David Duffy - In for a Ruble

When I finished, Batkin shook his head, his back to me still, and said, “She’s always been a troubled child. I blame her father.”

He would. “Why do you say that?” I asked, mainly to keep the conversation moving.

“Alexander Petrovich was the antithesis of a family man. He never should have married. He treated Alyona like a doormat, running around on her with a new woman every week. He didn’t care if she found out, he didn’t give a damn how much he hurt her. It was even worse for Irina. He ignored her, as if she was someone else’s child. When she tried to get his attention, he threatened Alyona, screaming at her to get the girl away from him before he beat her.”

Again, he was using the past tense. He could have been referring to the marriage. He could have been talking about the late Alexander Lishin. He could have played a role in his death. He could have read Ibansk, as I had last night. I kept silent.

He took a swallow of brandy. I sipped while I waited. Wherever it was from—Cognac, Armagnac, somewhere else—it was a far cry from Marianna’s Presidente. He swallowed some more and put the glass on the mantel.

“Who has the group’s computers?”

Time to evade, if not outright lie. “I assume they’re still in the building in Crestview.”

“Address.”

A command, not a question. I shrugged, only a little uncomfortable at pointing out the viral nature of the Internet to a man who’d built a business based on it.

“Any number of clients have downloaded any number of pictures and videos. I haven’t searched the Web, but…”

His hand cut me off, the voice testy. “Yes, I know all that. I want the address.”

“Main Street, above the liquor store. Fire escape is the best way in,” I added helpfully.

“Who else was involved in these… Players?”

I shook my head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You asked me to find out what she was up to. That was the deal. No reason to drag anyone else into it.”

“They’re already in.”

“They’re kids. Fucked-up kids, but kids. They have parents and stepparents too.”

He nodded slowly. He didn’t like my answer but he wasn’t going to budge me off it.

“Who was behind the attack this morning?” I asked, only partially to change the subject.

Batkin watched me carefully. The eyes were still clear—they showed no fear, nor effects of the brandy.

“The obvious candidate is Konychev. But as much as I hate him, I have a hard time believing he would be that stupid. Even if he had been successful… he knows the price as well as I do.”

“Revenge for Tverskaya?”

“I had nothing to do with that!” He spoke too quickly and realized it. “It’s also not his style.”

“If you say so.”

“How much do you know about my esteemed friend, Efim Ilyich?” Batkin asked.

“What I read on Ibansk.com. You and he don’t get along.”

“Don’t put too much faith in that son of a Cossack whore. Ivanov makes up half of what he writes. One day he’ll pay for the lies he tells.”

Usual Cheka knee-jerk response. He managed to get deep under the organization’s skin. One reason I did have faith in Ibansk.

“So you and Konychev are actually pals?” I said, perhaps more provocatively than I meant.

“I loathe the stinking pedik . But we made a deal. Neither of us wanted to make it—we both would have preferred to finish the other off. However, we had… encouragement. The kind only a complete fool would disregard. I’ve upheld my end. But now… Enough of that. Find Irina.”

I had to find her anyway, but I wanted out from under any obligation, if only to straighten things out with Victoria. Besides, I’d done what he asked.

I said, “That’s not part of our deal. I’ve done what we agreed on.”

He picked up his glass and returned to his chair. He sipped slowly, looked at me for what must have been two or three minutes before he said, “I have the information you want.”

I sat back, stunned by the claim, but also by how he, or anyone, could have discovered anything this fast. I’d heard nothing from Sasha.

“How?”

“Your man was slow. He was also… diverted. While he was down a blind alley, I had my own people searching. Some things aren’t that hard to locate if you know where to look.”

“And?”

“Find Irina.”

“We had an agreement.”

“I’m making a new deal.”

I shook my head. “Why should I go along with that?”

“Because you will recognize that you have no choice.”

What I recognized was the nasty feeling I get when I’ve stayed in a card game too long, miscalculating my opponent’s hand, and was about to pay for my mistake. I took a sip of brandy and played for time.

“I don’t follow,” I said.

“I think you do. Find Irina, and I give you the results of my search. Walk away and I give them to your son. I’m sure he will be most interested to learn of his ancestry.”

How the hell did he know my every fear and insecurity? Beria appeared by the fireplace, fingering the king of spades, his message all too clear.

Never underestimate the Cheka.

Perhaps I had been living away from home too long. Batkin was watching me across the top of his glass, enjoying himself in some perverse way, if that was possible on such a morning.

“Only Irina?” I said.

“I don’t need help with Konychev, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What about Karp?”

“If I were in your shoes, I’d kill him before he killed me.”

I stepped into the street, not sure what to think. The refection of sun on still-clean snow blinded. In Moscow, a layer of black soot would already be settling. The snow here would get dirty soon enough, but for now it was bright white everywhere.

I walked east toward the subway, squinting. I’d spent another half hour probing Batkin about the BEC and the extent of his knowledge about its demise. No question he was one tough SOB—as well as an unreliable witness and an accomplished liar. He was a Chekist after all. On balance, however, I was inclined to believe him. At least until I checked out his account.

He confirmed the essential facts about the Baltic Enterprise Commission and the split between its leaders. Konychev, the media mogul, and Lishin, the technology expert, had built the business. Web hosting for spammers to start, in the Internet’s early days. They’d been successful—so successful they attracted the Kremlin’s attention. An enterprise with mastery of this mysterious new medium—ultra-mysterious to the dinosaurs who rarely ventured outside the fortress walls—was frightening. They injected Batkin into the partnership, ordered him to get his arms around the BEC and its activities and report back. He did that. He also recognized that Konychev and Lishin had only begun to tap their creation’s potential. For three men, each of whom wanted the other two dead, they made a toxic and formidable team. The business grew and expanded and spun Internet gold. Batkin kept his Kremlin bosses far enough at bay that the partners were allowed to enjoy the fruits of their labors.

The trouble started over the summer. Long-simmering animosities bubbled to the surface, and disagreements over business issues turned up the heat. Then the technical problems hit. Annoyances at first, just as Foos had described. Minor hackings, data corruption, cyber-vandalism. Things like that had happened once or twice before, not often, but they had a big Internet footprint, they would be a target for any fool who wanted to boast about hacking the BEC. The partners were concerned, but not overly so—until three mil vanished in August. That got their attention. Their technical people worked the data. Karp flew to New York.