Condemned (65 page)

“Did she tell you, we escaped in the middle of the night in the middle of the winter,” said Vasily.

“She did.”

“Freezing cold, in a car with an American—”

“Bastard!” said Tatiana.

“He tried to shoot me in the middle of nowhere. Inga and Tatiana saved me. Inga drove the car right into this—”

“Bastard,” said Tatiana.

“—treacherous American bastard. He worked for them. They were all Americans, the people who were bringing the stuff from Tashkent. I went with them a couple of times, driving through the borders.
Nyet problem.
We'd drive right through, no problems. They had clearance, papers, people. Everything they needed. And, although they worked with us, they hated Russians. They didn't care if the drugs put us face down in the gutter. They were interested in this.” Vasily rubbed his fingers together. “Money.”

“Who were these people?” said Sandro.

“Very well connected, part of the government, the American government, with connections to the Consulate, everybody. I always thought they were the CIA.”

“What made you think of the CIA.?”

“They worked like, worked with—double dealing, of course—the K.G.B., the Russian Intelligence service. Not the F.B.I., or the police. It was higher, more powerful. The CIA. fits the picture.”

“You think when you were moving drugs in Leningrad, those drugs were being provided by the CIA.?”

“Why not? They do whatever they want. Who's going to stop them?”

“You think Uri is still dealing drugs?” asked Sandro.

“You see him. He drives around in a Lexus, living good, nice apartment right on the water, keeping women, running a bordello,” said Vasily. “Uri is a thug. He's not smart enough to make legally the kind of money he's spending. He don't know how to make a living except doing illegal stuff. He's doing drugs, for sure.”

“You say he runs a bordello?” said Sandro.

“His apartment, I hear, is like a bordello, with all kinds prostitutes and women—he tells them he can get them a green card—going in and out. Uri is a pig,” said Vasily. “Probably still working with the same people we worked with in Leningrad, supplying the customers over here that they had over there.”

“You think he's still working with the C.I.A.?” asked Sandro.

Vasily shrugged. “Why not? They still need money to do all the stuff they don't want people to know. You say Uri started working with the blacks? Must have doublecrossed whoever he was involved with before that. The blacks must have put up the money for the heroin—Uri wouldn't have the money to do such a deal. He spends every penny.”

“The whole deal may have been a set-up,” said Sandro. “Awgust Nichols, the black man you met, may have set up this whole situation, just to bring it down. He may have set the whole thing up so he could turn it over to the D.E.A., give them a good collar—”

“A collar?”

“An arrest. First he puts the whole Russian thing together, probably, as you said, put up the money, then he offers to give it up to the D.E.A. as a gift, a big arrest, and, as a reward, the D.E.A. lets him continue to operate The Brotherhood when everybody else was in jail or dead, out of the picture one way or another.”

“This Brotherhood, they supply drugs to the blacks?” said Vasily.

“Yes.”

“It starts to make sense,” said Vasily. “This whole new thing you described, to make a collar, doesn't change the old Russian operation, just gets rid of a few couriers, a few mules.”

“It does something more,” said Sandro. “A reverse switch. The people who were supplying the Russian community before, use this as an opportunity to put their foot in the door of the black drug market. It opens a whole new market for them that they didn't have before.”

Vasily nodded. “So the black one thinks he's using whoever, when all along, they're using him. Makes a lot of sense. If anybody can give you the information you need, it's Uri,” said Vasily.

“You know where Uri is? He wasn't arrested with the others,” said Sandro.

“I know where he might be.”

“Where's that?' asked Sandro.

“The Poconos, in Pennsylvania. I hear he has a place there.”

“Did you personally know any of the people you were working with in Russia?”

“I met a few,” said Vasily. “But I haven't seen or heard from any of them in years. They made sure to keep far in the back, so no one could identify them.”

“You know what this man, this Becker looks like?” Tatiana asked Sandro.

“I've seen him,” said Sandro. “Thin, long face, bony nose.”

“What color is his hair?” said Tatiana.

“Hard to say. Not red, not brown, dark reddish.”

“I must see him,” she said, her thoughts instantly spanning the years back to the night of their escape, the man in the front of the car, the one who tried to shoot her father.

“We can arrange something,” said Sandro. “If we can find Uri, maybe I can convince him that I can get him a good deal if he would cooperate against someone in the C.I.A. or the D.E.A. I'm sure the people in the United States Attorney's office would jump at the chance to prosecute a dirty agent.”

“Uri would turn on his mother if it would be good for Uri,” said Vasily.

“If you can find out where he is,” said Tatiana, “I think I know a way to get him to come back to New York.”

“You? What are you talking? How is that?” said Vasily.

“See if you can find out where he is,” she said.

Sandro's Office : August 30, 1996 : 10:15 A.M.

“To what do I owe the honor of this call?” Sandro asked.

“Sorry I took longer than I expected to get back to you,” said Rob Quintalian. “My boss was at a seminar for a couple of days, so I wasn't able to talk to him about your client, Rouse, and the meeting we had with the brother.”

“And?”

“You were right,” said Quintalian. “The brother was impressive.”

“And? Are we going to be able to dispose of it with a plea?”

“You talk to your client about it yet?” asked Quintalian.

“I've discussed around it,” said Sandro. “I couldn't very well talk to her seriously about it unless I knew it was available. If you tell me it's a go, I'll talk to her. I'm sure she'll take it.”

“I would think. Who the hell is going to take death instead of life—except for a weirdo like you with your ideas?” said Quintalian. “How much time do you need to talk to her? I'll call the court and have it advanced on the calendar.”

“I'll call Corrections and ask them to bring her to the visiting room from the Women's House of Detention. They might be able to do it for tomorrow. Otherwise, day after. I can let you know by the day after tomorrow,” said Sandro.

“You come back to me and tell me she'll take it, I'll get it approved on my end.”

“Call you no later than day after tomorrow, maybe sooner,” said Sandro.

Sandro hung up the phone, then made another call.

“Dr. Reed's office,” said a female voice.

“Dr. Reed, please.”

“May I ask who's calling?”

“My name is Sandro Luca, I'm an attorney. Dr. Reed is expecting my call.”

“One moment, please.”

“Hello, Mr. Luca,” the Doctor said anxiously. “Any news?”

“Your sister is going to be permitted to plead guilty. There will be no death phase,” said Sandro.

“Does that mean that Hettie will not be put to death?”

“That's exactly what it means, Doctor. It also means that you won't be needed to testify. It's all over.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Doctor?”

“Can I call you back?” the Doctor said softly. “I can't—I'll have to call you back.” The phone went dead.

Brighton Beach Avenue : September 1, 1996 : 8:30 P.M.

Uri was seated by himself at a small table in the bar area of Romanoff's. Being a Tuesday night, there was hardly anyone in the cavernous club. An older man and a young woman dined by themselves at a small table on the far end of the hall. Uri looked at his watch.

Anna and Svetlana had called Uri earlier in the evening, telling him that they were bored, that they wanted to have some fun. They asked him if he could meet them at Romanoffs at 8:30. Without even wondering how they knew where to call him, Uri agreed readily. He drove in from Pennsylvania and parked his car in downtown Brooklyn, taking a car service to Brighton Beach.

Uri looked at his watch again. It was 8:40 already. He was anxious, aroused, actually, thinking of Anna's angry, rough sex. Perhaps he could take both of them to his apartment for a party. Uri poured more vodka into his glass from the little beaker on the table. That Svetlana, he thought to himself, had some tits. And, Anna, what an animal.

“Alhooa, Uri,” Anna announced loudly as she and Svetlana came into the bar area. Anna wore black leather short shorts, and some kind of top that was just black diaphanous cloth wrapped around her several times, hardly masking her breasts and dark nipples. Svetlana was in a dress, with deep decolletage, revealing the roundness of her full breasts each time she moved. Svetlana was carrying an attache case.

“What's this?” said Uri in Russian, signaling the bartender for two more beakers of iced vodka.

“I am a working woman,” said Svetlana.

“Really. What kind of work do you do, sex?”

“You ever have anything else on your mind, pig?” said Anna.

“Never.” Uri laughed, feinting as if he were to fondle Anna's breasts.

“Not here, you pig.”

“Someplace else?” said Uri. “My apartment?”

“Quiet,” Anna said, glancing at the approaching bartender.

“What kind of work you are doing with a suitcase?” Uri said to Svetlana as the bartender put vodka before each of the women.

“I met a man who sells apartments, houses, he gives me a commission if I help him sell.”

“You kidding? You need a license for that, no?”

“He has the license. I am only assistant,” said Svetlana.

“You sell anything?”

“The papers for selling two apartments are to be signed,” she said, pouring vodka into her's and Anna's glass. She refilled Uri's glass.

“Come, we have a party, to celebrate Svetlana making lots of American dollars.” Anna raised her pony of vodka.

“Yes, let's have a party,” said Uri, raising his glass, knocking back the vodka. The two women did the same. Uri re-filled all their glasses.

“What I need,” said Svetlana, “is to meet American men so I can be married, and get work permit and Social Security card.”

“Me, too. Look what I have, a Russian,” said Anna.

“You could do worse than driving around with me in a Lexus, eating good, living good.”

“This is true. You're not so bad.” Anna knocked back another vodka.

“See, I'm not so bad,” he said to Svetlana.

“I've heard about you,” said Svetlana.

“Oh? You have been talking about me?” he said toward Anna. “What did she say about me, that I am like a fantastic monster in bed?”

“Don't say anything,” said Anna. “Don't make the pig have a swollen head.”

“I'm already getting a swollen head,” Uri laughed lustily.

“You see, a pig.”

“
Na zdarovye
,” Uri raised his glass. The women raised theirs. They all knocked back their vodka.

The lights in Uri's living room were dim. He sat back on the velvet couch, bare to the waist, his shoes and socks removed, his feet up on the coffee table. His hefty, hairy chest rose with heavy breaths as he watched the two women, silhouetted in front of the glass door that led to the balcony overlooking Brighton Beach. They were both undressed, naked, except for thongs, dancing toYani. They gyrated languorously before Uri, alternately rubbing each other's body with baby oil.

“Christ, this is heaven,” Uri shouted.

“Quiet, we don't want to invite the neighbors to our party,” said Anna.

“No, no,” Uri said softly, “We don't want to invite anybody. Three is company, four is already too crowded.” Uri laughed giddily, downing another vodka, wide eyes ogling the dancing women.

“If I don't meet an American soon, I must go back to Odessa,” said Svetlana, continuing to writhe as she talked to Uri.

“You got me, meanwhile,” said Uri.

“You, you pig, this is a special, one-time party. You belong to me or I slap your fat ass.”

Uri shouted with ecstatic thoughts.

“You are not American,” said Svetlana. “Maybe a good fuck, but not good with American papers.”

“Maybe a good fuck? Maybe a good fuck? I am the best fuck. An animal!” He started to his feet. Anna pushed him back onto the couch. “Sit, enjoy the show, pig.” She and Svetlana were enjoying the warm feel of each other's hands, oiling, rubbing, sliding over their own breasts, each other's breasts.

“You know what we're supposed to do tonight?” said Svetlana.

“Fuck our brains out, no?”

“No. We are supposed to kill you,” she said, still dancing, hooking her fingers inside the thong, pulling it down, then up.

“Kill me as you fuck me,” Uri reveled.

“It's not a joke,” said Anna, rubbing oil on Svetlana's buttocks as they both kept the beat of the music. “We are supposed to kill you.”

“For why, for what?” laughed Uri, rising unsteadily to his bare feet, attempting to move rhythmically to the music. “For some jealous husband whose wife I fucked?”

“No, because you tried to do business on your own, and the Boss is very pissed off at you,” said Anna.

“You're not serious, right?” Uri said, stopping to study Anna's eyes.

“Very serious, pig.”

“Bullshit. You did the same thing, bringing stuff in for me and the black one.”