David Duffy - Last to Fold

No reason not to be polite. “Please. Have a seat. Are you working with Victoria?”

“We’re collaborating, yes.”

“You’re in law enforcement?”

“In a manner of speaking. I will apologize in advance and tell you that I am necessarily sparing with the facts of my professional pursuits. Even my real name, well… Life is extremely inexpensive in Russia these days, as I’m sure you are aware, especially for people in my line of work. I came from Moscow to see Victoria—and Rislyakov. He was supposed to meet me earlier today, but he didn’t show up. That’s one reason I asked if you’ve seen him.”

The formality of his tone and language seemed out of place for a man of his age in this day and time. He carried it off without affectation.

“I understand,” I said, “but I like to know who—and what—I’m dealing with. Your reticence could make it difficult to find a basis for discussion. You with the FSB?”

“Certainly not!” His tone indicated I’d succeeded in insulting him.

“CPS?”

“As I just said…”

“You working for yourself or the government?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t see how I can help you.”

“I believe if we continue our conversation, we will find we have interests in common.”

He had a card he wasn’t ready to play. “What do we have to discuss?”

“Rad Rislyakov.”

“We’ve just exhausted that.”

“I’m not so sure. Rislyakov works for the Barsukovs. You’ve seen two Barsukovs in two days.”

How long had he been following me? Why was Rislyakov so important to him?

He read my thoughts. “I was coming to see you earlier today. I saw you leave. You seemed to have a purpose. I decided to tag along.”

“My destination surprise you?”

“Not necessarily. You were in Brighton Beach yesterday.”

“Victoria told you about my visit?”

“You were spotted there, as you know.”

“So?”

“The Cheka sticks together. You were a colonel in the KGB.”

He’d also been checking up. “That ceased to be a state secret years ago.”

“The Cheka has a long reach.”

“Suppose I told you I haven’t set foot in Lubyanka or Yasenevo in more than fifteen years.”

He considered that. “Yasenevo—First Chief Directorate?”

“That’s right.”

He adjusted his eye patch and backed down a little. “I apologize if I’m touchy on the subject. My run-ins with your former colleagues have not always ended well.”

“My own run-ins have not always gone smoothly either. The wounds just aren’t as readily apparent. Consider me an ex-Chekist.”

“Putin says there’s no such thing.”

“Maybe I’m the exception that proves Comrade Putin’s rule.”

He sat for a moment, watching me with his one eye. He possessed remarkable presence for someone his age.

“Excuse me for pressing the question, but what kind of dealings does a self-proclaimed ex-Chekist have with the Barsukovs?”

“Old friends.” I shrugged.

“What do your old friends have to do with Rad Rislyakov?”

“You’ll have to ask them.”

“That is hardly likely, as you know.”

I shrugged again.

“What were you doing with Iakov just now?”

“Visiting an old friend.”

“How did you know he was in the hospital? You say you’ve been out of touch. My understanding is he only just arrived in New York.”

I couldn’t see what cards he held, but the ones he was playing indicated a strong hand. Good time to get out of the game. I stood and stretched. “I’m afraid this conversation is too one-sided. Good luck in your inquiries—whatever they are.”

“Victoria said you can be less than forthcoming. However, she’s not as well informed as I am, at least not yet. For example, I happen to know you spent more than an hour last night at 32 Greene Street, in apartment 6A, which is registered to a certain Alexander Goncharov. Witty fellow. When you left said apartment, you taped the door open. You were accompanied by a young woman who’s been seen quite often in the company of Rad Rislyakov. The woman appeared the worse for wear, and you had to hold her up. Not long after, Lachko Barsukov arrived with a small army in tow. Iakov appeared injured when they brought him out, and this morning I learn he was admitted to the hospital with a bullet wound. Superficial, too bad. He’s one ex-Chekist the world could do without.”

His voice took on a bitter edge, but I hardly noticed. My mind was racing. He hadn’t followed me to Greene Street, I was certain of that, and he purposely hadn’t told Victoria of my whereabouts. He was playing a solo hand.

“Barsukov’s men carried a rug out of the loft. Fat enough to have something wrapped inside—a body, for instance. All of this is made more interesting by your reluctance to tell Victoria where you were last night. Leads someone of a suspicious nature to conclude you have something to hide. I’m going to make the wild guess that this something involves Rad Rislyakov. Correct?”

“I thought you and Victoria were collaborating.”

“Ahhhh, you are wondering why I haven’t told her what I just told you. We are collaborating on some matters, that is true. I am pursuing others on my own. They are not her affair, nor that of the U.S. government. I thought perhaps my knowledge, which I came upon most serendipitously, I must tell you, might present something of a bargaining chip.”

“And you’re bargaining for?”

“Rislyakov.”

I shook my head.

“Was he in that loft?”

“I just told you, I never met him.”

“Was he there—dead or alive? Or was he there and you killed him?”

“Why would I do that?”

“The Barsukovs wanted him dead. Chekists—”

“Yeah, I know, we stick together. Even the devil’s not as black as he’s painted, Petrovin.” Time to play a chip of my own. “What are you after? The money laundry?”

“What do you know about that?” he snapped.

“More than I read on Ibansk-dot-com.”

He thought for a minute. “The laptop. When you left Greene Street last night, you had the girl in one arm and a laptop in the other. You had the laptop when you arrived at the hospital today. You don’t have it now. You just delivered it to Iakov.”

He was much too observant.

“As I said, I have yet to discuss your actions with Victoria, but I think she would find them most interesting. Unless… Tell me what happened last night at Greene Street.”

“Tell me your real name and who you work for.”

He shook his head. “I see no reason…”

Victoria’s threat, wrapped in bayou twang, to put me behind bars echoed in my ears. Petrovin had an even stronger hand than I thought—and he knew it—even if I couldn’t see right now how he’d acquired it. But he couldn’t play the cards without losing them. A good time for a little urki betting.

“Your threat lacks punch unless you are prepared to follow through on it, and if you do, I might suffer, but you don’t necessarily gain. We both want information. Neither of us is willing to divulge what we already know. We’re not going to get very far that way. So I’ll tell you this much. My interest in Rislyakov has nothing to do with the money laundry. However, I could be in a position to provide a great deal of information on the laundry—how it runs, possibly a record of every transaction it executes. If I’m at liberty to pursue my own inquiries.”

“You’re willing to share the results?”

“So long as there are no adverse consequences for me or my client.”

“Who is?”

I shook my head. “Not the Barsukovs.”

“You didn’t mention this to Victoria.”

“As you point out, you are much better informed.”