David Duffy - Last to Fold

“Lachko, I could have called the cops. I still can.”

Silence. I thought I could hear the scratch of a lighter and the faint crackle of burning tobacco.

“I’m telling you one more time…”

“Don’t bother. I’ll tell Iakov help is on the way.”

My second call was to Bernie. I used my phone for that. He wouldn’t like it, but he was going to have to get his hands dirty. He was at the office.

“Mulholland sprung?” I asked.

“Million dollars bond.”

“He’s got more trouble.”

“I don’t need this, Turbo.”

“You don’t begin to know the truth of that. I’m with Eva. The least of her problems is she’s non compos —totally zonked on something. She can’t talk, but she can shoot, which she did, at me.”

“Christ! Are you all right?”

“Fine. The drugs didn’t help her aim.”

“Least of her problems?”

“Yeah. I’m not going to tell you about the worst. You won’t approve of how I’m handling them. I need someone to take Eva to a hospital—someone you can trust. She might have overdosed, and have her checked out thoroughly, including STDs.”

“STDs?”

“Sexually transmitted diseases.”

“Turbo!”

“She’s naked in a bachelor pad, Bernie. Just being prudent.”

Sharp intake. “You got any good news?”

“She’s alive. That’s not a universal truth here.”

That stopped him. “Turbo, have you called the police?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you intend to?”

“If anyone asks, Bernie, I called you about Eva, that’s all. How long do you need to get someone to SoHo?”

“Give me half an hour. I’ll set it up at NYU Hospital. Rory’s on the board. Where are you?”

I looked at my watch. “We’ll be at Grand and Mercer, southeast corner, at ten fifteen.”

“Turbo, I—”

“I’ll need to talk to Eva when she comes out of it. Before anyone else—including her parents. Got it?”

“Turbo, I can’t—”

“You have to. Unless you want Mulholland and his daughter to have adjoining cells.”

Silence. Then, “Okay.”

“Ten fifteen.”

Iakov hadn’t moved. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was slow and easy. The other doors in the hall opened to a bathroom and a den. A quick check found nothing of interest in either.

I knelt by Iakov and put my hand on his hair. His eyes opened, and he smiled.

“Lachko’s men should be here in fifteen minutes. They’ll get you to a hospital.”

“Are you…”

“It’ll be better if I’m not here. Lachko and I… Well, you know better than most. I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

I went to get Eva. “We’re going to get you some help, okay?”

I wasn’t expecting a reply, and I didn’t get one. It took a long five minutes to get her dressed. Iakov was nodding again when I took the messenger bag and put it by the front door. I went through the drawers in the kitchen until I found masking tape to hold the latch of the door and the front door downstairs. I spent five more minutes carefully removing all evidence of my presence from the loft.

Eva had little interest in walking, so I leaned her body against mine and held her upright with my right arm under hers. We’d gotten as far as the hall when I felt her stiffen suddenly and start to shake. Her eyes grew wide as she looked down at Iakov. Then she screamed—a long piercing wail. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO…”

I picked her up and carried her to the gold sofa in the living room. She stopped screaming, but her eyes stayed wide with terror.

“Eva!”

She didn’t move or speak.

“That’s your grandfather.”

No response. Eyes still wide. Terrified. I backed away. She didn’t move.

I returned to the hall. “What was that about?”

“No idea. My condition?”

This was no time to argue, but we both knew Eva’s scream wasn’t one of surprise. It was a wail of terror, deep-rooted terror. “She needs help,” I said.

He was trying to push himself up with his good arm. “Where’s the computer?”

“I’ve got it. Lie still, Iakov. Lachko won’t be long.”

“No! Leave it. It’s… mine.”

“It’s Rislyakov’s.”

“Goddammit, Turbo! This is Cheka business.”

I was halfway out the door. His eyes were wide open now, his injury all but forgotten. He looked as determined as I’d ever seen him.

“Cheka business?”

“You heard me. I want that computer.”

“I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

“Turbo…”

I left, before he could argue further, carrying Eva down the stairs and most of the way to Grand and Mercer, Iakov’s assertion, angry, defiant— This is Cheka business —filling my head. A Town Car idled at the corner. The window slid down, and young Malcolm Watkins peered out.

“Didn’t tell you about this in law school, did they?” I said.

“Not at Harvard. My father wanted me to go to Chicago.”

I made a mental note to tell Bernie the kid was okay. He helped me load Eva in the backseat and crawled in after her.

“She’s high on something. Not sure if she took it or it was slipped into her drink. She’s also terrified, but I have no idea of what. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

He nodded and spoke to the driver. The car pulled away. I gave a wide berth to Greene Street as I walked south out of SoHo and through what’s left of Little Italy and Chinatown back to the office.

Cheka business?

Foos was sipping Kalashnikov vodka and banging away at his keyboard. I picked up the bottle and examined the label, eyebrow raised.

“He’s entitled to make a buck,” Foos said.

I fetched a glass from the kitchen. General Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov invented the most successful weapon in the history of weaponry, the AK-47 rifle. More than a hundred million in circulation. Unfortunately, since he’d done it in service of the Soviet state, he hadn’t earned a kopek, and two Hero of Socialist Labor medals won’t get you on the Moscow Metro these days. So he was cashing in, any way he could, like everyone else in the great Russian rush to capitalism. As Foos said, who could blame him? I took a sip. The bottle had been out too long, so the vodka had lost its chill, but it still tasted good. I made a silent toast to the general while I took Ratko’s laptop from the messenger bag.

“I need to copy a hard drive. Pronto.”

“Everybody’s in a hurry. Let’s see.”

I handed it across. He opened the top, pushed the power button, and sipped his vodka.

“Problem,” he said.

“Encrypted?”

“Yep. Where’d you find it?”

“Belonged to Ratko Risly.”

“Belonged?”

“He doesn’t need it anymore.”

“Whose fault is that?”

I told him how I’d spent my evening.

“Who shot Risly?”

“No idea. Then again, I have no idea what the whole thing is about. I’m hoping something on the computer will tell me. I’m going to have to hand it over to one Barsukov or another, probably tomorrow.”

“Okay. We’ll try brute force. See how good the late Mr. Risly was. Once we get in, copying is no big deal.”

“Can you do it so no one knows? Ratko probably has some tech-savvy associates.”

“You’re talking to the maestro.”

“How about a keyboarding bug, one that can’t be found if someone looks?”

“No problemo.”

“I owe you.”

“You’re working on a lifetime tab.”

“In that case, the next bottle of Kalashnikov is on me.”

I put the Glock and the BlackBerry in the safe, next to the payoff money I’d forgotten to return to Bernie. I’d take care of that first thing tomorrow.

Or so I thought.