Last to Fold (26 page)

CHAPTER 24

Another call. Gina said, “You have no idea how much you owe me.”

“He wasn’t your type anyway.”

“What? How the hell do you know?”

“If he was, he’d go to Stamford, pick you up.”

“New Haven, God damn it! Like you said. I follow Stripy back to the station, she gets on a train, joins up with the other chicks, now we’re all in fucking New Haven. Same thing there. The group split up, I stick with Stripes. We’re at our fifth ATM now.”

“Stay on her. She’ll head back to New York soon.”

“That a promise?”

“Trust me.”

Gina was still cursing as the cab pulled up at the Madison Avenue entrance to Mount Sinai. I paid the driver. Lachko’s men tried to block Iakov’s door, but I pushed through. He was awake, sitting up in bed, reading the
Economist,
looking much the same as yesterday.

“Why didn’t they release you?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning, they say now. Don’t ask why, no good answer. One more night. I hate this fucking city.”

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Ready to get out of here.”

“Tell me straight this time, what were you doing at Greene Street?”

He closed the magazine and put it on the bed beside him as he looked me up and down. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Not by choice.” I took a shot. I might lose a chess piece, but I’d gain information whether I was right or wrong. “You lied the other day. Rislyakov was helping you find Polina. But he crossed you. He found her, but he tried blackmailing her instead.”

“I don’t know anything about blackmail.”

“He gambled. He needed money.”

“I had the sense he was up to something. He flew back here before I could get to him, so I came over.”

“But you didn’t kill him?”

“What I told you Thursday was true. Someone shot both of us. Could have been you.”

I ignored that. He was playing his own chess game. “So what business does the Cheka possibly have with Polina?”

He smiled. “Where is she?”

“You first.”

He gave me a look I hadn’t seen in twenty years. The same look I got the day he called me in after I’d reported that Lachko was stealing. “I don’t know where your loyalties lie anymore, Turbo.”

“I still owe you everything. That hasn’t changed.”

“What about the Cheka?”

“I was reminded just the other day, there are no ex-Chekists.”

“You prepared to trade?”

“I can’t give you Polina.”

“Why not?”

“I gave her husband my word. He’s my client.”

“Why do I care about him?”

“You don’t. I do.”

He shook his head.

“I’ll help you as much as I can, short of that,” I said.

His face softened—a little. He didn’t like it, but I held the stronger hand.

“Polina stole a great deal of money. Six hundred million dollars—1998 dollars. Must be over a billion now.”

“Stole? From the Cheka?”

“She and Kosokov. I told you they were lovers. They had a business, with Lachko. Real estate, buying and selling apartments. Kosokov was the financier. They made a lot of money, but it wasn’t enough for her—or him. They were made for each other. Two most venal people I ever met.”

I wondered where he’d put his own sons on the venality ladder. “You never stopped watching her, did you?”

He just looked up at me. During the Disintegration, he was the one who told me she was sleeping with my fellow officers at Yasenevo. I never asked how he found out. I didn’t need to.

“We used Kosokov’s bank. I couldn’t stand the bastard, but he had the Yeltsin connection, and in those days, that was useful. He almost went bust in ’98, or so we thought. Turns out the bastard was playing a double game, financing the Chechens with our money. Why, I have no idea, except he was making a pretty kopek in the process. He was also moving money abroad as quickly as he could. He had a partner in the Chechen venture, a man named Gorbenko. I’ll admit to you now, in the privacy of this room, we covered up a lot about that piece of shit. He was one of ours, a true traitor—drunk, gambler, whoremonger—how he rose so high is an embarrassment. The Chechens turned him. Kosokov killed him, we know now—a falling-out among thieves. But if he hadn’t, we would have. I would have pulled the trigger myself.”

His voice rose in speed and intensity as well as volume, but he stopped suddenly, as if rethinking. When he continued, he spoke softly.

“We were onto Kosokov, finally, but Gorbenko warned him. A few days before we were ready to move in, Rosnobank Tower burned. Twenty-story steel building, melted. Sophisticated arson. Nothing left, no records, no money.”

I remembered that.

“Kosokov disappeared. So did Polina. And Gorbenko. Now we find out he was dead after all. She must have killed him, probably over the money. She’s like a praying mantis, master of camouflage, infinite patience, waiting for her prey. She bites the heads off her lovers as soon as they’ve satisfied her.”

I couldn’t argue the description.

“We had a lot to deal with, cleaning up the mess. I won’t say we did the best job. We had to choose between some lousy options.”

“That’s another lesson you taught me. Don’t look for a good choice in a bad situation, take what will work.”

He smiled. “It makes me happy you remember. We dealt with it, but we were still out the six hundred million. I’m responsible. It’s a stain on my record, my whole career. I haven’t stopped looking for her since. I want to make good while I still can.”

It all sounded plausible. It was the way he would think—especially about the stain. Perhaps too plausible. “Why’s Eva afraid of you?”

“What?”

“The other night. You terrified her. She recognized you, even through the drugs, and was scared to death. Why?”

“I have no idea. As you say, she was drugged.”

“She wasn’t drugged when I talked to her earlier today. She was still scared. Of you and Lachko.”

“That’s her mother’s doing. She’s poisoned the girl.”

“Maybe. Something is wrong with this whole setup, Iakov. How’d Rislyakov identify Polina?”

“As I already observed, he didn’t confide in me.”

“Here’s another thing. I’m pretty sure Polina doesn’t have access to anywhere near the kind of money you’re talking about.”

“How do you know that?”

“She couldn’t come up with a hundred grand to buy off Rislyakov.”

“She was always miserly as well as venal.”

“That’s not it.”

“Polina’s playing with your head again. You, of all people, should know what she’s capable of. She’s a pathological liar, the ultimate narcissist. Why are you asking me all these questions? Why is this any of your business?”

He was angry. Or his anger, like hers, was covering something else. He was stonewalling about Eva, just as Polina had stonewalled about Ratko. Six hundred million dollars is plenty of reason to stonewall, but despite what Iakov said, Polina had never been greedy—venal, to use his word—in my experience. Self-centered, insecure, needy, narcissistic, volatile, yes. She craved security—emotional security—and attention. Money was part of that, but only part, a means not an end. People change, but not that much. Iakov was wrong about her—or pretending to be. Iakov didn’t make many mistakes.

He was watching me. “Get yourself out of here,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”

I gave his hand a squeeze and exhaled slowly as I went down the carpeted hall. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. He probably did.

*   *   *

A black Suburban with tinted windows was parked outside. The driver’s window slid down, and Coyle waved me over.

“Visiting another sick friend?” he asked. Hard to say whether he wanted me to hear the sarcasm or just wasn’t bothering to cover it.

“That’s right. You guys finally twig to the fact he’s in town?”

“We get precious little help from the citizenry these days. You have no idea how this particular Barsukov got sick, of course.”

“He was shot.”

“Thank you for that piece of news. By whom? When? Where?”

“Wednesday night, he says. Didn’t see the shooter.”

“You in the neighborhood?”

“Nope.” Once again, technically true.

“What were you talking about up there?”

“Moscow. The old days.”

“What about money? Especially money moving from Moscow here—or vice versa. You talk about that?”

“Not a word. Sorry.”

“Bullshit.”

“You guys heard of the Slavic Center for Personal Development?”

“This some kind of joke? I’m not feeling funny.”

“Serious question.”

Coyle looked around inside the SUV. I could see Sawicki in the passenger seat. Maybe one or two more in the back, behind the dark glass. He turned back to me and shook his head. “Okay, so what?”

“Barsukov front. They got branches everywhere they got banks. New York Slav House is down on Second, between Eighth and Ninth.”

“So?”

“I was there earlier today. Saw two women go in, empty-handed. They came out with two others, carrying big shoulder bags. They spent the afternoon hitting half the ATMs in Fairfield County.”

I couldn’t see through the dark lenses of his Ray-Ban aviators, but I’d have bet anything on the eyes narrowing.

“How do you know this?”

“Hold on.” I punched Gina’s number. “Can you talk?”

“Sure.”

“Where are you?”

“Train back to New York, thank God. We just passed Greenwich.”

I said to Coyle, “They’ll be in Grand Central in half an hour, getting off a New Haven train.”

“Descriptions.”

I told Gina to describe the four women and handed over the phone. When he gave the phone back, I said to Gina, “You got a list of the banks you and Stripy visited?”

“What the hell you think I’ve been doing all day, my nails?”

“E-mail it as soon as you can. Enjoy your date.”

“Thanks. I meant what I said about owing me.”

“Put in for overtime.”

“Dammit, Turbo—”

I cut her off. Coyle was talking on his cell phone. When he finished, I said, “I’ll send you a list of the banks they hit tomorrow.”

He took off the sunglasses. The eyes were indeed narrowed. “How’d you know about the Slavic Center?”

“Private sector legwork.”

“Uh-huh. If it were up to me, I’d haul your ass downtown and let Sawicki spend the rest of the night trying to establish a meaningful relationship. His family fled Poland one step ahead of the Red Army. He hates Russians. But you’ve got a date with the boss.”

“My lucky day.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be too sure. Based on her mood an hour ago, you’d be better off with Sawicki.”

CHAPTER 25

Once again, I arrived at Trastevere feeling hot and sticky. The owner greeted me with a smile and a handshake. He took me to a table in the front where Victoria was waiting. She looked cool. I felt limp.

She didn’t get up. “Giancarlo, I gather y’all have met Mr. Vlost. He’s been known to do inappropriate things, so we may not be here long. If I leave, make sure he pays.” She turned to me and smiled sweetly, or as sweetly as an alligator can.

I heard her talking, but truth be told, the words didn’t register. The Russian language is full of slang, and Russian slang is full of improbable expressions, few of which translate well. They do capture the essence of the situation, however. The one that came to mind was
vafli lovit,
which means, literally, standing around with your mouth open long enough to catch flying dicks. The package Armani had obscured Thursday was on full display tonight. A yellow-gold silk dress came to a V at the top of her chest. Her skin was naturally brown, not acquired at the beach, and smooth. The raven hair fell around her shoulders and shone. A jade pendant and earrings played with the green eyes. No glasses tonight. I could only imagine the hips and legs beneath the table, but by then I realized how long I’d been
vafli lovit,
so I sat down. Victoria had a martini in front of her. I ordered the same, with Russian vodka.

She wasn’t finished with me yet. “All right, you fast-talking, ex-socialist son of a bitch, y’all tell me right now how you know what you know.”

Coyle wasn’t exaggerating. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t shown up last night.

“Privacy is an elastic concept.”

“Don’t give me any Russian fast-talking bullshit. How’d you get my number? How’d you know about my bank account? And this restaurant?”

I guess I like to court danger, because I thought briefly about telling her where she lived and how much she paid, but I didn’t think Trastevere could withstand the eruption from the Vesuvius across the table if I did.

“I didn’t break any laws and I didn’t peep through any peepholes, I promise. There’s lots of information out there if you know where to look.”

She cooled—a little. “My number is unlisted.”

“Ever order from a catalog? Call customer service?”

“Sure, but I don’t give them my number.”

“You don’t need to. Computer reads it as soon as it answers the phone.”

“You mean…”

“Yep. You and thirty million other people who think an unlisted number is a way to buy privacy. Child’s play, really. Telephone number’s like a digital tag. As good as a Social Security number. Once you have that…”

“So what else do you know?”

“Pretty dress. Bergdorf or Bendel’s?”

“Fuck you!” She slapped me, hard—and loud.

Giancarlo appeared. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine.” I rubbed my cheek. “I said something I shouldn’t have. One more bruise. Won’t happen again.”

He frowned, put down my martini, and left. I turned back to Victoria. The Millenuits pout hit me harder than her hand.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for. It’s just, this kind of thing really pisses me off.”

“Generally or just when it strikes close to home?”

Her hand was in the air again before I could turn. It stopped midway across the table and returned to her lap.

“If you’ll excuse me for saying so—and not hit me again—I’m a little surprised this is new to you. Given your job and all.”

She sipped her drink and shook her head. “My background is white-collar crime—corporate fraud, accounting cover-ups, insider trading. I’m not an expert on identity theft—as you apparently are.”