Red rain 2.0 (31 page)

"Get lots of time on the range, don't I, lad? A child could've made that shot, provided he'd sufficient range time."

"If you say so. What were you doing out there, anyway?" "Oh, a wee bird spoke to me. A wee bird, a lieutenant bird I think, who'd bought himself a new weapon and came to me every day for a week or so for a bit of advice and instruction. You would have been interested to see his weapon,
L
uther, bright as a new penny. Very nice Heckler in .45. Ex-

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actly, by chance, the same model as you're cleanin' this very moment."

"Fucking Dugal?"

"I'm shocked, Luther. Namin' a name. Suggestin' any such thing. A man of your experience! Truly shockin' lapse, I must say."

"So he let you tag along? No idea, naturally, of what you'd be carrying, or that you'd feel any need, let's say, to use it?"

"Actually, invited meself, so to speak. Gets a bit borin', you know, handholdin' young wankers day after day, de-spairin' over whether they will ever learn to shoot properly, despite my best efforts. Thought it would make a nice change. Fresh air, good company and so forth."

He's got me laughing now.

"By the bye, the wee bird's become quite proficient with his HK. Not yet up to
our
standard, mind. But well above the norm. Exceded my expectations, I don't mind tellin' ye."

On the twelfth night after the Russian Rattle—Helen the English major would get off on the irony, it occurs to me later, but at the moment she's deeply stoned and deeply asleep, her breasts pressing my back and one arm draped over my hip—one ring of the bedside phone.

"Trust, little brother. Honor." Vassily's voice is cold as Siberia in January. "I trust you like a brother and you fuck me."

"Fuck you! You know what charges I'm facing? You know what I had to go through to make bail?"

"Sure. But you fucked me. Me! Your brother!"

"Unfuck it, Russki. You set the meet, your responsibility to make it safe. Was it safe? Where the fuck was your security? You got a leak."

"My organization, it has no leaks. Yours, I'm not so sure of."

"Bullshit, Vassily. My crew is solid. But one of your guys is talking to the Baltimore cops or the Feds. One of your

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guys may
be
DEA. That's the only way we could have got busted."

"Not only way."

"I'm telling you, you got a leaker. You got someone who gave us away to the cops."

"No, and I tell you why I'm so sure. The only people who knew time and place were me, Nick and five guys we had in Baltimore. So as soon as I get back, I talk to them, one at a time. Very private conversations." Oh shit. Terror flash. "1 talk to them in a way I know I am going to get truth. Like father to son, for start. Nothing. Nothing from any of them. So then I talk another way. The way Spetsnaz interrogator once talked to captured Afghanis. Or Charles Street way, if that makes it clearer for you."

"Tough boys. One of them's holding out on you, Vassily."

"I think not, little brother. A man going through that who doesn't talk, who doesn't even start babbling crazy lies so it'll stop ... it is only because he doesn't know nothing.

"So make your conclusions, little brother," he goes on. "None of them said one word. Not one fucking word."

"Then you better talk with Nick again, my friend."

"Ah, is not possible." Vassily laughs. It's not a laugh I recognize. "Nick, he doesn't have tongue anymore. He doesn't have lots of things. Toes, fingers, balls. Even head. All gone. Same for five boys. Not one ever admitted one thing when they still had heads and tongues. They would have by then, this I am absolutely certain of. If they had any errors at all to confess. So is one of yours, my friend. Have j ou spoken to Dog and all the rest in serious way?"

I say nothing.

'Too soft, eh? You surprise me, little brother. So quick to place blame on me without checking your own team seri-| ously. I think you have to do what I did very, very fast. Then I think you and me, we got to talk."

"Don't like your idea of conversation, asshole. You wanna see me, you come and get me."

"Personal insults now, on top of everything else? So you

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do have something to hide, I think. Oh, then I'll be coming. Count on it, little brother. I'm coming."

Helen hasn't stirred. But I slip off, lock myself in the bathroom, then call Dog at home. Tell him word for word what's just gone on with Vassily. "Watch your back, man," I say. "Like starting tonight, you down with that?"

"He frontin', man. He never did his own crew," he says.

"Vassily says he did, then Vassily did."

"So I got homies can handle whatever," he says.

"Don't underestimate, Dog. Our friend's ex-Spetsnaz, as you know. When he shows, he'll show Spetsnaz-style. With Spetsnaz boys."

"Spets-shit, they come around where I stay, they be cheese."

Damn. That Dog just won't take the warning. Too much street time. He thinks it can't happen. Like the gangbangers. Always look real surprised when they're lying there all wet and messy and dead.

First thing next morning, I go into Dugal's office. Not much point in playing my tape, it's in Russian and he won't understand, but I play it anyway, translate simultaneously. Dugal's only mildly impressed.

"You've had no way of knowing, Luther, but the FBI and the DEA have been onto this guy for a long time, even before I called them after our bust," he says. "We just got the first punch in, before they were ready to move on him. Well, they're moving now. Had guys from both agencies come by to see me. They've got copies of everything we've got on the case."

"All those assholes'11 do is read-and-file. Or snitch. Shit."

"Mind telling me just why it is, Luther, you have such contempt for federal agencies? Is it some leftover bitterness from your own experience in the military? You shouldn't allow that to creep into your thinking on this. We are talking FBI and DEA here, not the U.S. Army."

"One, LT, there is nothing in anything of ours that directly links Vassily to the deal, or links him enough to call for an arrest. I wasn't wearing a wire when I went to Brighton, remember? The best they can hope for is a racketeering indictment. Two, how long did it take the Feds to get John fucking Gotti, even though they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was capo of the New York mafia?

"Yearsl
That's how long. And only then because his right-hand man entered the witness protection program and ratted him out."

Dugal's just looking at me blankly, like what he's hearing is beyond his cognitive range.

"Three, the DEA and the FBI don't give a shit if Vassily takes out me and everybody who was with me. They might even like it. Might help those limp dicks build a case. That answer your question?"

"I think that's an overly severe assessment, Luther."

"They let Vassily back into the States, didn't they? The fuck's up in Brooklyn right now. He's still in business. He's making fucking phone calls, personally. Want me to play the tape again?"

"Did it occur to you that they wanted Vassily to come back from Russia? That they eased him right through customs and passport control just so he would get back to Brooklyn, where they have jurisdiction and can go after him?"

"It ocurred to me the FBI and your DEA don't even fucking know he's here. Call your new pals up, LT. See if you can surprise them with the news."

I go to my locker, then down to the range, where I pop the latches on a dull black aluminum case. Nestled in the gray foam are twin MP5Ks, a loaded 30-round clip beside each. Poppa and I are both Uncle Sam's misguided children. We robbed the dumb old bastard blind—Poppa with his M16 and who knows what else, me with my HK and the MP subs and some other really good shit, like about a kilo of C4. All kinds of great toys.

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"Ohhh, very sweet," McKibbin says over my shoulder. Before I can move he's lifted one from the case, slipped in a clip, clicked to full-auto, and emptied all 30 rounds into a silhouette, every fucking hole in the center of mass. A nearly impossible thing to do.

"Ah, the very finest tool of its kind ever made." He sort of sighs, dumping the clip into his left hand and placing it and the gun back in the case almost reverently. "But I'd strongly advise you put those beauties back in your locker. If they're seen here, they're not likely to leave here, Luther. We'll put them through their paces on the outdoor range, when nobody's around. And any other army surplus items you may be ownin', if ye like."

He's right, I know it. Dumb move, bringing strictly military submachine guns to the office. Vassily must have rattled me more than I'm admitting. "SAS bastard," I mutter, latching the case.

"Deluded you are, Luther," he says. "Just an old constable who once walked a beat in Belfast."

Later that afternoon, Dugal asks me to come into his office. He's looking abashed. No, he's looking scared.

"Well, Luther, I contacted the agencies we were discussing this morning," he says quietly. "I passed on your information to my contact people there, as you suggested. To my amazement, they
were
surprised. In fact, they had no idea he was back."

"No shit."

"But they were also skeptical that it was in fact Vassily | on the phone. I mentioned the tape. They said it could have been any number of Brighton Beach Russians who phoned you. They suggested a false alarm, a nervous cop. Could it have been someone else, Luther?"

"With all due respect, LT," I say,
"Fuck yourself up the
j
ass!
I
know
Vassily, and you know I know him!"

I throw the tape at him, but don't see whether it hits him or not because I'm out the door, out of the station and off in 1

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the TT very fast. With my duffle. I go downtown, use the cell to track Dog down, have a face-to-face. I misjudged him. He's got his security in place: three of the scariest looking homies I've ever seen, packing Uzis, sticking real close. Everybody in Kevlar.

I miss the cool scene. I only hear about it from IB, who's waiting outside my apartment when I get home early that evening.

Around four in the afternoon, a UPS box lands on Dugal's desk, IB tells me. "Next thing I know, I'm hearing this scream. Jesus, it was bone chilling, sounded like a woman being raped. I see Dugal come lurching out of his office, puke all over his shirt and suitcoat. Man, he was really green. Like lime green. Never seen skin that color before. Didn't know skin could turn that color. He runs to the men's room. So me and Tommy slide in, check out what's on his desk."

"And?"

"It's a head! A fucking human head, in a plastic bag. Sty-rofoam packing pellets are scattered all over the place, man. And this head, in a clear plastic bag. It's in pretty good shape, looks to me like that guy Nick you were waltzing with when we busted the stables."

I don't say a thing.

"Christ, Luther! Aren't you even a little bit shook by this? A little surprised at least, maybe that might be in order?"

"No."

"No?"

"I knew it'd happened. Vassily phoned me last night." Then I start laughing. IB looks at me like I've completely lost it. He looks, in fact, extremely disturbed. And very, very anxious. "Just never thought," I manage, "that old Vassily'd send the thing to Dugal. I'm sorry as hell I missed that one."

I decide I love malls. I don't even go inside my apartment after IB drives off. I get back in the TT. Five minutes, I'm in Home Depot, picking up this and that—small wire cutters

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with rubber handles, a box cutter, black electrical tape, duct tape, small hammer, brads, couple kinds of epoxy, bunch of long extension cords. Five minutes after that, in one of the big RadioShacks, the sort that still carries all kinds of electrical doo-dahs for the hobbyists, not just boom boxes and cellphones, I buy a pressure plate, soldering iron, the smallest gauge electric wire they stock, some resistors, a little circuit board, the biggest surge protector I can find, a couple of knife switches.

Go home, have a beer and a tab for dinner, then get very busy. Decent building, decent carpeting in the hallway. I pry up, very carefully, a patch just in front of my door, find it's thick enough, slice it thin with the box cutter. Glue the pressure plate to the flooring, attach two wires. Tuck the wires tight and close along the bottom of the door frame, run the rolls into my place. Carefully replace the carpet, see there's no telltale bulge from the pressure plate, tap a couple of brads into the pile so the carpet's secured, the brad heads covered by its fabric. Fasten the surge protector under the kitchen counter. Solder the wires to the surge protector's main plug, the one that goes into the wall fixture. Plug a lamp into the surge protector, switch it on. Open the door, walk past it three or four times. Every time my weight comes down on the hidden pressure plate, the light goes on. Goes off again as soon as I step off the plate. Jammin'. Anybody comes by my door, I'll know it.

Run extension cords from every lamp in the place to the surge protector. Even if I'm asleep in my bedroom, the lights are going on if anybody comes calling. Then I splice some wires to the surge protector, run 'em along the floor molding to knife switches. One by the bed, one by the bathroom, two in the living room. Try 'em—flip up any switch, every light in the place goes off. Shut any one, all the lights go on. Finally I take two bulbs out of the track lights in the living j room, replace them with the brightest, most powerful halogens the system can handle. Aim them at the entrance door.

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Anybody comes through it, they come into pitch black, then get blinded by the halogens when I flick a knife switch.

It'll jolt them, confuse them for a few seconds. A few seconds is all I'll need to shoot them down.

Perimeter secured.

Dugal calls me into his office next morning. "Your friend from Brighton Beach made his point yesterday, Luther. I assume you've heard about it?"

"Yeah, and I checked the head this morning already. It's Nick, like Vassily said. Got no tongue. Like Vassily said."

"So, security. Anything you want. A tail on you, 24/7? Move to a safe house? If not, six-man squad of tacticals around your apartment every night? Or a plainclothes unit, positioned inside your building? What'11 it be? Just tell me what you need."

"Nothing."

"Cut the crap, Luther. You've been targeted. Do you seriously think I'm going to let one of my men go unprotected in these circumstances? Think again. You will be protected."

"Listen, LT. If Vassily comes, or even if he doesn't handle it personally—which he's well able to do, by the way— and just sends some guys, they'll be very, very good. Ex-Spetsnaz, like him."

"All the more reason to have a strong force close to you."

"All the less. You put any people at all around my place, lhey'11 be killed. I guarantee they will be killed, silently and I efficiently. The best men you have, they're anywhere near me, you will—repeat, will—lose them."

"These guys are not superhuman, Luther, and we do have
some
good men."

"Not good enough. True, Vassily's guys are not superhuman, just supertrained. They will bleed and die like anybody else. But your best men won't see them, won't hear them.
Th
ey'll just get very suddenly liquidated."

"Now wait a minute here, Luther..."

"You have got to trust me on this, LT."

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Dugal's caving, I can see it in his face, but his frustration won't let it go.

"They'll all die, LT. Nobody on our team has to die if this goes down. Except maybe me, but I don't think so. If I'm wrong, it's just me. Not five or six others."

"What about FBI, DEA? I can get them."

"Fuck that." I laugh. "They'll probably shoot me. By 'mistake.'"

"So I'm supposed to simply sit here with my thumb stuck up my ass while you've got a big red target pinned on your chest?"

"I've taken some security measures at my place that will work fine, LT. Vassily probably knows this, because he knows me. He may decide not to risk trying a hit there."

And then I flash on something important. Unless Helen's connected, Vassily doesn't know I'm a cop. The fuck thinks I'm a drug dealer like him. This is a big advantage. I try to explain it to the LT.

"Vassily just believes me or one of my team ratted the deal out to you. That's why you got Nick's head, not me. So this is what I need," I say. "First, as far as the FBI and the DEA go, I do not exist. You don't know where the anonymous undercover cop with the Vassily connection is. All you know is that you gave him a leave of absence and he's vanished. This is crucial."

"Done."

"Second, I need to park my car in the underground lot here and leave it for a while. Can you get me an unmarked—not a Crown Vic, for God's sake—with out-of-state plates?"

Dugal ponders this for a moment, perplexed. "Got it!" he says. "Two nights ago, uniforms out in Hereford pulled over a guy on a traffic violation, saw a bag of something the size of a hay bale in the back of the vehicle. Proved to be marijuana. Locked up the idiot, impounded the vehicle. How about a Grand Cherokee, brand new, dark green, with Pennsylvania plates?"

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"Perfect."

"I'll have it down here in an hour," Dugal says.

"Not here, LT. Get 'em to leave it in the Dulaney Mall lot, key tucked behind the front plate. I'll pick it up when I need it, nobody knows anything about it. Can you fix it like that?"

"I'll make it happen. I'll tell the Hereford boss we've got intelligence on where that guy was delivering the smoke, that we're leaving the vehicle out as a decoy. It's a narc case now, and I am the County narc boss. They won't question it."

"So I'm gone," I say.

"Absolutely. But please, keep in touch with me as much as you can safely manage. I hate the idea of you running around by yourself out there, considering the degree of threat."

"Oh, you'll see me. In fact I'll be in and out of the squad-room from time to time."

Dugal looks surprised.

"No place to run, no place to hide, but I can slip and slide where I need to."

"Play it your way, Luther," Dugal nods, not understanding at all.

If he had any idea the way I'm going to play it, I'm thinking as I leave, he'd have me locked up.