House Justice (40 page)

He could understand why Yuri didn’t want him to go to a hospital. A man with a gunshot wound would be questioned by the police and Yuri was afraid that if Mikhail was questioned he’d give Yuri up.

“Bring me a phone,” he said to the doctor.

The doctor didn’t move; he was obviously more afraid of Yuri than of a man too weak to stand.

“Doctor, I know what you’re thinking,” Mikhail said. “You’re thinking if you don’t obey Yuri he’ll kill you, and he will. But do you remember the big man with the goatee who carried me in here?”

The doctor nodded.

“He’s my friend,” Mikhail said. “My best friend. He’s not a very smart man but he’s extremely loyal, and he’ll blame my death on you. He’ll strangle you to death. Now bring me a phone.”

Actually, Ivan didn’t like Mikhail because Mikhail treated him like the brainless oaf he was—but the doctor didn’t know that. He brought Mikhail a phone.

Mikhail started to dial a number, and as he did the doctor turned to leave the room. “Wait, doctor,” Mikhail said. “I want you to hear this.”

Into the phone, Mikhail said, “Uncle, this is Mikhail. I’ve been shot and I’m seriously wounded.” Uncle Lev interrupted to ask questions but Mikhail cut him off. “Not now, Uncle. You need to send an ambulance to Dr. Morrow’s house in National City, and have the ambulance take me to a hospital in Mexico. You need to do this very quickly. And you don’t want to talk to Yuri until you hear what I have to say. I think Yuri has betrayed you. And one other thing. If I’m dead when the ambulance gets here, can you please tell someone to kill Dr. Morrow.”

After he hung up, he said to the doctor, “After I’m gone, I’d suggest you relocate your practice.”

The teacher was a pudgy man in his forties who was so scared his hands were trembling, but he appeared to know what he was doing.

Pamela Walker had given Yuri a cell phone so they could communicate if they needed to, and he knew from watching television that cell phones could sometimes be used to locate people. He had no idea how this was done, but that didn’t matter. One of the advantages of being associated with Marty Taylor’s company was Taylor employed people who did have that sort of knowledge. So Yuri had called Bollinger and told him what he needed, but the CEO didn’t give him the name of a T&T employee. Instead he gave him the name of a teacher who taught computer science at a junior college. When he
had asked Bollinger why the teacher would perform this service for him, Bollinger had hesitated, then said, “He’s somebody I know from outside of work.” Yuri figured this meant that the teacher was one of Bollinger’s pedophile friends. And considering how nervous the teacher was, Bollinger must have told him something about Yuri that made him afraid of Yuri—and this was good.

The room they were in was some sort of lab filled with computer equipment. When Yuri had arrived the teacher had examined the cell phone Pamela Walker had given him and asked if Walker’s cell phone was similar in appearance. When Yuri said yes, he looked up some things in a manual he had. He then disassembled Yuri’s phone, examined its innards, reassembled it, and typed for a few minutes on a keyboard.

“Okay,” he said, “you can make the call now. And try to keep whoever you’re calling on the line as long as possible. Please.”

Yuri punched in the number Walker had given him but he was surprised when she answered. “Where is he?” he demanded.

“What? Who are you talking about?” she asked.

“You know who I’m talking about. The man on the front page of every paper in the country. Where is he?”

“I thought
you
had him.”

While Yuri talked, he watched the screen of the teacher’s laptop. He didn’t know what the man was doing but he saw a map of San Diego appear. Then the view shifted as the teacher appeared to zoom in on a particular part of the city. He couldn’t believe that Walker was still in San Diego.

“I don’t have him,” Yuri said. “I think you have him. I think you took him from my people.”

“You’re insane.”

“No, I’m not insane. I’m angry. And I would suggest that you tell me the truth.”

“I
am
telling you the truth.”

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m back in Washington. But I don’t have any more to tell you about the FBI’s investigation than I told you the other day. You’ll have to be patient.”

Yuri looked at the monitor. He recognized the area of San Diego known as Harbor Island, a section of the city near the airport, and at that moment the technician gave him a thumbs-up. Yuri nodded, then said into the phone, “You’re going to find out what happens when people lie to me, Pamela.” He hung up before she could answer.

“Whoever you were talking to is at the Hilton Hotel on Harbor Island,” the teacher said.

“Good,” Yuri said and patted him on the shoulder.

He wasn’t sure what to make of his conversation with Pamela Walker. It sounded as if she didn’t have Tully, but that meant nothing. More convincing was the fact that she was staying in a hotel. Certainly she wouldn’t be keeping Tully at the Hilton if she had kidnapped him. Whatever the case, he still wanted to question her and find out why she had disrupted his plans with Tully, and why she had lied and said she was in Washington.

As Yuri was leaving the teacher’s office, it occurred to him that if Pamela Walker wanted to find him, she could do the same thing he had done and trace him through the cell phone she had given him.

He threw the phone into a trash can as he walked to his car.

“That was Yuri,” Angela said. “He accused me of kidnapping Tully. He said I took Tully away from his men.”

“Well, if he doesn’t have Tully,” DeMarco said, “then who does?”

They both stood there silently, thinking about that question.

“It’s gotta be the guy who saved me in Myrtle Beach,” DeMarco said. “He’s the only other player in this thing, and somehow he’s traced the leak from Whitmore to Acosta, and now to Tully. Maybe he followed you when you went to see Yuri.”

“He didn’t.”

“Then I don’t know how he did it, but he figured out Tully’s involvement. And if he’s got Tully, I think he’s going to kill him, just like he killed Whitmore. Whoever this guy is, he’s avenging Mahata’s death.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“And I’ll tell you something else. If he’s got Tully, he’ll go after Congressman Rudman next. And he’ll kill Rudman.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Bullshit,
maybe
.” When she didn’t respond, he asked, “So what are we going to do next?”

“There’s nothing we can do. The California cops and the FBI are looking for Tully, and we’re not going to get in the middle of that. All I can do is call my contact at Langley, tell him Yuri doesn’t have Tully, then wait to see what LaFountaine wants me to do. At this point, he may just tell me to come home.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” DeMarco said.

He just wanted to get back to Washington and get on with his life— a life that would hopefully include Angela.

Yuri decided that he didn’t have time to deal with Pamela Walker himself. He needed to focus on expediting the sale of Marty Taylor’s assets and make plans for fleeing the county. And he needed to kill the CEO, Bollinger. It was time to seal up all the loose ends.

He pulled out his cell phone.

“Do you remember that woman who came to my house the other day, the blonde with the glasses? The lawyer from the Justice Department?”

“Yes,” Ivan said.

“She’s at the Hilton Hotel on Harbor Island. I want you to take someone with you, pick her up, and bring her to me.”

“What?” Ivan said.

Yuri hung up. He really wished he had someone brighter than Ivan to deal with Walker. If Mikhail wasn’t dying, he’d have been the ideal choice.

Then something occurred to him, somthing he should have thought of earlier. If it could be done, he could make even more money off Marty Taylor.

Marty was sitting in the kitchen with his handler Andrei, waiting for Yuri to return, and he was more depressed—and more desperate— than ever.

A group of Mexicans in greasy coveralls had just driven off with his cars, presumably taking them to the warehouse in Chula Vista that Yuri had mentioned. The expensive artwork had been removed from the house an hour earlier by another group of Mexicans, to be taken to a gallery in La Jolla. And half an hour ago, a real estate agent had called and asked if it would be okay to show the houses to a prospective client tomorrow. Because Andrei was listening in on the phone call, he said yes, and told her to direct any further questions to Yuri.

He had to get away from Andrei before Yuri returned, call that lady from the Justice Department, and stop the sales. He had to.

He looked over at Andrei; the thug was leaning against a counter, sipping coffee, staring at him with his flat, black eyes. He looked like he would welcome another opportunity to smack Marty with his gun.

Then Marty noticed the coffeepot. It was almost full—and Andrei was standing about five feet from the pot. It was time to make his move.

He was going to ask Andrei’s permission to get a cup of coffee. If Andrei said yes, he’d casually walk over to the coffeepot and pick it up, but then he’d pretend that he’d forgotten to get a cup. Still holding the pot, he’d walk over to the cupboard to get one, which would put him within arm’s reach of Andrei—and then he’d whack the shit out of Andrei with a pot full of hot coffee. He knew he could take the guy if he could keep him from pulling his gun.

“Hey, you mind if I get a cup of coffee?”

Andrei shrugged.

Marty got up from the table, made a show of stretching, then walked toward the counter and picked up the coffeepot —and at that moment, the kitchen door swung open and Yuri walked into the room.

Did God hate him, or what
?

With Yuri was another hard-looking guy in his forties with a badly repaired cleft palate. His name was Stephan and Marty had seen him only once before—the day Yuri had killed the accountant at the warehouse.

“I want you to sell all the stock you have in your company. Right now,” Yuri said.

“I can’t do that,” Marty said, and Yuri looked over at Andrei— and Andrei punched him in the mouth. The coffeepot shattered on the floor.

Ivan parked the van in a loading zone near the Hilton. With him was a smart-mouthed kid named Pyotr, whom he didn’t like. Pyotr had been in the country for only a couple of years but he’d picked up the language very fast. Yuri used him mostly to move dope, and because Pyotr was so young, he’d hang around college campuses, party with rich kids, and sell them cocaine and pot.

Pyotr also dressed like a college kid. Today he wore a black T-shirt, baggy shorts with multiple pockets, and tennis shoes without socks. On the front of the T-shirt were the words “Dirty White Boy,” which Ivan thought might be the name of a rock band but he wasn’t sure. Ivan suspected that Pyotr used cocaine himself, and if he did, and if Yuri found out, Ivan was going to have the pleasure of beating the shit out of Pyotr.

But right now his problem wasn’t Pyotr. His problem was snatching Pamela Walker. Yuri had told him that she was in the hotel but the hotel was huge and he had no idea how to find her or how to take her when he did. There was one thing he did know, though: he knew he had to succeed. This was a big opportunity for him; it could mean a raise.

He sat for a couple of minutes thinking about the problem, then told Pyotr to wait in the van—and to turn down the damn radio. He entered the hotel, proceeded to the gift shop, and looked for something cheap to buy but everything in the shop was ridiculously expensive— and he knew Yuri wouldn’t reimburse him. He finally decided on a pink T-shirt that had the words “San Diego” on it. It cost twenty-two dollars. Outrageous. He asked the woman if she could gift wrap the T-shirt for him. She could, she said, for five dollars. Son of a bitch.

Gift-wrapped package in hand, he approached the front desk. It was at times like this that he hated his size; people tended to remember him.

“I have a gift for Ms. Pamela Walker,” he said to the cute black girl at the registration desk. “Can I have her room number please?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t give out the room numbers of our guests.”

“Oh,” Ivan said. He had never stayed at such a grand hotel. It had never occurred to him that they wouldn’t tell him the room number. If she had given him the number, he and Pyotr would have forced their way into Walker’s room and taken her from the hotel via one the stairwells.

“Well,” he said, “could you ring her room and tell her the package is here.”

“Of course,” the girl said.

Since Walker had seen him before, he couldn’t follow her back to her room when she came for the package—but Pyotr could. She had never seen Pyotr. He reached for his cell phone to call him, but then he noticed the girl frowning at her computer.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said to him, “but there’s no Pamela Walker registered here.”

“Are you sure?” Ivan asked.

“Yes, sir.”

He mumbled something about having made a mistake and quickly left the hotel, hunching over a bit to minimize his height. Now what? And what was he supposed to do with the stupid T-shirt he had bought? It was too small to fit either his wife or his mistress. Twenty-seven bucks down the drain. He squeezed himself back into the van and threw the gift-wrapped box into the back.

“So wuz up?” Pyotr asked.

“Shut up,” Ivan said.

“Wait a minute!” Marty screamed, and Yuri raised a hand to stop Andrei from hitting him again.

“Listen to me,” Marty said. “I’m the chairman of the board and the biggest shareholder, and if I were to sell all my stock at one time the company would go into a tailspin. So they have rules. I have to notify the board if I’m planning to sell stock, and the SEC has to be notified. And my broker knows this, and he can’t legally complete the transaction until he’s verified that the board’s been notified. And once the board is notified, they can delay the sale—and they will, because if I sold all my shares at once, the price of the stock will drop like a rock and every shareholder we have left will get screwed. So what I’m telling you is that I can’t instantly turn my stock into cash. It would take days to do that, maybe weeks.”