Dark Eyes (29 page)

“They basically picked me for body type. You believe that shit? There was a joint FBI and ATF unit that joined an Interpol operation in Eastern Europe—Bulgaria—and they were looking for guys who fit the genetics. Plus, I speak German from my folks. And I was a clean face.”

“Okay,” Atley said, surprising himself that he was in fact relieved, a little, to hear this. Had he really been holding that bullshit grudge all these years?

“Make you feel better?” Horst said with a weary smirk.

“A little. Yeah.”

“So I’ll spare you the long story that mostly has nothing to do with this case,” Bill continued. “Just know it was about Russian guns—
everything
moves through Bulgaria—and we were on it for two years. There was this one mover that we spent a lot of time trying to nail, name of Klesko. Came up with the Dobrik mob as a fixer, moved up to bigger things. Nasty motherfucker, highly productive. The international task force—including us—nailed him fifteen years ago on a tip about an arms exchange. The legend on the street was that his girlfriend was the one who tipped us and took off with his entire negotiable stash, worth millions in cash and precious stones. Over the years, a lot of folks have been looking for the girlfriend—”

“Meaning they’ve been looking for Klesko’s stash.” Atley was slowly putting it together.

“More than ten years and they’ve never stopped.”

“So how the hell does Wallis Stoneman figure into all this shit?”

“We don’t know yet, Atley, but the two shooters you faced off with? The other night at the shrink’s office?”

“You know about all that?”

“I told you, Atley,” Bill said with a wry grin, “we’re all big fans of your work.”

“Funny.”

“No, we got called in when the two shooters were ID’d. It was Klesko and his son. The kid is a chip off the block, an experienced fixer already at the age of seventeen. Came up on the streets of Piter, just like his father. Between the two of them, they’re not known for missing what they aim at. You’re a lucky son of a bitch to still be breathing. Plus, it looks like they were the doers tonight on these three ATFs.”

“I thought you said this Klesko was locked up.”

“Yeah, he was”—Bill shook his head in dismay—“but not anymore. Two years ago he was transferred out of a high-security facility and put out to an old-school Siberian
re-education
camp, not quite so secure. The sentence was for life, but it didn’t work out that way.”

“He escaped?”

Bill nodded. “Yeah, and here’s how good a getaway he made from the Siberian camp: it was
us
that told the Russians he was gone, once we ID’d him here in the States. They didn’t even know. Apparently, there was a fire. …”

“So we’ve got the father and son Kleskos in town looking to recover what was taken from them years ago,” Atley said. “Which means they think the girlfriend … ?”

“Yalena Mayakova was her name back then,” said Bill.

“The Kleskos somehow figured out that this Yalena Mayakova is in New York somewhere. …”

Bill Horst nodded and continued the thought for Atley, “And some ATF agents—who were part of our task force all those years ago—seemed to figure out the same thing.”

“Ten years go by”—Atley was still putting it all together—“and now everyone gets the scent again, at the same time? The ATF guys and the father-and-son Kleskos?”

“We have no idea what set it off, but it’s all coming down now. Two bloodbaths and your BOLO was right in the middle of both.”

“Why were they all here in the yard?”

“I’ll tell you when we know, but so far we’ve come up with squat. Look at the place. Like a goddamn tornado hit it and now half of it is burning.”

There was a long moment as Atley continued to process all the new information. There was one detail he’d expected to hear from Bill at some point in the narrative, but he hadn’t; once Bill brought the subject of the Russian mob into the story, Atley expected him to say something about Wallis Stoneman being a Russian adoptee. Either Bill didn’t know about Wallis’s Russian origins or he did know and was just holding that detail back. Whichever it was, Atley could tell that something was on Bill’s mind that he hadn’t spilled yet. For a guy who had survived undercover for more than five years, Atley found him pretty easy to read.

“There’s something else, right?” Atley said. “What are you not telling me?”

Bill hesitated again but finally continued, leaning in close to Atley and speaking quietly though no one was near them. “Obviously this is all a huge embarrassment across all the feds, and the sooner the file is closed the better. …”

“They’re gonna sweep it all up in a tidy package.” Atley understood. “They’re gonna say it’s over, that these three agents had gone bad and now they’re dead, end of story. But you don’t think so.”

“I don’t know.”

“You have an idea.”

“And no one wants to hear it right now,” Bill said. “And especially not from me. Not from inside their own house.”

“So?” Atley waited. Horst was being shut down by his command and he resented it.

“There was another guy,” Bill said, forcing the words out as if he was pulling his own teeth. “ATF also. He’s been working an undercover assignment on a local arms trade, in Manhattan, for the past two years. I know him—he was part of the Bulgarian thing with us years ago, and he was tight with those three who are now dead over there in the yard. He’s smarter than the others put together, and he’s ruthless. Always gave me a very dark vibe. If you’re going to keep looking for the Stoneman girl, Atley—”

“I am.”

“Then you might just end up face-to-face with the guy. If that happens, Atley, you shoot. Don’t stop shooting until your clip is empty. That’s how he’ll do you if he gets the chance.”

“Who is he, Bill?”

“His name is Cornell Brown.”

TWENTY-NINE

With a glass of red wine
in hand—her second—Claire leaned back in the sofa and watched the talking heads on TV. The local public station was rerunning the evening news, a panel of experts talking about multi-national relief efforts in Africa. Claire muted the sound but let the pictures roll on, the silent flickering of the screen imbuing the desolate apartment with a gloomy blue glow. The apartment was so quiet now, and empty.

Another weekend alone. When would change come? she wondered. How much of her old life would she have to let go of before she could move ahead?

The house phone rang and Claire picked up the portable handset.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Stoneman?”

“Is that you, Raoul?”

“Yes, ma’am. Uh … Mrs. Stoneman? Your Wallis is on her way up.”

Claire’s breath caught in her throat.

“She’s very upset, Mrs. Stoneman,” said Raoul hesitantly. “There is … she has blood on her—”

Claire was out of the sofa at that very moment, tossing the telephone aside and rushing out her door to the elevator landing. The nearest elevator opened to reveal Wallis, in much worse condition than Claire had ever seen her: she wore a too-large army-surplus bomber jacket that made her look like a wounded bird, and underneath it her sweater was torn halfway into shreds. Wally’s eyes and cheeks were smudged with mascara from crying, and her neck … there was some sort of splatter there. Blood? Wally’s face seemed frozen in a look of torment.

“Oh my God … Wally …” Claire wanted to rush and embrace her daughter, but it had been so long since Wally had welcomed her affections that she held back.

“Mom …” Wally’s tearful voice was angry and woeful at the same time as she stepped slowly out of the elevator and stood before Claire. “I’ve been strong, Mama. I have. But I don’t know what to do now.”

Claire couldn’t resist any longer; she reached out for her daughter, wrapping her up tightly and leading her back to the apartment. Once inside, they both slumped to the floor, still embracing.

“It’s all gone so bad …” Wally sobbed.

The entire battle at the Navy Yard had lasted no more than two minutes, but it had been the most disastrous event of Wally’s life. Once she had leapt the fence and escaped Klesko’s gunfire, Wally lurked nearby in the shadowy perimeter of the Navy Yard, looking on helplessly as Klesko grabbed up Johanna and beat her with the butt of his handgun before heaving her limp body into the cab of the tow truck. The Russians jumped into the truck and raced away from the scene, taking Johanna with them but leaving Tevin where he lay, motionless and gushing blood on the tarmac, so alone. Wally’s first instinct had been to run to Tevin’s side—hoping against reason that he had somehow survived—but before she could reach him, the sirens of cop cars and fire trucks could be heard closing in on the scene, a swarm of them.

Wally knew that if she stayed at the site, she would be taken into custody, and she didn’t trust the police to believe her story or take the immediate action that would be needed to save Johanna. As Wally walked quickly away from the Navy Yard, she discovered that the army-surplus jacket she was wearing—Tevin’s jacket—held the keys to the Lincoln in the front pocket. She was at the wheel of the Lincoln and driving away when she realized that there was only one place she wanted to be, only one place where she would feel truly safe and sane and cared for.

“I went looking for my mother,” Wally began, Claire’s arms still clutched around her as they sat on the floor. “My Russian mother.”

“You did
what
?”

“I’m sorry if that hurts you, Mama, but I had to.”

“But how could you possibly—”

“And now Tevin is killed.”

Claire was in shock, trying desperately to process what Wally was telling her. “One of your friends?
Dead?
”

Wally nodded, the tears now pouring down again.

“My God, Wally …”

“All he wanted was to take care of me,” Wally said. “And now he’s gone, and they took her. They took Johanna.”

Claire eased her embrace and held Wally by the shoulders, looking into her eyes with piercing intensity.

“Johanna?” Claire said. “I don’t understand.
Who
took her?”

“It’s too much to tell,” Wally sobbed. “I found a place, in a part of Brooklyn, the Navy Yard. It was like … like a safe house or whatever, a place set aside by my Russian mother in case something bad happened. You see, she’s been here all along, watching me. It’s Johanna, Mom. Her real name is Yalena Mayakova. My Russian mother.”

“Wally—”

“Then everything went bad, so bad,” Wally went on. “First there were three agents, ATF or FBI or something. But then the two Russians came. They’re the ones who killed Dr. Rainer—”

“Dr. Rainer? Charlene Rainer? She’s
dead
?”

“And the men came to the Navy Yard too. They killed Tevin and took Johanna. One of them, Mom, he’s my father. My Russian father. He took Johanna.”

“Your
father
? What are you saying?”

The barrage of information stunned Claire speechless for a few moments—she struggled to process all that Wally was telling her.

“I could see it,” Wally said. “He has the same dark eyes, like mine.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. It’s all my fault. I had to go looking and I made all of this happen.”

“There were two?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said there was the Russian man and another.”

“A young one. With Klesko.”

“Klesko.”

“My father. The two of them took Johanna and now she’s gone. I don’t know where.”

Claire closed her eyes for a long moment, as if in silent prayer, and when she opened them again, she spoke:

“I know where,” she said.

THIRTY

“What do you mean
,
you know
where?
” Wally demanded. “How is that?
How
do you know where they’re taking Johanna?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Claire answered, still distressed but keeping herself together. She looked at her watch. “We have time.”

Bewildered, Wally stared at her mother and realized something: Claire was appropriately shocked to hear about the violent tragedy at the Brooklyn Navy Yard—and the murder of Charlene Rainer—but the news about Johanna’s true identity didn’t seem like a surprise to her. And the fact that she knew where Johanna was being taken … Wally almost got the sense that events were playing out in a way that Claire had anticipated. Or dreaded.

“Mom? You knew about my Russian mother all along? You knew that Yalena was right here, all the time?”

Claire released her answer with great difficulty, as if breaking a vow.

“Yes.”

“You know that she’s been watching over me?”

“Yes.”

“How could you let it be?” Wally demanded, hurt and anger in her voice. “How could you know that and keep it from me all this time?”

“It’s so complicated, Wally,” Claire said. “Right now, Johanna is in trouble and we can help her. We have to get ready. Right?”

Wally couldn’t argue the point; Johanna needed their help now. Everything else could wait.

“And you know where they’ve taken her?” Wally asked.

“It’s
she
who will take
them
,” Claire said with certainty. “The men are after something, something that was taken from them—”

“The alexandrite?”

The name of the stones—coming from her daughter’s mouth—shocked Claire again.

“My God, Wally … what have you been doing? Who have you been talking to?”

“There are more of them? That’s what my father is here for. Johanna is taking them to the stones?”

“Yes, but we can be there first. Understand? We have time, but we have to get ready. All right?”

Wally was suddenly too tired to argue. Claire ran a hot shower and helped Wally peel off her torn, bloody clothing. Wally’s eyes had a vacant look now, her eyes—and heart—cried out and empty. She stepped into the shower. Immediately, the pulsing hot water began to soothe and revive her.

“I’ll find you some clean clothes,” Claire said as she disappeared from the bathroom, “and put on some coffee.”

Wally turned the outer ring on the showerhead until the pulses were slow and heavy. There was a small tile bench at the back of the shower stall and she sat down on it, bowing her head low so that the rhythmic bursts struck directly at the back of her neck and sent a tingling sensation down the sore muscles of her back. She would allow herself ten minutes in the shower—just long enough for calm to take hold. Physical and emotional exhaustion was lurking just beneath the surface of her disturbed consciousness, and Wally could not allow herself to give in, not yet.