Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (11 page)

14

PASHA WAS IN trouble and he knew it. Time to look strong or even his own men would turn on him. He had assured his backers in Moscow he could handle the PathoGen deal with Frank Nelson with no problem. They believed him and were ready to hand him the keys to the
bratva
that Genken had ruled with an iron fist for almost three decades. Pasha liked and respected Genken. He owed all his success to the man. It wasn’t personal. But his time was over. The
bratva
needed fresh leadership. The
bratva
needed him.

Moscow’s twenty-five million bucks would not be lost, but Hiller said if the transaction aborted, it could take up to a month for it to be laundered from the escrow account back to the original account in Moscow. The sum was a drop in the bucket to his sponsors, but his failure was huge.

Pasha ran his hands through his close-cropped hair. Where would the Bear have gone to hide? He had twenty soldiers out looking for him. He hadn’t been seen at any of his regular haunts. A thought came to him.

“Vladimir.”

“Yes, Pasha?”

“I have a suspicion where we might find Med.”

Vlad looked at him but said nothing. Vlad is smart, Pasha thought.

“If you knew I wanted to find you and was going to kill you, where would you go?”

Vladimir said nothing.

“Come on old friend, humor me. Where would you go?”

“A place no one else knows about,” Vlad answered.

“Do you think the Bear has such a place?”

“I doubt it.”

“So where?”

“Me? I’d find such a place and stay there.”

“Okay, Vlad, since you refuse to humor me, I’ll tell you where I think he’s gone.”

“You think he’s gone to Genken?” Vlad asked.

“Finally you speak. That’s exactly where I think the Bear has gone.”

“And that means you want to move our plans forward.”

“You read my mind,” Pasha said. “Can you make the move tonight?”

Vladimir Zheglov thought a moment.

“You got a few of my men out looking for Med,” he answered.

“We’ll call them home. Can you do it?”

“Sure. The plan is set. The men have never known the exact target or the exact night it happens. With the Bear on the loose there will be a lot of chatter. The sooner we act the better in my opinion. We don’t want to lose surprise because of whispers on the street. It’s always better to strike first.”

“Make it happen, Vlad. Go now. Everything rides on it.”

Vlad nodded and the two childhood friends hugged.

It’s time for war, Pasha thought. I better change locations again. That’s the way it will be until I fix this.

I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to book the last flight to Chicago. But then it started snowing again and traffic was a tangled mess. I started sweating in the back of the cab, looking down at my watch every minute, wondering if I was going to miss it after calling Captain Zaworski and letting him know I was going to be at the office in the morning after all. Then the traffic jam didn’t matter. I got a text message from Southwest. My flight was canceled due to weather. They rolled me over to the first flight in the morning. I let the driver know I needed to go back to the Sheraton. He shrugged and got off at the next exit.

I decided to eat the frog first and called Zaworski to let him know
I wasn’t going to make it after calling to let him know I was going to make it after all. No answer—a big relief—so I left him a message and let him know I’d be in by early afternoon. I’m praying I’m not actually suspended because I didn’t meet with the counselor after the Cutter Shark case—or the Jack Durham case.

Maybe Zaworski was just lighting a fire under me to make sure I got the point. Or maybe not.

I called Mom to check on her and she sounded fine. She reminded me that I had promised to call Blackshear and let him know about the mystery man that had been visiting Nancy Keltto. I found Blackshear in my contact list, hit the number, and he picked up. I gave him the skinny on what Mom saw as quick as I could so I could follow up on some other callbacks. But he was in the mood to talk and I couldn’t get off. We talked about Keltto’s death and whether it might just be an accident. That’s his initial suspicion but he takes down the license plate number my mom supplied. Then we end up swapping updates on other cases and office politics, including the return of Zaworski.

I wanted to catch Don who called a seventh time and Klarissa to let her know she’s stuck with me as roommate one more night, but I couldn’t get off the call with Blackshear and now the cab is pulling up to the doors of the Sheraton. I swipe my card and punch in a fifteen percent tip. The driver looks at his screen in the front seat and scowls. I guess driving on icy streets calls for a higher percentage. This trip has gone way over my budget. Rice and beans and bumming meals at Mom’s and Kaylen’s the rest of January.

The doorman out front offers to have my bags carried in, but I’m out of cash and have done all the tipping I plan to do in New York City.

I sling my backpack over a shoulder and pull my roller board behind me. I snag it on the rounded corner of the revolving doors and for a nanosecond fear I’m going to jam the motors.

There’s a long line of tired, irritable travelers in the reception desk line that snakes through a maze of velvet ropes. I wonder how many are here for the same reason as me; cancelled travel plans.

I weave through the mob to get where I can fish out my phone to call Klarissa. Hopefully she’s in the room. I didn’t keep a key and it’s going to take an hour to get to the front of the line and ask for one.

It’s late enough in the day that there is a guy in a fancy uniform in front of the corridor to the elevators who won’t let anyone pass without a key. Klarissa is on the club floor and you need a key to access it anyway. I’d have to get lucky someone else was going to the top floor or ride up and down until someone did.

I look to the left at the open bar. A cozy couple is laughing and clinking martini glasses together.

My lungs don’t ask my permission and gulp in a big breath of air and let it out slowly. They do it of their own volition. I’m suddenly tired. I might even feel faint. I need to sit down.

The cozy couple is Austin and Klarissa. They look good together.

You are right Austin. We gotta talk.

PART TWO

We have to distrust each other.
It is our only defense against betrayal.

T
ENNESSEE
W
ILLIAMS

15

MEDVED WOKE FROM a nightmare. He was in the woods outside of Vologda, the grimy, crumbling, industrial city he grew up in until his mom moved he and his three sisters to Moscow.

It had started so pleasantly. He was walking with his mom, hunting for mushrooms. But then his mom was no longer there and he was with Ilsa. Then he was with his roommate from Riker Island. Bobby.

Even when he was awake, Med could never remember his last name. Bobby was from Highpoint, North Carolina. He got into a bar fight on his first and only trip to New York City. He swore he killed the man in self-defense. He stabbed and slashed the man with a hunting knife he kept strapped to his lower right leg. Fifteen times. The judge and jury decided the last fourteen stabs and slashes put into question his plea of self-defense.

Then it was suddenly dark and Med was alone. He was lost. He heard the howl of a wolf and started lumbering the opposite direction. But another howl sounded ahead. He went down another path and there was a third wolf. It didn’t look like him but in his dream he knew it was Vladimir Zheglov. Pasha’s death angel. Waiting for him.

Then the Bear was awake, sweating and trembling. Pasha will have Vladimir hunt me until the day I die, he thought. Med was staying in a small guest room over the detached garage at the Pakhan’s estate. They had talked late into the night. The Pakhan wanted to know everything about Pasha’s operation; who was moving up or down the ladder of influence. Genken kept coming back to the warehouse in Queens. Medved had never been there. He had been given the general area but was to call for final directions while in route. Med wanted to be more helpful. But you can’t tell what you don’t know.

Better not to lie. Maybe the Pakhan does have special powers to know.

Med stood up and scratched his shaggy beard. A bead of sweat rolled down his spine into the small of his back. He shivered. He rarely dreamed or, if he did, he rarely remembered one so clearly. The doctor said he had sleep apnea that needed to be treated. He wasn’t sleeping well enough to sink into REM, the place where dreams begin and come alive.

Doctors don’t know everything. Maybe I don’t want to sleep better.

He reached over to turn on a light but as his hand neared the pull chain, he heard an explosion of sounds from the main house. He wet his pants. He moved to the window and saw—and felt—a kaleidoscope of flames from the muzzles of automatic rifles. Kalashnikov AK-47s. What the . . .

Med had gone to sleep thinking he might survive the wrath of Pasha, though the shadow of Zheglov would follow him everywhere. He was with Aleksei Genken after all. The Pakhan.

In a nauseating flood of dread, Med realized that maybe not even Genken could save him.

Could it be? Would Pasha be so bold? Would he move against the man?

Med peaked through the window slats as an explosion opened a gaping hole in the side of Genken’s house. The Bear fell backwards.

No question. Pasha was making his move. Would the other brigadiers of the
bratva
follow him? They would if he succeeded.

I can’t sleep. Is it the music with the pounding bass in the room next door? Or is it the couple going at it in the room on the other side of me? Or is it the fear of contemplating just how many germs are in this dirty, dingy room? I finally found a vacancy at a motel on the edge of
Manhattan and Harlem. No way could I stay with Klarissa after what I saw.

Did I just see what I think I did in the lobby of the Sheraton? Would my sister do that to me?

I consider pounding on the walls on each side of me. I don’t have the energy to be ignored.

“Nazar, you are now my Medved—my Bear. I have work for you to do.”

The Pakhan had been so reassuring. Med’s head spun as men came and went and Genken worked the phones.

Before dismissing him to get some sleep in his guest room . . . or was it a prison room? . . . Genken took a call and roared in laughter, looking at Med the whole time. When he hung up, he walked over to his fax machine that had sprung to life. He picked up the single page and handed it to him.

“Med . . . the runner in the park . . . of all things . . . it was a detective from Chicago. You have a problem. And since you are now my bear, we’ve got a problem. Your runner was police. That is a bad thing. A very bad thing. It’s always better to be friends with the police, not enemies.”

“What must I do to fix this?” Med asked, eager to please—and stay alive.

“We will instruct you in the morning. Tonight, study the paper I have given you. Memorize every detail. Make sure you can recognize her face no matter what she is wearing.”

Med nodded numbly as he looked in the dark eyes of Detective Kristen Conner.

“Med, look at me,” Genken said.

Medved looked in his eyes.

“I don’t have to tell you. You already know what you must do. We
will find a way to get you to Chicago. But realize you will never be safe until she is dead. That is rule number one in the
bratva
.”

Med nodded in agreement.

“Consider this a test. Do the deed. Then come home and we will see what else what we have for you.”

That’s when Med was finally escorted to his room. They hadn’t armed him—and the door to his room was locked from the outside. Not good signs, he knew, but he was alive and death would wait at least another day.

Another explosion and round of automatic gunfire sounded. He got off the floor and lumbered across the room and checked the handle. Locked, just like he knew it would be. Now what? Sporadic shouts, screams, and gunfire continued across the driveway.

I am not a lucky man, he thought with a sigh. I suppose I was lucky when I married Ilsa and we made it to America. But nothing ever changed. My entire life has been a battle to survive.

Med could barely breathe from fear. He cursed his bad luck again. But he had to admit his troubles tonight were his own doing. He had drunk two bottles of vodka. He had to pee. So he had trudged down the path into Central Park to relieve himself and missed picking the man up. Who knows, he might be with Pasha, carrying a Kalashnikov, right now.

The gunfire died down and picked back up.

You are alone in the woods. The wolves are before and behind you. What do you do now?

The answer was easy. A bear would stop running and climb a tree. He looked at the ceiling. In the corner was a small wood-framed square. Could it be? He moved a chair over, stood on it, and pushed. A miracle. It was unlocked. The attic door opened with a spring release. A small ladder was folded into the opening. He pulled the end of a rope and lowered it. He quickly ducked when an explosion boomed and a ball of flame lit up the night sky. Staying low, he looked around
the room. He opened the door of the small bathroom, grabbed the towel, he had used, and wiped everything down. He crawled over to the bed and straightened sheets, pillows, and bedspread. He moved the chair back in place and picked up his filthy, smelly clothes. He started up the ladder, tossed the clothes through the opening above him, and squeezed through the hatch. He reached down and pulled up the ladder, folding it one section at a time. He fumbled around until he found a small handle and clicked the door in place, something the last person up here hadn’t done. He breathed slowly. It was completely black in the attic.

He poked around with his foot and located a piece of plywood resting on ceiling joists. It wouldn’t be comfortable and his wet pants were itching him. But there was adequate heat so no problem. He was alive. He was Russian. That made him a survivor. He just might live to see another day. He would miss Ilsa, but there was nothing he could have done to save her.

What about the detective in Chicago? He had her name. She identified him. He would have to do something about her. The Pakhan said he would never be safe with her alive.

Herr Hiller drummed his fingers on his polished oak desk. He looked at the clock on his bookshelf. Four in the morning. Eleven o’clock at night in New York City.

He had arrived in Geneva on the last flight from JFK, landing at almost midnight. He knew he would not be able to sleep so he had his chauffeur bring him straight to his office on the Rue de la Servette to watch the completion of his services.

The name of the street described the man and his work. He was a servant. He had created a small fortune for himself and his family by handling certain types of transactions, where two or more parties didn’t want a transaction to be known—and didn’t trust each other. He
served as the bridge of trust and circumspection. People were happy to pay his exorbitant fees.

It did not matter if the two parties failed to meet the conditions of the final transfer . . . his fee was paid up front and was nonrefundable.

Somehow he was not surprised that neither the American nor Russian had punched in the code.

As a servant, it was not his job to judge. But he saw signs of trouble when he was called into the room to activate a sequence that would download to the Russian a large file and initiate shipment of a small package, while wiring to the American what he assumed was a large sum of money. Once done, his server would be wiped clean with a sophisticated electronic scrubbing program. Retrieval of what had transpired would be impossible no matter what level and sophistication of tools were used.

Hiller had explained slowly and carefully that if either party failed to input the required code, there was nothing he could do to rectify such an unfortunate error, not by choice, but due to the design of the system. That was the beauty of his service. He knew nothing and could do nothing once the wheels were set in motion. That fact kept him safe.

The clock was silently ticking. He felt an uncustomary sense of unease.

It is impossible to judge what you don’t know. But he would be glad when this business was done.

Perhaps it was time to take his wife on an island vacation.

He looked at the screen. He heard the sound of a tiny blip and the whir of fans as the scrubbing program went into effect. That was only the tip of the iceberg. The real data was in the deep web. Not all the intelligence services of the world could put together what had just been torn apart and scattered in an ocean of non-indexed data.