Paul Levine - False Dawn

“But Foley said-”

“Listen up, Jake.” Again, Socolow turned toward Soto and nodded with deference. “Senor Soto has been associated with the CIA since before the Bay of Pigs, and was there to keep an eye on Yagamata under the guise of providing shipping. When Yagamata started dealing for himself, Senor Soto alerted Langley, which told him to keep quiet and find out everything he could. Then all hell broke loose. These two Russian brothers-”

“Vladimir and Nikolai,” I said.

“Yeah. They figured out what was going on, too, that Yagamata was stealing every ashtray in the country. Vladimir worked for Yagamata, so he was easy enough to dispose of. They used Kharchenko to knock off Crespo because Crespo knew who killed Vladimir and was starting to crack. Kharchenko also killed a Finnish agent-”

“Eva-Lisa Haavikko. She was slaughtered in a sauna. I was there.”

“Eva-Lisa?” Lourdes repeated, her eyebrows raised. “In a sauna?”

“She was a Suopo operative who helped out when they were using the art to set up the hard-liners,” Socolow said. “When Yagamata kept up the flow of goods after CIA policy changed, she tried to back out. But her employer had changed without her knowing it. Yagamata wasn’t working for the CIA anymore, and what used to be the KGB, the new Russian Agency for Federal Security, tossed Kharchenko out on his ear. Her new bosses were international outlaws even nastier than the folks in Langley and Moscow, and it got her killed.” Socolow shot a sour look at me. “Meanwhile, CIA figures out what Foley is up to and gets Senor Soto involved to try and recover the art from Yagamata. But it was too late once you and Foley pulled off the heist.”

My head was spinning. Just like the old days. I never could tell the good guys from the bad.

“So, Jakie, to put it bluntly, you fucked up. You went on the road and suited up for the wrong team. You turned over the goods to the wrong side. In short, you’re Wrong-Way Lassiter again.”

I hate it when somebody calls me that. One lousy play a thousand years ago and they never forget. We were leading the dog-ass New York Jets by ten with a minute to go, and I was doing my best to get some grass stains on my jersey when the ball squirted out of the pile and took a neat end-over-end bounce right into my hands. Okay, so I got turned around-it could happen to anybody-and tore off in the wrong direction. The only touchdown of my NFL demicareer, and it had to be for the guys in green-and-white. We still won the game by three points, but most of my drinking buddies had taken the Dolphins minus five, which was all I heard at the Gaslight Lounge for the next few weeks. It was my most embarrassing moment on the playing field, unless you count the time I blocked a punt- our punt-with my backside, but that’s another story.

“Where’s Foley now?” I asked.

“CIA figures he’s looking for experts to attest to the loot’s authenticity. As you can imagine, he doesn’t have documentation, and if you’re going to ask ten million dollars for a painting, you gotta have some proof. The art world is filled with some incredibly good fakes.”

That brought Charlie Riggs out of his book. “Jake, you’re probably familiar with the Greek Kouros purchased by the Getty Museum.”

“Intimately,” I muttered. I was still trying to figure out who was on whose side.

Charlie waggled a cold pipe at me. “A marble statue of a young boy. The museum spent nine million dollars for it almost a decade ago, and despite the most sophisticated tests-electron microscopy, thermoluminescence, and carbon-14 dating-nobody knows if that statue was carved twenty-five hundred years ago on the island of Thasos, or fifty years ago in some forger’s basement in Turkey.”

“Anyway,” Socolow said, sounding bored, “even without Yagamata, Foley will probably try to make the first deals with Japanese billionaires for selected pieces in the five-to twenty-million-dollar range. Japan’s where all the money is. Plus they have a delightful law that gives clear title to the buyer of stolen art unless the lawful owner puts him on notice of the theft within two years. So, all the guy has to do is keep his egg or painting or whatever under wraps for a couple of years, then haul it out at a birthday party or the opening of a new Lexus dealership.”

“What are you guys doing about Foley?” I asked. “Why aren’t you after him?”

Socolow smiled, if that’s what you call it when a barracuda spots a guppy. “That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t know where he is,” I said quickly, “and I don’t know where the art is. Your buddies from Washington can beat me with rubber hoses, and I still won’t know.”

“With your head, Jake, they’d use lead pipes. We know where he is, and he’s got the loot with him. We need you to deal with him.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You’re the only one we know who can get close to Foley.”

“Close to him! He used me. Like Senor Soto said, he played me for a fool. I led him to Kharchenko. He had me believing I was following orders from the President.”

Soto stirred in his chair, then stood up. The movement made his empty sleeve billow. “Foley should have killed you but he did not. He knew you would be taken into custody here and interrogated, that you would likely reveal everything that happened, but he wanted you around for some purpose.”

“What purpose?”

Socolow lit another cigarette. “Even the boys in Washington couldn’t figure that one out, until Foley called.”

“Called?”

“Yeah, called. Like on the phone.”

“Why?”

Again, he showed his predator’s smile. “C’mon, Jake, think about it. It’s what we used to call dropping the dime, or these days should we say, the quarter? Foley wants to cut a deal. He wants you to be his lawyer.”

Who besides the government buys Detroit’s full-size, four-door sedans with blackwalls? That’s what I wondered as we rolled out of the Justice Building parking lot, neatly avoiding a demonstration by Liberty City residents against the Palestinian owners of the area’s convenience stores. A federal marshal drove the first car, a navy-blue Plymouth. His passenger was an FBI agent with round glasses and an advanced degree in art history. We were next in line, Socolow driving his county-owned car, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. I rode shotgun; Lourdes Soto and her father sat in back. Behind us, another federal marshal drove a CIA agent, an assistant to an undersecretary from the State Department, and someone from the Justice Department who wouldn’t give his name and said he wasn’t really here. Your tax dollars at work.

I don’t know why we needed a caravan. Best I could figure, no one would assassinate me on the Don Shula Expressway. The only threat came from a skinny, barefoot guy who cursed in Creole when Socolow wouldn’t let him clean our windshield at a traffic light on LeJeune Road. As we turned into the airport, I couldn’t help asking, “Anybody want to tell me where we’re going?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, Jakie,” Socolow said.

Ah, a quiz. They told me to pick up my passport along with my duffel bag, so I already knew we weren’t going to Disney World. “They speak English there?”

“About as much as on Flagler Street downtown.” Socolow kept his eyes on the road.

“In that case, I’ll need an interpreter.”

From the back seat, Lourdes said, “That’s why I’m along, Jake.”

Okay, a Spanish-speaking country. If it had been ancient Rome, Charlie Riggs would have drawn the assignment. “Never been to Costa Rica,” I ventured. “Hear the fishing’s great.”