David Duffy - Last to Fold

“Russky. Burned crust.”

“Not crust, Pig Pen, me. Burned Russky.” I reeked of smoke and kerosene. He gave me the same stare I get from his owner when I utter a logical improbability and closed his eyes. His mention of crust reminded me I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. I found some bread, cheese, and vodka in the kitchen. I was chewing and sipping when the phone rang.

“Coyle says your story’s too fucked up not to be on the level. He also says you know damned well who set that fire and why it was set there.”

I was right about the debriefing. “And?”

“Between you and him, shug, I’m going with him.”

“Thank you for your support.”

“Seriously, are you all right? Coyle said you looked pretty messed up.”

“Your concern is touching. His, too. I’m self-medicating.”

“Uh-oh. Remember what happened last time you went on the vodka cure.”

She had a point. “I will. Where are you?”

“Office—but I can be at your place in ten minutes if you want to hold hands and tell me what’s going on.”

“That’s all I have to look forward to?”

“You’re a suspect, shug, and I’m beat. You gotta be, too. It’s 3:00 A.M.”

She was right—and I should have stayed where I was and started working through the Russian file on Ratko’s hard drive, my purpose in coming here in the first place.

“I’ll wait for you at the front door.”

I overslept. I would’ve overslept more if Victoria hadn’t shaken me at eight, already fully dressed. We’d gone to bed and fallen asleep immediately, holding hands. Her only words had been “You look worse every time I see you.”

I’d taken a shower to wash off the kerosene smoke, and she’d made me ice the worst of my burns. I went along with that until she fell asleep, then tossed the ice in the sink and joined her in happy unconsciousness. The accumulating punishment was taking its toll.

She said, “You’re on your own again, which scares the hell out of me, but I figure you’ll find more trouble no matter what I do.”

I couldn’t argue.

“You know what’s good for you, you’ll get your pal Petrovin and that girl in to talk to Coyle.”

“My pal? I thought he was working with you.”

“He’s off the reservation. Just another ex-socialist to me now.”

“We do stick together.”

“That’s one thing, among many, I’m afraid of. You know who set that fire, don’t you?”

A question I could dodge, given the hour and everything that had happened. Given everything I feared could happen, a question I should avoid entirely.

I didn’t want to. Life’s not as easy as crossing a field, I’d told Bernie. “I have an idea.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “You gonna do anything about it—other than tell Coyle, which is what you should do?”

“I’m thinking about that.”

“Sugar, I said it before and I’ll say it again, ’cause we both know you’re thickheaded. You gotta choose. You decide to pursue this on your own, you’re on your own. You can kiss me good-bye, only there won’t be no kiss. I won’t have any part of it—and no part of you. It’s gonna hurt both of us, but that’s the way it is.”

She stood and straightened her skirt, the simple motion of her hands pulling my heart harder than anything in years.

“Let me know what you decide.”

She was gone before I could respond—if I’d had anything to say.

I lay there awhile, the aches, pains, and stings picking up strength with gathering consciousness. I started an argument with myself, even though I already knew the outcome, and kept it up while I dressed. I hit the steaming street and ran three miles at half my normal pace, then stopped at the cool gym and worked the weights until everything in my body said enough. I kept arguing while I went home, showered, made some eggs, drank some coffee, and sat at the counter alone debating whether I wanted to spend the foreseeable—and quite likely my entire—future sitting at the counter alone. Physically I felt better for my exertions. Emotionally I might as well have been marooned in a Siberian blizzard.

The office was empty. Foos had taken Pig Pen on one of his periodic outings. The parrot seems to enjoy them, but he’s always glad to get home to the traffic reports. The quiet was fine by me. I pulled up the file from Ratko’s database on the computer.

Whatever else Kosokov had been—arrogant, venal, stupid, depending on who you asked and who you believed—he was also meticulous. Ratko’s hard drive did indeed include the records of Rosnobank, at least those relating to the Cheka, annotated in painstaking detail by the banker himself. Every Cheka operation financed through Rosnobank from 1992 through 1999 was there—assassinations, at home and abroad (I recognized many of the names), funds channeled to pro-Russian political parties, insurgents and militias in the former Soviet Republics, money for pro-Cheka entrepreneurs buying up government assets in the early transition years. Thousands of transactions aggregating hundreds of millions of dollars, maybe more. The only thing Kosokov hadn’t provided was a total. Every transaction carried the approval of one of a half-dozen Cheka officers identified in code, although they must have felt increasingly imperious over time— in very un-Cheka fashion, they hadn’t tried hard to obfuscate. The approval that appeared most often was ChK22. I knew that designation.

The final entries were labeled—in chilling Soviet fashion—Chechen Freedom Security Undertaking, CFSU. The list of transactions showed how the Cheka had moved money to purchase the explosive RDX, rent the rooms where the bombs were placed, compensate the bombers, and bribe landlords, janitors, superintendents, police, and others who might interfere. There was a parallel network of payments, with the money emanating from banks in Grozny—obviously to implicate Chechen separatists once the damage was done. No question, no question beyond a reasonable doubt, no question beyond any doubt, that the Cheka organized, financed, and executed the September 1999 bombings of four apartment buildings that killed three hundred people, started a bloody war, and propelled Putin to the presidency. Gorbenko, Chmil, Petrovin—they were all right, and so far, two of them had died as a result. Petrovin said he was marked. I would be, too. The evidence was all there in bits and bytes. The approvals all came from ChK22. The pain in my gut was worse than anything Sergei could have inflicted.

The door horn sounded, and I jumped eight feet. Foos and Pig Pen. I settled back to earth, my heart still pounding. It went off again. I sprinted to the kitchen and got the SIG Pro from the safe. Carrying it behind my back, safety off, I crept through the last server aisle, where I wouldn’t be spotted. The horn blew twice more. I got to the reception area to see a black guy in a FedEx uniform holding a large box. Feeling only a little bit foolish, I tucked the gun in the small of my back and opened the door. The package had a Moscow return address—Ulica Otradnaja. I signed and carried it back to my office. Inside were the old, dirty, burned remnants of a Russian peasant doll and her travel case of extra clothes. Eva’s Lena.

I dialed Petrovin’s cell phone, hung up after the third ring, and dialed again.

He answered on the second ring. “I was wondering when we’d hear from you.”

“Long night with the FBI. They want to talk to the girl, which I think we should do, if only to get me off the hook. First, though, your package arrived. We should show her the contents.”