In for a Ruble (44 page)

In later years, I discovered that in a nation whose history is replete with irony, the position of women was irony amplified. They had no rights under the czars, yet five became czars themselves, including Catherine. History awarded her the same sobriquet as Peter. The Bolsheviks made a big deal of neutralizing gender, but like so many other Communist constructions it was founded on quicksand. Not one woman served in the Politburo under Lenin or Stalin. Khrushchev appointed the first—as (surprise!) minister of culture. She bore the same name as the empress, and with our sense of irony, became known as the second Catherine the Great. After Stalin’s wife committed suicide, he had the wives of his Politburo cronies rounded up and shipped off to jail or the camps. Little wonder that wives of future leaders stayed deep in the background, rarely appearing in public with their sour-faced husbands. The first “first lady” to take a high profile was Raisa Gorbachev—with the predictable result of undermining public confidence in her husband and his reforms because people thought she was calling the shots.

As Russia moved from Party control through glastnost and perestroika to democratic chaos to pseudodemocracy run by the Cheka, women came out of the back room. Some flaunted their sex and control over the oligarchs who rivaled the Politburo bosses in coarseness but showered their newfound ornaments with gifts and wore them like prizes—often two, three, four at a time—on their arms. Tamara Konycheva’s predecessors.

Others excelled in sports and culture. Still others made their mark in business and professions such as journalism. Many of the crusaders who have been cut down for carrying the flame of truth close enough to scorch the powers that be were female. Still others, if Irina Lishina was any indication, had a talent for crime.

Given the history and the lawless, dog-eat-dog society in which she grew up, it wasn’t all that astonishing that Irina thought she could single-handedly one-up the BEC. Her father had helped start it, maybe died because of his role. She’d almost certainly witnessed his murder. Her uncle and stepfather were successful crooks. One of them likely killed her old man. One of them screwed teenaged girls. This was her world. Her actions began to appear totally consistent—an eye for an eye, a wound for a wound, a corpse for a corpse. She’d show she could dish out as much pain as she received.

She’d found a willing agent in Andras. I was betting she had others. I was hoping I wasn’t acting as one more. I couldn’t swear that I wasn’t.

A good time to watch my back—just like I told myself two weeks ago at Trastevere.

CHAPTER
51

Nothing was stirring on Route 44, the main road through Millbrook, at 8:00
P.M.
Snow kept falling. I stopped and put down the window a mile north of town. As dark and still as I remembered Siberia to be—no houses, no cars, no lights, no sound. No sky either, just falling snow.

Caldecott Lane was two miles farther on. It hadn’t been plowed, but I made it far enough in for the darkness to hide the Explorer from cars passing on the main road. My new boots sank six inches into fresh snow. Not for the first time, I bemoaned the fact that the sporting goods store hadn’t sold firearms. There are supposed to be more gun dealers in the United States than McDonald’s in the entire world, but Stamford was an empty room in the armory. I’d made do with a large hunting knife in a plastic scabbard and an aluminum baseball bat. The thought of either embedded in Nosferatu’s bucktoothed face wasn’t displeasing.

I climbed a fence and strapped on my new snowshoes. I tucked the hunting knife into the waistband at the small of my back. Standing atop the accumulation of two storms, the top of the fence barely reached my knees. I set off at a clip that surprised me in ease and speed, at a thirty degree angle from Route 44. No moon, no stars, no lights. Just more snow. Even in the middle of an open field, I was invisible.

I was fifty yards from Leitz’s place, climbing another fence, when the barn appeared. The drive in front had been plowed during this storm, but hours ago. It showed no tire tracks or footprints. I pressed on, veering north, around the back of the main house, until I reached the pool. I recognized it from the satellite map and the large rectangle of fence top peeking out of the snow. The guesthouse was on the other side, thirty yards away. Beyond that was the garage. The stately main house stood to my left, woods fifty yards to my right. My watch said 8:55.

I waited a good ten minutes, watching, listening. Not a sound. Not a sight. Not a light. I could have assumed wrong and Irina didn’t have Uncle Oleg’s muscle here after all. More likely, the man—men?—were good and well hidden by the garage.

I moved to the back door of the guesthouse and pressed myself to the building while I removed the snowshoes. The alarm panel showed green. I worked the key in the lock. It turned easily, and the door opened without a creak. I closed it softly and stood in the dark. The heat was on. The house was warm.

I was in a small kitchen. I could make out a counter, stove and sink to my left. Table to my right. Fridge against the opposite wall. Door, cracked open, next to the fridge. More darkness beyond.

Clutching my aluminum bat, I crossed the room in two steps and nudged open the door. Dining room—table and four chairs, fireplace in the left wall, and open French doors at the far end. Still no sound.

I skirted the table to the French doors. A large L-shaped living room wrapped the front of the house. Two windows and a door opposite. The edge of the mantel on another fireplace, backing up on the one in the dining room to my left. Leather armchairs, a leather couch, lots of blankets and throws.

I stood still, sensing someone there I couldn’t see on the other side of the “L.” I listened for breathing, a rustle of clothing, something. If she felt my presence, she was doing the same thing. The silence was broken only by the mild whip of the wind outside. Stalemate. Three to one she was just around the corner. Same odds she was armed. But I wasn’t the one she planned to kill. Or so I hoped. A bad bet. I took a breath and stepped into the room.

She was sitting in the farthest corner, where I expected her to be. Her eyes were wide open and focused on me. Her face showed no surprise. A shotgun rested in her lap, the raised barrel pointed at my chest.

“This is a twelve-gauge pump. I know how to use it. My father taught me. One more step and I will.”

*   *   *

“Put down the bat.”

I did.

“He couldn’t keep it shut, could he?”

“Who?” I asked.

“I’m not stupid, Cheka Pig. Don’t treat me like I am.”

“He’s trying to help.”

She laughed. More of a bray—full of meanness, void of humor.

“He’s always trying to help. A fool, but he’s served his purpose.”

“What was that?”

“You’re so smart, what do you think?”

“Hacking the BEC?”

She grinned.

“Stealing the eight million?”

The grin widened.

“Placing the worm?”

“That’s the best of all. That’s what really got…” The grin disappeared and she shifted in her chair. The shotgun didn’t move.

“Enough, Cheka Pig. I don’t have to talk to you.”

“No, you don’t. But I’m curious. That’s what really got—what?”

She didn’t answer.

She’d chosen her location with care. Tucked in the corner, she was out of the line of sight—and fire—from every window, unless someone leaned far in the big bay to her left, in which case she had him. She had a clear view of the front door. Anyone using the back would end up entering the room as I did—an easy target. She was wearing black jeans and a turtleneck. The gun in her hand didn’t shake or waver. She had a box of shells in her lap.

“Waiting for your uncle?”

Her eyes stayed fixed on me.

“Who then?”

Nothing.

“He give you your scar?”

She seemed to jump in her chair, then settled back down. The impassive mask returned. “What scar?” A touch of something new in her voice—surprise? Fear?

“On your neck. I noticed it the other night, when we stopped at Burger King. I saw it on your WildeTime videos too—but only the recent ones.”

“
You’ve seen my videos?!
” A possibility she hadn’t considered—and didn’t like.

“Not voluntarily.”

“Pervert.”

“You don’t believe that. What about the scar?”

“You’re not just a Cheka pig, you’re a Cheka pervert.”

“Want to know what I think?”

“NO! I don’t care what a Cheka pervert thinks.”

Her voice said she did. But continuing this while she pointed a shotgun at my chest was foolish.

“Why don’t you put the gun aside? I’ll sit right here. We can talk about it. I’m on your side, even if you don’t think so.”

I eased myself onto an ottoman by the fireplace. It brought me a few feet closer, not that a few feet in the face of a twelve-gauge made much difference.

“I told you, don’t treat me like I’m stupid. You are
not
on my side.”

I kept an eye on the trigger finger. So long as it stayed outside the guard, I was okay. Maybe.

“When did you last talk to your father?” I asked quietly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just a question.”

She didn’t respond. The eyes clouded or seemed to. The light was bad, hard to tell for sure.

“You and Andras riled up that nest of vipers—the BEC, I mean. Was that your intention—set father against stepfather against uncle? Or did you have a particular target in mind?”

She shook her head again. She was smiling this time though.

“Come on, enlighten me. You’ve got the gun. I’d like to understand. We’ve got time, nobody’s here yet.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to a Cheka pervert.”

“You’re going to have to say something to someone, sooner or later.”

That got me a quizzical look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We all have to answer, even if it’s only to ourselves in a mirror. That’s the way life works.”

“Don’t give me any heaven and hell bullshit. They tried that at Gibbet. Chapel every morning. I’m way past that.”

“I’m talking about right here, right now.”

“It’s over for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s over.”

She said it like she meant it. The finger stayed where it was.

“You sound like Andras.”

“He doesn’t have a clue.”

“Don’t sell him short, Irina. He’s confused, but he’s not stupid. Or evil. Bad breaks, sure. Like you’ve had.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know as well as I do. Things happen, not your fault, but they send you down a whole different road. It’s not too late to turn off. It never is.”

“What the fuck do you know about it?”

“I know because before I was a Chekist, I was a
zek
.”

She put a pitchfork through that admission. “Big fucking deal. So was my stepfather—Vyatlag, Gorlag, wherever. He’s still a pig. So are you.”

So much for the conversational approach. Time was working against me. Two could play the pitchfork game.

“How old were you when he put his hand up your skirt?”

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

“Don’t play innocent, Irina. Uncle Efim. Thirteen, twelve?”

“NO! YOU DON’T GET IT! YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!”

The finger wrapped the trigger. That, I did understand. But I kept at it.

“The Players. Andras and his uncle. Kevin. Andras told me about him, the others. That was the bond, right?”

“NO! It’s between me and him. You have no … I don’t even know what you’re doing here!”

I let that go and looked out the window—with one eye. After a minute or two, her eyes followed mine and the trigger finger loosened. I let my breathing come back to normal.

“How many men outside?”

That made her start—and the finger move.

“What the fuck are you talking about now?”

I put an edge of anger in my voice. Not that she’d care, but she was still a kid, twelve-gauge or no twelve-gauge. “Christ, Irina. You’re not stupid, as you keep telling me. I’m not either. You’re waiting for Uncle Efim. He called right after you turned your phone on. You told him where to find you, told him you’d be waiting. Then you called Uncle Oleg in Moscow. He gave you the number for a man in Brooklyn. He’s got men outside now.”

“SHUT UP! I DON’T HAVE TO TALK TO YOU.”

She was shouting but the finger stayed in place. I pressed on.

“Your cousin—Tamara Konycheva. She’s been seen a lot with Uncle Efim. Even I know that.”

I was looking for a button, and I’d pressed it. She closed her eyes. I got ready to lunge for the gun. She opened here eyes again. Even in the dark, they were filled with fire.

“How long has he been sleeping with her?” I asked.

“NO! NOTHING YOU SAY IS TRUE!”

The denial came fast and angry.

“Was he still sleeping with you when he started screwing her? Is that why you decided to go after the BEC?”

She switched to Russian. “You fucking son of a whore and a diseased dog…”

I went with Russian too. I wouldn’t get another chance at this interrogation. I put my best Cheka steel in my voice.

“Here’s what I think happened. If I’m wrong on anything, say so. I think your uncle dumped you for your cousin. Last summer sometime. You were too old, used up. He decided to move on to prettier hunting grounds.”

“Fuck your mother, you rotten bastard…”

“You were pissed. You’re used to getting your own way. You and Andras and the other kids had been running the playhouse for a year or two. You knew about his computer skills. You also knew he had a crush on you. You were already bent on revenge when he told you about ConnectPay. So much the better. Frankyfun had been all over you since last spring. Did you know he was his uncle Walter or did that come later?”

She’d leaned forward, pushing the gun in my direction at the start, but she backed off, resuming the impassive state, finger relaxed on the trigger guard, off-kilter grin on her face. She didn’t react to my question. The answer wasn’t important—to her or to me.

I went back to English. “You strung Andras along while he worked his way through ConnectPay’s system and into the BEC. You got him to steal the three million in August. Had him make it look like Uncle Efim was cheating his partners, right?”