Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (8 page)

11

WHERE WAS THE Bear, Pasha wondered through clenched teeth. Time to put some of his troops on the ground and look for him. The problem was with the PathoGen deal falling apart, he was going to need every soldier he had to fight what was coming his way. Medved could have amounted to something if he hadn’t lost his mind in prison and given in to the bottle. Every good Russian was supposed to love his vodka, but Med had drowned in it.

Pasha looked at the bloodied face of Ilsa and made a slashing motion across his throat. Vladimir Zheglov arched his eyebrows in response. Pasha glared and Vlad nodded, then cut the woman’s throat. Too bad, Pasha thought. Ilsa wasn’t half-bad looking. How did she end up with an idiot like the Bear?

“Get rid of the body and get the place cleaned up,” Pasha growled to the other man in the room.

Nazar. Medved. Bear. Why did I call you of all people? Why did I put my life in your hands? You’re a drunk. I curse you and you will die by my own hands if it is the last thing I do.

“Vlad do you know what has happened? Do you understand?”

Vladimir met Pasha’s gaze. The problem was he did know what just happened and it was bad. Life as a soldier in the
bratva
taught Vlad it was almost always better to say too little than too much. One had to be especially careful when Pasha was mad. The two men were lifelong friends but that meant nothing when Pasha went into a rage. Vlad could read Pasha very well. He was about to explode.

“You’re not saying anything Vlad. Tell me.”

“You seized on an opportunity, Pasha,” he answered carefully.

“No. That’s not quite right. Tell me. Make me hear it.”

“You saw an opportunity and were bold, Pasha,” Vlad said calmly but carefully.

“You still aren’t answering me, Vlad,” Pasha said as he spit. “What just happened? What happened?!”

Vlad didn’t answer. Pasha looked at Georgie, busy putting Ilsa in a body bag.

“Georgie!” Pasha yelled.

The man looked up, scared.

“Tell Vlad what happened.”

“I don’t know nothing, Pasha.”

Pasha walked over to him.

“Tell him, Georgie.”

“I think things went bad. Very bad.”

“You are right, Georgie. Now tell Vlad whose fault it was.”

“Medved’s,” Georgie answered quickly. “The Bear messed it up.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell Vlad.”

“Med made a mess of things, Vlad,” Georgie said, doing his best to remain calm, his eyes darting between the two men.

“But I gave him the job, Georgie. Doesn’t that make it my fault?” Pasha asked.

Georgie shifted from foot to foot, nervously. Don’t answer, Vlad thought.

“I guess it is your fault then.”

Pasha sprang forward and got his hands on Georgie’s throat as quick as a cobra hitting a rat before it darts out of reach. Vlad watched impassively as Pasha choked the man’s life from him, his eyes clouding and then shutting tight.

“No need to clean up, Vlad. We won’t be coming back here,” Pasha said. “Get me the can of gasoline from the garage.”

“Conner, could you pick him out of a lineup?”

Ten sets of eyes are bearing down on me.

“I was too far away. No chance. Not if everyone in the line was the same relative size. Like I said, all I can confirm is I saw a large person, I assume a man, lumber up the incline that leads to Columbus Circle.”

The guy asking questions is the NYPD’s version of Zaworski. White hair cut close. Thin—almost gaunt. He also looks very unhappy with me.

“Let us know if you think of anything else,” he says with an exasperated sigh. “You’ve got Barnes’ contact info?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Work through Tommy. We appreciate your help and what you tried to do for the vic. Best to cut you loose so you can get cleaned up.”

That’s it? I’m done. I wait for something else. No one says anything. That’s my answer. I get up, knock the guy next to me’s coffee cup off the table, and make my typical awkward departure.

I can’t believe I’m done. I wanted to hear about the whale.

Vladimir Zheglov exited the room, relieved and concerned. Pasha had to get his mind right because he knew exactly what happened. He had witnessed it with his own eyes. He tromped down the stairs, thinking. It was Frank Nelson, the Swiss intermediary, Heinrich Hiller, Pasha, and him in the room at the Dexter.

There were only a few details to be ironed out between Pasha and Nelson but it took longer than expected. Once done, Hiller took off his headphones that were playing classical music, opened his computer, and inputted a series of commands and instructions. This kind of deal wasn’t based on trust. That’s why Hiller was there.

It is a new world, Vlad thought, scratching the stubble on his chin
as he looked for the large can of gas. He couldn’t follow Hiller’s explanation of how he provided a two-factor exchange server. But he understood too well that both men were required to login and punch in individual codes within a set time—less than twenty-four hours from now—for either to get what they wanted. If both security codes weren’t activated by the prearranged time, the deal was off.

So Pasha provided Hiller with the account numbers that would fund a wire transfer of $25 million to Nelson. Then he burned the numbers in the bathroom sink. Nelson was to provide a single document with detailed schematics on a pathogen along with instructions on shipping five small vials from an undisclosed location to a drop box—also unknown—Pasha had supplied. He read off detailed instructions on how to download the document and initiate the shipment.

Hiller explained again that the transaction would not go through until both parties went to the hidden website and supplied codes. Once the locked system verified that both parties had supplied their part of the bargain, it would insure and initiate the deliverables.

Vlad kicked a crate out of the way, picked up the gasoline can, and shook his head. How could a man as smart as Frank Nelson be so stupid? He could see what happened next in his mind in slow motion. Apparently this scientist and businessman could not memorize the series of numbers and letters for his code so he wrote them down. In front of everyone. Vlad watched Hiller turn his head. He knew what was happening but wanted to maintain his deniability. Vlad didn’t have to look over to know what Pasha was thinking. If he had the man’s code he could get the files and vials—and keep the money that the man from Moscow had given him to buy them.

This would be a huge coup. It was a typical bold and brilliant move by Pasha, except then Boyarov stepped out of the room and called the Bear. It made sense to pull someone else in to snatch Nelson. They couldn’t let Hiller see them grab Nelson or, technically, it was his duty to scuttle the exchange. Plus they needed to get out of the area and on
the move as soon as possible. Pasha suspected they were being monitored. They had stayed in one location too long. But why call the Bear? Bad mistake. Sure Med was close—and expendable—but the Bear simply wasn’t reliable. He’d been okay to work with before Riker, but not since.

Where was the Bear now? Did he have Nelson’s code? If he did, he wouldn’t have a clue how much power he had in his hands. Pasha needed to settle down and work out a deal with Med. The Bear might not be bright but he knew what awaited him if he showed up in Pasha’s presence. Georgie got off easy in comparison.

Things were so bad that Pasha was about to torch his own office. Where did that leave him?

In between calls to the Bear, Pasha had made inquiries through his NYPD contacts. No wallet had been found on Frank Nelson. That meant the Bear had it. Had to have it. That meant there was a glimmer of hope Pasha could salvage the deal. It would have helped to have Ilsa alive.

Vlad walked through the door to the office carefully, a hand on his Glock. If it was just him and Pasha, no weapons, who would walk out alive? Hard to say. It could go either way. If Pasha’s blood lust wasn’t sated on Georgie, he didn’t intend to find out. They had been friends since childhood and always fought on the same side. But when Pasha was crazy, who knows?

He looked at Pasha who just nodded at him. He might be okay. Now was the time to say it.

“Pasha. Reach out to Med. Give him a way to leave the numbers for you. Promise him something—Ilsa, the money, anything he wants. You can find and kill him later. He’s easy to spot.”

“I’ve been trying. No answer. I overestimated his ability to do a simple muscle job, but maybe I underestimated his ability to think through where he stood with me. He was smart not to come home.”

He handed a small box of files to Vlad.

“This is all we need from here. Go ahead and warm up the car.”

Once out of striking distance, Vlad said, “Keep trying, Pasha. It is the only way.”

Pasha nodded and started pouring the gasoline on the two dead bodies and then all around the office.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Why haven’t you answered?” Mom says with that accusing tone—just a hint of hysteria mixed in—that drives me crazy. Do I tell her about trying to hold a severed windpipe together?

“Sorry Mom, something came up.”

“Something always comes up when I call.”

“Well something really did come up that was life and death.”

“You always say that, Kristen.”

I’m about to blow a gasket.

“What’s going on Mom? Is everything okay there?”

“No, everything is not okay, Kristen. Something awful happened.”

She sounds like she’s about to start crying. My stomach does a somersault as I think of my sister Kaylen and her husband Jimmy and the three kids.

“Is the baby okay? Is Kaylen alright?”

“Your sister and Baby Kelsey are fine. It’s the neighborhood. We’ve had a murder.”

“What?!”

“You remember the Kelttos.”

Yeah. I remember the Kelttos. Mom’s struggling to continue.

“Did something happen to her? I can’t remember her first name.”

“Nancy. No, Nancy is fine. It’s Eddy. Such a nice man. He’s cleared my sidewalk twice this winter. Someone killed him.”

Ed Keltto? She’s right. He is a nice guy . . . was a nice guy. Mr.
Keltto always reminded me a little of the neighbor on the Simpsons. Ned something-or-other. They looked a little alike and Ed rhymes with Ned. Ed, Mr. Keltto, was old school gosh and golly. He is . . . or he was a grade school teacher.