David Duffy - Last to Fold

The Cheka has never been known for restraint. But not since the days of Beria has it felt so emboldened. Ibanskians happening to pass the building housing the CPS in Ulica Otradnaja will see a shattered window on the second floor. The result, Ivanov is reliably informed, of a bungled assassination attempt Saturday morning.

Hard to believe? Not for Ivanov. There’s not much the Cheka is afraid to try in its Ibanskian playground these days. The only difference from Beria’s era is that now there’s nothing—or no one—to rein in their instincts. What intrigues Ivanov more than the brazenness of the act is that the Cheka found it necessary. What would cause them to put an assassin’s bullet through the window of a junior CPS officer?

Ivanov has been making inquiries. The answer appears to lie in the murky swamp of Cheka history, where one wades with great caution. Snakes, eels, crocodiles, and a host of other sharp-toothed reptiles all guard their secrets with deathly closeness. Two other CPS officers have died this year—one poisoned, the other gunned down in the street. Ivanov isn’t ready to tell yet, but it’s clear the Cheka is hiding a mortal secret—deadly to those who own it, deadly to those who find out about it. It’s prepared to go to any length to make sure it’s never dredged up. That’s the message of a shattered window in Ulica Otradnaja.

Three things were clear to me.

Petrovin was spoon-feeding Ivanov.

Ivanov was baiting the Badgers.

Both of them were chasing a lot more than Lachko’s laundry.

I made two Politburo-level decisions. At least they felt that way. The first was not to call ahead. The second, forgo the subway for a cab. That way, I could tell Victoria I was taking care of myself.

I returned to the bedroom, removed my robe, and, ignoring her advice, checked myself over in the full-length mirror. A Francis Bacon nightmare stared back, a hunched, stretched, distorted mass of colors—reds, blacks, blues, purples, and yellows—none of which looked natural, much less healthy. The stitches on my face and jaw gave a certain Frankenstein’s monster appearance—if the good doctor had been drinking while he worked. I wondered idly what Victoria could possibly see in me and concluded there’s no accounting for taste. The only possible benefit was maybe Polina would be so shocked that she’d take pity and explain what was really going on.

Right.

I showered gingerly and dressed with equal care. That took twice as long as usual, but I was pleased to feel no sudden shots of pain. Quick healer. I walked the two blocks to the office, which took almost ten minutes, and I felt wiped when I got there. Maybe not so quick. Then again, the temperature hadn’t dropped a degree while I’d been out of commission.

Pig Pen took one look and winced. I didn’t know parrots could wince.

“Russky. Ouch. Three car pile-up.”

“That’s right, Pig Pen. Three cars, they all hit me.”

“L-I-E?”

“No, not L-I-E.”

“Cross Bronx?”

“Not there either. Brighton Beach.” That caused him to lose interest. Brighton Beach isn’t mentioned often—if at all—on traffic reports, so he had no context. Not that he knows where the Long Island or Cross Bronx expressway is either, but I might be selling him short. The sight upset him sufficiently that he didn’t even ask about pizza.

Foos looked up at me leaning against his doorjamb, breathing harder than I should and sweating.

“You up and around already?”

“Don’t start. One minder is plenty.”

“So, how many Chevy Impalas are there in metro New York?”

I shook my head.

“Two hundred thirty-eight thousand three hundred twelve. None registered to anyone we know, best as I can tell.”

“Rentals?”

“Sixteen thousand five hundred sixty-one.”

“Okay—lots of data. Rental Impalas?”

“Varies. Right now, five hundred four.”

“And?” He wouldn’t have started this if he didn’t have the answer.

“Three of those belong to an independent outfit on East Eighty-eighth Street—Yorkville Car Rental. One of those three was rented last Tuesday afternoon at 3:52 P.M. and returned Wednesday at 12:36 P.M.”

“By?”

“Gentleman named Lachlan Malloy.”

Five-by-Five. He was limping on Thursday. “Remember when you pointed out I’d been taken for a ride?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You didn’t know the half of it.”

I dialed Victoria’s office. She got on right away.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Bullshit. Where are you?”

“Telecommuting,” I lied.

“More bullshit. You’re at your office.”

“Doctor said get exercise. I’m taking it easy.”

“Are all Russians really this pigheaded?”

“National trait. I need a favor.”

“What?”

“Hospitals have to report gunshot wounds. I’m looking for a guy named Malloy, Lachlan Malloy, with a bullet in the right leg, late last Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. You must have contacts with NYPD.”

“Who’s Malloy?”

“Nasty SOB, built like a panel truck, with bad intentions toward me. Also Mulholland’s driver.”

“Where’d he get the bullet wound?”

“Rislyakov’s loft. Wednesday night. After he shot Ratko.”

“He killed Rislyakov?”

“Looks that way. Felix Mulholland put him on me, I put him onto Ratko’s associates, and he followed them to Greene Street. Ratko wasn’t there, but Malloy went back when he was. Shot him and Iakov. Was probably trying to get to Eva Mulholland, maybe to get her home, I don’t know, when she shot him through the door.”

“Tell me you’re not going to see her.”

“Good a time as any to get reacquainted.”

“Turbo…”

“I’m not looking forward to it.”

“I’m not either. Watch out for Malloy.”

“He’s not half as dangerous as she is.”

I limped into the lobby of 998 Fifth to the usual impassive greeting. If Christ himself descended from on high, mother in tow, and levitated through those doors, he’d receive the same bland response. We went through the routine of name asking and calling upstairs, and the elevator man drove me to the ninth floor.

The man in the silver tie opened the door. When I told him who I wanted to see, he took me to the library. The room was cool and dark, lighted by the same lamps as last week. I stopped by the desk to glance at the computer screen. Mostly red. FTB was trading in single digits.

I sat in a chair by the giant fireplace and took out my cell phone.

“This is Gina.”

“How soon can you get uptown, Fifth and Eighty-second?”

“Half an hour.”

“Good. Park yourself on the steps of the Met. You’ll have a clear view of this building, nine-nine-eight Fifth. I’m expecting a woman, blond, forty-something version of Greene Street Girl, to come out later today. I want to know where she goes and what she does.”

“You got it.”

“You’re the best.”

“Put that sentiment into cash.”

“The best mercenary, that is.”

Victoria called as soon as we disconnected. “Where are you?”

“Lion’s den.”

“You mean lioness.”

“You’re becoming very protective.”

“You’re getting no less obnoxious. Lachlan Malloy was treated and released by Beth Israel late Wednesday night. Superficial gunshot wound, right thigh.”

“I owe you.”

“Then get out of there.”

“As soon as I’ve tamed the lioness.”

“Turbo…”

“Gotta run.”

Raised voices, one male, one female, outside. I was about to move closer to the door when it opened and Mulholland came in, dressed in one of his Savile Row suits. It was hard to tell in dim light, but he looked as though he’d aged several years since our last meeting. I wondered what he’d make of my appearance.