In For the Kill (31 page)

Via Savoni proved to be a sad, seedy place, once an expanse of olive orchards. In the middle of the last century a factory had been built there and then subsequently abandoned. Its roof was caved in. Huge slabs of rusty, corrugated metal hung askew. The place was surrounded by nondescript smaller buildings that had grown up around it like mushrooms and been abandoned in their turn.

Number eighty-four was a scarred, featureless door in a long, rough concrete wall, the faded, stenciled number barely legible. The roadside was overgrown with weeds and strewn with garbage.

Sveti rang the bell. They heard a metallic rattling noise from the inside, but there was no subsequent movement or sound.

She rang again. Wind sighed, in the grass, the bushes. The smell of manured fields drifted on the breeze, acrid and heavy.

Sam almost jumped out of his skin.

It was a kid who had called out to them, maybe ten years old, on a beat-up pink bike that was much too small for him. He was tanned a deep brown, dressed shabbily, with broken flip-flops. His bike rattled and thudded over the broken pavement as he approached. He stopped about ten meters away. His dark eyes were sharp and calculating.

“Venite,”
he said. When they did not move, he frowned, and beckoned impatiently.
“Aò! Movetevi!”

“Tu chi sei?”
Sam demanded. Who are you?

The kid ignored his query. “Sveti?”

She nodded. The kid beckoned and turned, tottering away on his bike. Sveti followed and Sam kept pace, his hand on his gun. He hated having a young kid in this mix. The situation had lacked only that element to make his stress complete. Put a fucking cherry on top, why didn't they. Throw in a toddler, maybe a gurgling newborn.

The kid made sure they followed, but kept a careful distance from them as he led the way through the deserted buildings. Finally, he stopped by a gate, which was slightly open and askew on its hinges. He pointed to it and pedaled away like the demons of hell were chasing him. Sam was glad to see him disappear. One less target to feel responsible for.

There was an acre or so of orchard inside the gate, bounded by a stone wall with broken glass jabbed into cement adorning the top of it, jagged and hostile as shark teeth. Sveti slid sideways through the broken gate before he could stop her. He followed swiftly after.

There was a squat, miserable little building made of roughly poured concrete. The windows were shuttered, the door closed.

Sam pulled Sveti back as she reached for the door, and shoved her behind himself, putting his fingers to his lips. He pushed the door open, bursting in with his gun drawn.

It was dark inside, the air stale and close. Light from the door poured in, revealing a table with a glowing laptop and a tangle of wires and cables. There was a cheap metal bed frame, covered by a bare mattress. Upon this cot a figure lay, flattened and insubstantial, more like a shadow than a person. The figure shifted, moving slowly.

“Sveti?” His voice was gravelly. He sat up.

“Sasha? Oh, Sasha!” She ran at the guy.

Sam was intensely uncomfortable to see Sveti kneeling on a filthy floor in her crisp white dress, her arms around another guy. The situation did not improve when his eyes adjusted and he saw more details of the nasty little room. Unsavory stains on the mattress, plates of spoiling food with flies crawling on them. On a chair next to the bed was a plastic bag of white powder, a spoon, a syringe, a lighter.

He'd seen way too much of that poisonous shit, after years spent in police work. He hated the soul-killing addictive drugs. What they did to people, kids, families. What people were disposed to do to obtain them.

Sam stared at the guy, whose chin rested on Sveti's shoulder. He'd seen people in very bad shape, but not since his mother's death had he seen anyone on this side of the dividing line between life and death look as bad as Sasha did. His dark hair was lank and unwashed, his eyes so lost in shadows, they stared out of gray pits. His lips looked blue, his cheeks caved in. His skin was yellowish gray.

His arms, wrapped around Sveti, were thin, but his hands seemed unnaturally large, hinting at the size he should have been if his weight had been normal. Sasha's eyes opened and saw Sam observing the slovenly scene, the baggie. His gaze slid away, ashamed.

Sveti asked a question. Sasha replied in the same language.

Enough bullshit. He hadn't come this far to be linguistically cut out of the conversation. “Does he speak English?” Sam asked.

Sasha's lips moved. He coughed, closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said, his voice halting and scratchy. “It is n-n-not perfect, but I—”

“Use it, imperfect or not, and keep me in the loop. Tell us what's going on. Why the scavenger hunt mindfuck to get us here?”

Sasha stared at him, blinking, and turned to Sveti. “Who . . . ?”

Sveti shot him an entreating look. “He's, ah . . . he's my—”

“Her boyfriend,” Sam supplied. “And bodyguard. We need to get the hell away from this place. We're too isolated. Too exposed.”

“He's a friend who's helping me,” Sveti corrected quietly. “His name is Sam Petrie. He's a police officer. You can trust him.”

“But can we trust you, Sasha? What are you doing, other than getting high and moping in the dark? Practicing for the tomb?”

“Sam?” Sveti sounded shocked. “What the hell?”

“I'm doing him a favor,” he replied, unrelenting. “He doesn't need sympathy. He needs his ass kicked.”

Sasha turned to Sveti. “Why are you here?” he coughed out. “I begged you not to come. Told you they were h-h-hunting you. The m-m-message. Did you not see it? Why didn't you . . . l-l-listen?”

“That's not what you said in the message!” Sveti protested. “You told me to hurry, that you needed me! You asked for my flight info!”

Sasha shook his head. “Josef d-d-discovered our e-mail account.”

“Before you go on, clarify something,” Sam said. “Are you high? Because I don't have any thought cycles to waste on a drug dream.”

“Sam!” Sveti gasped, horrified. “Don't talk to him that way!”

Sam gestured at the powder. “I'm justified. It's in my face.”

Sasha met his eyes. “No.” His voice was stronger than it had been so far. “I am clean. I've been waiting, ever since I saw you on my monitor at the
gelateria
. I had Saleh bring you the note.” He choked on the long speech, coughing, and then went on, looking at Sveti. “I thought you were safe, in America. With your friends protecting you.”

It pissed Sam off. This guy had the privilege of Sveti's love, and yet he had allowed her to see him in such squalor. He should be strong for her, after what they'd shared. How dare he fuck up this badly.

Sasha murmured something halting in Ukrainian. He flicked a guilty look at Sam, and repeated in English. “Sorry, to let you see this.”

“We'll get you out of here somehow,” Sveti said.

“No.” Sasha seized her hands. “It is too late for me.”

“That's defeatist thinking! Don't talk that way!”

“Shhh. I am a dead man, after what I did.”

Sam crossed his arms. “What did you do, Sasha?”

Sasha's gaze darted to him. “I . . . I be-be-betrayed my father. I t-tried to ex-ex-expose him. I have tried before . . . but he did not . . . know it was me. This time, I was caught in the act. They will kill me.”

Sam groaned. So they were right in the middle of a mafiya family betrayal. Sweet. That was just fucking priceless. “What do you mean, you tried before? You make a habit of it?”

“I . . . I t-t-tried, once,” Sasha said. “I d-d-did not want Sveti in danger. I b-b-b-begged her not to come.”

“You didn't beg loud enough or long enough,” Sam said harshly. “What about the guy selling roses? The kid on the bike? What happens to them if your mafiya buddies come down on you?”

Sasha's throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I had . . . no choice.”

“No? You're not locked up. I see choices all over the place.” Sam looked around. “You chose to stay here. To have people bring you food, which you then chose not to eat, or dispose of. That baggie is a choice. You're making lots of choices. You're just making the wrong ones.”

“Stop scolding him!” Sveti said hotly. “Don't you see it's hard for him to talk?” She turned to Sasha. “Ignore him. He's being an asshole. How did you betray your father?”

“I tried to expose . . . a deal. Years ago.” It took forever for Sasha to cough the words out. “He bought . . . thermal generators from an arms dealer. In A-A-Abkhazia. Stuff the S-S-Soviets left in Georgia, after the Cold War. I intercepted the messages. The cores were strontium-90. Already p-p-pulverized. They . . . they spent almost thirty million euro.”

“Who is Josef?” Sveti asked.

“One of my father's men. The worst one. He went to find you. To question you.”

“Oh, him. So that's his name.” Sveti shuddered. “Yes, we've met. Sam saved me from him. What are thermal generators?”

“Radioactive materials. For powering nuclear plants,” Sam said. “Dirty bomb?”

Sasha nodded. “Or more than one.”

“And we should believe this why?” Sam demanded.

Sveti looked astonished. “Why would he lie?”

Sam looked at the baggie. “He abuses mind-altering drugs. If he told me where to find the nearest toilet, I would question his credibility.”

“He has no reason to make this up!” she said angrily.

“I don't know. I might go to some crazy lengths to justify lying around in a rathole with only a bag of smack for company,” Sam said.

Sasha's eyes flashed. “I can prove. I tried to tell a journalist. I tried to show him proof. I thought, when it is on Internet, the press, there is no going back. But they killed this man, in front of me.”

Sveti winced. “Oh, no. Oh, God, Sasha.”

“Mauro Mongelli is the name,” Sasha said, still staring at Sam. “He was murdered. Look, on your phone. You will see. Look. Go on.”

Sam pulled out his phone and tapped the name into the search engine. Interesting, that Sasha spoke more clearly when he was pissed.

Mauro Mongelli, columnist. Killed in a hit-and-run in Rome, stolen car, driver still at large. Foul play suspected. He looked at Sveti. “It happened right about when they came after you,” he said.

“I didn't know who to tell,” Sasha said. “I had to tell someone, before I . . . before they kill me.”

“They won't kill you!” Sveti's eyes glowed with fervor. “I won't let them! We'll get you back to America. My friends will help protect you!”

Sam suppressed a snort. Sveti had a rosier idea of the extent of her adoptive family's generosity than Sam did. He could imagine how Tam, Val, Nick, and the others would feel about nurturing the drug-addled offspring of a mafiya vor, with bloodthirsty goons out to whack him. With their children toddling around them? Nah. No matter how much Sveti loved the guy, that was going to be a very tough sell.

Sasha read his mind. His shadowy eyes darted to Sam and away again. “I do not think they will be so happy to see me, Sveti,” he said.

“They'll help you, for my sake! You're like my brother! Mama would have wanted to help you, too. She wrote to me about how she saw you when she came to Italy. She loved you.”

“She told me once that if... if you save others, you save yourself, too,” Sasha said. “But I n-n-never save anyone, Sveti. I . . . t-try, but I only put people in danger. You, Misha, Mongelli. And your mother.”

“My mother?” Sveti's voice was fearful. “What about her? Why did Josef come hunting me? Why did he ask about Mama's photos?”

Sasha struggled to speak for over a minute. His painful throat clearing and false starts were the only sound in the room. “Your mother . . . your mother . . .” He kept trying, but the sound strangled itself.

“What? What about her?” Sveti's voice was getting high and thin.

Sasha forced out a sharp breath. “She was killed because of me.”

Sveti knelt on the filthy floor, paper white and immobile. Sam's skin prickled. He felt as if the building were a tomb, sealing itself around them.

“How?” Sveti asked.

“My fault.” Sasha lifted his face. His eyes were wet. “She was here investigating the lab. That was why she came to Italy.”

“What lab?” Sam prompted. “Spit it out, for Christ's sake!”

“The lab that my father . . .” Sasha coughed again. He looked at Sveti. “Does he know? About your father?”

“Only that he ran afoul of a guy who gutted him,” Sam said.

Sasha coughed, struggled. He looked at Sveti, gesturing at Sam. “You tell him,” he said. “The lab, in Nadvirna. Tell him.”

“My father was undercover,” Sveti said, her voice without inflection. “Investigating Zhoglo. They were doing illegal medical experiments with radiation. Killing people. My father blew up the lab, the scientists. He destroyed the research.”

“They killed him,” Sasha added. “And kidnapped you.”

“Mama tried to investigate,” Sveti went on. “She said she found a mass grave, but they never found any bodies. Paranoid delusions, they said. They locked her up. What does it have to do with Mama's death?”

“They opened a new lab,” Sasha said. “Here, in Italy.”

Sveti's hand drifted up to cover her mouth. “Oh, God.”

“Yes, they d-d-did it all again. The research, the testing. It was my fa-fa-father's idea. He had ties with the local mafiyas, the Camorra, Cosa Nostra, the 'Ndrangheta, to provide test subjects. But these were not mental patients and orphans, like Zhoglo used. They used refugees from Africa, coming ashore in Italy. He bought boatloads directly from the traffickers. They put ashore, were met with food, blankets, and herded into trucks to be taken to a refugee camp. Or so they thought.”