sequence.”
“Sorry. Work?”
“Among other things.”
I didn’t want to ask the next question, but I didn’t want to appear uncaring either.
“Your mother?”
“Bad subject.”
The Cheka stomped in, wearing high leather boots with steep heels, Lavrenty Pavlovich at the head of the column.
“Maybe I should call another day.”
“You’re on the phone now. You wouldn’t have called unless you wanted something.”
Ouch. And true. “Aleksei, I…”
“Don’t. I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for. It’s been a bad few days, as I said.”
“You’re right, though. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m just not used to…”
“I understand. It’s your kopek.”
“All right. Efim Konychev.”
Pause. “What about him?” His tone had been sour. Now it was sour and on guard.
“I might be bumping up against him.”
“Be careful.”
“I figured that out. Ivanov says he’s been in hiding since the Tverskaya attack.”
“I guess so.”
Sour, on guard, and evasive.
“Any idea why he’s showing himself now, or why the Feds here are letting him into the country, or why he’d want to be let in?”
A pause before he said, “I can’t talk about that.”
So the CPS was involved. “He causing your string of bad days?”
“You’re not listening to me.” Annoyance in his voice now.
Change the subject. “You ever run across a very tall Belarusian, maybe six seven, bald, pockmarked face, bad teeth, exceptional strength?”
There was a longer pause this time. “Why?”
“He laid a pretty good thumping on your old man a few nights ago. More than that, he seemed to know all about me, which suggests certain connections.”
“That’s your department.”
I let that go.
His voice softened. “Okay, few nights ago? Where?”
“Here. Second Avenue. He had four guys with him, but they could’ve been rent-a-thugs.”
The voice changed. “What are you working on?”
“Something I can’t talk about.”
Another pause. “I’ve heard about a man like that. Knack of appearing out of nowhere. Superhuman strength. Don’t know his name, no one does. Lots of stories, though. He likes to tie people up conscious and slit their wrists so they feel themselves die. If he has time. Otherwise, he just breaks their necks—with his hands.”
I was starting to look lucky.
“He’s supposed to be the chief enforcer of the Baltic Enterprise Commission.”
The connection I was looking for. I paused before I played my next card. I told myself I hadn’t been sure I wanted to when I placed the call, but that was rationalization.
“That photo of Konychev yesterday on Ibansk—it was taken outside an office building here in New York. One of the tenants is a big-time Wall Street investor, Sebastian Leitz.”
I was listening for curiosity, but he kept his voice flat, intentionally or not. “So?”
“Leitz is bidding on two TV networks here. Sixty-five billion dollars. His computers were bugged eight weeks ago. Right after I discovered that, I got a visit from the bucktoothed Belarusian. I call him Nosferatu, by the way.”
“More coincidences than you can tolerate?”
“One way to sum it up.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Information. Background. I’m trying to put pieces together, figure out what’s going on.”
“You working for—what’s-his-name?—Leitz?”
“Can’t say.”
A long pause this time. “You think we’ll ever trust each other. I mean, really trust? Both of us?”
I started to answer— I hope so —but he was asking a two-sided question. His lack of trust was given and warranted. We both understood that. He was also asking if I could overcome a lifetime of cynical calculation and trust anyone—him—based on things as ethereal as blood and love.
Beria put in an appearance behind the public phone, wearing his Cheka uniform, pince-nez balanced on his ski-jump nose. Eyes dark and humorless, but not without curiosity.
Not so simple, is it? he said.
Go away, I
“Sorry. Work?”
“Among other things.”
I didn’t want to ask the next question, but I didn’t want to appear uncaring either.
“Your mother?”
“Bad subject.”
The Cheka stomped in, wearing high leather boots with steep heels, Lavrenty Pavlovich at the head of the column.
“Maybe I should call another day.”
“You’re on the phone now. You wouldn’t have called unless you wanted something.”
Ouch. And true. “Aleksei, I…”
“Don’t. I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for. It’s been a bad few days, as I said.”
“You’re right, though. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m just not used to…”
“I understand. It’s your kopek.”
“All right. Efim Konychev.”
Pause. “What about him?” His tone had been sour. Now it was sour and on guard.
“I might be bumping up against him.”
“Be careful.”
“I figured that out. Ivanov says he’s been in hiding since the Tverskaya attack.”
“I guess so.”
Sour, on guard, and evasive.
“Any idea why he’s showing himself now, or why the Feds here are letting him into the country, or why he’d want to be let in?”
A pause before he said, “I can’t talk about that.”
So the CPS was involved. “He causing your string of bad days?”
“You’re not listening to me.” Annoyance in his voice now.
Change the subject. “You ever run across a very tall Belarusian, maybe six seven, bald, pockmarked face, bad teeth, exceptional strength?”
There was a longer pause this time. “Why?”
“He laid a pretty good thumping on your old man a few nights ago. More than that, he seemed to know all about me, which suggests certain connections.”
“That’s your department.”
I let that go.
His voice softened. “Okay, few nights ago? Where?”
“Here. Second Avenue. He had four guys with him, but they could’ve been rent-a-thugs.”
The voice changed. “What are you working on?”
“Something I can’t talk about.”
Another pause. “I’ve heard about a man like that. Knack of appearing out of nowhere. Superhuman strength. Don’t know his name, no one does. Lots of stories, though. He likes to tie people up conscious and slit their wrists so they feel themselves die. If he has time. Otherwise, he just breaks their necks—with his hands.”
I was starting to look lucky.
“He’s supposed to be the chief enforcer of the Baltic Enterprise Commission.”
The connection I was looking for. I paused before I played my next card. I told myself I hadn’t been sure I wanted to when I placed the call, but that was rationalization.
“That photo of Konychev yesterday on Ibansk—it was taken outside an office building here in New York. One of the tenants is a big-time Wall Street investor, Sebastian Leitz.”
I was listening for curiosity, but he kept his voice flat, intentionally or not. “So?”
“Leitz is bidding on two TV networks here. Sixty-five billion dollars. His computers were bugged eight weeks ago. Right after I discovered that, I got a visit from the bucktoothed Belarusian. I call him Nosferatu, by the way.”
“More coincidences than you can tolerate?”
“One way to sum it up.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Information. Background. I’m trying to put pieces together, figure out what’s going on.”
“You working for—what’s-his-name?—Leitz?”
“Can’t say.”
A long pause this time. “You think we’ll ever trust each other. I mean, really trust? Both of us?”
I started to answer— I hope so —but he was asking a two-sided question. His lack of trust was given and warranted. We both understood that. He was also asking if I could overcome a lifetime of cynical calculation and trust anyone—him—based on things as ethereal as blood and love.
Beria put in an appearance behind the public phone, wearing his Cheka uniform, pince-nez balanced on his ski-jump nose. Eyes dark and humorless, but not without curiosity.
Not so simple, is it? he said.
Go away, I
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