In for a Ruble (27 page)

“How many people we talking?”

“Not sure yet. Last time it was ninety thousand.”

“How much money?”

“Not sure about that either. Some of these guys spend ten, twelve thousand a year online—or more.”

“Ninety thousand at ten grand is pushing a billion.”

“Right and that billion, if that’s what it is, is disappearing—right here. The trick for these guys is getting the money out of the country and into their accounts overseas. In this case, Belarus, we think. It gets pretty murky over there.”

“Baltic Enterprise Commission?”

Green flash. “How do you know that?”

“BEC’s the market leader for that kind of service. I could’ve told you that two days ago, when I asked about the case.”

“I have institutional constraints, remember?”

“I remember. As someone on the outside looking in…”

“You are the biggest goddamned son of a bitch…”

“Just making a point—in the only son of a bitch fashion I know.”

“I never should have started.”

“I’m still listening.”

“You’re enjoying yourself way too much is what you’re doing.”

“I’m ready to help.”

She took a sip of wine. “I may have to switch to that kerosene you drink, just to get through this. So … we follow the money trails, and they all lead to a big payment processing firm here—in Queens—ConnectPay. We think it’s the one moving the money overseas. Firms like that, they operate under the radar. They can act like banks—take in money, move it around—but they’re not banks so they’re not subject to the same regulations, especially reporting regulations. This one only exists online. We go to the address in Queens—it’s not there. I mean, the building is, but not ConnectPay. We go looking for the guy who runs it—Franklin Druce is his name, with some partners who are partnerships owned by partnerships who take you on a tour of the entire Caribbean before they send you to Eastern Europe. The real bitch is, we can’t find a damned thing on this guy, Druce. Someone running a business like that, there should be something. Maybe not a criminal record, but an arrest record, some mention in the file, something. He’s not even in the goddamned phone book. That’s why I need the Basilisk.”

“The other day at the office, when I said Walter Coryell could have another identity, Mr. Hyde with plastic, you said, ‘We never thought of that.’ You were talking about Druce, right?”

“Right.”

“What’s the address in Queens?”

“Twenty-second street, number forty twenty-eight.”

“You’ve got a man watching the place.”

Another flash. “I give up. How…”

“I saw him. Last Friday night, right before I came home. The same night I saw Nosferatu there. It’s Walter Coryell’s address too, Leitz’s brother-in-law. We may be able to help each other out. But, since you said you’re willing to pay, there is a price.”

“Somehow I knew there would be. What price?”

“What do you know about Efim Konychev, like how come Homeland Security suddenly let him into the country?”

I could feel her tense up beside me. “Where do you get all these questions?”

“DoJ and State kept him out because he’s an organized crime figure. Homeland Security overruled. What happened?”

“How do you…?” One more flash of anger.

“Spies have lots of sources.”

“Don’t try to be funny. This is important. What source?”

“Very high placed…”

“If you…”

She was getting ready to belt me.

“Okay, okay. Russian blog. Ibansk.com.”

“
Blog?!
”

“That’s right. Written by a guy known as Ivanov. Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov. Everyman. He does have highly placed sources—the best in Russia. Ibansk means ‘Fucktown,’ by the way.”

“Nice.”

“Apt. So what happened, with Homeland Security?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I thought you were looking for help.”

“I am. I want to see this blog. I need to know what it says—exactly.”

“Sure. But it’s in Russian.”

“You can translate.”

“Maybe—if you ask with appropriate affection, deference and respect.”

“Okay. You’re right.” She took my hand. “You either translate this Ivanhoe…”

“Ivanov.”

“Or one of us is sleeping on the couch.”

*   *   *

After dinner, Victoria pronouncing the pork a success, I got the computer and logged on to Ibansk.com. Ivanov had a new posting on Konychev. I skimmed it quickly.

“Seems Konychev’s still in New York.”

“What?!”

I translated.

High Noon in New York City?

The world is a big place, but perhaps not if one travels in the seemingly small circles of the Ibanskian oligarchy.

Exhibit A—Efim Konychev and Taras Batkin, brothers-in-law, sometime partners, mortal enemies, personal proponents of Ibanskian revenge, especially on each other, faced off this week, everything but guns drawn, across the floor of a Manhattan café.

Ivanov will set the table. Maison sur Madison was the venue—a New York see-and-be-scene known for elegant if tasteless meals, left mostly uneaten by emaciated models and their testosterone-laden pea
cock
patrons. Did Ivanov mention stratospheric prices? They go without saying. Little surprise then that it appeals to a clientele from all corners of the Ibanskian empire who share great wealth and minimal taste. “Eurotrash” is the American term of art, and as much as Ivanov hates to admit defeat when it comes to a matter of words, he can’t come up with a topper.

“He’s got style,” Victoria said.

“Zinoviev’s turning in his grave.”

“Who’s Zinoviev?”

“Russian novelist. Inventor of the original Ibansk.” I went back to reading.

Everyone knows the bad-blooded background between Konychev and Batkin. The Kremlin-enforced partnership. Konychev’s failed attempts to torpedo his sister’s romance and marriage. Attempted assassination. Assassination tried the other way. Yet here they were, two old comrades seeking overpriced sustenance. And certainly unwilling to remain in the other’s company.

Konychev’s party was seated when Batkin and his entourage arrived. Words were exchanged. Hands reached under overcoats. The owner intervened, at risk of his own scalp, and convinced Batkin and Co. to take their leave. A bad day for him—he’ll never see Batkin or his kopeks again.

Lunch was served—Konychev and Co. dined on sautéed scaloppini, risotto Milanese, and roasted artichokes. Most un-Ibanskian fare. Washed down by Mouton-Rothschild ’82. Total tab? A very Ibanskian $5,100.

“Christ! What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Victoria muttered at the sink.

“You talking to yourself?”

“Just wondering if all you Russians are ignorant peasants. Artichokes are an absolute Cabernet killer. They didn’t taste a drop of that wine, and it probably cost them most of that fifty-one hundred dollars.”

I had a feeling she was talking about more than the menu, but I said, “I’ll be sure to tell Konychev next time I see him. One more paragraph.”

Ivanov can add a related tidbit. One person missing from Konychev’s party was the feared enforcer of the Baltic Enterprise Commission—a shadowy figure of unknown name and uncommon strength—who has been spotted in New York of late. Lunch might have been someone’s last supper had he decided to attend.

“That’s the guy who beat you up, right?”

“Right.”

“Read me the earlier article, the one about Konychev and Homeland Security.”

I scrolled back and read it aloud.

Her only comment was, “Shit.”

“Need any more translation services?”

“Who is this guy, Ivanov? Where does he get his information?”

“Nobody knows—on either score.”

“How widely followed is he?”

“Very.”

“Damn it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just about everything. I really need the Basilisk now. How ’bout it?”

“I’ll try but whether he agrees is anybody’s guess.”

“What time can we start?”

“You go running with me at six, we can stop at the office on the way back.”

“I’m not
that
desperate. Let’s say breakfast at eight.”

CHAPTER
28

“Bayou Babe! Tiramisu?”

Pig Pen was on the case the moment we walked out of the server aisles.

“Get a wall clock, parrot,” Victoria said. “Nine thirty, breakfast, remember?”

I think he muttered, “Prospect Parkway—lane closed,” as he paced the floor of his office. He’d met his match in Victoria.

Foos came to his door to check the commotion. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“It appears that Leitz’s brother-in-law, Walter Coryell, may have a hidden identity, Franklin Druce. Victoria thinks Druce is behind a payment processor for kiddie porn sites. We want to check him out.”

“Which one’s asking?” Foos said with a grin, planning to enjoy the moment.

Victoria looked at me.

“We both are,” I said. “I still want to know what Nosferatu and the BEC have on Coryell. There’s also my new client, Taras Batkin, stepfather of Andras Leitz’s girlfriend, Irina.”

“You’re working for Batkin?!” Victoria cried. “You didn’t say anything about him.”

Foos’s grin broadened. Pig Pen climbed the mesh in his door, attracted by his nemesis’s distress.

“That a problem?” I asked.

“He’s … He’s … Shit. You know what he is. What the hell are you doing for Batkin?”

“That’s between us. But I might be persuaded to tell tales out of school if you do the same about Efim Konychev.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? Batkin can be very useful to me. He thinks his stepdaughter’s up to some kind of trouble and wants to know what. We made a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Like I said…”

Pig Pen picked the wrong moment to take another shot. “Bayou Babe…”

“Quiet, parrot!”

He shook his feathers and went back to his radio.

Foos said, “You think this trouble could involve the Leitz kid?”

“Their bank accounts say it does.”

“What bank accounts?” Victoria said.

“Remember I told you about the two kids with eleven mil each in the bank—back when we were sharing? What about Konychev?”

“Dammit, I…”

“And how is Coryell connected?” Foos asked.

“Andras and Irina were supposed to meet him at the Black Horse. He didn’t show. Andras has been trying to contact him ever since. The guy’s gone underground—maybe as Franklin Druce.”

Foos nodded. “Your lucky day, Bayou Babe. We’ll make an exception to the no-Fed rule, just for you. But…” He looked at me. “Stay on the reservation.”

Foos went back in his office. Victoria said, “What did I ever do to him?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Be glad he likes you.”

“He likes me?”

“He would have reset all the passwords if he didn’t. Come on—before he changes his mind.”

Pig Pen thought about trying again as we passed his cage, but when Victoria shot him a look, all he said was, “Route Three, fuel spill.”

It took less than ten minutes for the Basilisk to confirm Walter Coryell and Franklin Druce were indeed Jekyll and Hyde with plastic. In addition to the address, which Druce listed as both home and office, their driver’s license photos showed two poor images of the same ordinary-looking, brown-haired man. Druce was CEO of ConnectPay, and the company deposited forty-four grand a month into a checking account at B of A. He spent a big chunk of it online, mostly with ConnectPay, at a long list of what looked to be child porn sites. A consistent three to five K a month. Bricks-and-mortar charges were at gas stations and restaurants all over the Northeast—Connecticut, New Jersey, Vermont, New York, sometimes Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, or Delaware.

I told the Basilisk to line up the food and gas purchases. The beast whined and hissed—
You already know the answer to that
—but did as instructed.

“One-night stands from the looks of it. He buys gas and food in the same town. No hotel or motel charges, though. Must pay cash for those. Thinks he’s clever.”

I could almost hear the Basilisk snort with contempt.

“What do you mean?” Victoria said.

“Druce is a pedophile. He’s using the money he makes from ConnectPay to support his own habit. Every few months, when he gets bored just watching kids online, he sets off around the countryside to hook up with one. That explains the extra mileage on his car, remember?”

“Christ.”

“In fact, looks like he’s been on the prowl this week. Bought gas last Wednesday in Rockville, Connecticut. No meals though.”

I asked the computer for the phone number for Coryell’s garage. A Hispanic voice answered. “
Sí. ¿Hola?
”

I went with Spanish too. “
Hola.
This is José at Manhattan Volvo. We’re supposed to pick up Walter Coryell’s car Monday for service. Have it ready at eight, okay?”

“Wait a minute.”

I could hear him talking to someone else in Spanish in the background.

He said to me, “
Sí,
that’s okay, but it’s not here now. Hasn’t been since Wednesday.”

“Oh. Maybe there’s a mistake. I’ll check with the customer and call you back.”

“What was that all about?” Victoria asked.

“Coryell took his car out of the garage Wednesday and hasn’t come back. Julia told me Friday her husband was traveling on business. I wonder if maybe…”

I sent the beast back to its cave. It returned in an instant, blowing fire, triumphant.

“There’s your answer,” I said, pointing to the screen. “No one could find Coryell because he’s been cooling his heels, as Martin Druce, in the Tolland County slammer in Rockville. He was busted on Wednesday. Take a look.”

“Goddamn,” Victoria said. “That explains a lot.” She leaned in to read the screen. “Attempted rape, solicitation of a minor, indecent exposure, the list goes on and on. At least we got him.”

“Don’t count your Coryells too quickly.” I sent the Basilisk after his bank records. “I’d move fast if I were you. He wrote a check for five hundred thousand yesterday. Looks like he bailed himself out.”

“No!”

She pulled out her phone, found a number, and was soon giving orders to someone on the other end.