David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“I never should have started.”

“I’m still listening.”

“You’re enjoying yourself way too much is what you’re doing.”

“I’m ready to help.”

She took a sip of wine. “I may have to switch to that kerosene you drink, just to get through this. So… we follow the money trails, and they all lead to a big payment processing firm here—in Queens—ConnectPay. We think it’s the one moving the money overseas. Firms like that, they operate under the radar. They can act like banks—take in money, move it around—but they’re not banks so they’re not subject to the same regulations, especially reporting regulations. This one only exists online. We go to the address in Queens—it’s not there. I mean, the building is, but not ConnectPay. We go looking for the guy who runs it—Franklin Druce is his name, with some partners who are partnerships owned by partnerships who take you on a tour of the entire Caribbean before they send you to Eastern Europe. The real bitch is, we can’t find a damned thing on this guy, Druce. Someone running a business like that, there should be something. Maybe not a criminal record, but an arrest record, some mention in the file, something. He’s not even in the goddamned phone book. That’s why I need the Basilisk.”

“The other day at the office, when I said Walter Coryell could have another identity, Mr. Hyde with plastic, you said, ‘We never thought of that.’ You were talking about Druce, right?”

“Right.”

“What’s the address in Queens?”

“Twenty-second street, number forty twenty-eight.”

“You’ve got a man watching the place.”

Another flash. “I give up. How…”

“I saw him. Last Friday night, right before I came home. The same night I saw Nosferatu there. It’s Walter Coryell’s address too, Leitz’s brother-in-law. We may be able to help each other out. But, since you said you’re willing to pay, there is a price.”

“Somehow I knew there would be. What price?”

“What do you know about Efim Konychev, like how come Homeland Security suddenly let him into the country?”

I could feel her tense up beside me. “Where do you get all these questions?”

“DoJ and State kept him out because he’s an organized crime figure. Homeland Security overruled. What happened?”

“How do you…?” One more flash of anger.

“Spies have lots of sources.”

“Don’t try to be funny. This is important. What source?”

“Very high placed…”

“If you…”

She was getting ready to belt me.

“Okay, okay. Russian blog. Ibansk.com.”

“ Blog?! ”

“That’s right. Written by a guy known as Ivanov. Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov. Everyman. He does have highly placed sources—the best in Russia. Ibansk means ‘Fucktown,’ by the way.”

“Nice.”

“Apt. So what happened, with Homeland Security?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I thought you were looking for help.”

“I am. I want to see this blog. I need to know what it says—exactly.”

“Sure. But it’s in Russian.”

“You can translate.”

“Maybe—if you ask with appropriate affection, deference and respect.”

“Okay. You’re right.” She took my hand. “You either translate this Ivanhoe…”

“Ivanov.”

“Or one of us is sleeping on the couch.”

After dinner, Victoria pronouncing the pork a success, I got the computer and logged on to Ibansk.com. Ivanov had a new posting on Konychev. I skimmed it quickly.

“Seems Konychev’s still in New York.”

“What?!”

I translated.

The world is a big place, but perhaps not if one travels in the seemingly small circles of the Ibanskian oligarchy.

Exhibit A—Efim Konychev and Taras Batkin, brothers-in-law, sometime partners, mortal enemies, personal proponents of Ibanskian revenge, especially on each other, faced off this week, everything but guns drawn, across the floor of a Manhattan café.

Ivanov will set the table. Maison sur Madison was the venue—a New York see-and-be-scene known for elegant if tasteless meals, left mostly uneaten by emaciated models and their testosterone-laden pea cock patrons. Did Ivanov mention stratospheric prices? They go without saying. Little surprise then that it appeals to a clientele from all corners of the Ibanskian empire who share great wealth and minimal taste. “Eurotrash” is the American term of art, and as much as Ivanov hates to admit defeat when it comes to a matter of words, he can’t come up with a topper.

“He’s got style,” Victoria said.

“Zinoviev’s turning in his grave.”

“Who’s Zinoviev?”

“Russian novelist. Inventor of the original Ibansk.” I went back to reading.

Everyone knows the bad-blooded background between Konychev and Batkin. The Kremlin-enforced partnership. Konychev’s failed attempts to torpedo his sister’s romance and marriage. Attempted assassination. Assassination tried the other way. Yet here they were, two old comrades seeking overpriced sustenance. And certainly unwilling to remain in the other’s company.

Konychev’s party was seated when Batkin and his entourage arrived. Words were exchanged. Hands reached under overcoats. The owner intervened, at risk of his own scalp, and convinced Batkin and Co. to take their leave. A bad day for him—he’ll never see Batkin or his kopeks again.

Lunch was served—Konychev and Co. dined on sautéed scaloppini, risotto Milanese, and roasted artichokes. Most un-Ibanskian fare. Washed down by Mouton-Rothschild ’82. Total tab? A very Ibanskian $5,100.

“Christ! What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Victoria muttered at the sink.

“You talking to yourself?”

“Just wondering if all you Russians are ignorant peasants. Artichokes are an absolute Cabernet killer. They didn’t taste a drop of that wine, and it probably cost them most of that fifty-one hundred dollars.”

I had a feeling she was talking about more than the menu, but I said, “I’ll be sure to tell Konychev next time I see him. One more paragraph.”

Ivanov can add a related tidbit. One person missing from Konychev’s party was the feared enforcer of the Baltic Enterprise Commission—a shadowy figure of unknown name and uncommon strength—who has been spotted in New York of late. Lunch might have been someone’s last supper had he decided to attend.

“That’s the guy who beat you up, right?”

“Right.”

“Read me the earlier article, the one about Konychev and Homeland Security.”

I scrolled back and read it aloud.

Her only comment was, “Shit.”

“Need any more translation services?”

“Who is this guy, Ivanov? Where does he get his information?”

“Nobody knows—on either score.”

“How widely followed is he?”

“Very.”

“Damn it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just about everything. I really need the Basilisk now. How ’bout it?”

“I’ll try but whether he agrees is anybody’s guess.”

“What time can we start?”

“You go running with me at six, we can stop at the office on the way back.”

“I’m not that desperate. Let’s say breakfast at eight.”

“Bayou Babe! Tiramisu?”

Pig Pen was on the case the moment we walked out of the server aisles.

“Get a wall clock, parrot,” Victoria said. “Nine thirty, breakfast, remember?”

I think he muttered, “Prospect Parkway—lane closed,” as he paced the floor of his office. He’d met his match in Victoria.

Foos came to his door to check the commotion. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”