Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

The name Pavlo Shevchenko brought immediate color to the agents’ cheeks and bought Nate a bit of back-and-forth. It quickly became evident that Abara had built impressive scaffolding around his suspicion of Nate. An interview with the bank security guard had led the agent to safe-deposit box 227, where he’d found Danny Urban’s key bizarrely locked inside. And yesterday Luis Millan had called the cops after Nate had paid him the unsettling visit, a red flag landing the complaint on Abara’s desk. These names-Danny Urban, Luis Millan-all connected now to lend some credence to Nate’s tale of crazed Ukrainians and witness lists, but until confirmation worked its way through the maze of the system, Abara maintained a note of skepticism in his voice.

Abara’s expression still gave up nothing, but through the course of the discussion he’d eased from the room’s corner to point-man position, dispatching the others to make queries.

“We’re running out of time,” Nate said. “You have to believe me and do something now. ”

They’d confiscated his phone, and of course there was no clock in the room, but he could feel the minutes ticking down to Shevchenko’s deadline.

“We need to verify that you’re-”

Frantic, Nate let his hands slap to the table, an outburst he regretted immediately. Appearing calm and sane was a necessity.

Abara’s cell phone chimed, a text message, and he glanced at the screen.

“What?” Nate said. “What’s that?”

“Confirmation of your medical records.” He replaced the phone in his pocket, some of the severity draining from his expression. “You want a cup of water, bathroom break?”

“No. I want you to tell me what time it is.”

“Six thirty-seven,” Abara said.

Nate pictured Janie and Cielle at home, waiting to hear from him. Pavlo’s men on standby ready to swoop in. His knees bounced frantically beneath the table. “You have to let me out of here, or-”

A junior agent entered with a fat file and a concerned expression and asked Abara to step outside.

Abara rose. “One sec.”

“I got five hours and change until my daughter gets cut in half with a chain saw,” Nate said.

Abara paused, hand on the knob. “I won’t dawdle.”

For a small eternity, Nate drummed his fingers, paced the room, glared at the one-way mirror. Finally Abara returned.

“Here’s where we are.” He slid a sheet of paper across the table at Nate. A large stamp proclaimed, ATTORNEY WORK PRODUCT-CONFIDENTIAL. There was the witness list, the eight familiar names.

The whole black plot, confirmed.

“Anastasia Shevchenko had two prior DUIs and was driving on a suspended license,” Abara said. “Which means they’ll nail her on a Watson murder. She’s staring at a life sentence. They have her dead to rights.”

Finally they were into the meat of the matter. Nate forced himself to slow down, to parse the matter properly so they could come out the other end rather than run frenzied circles. “So her only way off,” he said, “is if Pavlo kills the witnesses.”

“Pretty much. She smashed that family to shit and ran away, like you said. At which point her old man swung into cleanup mode, reported her Jag stolen, all that. So her lawyers-her dad’s all-star roster of lawyers-are trying for the no-driving defense. It must be proved that she was behind the wheel when the car was moving for her to be found guilty.”

“No other witnesses?”

“No.” For the first time, Abara looked weary, his eyes puffy. But beneath the fatigue was something harder-edged-a calm fury. Knocking off a van load of witnesses to protect a drunk driver probably hit a level of lawless disregard that even an FBI agent didn’t encounter every day. “After the hit-and-run, she ran to Nebesa, a Ukrainian club-she’s there every fucking Tuesday. Given who her old man is, good luck reversing an alibi out of that joint.”

“How did Urban get his hands on the witness list?”

“Not sure. He had some known associates who are skilled hackers, so maybe they cracked it out of the prosecutor’s hard drive. It was confidential as hell, that’s for sure. The prosecutor went to great lengths to protect the names. Blacked out the police report. All proceedings in camera-judge’s chambers with only one side present, no transcript available to the defense. The judge had had a turn or two around the dance floor with Pavlo, knew the colorful backstory. She figured the risk of witness intimidation was high enough to keep the names of material witnesses secret.”

“And the trial is…?”

“Next month.”

“Thus the urgency,” Nate said. “Why didn’t the witnesses know about all this?”

“If they knew who they were testifying against, it might spook them.”

“Might?” Nate said. “Might?”

“Never know. One of them might be a crazy-ass loose cannon. Like you.”

Nate blew out a breath. “So what now?”

“We’ll get to those witnesses right away, make sure everyone’s safe until this thing settles.”

“How quickly can you get Pavlo in custody?”

“A case like this takes a while to build,” Abara said, “let alone file.”

“Your confidence is comforting.”

Abara’s mouth tensed. “Believe me, crimes this … flagrant ? The entire justice system is taking this personally. Whatever warrants we need, whatever resources we want, judges will line up to sign their names. But that doesn’t mean a conviction’ll be easy.”

“What would you need to make it airtight?”

“A confession.” Abara snickered at the thought. “Flipping his daughter, maybe, in exchange for immunity on the drunk-driving murder. Getting any of the club witnesses to change their story. In other words, shit that won’t happen given who Shevchenko is and the power he has over these people.”

“With what you do have, can you get to an arrest?”

“Probably. But with his lawyers? He’ll be out on bail. Plus, his men…”

“What about his men?”

“We know some of the names in his orbit,” Abara said. “The old-school blues with the tattoos, all that. Yuri Ivashko just applied for naturalization. Valerik Koval. Dimitri Zotov. Sure. We can roll them up, see if we can make something stick. But word is, Pavlo has a new hitter off the boat from the old country, a stone-cold pro.”

“Misha,” Nate said. “Number Six.”

“We don’t know who he is, let alone where to find him.”

Nate’s teeth ground, a muted shriek of frustration inside his skull. “My family,” he said.

“We can dispatch agents to your house right now.”

“If sedans pull up to our front door, you might as well paint a target on my daughter’s forehead,” Nate said. “Can you get her and Janie into Witness Protection?”

“We will make sure they’re safe.”

A cold flutter moved through Nate’s stomach. “That’s not what I asked.”

Troubled, Abara pivoted aside in his chair and regarded his reflection in the one-way. “A lot of people have been waiting for a break on Pavlo Shevchenko for a long time, not least of all the DA’s office. The head deputy of Major Crimes wants to press the strongest plays with the cleanest links and the most physical evidence-solicitation of murder for Danny Urban and the names on that list. As for you, your wife, your daughter, unfortunately, none of you are witnesses. You’re not actually testifying to anything.”

“That asshole kidnapped me. He made a death threat against my daughter.” Nate’s voice rang around the cold box for a while. He studied Abara’s even stare and said, “Right. No hard evidence. For that.”

“Not a scrap. It’s your word against Pavlo’s. Watch your average rape trial to see how well those cases turn out.” Abara’s even features tensed into a grimace. He smelled of cologne or scented deodorant. “Plus, no one’s been killed.”