Malice kac-19

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Stupenagel's official statement to the police was that she'd gone to the restaurant to interview an unnamed source for a story. "Just a travel piece," she'd said when the detectives asked what the story was about.

  Of course, no one believed her. Stupenagel's stories about the St. Patrick's Cathedral hostage crisis and her subsequent investigation into ties to the Russian agent who'd been captured and apparently released had been the talk of the town ever since they first appeared. There were plenty of people in New York City, as well as elsewhere, who believed the conspiracy theory that the U.S. government knew there would be an attack on 9/11 and allowed it to happen as a pretext for the War on Terrorism. Her stories just added to the conspiracy fodder.

  "I didn't know who I could trust," Stupenagel now told Karp and Marlene. "No one except Gilbert and my source knew I was going there. So either I was followed, which doesn't make sense because that couple was there before I arrived. Or somebody followed Gregory, but he seemed to be the sort who would have taken precautions against that. Or somebody was listening in on my telephone conversations, and I don't like that one bit."

  "So what did Gregory have to say?" Karp asked.

  "Nice interview technique, Karp, subtle," Stupenagel scoffed. "What makes you think I trust you either?"

  "Then whisper it into Marlene's ear, and I'll get it out of her later," he said.

  "Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me, buster," Marlene said with a laugh.

  "Yeah, well, I know that Marlene is a Chatty Cathy with a couple of glasses of wine in her, so I'll just tell you what I know and save you the cheap merlot," Stupenagel said. "It's going to be in the newspaper anyway as soon as I can persuade Gilbert to bring me a laptop."

  Karp sensed that Stupenagel was avoiding the subject of the people who'd been killed in the attack. Though she was tough and brassy, with the usual journalist's dark sense of humor, he knew that she actually had a big heart and that it had to be tearing at her that others, especially children, had been killed by someone trying to get at her or her source.

  "The source, Gregory, was about to give me a photograph that he said showed Kane, Nadya Malovo…and Jamys Kellagh meeting in Aspen," she said, watching Karp's face for his reaction. When she saw it, she nodded. "Yeah, I know that would have been big. But that's when I had to take a tinkle, and we all know what happened after that. Which is why I'd like to know if a black-and-white photograph, probably inside a manila envelope, was found in the debris."

  "The only photographs I'm aware of that survived were those found inside wallets and purses," Karp said, wondering what part his cousin Ivgeny had played in Gregory's meeting with Stupenagel. "Maybe there's another copy."

  Stupenagel shook her head. "I don't think so. He said it was one of a kind and had been faxed to his employer, who I guess are the Karchovskis. Apparently, the photographer has since been murdered and his darkroom burned to the ground."

  "Did you see the photograph?"

  "Unfortunately, that's when I decided to answer the call," she said. "He said it wasn't very good quality, being a fax and all. But I hoped it would be good enough to smear all over the front page of the newspaper. Maybe we could have smoked that fucking weasel Jamys Kellagh out of whatever hole he crawls into between murders."

  "Such language from a lady." Karp smiled. "But I wish your friend had brought that photograph to the authorities so they could arrest that 'fucking weasel' when we had a case to present to the grand jury." Next time I get the chance, he thought, I'm going to have words about this with my cousin.

  "Isn't it obvious?" Stupenagel said. "No one is sure who to trust."

  "Like me?"

  "No, not necessarily. Then again, what takes you off the list of suspects any faster than some other people who have to be on it?"

  Karp thought about the columns and names on his legal pad. I don't know who to trust either. Maybe I should put my own name on the lists.

  "But it's not a matter of trusting you," Stupenagel went on. "Maybe they don't trust anybody in your office, or maybe they don't trust the people your office has to deal with in other agencies. But I'll tell you what, Butch. This is getting scary. The Karchovskis are nobody to fuck with. Not to mention that whoever did this was perfectly willing to murder a member of the press-tried twice, as a matter of fact-and risk the publicity just to stop me from finishing this story."

  "Maybe you ought to cool it for a while," Karp suggested.

  "Like hell I will," Stupenagel fumed. "This is going to come down to the last man standing…or in this case, the last woman standing."

  "That's what I thought," Karp responded, then patted her on the shoulder. "My money's on the woman."

  Three days later, it became apparent that Stupenagel had talked her boyfriend into bringing her a laptop. The proof was on the front page:

  One of the victims of the terrorist bombing at the Black Sea Cafe last week was killed just before identifying the murderous mastermind behind the St. Patrick's Cathedral hostage crisis and other vicious crimes.

  Reputed Russian gangster Gregory Karamazov was about to reveal to this reporter a photograph purported to be of a shadowy figure named Jamys Kellagh meeting last summer with Andrew Kane and Russian agent Nadya Malovo in a bar in Aspen, Colorado when the bomb exploded. Eleven people died in the blast, including Karamazov.

  A well-placed source told this reporter that the bombing appears to have been a desperate move to hide the identity of Kellagh, and confirmation of Malovo's quiet involvement. According to the source, Malovo was arrested inside St. Patrick's Cathedral but was handed over to the Russian government.

  A spokesman for the Russian embassy in Manhattan denied that any of its government's agents were involved in the St. Patrick's debacle. He would not comment on the existence of Malovo.

  "Damn straight, they're worried," the source says. "Imagine the implications."

  Officials with the U.S. government and law enforcement agencies have also refused to comment…

  Karp read the story as he was enjoying peach pancakes at Kitchenette. The Sons of Liberty were carrying on at another table, but he'd politely declined their offer to join the frivolity so that he could work.

  He looked down at his much-traveled legal pad, which had a new column headed by thick, dark letters spelling out Black Sea Cafe. There were three names beneath it-Stupenagel, Murrow, Ivgeny Karchovski-the fewest in any of the columns, and he had to concede that there was a very good chance that whoever knew Stupenagel was meeting Karamazov at the cafe wasn't on the list and might not have been on any of the other lists either.

  Someone, or someones, with the resources and know-how to listen in on telephone conversations, and brazen enough-or powerful enough-to feel safe bombing a restaurant owned by a powerful Russian gangster, he thought. Jamys Kellagh, or whoever he works for-or she; I don't know for sure if Jamys is male or female.

  The conclusions did not sit well with him. Nothing made sense. It was as if God had taken a giant swizzle stick to the solar system. The planets were speeding every which way, careening off course, sometimes on collision paths with other planets, or narrowly missing, but with no discernible pattern to the whole. And every day seemed to bring new worries.

  Karp would have liked to talk to Espey Jaxon about his thoughts. But the former agent had disappeared after dropping Lucy off at the loft and didn't answer his telephone messages.

  He had recently learned that at least one other person wasn't thrilled about Jaxon's career change. Jon Ellis, the assistant director of special operations for the Department of Homeland Security, wasn't happy about it either.

  Ellis had called to apologize for "being an ass" after the St. Patrick's Cathedral hostage crisis by trying to assert federal jurisdiction over the case. Then he asked if Karp could meet him for coffee. Curious as to what he would say, and wanting to get past his aversion to the man that on its face seemed unfair, Karp had agreed.

  Five minutes into the conversation, Ellis made his opinion
known about Jaxon. "Nice time to quit your country and go for the money," he said, but then he saw the look on Karp's face and quickly backpedaled. "Hey, sorry. Geez, I'm good at sticking my foot in my mouth, or maybe it's my head up my ass. I know he's a longtime friend and that was out of line. God knows he was taking down bad guys when I was still sucking my thumb. And I know the old government pension ain't going to pay for much of a retirement. It's just tough when the good ones leave; we can use all the help we can get. What I get left with are the snot-nosed kids and lazy good-for-nothings who nobody else wants."

  Karp told him not to worry about it. He's trying, and I guess they don't teach diplomacy at spook school, he thought. He's not such a bad sort. Just a little overzealous. "I had misgivings about it when I heard, too," he said. "But you're right. I imagine in your business, the burnout rate can get pretty high and frustrating to deal with."

  "You got that straight," Ellis said, shaking his head. "Sometimes between the media and Congress, I wonder who's on whose side. Speaking of the media, how's your friend, Miss Stupenagel?"

  It was odd to hear Ariadne Stupenagel referred to as his friend. True, they'd known each other for a long time, but most of it had been contentious. He respected her, but he had to think about whether he considered her a friend. I guess I do, he thought.

  "Better," he replied to Ellis. "And from what I understand, she's writing again. Sometimes I think she has a death wish."

  "Yeah, walking on thin ice with those stories," Ellis agreed. "I'm not a big fan of the media these days, and I worry that she might drive these guys underground. We'd like to get our hands on Jamys Kellagh before that happens."

  "You're not the only one," Karp said. "But then you and I might find ourselves in another jurisdictional squabble."

  Ellis laughed and held up his hands. "Hey, I learned my lesson. Once you cross the river into Manhattan, one man's word is law. But we will take the leftovers if you don't mind."

  Karp had left the meeting with a better opinion of Ellis. He was never going to be a friend, but the guy was trying to do his bit and had his life on the line in dangerous waters. He decided that his original assessment of the assistant director of special operations had been an emotional one. Karp's mentor, Garrahy, had always warned against making decisions based on emotions. Make up your mind on the facts, the old man used to preach. Save the emotional stuff for your friends and family.

  Karp decided to follow that advice with Ellis, which was the reason his name was now crossed off on the legal pad. But it didn't seem to matter; he wasn't getting anywhere with the columns and names. He needed something that tied it all together.

  He turned to another blank page and in the center wrote Jamys Kellagh and circled it. He surrounded the circle with a dozen smaller circles, to which he drew lines from the center. Some of the smaller circles he filled with the column headings from the first page. Kane's Escape. Fey's Murder. Aspen. And he added one more: Black Sea Cafe.

  A few of the circles he left blank. Something told him that more of them would be filled in before it was over. However, now that he'd created the new page, he wasn't sure what it meant, except that Jamys Kellagh was at the heart of it all, and he already knew that.

  Karp turned the legal pad over and gave the pancakes his attention until Saul Silverstein, the ladies' apparel pioneer, showed up with a copy of the newspaper and began reading Stupenagel's story aloud to the others.

  "Now, that is one brave lady," Bill Florence said when Silverstein finished. "I would have been proud to have her on my staff at the Post. Met her once, big gal but pretty, nice set of jugs, too. Too bad we're the 'Sons' of Liberty or we could ask her to join us."

  "She could be the women's auxiliary, Daughters of Liberty," the artist, Geoffrey Gilbert, quipped.

  "To jugs and the First Amendment," defense attorney Murray Epstein shouted, lifting a whiskey and orange juice.

  "Jugs and the First Amendment," the others said, joining the toast.

  "Hey, are you guys talking about some other bimbo's jugs?" Marjorie the waitress demanded with her hands on her hips.

  "Never," the Sons of Liberty shouted. "Show us your jugs!"

  Marjorie laughed. "Your pacemakers couldn't handle it. But…" she said, leaning toward them seductively.

  "Yes?" the old men replied breathlessly.

  "I just want you to know that they are magnificent."

  A table full of old men groaned and poured themselves another round from Florence's silver flask. Karp laughed and began to return to his pancakes when he noticed his friend the priest, Jim Sunderland, and the former judge, Frank Plaut, standing off to the side talking. He couldn't hear their conversation and wouldn't have understood the context anyway unless he'd talked to his daughter first.

  "Is it time to send the second package?" Sunderland asked.

  "Yes, we seem to have gotten a response for the first," Plaut answered.

  "Interesting that Lucy Karp is involved," the priest said, glancing over at the girl's father.

  "Yes, but perhaps that could have been anticipated, considering Jaxon's relationship with the family," Plaut pointed out.

  "So what's the lucky fellow's name again?"

  "Cian," Plaut answered. "Cian Magee."

  13

  Lucy saw Cian Magee standing at the top of his stairwell and knew that he had to be excited to have ventured so far from his burrow. He clutched the iron railing as though afraid that some ill wind was about to carry his great bulk off into the void. However, he managed to let go with one hand so that he could wave when he saw her.

  "Cead mile failte romhat, Lucy," he shouted.

  "Go raibh maith agat," Lucy thanked him. "A 'hundred thousand welcomes' is certainly a nice Irish greeting. How are you?"

  "Very well, indeed, a ghra mo chroi!"

  "Really, Cian." Lucy laughed as she walked up and gave him a hug. "You're going to have to stop calling me the love of your life or I'm going to demand a ring."

  "If only that were so, Lucy, I'd have already given you my mother's ring. In fact, I have it right here in my pocket just in case." Magee dug into his pants and to her surprise pulled out a beautiful ring with a large diamond in the center. Awkwardly, he got down on one knee. "So want to put your money where your mouth is, mo chuisle? An bposfaidh tu me?"

  "Oh my, so now I'm your 'pulse,'" Lucy said, giggling. She patted him on the cheek. "And no, I can't marry you. I'm already spoken for."

  "Ah yes, the cowboy." Magee sighed as he struggled to his feet. "Too bad I'm afraid of leaving this stairwell, and flying in airplanes, and probably deserts, too, or I'd go to New Mexico and challenge him to a duel for your hand. Rapiers…except, no, I'm also afraid of sharp objects, too. They can put your eyes out, you know."

  "So I'm told," Lucy agreed with a laugh. "Now, what's so exciting that you demanded we come right over?"

  Magee looked around as if he were only just realizing where he was and didn't like it. The evening was growing darker and only a few passersby scurried along the sidewalks, trying to get home. He nervously eyed the slow parade of cars that passed, as if he expected one of his phobias to leap out of one.

  "Yes, yes, very exciting," he said, and turned to go back down the stairs. "But that's quite enough of the great outdoors. Let's retire to my crib, as the kids like to say. By the way, where's your friend…the secret agent man, I thought he was coming."

  "He is," Lucy said, following behind. "But Jaxon called to say he was running a few minutes late. He can catch up."

  A minute later, Magee was safely ensconced in his easy chair, while Lucy sat on the stool across from him. He was obviously enjoying the moment, and the company, and in no hurry.

  Lucy glanced around and noticed the Stouffer's Turkey amp; Stuffing microwave dinner box in the trash can and felt a pang of guilt. I was home with my family and our friends enjoying the real thing with all the trimmings, and this poor man ate alone out of a box, she thought. It was unbearably sad, but she smiled for her
friend's sake and vowed that she'd visit him on Christmas.

  "So, Cian. You said you'd received some 'extraordinary' information and that you needed to see us right away."

  "So I did," Magee said, picking up an old book with a mustard-yellow cover that may or may not have been the original color. "And here is the reason why."

  "A book?" Lucy asked.

  "Ah yes, but not just any old book," Magee said. "This, my dear, I believe to be the veritable Rosetta stone to unlock the mystery presented to us by Agent Jaxon."

  "You figured out what the poem means?" Lucy asked.

  "Well, not yet, but I think this explains a lot about the people involved and may lead us to the answer," he said.

  "Where did you get it?"

  "Well, I have to admit that it wasn't from any great sleuthing on my part," Magee said. "Two days ago, someone rang my doorbell and when I answered nobody was there. However, they'd left a package, containing this book."

  "That's odd," Lucy said. "And kind of creepy."

  "Yes, indeed," Magee agreed. "But as it was helpful, not hurtful, I have to think that the messenger was sent for benevolent purposes and perhaps knew of our quest."

  Lucy's eyes narrowed. "I still don't like all this clandestine stuff," she said. "I wish Jaxon was here. He might have an idea where it came from."

  "Yes, well, perhaps he'll be able to explain it when he arrives," Magee said. "In the meantime, let me give you a taste." He made a great show of blowing dust off the cover and then using a piece of plastic to gently open the book to the title page. "You, of course, are aware that the acids found in the oils on your fingertips can damage old manuscripts. This book isn't particularly ancient-from what I can tell, probably only seventy-some-odd years or so. However, my research on the internet indicates that this may be one of a kind and needs to be treated with TLC."