David Duffy - Last to Fold

He cut—still cuts? (in Ibansk one must always ask)—a wide swath, does/did young Rad Rislyakov, who goes by nom de guerre Ratko Risly these days, owing to his uncanny resemblance to Dustin Hoffman. He is also resident high-tech guru in the Badgers’ criminal empire. Tech-savvy denizens may remember the electronic heist of 100 million identity files from the American retailing giant T.J. Maxx. The U.S. Justice Department made a splashy indictment of the participants a few years later. But Ivanov is told they didn’t get the mastermind—or half the take. Ratko Risly made his Badger bones on that scheme.

I remembered that scheme. It had been the first really big heist of identity information—the one that put large-scale ID theft on the map. At least forty million accounts, maybe as many as a hundred million, as Ivanov claimed. Front-page news at the time. Front-page news again a few years later when one of the hackers heisted another hundred million credit card numbers, demonstrating the old fool-me-once/fool-me-twice adage was as apt as ever. Foos was bemused by the brazenness—the hackers literally reeled in their prey with a laptop and some wireless equipment readily purchasable on the Internet, sitting in a car in a strip mall parking lot. He was more appalled by the near total lack of security on the part of major retailing chains. Most of all, he wondered what the thieves planned to do with all those names and numbers.

It appeared Rad Rislyakov—Ratko Risly—was a big-time player, which didn’t mesh on any of a number of levels with the lowlifes supposedly working for him, and certainly not with the three Ukrainians I’d met last night in Jersey City.

Ivanov had more to add.

Ratko burns the candle at both ends—on three continents. For the last few months, he’s been seen in the company of an auburn-haired, blue-eyed creature, as gorgeous as any beauty in Ibansk—no exaggeration, Ivanov swears!—but then he and she dropped out of sight. Ivanov is doubly curious because heretofore Ratko has been seen mainly in the company of pretty young men. A foot in each camp, perhaps.

Did the Badger Brothers rein in their wayward genius, fearing he could flame out? Ivanov hears he’s been busy building a new profit center for the Barsukov empire—a high-tech, hush-hush money laundry capable of making billions vanish into the international ether. Perhaps he was attracting the wrong kind of attention to his own exploits. Many avenues for Ivanov to explore. Stay tuned!

Could there be two Rad Rislyakovs? Unlikely. The photo in my pocket of Eva Mulholland—an “auburn-haired, blue-eyed beauty” if there ever was one—made it more so. But if Ratko was such a big-shot, globe-trotting, jet-setting, high-tech crook, why was he pretending to screw around with penny-ante kidnapping?

One more manifestation of Fucktown?

One way to find out—ask.

It was still early, but Chelsea bustles at all hours, especially along Sixth Avenue, where the big discount emporia have reclaimed the elegant limestone buildings constructed originally as department stores for the carriage trade. Times change. In New York, commerce adapts and carries on. Yet Mother Nature can work her will, even in the concrete jungle, and this morning, the heat sucked life from the street. A cab dropped me outside Rislyakov’s luxury loft conversion. (New York is still waiting for its first nonluxury conversion.)

The lobby was all blond wood and stainless steel. A uniformed doorman, Hispanic, early thirties, sat behind a circular counter. I told him who I was there to see.

He shook his head. “Not home.”

“When was the last time he was home?”

“Can’t say. We’re not allowed—”

I slid a Department of Homeland Security ID card across the blond wood. A forgery, a good one, a gift from a Russian FSB officer for whom I did a favor. The man looked down at the card and up at me.

“You’ll be helping your country. Rislyakov runs with a suspicious crowd, Middle East connections, if you know what I mean.”

“I had no idea. He’s… He’s always been polite to me.”

“Of course he has. No way you could know. When did you last see him?”

The man thought for a moment. “Couple months, now that I think about it. He didn’t say anything about going away. But that’s not unusual.”

“Anyone else asking for him?”

He hesitated. I tapped the card on the counter. “Couple of guys—foreign guys, Russian maybe, I’m not sure. Big men, thick accents. They come by every few days. Gave me… They wanted me to call them when Mr. Rislyakov returns. I wouldn’t, of course.”

“Of course. You have the key to the apartment?”

“I can’t—”

“You heard of the Patriot Act?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gives us the power to prosecute people who prevent us from stopping a terrorist incident before it occurs.”

“Hey! I never—”

“Of course you didn’t. Key?”

He opened a drawer and handed across a ring. “You want 7B. Left off the elevator.”

“Thanks.” I put a fifty on the counter.

“That’s not necessary, sir. I didn’t realize… I’m glad to help.”

“Don’t worry. The Patriot Act created a special fund for situations like this. Consider it a thank-you from a grateful government.”

I headed for the elevator before he could think too much. One reason I chose to live in America is that I agree with Churchill. Democracy is the worst form of government yet invented—except for all the others that have been tried. Proof point—the Patriot Act is exactly the kind of law that could’ve been enacted by the Communist Party Central Committee. I assuaged the mild guilt I felt over the Homeland Security ruse with the argument that it was a lot less harmful than the fear I’d instilled in Jersey City last night.

The elevator opened onto a small hallway with five doors. I rang the bell for 7B and waited. Nothing. I rang again. No sound from within. I unlocked the door and entered.

The air was hot, still, and stale. No one had been here in weeks, if not months, as the doorman said. A large, open, modern space that resembled the lobby in its use of wood and steel. A lot of Sheetrock painted white, big windows out to Sixth Avenue. Double glass muffled the noise from the street.

The space was neat and clean. No clutter. I spent a short hour going through it. At the end, I had a portrait of a young man with expensive taste in design, clothes, furniture, toiletries, and sex toys, but not much else. A lot of things were missing—a computer, for one, for a reputed geek, but maybe he had a laptop he took with him. Also photographs, mementos, notes, files—all the things that accumulate in life, even a young one. Remove the clothes and toiletries and it was as if no one lived here; the apartment could have been a sale model. Nothing here for me. On the way out, I noted a stack of books next to an easy chair. Ross Macdonald and Graham Greene, Travels with My Aunt on top. At least Ratko had good taste in writers.

I went back to the lobby and gave the keys to the doorman. His eyes traveled to two large men sitting on black leather chairs. They were as broad and coarse as the decor was sleek and trendy. Pasty faces, cheap suits, unfriendly eyes. One of them stood and came toward me.

“Dobrya utro,” I said. “Good morning.”

“Yeb vas,” he replied. “Fuck off.”

“Thought so.”

“Thought what, asshole?”

“ Urki muscle. You work for Lachko?”

“Don’t fuck with us.”

“Fine. See ya.”

As I turned I started a count in my head. I got to eight.

“Wait.” He wasn’t quick, but the dimwit’s brain was starting to function. “What do you want here?”