David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“Even harder when you’re too scared to tell him the truth, right?”

I looked across, stunned. How the hell could she know about Beria?

“Hey, what’s wrong? What did I say?”

I could hear Lavrenty Pavlovich chuckling in the background. I waited for him to appear, but he stayed away. Then I realized she was talking about the story I’d told her of my upbringing—my birthplace, my mother’s death, the orphanage, being sent back to the Gulag. She was the first person I’d ever told—she had no reason to judge and condemn a zek, she barely knew what one was. She was assuming I’d be scared to tell Aleksei, terrified of what his reaction would be, as indeed I had been. Before a bigger terror reared his head. Beria chuckled again.

“Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine, but who’s the real bastard now?” I said.

“Hey! I didn’t mean it that way. I meant to say, I understand.”

“I know that,” I said gently. “Truth hurts, as someone once pointed out.”

It hurt even more if it involved Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria. I wasn’t ready to tell Victoria—or anyone—about that.

“Does he blame you—for his mother?”

“He says he doesn’t and I believe him. But he needs time to process everything that happened. I’m glad I went but it was probably too soon to start rebuilding.”

“You going back?”

“Maybe in a month or two.” Or sooner, if I could figure a way to reestablish Sasha’s access to the Cheka archives.

The green eyes stared straight at me. Almost anyone would have asked again what happened that night at JFK. Aleksei had saved my life, but in the process, he’d dispatched Iakov Barsukov and his murdering henchman to reunite with Lenin, Stalin, and, certainly, Beria, south of the last terrestrial border. Since Iakov was second only to Putin in assuring the Cheka’s continuing ascension in post-Soviet Russia, Aleksei’s life expectancy would be measured in minutes the day the organization found out he was anywhere near the airport that night. I will never breathe a word, not even to her. She recognized that, and the fact that she didn’t ask made me think we really did have a chance.

She said, “Did you really spend all that time moping? Over me?”

“Like I said, ask Foos. He got me the job I’m working on because he was tired of my hanging around bothering him.”

“I believe you. Mostly, I believed you last night and in the bathroom this morning. But don’t think I won’t ask. Just to be sure.”

“Good to be trusted. They teach you this in law school?”

“I learned trust in reform school, remember?”

I did. She’d done time in a juvenile detention center as a teenager when she stole her stepfather’s car—her escape after he tried to rape her.

“Speaking of law school, you going back to work?”

“Never fully left. Telecommuted part time.”

“How’d you explain so much time away?” It can’t have been that simple telecommuting to a U.S. attorney position.

“Told them I had some female medical issues to deal with. You work mainly with men, nobody wants to ask too many questions. Then my sister had them for real, so I was covered. I’m looking forward to the office. We’ve got a big case building, that’s the other reason I’m back.”

“Not just me?”

“Sorry, shug. I love you, I think, and I love my job. Don’t ask the order.”

I was willing to accept whatever order she stated. We held hands across the counter.

She said, “Do you know why I left?”

“You said you would. You gave me fair warning. That’s one reason I didn’t try to stop you.”

“I wouldn’t bring that up—not a point in your favor.”

Honesty’s not always the best policy, I guess. “You told me if I fooled around with the law, you’d stop fooling around with me—or words to that effect. Your job and career were too important, and I had to respect that. I heard you loud and clear. It’s just… Fate is hard to explain.”

“Don’t give me that fate bs. You’re pigheaded and there’s an adage about old pigs and new tricks. But that’s not the reason—or the whole reason.”

She was watching me, waiting for the answer she seemed certain I knew. Except I didn’t. I’d taken her threat—or promise—at face value. When she followed through I blamed only myself—and fate.

She watched and waited another few moments before she shook her head. “Men are just too obtuse for words. I was scared to death you were going to get hurt—or worse. I still am. That kind of fear was new to me. I couldn’t live with it. So I ran away. There—I’ve said it.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I stroked the back of her fingers.

“What changed?”

“I spent most of the last month thinking. Every day, by the pool at the Gage Hotel. I’d go out there to read, swim, sleep, but mostly I just thought things over. I figured out two things. I love my job and I love you, like I said. I couldn’t telecommute forever, so, if I stayed away, I’d be unemployed, lonely, and still in love. That prospect didn’t have a lot to recommend it. If I came back, I could get back to the office, see you, and work on trying to overcome the fear. I was hoping against hope that maybe you’d help. Then I saw your recent set of bruises. So much for that idea.”

“I told you, I didn’t go looking for them.”

“But they found you. They’re always going to find you. I’m still not a hundred percent sure I can deal with that, but I’m going to give it my best try.”

“I couldn’t be happier. I mean that. I’ll try too. But…”

“But what?”

“I’ve still got to finish this job Foos got me into. And the guy who gave me the bruises is still out there. I saw him last night, in Queens, just before I came home. He’s circling around the Leitz family—that’s Foos’s friend.”

“And you can’t leave it alone, of course.”

“I told Leitz I’d help. He’s got more problems than maybe he knows. I’d be leaving him hanging. Foos too. And there’s the not insubstantial matter of my fee.”

“I told you before, only two things men care about—sex and money. How much fee?”

“Million dollars.”

I thought I could surprise her, and I did. “A million dollars?! You’re kidding, right?”

“No joke. Plus use of a painting, four months a year. A Malevich.”

“Who’s Malevich?”

“You’re not going to like him. Russian. The guy who got those Marfa steel boxes and neon lights rolling—fifty years earlier.”

“You’re right about not liking him.”

“The painting in question cost Leitz eighty million.”

“This guy owns a painting worth eighty million dollars?”

“One of many.”

“Jesus. Who is he?”

“Financial rocket scientist. Hedge fund manager.”

“And why is he willing to pay you a million dollars?”

“To find the guys who are trying to derail a big deal he’s put together, or that’s what he thinks. It’s worth sixty or seventy billion. My fee gets lost in the rounding.”

“Sixty or seventy billion?! Wait a minute—is that the TV deal? It’s been all over the papers.”

“That’s right.

“Well dammit, shug, what are we doing sitting here? Let’s get working.”

“I thought sex and money only got men’s attention.”

“Us country girls have a deep-rooted respect for cash.”

“What about the trouble? Nosferatu might be downstairs now, for all I know.”

“The guy who beat you up?”

I nodded.

“For a million bucks, I’ll take the chance. But…”

“Having second thoughts?”

“Not on your life. Just you go down first.”

Nosferatu was nowhere to be seen, and we walked to the office hand in hand. A clear, cold day, with a whipping wind. Halfway there, Victoria shivered and I put my arm around her. She burrowed in close and stayed there until we reached the lobby.