In for a Ruble (24 page)

“Life ain’t fair, man,” he said, mainly, I think, to say something.

I went to the kitchen and came back with the vodka bottle. Leitz shook his head when I offered him a glass.

“It’ll help, if you don’t overdue it.”

“You mean, like Marianna?”

I shrugged.

“Just a little,” he said.

I poured him a finger. He took a sip and put the glass on the table and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to unload my burdens on you.”

“That’s all right.” His family had already done that.

He picked up the glass, took another swallow, and shook his head when I offered a refill.

“Tell me what you found out,” he said quietly, “although I’ve almost decided to abandon the TV bid. I’ve got more important things to focus on.”

He sounded sincere. I believed him, but I wondered how he’d feel a day or two or ten down the road.
I’m determined we should all lead as normal a life as possible,
Jenny Leitz had said. She’d be encouraging him to keep on.

“We can do this another time if you want,” I said.

He shook his head. He was struggling to stay afloat in an emotional tsunami. For the moment, the trader was still in control. “Go ahead.”

I double-checked with Foos. He dropped his lopsided visage ever so slightly in assent.

“Your computers were bugged by the Baltic Enterprise Commission—an organized cyber-crime outfit. We told you it was someone like this, and we were right. They specialize in Web hosting for phishers and spammers, but they’ve expanded into hacking for hire and industrial espionage. Nosferatu, the man who beat me up, is the BEC’s enforcer. I established that through contacts in Russia. He got the cleaners to place the bug.”

“How did he…?”

“Your brother-in-law, Coryell, was the agent. He was with Nosferatu when they bribed the cleaners. He told them where to put it. The cleaners described him. I’ve since seen Nosferatu at Coryell’s office. He had a key.”

I half expected an explosion—
WALTER? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN? WALTER?! I DON’T BELIEVE IT. HE’D NEVER
 … What a difference a day and a diagnosis of death make.

All he said, weakly, was, “Walter?”

“Afraid so. I wish there was another explanation, but…”

“Why would he…?”

“Coryell’s compromised. He’s being blackmailed, I assume by Nosferatu and the BEC, but also by someone else. I don’t know what the leverage is, but it’s powerful. It’s already cost him two hundred grand by my count, maybe more.”

The money focused his attention. “Two hundred thousand? Blackmail? Who told you this?”

I was trying to get through the story without squealing on Thomas. I didn’t give a damn about him, but he wasn’t connected to the main event, and adding his troubles to the mix would only make matters worse for Leitz. Maybe I was doing my own under-the-rug sweeping.

“It’s in the Dick,” I said.

“But … Have you talked to Walter? What does he say?”

“I haven’t seen Walter. Neither has anyone else—in at least a week.”

“What about Julia?”

“She tells me her husband is very busy. I doubt she knows anything about blackmail or Nosferatu, and I haven’t enlightened her.”

He shook his head. “Okay, but … Jesus. Tell me about this Baltic … what do you call it?”

“Baltic Enterprise Commission. It’s a partnership—three oligarchs—that’s suffered some setbacks and internal disagreements in recent months. The founding partner’s Efim Konychev. He still runs the show, maybe, but in that world, disagreements often lead to violence. Someone tried to gun him down in Moscow last month.”

I was watching for the reaction. He didn’t try to hide it. He fell against the back of the couch like a man who’d been slugged. I waited, but he didn’t say anything. The eyes, still red, went blank as he stared into the distance of the space. I hesitated a moment before delivering the next blow.

“Konychev’s sister is Alyona Lishina.”

“CHRIST!”

The old Leitz came back in an instant. He balled his fists, leaned forward, and flailed in the air. Foos picked up the laptop.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”

He pushed himself to his feet, thought about kicking over the coffee table, thought better, and marched around the room. Pig Pen, who’d been attracted to the door of his office by the commotion, beat a fast retreat to his back perch when Leitz headed in his direction. I glanced at Foos, who shrugged and nodded—
You’re doing the right thing
. I wasn’t certain I shared his confidence.

Leitz came back and stood close to my chair. “What do you know about Konychev?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

He went back to the sofa.

“He’s an oligarch—now. He was a high-level propaganda apparatchik in Soviet times. He bought up media properties during transition. He controls most of the nonstate media in Moscow. He also grasped the commercial potential of the Internet early. All the spammers, phishers, and pornographers out there need servers to call home, preferably servers somewhere hard to find, in a jurisdiction with authorities who aren’t eager to assist the rest of the world’s police. The former Soviet republics have such places in abundance, and as new converts to capitalism, they were keen to attract the business.”

He shook his head again. “I had no idea.”

At the risk of setting off another explosion, I said, “I find that hard to believe.”

“No … You don’t understand. I really didn’t. I didn’t know who he was.”

I waited, my skepticism evident. Foos shifted in his seat, reached for the vodka bottle, thought better and left it where it was. He wasn’t buying either.

Leitz looked from one of us to the other.

“Okay, I know it begs credulity. But … here’s what happened. I met a woman, back in October, through my son, actually. He’s dating—or trying to date—her daughter. They go to the same school. She’s wired into the New Russia. Her husband’s…”

“I know who he is. Taras Batkin. Russian-American Trade Council. It’s a front. He’s also BEC, by the way, one of the three partners, and Alyona’s first husband, the girl’s father, is the third.”

“Oh my God. I had … You have to believe me … I had no idea. I’ve been played for a total fool. If this gets out…”

Sounded to me like he was already rethinking the TV bid, but I stayed quiet.

“I was working on the network transaction,” Leitz went on, “putting together a limited partnership to pursue it. My bankers were having trouble raising money. TV’s out of fashion among institutional investors and … I was a victim of my own hubris. Nobody wanted to put money with someone who was seen as unpredictable—‘mercurial’ was the word you used the other day, right?”

“That’s right. They worried you might decide to give the money back,” I said with a smile.

That got a small grin in return. “Exactly. Anyway, Alyona was all over me in the following weeks. Not the way it sounds, she was all business and she was relentless. She said she could raise hundreds of millions, maybe billions, and I offered her the same commission deal I give my bankers. She organized lunches and dinners and presentations. We went to London and Paris and the South of France. That’s when the rumors started. There was nothing ever to them, I promise you that. It was all business. Jenny knew every move I was making. I met all kinds of people I never knew existed, and more than a few did invest. But there was always one big fish out there—the white Russian whale she called him, it was her idea of a joke, but she wouldn’t say any more. Meetings kept getting set up and canceled. I offered to go to Moscow, but she said that wasn’t a good idea. She wouldn’t say why.”

I knew why, but let him tell his story.

“Then, in December, she tells me I’ll get a call. I do, and a man comes to see me, and he’s in a position, through a partnership he controls, to invest three hundred million, maybe more. You have to understand, in this kind of deal, the value of three hundred million is three billion or higher because of the leverage it allows. I was suspicious, of course, but he seemed to know all about her—and me. I was also getting ready for the day when we’d have to raise our bid—and I needed his money. I told him his group and any investment would have to pass scrutiny with U.S. regulators, the SEC. He said that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Konychev,” I said.

He nodded. “It all fits.”

It did fit. “You meet him in your office?”

“Yes.”

“He placed the voice bug under your desk. You get his money?”

“We made a handshake deal, and our lawyers have been doing the paperwork, but I haven’t heard from him directly again, no.”

“You won’t. You won’t see any money either.”

Leitz buried his head in hands. Foos and I exchanged a look that said,
Give him some space.
Foos took the laptop to his office. I returned the vodka bottle to the kitchen, leaving Leitz a wide berth on my way to my office. Even Pig Pen picked up on the tension and kept quiet. I think he turned down his radio.

I felt a large presence at my door a half hour later. Leitz looked worse than when I arrived.

“I didn’t mean to add to your troubles,” I said.

“Not your fault. You did what we agreed. Give me an account number, I’ll have your fee wired tomorrow. I’ll tell my lawyers to draw up a loan agreement for the Malevich. Best to document that.”

“Thanks.”

Even under the pressure he was feeling, the business brain was functioning. I told myself not to be judgmental—I was the beneficiary.

“What are you going to do about Coryell?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Walter … Let’s just say, this is one more in a long string of issues with Walter.”

I nodded. Not my business to press. I thought once more about saying something about Marianna and Thomas, whose problems were no less serious, or potentially threatening. Let them pass. Andras called out from a Siberian corner of my mind—
Hey, what about me and my eleven mil?
I told him to shut up. Don’t climb into another man’s sleigh, as another of our proverbs goes.

Leitz stepped through the door and stuck out his big hand. I stood and took it. His grip was almost painful.

He said, “I can’t say it’s been fun working with you, but … I guess, I hope we meet again under better circumstances.”

“Me too.”

He let go and lumbered across the floor until he disappeared among the servers. I stood in my door rubbing my wrist.

Foos appeared, shaking his mane. “Man don’t know what hit him.”

“I think he’s got a pretty good idea. Problem is, he doesn’t know what’s coming around the curve up ahead. Like that song you play, trouble ahead, trouble behind…”

“You’d be better off dead?”

“Let’s hope not.”

CHAPTER
23

I told Foos I needed a straw man, and he set me up with William Ferrer. Foos consults for banks and financial institutions, partly because he enjoys charging usurious fees for jobs that to him are pedestrian, and partly because he wants to keep tabs on what the bastards are up to, as he puts it. He maintains a stable of well-heeled straw men—straw women too—synthetic identities he’s created by marrying deceased persons with other people’s Social Security numbers. He gives them the financial basics—bank accounts, credit cards, sometimes passports and driver’s licenses—and brings one to life when he needs someone to do something anonymously. One of his ways of toying with the Big Dick.

Tomorrow when I received Leitz’s money, I’d move a hundred grand into Ferrer’s account at Citi, where he was already sitting on $2,748, and send a debit card to Aleksei. Half of me said it was guilt money for having abandoned him as a child, the other half pegged it as down payment on the guilt to come, courtesy of L. P. Beria. The little bit that was left rationalized that Aleksei had provided a key tip about Alyona Lishina, so this was his commission. That part of me walked home happy. Except I kept thinking about smiling, terminally ill Jenny Leitz, who was soon likely to add more pain to her list of ailments. Half of the world’s major religions lay claim to a righteous God. I agree with the Bolsheviks on one thing—who’d want Him? He’s a mean-assed SOB.

By the time I reached my door, I pushed those ruminations aside. I was a million dollars and a third of a Malevich up. The odds against that were astronomical, some kind of celebration was in order. I told Victoria to wait downstairs while I went to the garage.

I’d trade my apartment for the look on her face when I pulled up in the Potemkin.

“Wow! That’s the biggest car I’ve ever seen. A Cadillac, right?”

“Eldorado. ’Seventy-five.”

“’Seventy-five? We were fighting the Cold War in ’seventy-five. How the hell…? You’re a socialist. How many socialists drive Cadillacs?”

“Always wanted one,” I said. “Ever since I saw a picture in a magazine, the first time I was stationed here. I found this in Florida in ’ninety-three. It’s called the Potemkin, after the battleship and Eisenstein’s movie.”

“What movie? Who’s Eisenstein?”

“You have some holes in your education.”

“They didn’t teach Communist Party propaganda at Thibodeaux High. This thing got a heater that works?”

“It was built in Detroit. You want to put down the top?”

“I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. I’m also a warm-blooded girl—as you’ve been rediscovering.”

I took the FDR to Fifty-ninth Street and continued uptown on First Avenue. If Victoria guessed our destination, she didn’t say anything. I found a parking place on East Eighty-first.

“Giancarlo and I are on a first-name basis,” I said.

She smiled broadly, and we walked two blocks to Trastevere.

I held the door and followed her in. Giancarlo knocked two customers and a waiter sideways in his haste to get across the room.

“Signora, I…”

He was uncharacteristically confused by proper restaurateur-patron protocol, unsure whether to hug her, kiss her, or just shake hands. She solved the problem by putting her arms around him and kissing both cheeks. He looked at me over her shoulder as if to say,
What did I tell you?

“It’s good to see you Giancarlo,” she said. “It’s good to be home. Turbo tells me he’s become a devotee of your cooking.”