David Duffy - In for a Ruble

My deliberations were punctuated with refills of my glass and checks of my watch and the hope that the next sound would be the chime of the elevator and the scrape of Victoria’s key in the lock. Beria shook his head.

No key by 9:30, and the Leitzes were growing foggy in a vodka haze, so I took myself and Lavrenty Pavlovich over to a brew pub at the Seaport that makes a passable burger and pretty good beer. Neither shed further light. When I got home, the apartment was still empty and I had the first unhappy premonition of what that emptiness could feel like if it lasted beyond the next day or two.

I went to the office early and worked the Basilisk. Irina had hit eight ATMs after she took off, withdrawing a thousand dollars from each as she made her way downtown. I’d spelled out the game plan for her, two nights ago in the car. The last withdrawal was on Canal Street—Chinatown. Not where I’d expect her to run. Unless…

In the last few years, low-priced bus service between New York and Boston has become a booming business. The Fung Wah Bus company was the pioneer, running hourly coaches from Chinatown to Chinatown. Irina wanted her car. That would give her freedom. I reached for the phone to call Gina and stopped. Too much time to get to Gibbet. There had to be a faster way.

Feeling a touch of the same satisfaction I used to get when I fed some Yasenevo desk jockey the kind of bullshit that would make his life miserable for a week or two, I called Philip Paine. Dragon Lady had been tamed, she put me straight through. He didn’t sound happy to hear from me.

“I need a favor, on behalf of Leitz and Batkin.”

“We’re not in a position to—”

“There’s a barn near your campus, on Martin Lane, right off Hayfields Drive. I want to know if there’s a car in it, a BMW Three Series with New York plates.”

“This is a very irregular request.”

“It’s important.”

“Do Ambassador Batkin and Dr. Leitz know you’re calling?”

His reliance on titles grated—if only because they slowed everything down. I ignored that and put down my bluff.

“Call them if you wish. I’ll hang on.”

An easy bet, and I won.

“What does this have to do with…”

I raised just to make sure. “It has to do with a group of students at your school who’ve been running a porn ring right under your nose. The Feds are aware of it, and I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t blow up in everybody’s face.”

A very long silence.

“ Pornography ?”

“ Child pornography. A crime—good tabloid copy too.”

“Oh, my God…”

“You’ll get someone to check the barn?”

“Please… Don’t do anything. I’ll call right back.”

The car was gone, as I suspected. Paine peppered me with panicked questions, which I evaded. He grew increasingly excited until I hung up. I felt more guilty pleasure—akin to what the Germans call schadenfreude, delight in someone else’s difficulties. Paine should have kept better tabs on his students. In loco parentis, as he said.

With the cash and her car, Irina was going to be tough to track. My one link was Andras. I called Leitz.

“I need to talk to your son.”

“Not a good idea.”

“I’m not concerned with good or bad. I need to talk to him.”

“He’s in a safe place. Like you suggested.”

“I’m not going to give him up. He’s in a world of trouble—of his own making. I’m his best chance to get out of it, maybe in one piece.”

“The answer is still no.”

“He may feel differently.”

“You’ve been paid. You’ve gone to extra trouble, I’m aware of that. Tell me what you consider fair compensation, and I’ll consider it.”

Did he think I was shaking him down? Or was he trying to buy me off?

“How do I get in touch with your pal Konychev?”

He paused. “Why?”

“It could help your son.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“You have investors you don’t know how to contact? I find that hard to believe.”

“I know where to find his lawyers. I only met the man once.”

I wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth, just being cagey, or outright lying. I didn’t have time to think about it.

“Talk to your brother recently?”

“Thomas? Why?”

“He had Nosferatu outside his apartment yesterday, he’s looking for your brother-in-law’s computers.”

“What would Thomas know about those?”

“He’s been blackmailing Coryell for the last four years.”

“WHAT? Thomas? Walter? Blackmail? What the hell are you talking about?”

“One of the things this is about. One of the reasons I need to talk to your son.”

“What blackmail?”

“I suspect it has to do with the death of your daughter.”

A long silence. Then a whisper. “Daria?”

“That’s right.”

Another silence. “Your services are finished. Don’t call again.”

I started to respond. But I was talking to a dead line.

I’d told Leitz to take it away, but I asked the Basilisk if Andras was using his cell phone.

No deal, it responded.

Okay, what’s Sebastian Leitz been up to?

Ah-ha, the beast said, you’re not as dumb as you look.

But Leitz was. For a supposed genius, he was rock-fucking stupid. He’d used his American Express black card to guarantee a suite at the Regency for a guest named Robert Klein.

I left a note for Foos to be on call before I caught the subway uptown. I spent most of the train ride cursing Leitz. Not just for his overprotective stubbornness, but his idiocy. The Regency was a well-known luxury hotel and exactly the kind of place a rich Wall Streeter would park his son. Worse, at Park and East Sixty-first, it was right around the corner from his mansion. Leitz probably figured—again foolishly—he could look in on the kid on his way to and from power breakfasts with his Wall Street advisers over fifty-dollar eggs in the Regency restaurant.

I called “Robert Klein” from the lobby. He shouldn’t have answered but he did.

“It’s Turbo—your chauffeur, remember? We need to talk, about Irina. I’m downstairs.”

“What about Irina?”

“She’s gone. On the run. What room?”

“My dad said…”

“I know what he said. I told him to say it. Things have changed.”

Silence.

“She’s in trouble Andras. Big trouble. You can help her. You may be the only one who can. I’m Foos’s friend, remember? Call him if you want.”

More silence.

Then, “Room eight-oh-one.”

He answered the door wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. He was tall in a way that I hadn’t noticed over the weekend, in my haste to get out of Gibbet. Almost six one, with blue eyes and a soft-featured baby face. His hair was curly, like his father’s, more brown than red, and cut neatly around his head. His eyes looked past me and darted up and down the hall, before he stood aside. I wasn’t sure who he was looking for, but I would have bet his bank account on his old man. We shook hands. His grip was firm enough, but uncertain, quick to let go.

A suite at the Regency was not the way I’d treat my son if I’d just found out he’d been running a porn ring, but Aleksei would say I had my own fatherly shortcomings. The living room reflected someone’s idea of what wealth should look like. Expensive wallpaper, striped fabrics, chintz pillows, solid, anonymous furniture. Three doors leading elsewhere, two bedrooms and a bathroom, I guessed. The kid standing in the middle of it looked out of place.

“Thanks for letting me come up,” I said, starting easy. “How’re you doing?”