The Mulberry Bush (22 page)

Ten minutes later I texted a summary of this conversation to Amzi so that there would be no future misunderstandings about whose side I was on—an important distinction, since I was on nobody's side.

A couple of days later, back in his office, Amzi said, “How does your Russian buddy propose to do what a Russian's gotta do?”

I said, “He didn't say, just that it would get your attention.”

Amzi said, “Find out.”

“Any suggestions about how I do that?”

“You think like a fucking Russian,” Amzi said. “So think. Let Tom know your insights. We're done.”

He had taken the last sip of his coffee and spoke these words as he put down his cup. Suddenly I realized that this was the way Amzi timed his meetings—they lasted exactly as long as it took him to drink a cup of coffee.

In the elevator, Tom Terhune, who had been sitting beside me in his customary silence during the entire dialogue with Amzi, suddenly regained the power of speech.

He pressed the emergency stop button and the cage braked its fall, causing the two of us to stagger as we caught our balance. I grabbed Tom's elbow—he was sixty years old, after all, and I was afraid he might fall and hurt himself. This annoyed him: Did I think he was on his last legs? He shook off my hand.

“What Amzi really wants,” Tom said, “is for you to somehow circumvent protocol and sit down with Burkov and talk this situation through.”

“Then why didn't he say so?”

“When did Amzi ever say what he means?”

“Then tell me, please, what you think he means?”

“That's what I'm trying to do. He doesn't want to wait for Burkov's minders to ask the right questions.”

“Why not? Is there something he doesn't want them to know?”

Tom ignored the question. Was he trying to be opaque? Of course he was. It was the habit of a lifetime.

The elevator's emergency telephone rang. Tom picked up the handset, spoke his own name, and said, “Everything's fine. Give me a minute to work the problem. I'll call if we need help.”

He hung up and turned to me. “You
will
do it,” he said.

I said, “What makes you think that?”

“You're under orders. You're under discipline.”

“Improper orders. If I do this, I'll be thrown to the wolves.”

He said, “Maybe, but you've got an insurance policy. The Director likes you. Anyway, it's already all arranged.”

“What's already arranged?”

“Your meeting with Burkov.”

“Not my pardon?”

Tom brushed this fly away. He said, “You will meet Burkov in the parking lot of the Giant supermarket in Warrenton, Virginia, at twelve noon tomorrow. Allow yourself two hours to get there from the District. You'll see a white van that has R
USS AND
G
EORGE WE DO IT ALL AND DO
IT RIGHT
painted on it. Park to the right of the van, your car headed in the opposite direction, and roll down your window. Turn the radio up to the max. Russ or George will get out of the van and approach your open window. They'll knock on the roof of your car and shout, ‘Can you turn that shit down?' You'll say, ‘Sure thing. Real sorry about that, buddy.' Then they'll walk away and you'll get into the van. Burkov will be inside.”

“And if I don't show up?”

No answer. This was not the Tom I had, until now, thought I knew. But then, in all fairness, I was not the man he thought he knew. If I said no to this incomprehensible scheme, I'd be fired and the day I lived for would be lost forever. Father would never be avenged.

Tom said, “Well?”

I didn't say no for a third time. The only way I could find out what was going on was to proceed as ordered. Tom gave me a brisk nod to show me he recognized capitulation when he saw it.

He punched the red emergency stop button, the elevator came back to life with a shudder, and down we went.

On the way to Warrenton the following morning I drove in and out of rain squalls, some of them so violent I couldn't see the road and had to stop and wait out the downpour. I arrived at the Giant parking lot five minutes late. The white van was parked well away from the shops. Ignoring the rain, I tuned in a hip-hop station and turned up the volume until it hurt my ears and rolled down the window. It was still raining. In seconds the left side of my body was soaked. A young man who looked like he could walk onto the practice field at the University of Alabama, run one play and make the team, got out of the van. He approached the car and spoke the recognition phrase. I gave the reply. Rainwater spilled off the peak of his John Deere cap. He paid it no mind.

He said, “Are you carrying?”

“No.”

He handed me a plastic bag. “Put your cell phone and anything else electronic in the bag, also any ID, false or genuine, and everything else in your pockets. I'll hold it for you. You'll find the bag on the driver's seat when you get back into the car.” He handed me a device about the size of a bottle cap that was suspended from a black cord.

“Hang this around your neck under your shirt,” he said. “I'll be nearby. I'll unlock the door so you can get into the van. I'll lock the door behind you. You won't be able to open it from the inside. When you're ready to go, press the button on the gizmo, once only, and I'll let you out. If you're in trouble, press the button twice. You've got fifteen minutes.”

The interior of the van was rigged like a boat: seats that unfolded to make beds, a stowaway kitchen, a latrine. There were no windows. Burkov wore incongruous baggy NBA-length shorts, a Celtics T-shirt with Larry Bird's name and number 33 instead of POW on the back, no shoes or socks. No chains or manacles.

Burkov said, “Ah, you. Would you like a Coke?”

“No thanks. How's it going?”

“As you see. American methods of interrogation differ from the Russian system.”

“So far.”

“Yes, I know the worst could happen at any moment. I've heard your people will sometimes go so far as to deprive their victims of sleep, or make them hold their arms over their heads for minutes at a time or listen to loud rock music or have ferocious attack dogs snarl and slaver and bark at them. Or go even beyond that and spread a towel on some poor soul's face and pour water on it. It's worse than a sorority initiation.”

“Try to tough it out.”

“I'm trying. So, my friend and rescuer, what brings you here?”

I said, “Curiosity. In ten words or less, what exactly was the purpose of that comedy in Bogotá?”

“I told you the reason—to save my ass.”

“They were going to kill you?”

“Yes. As you saw.”

“That's the question. What exactly did I see?”

“What you saw is what happened.”

“Can you tell me who you believe controlled the killers and the reason why they want to kill you? You seem to be good at your job.”

He leaned across the space between us and whispered in my ear.

“Who do you think?” he said. “Your friend Boris is using you. You think you recruited him. But he was recruited many years ago by somebody else in your Headquarters, a powerful man who will do anything to protect him because he is the best source they have ever had. I know this is true, I have proof.”

“Name of this source?”

“Why should I tell you what I could sell for any price I name?”

“You're sure about this?”

“Does the sun rise every morning? Boris is the only possible suspect. He has already killed one man who knew too much. He will kill you if necessary.”

“Just like in the movies.”

Burkov said, “You should take this seriously, my friend. I like you. I am grateful for what you did for me. I am trying to repay you. But no more talk. Go now. Don't come back. Get out of this business. Go back to being a human being.”

“What proof do you have?”

“I've told you enough. The rest, your government will have to pay for. Go.”

I was only too glad to do so. I pressed the button on the device. The lock clicked, the door of the van slid open. I got out and heard the door lock behind me. There was no sign of the athletic young man. The rain had stopped. I moved my car closer to the Giant, went inside, and bought some cooked Buffalo wings, a peach, and a bottle of spring water.

When I came out of the supermarket the white van was still parked in its isolated parking space at the far edge of the parking lot. This surprised me. Why were they lingering?

Behind me I heard a loud
pop,
a
whoosh.
I glimpsed a fiery flash, smelled acrid smoke, saw or later on imagined that I saw the track of a rocket-propelled grenade headed straight for the van. When the missile struck, the vehicle convulsed like a living thing, then exploded and spat the shrapnel of its burning parts in all directions.

I got into my car and drove away. As usual, Boris was right: There is no such thing as too obvious where assassination is concerned.

Its whole purpose is to advertise, to be remembered. To let you know your fate is up for grabs.

My brain woke up in the kitchen in the house in Georgetown. It took me a moment to realize where I was and how I had got there. I had driven the sixty miles from Warrenton in a trance. Witnessing the fiery death of Burkov, watching as he was cremated alive and taught the lesson his murderers had wanted to teach him and me and teach the world—achieved what I had never been unable to command my mind to do:
Shut down, leave me alone.

I had to urinate—badly.

I was standing in front of the toilet bowl, emptying my bladder, when I heard someone pounding on the front door. It sounded like he was using a sledge hammer. I heard a crash and the sound of shattering glass as the door came off its hinges and crashed onto the floor in the front hall. Then, in the mirror, shouting men with guns in their hands. An instant after that, while urine still spurted, someone with the strength of a gorilla grabbed me from behind and dragged me backward into the hall. I pissed all over the floor. I was still too out of it to feel shame. It is almost impossible to stain a good Persian carpet. In my mind I watched
a memory: rug makers in Kurdistan dragging Bijar carpets fresh from the loom into the street to “season” them. If passing camels trampled and pissed on them, so much the better.

That was the first coherent thought, if you could call it that, I had had since I drove out of the Giant parking lot three hours ago.

The gorilla was subduing me school yard fashion, his bony forearm against my windpipe and with his other hand bending my arm between my shoulder blades. A second man was frisking me and throwing the contents of my pockets on the floor as he went.

The frisker said to me, “Put your dick away, for Christ's sake.” His face was inches away from it.

His partner said, “Help him out, why don't you?”

The frisker said, “Very funny. He's clean.”

The gorilla took his forearm off my throat.

I said, “Who the fuck
are
you guys? Why are you doing this?”

There was no need to ask, really. Both men wore sateen warm-up jackets with the Bureau's famous initials emblazoned on their front and back in large DayGlo yellow capital letters.

A third agent grimly watched the procedure. Apparently he was the agent in charge. He made a gesture. The other agent let go of me. I put my penis away and worked the zipper.

Answering my question, the agent in charge said, “We'd like to ask you some questions.”

I said, “I'd like to do the same. For starters, who's going to pay for a new front door?”

“Don't push it,” the agent in charge said. “We can do this nicely or we can do it some other way, your choice.”

I said, “Do what nicely?”

“Ask you a few questions.”

I said, “Questions about what?”

“Where were you at twelve forty-two this afternoon?”

I didn't answer the question.

“Is the Giant supermarket on Lee Highway in Warrenton, Virginia, a possibility?”

I didn't answer the question.

He said, “Did you see anything unusual?”

I said nothing.

“What did you do after you left the Giant?”

I said, “You first. Who's going to pay for a new front door?”

“OK. That does it. You're coming with us.”

“Am I under arrest?”

The agent said nothing.

I said, “Do I get a phone call?”

“Yes, if you think anyone will take the call.”

“Can I have my phone back?”

To my surprise, he handed it over. Because I assumed that Headquarters already knew what was going on and would not interfere as a matter of interagency courtesy, I called Lester Briggs, the lawyer who had handled my legacy from Mother—he was the only lawyer I knew—and described my situation.

He said, “Go with them. Quietly. Answer no questions—none, no matter how trivial or irrelevant they seem. Make no small talk. Control your emotions. I'll be there as quickly as I can. Let me talk to the agent.”

“They ripped the front door off the hinges. Can you get somebody to fix it?”

“Yes. Now, the agent.”

I handed the phone to the agent. “It's for you.”

He put the phone to his ear and said, “Special Agent Hathaway.”

The call lasted less than a minute. I could hear both ends of the conversation. Lester Briggs asked where they were taking me. Special Agent Hathaway told him. Then he put my phone into a plastic evidence bag and said, “Let's go.”

To my surprise they didn't read me my rights or put cuffs on me or even take hold of my arms, and during the ride to Pennsylvania Avenue they ignored me. I might as well have been deaf, dumb, and invisible.

This adventure didn't last much longer. Lester Briggs was a competent lawyer. He talked to somebody offstage while I sat at a table in silence in front of a large two-way mirror. A steely female agent kept me company by fixing me with an unwavering stare and tapping a pen on the table (Moonshine Manor wisdom:
When conducting an interrogation, make the subject wait and distract him with some small but annoying mannerism.
)

She got a call on her cell phone.

She listened, disconnected, and then said to me, “You're free to go. I'll walk you out.”

On the way out I collected my belongings, which included my Headquarters credentials and the pendant the athletic young man in the parking lot had given me. Being as ostentatious about it as possible, I counted the money in my money clip, a 1908 Saint Gaudens twenty-dollar gold piece that Father had given me on my thirtieth birthday. It was all there.

As for my cell phone, I assumed that it had been bugged even though I was sure the Bureau just didn't do things like that without a warrant.

Lester gave me a lift back to Georgetown.

I said, “What was that all about?”

“They didn't go into detail,” Lester said. “But they're suspicious of the company you keep—all those Russians—and that you inherited three million dollars from an impecunious mother out of the blue and Luz spent almost twice that amount in cash for a house in Georgetown and has charged fifty thousand dollars' worth of clothes and various other items to her credit card since you hit town. None of these things are crimes, so unless they have something they're not disclosing, as they probably do, they have nothing on you. However, watch your step. You have become a person of interest. That means they think you're guilty of
a crime but they don't yet have enough evidence to book you. Do not relax. Confide in no one.”

“Is what they did today the way they usually operate?”

“They're not paid to be gentlemen. Technically they were within the law. They had a warrant. They say they thought you were armed and dangerous. Were you?”

“No.”

He pulled into our driveway. Dusk was falling. The lights were on in every room in the house. A couple of handymen were fitting a new door.

Lester said, “The agents did that to your door?”

“Yep. Are these the guys you hired to hang a new door or are they Bureau surveillance in disguise?”

“I don't know, but here's some advice. Don't send the Bureau a bill. Don't provoke these people in any way. They're mad enough at you already. And they don't especially like the agency you work for. I'm not going to kid you. This is a witch's brew.”

No fooling?
I said, “Thanks.”

Lester said, “Call me immediately if they make further contact. If they come back, the same rules apply doubly. Answer no questions. Do not even shake your head yes or no unless they ask you if you want to use the men's room. Sign nothing. If they read you your rights do not acknowledge that you understand. Do not smile. Do not frown. Show no emotion. Be cool in Kabul.”

To avoid the handymen or whatever they were, I went in through the garage. Luz was in the kitchen, standing up at the counter, drinking wine and eating cheese and a large peach, which she had cut into eight segments and arranged on a white plate like the petals of a daisy with the pit in the center.

She asked me no questions. She had never looked more ready for bed.

She said, “Want some?”

The answer was yes, but there were witnesses on the doorstep. For the next hour we ate our cheese and peaches and drank most of the wine. We listened to the vintage country music the handymen were playing on their radio. We did not kiss, we did not dance to the George Jones songs, we did not touch, we barely spoke. This was effective foreplay, but it did not erase from my mind what I had seen in the Giant parking lot or what I now knew in my bones was the truth about my father's ruin and the fate of Luz's father and the connections between the two.

The handymen finished what they were doing. That included fitting a new door that matched the old one exactly and painting it the exact same color. Their work was expert. The bill was enormous. Luz wrote a check without demur. The handymen—exercising their cover, maybe—were as suspicious of the check as I was of them, but they pocketed it and drove off in a mud-splashed white van that had no name or address or phone numbers painted on its sides.

For two hours Luz and I made love as if we might never have another opportunity—not such a remote possibility, given the way things were going at home and at work—then fell asleep on sweat-soaked sheets. I did not wake up until nine the next morning. It took me a while to remember where I was. The room, the entire house was strange to me. Luz stirred and groped for me in her sleep. I evaded her grasp, she subsided. I went into the bathroom and shaved and got into the shower. Luz joined me, but not for her usual reasons.

She murmured, “Something bad happened.”

“How do you know?”

“I felt it in your body last night. What? Have they found out?”

“I don't think so. I'm not sure. But that's not the point.”

“Then what is? Tell me.”

I told her.

The shower beat down on us. Luz's hair was plastered to her skull. As I talked all expression erased itself from her face.

She said, “Did they intend to kill you?”

“No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I'm not dead.”

“Not this time,” Luz said, “not yet.”

She began to cry. I tried to embrace her. She evaded me. Sobbing spasmodically, eyes tight shut against the tears, she reached blindly for shampoo and rubbed it into her hair. I left her alone.

Still dripping wet, I used Luz's cell phone, a fifty-dollar Walmart special that the Bureau and Headquarters theoretically did not know existed, to text Father Yuri, asking him to go for a walk with me on Roosevelt Island that afternoon. Before I left the house I wrapped my own compromised cell phone in aluminum foil and put it in the freezer. This was a ridiculous act that accomplished nothing, but it was the prescribed thing to do in the world I lived in.

I drove to work, assuming the all-seeing eyes of the Bureau or of Headquarters Security, or both, followed me. As I walked through the door of my office, the phone rang.

It was Rosemary. She said, “He wants to see you now. Immediately. Alone.”

Instead of having his feet on his desk as usual, Amzi was standing up when I entered. He was angry, or feigning anger, who could tell the difference? There was fury in his eyes, color in his face, his right fist was balled. He looked more than ever like one of the great apes.

He said, in a voice somewhat louder than usual, “Where the fuck have you been for the last twenty-two hours? It's twelve o'clock.”

I said, “I overslept.”

“You turned off all your phones and slept all day yesterday after you fucking disappeared and disobeyed orders?”

I said, “Not exactly. Amzi, you already know the answer to your question. So what's going on here?”

“I do?” Amzi said. “Let me summarize your insubordination. You witness the assassination of a defector under our protection I had personally told you to stay away from. You don't report in, you vanish, nobody knows where you are or if you're fucking dead or alive or if you're the prime suspect or if you've been snatched by persons unknown and are spilling your guts in a torture chamber. And
you
ask
me
what's going on?”

Amzi being Amzi, I didn't know whether this was role-playing or reality. I wasn't betting on reality.

I said, “Just to save time, what don't you know?”

“I just told you. So indulge me. Where were you between the explosion and this minute? Why did you go silent? What the fuck did you think you were doing? Start with the minute you left this office yesterday. Leave nothing out.”

Despite Lester's advice to confide in no one, I left nothing out, not even my thoughts, such as the fact that I had expected that there would be a sniper on the roof of the Giant, which is where the RPG round came from, and that he would blow my head off as I walked back to the car. Or that in my mind there were no nonsuspects in this crime—none.

Not even Amzi.

All this took awhile. Amzi did not interrupt. Suddenly he cared nothing about time. He drank no coffee. He did not glance at his clocks.

One element in the story interested him greatly.

He said, “Let me get this straight. Terhune stopped the elevator and told you I wanted you to pay a call on Burkov?”

“Yes.”

Amzi went to the window and looked out. He asked me no more questions. With his back turned he said, “We're done.”

I said, “Oh, no we're not. What happened to the young guy I met in the parking lot?”

“He's got some flesh wounds but he's OK. His partner, the driver, was killed. Did you see him?”

“No. The driver's compartment was separate.”

“The cops found an arm with a wristwatch that belonged to him a hundred feet away from what was left of the van.”

“Did they also find Burkov's wristwatch?”

Amzi said nothing.

I said, “One more question. Who sent Special Agent Hathaway and his friends to break into my house and how did they know where I was living?”