In for a Ruble (31 page)

“Keep me posted.”

“If I can.”

I went back through the space, carefully this time, opening every door, looking in every corner. Every hair on my back stood straight up—all telling me to get out while I could. I tried not to listen.

I found four wastebaskets in four bedroom closets, all filled with gasoline. The fifth closet held the kind of five-gallon can you get at any gas station. It was half full.

Nosferatu had improvised. He’d set the trap to kill the next person who entered, presumably one of the kids, then burn the place to the ground. Why? Time enough to worry about that later—or so I hoped.

I moved the five-gallon can to the working bathroom. I filled it from one of the trash cans and carried it out to the Valdez, careful to avoid both tripwires, and poured the contents into the tank. A messy operation, environmentally incorrect, but nobody would die. Two more can-fulls, two more trips to the car. One more survey of the space. No more improvised Molotov cocktails. Still the closet door to deal with.

I called Foos.

“How much more time you need?”

“Lotta dense shit. Three hours, maybe four.”

“I’ve got one more thing to do here. Might be the last thing. If you don’t hear from me there’s a reason.”

“Pig Pen…”

“I know…”

I went back to the closet door, the tripwires running underneath. Inside, almost certainly, was another container of gas connected to some kid of trigger. Question was, had Nosferatu triggered the door as well. I put the odds at eighty–twenty against. One in five. Not as good as Russian roulette, one in six. On the plus side, there was no reason for it. On the down side, he’d gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that he set off an inferno.

Foos needed three hours plus. If I called the cops, he wouldn’t get them. If I opened the door, and bet wrong, he wouldn’t get them either.

I grabbed the knob and pulled.

Nothing.

I leaned against the jam and exhaled.

Inside was another wastebasket. Next to it a mousetrap, the monofilament tied to the spring. Tin foil wrapping both ends and a cable running to a plug in the wall. Someone coming in trips the wire on the stairs, flips the trap, closes the circuit and …

Boom.

Nice guy, Nosferatu.

I pulled the plug. Breathing normally for the first time in an hour, I carried the last can of gas to the Valdez and dumped it in.

I called Foos again.

“I still need time,” he said.

“Take it. I’ve cleaned out the bombs. I’m going to get the kids. Call Leitz. Tell him I want Andras in the headmaster’s office—now. I need his okay to take him with me. If he argues, tell him I don’t want his blood on my hands.”

“Should I tell him about Crestview?”

“Only if you have to. This is life and death for his kid—thanks to his kid—and his best chance for life is with me.”

“Lucky you.”

“Remember who got me into this?”

CHAPTER
32

It was still snowing as I drove back to Gibbet School, but the road had been plowed and sanded. I stopped in the driveway outside the administration building and called Batkin.

“I was wondering when I would hear from you,” he said.

“You’re not going to be happy that you did. I have no time to explain what’s going on, but none of it’s good for your stepdaughter. That’s her fault, I’m afraid. Seems she’s been pursuing the Internet’s oldest profession.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“She and some friends have been running an online pornography ring—with themselves as producers, directors and, I’m afraid, stars.”

I waited for the intake of breath, and I got it.

“Are you certain Irina’s involved?”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen a lot more of her than I was looking for.”

A pause while he processed what I said. I was pretty sure where he’d go, and I was right.

“Do you know…? Who’s responsible? Who got her into this?”

“Don’t know if anyone did. I think she and some pals were doing this on their own.”

“Is the Leitz kid involved?”

“I’m not saying who was involved. She’s got worse problems. I just left their production studio. It’s in the town next to Gibbet. It was booby-trapped to blow sky high. Irina could easily have been the one to set off the explosion.”

“What the hell? Who…?”

“How about a tall, ugly man, Belarusian, six-seven, pockmarked face, buckteeth, superhuman strength?”

Another intake of breath.

“Karp is here?”

“If that’s his name, yes.”

“I may have underestimated my old friend Efim Ilyich. You’ve met Karp, I take it?”

“Once.”

“I’m impressed. Not many survive the experience.”

“It was touch and go. He have a full name?”

“Karp is the only one I know. Konychev’s muscle. A man without a heart.”

“I can attest to that.”

“What did he want with you?”

“Tell me to mind my own business.”

“Were you interfering in his?”

“Not intentionally.”

“That wouldn’t make any difference to Karp. He was a
zek
who became a guard who became the right hand of the camp commander. Gorlag, after my time. They say he likes young boys and blood, not necessarily in that order. He has quite a track record on both counts. You should watch your step.”

I didn’t point out the irony of his advice. “I intend to. I need to get your stepdaughter out of town. When he finds out his trap didn’t blow, I don’t know his next move.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Help with the school. I need them to release the girl to me.”

“I understand. Where are you?’

“On the campus.”

“I’ll call the headmaster. You’ll bring Irina home?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“As soon as you can.”

I presented myself to the headmaster’s secretary—a sharp-faced woman of a certain age and dress, who looked me all over and didn’t hide the distaste at what she saw. Not entirely her fault—a night in the car and a morning spent transferring petroleum products out of a flop house porn den didn’t leave me presenting my best.

“I’m afraid Dr. Paine is extremely busy, booked all day. Perhaps tomorrow…”

“Tell Dr. Paine to squeeze me in. He has my name from two of your parents, Sebastian Leitz and Taras Batkin.”

She frowned at the tone and the name-dropping. No way, in her universe, I should know such people.

“As I said…”

“Tell him I’m waiting. Now, please.” I put my best Cheka authority, meant to convey inevitability, into my voice. “If you don’t, I will.”

She managed to get up and go into the office behind without spitting.

She came back a half minute later.

“Dr. Paine will—”

A man with shoe-polish brown hair that looked dyed, four to five inches shorter than my six feet, bustled out the door right behind her.

“Mr. Vlost, Philip Paine, pleased to meet you. My apologies if you’ve been delayed. This is all … very irregular. Please, come in.”

He extended a hand and gave me a limp handshake. He wore round tortoiseshell glasses, a Harris Tweed jacket, striped tie, gray flannel trousers, and penny loafers—with pennies. I followed him into his office. The dragon secretary retreated to her perch, still looking for a spittoon.

Paine circled his outsize mahogany desk and pointed me to a seat across.

“How can I help?”

I stayed standing.

“I’m here for Andras Leitz and Irina Lishina.”

“Yes. Dr. Leitz and Ambassador Batkin called. But, as I’m sure you can appreciate, we have rules, procedures, responsibilities. Not to mention classes to teach. I can’t just release … I need to know…”

“What do you need to know?”

“I need … Why do Andras and Irina have to leave school? Clearly there’s some sort of issue. Dr. Leitz and Ambassador Batkin were vague as to its nature. There may be other students involved. There may be issues that affect the school. We need to make sure … Perhaps you could…”

Philip Paine gave every indication of being an insecure man, hiding behind the stature he presumed his office held. A midlevel private school apparatchik who had somehow risen to Politburo power and understood he’d climbed above his station. He was past uncomfortable, not yet panicked, but headed that way. On a better day, I might have worked him with more subtlety.

Today I said, “The issue is this: I’m here to pick up Andras and Irina. They’re in danger. Their parents have told you to expect me. What are we waiting for?”

Paine wrung his hands and tried once more. “I’m sorry. But here at Gibbet, we don’t just release our students into the care of people … when we don’t know.… We have responsibilities. In loco parentis…”

No matter what the system, there’s always some bureaucrat trying to protect his turf. The Communist Party member responsible for overseeing his part of a five-year plan somewhere in the Urals. Philip Paine at Gibbet School. The motivations were the same. Behind them was fear of making a mistake and the loss of position and the privileges that could follow. Paine was frozen in inaction.

I took out my phone and hit redial. Batkin answered on the first ring.

“Turbo. I’m encountering resistance.”

“What kind of resistance?”

“Headmaster.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Paine looked pained. The dragon put her head through the door. She wanted to breathe fire, but none would come.

“Ambassador Batkin on line one.”

Paine gulped and picked up the phone. While they talked, I dialed Leitz.

“Foos called,” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

“No time for that. I’m at Gibbet. Nosferatu’s here. I’m trying to get Andras out of town. I’m getting a hard time from the headmaster.”

“His name says everything you need to know about him. I’ll call right now.”

“He’s waiting to hear from you.”

I pocketed the phone and took the offered seat.

Paine hung up from Batkin, looking like the apparatchik who’s just been told he’s won a one-way trip to the Gulag.

Dragon-lady opened the door. “Dr. Leitz on line two.”

I crossed my legs and nodded at Paine.

“Looks like I’m holding two kings. You?”

*   *   *

It took eight hours to get back to New York. Snow fell for most of the trip. Cars spun out left and right. I kept a steady pace around thirty and tried to maintain as much distance as I could from other vehicles.

The kids were quiet in the backseat. They’d come to Paine’s office, when finally summoned, sullen and nervous. At least Andras was. Irina was impossible to read. Andras wore a sweater over corduroys, like his father. Irina had a turtleneck under her ski jacket and dark jeans. The presence I’d noted in our phone conversation was evident in person. Some Russian women have it, even at a young age, as if she had the world exactly where she wanted it, in the palm of her hand—current circumstances not withstanding. Neither kid’s demeanor improved when informed they were riding back to New York with me.

I introduced myself without explanation and let them stew across Massachusetts until we got on I-84 into Connecticut.

“I’ve been in the playhouse,” I said.

That got no response. I watched through the rearview mirror, and I think they glanced at each other, but they said nothing.

“I’m not going to ask what you thought you were doing, but I am curious about one thing. When you left this morning, a tall man, ugly SOB, spent an hour in there. He’d been watching the place all night. He left behind enough gasoline to blow your little studio to Timbuktu, and he rigged it so the next visitor—maybe one of you—would set it off. Boom, good-bye. How come?”

That got their attention. Andras went wide-eyed and looked at Irina, who slid down in her seat and tried to disappear—not so much from me, I thought, but from him.

“You said—”

She cut him off. “Shut up. Not now.”

“Karp,” I said. “That’s the tall man’s name, I’m told. You know him, Irina?”

Her eyes shot fire into the rearview mirror.

“Who’s Karp?” Andras asked.

“SHUT UP!” Irina shouted.

Andras turned away, chastened.

The dynamics of their relationship became clearer. More Cheka training—when an opening presents itself, drive a wedge through it.

“Karp’s a professional assassin, Andras. A man who enjoys hurting people. I know that from personal experience. He works for Irina’s uncle.”

Burn one bridge to build another. Irina had the same look my ex-wife used to get before she flew into a rage in the last days of our disintegrating marriage. Andras’s eyes got wider.

“Assassin?!”

“Shut up!”

“What’d you guys do to piss Karp off?” I said.

“We didn’t do…” Andras whispered.

“Andras, if you say one more fucking word, I’ll never speak to you again.”

He looked away.

“Karp’s still after both of you,” I said. “Think about that. We have a long drive home.”

*   *   *

I took another shot on the stretch between Hartford and Waterbury. I’d stopped at an exit that featured an array of fast-food options, chose Burger King for no reason other than it was open and empty, waited for the kids to use the bathrooms, passed up the opportunity to do so myself, for fear I’d be solo when I came out, and asked if they wanted anything to eat. They bought Whoppers and fries and Cokes. I passed on that opportunity too. Fast food is one American invention that holds little appeal, and hunger is one more thing Russians learn to deal with from an early age, especially in the Gulag. Standing behind them at the counter, in the bright fluorescent light, I noticed a rough, red, scar peeking out the top of Irina’s turtleneck, marring the otherwise fine skin. I hadn’t seen that before, I was pretty sure, and I’d seen a lot of Irina last night.

“So, who’d you guys clip for that eight mil?” I asked as we pulled back on the highway and they unwrapped their meals.

“We have nothing to say, Chekist Pig,” Irina responded before biting into her Whopper. Andras looked at her, clearly uncomfortable, then caught my eye in the rearview mirror. He held his burger in his lap and said nothing.

“The way I figure it,” I went on, as if discussing a movie or last night’s ball game, “the seven mil each of you guys has—all those transfers from State Street—are your WildeTime profits. Nice work if you want to do it. But the three mil in November and five in December, that puzzled me—for a while. You might have gotten away with it if you’d only hit them once. But the second time—Thanksgiving vacation, right?—you got their attention. Karp put a tap on your old man’s system, Andras. They had a good look around. You didn’t cover your tracks quite well enough and now you’ve got Karp on your tail. He got Uncle Walter to help, by the way, with your father’s computers. Which reminds me, did you see him on Wednesday?”