David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“Sure. She’s Russian. Temperamental.”

“You suggesting cause and effect?”

“Got a mirror?”

“I don’t know who’s less forthcoming, you or Leitz. Are they…?”

“Just friends, so far as I know.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

“I told you before, don’t believe everything you read in—”

“I didn’t read this. Aleksei told me.”

He shrugged. “Russian rumor, still a rumor.”

True enough, and if this rumor had any kind of traction I would have read about it on Ibansk.com—it’s the kind of insider tidbit Ivanov makes a living on.

“Here’s some fact.” I told him about Andras’s multimillion-dollar bank account.

“Huh. I wonder if…” He clattered away at his keyboard. “Looks like you’re on to something. That strange activity originated at Leitz’s house. He’s got the home system networked through the firm’s.”

“What’s the kid up to?”

“Can’t tell. Hard to avoid concluding that he’s ripping someone off, though. Question is, who and why?”

“There’s more. His girlfriend’s in it with him. She’s got the same bank accounts and deposit patterns. Her name’s Irina Lishina—Alyona’s daughter.”

“You’re full of surprises.”

“So’s your pal Leitz. What do we know about the Baltic Enterprise Commission?”

“Bad-ass mofos. Web hosting for hire, if your business is spamming, phishing, or kiddie porn. Premium service, pretty much bulletproof. Everybody thinks they were behind the denial of service attacks on Estonia and Georgia a few years back, working for your former colleagues in the Kremlin. Word is, they’ve been experiencing a few glitches, but there’s been no noticeable decline in spamming, phishing, or kiddie porn. Lowlife online thrives as always. Why?”

“Aleksei thinks the same thing. Says the guy who beat me up on Second Avenue last week is the BEC’s chief enforcer.”

“He sure about that?”

“That’s what he says.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked across the desk at me. I had his full attention now.

“They the ones targeting Leitz?”

“Could be. Let me show you something.”

I walked around the desk, brought up a Web browser on his computer, logged onto Ibansk.com, and scrolled to the photo of Konychev.

“That’s the man behind the BEC. Check out the background.”

Foos stared at the screen for a moment, and said, “Huh. See what you mean.”

“His sister is Alyona Lishina.”

“I’m finished being surprised. You gonna tell Leitz?”

“I’m betting he already knows about Alyona. Andras, I’m not sure. I’d like more information about what the kid is up to first—and whether and how it ties in with his old man’s office being bugged. Let’s check out that law firm.”

Foos worked the Lindley & Hill Web site while I called Elizabeth Rogers. Halfway through the second ring, there was the slightest pause and click as the call was transferred from the 212 area code to somewhere else—out of state, probably out of country. Another ring and a female voice answered.

“Lindley & Hill.” No discernible accent.

“Elizabeth Rogers, please.”

“I’m sorry, she’s out of the office. Would you like her voicemail?”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Does she have an assistant?”

“One moment, please.”

The voice came back in ten seconds and announced the assistant was away from her desk. Whoever set this up had covered the bases. I asked for voicemail and listened to another accentless voice announcing herself as Elizabeth Rogers and asking me to leave a message. No point in that. Elizabeth Rogers didn’t exist.

Neither did Lindley & Hill. Foos said, “That Web site’s no more in New York than I’m in Alaska.”

“Can you tell where it is?”

“Locator bug reports Eastern Europe.”

“Will they know someone was asking?”

“Did we suddenly enter amateur hour?”

Nosferatu or his boss or someone was going to a lot of trouble. I thought about that and the fact that so far, all the Leitz family had succeeded in doing was heaping their problems on top of my own. I was looking forward to meeting Julia.

The phone rang. Foos answered, listened a moment, rolled his eyes and put the caller on hold.

“You ain’t heard nothing yet,” he said, handing me the receiver. “Thomas Leitz. If this guy ain’t light in his loafers, Pig Pen’s a bald eagle.”

I released the HOLD button and introduced myself.

“Big Brother Sebastian says I’m supposed to talk to you, and I always do what Sebastian says.”

Unlike Foos, I try not to jump to stereotypical conclusions, but Thomas Leitz had the same high, tense voice I’d heard on his message machine, with the addition of a pronounced lisp. Foos arched an eyebrow across the desk. I turned away.

“Thank you for returning my call. I’d prefer to talk face to face, if that’s all right with you. I can meet at your convenience.”

A long pause, as if Thomas Leitz wanted to convey that no meeting would be convenient.

I waited.

Finally, he said, “I teach at P.S. One-forty-six, all the way east on Houston, by the Drive. We’re having a conference here tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you outside when it’s over. Say noon, if you don’t mind working Saturday.”

He said the last part with a sneer, as if he clearly did mind.

“I’ll be there. How will I know you?”

“You can’t miss me. I’m the one who looks like a screaming queen.”

Still plenty of time before I was due in Midtown, so I walked north past City Hall and through Chinatown and Little Italy into eastern SoHo. The overcast sky darkened and a chill wind came up, but it wasn’t unpleasant. As I walked, I called a Wall Street Journal reporter I know. He and I were both working on an insider trading scam a few years ago, each for his own reasons. We were able to help each other out, so we continue to take each other’s calls.

“Julia Leitz,” I said, once I’d established he wasn’t staring down the barrel of a deadline.

“Jesus. You hiring a PR firm?”

“Just going to talk to her. Family matter. Hers.”

“You shouldn’t ask a reporter about flacks. We hate ’em. Half the time they’re trying to keep us from the story, the other half they’re wasting our time with stories that aren’t stories. Even when they’re helpful, we can’t bring ourselves to admit it.”

“So you know her?”

“Sure. There’re a handful who’re pretty damned good at what they do, as much as we hate to say so. She’s one. Smart, tough, opinionated. Her approach is all or nothing, takes no prisoners. She works on big corporate deals—mergers, acquisitions, restructurings. Every transaction is either going to remake the entire landscape of corporate America or end capitalism as we know it, depending on which side is paying her. She charges a fortune—six, seven, eight hundred bucks an hour. Like a big-time lawyer. That’s another reason we can’t stand flacks—jealousy.” He laughed.

“Anything I should watch out for?”

“Get ready for a fight if you disagree. And she and truth—I’d say they’re more acquaintances than friends.”

I was a block from the Bleecker Street subway station when I passed Ballato’s, a timeless old-school Italian restaurant. I was still running early, and the smoked salmon sandwich had ceased to satisfy, so I enjoyed a plate of fried calamari and a fortifying vodka before resuming my journey uptown to meet one of capitalism’s soldiers of fortune.

Third Avenue was busy at the end of the workday. Traffic crawled between the lights. Lines queued for the commuter buses to the Bronx and Queens. People walked quickly, hurrying home to their families, eager to get out of the cold. I didn’t feel part of it. My workday wasn’t over and I had no one to go home to. I’d held myself to a single drink at Ballato’s. Maybe, if I was lucky, one of Julia Leitz’s all-important deals would blow, she’d stand me up, and I could retreat to another saloon.