my taste.”

  It was enough for Hannibal. The replies had rolled off Gana’s tongue, in the smooth way all words seemed to roll off his tongue. But, they did feel like answers from the gut to Hannibal. Gana might or might not be a political exile in hiding, but he appeared to be a native Algerian. And maybe he wasn’t putting anything over on his new bride after all. Hannibal stood, almost ready to let this couple go on with their lives.

  “One last thing I’d like to know. Why are you so concerned with being photographed? I saw you exchange words with that fellow yesterday morning. Of course, it was at a distance, but…”

  “That bastard.” Gana’s face turned from bright to threatening as if someone had flipped a switch. “You must understand that the enemies of my family have sent this man to find me. If the local ayatollah receives a clear photo that proves my location, he will send his zealots to kill me. I must defend myself against these jackals.”

  Hannibal went to his car wondering if he was adding to the pressure on a man who was already being persecuted. The parking space he had found faced away from his next destination, so once he started his Volvo up he had to drive a block the wrong way, turn left and go over a block, then turn left again. Now he was aimed the right way, but moving slowly on a side street that was too narrow to have cars parked on both sides. This didn’t discourage any of the local residents from parking there, daring any passers-by to ding their vehicles on the way through.

  Had he been able to drive any faster he might have missed it. As it was, he had to ride the brake to ease past Ben Cochran’s brown Saturn, distinctive in its inconspicuousness. It seemed that at least one person was still pursuing Gana. Cochran must still have been trying to get a good photo.

  Thumbing his steering wheel controls to bring up Led Zepplin, Hannibal considered the possible significance of this otherwise insignificant man. Gana had given a very convincing performance in his kitchen, but something still didn’t feel right. If the Algerian religious establishment had the resources to send spies all the way to America in pursuit of their infidel, would they hire someone as amateurish as Cochran appeared to be? That aside, wouldn’t they find a Muslim to do their spying? Would they hire a man who was so white? Hannibal knew it was dangerous to judge a person by his appearance, but he could not imagine Cochran turning out to be a disciple of Allah. It just did not seemed likely that an angry ayatollah would trust followers who were not of the same faith.

  If Gana was who he said he was, who was really after him and why? Hannibal pulled his little notebook from his inside jacket pocket. Gana had come to Washington upper society with an official endorsement. Muting his music to dial his telephone, Hannibal decided to find out just how valuable that endorsement was.

  “Good morning. Leon Martin, please.”

  9

  Irritations seemed to come to Hannibal in clumps. Trying to reach Leon Martin, vice president of the Chemical Banking Corporation, was getting on his nerves. He lost track of how many times he was transferred and put on hold. When his frustration level reached “slap somebody,” he hung up and called Raisa Petrova.

  “Mrs. Petrova, it’s important that I speak with your banker. Would he recognized your name.?”

  “I should say so,” she said. “We have spoken several times. I handled much of the family financial matters while Nikita was out handling business.”

  “Then I need you to get me on the phone with him.”

  “And why should I want to do that?” Mrs. Petrova asked. “You are only looking for evidence that will hurt my Viktoriya and her man. You think he’s some sort of fake.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And don’t you want to prove me wrong?”

 
This was the kind of twisted reasoning that Raisa understood. In conference call mode, Hannibal used her as a battering ram against the bastions of New York capitalism.

  This verbal battle had taken place mostly while Hannibal was parked under a towering ash on a quiet and shady street about ten minutes west of Gana’s house in the equally upper class Crestwood area. Hannibal had tucked his car in behind a Lexus parked down the block but within sight of the elegant blue-and-white home Cindy would view soon. Hedges fronted the house, and a large dogwood with its arms akimbo rose up out of the front lawn, waving off unwanted visitors. The Realtor’s sheet lying on his passenger seat called it a “spacious, immaculate 5BR/3.5BA home” with a modern kitchen, huge den and family room, beautiful secluded garden, patio, screened porch, and two-car garage. It was huge and beautiful and forty-five years old with “character” and pegged oak floors. It was, in short, Cindy Santiago’s dream house.

  A two-car garage, when the girl didn’t even have a driver’s license. What could a single woman possibly do with all that space? He might never know. But even if he could not be seen with Cindy or have a conversation with her, he could observer her reaction to the house. It was as close as he could get to spending time with her until he had satisfied Ivanovich that the case was over. Under normal circumstances he might feel funny spying on his woman this way, but he knew that three or four other observers were out there. In this situation, one more person watching her made little difference.

  “Leon Martin. How can I help you?”

  The voice prompted Hannibal to pull himself back into business mode. Martin needed to believe he was sitting in his office, not out in his car. He explained that he was a professional investigator vetting a new potential investor for some major corporation.

  “Sir, we are in possession of a letter of introduction written by you to a Mrs. Raisa Petrova, confirming the credentials of one Dani Gana of Algeria.”