David Duffy - Last to Fold

“Eva—”

She bolted, straight out the front door. By the time I got to the street, she was half a block away, up Park Avenue, running fast. I let her go. I wasn’t going to catch her, and I’d lost her even if I did. But what was she running from, other than her entire family?

Three people could possibly shed light on that. Two of them hated my guts. A phone call confirmed Iakov was still at Mount Sinai. I caught a cab uptown.

Another call. Gina said, “You have no idea how much you owe me.”

“He wasn’t your type anyway.”

“What? How the hell do you know?”

“If he was, he’d go to Stamford, pick you up.”

“New Haven, God damn it! Like you said. I follow Stripy back to the station, she gets on a train, joins up with the other chicks, now we’re all in fucking New Haven. Same thing there. The group split up, I stick with Stripes. We’re at our fifth ATM now.”

“Stay on her. She’ll head back to New York soon.”

“That a promise?”

“Trust me.”

Gina was still cursing as the cab pulled up at the Madison Avenue entrance to Mount Sinai. I paid the driver. Lachko’s men tried to block Iakov’s door, but I pushed through. He was awake, sitting up in bed, reading the Economist, looking much the same as yesterday.

“Why didn’t they release you?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning, they say now. Don’t ask why, no good answer. One more night. I hate this fucking city.”

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Ready to get out of here.”

“Tell me straight this time, what were you doing at Greene Street?”

He closed the magazine and put it on the bed beside him as he looked me up and down. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Not by choice.” I took a shot. I might lose a chess piece, but I’d gain information whether I was right or wrong. “You lied the other day. Rislyakov was helping you find Polina. But he crossed you. He found her, but he tried blackmailing her instead.”

“I don’t know anything about blackmail.”

“He gambled. He needed money.”

“I had the sense he was up to something. He flew back here before I could get to him, so I came over.”

“But you didn’t kill him?”

“What I told you Thursday was true. Someone shot both of us. Could have been you.”

I ignored that. He was playing his own chess game. “So what business does the Cheka possibly have with Polina?”

He smiled. “Where is she?”

“You first.”

He gave me a look I hadn’t seen in twenty years. The same look I got the day he called me in after I’d reported that Lachko was stealing. “I don’t know where your loyalties lie anymore, Turbo.”

“I still owe you everything. That hasn’t changed.”

“What about the Cheka?”

“I was reminded just the other day, there are no ex-Chekists.”

“You prepared to trade?”

“I can’t give you Polina.”

“Why not?”

“I gave her husband my word. He’s my client.”

“Why do I care about him?”

“You don’t. I do.”

He shook his head.

“I’ll help you as much as I can, short of that,” I said.

His face softened—a little. He didn’t like it, but I held the stronger hand.

“Polina stole a great deal of money. Six hundred million dollars—1998 dollars. Must be over a billion now.”

“Stole? From the Cheka?”

“She and Kosokov. I told you they were lovers. They had a business, with Lachko. Real estate, buying and selling apartments. Kosokov was the financier. They made a lot of money, but it wasn’t enough for her—or him. They were made for each other. Two most venal people I ever met.”

I wondered where he’d put his own sons on the venality ladder. “You never stopped watching her, did you?”

He just looked up at me. During the Disintegration, he was the one who told me she was sleeping with my fellow officers at Yasenevo. I never asked how he found out. I didn’t need to.

“We used Kosokov’s bank. I couldn’t stand the bastard, but he had the Yeltsin connection, and in those days, that was useful. He almost went bust in ’98, or so we thought. Turns out the bastard was playing a double game, financing the Chechens with our money. Why, I have no idea, except he was making a pretty kopek in the process. He was also moving money abroad as quickly as he could. He had a partner in the Chechen venture, a man named Gorbenko. I’ll admit to you now, in the privacy of this room, we covered up a lot about that piece of shit. He was one of ours, a true traitor—drunk, gambler, whoremonger—how he rose so high is an embarrassment. The Chechens turned him. Kosokov killed him, we know now—a falling-out among thieves. But if he hadn’t, we would have. I would have pulled the trigger myself.”

His voice rose in speed and intensity as well as volume, but he stopped suddenly, as if rethinking. When he continued, he spoke softly.

“We were onto Kosokov, finally, but Gorbenko warned him. A few days before we were ready to move in, Rosnobank Tower burned. Twenty-story steel building, melted. Sophisticated arson. Nothing left, no records, no money.”

I remembered that.

“Kosokov disappeared. So did Polina. And Gorbenko. Now we find out he was dead after all. She must have killed him, probably over the money. She’s like a praying mantis, master of camouflage, infinite patience, waiting for her prey. She bites the heads off her lovers as soon as they’ve satisfied her.”

I couldn’t argue the description.

“We had a lot to deal with, cleaning up the mess. I won’t say we did the best job. We had to choose between some lousy options.”

“That’s another lesson you taught me. Don’t look for a good choice in a bad situation, take what will work.”

He smiled. “It makes me happy you remember. We dealt with it, but we were still out the six hundred million. I’m responsible. It’s a stain on my record, my whole career. I haven’t stopped looking for her since. I want to make good while I still can.”

It all sounded plausible. It was the way he would think—especially about the stain. Perhaps too plausible. “Why’s Eva afraid of you?”

“What?”

“The other night. You terrified her. She recognized you, even through the drugs, and was scared to death. Why?”

“I have no idea. As you say, she was drugged.”

“She wasn’t drugged when I talked to her earlier today. She was still scared. Of you and Lachko.”

“That’s her mother’s doing. She’s poisoned the girl.”

“Maybe. Something is wrong with this whole setup, Iakov. How’d Rislyakov identify Polina?”

“As I already observed, he didn’t confide in me.”

“Here’s another thing. I’m pretty sure Polina doesn’t have access to anywhere near the kind of money you’re talking about.”

“How do you know that?”

“She couldn’t come up with a hundred grand to buy off Rislyakov.”

“She was always miserly as well as venal.”

“That’s not it.”

“Polina’s playing with your head again. You, of all people, should know what she’s capable of. She’s a pathological liar, the ultimate narcissist. Why are you asking me all these questions? Why is this any of your business?”

He was angry. Or his anger, like hers, was covering something else. He was stonewalling about Eva, just as Polina had stonewalled about Ratko. Six hundred million dollars is plenty of reason to stonewall, but despite what Iakov said, Polina had never been greedy—venal, to use his word—in my experience. Self-centered, insecure, needy, narcissistic, volatile, yes. She craved security—emotional security—and attention. Money was part of that, but only part, a means not an end. People change, but not that much. Iakov was wrong about her—or pretending to be. Iakov didn’t make many mistakes.