Rasputin's Shadow (11 page)

L
eo S
okolov was back in his ratty hotel room, standing by the grimy window, staring out at the noisy, traffic-clogged street below.

He was angry at himself. He’d almost screwed everything up with his impetuousness, which wasn’t like him. Sokolov wasn’t a rash person. He normally thought things through, took his time. If anything, he was usually overly cautious and analytical. And yet here, faced with a crisis, he’d jumped into the deep end without checking the pool first.

He was lucky to be alive—and free. Very lucky. He thought back to his failed attempt at kidnapping Rogozin and realized how close he was to it all going seriously wrong. He caught a ghostly reflection of his face in the glass and felt a pang of shame and remorse. He chided himself again. He couldn’t do this. Not like that. He’d thought it would work out, his being brazen, as he had been all those years ago, when he’d outwitted his CIA handlers. But this was a different world, and he was a different man.

He couldn’t afford to fail again. He’d need to do better.

And he needed to get help. He couldn’t do it alone. Not anymore.

He didn’t move for more than an hour. He just stood there, in the darkness, staring out into the night, oblivious to the bustle of the city outside his grimy window.

Remembering. Thinking. Searching for an inspiration, for someone he could turn to.

An ally.

Then, out of the confusion in his mind, a name came forth.

He didn’t want to drag anyone else into the chaos of his now-exploded life, but he really didn’t have a choice if he was ever going to see his Daphne again. And who better than someone who, against all of Sokolov’s advice, seemed incapable of doing anything else than dedicating himself to a life of crime.

Jonny.

He needed to find Jonny.

T
he Sl
edgehammer.

Yet another of the high-quality individuals we’d welcomed to our land of opportunity with open arms, only to end up bitterly, bitterly disappointed.

I’m not sure that he was tired, poor, huddled, or yearning to breathe free when we let him in. In fact, I can’t imagine that the person who rubber-stamped his visa didn’t have a pretty good idea of what kind of lowlife he really was. But we still let him in, and here we were, sixteen years later, wasting time and money investigating his sordid activities and looking for a way to either lock him up—and waste more time and money that way—or kick him back out.

Same old, same old.

Yuri Mirminsky came into the country on a business visa, indicating he’d be working in the movie industry. When we got our first taste of what he was really up to, we discovered that the real reason he’d left Moscow was because it had become too dangerous for him there, what with the savage competition between Mafiya mobsters after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Needless to say, Mirminsky never made it to Hollywood. He got busy right here in New York and was running one of the strongest ROC groups on the whole East Coast.

Yeah, we’ve even got an acronym for it. ROC. Russian organized crime.

Collateral damage from the fall of Communism.

I often wondered if we’d have been better off with the Evil Empire still in place.

The Sledgehammer’s talent was much like Lucky Luciano’s. He was an organizer. He took bit gangs of Russian bangers and stitched them together into one big crime corporation, with him running the show. And his talent served him well. His branch of the Solntsevskaya gang now had more than two hundred upstanding immigrants living among us and beavering away at drug-running, extortion, and a whole bunch of other fine pursuits.

The first time I heard of him, I remember wondering where he got the nickname. My wishful thinking was that he’d been a huge fan of Peter Gabriel. Maybe he was. I mean, back then, who wasn’t? But this sledgehammer was different. It originated from his early days in Russia, before he came to the States. After the Wall came down. Back when he was an out-of-work KGB “niner,” an unemployed member of its Ninth Directorate who’d gone from muscleman providing protection to the Kremlin’s top dogs to up-and-coming
bratok
—a low-level Mafiya thug. Yuri got into a fight with some poor schmuck and he punched him so hard the guy’s guts spilled out. Literally. The guy had recently had surgery and his stitches hadn’t been out for that long, but still. One punch.

I don’t know about the choice of nickname. I’d have gone with Drago. Or Popeye. But maybe that last one was too American. Besides, the
French Connection
movie had it locked down. For my generation, anyway.

The problem was, Mirminsky was insulated. I’d never met the guy, but the Bureau had been involved in a couple of cases over the years that linked back to him, the most recent of which was a colossal fraud where Mirminsky and his associates operated dozens of small medical “no-fault” clinics and bilked car-insurance companies out of tens of millions of dollars for fictitious treatments of car-accident victims. We never got anywhere near taking him down. Mirminsky was a smart
vor
—what Russian Mafiya bosses were called, short for
vor y zakone
, meaning “thief-in-law”—and he knew how to work the system. He never had any direct involvement with any of his cabal’s dirty deeds. Nothing ever got tied back to him, which is how it was with most, if not all, of the Russian mobsters who’d left the old country for the security and due process of the West. They raped and pillaged, they partied, we watched.

Depressing stuff.

Still, he’d lost two underlings here, which was something to smile about. And he was also clearly involved in whatever had led to the death of two NYPD detectives, which was going to bring down some serious heat on him.

Maybe his days on our sunny shores were numbered.

I wasn’t holding my breath. But I was happy to do everything I could to help bring that about.

“We ought to pay the Sledgehammer a visit,” I told Aparo as we hit traffic on the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge. “Rattle his gilded penthouse of a cage.”

Aparo didn’t answer immediately. I glanced across and saw that he had a little grin going.

“What are you smiling about?”

He put on a mock-pensive look, then said, “I think we should. But before we do that, I think we need to rattle someone else’s cage before she gets too much of a heads-up about what just went down.”

I knew exactly what he was thinking. And, in fairness, I’d been thinking the same thing. We also needed to know more about what seemed to be the key to all this: Sokolov. Which was why I called Larisa Tchoumitcheva right there and then and told her we needed to meet, pronto.

“J. G. Melon’s in an hour,” I told Aparo after I hung up with her. Then I added, “I don’t have time to drop you off at the office. York Street subway station good for you?”

His face dropped for only a couple of seconds before he realized I was kidding, but those seconds were priceless.

***

L
ARISA HUNG UP WITH
Reilly, thought about it, then dialed another number.

Her boss took her call promptly.

“I just got a call from Reilly. He wants to meet.”

“Good,” the man answered. “We need to know more about what happened at the motel. Have you heard anything new?”

“No more than we already know. Koschey took out the two
bratki
who were watching over Sokolov’s wife.”

“Which means he’s got her now,” the man said. “And he’ll use her to draw Sokolov out.”

“No doubt.”

Larisa’s boss went quiet for a moment, then said, “We can’t let Sokolov slip out of our hands. Do you understand? This is imperative. I can’t emphasize that enough.”

Still with the secrecy,
Larisa fumed inwardly. But she knew better than to ask. They’d already made it clear that Sokolov’s CV was beyond her need to know. And so far, her attempts to gain access to his file had failed.

She masked her frustration and said, “I understand.”

“Call me back when you’re done,” he told her. “And Larisa?”

“Yes?”

“Get him to like you.”

Koreato
wn, Manhattan

T
he train rumbled into Thirty-fourth Street, causing Sokolov to force his eyes open and pull himself to his feet.

He’d spent the whole ride thinking about the eager-to-please sixteen-year-old who had shown so much promise and, in particular, such a flair for science, when he first became Sokolov’s pupil. Sokolov had done everything he could to encourage and help the boy—from after-school coaching to loaning him books from his own collection. But when the change happened, it appeared to take place overnight. Yaung John-Hee—or simply Jonny, without the “h,” as he was known at school—had started off by skipping homework assignments and coming into school late. Then he started missing whole days, and he’d finally ended up getting expelled when a gun was found in his backpack.

How it had gotten there wasn’t cut-and-dry. Not even close.

Jonny had consistently stuck to his story. He said he’d just happened to find the gun in Clearview Park. What complicated the matter was that the Beretta 9mm turned out to be free of prints—except for Jonny’s—and the police to whom it had mandatorily been reported linked it to three deaths. They suspected it actually belonged to Jonny’s older brother, Kim-Jee, a low-level dealer in one of the city’s Korean gangs. And Jonny had a rock-solid alibi for the night of the killings, so the police had nothing with which to pressure him.

At each step, Sokolov had tried to talk the boy around, to try to turn him away from the violent and self-destructive black hole that was drawing him in. At each step, Jonny had pretended to listen, then he’d just continued down his own path. Sokolov had even put himself on the line. He had vouched for the kid with both the school’s principal and the cops when Jonny had been suspected of dealing drugs at the school. He had assured anyone who would listen that Jonny was different from his brother. That he wanted to go to college and become an engineer. That he and Jonny had an understanding. Then, three years ago, there was this business with the gun, and Sokolov couldn’t protect him anymore. Nor did he really want to. He was left looking ridiculous. He was still angry about how Jonny had managed to deceive him so completely, still unsure about whether he had been played the entire time or whether Jonny had honestly tried to stay on the right side of the law but hadn’t been strong enough to resist his brother’s pull.

At the moment, it was that calculating ability to lie that Sokolov was counting on. Perhaps Jonny even had traces of remorse about how he had manipulated Sokolov and rendered him unreliable in the eyes of the school’s board. So much about high school was the ability to read character, and Sokolov, who had always prided himself on his skills in this area, had proven himself fallible.

Sokolov dragged himself up the stairs at Herald Square and set off down Sixth Avenue. The shops were empty and the Empire State Building loomed overhead like a giant sentry. Sokolov tucked his hands deeper into his pockets, where he again felt the cool grip of the handgun. He found it oddly disconcerting that there he was, all that time later, coming to see Jonny, and that it was he who was carrying a gun.
Desperate times, desperate measures
, he reminded himself
,
and pushed the discomfort away as he turned onto Thirty-third Street and followed it into the heart of Koreatown.

After the cops had raided the back room of the community center in Murray Hill where the brothers used to hang out, Kim-Jee and Jonny had begun to spend much more time in Koreatown. They’d eventually started working at their aunt’s restaurant, the Green Dragon, which was right in the heart of Koreatown, between Thirty-third and Thirty-second streets. Sokolov had even gone there one night, about two years ago, to try to talk some sense into Jonny yet again, but he’d given up and gone home without even setting foot inside. He’d heard that since then, Kim-Jee had risen through the ranks of the gang, with Jonny riding in his wake. Anything more than that would be a guess. Better to see for himself, now that he was there.

He walked past several small clusters of diners who’d stepped outside for a smoke and went in. He knew he was taking a risk just walking into the restaurant unannounced, but as he had already convinced himself on the way over, he really didn’t have a choice. It was a fair bet that, whether he was a fugitive or not, Jonny’s relatives would be reluctant to call the cops to their premises whatever the circumstances. Not after everything Sokolov had done for Jonny.

The place was huge, and bustling. Even though it was almost two in the morning, the Green Dragon was almost full. Korean pop music blaring from speakers and the din of multiple conversations fought for airspace with the sound of tables being cleared and food being delivered to customers. Almost the entire clientele was Korean, though a table by the window was occupied by a group of young tourists clearly enjoying the authentic atmosphere and cuisine.

Sokolov walked over to the hostess, a petite woman in her twenties wearing a white silk dress decorated with a single green dragon that looked like it was coiled around her torso.

“Is Yaung John-Hee here?”

The woman’s expression didn’t change at all.

“I’m his teacher. Well, I was,” he explained. “I used to teach him science. At Flushing High School.”

The woman’s eyebrows slid upward almost imperceptibly.

“I need to talk to him,” he pressed on. “Tell him—tell him Mr. Soko is here. Tell him I need to see him. And tell him . . .” He hesitated. “Tell him I saw Kim-Jee give him something. He’ll understand.”

The hostess studied him for a second, then motioned to a waitress to cover the floor before she disappeared through the swing doors into the kitchen.

Sokolov watched her go, then turned around and sat himself down at an empty table in the back of the room. The table was still covered in half-eaten dishes, sauce-smeared plates, and empty Hite bottles. Without looking at the hostess, Sokolov removed his coat and hung it on the back of his chair, then grabbed a menu from a nearby table and started to read it.

He gazed around the large, crowded space.

He’d missed them when he’d entered because they were sitting in a booth, but the two young guys wearing leather jackets and vests over Uniqlo T-shirts had the unmistakable look of Kkangpae. One of them had the butt of a gun not-too-discreetly poking out from under his vest. Sokolov looked away in time to see the hostess coming back through the swing doors. She beckoned for him to follow her. He grabbed his coat and followed the woman to the back of the restaurant and noticed that the two guys were following him with their eyes.

She led him through the swinging doors and into the kitchen, which was deafening and bursting with frenetic staff. The hostess cut straight through the center of it all without slowing, with everyone in there moving out of her way like a parting sea. Sokolov had a tougher time, narrowly avoiding a waiter carrying two huge plates of ribs but still managing to knock a pile of empty food containers from the edge of a counter. He left the kitchen to the sound of loud swearing in Korean.

The hostess entered a tight hallway with only two exits: one a set of fire doors, the other a narrow staircase leading up to the next floor. Without looking back at him, she continued up the stairs. Sokolov followed, already struggling for breath after the first flight. When he reached the very top—three floors above the restaurant—the hostess was waiting for him by a metal door. She watched him, blank-faced, as he joined her, then she turned and knocked at the door. Seconds later, it swung open. A cloud of smoke hit Sokolov. A Korean man, young, with green streaks in his hair, a lit cigarette in his hand, and intense eyes fixed on Sokolov, stood aside to let them in.

Sokolov followed the hostess in.

Yaung John-Hee lazed on a battered leather sofa inside the dimly lit, smoke-filled room, his cowboy-booted feet up on a glass coffee table, on which sat a wrap of what Sokolov knew had to be cocaine, a razor blade, a recently licked mirror, a handgun, several cell phones, and an open silver MacBook. Jonny looked just as Sokolov remembered him: the thick black hair, long, with wild shards of it cutting across his indifferent, cool eyes. Thin, too, but Sokolov knew it was all really coiled, tight muscle, waiting to lash out if and when called upon. He was dressed in a black bomber jacket that had a big Armani logo on it, over washed-out black jeans.

Opposite the sofa stood its equally worn-out twin. Green Streaks crossed back and took up his own slouch on it. A large plasma screen hogged the side wall, with an Xbox and an array of games and controllers strewn on the floor in front of it.

The hostess and the boys exchanged a few short words, then the hostess left the room, barely glancing at Sokolov before shutting the door behind her and leaving Sokolov with nothing but words.

Still standing, Sokolov pointed at the gun. “I assume that one is yours.” The smoke was bothering him, but he did his best not to show it.

“In the sense that I’m using it for now, yeah.” Jonny gestured for Sokolov to sit opposite him.

Sokolov sat down, next to Green Streaks, careful to avoid knocking the low table. “Not in my direction, I hope.”

“We’ll see.” He took a long toke, then brushed the smallest trace of white powder from a lapel of his jacket. He blew the smoke out of his nostrils slowly, looked at Sokolov dead straight, and said, low and matter-of-factly, “We never go up against the Russians.”

Sokolov nodded, a pained half-smile breaking through his lined eyes. Jonny was as savvy as he remembered. He motioned at the TV. “You saw the news?”

Jonny nodded. “Looks bad, Mr. Soko. Me, I’d say you pushed that Russkie out your window. But then again, what do I know.” He gave him a knowing smile, then his smugness faded and his expression shifted to betray a hint of unease. “So what’s that you were saying down there? Did you really see Kim-Jee give me something?”

Sokolov held his gaze. “Of course not. But he did. We both know it.”

“No,” Jonny hissed as he sat forward, crushing his cigarette butt into an overflowing ashtray. “
I
killed them. All Kim-Jee did was make our aunt give me that alibi. All ’cause I didn’t throw the gun fast enough. And now look at me, right?” He sounded both proud and full of regret at the same time. “The boss-man is in Miami and we’re running the show.” He swept his arm in a casual arc across the room.

Sokolov felt as though he were going to pass out from the combination of the smoke and the effort of maintaining his composure. He became conscious of his heart thudding against his rib cage. He closed his eyes, tilted his head slightly back, and took in a couple of shallow breaths.

Jonny was silent.

Sokolov opened his eyes. “They took my wife.”

Jonny looked at his quizzically. “What you say?”

“Daphne. They took her.”

Jonny sighed and shook his head from side to side, slowly. “Aww, Mr. Soko. What did you do?”

Sokolov hated what he was about to say, but he couldn’t think of any way around it. “They’re going to kill her if I don’t pay,” he muttered. “I owe them money. Three hundred thousand.”

Jonny slapped the table, his hand splayed out flat. “
Byung-shin-a
. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. Please . . . I need your help. I don’t want her to suffer because of my stupid mistake.”

“Gaesaekki dul jokka ra kuh hae,”
Jonny rasped. “Kidnapping an old woman like that. Fucking animals.” He grabbed the razor and started cutting himself a fresh line. “I’m sick of the
hule jasik
Russkies. They’re all over the place. Acting like this is downtown Moscow.” He shook his head. “Who has her?”

“I don’t know exactly. I have a phone number. That’s all.”

Jonny bent forward and hovered inches from the coke, a dollar bill rolled in one hand. “You don’t got the money, do you?”

“No, but—”

“Don’t matter,” he interrupted just before he sent a line up his nose.

Sokolov watched, perplexed, as Jonny leaned right back, his eyes closed. After a moment, the Korean said, “Tell them you have the money.”

Sokolov couldn’t hide his shock. “What?”

“Tell them you have their damn money.” Without looking at Sokolov, Jonny shook his head. “You knew I would help. That’s why you came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“You can read people fine.” He snorted another line, then wiped his nose and fixed Sokolov with a hard glare.

“Talk to them. Say you have the money. Set up a meet. We’ll take care of the
go-jas
and get your wife back.” He studied Sokolov for a moment, then asked, “Where are you staying?”

“A small hotel. Downtown.”

“You safe there?”

Sokolov shrugged.

“You stay here,” he told his old teacher. “We have room downstairs. You’ll be safe here. My cousin Ae-Cha will take you down and get you what you need.” He motioned to Green Streaks, bobbing his head in the direction of the door.

Green Streaks got up and unlocked the door. Ae-Cha was still standing there. She stepped in without saying a word. Jonny blurted some orders at her. Ae-Cha nodded quietly, then beckoned for Sokolov to follow.