Rasputin's Shadow (17 page)

It was a credulity that was begging to be exploited. And the insights he’d gleaned from the myriad encounters he’d experienced during his wandering years had turned him into a master of exploitation.

One chapter had marked him most of all, and that was his time with the Khlysti in a remote corner of the Siberian outback. He would always remember that first ritual among the sect of resurrected “Christs” who believed repentance was pointless unless it was about repenting for a major sin, which usually took the form of fornication. The chants, the dancing, the frenzied whirling, all of it culminating in the rite of “rejoicing”—the wild orgies, during which the Holy Spirit would, they were told, descend upon them. It was all mind-boggling.

What a concept, he thought. Rejoicing through group sinning. Abstention through orgies. The purification of the soul through wanton copulation. The boundless debauchery that, according to their beliefs, allowed every man the potential to turn into a Christ and every woman into a mother of God.

It was so twisted and ingenious, it was no wonder the Orthodox Church had moved quickly to stamp it out. But it survived, in the dark corners of the empire, its “arks” connected to each other by secret messengers—the “flying angels,” or seraphs who wandered the land.

For a while, Rasputin had become one such seraph. And with Misha’s assistance, he would take the rituals of the secret sect of the poor from the forests of Siberia and unleash his own version of them on the high society of St. Petersburg and its polished, unsuspecting women.

It was a far better life than any of the illiterate peasant of Pokrovskoye had ever dared dream of.

S
okolov unlocked the van’s back door and swung it open.

The rear compartment was empty inside, except for a large metal box. It was a bit smaller than an under-counter fridge, and it was bolted to the van’s floor behind the partition. It had a metal bar across it with a large padlock holding it shut. He checked the padlock. It was still locked and seemed undisturbed, as did the rest of the equipment in the back of the van.

He closed the rear door, popped the engine lid open, and reconnected the battery. Then he climbed in and turned the ignition key. The engine churned to life, sounding far healthier than it looked. Sokolov had always been fastidious with its maintenance. He pumped the gas pedal gently a couple of times and let the engine warm up a little, then he got out and opened the roller door, backed out, and lowered and locked it again.

Within minutes, he was on his way, headed for the Triboro Bridge, thinking about the phone call he would soon have to make, and not feeling any more confident about what the night would bring than he had been before collecting his van.

***

S
HORTLY BEFORE EIGHT
, Sokolov pulled his panel van into the alleyway behind the Green Dragon. The refrigeration unit bolted to its roof made it look like any other vehicle delivering supplies to the back doors of the restaurants that lined the block.

Jonny sized it up with a sardonic look, then he lit up a cigarette and asked, “So what’s with the meat wagon?”

Sokolov shrugged. “It was cheap. Get in. We should go.”

Jonny climbed in and took the outside seat of the two-passenger bench that was next to the driver’s seat.

Sokolov slid a small, sideways glare at the cigarette, then pulled out and turned into Thirty-second Street.

Jonny looked around the cabin. There was a partition behind the three seats. It had a narrow door built into it that reminded Jonny of the lavatory doors on commercial airliners. The door had a small window cut into it, about ten inches square. Everything else was pretty standard for an old van like that, apart from a small panel on the dashboard that had a couple of switches on it and seemed slightly out of place.

He settled in, pulled out his gun, and started checking it. “I just hope no one sees me like this. Not good for my reputation. Not good at all.” He grinned when he said it, but it was clear he wasn’t kidding.

“The only thing I care about is my
laposhka
’s safety,” Sokolov told him as he glanced at his gun. “You do whatever you have to do to keep her safe. You understand? She’s all that matters.”

“It’ll be fine.” Then he added, “
Laposhka
. You always call her that. What’s it mean?”

“It’s hard to translate. It’s just a word we use. That’s all.”

Jonny nodded. “Cool. I like it. Has a nice ring to it.”

Sokolov said nothing for a moment, then added, “You know I don’t have the money, right? I’d pay them if I did. But they’re going to want something instead, and that something’s going to have to be me.”

Jonny shrugged. “It’s not going to come to that.”

“Well, if it does, I’m okay with it.”

“You’re going to be fine, Mr. Soko. I know the docks. We do a lot of business down there. It’s a wide-open space, so we can control this thing like we want. And it’s nice and quiet, and far from prying eyes.”

“Sounds like it’s better for them than for us.”

Sokolov stared ahead as he motored on, deep in thought. Then his eyes narrowed, deepening the creases in his face.

“I just hope the
ublyudki
haven’t hurt her,” he added, almost under his breath. “Because if they have, you’re gonna need to control me, too.”

Jonny grinned. “Now, that I’d like to see, teach. But it won’t come to that. You’ll see. Jonny’ll take care of everything.”

“I hope so.”

Jonny didn’t reply at first. He just sat there and took a couple of long drags on his cigarette, then he flicked it out the window and turned to Sokolov. “You did the right thing coming to me. Like I told you before, you can read people well.” He paused, gauged Sokolov, then decided to carry on. “I wanted to go to college. Like you said. I did. Then one day Kim-Jee steals three keys of heroin from a local Jamaican crew and they mark him for dead. Almost killed him twice. But Kim-Jee wouldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t call the cops. He was too humiliated to tell his boss. He was just waiting for them to take him out. So I took them out first. It was my way in. And lucky it was, too. Without the protection of my crew, I’d be dead myself—many times over.”

Sokolov nodded slowly.

Jonny glared into the night. “Just don’t tell me it’s not too late to change, all right? I’ve had enough of that bullshit.”

“I won’t,” Sokolov told him. “Especially not tonight.”

Jonny shrugged and let out a slight chuckle. “Yeah, I didn’t think you would.”

***

I
T WAS OPPRESSIVELY DARK
and quiet all around us as Aparo pulled us up behind the waiting SWAT truck, which was parked about five hundred yards from the entrance to the deserted shipyard. Kubert and Kanigher pulled in behind us.

I glanced at my watch. It was quarter to nine.

Fifteen minutes till kickoff.

Aparo and I got out and walked over to the SWAT-team leader. Kubert and Kanigher joined us. We were out in Red Hook in South Brooklyn, virtually facing Governor’s Island. The location had been texted to the Sledgehammer, along with its GPS coordinates in a message we’d intercepted. They hadn’t given us much time to get here, but it looked like we were all set anyway.

The area around us was bleak and desolate. Rotting docks, old brick warehouses with rusting roofs, rickety chain-link fences, clusters of aging eighteen-wheelers and containers dotted around. I was surprised there wasn’t any tumbleweed rolling at our feet. The place had that kind of postapocalyptic feel to it.

The SWAT honcho was a new guy. I’d pretty much worked with them all, and he wasn’t familiar to me. Which wasn’t ideal, but there’s a first time for everything. I flipped my creds at him, and we did the quick intros. He said his name was Infantino and we shook hands, then went over the situation on the ground and the engagement protocols.

He pointed at the image on the laptop. It was a grainy, green-hued, night-vision live feed coming from a two-man advance team he had deployed to monitor the target site. It showed a big SUV with two guys standing beside it, one on each side. They were carrying.

“We’re dealing with four guys,” he explained. “Two standing, waiting for something to happen. They’re carrying MACs.” Which wasn’t great news. Machine pistols like MAC-10s or -11s could spit out close to twenty rounds in a single second. They weren’t necessarily the most accurate weapon for a face-off, but if handled by someone who knew how to curb his enthusiasm, they were very deadly.

“Two still inside the SUV,” he continued, “pissing themselves to Chris Rock’s
Bigger and Blacker.
They’ve got it on so loud they must be half deaf.”

I didn’t know what was harder to take in—that the heavies were into Chris Rock, or that the SWAT-team leader could tell one of his sets from another.

“Great. Let’s hope the drop stays as casual as their choice of CD.”

“They all seem to love this shit,” Infantino said. “That and Wu-Tang. It’s how they learn English.”

“And attitude,” Aparo added. “Wish they’d listen to Seinfeld or Justin Bieber instead.”

He got some weird looks, then we went over some specifics about the terrain. It was all flat and open, with old freighters and water on one side and stacks of containers on the other. When we were done, I tapped on the copy of the photo of the Sokolovs that he’d been given and reminded him, “If Sokolov or his wife show up, their safety is priority one. We want them breathing.”

Infantino adjusted the night-vision rig on his helmet. “Don’t worry about it. But you know how these things can play out, especially with these vodka chuggers. They shoot, we shoot back.”

I tapped the photo again. “They’re the mission. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Russian mobsters or whatever else is going down here tonight. This is about them.”

“Copy that,” Infantino said.

One of his guys handed us our comms sets. We slipped our earpieces in and confirmed comms-channel settings with the SWAT team’s tech inside the van—then the four of us fanned out to take up our positions. Kubert and Kanigher went right. We went left.

Aparo and I reached our position, the squat office building next to the open gate. There was no security at all. No passing cars. No cops or private security patrols. The place was a ghost town. Easy to see why they’d chosen it.

I peered out for a closer look and could see the SUV and the two armed
bratki
as described. I could even hear the faint laughter coming from inside the big car. Clearly, these guys weren’t too stressed about whatever was going down tonight. Which I took to be a good sign.

We hunkered down and waited for the other party to arrive.

A
s Sokolov eased the van past the large oil-storage tanks and across to the edge of the vacant lot, he saw a dark Cadillac Escalade emerge from behind a stack of containers on the opposite edge of the shipyard. The big SUV advanced so it was just visible, then rolled to a stop.

Sokolov hit the brakes and stopped too. They were about a hundred yards across the clearing from the Escalade.

The Escalade flashed its headlights three times.

Sokolov returned the signal, as agreed. Then he turned to Jonny without turning off the engine.

“Listen to me. Keep the engine running. And I want you to take these. You’re going to need them.”

He reached down under his seat and pulled out two pairs of industrial ear protectors. They were the kind workmen use when manning pneumatic drills, only they seemed to have extra layers of mesh and other materials welded onto them.

Jonny looked at him questioningly. “You’re kidding, right?”

“As soon as you have Daphne safe,” Sokolov said, “put these on and get her to put them on too.” Then he pointed to one of the metal toggles that was on the small panel that had been screwed into the dashboard. “And then hit this switch.”

The Korean seemed completely lost, and uncomfortable with it. “Why? What is it?”

Sokolov hesitated, then said, “A distraction.”

“What, like a siren?”

Sokolov shook his head. “Not exactly. But it’s strong, and it’ll give us an advantage. Look, trust me on this. Just hit the switch, but make sure you have the earmuffs on. You and Daphne. Make sure.”

He studied the Korean, looking for confirmation that the kid would do as he asked. Jonny eyed the ear protectors with revulsion, then nodded with an indifferent shrug. Sokolov nodded back, then pulled out a couple of small earplugs from his pocket. He gave them a quick check before slipping one into his left ear. He put the other one back in his pocket. Jonny stared at him curiously, but Sokolov ignored him and glanced at his watch.

It was nine sharp.

Before Jonny could take the matter further, Sokolov climbed out of the van. He stood there at the edge of the clearing, glowering at the dark SUV up ahead, gleaming and still, like a shark that defied the laws of nature and sat motionless while waiting for its kill.

His guts were all twisted up, his skin bristling with apprehension.

After a few tense seconds, the Escalade’s driver-side door finally opened and a man emerged. He was wearing a baseball cap and mirrored glasses. His face bore at least a week’s worth of beard. The lapels of his leather jacket concealed most of the bottom half of his face. It was all but impossible to gain a sense of what he actually looked like, and even worse once he took a few steps so he was standing in front of the car’s blinding headlights.

Jonny swung his door open and nimbly climbed down from the van, tucking his gun into the back of his belt in the same smooth motion. He stood by the open door.

Two thick-set men emerged from the Escalade’s rear bench, one on each side. The one on the passenger side then pulled someone out after him. It was a woman. She had some kind of black hood covering her head. He had her by the arm and brought her across to the bearded man.

The bearded man pulled her hood off.

Sokolov shielded his eyes with one hand to get a clearer view.

It was Daphne. No question about it.

His pulse flew out of the park.

“Laposhka,”
he muttered.

He could see that her hands were bound in front of her.

Even across that distance, Daphne’s eyes locked with Sokolov’s, and time seemed to stop. A moment of such intensity passed between husband and wife that even the bearded Russian appeared to be aware of it, though he seemed to experience it as if he were a visitor from another planet entirely—one where emotions did not officially exist and those who felt them always died before they reached adulthood.

Sokolov swallowed, tried to wet his lips. His mouth was so dry he felt completely unable to speak. He tried anyway.

“Let her walk toward me,” he bellowed in Russian.

The man in the baseball cap stood impassive.

“She walks toward me and I’ll walk toward you,” Sokolov pressed.

The man in the cap nodded and waved him over, the flick of his hand reeking of contempt.

Sokolov turned to Jonny. “Remember what I told you to do,” he said. “My
laposhka.
She’s all that matters.”

Jonny nodded.

Sokolov held his gaze, then turned and started moving toward the Escalade at an even pace. After he’d covered about ten yards, he stopped.

The bearded man just stood there for a moment, then he nudged Daphne forward. She started to walk toward her husband—slowly at first, then her pace quickened.

As she did, Sokolov’s heart rose—then it seized up as he saw the man pull out his gun.

The man then straightened his arm and aimed the gun squarely at Daphne’s back.

***

I
COULD HEAR THE
seconds ticking away inside my head, but it was all quiet on the eastern front.

We were all set. A perimeter had been set up around the yard. There was enough light to render night-vision gear unnecessary, probably to the immense chagrin of the SWAT-team leader. We had the Russians in our sights. But something was wrong. I could sense it.

They were still there, alone, waiting.

It was well past nine.

We were still missing one of the two parties.

Mirroring my feelings, the two Russians standing out in the open were looking increasingly agitated. They kept looking at their watches, then at each other. The yard was silent. The guys in the SUV had already killed the comedy routine.

There was no sign of anyone else coming to join in.

I glanced at Aparo and caught his eye. He gave me a WTF shrug.

I had a sinking feeling we were missing something.

Nothing of any note had happened since we’d arrived and my relentless little internal nag was telling me we may have made a mistake. I quickly tracked back over how we’d gotten here. The two dead
bratki
at the hotel. Daphne’s carved letters. Meeting the Sledgehammer. The wiretap. The call requesting—no, ordering—him to provide the muscle.

If whoever was pulling the strings was smart—and it was beginning to look like they were—they might have assumed that we’d ID the dead
bratki
in time to connect them back to their ringleader. Which meant they might assume we’d put eyes and ears on the Sledgehammer. Which meant they could feed us any misdirection they wanted. And send us to the wrong location.

A bait and switch.

We’d been played.