Father Night (29 page)

“I’ve got a nasty cyber-stalker I want nailed.” Vera leaned over the wooden counter, but there was nothing to see in the windowless space, just blowups of photos Malliot had taken during his time overseas as a Marine. “What’ve you got for me?”

After peering at her for a moment, Malliot turned and selected two software packages. “I think I’ve got just the ticket for you, little lady.” He turned back, his hands full. “Depends on how much you’re willing to—”

Vera whipped out a stiletto and impaled his right hand to the countertop. As Malliot screamed, she said, in a gruff voice that eerily mimicked that of Pete Clemenza, “‘It’s a Sicilian message. It means Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes.’”

Malliot’s left hand swung out, but she deftly avoided the blow and punched him in the mouth. Blood spurted through his lips. “And so will you, unless you tell me where Alli Carson is.”

“Who are you?” Malliot looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Do I know you?”

Vera sawed the stiletto back and forth. Blood erupted from the back of his hand and he gasped. “I ask the questions, Moses. You answer them. Where is Alli Carson?”

“Who’s Alli Carson? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Her eyes blazed. “Don’t fuck with me, liar. I was there. I saw Waxman bundle Alli into your Town Car.”

“Waxman?” He laughed. “I don’t know any Waxman. There is no Waxman.”

At the same time, he tried to extricate his hand, and she twisted the knife.

“Tell me what I want to know, motherfucker.”

“All right, all right,” Malliot said, clearly on edge.

She sensed that he was about to tell her when the front door opened and Fraine came in. Vera, startled, turned to see and Malliot clocked her with his fist. As she staggered back, he grasped the hilt of the stiletto and, pulling it up, freed himself. Fraine rushed at him, but Malliot pulled the .357 Magnum he kept at the ready under the counter for emergencies and leveled it at Fraine. But he never got to pull the trigger. Fraine shot him in the throat, then in the center of his forehead. Malliot slammed back against the wall, his surveillance and privacy gadgets showering down around him.

“Idiot!” Vera shouted at Fraine as she bent over Malliot. “He was going to tell me where they’d taken Alli, and now he’s dead.”

“Pity for you,” the figure said, appearing from the shadows leading to the rear of the shop. “But not for me.”

Vera looked from the figure to Fraine. “Fuck me. You two are identical.”

“Hello, Alan,” Chris Fraine said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”

He raised his left hand, which held a CZ 75 SP-01 Phantom with polymer grips. He squeezed the trigger, and shot his twin brother twice in the chest.

*   *   *

T
HE NOON
fog had lifted in Rome, bringing in its wake the souls of the dead, wafting up like a dream from the buried layers, like dinosaur fossils beneath the bricks and cobbles of the modern city. Annika and Dyadya Gourdjiev arrived at the venerable Gran Caffè Doney on the Via Veneto, and were shown to a table. The wide, winding street was nearly deserted nowadays, a sad reminder of the faded fifties and sixties heyday of
La Dolce Vita
and Cinecittà, Federico Fellini, Marcello Mastroianni, Anita Ekberg, Sophia Loren, Sergio Leone, Clint Eastwood, a flood of paparazzi paying court, and a thousand and one starlets, sunglassed and wasp-waisted, draped over the tiny outdoor tables of its packed cafés. In those halcyon days, Cinecittà was the center of the film universe, outside Hollywood. Now its vast soundstages were kept afloat by Italian TV soaps and reality shows.

They ordered coffee and pastries, and glanced around the half-empty room strewn with tourists, heads huddled together, who didn’t know the Venero’s glory days were well behind it, laughing and partaking of the overpriced menu.

“He said he’d be waiting for us,” Annika said.

“This is typical behavior.” An unmistakable note of disdain soured Dyadya Gourdjiev’s voice. The implied ending:
for this younger generation.
His expression grew grave. “You know what you must do.”

“Of course, Dyadya.”

“There is still time—”

“No.” She shook her head. “There isn’t.” She tendered a tiny smile. “This is what—”

“Jack had not entered the picture then,” he said sharply.

Her smile grew rueful. “Jack has changed nothing.”

“And yet he’s changed everything. For both of us.”

“We go on, Dyadya. We are Russian, there is nothing else we can do.”

“Perhaps Jack won’t allow this.”

“Even he cannot stop it.”

He studied her for a moment, then nodded, albeit reluctantly. “It is interesting how humans can be pleased and sad, all at once.”

“So.” Annika, elbows on the table, took her grandfather’s veiny hands in hers. “How are you doing?”

A movement on the darkened street caught his eye for a moment, then was gone. “There is no justice in the world.”

“Don’t say that.” She squeezed his hands. “Justice is what we’re seeking.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gourdjiev said. “As for me, I am seeking revenge.”

“Then … now…” She looked into his pale blue eyes. “Dyadya
,
I’m afraid.”

His smile contained the warmth of his confidence in her. “You are fearless, my lovely one. Of what could you possibly be afraid?”

For a long time, she did not reply. The coffee and pastries came. Their waiter ogled her surreptitiously. Out on the street, a drunk barked his displeasure at the phantom with whom he was conversing. A motorcycle fled like time down the Veneto. She held on to her grandfather as if they were on the edge of a precipice, the crumbling rock on which they stood falling away.

“I am afraid of revenge,” she said at last.

He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Why would that be?”

“I fear that revenge is the only thing with the power to kill you.”

S
EVENTEEN

J
ACK WAS
running the name Waxman, which Fraine had relayed to Dennis Paull, through the available databases and getting nowhere fast, when the architectural blueprints for the First Avenue warehouses came up on the wall screen in Paull’s office, including electrical, HVAC, waste disposal, and security systems. Jack looked up, but his dyslexia made deciphering them difficult. If he’d had time to build a three-dimensional model, he would have been all right. Instead, he memorized them.

Paull had summoned two commando types, young, brush-cut, square-jawed men, through whose eyes the world was reduced to danger zones, target points, and kill sites.

Before Paull could brief them, Jack intervened. “I don’t need or want backup. Freeing Alli is a silent op.”

“I agree it’s a silent op,” Paull said, “but these men aren’t your backup—they’re the insertion team leaders.”

Jack was taken aback. “I think we need a private talk.”

“That’s just what we
don’t
need.” Paull came around from behind his desk. “Listen, Jack, this calls for a major operation. I’m not going to chance anyone escaping.”

Jack shook his head. “You know how hostage situations can deteriorate in a heartbeat. I don’t want men swarming the warehouses, endangering Alli’s life. No, the best way is my way. I’ll find a way in without raising any alarms.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”

“I saved her before,” Jack said. “I’ll save her again.”

Paull put a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was meant to be comforting, but Jack wanted to shake it off.

“No one understands your love for Alli better than I do. But this is a different situation; this isn’t a one-man abduction—it’s part of a larger plan, it calls for a different approach. The plan of attack I’ve chosen has Alli’s welfare as its top priority. Trust me on this, Jack.”

*   *   *

R
ADOMIL, IN
dark glasses and a white suit, slipped into Gran Caffè Doney like the shade of Marcello Mastroianni. Every woman in the café turned her head from her husband, boyfriend, or escort to take a long, greedy look at this apparition from the pinnacle of the Veneto’s history. His dark hair was long, thick, and shining, obscuring the tops of his ears and the nape of his neck. His smile was wide, with that offhand flair only Europeans could muster without artifice. He might look identical to his twin, but that was where the similarity ended. Where Grigori’s manner was sharp and probing, openly searching for the jugular, Radomil’s was languid, placid, even, at times, diffident. On first glance, one could be forgiven mistaking him for an underachiever. However, that mistake would be lethal. Quiet as a panther, he made certain he was close enough to smell your breath before he pounced, claws sunk into your neck.

Annika did not look up while he wended his way between the tables, though Dyadya Gourdjiev certainly did.

“Radomil,” her grandfather said as the younger man slid into a chair opposite him, “it’s always good to see you.”

“I’m greatly relieved to see the reports of your death are exaggerated.” Radomil’s voice was smoother and darker than his brother’s—a bassoon instead of an oboe. “And I am most gratified that your escape from purgatory was successful.”

Annika’s head snapped up. “Cut the crap, Radomil. This veddy, veddy ‘British gentleman’ act of yours makes me want to puke. It might fool some people, but it won’t make a dent in us.”

“So you see even my attempt at civilized discourse is a threat to you.”

“Threat?” Annika was truly enraged now. “You shit. You’re a shadow of your brother.”

“Humm.” Unbidden, Radomil took a bite of her uneaten pastry. “And yet, my darling, it’s me you’re sitting here with, not him.”

“Annika,” Gourdjiev said, “will you force me to intercede between the two of you once again?”

Radomil chuckled. “Just like siblings the world over, eh?”

She bridled as he chucked her under the chin. “We’re not siblings.”

“Really?” Radomil cocked his head. “What do you call two children who share the same father?”

“Exceptionally unfortunate.” She glared at him. “I killed our father, and was happy to do it.”

“And I applaud you for that act of courage. We both hated him.” Radomil sighed. “Annika, for the life of me I cannot fathom your continuing antagonism toward me.”

“You cannot fathom…?” Annika gave her grandfather an astonished look. “Do you hear, Dyadya?” she said, switching to Russian. “Can you believe this stupidity?” She rose abruptly. “I can’t take any more of his lies and deceptions.”

Gourdjiev reached out, took her hand in his. “Darling, sit down.” His eyes searched hers. “I beg of you.”

Wrenching her hand away, she stalked out of the café and stood on the Veneto, glaring at the young men on motorbikes grinning and whistling at her as they whizzed past. A moment later, she felt Radomil emerge and come up beside her. For a time, they both stared out at the dun-colored buildings of Rome—buildings constructed on the ruins of others, on and on, deeper and deeper, history become a physical thing you could both sense and touch.

“I don’t want this, you must know that.”

“When it comes to you, Radomil, I don’t know a damn thing.”

“Come, now.” His voice softened. “Surely that isn’t true.”

“No?” She turned to him. “Where is your allegiance? Is it to my grandfather or is it to your brother?”

“You know I have nothing but contempt for Grigori.”

“I know nothing of the kind. You can’t believe a word your grandfather says.”

Radomil spread his hands. “When have I ever lied to you?”

She stepped very close, her eyes entangled with his. “You never told us.
That’s
a lie.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Nevertheless, Radomil’s smile was forced.

She leaned toward him. “You think I don’t know—but I
do
know.”

“Know what?”

“I read the study notes on you and Grigori.”

His face went pale. “You don’t understand—”

“No, you want to believe I don’t understand.”

“Christ on a crutch.” He licked his lips, his face now completely drained of color.

“Right you are, Radomil. I know what you are—or, rather, what you and Grigori were meant to be. But you can change that.”

His eyes turned inward. “But that’s the thing, Annika. I can’t.” All his surface polish seemed to have fled down the street, following the motorbike boys into the gunmetal Roman darkness.

“That’s what you were
meant
to think.”

“Because Grigori and I were made, not born.”

She tossed her head, not shy to show her contempt. “Now you’re being melodramatic. You were born the same way I and everyone else was.”

He turned away, his face shadowed, but, unrelenting, she kept after him.

“Radomil, what happened to you? I mean you specifically.”

“The experiments…” He bit his lip. “You weren’t there. You didn’t undergo … Even having read the notes, you cannot imagine what it was like.”

“Radomil, look at me. Did he leave you without free will?”

“Wasn’t that his purpose?”

“To be honest, even Dyadya doesn’t know his purpose,” she said.

Radomil nodded. “Only he knows, then.”

“The one we’re seeking.” She stared at him, trying to worm her way in. “The one only you know how to find.”

His head turned, the lamplight from the café firing his eyes. “Waxman. Werner Waxman.”

“Now I can find out something about him.”

“No, you can’t.” He sighed, all the air going out of him. “Because no one knows his real name.”

“Someone must.” She pulled him to her. “Radomil, will you help us find him?”

A significant change came over him, but it was too late to break away. Fear spread its batlike wings across his face, then pure aggression chased down the fear and killed it. He had a knife at her throat, a bead of blood running like a tear into the hollow of her neck.

“Annika, Grigori and I have been trained as killers, you know this.”

“I also know, my brother, that you have fought your training. Now is the time for you to break away completely.”

*   *   *

A
FTER LEAVING
Paull’s office, Jack found a small park and sat on a bench, watching the pigeons come and go, like the shadows clouds make across hillsides. He closed his eyes and pictured the huge computer screen on Paull’s office wall. Centering himself, he saw again the lines and markings, arrows and notations. Dismissing everything but the foundation outline, his mind began to build a three-dimensional model so that he could look at it from every angle. As soon as he did that, he began to make connections, then connections to those connections. Three minutes after he began, he had his point of entry.