Father Night (25 page)

“Bitch!”

“I’m only what you made me, Daddy.”

“Christ.” Carson closed his eyes for a moment. A pulse beat in his temple. “What is it you want, Vera?”

“A favor.”

“And why would I grant you a favor? You’ve let Alli slip through your grasp.”

She slithered off the sofa, came up behind him, and wound her arms around his waist while she pressed her breasts against his back. “Because I’m your daughter, because you love me, and because I asked.”

He turned and, with stiff arms, pushed her away. “It wouldn’t be because it’s important to you.”

“You know what?” She yawned. “I just got bored.” She stepped to where she had dropped her coat and, bending over with her buttocks toward him, picked it up. “So long, Daddy,” she said without turning around. “Enjoy your exquisite aloneness.”

“Hold it,” he said when she had reached the front door. “Come back.”

“Give me a reason.”

He sighed. “What is it you want?”

She turned the knob, opened the door, and took a step across the threshold.

“Vera, please.”

“Please what, Daddy?”

“Stay for dinner.”

She shook her head. “No can do.”

“A drink, at least.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“What—?”

“You know what I want.”

“Come back in, damnit! I’ll give it to you.”

“Is that a promise, Daddy?”

“A promise, yes.”

“But answer me this: How do you trust someone who lies for a living?”

“Are you talking about me,” he said, “or you?”

She graced the gathering nighttime with a small secret smile, then wheeled around, closed the door behind her, and returned to the living room. This time she did not take off her coat, nor did she rub up against him. She was all business.

“Here.” She handed him a slip of paper.

“What is this?”

“Part of a license tag. From a black late-model Lincoln Town Car. I want to know whose car it is.”

His eyes narrowed. “Were you in some kind of accident?”

“A friend.”

His eyes narrowed further. “You have no friends.”

“That you know of.”

“Who’s this friend?”

“Doing it, yes or no?”

He sighed, picked up a cordless phone, and made a call. When he was done, he said, “Twenty minutes.”

Vera nodded. “I’ll take that drink now.”

*   *   *

M
IDNIGHT FOUND
Grigori Batchuk, aka Myles Oldham, at High Vibes, one of the only late-night clubs in D.C. The nation’s capital was not, strictly speaking, a late-night town—not publicly, anyway. But Grigori had a special talent for scenting out after-hours spots no matter what city he was in. And a special talent for attracting the tall, willowy, chicly attired denizens whose only ambition in life appeared to be to make themselves available to men like him. He had looks, wealth, and the necessary
je ne sais quoi
they could smell in their sleep.

Grigori danced and drank with a revolving quartet of these delicate jewels, and by the time he was ready to leave he had chosen the two he wanted for what was left of the night. Coatless, one arm around each, he emerged from High Vibes onto the sidewalk of Dupont Circle, sweeping them into the stretch limo that had been waiting for him. Its windows were blacked out and its wet-bar-equipped back cabin was separated from the driver by a thick sheet of opaque bulletproof glass.

The auto door locks engaged, the girls, giggling, anticipated the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in its silver bucket of ice, as well as other hinted-at delights. As Grigori settled back into the plush leather seat, the stretch nosed out into the street.

“Home, Serge,” he said into the intercom, then cut all sound from up front. He and his two beauties were now sealed off from any and all distractions.

Speaking of which, Grigori was far too distracted by the unfolding layers of pleasure that piled up in direct proportion to the layers of clothes he peeled off the girls. He showered them with champagne while they squealed in mock alarm, then shrieked as he licked it off their bare flesh.

It was only when they came to a stop that he looked up and, peering through the blacked-out window, noticed they weren’t at his apartment building. In fact, looking out at the block-square excavation pit, he discovered that they weren’t even in his neighborhood.

Hitting the intercom key, he shouted, “Hey, Serge, where the fuck are we?”

When the black glass divider slid down he saw, not his chauffeur, Serge, but Caro behind the wheel. She was turned around to face him, a Bersa Thunder 380 pointed at his chest.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Grigori.” She hit a button and the door locks popped open. Without taking her eyes off Grigori, she said, “Girls, get the fuck out of here.”

One of the girls looked around wildly. “What? Here?”

“Now!”

The girls scrambled for their clothes and fairly leapt off the seat and out of the stretch, slamming the doors behind them. When Grigori made a move to follow them, Caro waggled the Bersa. “Uh-uh. I have other plans for you.”

“Caro, this is the wrong way to—”

Relocking the doors, she slid up the partition. A moment later, Grigori saw her picking the lock on the chain across the access ramp to the construction site. She returned behind the wheel and the stretch rolled down the ramp into a small city of concrete, rebar, and pyramids of sand and refuse-studded earth. When it reached the lowest point, it stopped. For a time, nothing happened. Then the partition rolled back down and Caro aimed the Bersa at him.

“Caro, what d’you think you’re playing at?”

“I’m going to make sure that this is the last time you fuck me over.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Werner Waxman.”

He shook his head.

“Okay, Grigori, since you’re forcing me to spell it out, things will only get worse for you from here on out. That’s a promise.”

Grigori shook his head. “This isn’t like you at all.”

“See, that’s the problem between us right there. It’s
exactly
like me.”

Grigori sighed. “Caro, can we at least move to a venue where we’ll both be comfortable?”

“I’m extremely comfortable. You?” She tossed her head. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, I don’t give a fuck.”

Grigori’s eyes closed for a moment, as if he were trying to gather himself. “Okay, so what d’you want?”

She jabbed the Bersa at him. “Why did you introduce us?”

Grigori spread his hands. “Caro, that was so many years ago.”

“Don’t give me that, Grigori. You remember everything. What were you playing at when you put us together?”

“Waxman’s a fascinating man with enormous political clout. I thought bringing you two together would be advantageous—”

“My bullshit meter has gone off the chart.”

He glanced down for a moment. “All right. I thought if he was of some help, you’d be grateful, and that gratitude might one day turn to love.”

Caro goggled at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Sadly, no.”

She leaned forward. “Grigori, this fucker has kidnapped my cousin.”

He lunged at the handgun, but she was prepared, chopping down on the back of his neck with the edge of her free hand. All the breath went out of him, and she shoved him back against the seat.

He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. He was still having trouble breathing. “What are you talking about?” His voice was that of a hurt little boy. “Waxman isn’t a kidnapper.”

Grigori appeared genuinely shaken, which, in turn, flummoxed her. She had been so sure that he was in on whatever Waxman was planning.

“It’s true,” she said, trying her best to regroup. “For some reason, he has abducted Alli Carson, and, in the bargain, killed two Secret Service agents.”

“That’s absurd. How could he possibly get away with something like that?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Grigori was silent so long Caro said sharply, “You haven’t developed narcolepsy, have you, Grigori?”

“Give me a minute, will you?”

“Assuming you’re telling the truth—”

“I am.”

“Well, that would be novel.”

He glared at her, uncharacteristically silent. “I’m trying to remember how I met Waxman.” He snapped his fingers. “It was before I left Russia, in Moscow—a gala thrown by an oligarch—Limov, Lementov, something like that, I don’t quite recall. I never even met him. But I do remember the gala itself because that night I was alone.”

“Poor you.”

He made a face. “Anyway, Waxman was there. He and I hit it off right away.”

“Knowing what I know now,” she said dryly, “I’m not surprised.”

“You’re rushing to judgment. I don’t know where you’re getting your information these days—”

“And you won’t know. You bumped into him?”

“No.” Grigori shook his head. “We were introduced by an acquaintance of mine.”

“Do I know him?”

“Probably not. He’s a four-star general by the name of Tarasov.”

“Russian?”

“No, American. Gerard Tarasov. But I assume his father, at least, was of Russian extraction.”

“Meaning you don’t know.”

“I never looked into his background.” He pursed his lips. “Anyway, I’d think his background is classified.”

“Since when would that stop you?”

“It didn’t seem important. I never bothered.”

Caro wasn’t certain she believed him, but now was not the time to push that particular button. She had more important questions to ask. “How do you know General Tarasov?”

“Well, that’s a bit tricky, Caro.”

“So’s my finger on the Bersa’s trigger. Tell me, Grigori. How are you and Tarasov in bed together?”

All at once, Grigori leaned forward, his head in his hands.
“Merde!”
he muttered.
“Merde, merde, merde!”
Then he shook himself like a dog coming in out of the rain and, sitting up straight, said, “Gerard Tarasov and I have a mutual interest.”

“And that would be?”

“We have been after the same person for a very long time.”

“A name, Grigori. Give me a fucking name.”

“He’s a Russian. Dyadya Gourdjiev.”

“
Uncle
Gourdjiev? That’s his name?”

“That’s what everyone calls him,” Grigori said. “But believe me, there isn’t an avuncular bone in his body. He kills and destroys without remorse. The General and I both want him dead.”

*   *   *

“G
ENERAL
G
ERARD
Tarasov.” Dennis Paull was staring at the screen in his office where the slightly muzzy photo Nona had sent him from her cell was up. He pushed a button on a console and the photo moved slightly to the left to make room for a clearer color photo of the General.

“What the hell,” he asked himself rhetorically, “is Leonard Bishop cooking up in a restaurant men’s room with General Tarasov?”

He wished Nona were here to explain. He swiveled away from the screen, stared out at the nighttime view from his window. How he loved Washington, with all its warts and STDs, maybe even because of them. He could feel the power lines running under the city, fanning out like a spiderweb, not just from the White House, but from the lairs of all the power brokers, influence peddlers, and clandestine chieftains who, right this very moment, were scheming their schemes in an attempt to be king—or as close to it as America would allow.

A bitter taste had lodged in his mouth from the moment he had okayed the plan to send Nona undercover. Fraine had been right, he was whoring her out to Bishop in order to get inside this cabal. But at what price? Would Nona ever be the same? He contemplated these thorny questions even while he was perfectly aware that he should ignore them. Wasn’t that what all good generals did—make decisions for the greater good that demanded sacrifice from the individual? Death was one thing, but dishonor … Had he asked too much of her? But she had accepted; that must stand for something.

He resisted an urge to pinch himself, as if unsure whether or not he was awake. All this meditation—even the identification of the General—was all to take his mind off the one fear that had been occupying it ever since he had received the news that Alli Carson was missing. At first he’d been angry with her. He had been the one to assign Dick Bridges to keep her safe, and Bridges had made it clear that Alli was fighting the protection tooth and nail. In fact, in his last phone call, he had said that Alli and Vera had discovered a lead to the identity of the person who had launched the rogue Web site. He’d seen the site before it was taken down; he alone knew what had freaked Alli out: the prediction of her death on the anniversary date of her abduction by Morgan Herr almost five years ago. Frankly, if he’d been in her shoes, he’d have been freaked out, too.

He acknowledged that he’d made a mistake in granting Bridges’s wish to be assigned to her. The two of them were too close. She could talk him into most anything. But, if he were to be completely honest with himself, he knew that Jack was the only one who could talk her out of going off the grid when she felt the need arise. Jack was on his way home, but until then Paull had done everything in his power to discreetly find Alli. He had tried twice and failed to call Fraine, and was now concerned for the man’s safety. The other problem was Bridges, who had been out of touch for hours now. That did not bode well for Alli’s safety.

He swiveled back to stare into General Tarasov’s face. First Alli went missing, now this. He felt as if events were running away from him.

His phone rang and he leapt at it, praying it was Fraine.

“Secretary Paull?”

Not Fraine. “Speaking.”

“This is Detective O’Donnell over at the Twelfth.”

“Yes, of course. I remember you, Detective. You helped my people pick up Ali Amoud last year.”

“Yessir, that’s right. I’m relieved to have gotten you. I didn’t have your home number, of course, but I was hoping someone there would answer and let me know how—”

“What can I do for you?” Paull was staring at General Tarasov again. He was eager to commence his investigation of the General and, as a result, had used a vaguely dismissive tone. He couldn’t think of anyone he’d less like to chat with at this hour than a Metro detective.