David Duffy - Last to Fold

The Chekist moved the indicator on the computer forward. He knew the exact spot.

Polina said, “Jesus Christ, Tolik, have you gone mad? They’ll kill us for this.”

“I didn’t plant the bombs, Polya. But we did provide the money. That’s why they burned the bank. To kill us, they have to find us. We’re leaving, within the hour. I can get us into Latvia, and from there—”

“Who’s that man—Leo?”

“Gorbenko. Boris Gorbenko. FSB colonel. Point man on the whole operation. He determined the targets, recruited the others, acquired the explosive, oversaw the whole thing. The money moved through him.”

“Jesus Christ, Tolik. He’s a mass murderer. What’s he doing here?”

“He’s had an epiphany, a little late in the game. He’s concluded that the people he did all this for—the real mass murderers—plan to kill him, too. He made a deal with the CPS, told them his story. They want him to bring me in, too.”

“And?”

“I told him no deal, of course. Our only choice is to run, disappear, buy new identities abroad and make sure the Cheka knows that we’ve hidden those CDs in a safe place.”

“Who else knows?”

“No one.”

“And Leo?”

“Forget him. He’s a dead man.”

“No way, Tolik. We don’t know him. He’s already double-crossed the Cheka. We’re nothing.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He could be listening right now.”

The whispers became inaudible, their intensity apparent, individual words impossible to make out. Except at the end. Polina, her anger rising, said, “God damn it, Tolik, if you won’t, I will. Come on.”

Nothing for a few minutes, then Polina’s voice with Gorbenko. They’d moved to the kitchen.

“Leo?” she said.

“What the…”

“Move, out the door.”

“Kosokov, what the fuck is this? I have no time for—”

The shotgun roar drowned the rest of the sentence.

Polina spoke again. “One barrel left. Move!”

The door creaked open and banged shut a few seconds later.

Silence on the tape.

It came back to life with a rumble. As the Chekist found out when he got there, they’d taken Gorbenko to the barn.

“Over there,” Polina said.

“What do you want?” Gorbenko said, his voice betraying panic.

“We’ll get to that. Open that trapdoor.”

A grunt as he pulled at the concrete slab covering the hatch in the back of the barn.

“Look, Kosokov, I can—”

The blast from the shotgun cut him off. The Chekist would see later she’d hit him square in the chest. The force knocked him through the opening and down the cement stairs to his grave.

Kosokov said, “Jesus Christ, Polya. You didn’t have to—”

“Where’s Eva?”

“But you just—”

“Where’s Eva, God damn it?”

“I don’t know. Around somewhere. She was playing with her doll an hour ago.”

“Find her. Finish getting ready. I have to go to our dacha. That’ll take an hour, it’s already snowing, but I have money there, and jewelry we can sell.”

“What about… What about him?”

“Leave him. He was the Cheka’s stooge, let them worry about it. And stop drinking. We’ve got a long night.”

The barn door rolled closed. Silence on the tape again until they were back in the house.

“I put Eva’s stuff in this bag,” Polina said. “She must be outside. I’ll leave it by the front door. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Kosokov belched. The Chekist stopped the tape. Timing, they say, is everything. His, that day, had been a little off. Today it was better.

I checked e-mail as soon as I got up. Foos’s message, timed at 3:42 A.M., said, “Risly was good, but not as good as he probably thought he was. I’m in. Gonna grab some shut-eye. I’ll have whatever there is to have in the morning.”

I called Brighton Beach. I didn’t worry about the hour.

“What the fuck do you want now?” Lachko said.

“How’s Iakov?”

“In the fucking hospital.”

“He’s alive.”

“I suppose you take credit for that.”

“He was lucky. Which hospital?”

“Why?”

“I want to visit.”

“Stay the fuck away, Turbo. We’ve had enough of you.”

“I’ve got Rislyakov’s computer.”

That stopped him. “What computer?”

“Laptop. He had it with him yesterday.” Iakov hadn’t said anything to Lachko about the computer.

“It belongs to me. I want it back.”

“That’s why I’m calling. As soon as I hear that Sasha is out of jail, all charges dropped, back at his job, you can have it.”

“Turbo, you dick-sucking son of—”

“That’s the deal. Tell Sasha to contact me in the usual way. I’ll call back when I hear from him. Which hospital?”

“Fuck your mother. Mount Sinai.”

“I’ll drop by later this morning.”

The line went dead. I wiped away the sweat on my forehead. The air-conditioning was working, but the temperature had risen ten degrees in two minutes.

He hadn’t asked about Eva. One more thing out of whack.

I ran three miles at a good clip, legs loose, body ready to do whatever I asked, despite the heat. I pumped iron for half an hour. When I got home at seven fifteen, a black Suburban with tinted windows was idling out of place in front of my building. Two men in suits got out. I recognized the big one—he’d been with the group that arrested Mulholland. He wasn’t quite as large as a refrigerator, but he had the same boxy build.

“Your name Vlost?” he said.

“Who wants to know?” I replied, smiling to signal I wasn’t being obstinate, just cautious.

Fridge pulled out a wallet and showed me an ID card that read FBI. “Special Agent Coyle. This is Agent Sawicki. Boss wants to talk to you.”

Sawicki grunted. I wondered if he knew I was Russian.

“This a social invitation or you guys strictly business?”

“It’ll be better for all concerned if you come along for a chat,” Coyle said.

Sawicki grunted again.

I pulled at my sweat-drenched T-shirt. “Can I shower first? Whoever your boss is probably doesn’t want to meet me like this.”

Sawicki grinned at that. Coyle hesitated.

“You can come upstairs if you like. I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’ll be in the car,” Coyle said. “Make it quick. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting—and she’s been waiting since last night.”

Sawicki grinned again. For whatever reason, Coyle was giving me a heads-up. I smiled. “Appreciate that. I’ll be right back. You guys want coffee, there’s a deli around the corner.”

He nodded. “Already found it.”

The three of us drove in silence to an office tower in St. Andrews Plaza, one of a hodgepodge of government, court, and police buildings between City Hall and Chinatown. The area teems from late morning to late afternoon, but at five after eight on another hot day, it was dead quiet. The Suburban’s air ran full blast the whole way and almost stopped my sweating by the time we arrived.

A brief walk through the heat, a longer wait to be metal detected, and a still longer ride in a slow government-service elevator. The sign on the glass door read UNITED STATES ATTORNEY, SOUTHERN DISTRICT–NEW YORK. No receptionist at the desk. Coyle left me with Sawicki and went down a hall. A few minutes later, he took me down the same hall to the end. Empty outer office. In the room behind, a raven-haired woman stood at the window, her back toward me. She turned as Coyle left, closing the door.