Richard Montanari: The Devil_s Garden

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Charlotte and Emily looked at each other, shrugged, slipped under the covers. Michael took a moment, still a bit bewildered. He tucked the girls in, planted kisses on their foreheads.

On the way out of the bedroom he stood at the door for a moment, thinking.

Ta tuleb was an Estonian phrase.

His daughters did not speak Estonian.

Michael walked into the small room on the first floor that served as his office, flipped on a light, opened his briefcase. He studied the photograph of Falynn Harris. She was only fourteen.

Falynn was the daughter of Colin Harris, a Long Island City florist who had been gunned down two years ago in April, murdered in cold blood by one Patrick Sean Ghegan. Ghegan, along with his younger brother Liam, were the demon spawn of Jack Ghegan, a former mid-level Queens mobster currently doing life-plus in Dannemora.

Falynn, who was sneaking a cigarette behind the store, saw the whole thing go down through the back window. She was so traumatized by the horror of the crime she had not said a single word since. And she was the state’s star witness.

Michael Roman had won RICO cases, had prosecuted some of the most hardened career criminals ever to pass through the New York state legal system, had successfully tried two death penalty cases, including the infamous Astrology Killer, had more than once reached for something that far exceeded his grasp, only to thrive. But this one was special. And he knew why. He had lobbied long and hard to get it.

The question was: Could he get Falynn to talk to him? In the next forty-eight hours, with the specter of Colin Harris standing over them, could he get her to remember?

If we will be alive, we will not die.

Coffee. He needed coffee. This was going to be a long night.

On the way to the kitchen he stopped at the foot of the stairs and glanced up at the slightly ajar door to his daughters’ room.

Ta tuleb, he thought.

It was an Estonian phrase that meant: He is coming.

As Michael Roman entered the kitchen and took the French press out of the cupboard, a question flitted around his mind like a gypsy moth drawn to a light bulb.

Who is coming?

Aleksander savisaar stood in the center of the bustling square. It was an unseasonably warm evening, the lilies were pregnant in bloom, and Viru Tanav Street was a carnival of the senses.

He walked a few blocks, sat at a small outdoor cafe, ordered tea, watched the girls walk by in their springtime dresses, each a long-petalled flower. He had been in many ports in his time, from Kabul to Moscow to a brief tour in Shanghai. His business affairs had taken him many times to Helsinki to Riga to St Petersburg and beyond, yet he was never happy in a city, any city. He could tolerate it all for a few days. Perhaps a week. Sometimes, if his needs were met, he found himself flourishing. But he was not, nor ever would be, at home in any urban setting. His place was the forest, the valley, the hills.

The city of Tallinn sat on the northern coast of Estonia, on the Gulf of Finland. As the capital, it was one of the most completely preserved medieval cities in the world. Since the fall of communism in 1991 it had become one of the more cosmopolitan destinations in the Baltics, with its world class symphony, its thriving tourist business, and even a burgeoning fashion market.

Aleks had driven the E20 route to Narva, in central Estonia, past the rusting relics of Soviet occupation, past the ramshackle buildings, failed collectives, the rusting cars and farm machinery, the slag heaps and stilled conveyor belts.

He then took a small commuter plane from Narva to Tallinn, which meant he’d had to leave a good many things behind. These days, even in small airports, on small airlines, security was quite rigorous.

It was not a problem. He had connections all over Estonia. And he had business. A business that had been a smoldering ember in his heart for four years.

The Schlossle was a small elegant boutique hotel in the heart of the old town. Aleks checked in. He showered, shaved, dressed in a dark suit, open-collar, starched white shirt. He called the concierge, arranged for a table at the Restaurant Stenhus.

He had three hours before he had to meet Paulu. Before then, he had to make a purchase.

THE SHOP WAS AN old stone front on busy Muurivahe Street. The small leaded glass window facing the street offered an elegant display, a single sterling silver place setting, washed with a mini-spotlight. In the lower left-hand corner was a hand-painted sign, lettered in gold leaf: VILLEROY TERARIISTAD

To the right of the thick oaken door was a brushed-chrome panel with a small button. Aleks pressed the button. Moments later the door buzzed softly. He stepped inside.

The interior was long and narrow and quiet, with gleaming glass display cases on both sides, an elevated counter at the rear. It smelled of polished wood, glass cleaner, and the sharp redolence of honing oils. As Aleks made his way to the rear he surveyed the merchandise. The knives were from all over the world, in all manner of styles – hunting knives, stockmen’s knives, Indian kukri. The display case on the right held more exotic wares. Here there were boot knives, diving knives, tanto and throwing knives, the showy but deadly butterfly knife, even a section devoted to neck knives, which were designed to be worn in a sheath around one’s neck.

On the walls were racks of gleaming scissors, kitchen cutlery, straight razors, and other tonsorial wares. Overhead, reaching toward the center of the aisle, in the fashion of a trellis, was a dazzling display of swords – military, ninja, medieval and Viking, as well as samurai katana.

As he reached the rear of the shop a man stood and emerged from behind the counter. He was in his sixties, with pewter gray hair, sloping shoulders. He was at least a head shorter than Aleks’s six-three, and meticulously dressed in charcoal woolen slacks, white broadcloth shirt, and highly polished oxfords. The ring on his left hand said he was married. The signet on his right hand said he was an alumnus of Moscow University.

“Kas sa raagid inglise keelt?” Aleks asked, inquiring in Estonian if the gentleman spoke English. Aleks was fluent in five different languages, including Russian, German and French.

The man nodded, folded his hands expectantly on the counter.

“You have an impressive selection here,” Aleks said.

“Thank you,” the man replied. “And how may I be of assistance today?”

“I am looking for a knife, something suitable for both city and forest. Something of great utility.”

The man thought for a moment. He gestured to his left. “I’m sure we will have something to please you.” He walked behind the counter, reached beneath the glass, removed a display rack. There, presented on a rich burgundy velvet, were a half dozen folding knives. Aleks lifted them one by one, feeling their weight, their balance. He opened them all, trying the action. After giving them their due, he replaced them.

“All fine quality,” Aleks said. “But I am looking for something special.”

The man returned the rack beneath the case, glanced at Aleks. “I am intrigued.”

“I am looking for a Barhydt.”

The man drew a quick breath in reaction, recovered. “I see.”

Jan-Marie Barhydt was a limited edition armorer from Holland, an artisan of the first order. He produced some of the finest and most sought after knives in the world.

“I’m afraid this is something quite expensive,” the man said. “We are a small, humble shop. We don’t carry these items.”

The dance, Aleks thought. Always the dance. He held the man’s gaze for a moment, then reached into his pocket and removed three money clips, each clasped around a stack of different currency. Euros, US dollars, and Estonian kroon. He placed the three stacks on the counter, like an expensive shell game.