David Duffy - Last to Fold

“I’m told you’ve been asking after an associate of mine,” he said.

“If I’d known he worked for you, I would have come here first,” I lied again.

He appeared to consider that, weighing its truthfulness, deciding whether he cared. “What do you want with him?”

There was a question requiring a delicate answer. What did he know? It rarely paid to underestimate Lachko.

“He kidnapped a young woman. Or he and the young woman pretended she was kidnapped. I was hired to deal with the problem.”

“Kidnapping? Ratko? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Why would I make up such a stupid story?”

“Who’s the girl?”

“Not your concern.”

Mistake, I knew it as I said it. The fist came down on the table, and the crystal bowl jumped. Cashews spilled over the top. He still had strength.

“I decide what concerns me, Electrifikady Turbanevich. Look around you. Have no doubt, I alone decide. You concern me now, you and this bullshit kidnapping. Who hired you?”

I was treading on cracking ice around a gaping hole. “A rich American. I didn’t know it had anything to do with Ratko until his associates told me last night. He hires stupid people.”

“How much was he after?”

“Hundred grand.”

That came as a surprise. The storm-cloud eyebrows wobbled slightly. He reached for some more cashews.

“Who are these associates?”

“Three Ukrainians.”

“Names?”

“They don’t matter.”

Another mistake. The thunderclouds shook until he brought his anger under control. “You understand as well as I, it will be easier for everyone, including these stupid Ukrainians, if you tell me who they are. If I have to find out myself…”

Sergei grinned and flexed his fist. I did understand. This was the way the Cheka worked. Pressure, squeeze, exploit. The only modus he knew. Here he was a criminal, but he was a Chekist at heart, and I was on his turf. His rules ruled, and I wouldn’t do Marko and Company any favors by bucking them. I told him their names. The thunderclouds twitched and Sergei took out his cell phone. The Ukrainians would soon be receiving visitors.

“You’re not drinking, Turbo. How’s Aleksei?”

“Why?”

“You show such an interest in my affairs after all these years, I thought I should return the favor. Still working for those shit-sucking faggots at the CPS?”

Not sure where he was going, or whether he was just needling me, I stayed silent.

“He and some other pea-brained bunglers have been sniffing around Rislyakov, too. I was curious if there’s a connection. Perhaps you’re trying to help out.”

“I haven’t talked to my son in years, Lachko.”

“You blame me, of course.”

“I didn’t say that. How’s Iakov?”

He didn’t answer, just glowered.

“Ivanov says his bronchitis—”

“Ivanov. Hah!” He practically spat the words. “We should have shot that bastard Zinoviev when we had the chance. Filthy liar.”

This time he did spit.

“This new bastard’s no better, maybe worse. Ibansk-dot-com! Thinks he’s funny. He’s arrogant, they all are. He’ll make a mistake and the Cheka’s axe will chop his balls into farina. I hope I live to see it.”

He spat again and lighted another papirosa . The air-conditioning was working fine, but the room smelled like damp cardboard.

Sergei closed his cell phone as he returned to his boss’s side. Lachko nodded, and he went to the desk and brought me a thick manila envelope.

“Like your son, you’re sticking that ugly nose up a lot of assholes that aren’t yours,” Lachko said. “Open it. It’s what you’ve been looking for.”

I undid the clasp and looked inside, but I already knew what I’d find. Lachko wheezed again, or maybe it was a laugh. “You thought you were so smart, you and your little faggot helper, snooping. You thought you could fool the Cheka. Hah! Sasha’s in a cell, Turbo, and it’s your fault. There’ll be an interrogation, and he’ll confess. They always do, as you know. What happens next is up to you.”

I lunged toward Lachko. Strong arms wrapped around me from behind. I could feel Sergei’s breath on my neck. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe.

“Sasha didn’t do…” Sergei squeezed. I couldn’t finish.

“What? Sasha didn’t what?” Lachko said, smiling. He was enjoying himself.

Sergei loosed his grip—a little. “He didn’t do anything. You know that. He was helping me with information about my family.”

“Selling state secrets, Turbo. That’s twenty years.”

“State secrets? My mother’s—”

“Gulag secrets are Cheka secrets, Turbo. You, of all people, should know that. You’re not the only one, by the way, he was assisting. He had a long list of clients, I’m told. Maybe enough to hang for.”

Sergei tightened his hold. My chest ached.

“What do you want with Rislyakov?” Lachko said.

“Kid… nap. I told you the truth.”

“You haven’t become any more cooperative with age, Electrifikady Turbanevich.”

“Tell Sergei he can let go,” I managed to hiss. “I’ll stay right here. I’d like some vodka.”

Lachko nodded, and the arms released me. He pulled himself upright on the daybed.

“Do you know why you’re still alive, Turbo?”

There was no good answer to that.

“What my father saw in you, I’ll never fucking understand. Once a shitty little zek, always a shitty zek. You had no place in the Cheka, you have no place in the world. No one wants to know you, not when they discover that’s what you really are. Polina fucked half the officers at Yasenevo when she found out. She even fucked me. You didn’t have the balls to tell her yourself.”

I threw my glass, but missed, before Sergei’s arms clamped on again. Shame and hatred filled my veins—shame for myself, hatred for him, more hatred for myself and where I came from. I pulled against Sergei, but he held on. The rage passed, but the humiliation remained, as it always does, razor wire wrapped tight around the soul. For the millionth time, I told myself to ignore it, it meant nothing. For the millionth time, I had no chance.

Lachko didn’t budge, the cold gray eyes staring at me, filled with loathing, waiting. “You haven’t had the balls to tell your own son either, have you, zek coward?” he said.

The rage came roaring back. I couldn’t have responded if I wanted to.

“Maybe I’ll take care of that, too. If I don’t have him killed first. Like you, he’s getting too close to things that don’t concern him.”

I lunged again—or tried. Sergei squeezed. My ribs felt like they were cracking.

Lachko said, “I will happily drink vodka while I rip your dead eyes from their sockets with the strength I have left. Here’s a deal, your lifeline, more than you deserve. Stay away from Rislyakov. And tell that mouse-eyed son of yours to do the same. That goes for the other leprous whores at CPS, too. He’s none of their fucking business. He’s no longer any of yours.”

“I just told you—we haven’t spoken since Aleksei was two.” My voice came out as a wheeze almost as weak as his.

“BULLSHIT!” The fist landed on the table again, and the cashews danced across the glass. “Russian sons obey their fathers, even when the fathers are pathetic, pointless piss-colored zeks . If either of you try to do something stupid, it will be the last mistake both of you make. And your faggot friend might just rot in his cell forever. Now get out.”

Sergei shoved me back down the long hall. He didn’t need to push—I went willingly.

I spent the first half of the ride back to Manhattan thinking about how easily Lachko could inflict pain and self-loathing, not just with his threats toward Sasha and Aleksei, but with his bigoted reminders of my background. He struck every chance he got. The fact that he’d been committing crimes against the state, the Party, and the Cheka, to which we’d all sworn oaths, was irrelevant. I’d undermined his rise to the top, and he was going to spend the rest of his life getting even. Polina was one way. Another was my past. Once I let him see how much he could hurt, he attacked with relish.