David Duffy - Last to Fold

“Grandpa had different ideas. Remember, we like wordplay. The family name was Vlost, as you know, which dates from the thirteenth century and is a variation of Vlast, which can be traced to the twelfth. Means ‘power.’ Seemed perfectly reasonable to him—highly desirable, in fact—to call his firstborn Electrifikady. Full name Electrifikady Turbanevich Vlost. Means Electrifikady, son of Turba, and electric turbine power. Apparently Grandpa was quite a card.”

“You know, every story you tell gets more absurd.”

“All true. I swear on the graves of Marx, Lenin, and Ronald Reagan.”

“But you never knew him, right, the guy with the power name?”

“Right. I think my mother feared they would never be together again and giving me his name was a way to make sure we were part of something that had a history, that had lasted. Technically, I should have been called Electrifikady Electrifikadyvich—Electrifikady, son of Electrifikady. We don’t do ‘junior.’ But she gave me exactly the same name he had. I shortened it all to Turbo as soon as I was old enough to know how.”

“I like Electrifikady. Can I call you that?”

“Not if you want to continue whatever it is we’ve started.”

“Don’t be so defensive. It’s cute.”

“So’s Vicky.”

That brought out the pout. She sat up and the sheet fell away. I reached for her, but she pushed me back.

“I’ve gotta get to the office.”

“I usually run in the mornings. Want to go with me?”

“In this heat? Are you crazy? Never mind, I know the answer to that. What illegal activities do you have planned for today?”

“Going looking for Rislyakov’s database.”

“What if you find it?”

“Probably go out to Brighton Beach, see Lachko, try to make a deal.”

That got a worried frown. “I won’t ask if that’s wise. We both know the answer. Am I going to approve of this deal?”

“I hope so. You could be the primary beneficiary.”

“You want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

“At dinner. If we’re still talking.”

“I’m beginning to have some sympathy for your ex-wife. Since you’re such a good cook, you can make me breakfast before you go running or whatever. I like it when a man does that. I prefer my eggs scrambled, with a little Tabasco.”

The bare behind sashayed to the bathroom. I waited a few minutes before I got up to follow her instructions, enjoying a long-gone feeling. I hadn’t really expected to encounter it again.

Victoria left for the office, declaring my eggs delicious, my health still doubtful, and my plan for the day borderline crazy. This time, she was three for three. I logged in to the Basilisk and retrieved the information it had generated on Ratko and his alter ego, Alexander Goncharov. I found the charge three weeks earlier on a Rislyakov Visa for $862 from a Moscow undertaker. I reached for the phone.

In a ten-minute conversation with a helpful mortician’s assistant, during which I posed as the late Rad Rislyakov, I learned that he had arranged for the disinterment of his parents on his last trip to Moscow and the shipment of the cremated remains to New York. That made my first stop of the day Chelsea.

I logged on to Ibansk.com. Petrovin was still feeding Ivanov.

And how soon, Ivanov wants to know. Whispers from New York are that the once (and still?) wife of Lachko Barsukov and (con?)-current wife of American banker—and potential jailbird—Rory Mulholland is getting ready to repeat the vanishing act she perfected in Moscow back in 1999.

Mulholland might want to take heed from his predecessor (con-cessor?). Polina saw the writing in the early October snow and left Barsukov—along with her late lover, Anatoly Kosokov, among the smoldering remnants of Rosnobank. Is she getting ready to do it again? Where can she run this time? A few things are evident to Ivanov—and he is only too happy to make them apparent to all Ibansk. One is, Polina Barsukova sheds identities like a viper sheds skins, and she takes on new ones as easily as any chameleon changes protective colors. Another is, husbands and lovers are no anchor for her. Ivanov is also told that a noose is tightening. Russian and American authorities have Polina in their sights. And there’s still Lachko. Hard to believe Badger pride will let her leave him grasping empty air again.

The race is on! Ivanov isn’t prepared to take bets on the winner.

My cell phone buzzed. Gina said, “She’s on the move. Quite a looker.”

“So was Pandora, I’m told. Anyone else following?”

Pause. “Can’t tell yet.”

“You see anyone else, you think you see anyone else, break it off and get out of there. Okay?”

“Okay. She just came out. I’m watching. We’re headed for Madison. I’ll call back.”

Had Polina been reading Ibansk.com this morning? Had Petrovin counted on that?

Eva could have gone anywhere, but I bet on her clinging to Ratko’s orbit. She’d fallen hard. It would take time to shake him, especially since his end was so abrupt. I took a cab to Sixth and Twenty-first, which was showing more activity than my previous visit, though the heat on the sidewalk was no less punishing.

The lobby was cool and empty, other than the doorman behind his sleek blond desk. I was marginally worried about Lachko’s thugs, but he has always lacked imagination—or he was counting on me to do his dirty work. No Russian beef in sight.

The doorman looked up helpfully before he recognized me and frowned. I put the photo of Eva on the counter.

“She’s upstairs, isn’t she? Rislyakov’s place.”

He stammered for a moment, then looked away.

“How much she give you?”

“What?”

“How much she give you not to say she’s here?”

“Nothing! She didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re in enough trouble already.”

“Trouble?”

“Patriot Act, remember? Give me the key.”

He looked around again. No help appeared. “She’s not there. I mean… she was, but she left.”

“When?”

“This morning. Couple hours ago.”

Maybe Eva followed Ibansk, too. “Coming back?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Anyone else asking for her?”

He looked around once more. “Those guys that were here before. They came yesterday.”

“You get rid of them?”

“Yeah. They didn’t press it.”

“You tell her about them?”

If there had been a hole under his countertop, he would have gladly dropped in. “This morning.”

“She say anything?”

“Uh-uh. Went back upstairs for a few minutes, came back down and left.”

“She won’t be back.”

“How do you know that?”

“My job. Key.”

“Yes, sir.”

I took the elevator to seven, inserted the key, rang the bell, waited, rang again, waited, turned the knob, and shoved the door open.

Everything was as it had been. A few articles of women’s clothing dropped on the furniture. Ratko wouldn’t have approved. It took a short twenty minutes to make sure there was nothing to find, except for the heavily taped box on the kitchen counter with the return address of the Moscow undertaker in the Cyrillic alphabet.

Violating the dead is a difficult thing to do, but neither Ratko nor his parents were going to haunt me. Still, it took a few minutes to cut open the box and a few more to fish through the two containers of coarse, hard ashes inside. Cremains, they’re called in the trade. I stuck my arm into Mom until I felt something solid. I did the same with Dad. Buried in each box was a portable hard drive, smaller than a paperback book, tightly wrapped in plastic. I undid one—five hundred gigabytes, more than enough to hold the database and the key to Ratko’s laundry. The other, Kosokov’s bank records?