November in Brighton Beach has none of the charm reserved for New England, it's as if the autumn palette ignores the neighborhood altogether. Everything is gray, and a stormy sky only serves to reinforce it, as if saying, what the hell's the point?
I parked the car on Avenue Y, just a couple blocks west of Coney Island, and watched the street. Clouds were riding a chill wind off the water, and the few people on the street wore gloves or walked with hands in pockets. Nobody looked happy to be outside. I checked my mirrors, followed a clump of twenty-something tough guys with my eyes as they scowled their way down the block. They turned the corner at Hubbard, into a restaurant with a name written in Cyrillic. Condensation from inside stuck to the windows, and they disappeared out of sight like wraiths.
The gun in the glove compartment was clean and untraceable, one of the pistols from the cache Alena and I had cleared the previous afternoon. It was a Czech semiauto, the CZ75, and it could be carried cocked and locked.
I took the gun out of the glove compartment. I cocked it, locked it, and then put it in my belt at the small of my back.
Then I got out of the car and headed for the restaurant. Before I'd even opened the door I could smell the grease frying inside, hear the noise of the patrons. There was no liquor license posted anywhere I could see, but that didn't seem to bother anyone within, and there looked to be a bottle of vodka for everyone present. Cigarette smoke choked the air. I moved inside as if I knew exactly where I was going, and it helped that Alena had given me explicit directions, and because I didn't look out of place and I didn't act out of place, no one gave me more than a cursory glance.
I worked my way along the aisle between the counter and the crowded tables, giving an eyefuck to anyone who looked my way too long. Almost everyone present was male but for one very busty brunette working the register, and a couple of older women in a booth near the bathroom doors. At least a hundred horses had gone to their great reward to provide the occupants with leather, from boots to jackets to, in a couple of cases, pants. On a lot of the men I saw tattoos, especially on their hands and fingers, Russian mafia call-signs.
At the back of the room was a door marked with a plastic sign in English, ordering me to keep out. I went on through into the back room, passing a very large teenager who was listening to a Walkman as he sat on a stack of plastic crates. He slipped from his perch as I passed him and asked me something in Russian, and I waved my left hand at him in such a way as to indicate he didn't want to mess with me. I was at the next door and going up a flight of stairs as he settled back down.
I'd half expected another whorehouse, because Alena hadn't been clear on what I would be walking into, but it was merely a furnished room with two men doing paperwork at two wooden desks. As I came in both looked up, and from their expressions I could tell they'd been expecting someone else. The one at the closer desk, bespectacled and chunky, asked me something I didn't understand.
There was a couch and a coffee table, so I sat down like I owned the place. The chunky one repeated what he'd said, this time not so friendly. The other one, who was both older and smaller, rose, suspicion on his face.
"I want to see Danilov Korckeva," I said in the Russian Alena had made me practice over and over again until she was certain I could sound authentic. "Tell him I'm a friend of Natasha's."
Then I waggled my hand at the thin man, indicating that I wanted him to either use the phone, sit down, or possibly do the hokey-pokey.
He decided I meant for him to sit down. As the chunky one got on the phone, the older one studied me curiously, then asked me something in Russian. I gave him a look that said I wasn't in the mood for chatter, he nodded, and went back to his paperwork.
I kept smiling, though it was more honest this time. "Just act as if you own them," Alena had told me. "Say nothing after you ask for Dan. If they try to speak to you, scowl. If they do it a second time, draw the gun, but do not point it at them. Otherwise, look as if you don't have a care in the world. The longer you sit there and wait, the more afraid of you they will become. They can't help it. It's the Russian mentality. The only thing they fear is their own, and they will take you for one of their own, but one who is unknown, and that will truly frighten them."
And damn if she wasn't right, because I sat there for thirty-seven minutes, and each time I caught one of them looking at me I stared right back and scowled, and they lowered their eyes, caught, and hastily resumed their work. They didn't speak to me. They didn't speak to each other. The chunky one got up once and went to the small television that sat on a metal stand against the wall between their desks, and he looked at me before switching it on, the question in his eyes. I shrugged, and he smiled and switched on ESPN, then went back to his work.
A little after noon the door opened and Dan came in, wearing designer jeans and biker boots and the same leather jacket as before, plucking a pair of sunglasses from his face. There was no need for them on a day like today, but they seemed to suit the image. He saw me on the couch and stopped cold, squinting, and I had to remind myself that the last time he'd seen me I'd worn glasses and been clean-shaven. It took him almost three seconds, and then his face cracked into a grin.
"Holy fuck, it's Mr. Atticus!" He loomed in, offering one mammoth hand for a shake, the other going to my shoulder. It didn't rattle me as much as it had when we'd first met. "Natasha sent you? That's for real? You're not giving me the bullshit?"
"She needs a favor."
Dan waved a hand, warning me to say no more. "We don't talk here, not about 'Tasha. You come with me."
He waited until I was up, then held the door open for me, gesturing, and I grinned and didn't go through, and he laughed and nodded and went first. I followed him out into the hall and back down the stairs. When we reached the teenager with the Walkman, Dan cuffed him alongside the head, growling in Russian, and the kid yelped. We went back through the restaurant, then out onto the street, where the Kompressor was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant. The top was down. He climbed over the side and forced himself behind the wheel, and I opened the door and took the passenger seat. The engine came to life and he did a moderately illegal turn, then put us on Coney Island Avenue, heading to the water.
"You're not dead," Dan said. "That's surprising."
"No one's more surprised than me."
He roared with laughter. " 'Tasha sent you, you walk in like an old-time commissar, you have balls. What does she need, anything she needs if I can give it, it's for her."
"She needs a house."
"Big house? Little house? Apartment? Condo?"
"A secure house, somewhere access can be restricted, someplace that she can hole up."
We turned onto Brighton Beach Avenue, Dan nodding. "And she sends you to get this for her? Why does she not come herself?"
"She's finding it difficult to move around right now."
"Police?"
"Almost."
He scratched his chin, sniffing the air. "Okay, I can get a house, a good house. But it's not cheap."
"It needs to be secure."
"Real secure, this house, in Jersey. Comes with alarms, cameras, I can even give her guards, she wants them."
"She may."
"Guards, those will be extra. I will pick them myself. Only the best for 'Tasha." He looked over at me, and his tone changed, and the enthusiasm, the friendliness, disappeared. "You tell her I get her the best, okay?"
"She said you always do."
He put his attention back on the road. "That's right, I always do. You don't fuck with 'Tasha unless you have your will in order."
"How long will it take you?"
"By tonight, I can do this. Where do I contact you?"
"Doesn't work like that, Dan. I'll contact you."
He took a moment, then nodded and rattled off a phone number. I repeated it back, as much to aid my memory as to check that I'd heard him right.
"How much will it cost?" I asked.
"With guards, for 'Tasha – she gets discount – I say five large a day."
"I'll have to check with her about the guards," I said.
"Of course, of course."
"She'll want to see you there when she arrives."
"Yes, of course, okay." He nodded a couple of times, then asked where he could drop me off. I told him back at the restaurant would be fine, and he turned the car around and headed back to where we'd started, driving in silence. Then he asked, "So, you were with her? All this time, you were with her?"
"All this time," I confirmed.
We were back on Hubbard, and once again he parked in front of the hydrant, then killed the engine. I opened the door and climbed out of the car, and he watched me as I started to go, then called out, waving me back. I came around to his side of the car.
"Was it hell or heaven?" he asked.
"I'm still trying to figure that out myself," I told him.
I got back to the SoHo Grand just before two, used the house phone in the lobby to ring the room once, hung up, and then took the elevator up. Natalie opened the door for me as soon as I got there, her Glock in her hand, and when she confirmed I was alone, let me pass, saying, "It's him."
Alena came out of the bathroom on her crutches, the PDW slung from her shoulder, and the tension seeped from her face when she saw me. From where he lay on the floor, Miata acknowledged me with a slight raising of his head.
Natalie had arrived late that morning, just before I'd left for the meeting with Dan, bringing with her a short stack of legalese that roughly meant I'd get three-quarters of a million dollars for my share of KTMH. The figure had been much higher than I expected, and Natalie explained that it would be paid out over the next six months. I'd signed the agreement, and then I'd introduced her to Alena.
The two women had greeted one another politely, with some awkwardness but nothing like the tension that had existed between Alena and Bridgett. I figured that Natalie wouldn't have very much to say to Alena, either, but as I came into the room, that no longer seemed to be the case. There was a pad of paper on the desk, covered with figures written in Natalie's hand, along with rough diagrams that made it look as if she'd been working on a calculus equation, and I realized they'd found a common interest to discuss.
"We've been talking about sniping," Natalie told me as she locked the door. "Alena was telling me about the Dragunov."
"I trained on the Dragunov," Alena explained. "How was Dan?"
"I hadn't realized how afraid of you he is," I said.
She hobbled to the bed, dropping one of the crutches and then taking the submachine gun off her arm. "Is he?"
"I think so."
"Then he will do what we ask." She sat down carefully, folding her hands in her lap. "How long does he need?"
"He says he can have a house for us by nightfall, one with basic security and a few guards."
"How many guards?" Natalie asked.
"I don't know. Three or four, I'd expect." I looked back to Alena. "I told him that you'd want to see him in person. He's asking five grand a day."
She made a face as if she'd hoped for better and expected worse. Natalie said, "We don't even charge that much."
"It's a seller's market," I told her. "We've got enough loose cash here to cover a week and a half or so, but there's no way this'll be over by then. We're going to need more money."
"I'll arrange it." Alena slid along the bed to the nightstand and picked up the phone, began dialing. It was a long string of numbers, and when she got an answer, she started speaking in German.
I moved to the couch and sat down, taking the pistol out of my belt. I unlocked it and lowered the hammer carefully, making it safe again. Natalie took her seat at the desk, began examining the figures on her pad. It took Alena another minute on the phone before she hung up.
"It's done. There is a Credit Suisse branch in midtown. If you go there tomorrow, they'll have the money. Two hundred thousand. You'll give half of it to Dan." She looked me over. "You should exercise."
"I'm kind of working right now," I said.
"Natalie is here, I am safe for the time being. You should at least do some cardio."
Natalie laughed, then caught herself.
"My personal trainer," I said.
"I noticed," Natalie replied.
"I'm serious, Atticus," Alena said. "Don't lose everything you've gained."
I really didn't want to work out, but she was right, and in fact I was already feeling the effects of not having exercised in almost a week. I did feel stiff, not as loose or as fluid, and the thing that surprised me most was just how aware of the changes in my body I was.
Alena used one of her crutches to prod me. "Go."
"I'm gone," I said, and went to the gym.
The house was in Mahwah, New Jersey, about an hour's drive from Manhattan. I left Alena with Natalie at the SoHo Grand and took Miata with me when I went out to see it, and I met Dan on the Franklin Turnpike in what could charitably be called the middle of town. He was parked outside of a Dunkin' Donuts, the roof now up on the Kompressor, but only because a light, cold rain had begun falling.
I followed him in my rental, and we wound our way along thin streets lined with trees, most of which had lost their leaves. Mahwah was on the edge of the New Jersey boonies, close to Mount Campgaw, though skiing at the resort wouldn't start until around Thanksgiving. The countryside was quiet and pleasant and hilly, the houses separated not only by wide spaces but also by age, some of the houses a century or more old, others built the year before. Farther into the mountains were New Jersey's infamous hillbillies, the Jackson Whites, inbred families with atavistic brows and six-fingered hands.
I followed the Kompressor onto a small side road that wound its way down another slope, then leveled into a small valley, then into another turn and up a short drive that ended at a seven-foot-tall gate supported by two stone pillars. There was no fence, but past the pillars on either side of the drive, the road dropped into foliage, more trees and bushes grown thick together.
Dan climbed out of the Kompressor and opened the gate, waved me through, and I pulled forward and then off the road, parking half on the unkempt lawn. I stopped the engine and climbed out, Miata springing down after me and looking suspiciously around him. Dan pulled forward and stopped beside me, his engine still running.
"You don't want to see the house?" He pointed up the road, at the building that was perhaps two hundred feet away.
"Go ahead, I'll meet you there."
He creased his brow, then put the car back in gear and drove away. Miata looked after him, then began sniffing around on the grass.
I started with a walk of the perimeter, taking almost three-quarters of an hour before approaching to the house. There was no fencing to speak of, and no cameras or other perimeter security. Even with the autumn assault, the woods around the grounds were still capable of providing heavy cover. At the back of the house was a high hill, and anyone coming over it would have a view of the whole area.
I didn't like it.
Miata loped behind me as I walked back up the drive. The house was built in the colonial style, and from the outside appeared to have been recently renovated. A wide set of stairs came off the drive to a porch, painted white. Dan was waiting for me by the front door, smoking a cigarette, and when I came up the steps he flicked the butt away; it hit a puddle and died with a sizzle. He looked at Miata, and Miata looked at him, and I swore they were sizing one another up.
"No dogs inside," Dan said.
"The dog is hers."
The pained look he gave me vanished quickly, replaced by a question that he didn't feel safe in asking. Then he shrugged and opened the front door, heading inside. I went in after him, and Miata took up the rear. As we came inside I could hear the warning tone from an alarm system, one long bleet, and Dan turned the first corner we came to and rapidly tapped in a code on the keypad. The bleeting stopped, and Dan began walking through the house, turning on the lights.
I took another hour just going through the house, checking all of the doors and windows and corners, hoisting myself up into the insulated crawlspace above the second floor, checking out the cellar. The security inside was better, and every portal on both the ground and second floor was wired, though obviously so. Everything ran through a locked junction box in the basement. The house was entirely furnished, decorated to match the colonial exterior. On the second floor were three bedrooms, one master and two smaller, and two bathrooms. The ground floor had a kitchen, dining room, living room, and guest room. There was a hot tub on the back deck.
Dan was waiting for me at the table in the kitchen, drinking from a longneck of Budweiser. Another bottle was in front of him, and he gestured that it was mine, but I shook my head and went to the cupboards, started opening them. The shelves had been filled with canned foods, ravioli and chili and other junk. The freezer was brimming with T.V. dinners and frozen pizzas, and the refrigerator held mostly soda, beer, and condiments. There was a sad head of lettuce wilting in the back of the crisper. I threw that in the trash can by the sink.
"What do you think?" Dan asked.
"Tell me about the alarm, what's it tied to?"
"The monitoring service. If it goes off, they notify the police."
"Who owns the house?"
"Bank in Brooklyn." When I frowned, he added, "All the paper is good."
"Yeah, but by Brooklyn you mean it's a front, that there's no name on it. It can be traced."
"Not easily."
"You're going to need to change that tomorrow, put the ownership in a name, a married couple, I don't care who. Just make it look good, and if you can backdate the sale, that's even better."
"Anything else?" He sounded testy.
"I want you to start looking into doctors, we need someone good, someone who specializes in sports injuries. Has to be completely off the record, but that shouldn't be too hard, and I'm sure you can find someone who lost their license because they started stealing from their own drug cabinet. Make sure whoever you find is discreet, because he or she may have to come out here several times."
"Is this for 'Tasha?"
"Can you do it?"
"All it takes is money. I ask again, is this for 'Tasha, is she hurt?"
I ignored the question, checked out the kitchen window into the backyard. It was night now, and there were no lights from outside.
"You will want the guards, too?" he asked. "I've got some boys, four of them. All good with arms, I can equip them however 'Tasha wants, automatics, submachine guns, even grenades. I can have them here tonight, if that's what she wants."
"Tomorrow will be fine. These are your guys?"
"They work for me."
"They know anything about protection? I mean real protection, not shakedowns."
The chair scraped as he shifted around, and I turned back to see that he was getting up, and looking pissed. "You listen, Mr. Kodiak, you can just drop that shit with me, okay? Your attitude I don't need, I know what I'm about here, I do this shit right."
"You going to answer my question?"
"I beat you down once," he reminded me.
"You did. You want to try again?"
Dan stared at me, his weight shifting into his torso. The longneck was in his right hand, and I figured he'd start with that. I didn't look away from him, and I didn't move, just started cataloguing all of the kitchen utensils and supplies that I saw in my periphery, picking which ones I'd use to stop him if he decided things needed to go that far.
Then he relaxed, his weight settling lower again, and he took a swig from the bottle.
"No," he said, after he had swallowed. "No, I don't think I will."
Back on the Franklin Turnpike I found a pay phone and called the hotel, asking for Mr. Lieberg's room. When the phone was answered, I spoke first.
"It'll do. It's not what I hoped for, and we'll need the extras, but it'll do. Her friend is waiting for me there now."
"Where?" Natalie asked.
"Franklin Turnpike in Mahwah. I'll be outside the Dunkin' Donuts."
"Take us an hour."
"Take two, make sure you're clean when you get here."
"Got it."
I hung up and got back in the car, then headed along the turnpike to the Interstate Mall, which was just a couple miles away. I cracked the window and left Miata in the car, telling him I'd be back shortly, then headed inside. At a GNC in the mall I dropped almost two hundred dollars on various supplements, then headed over to the Radio Shack and picked up another hundred or so dollars' worth of electronics. I did a little clothes shopping, as well, buying some extra underwear and the like for both Alena and myself. When I was finished I brought everything back to the car and went back into Mahwah and stopped at the first grocery store I saw. I bought food, mostly fruits and veggies, some fish, two gallons of juice, a gallon of milk, a couple of pretty lean-looking steaks. I also grabbed a ten-pound bag of Science Diet for Miata. When I'd finished loading the car, the trunk was full.
Then I headed back to the Dunkin' Donuts and waited in the car, watching the traffic and thinking. After a couple of minutes I got out again and went back to the phone, but this time I called Scott.
"You free tonight?" I asked him.
"You say such things and my heart leaps with joy."
"You've always been my number one guy, you know that. I'm going to call you in another hour or so, give you a location. Take your time coming out, but when you do, bring your pad and pencil."
"She's cool with this?"
"She will be."
"I'll expect your call," he said, and hung up.
They arrived just over two hours after I'd called, pulling into the lot in Natalie's new Audi. Alena was in the front passenger seat, a coat in her lap, the submachine gun under the coat.
"Any trouble?" I asked.
"None," Natalie said. "If he's in New York, he didn't know you were at the Grand."
"You checked us out?"
"All taken care of."
"New car."
"You like it?"
"What happened to the old one?"
"Sold it."
"Nat, you go through cars the way most people go through socks."
"I like that new-car smell," she said. "We'll follow you."
I climbed back into the rental and got back on the road, and they followed me the ten minutes it took to reach the house. The Kompressor was still where Dan had parked it, and the lights inside the house were still blazing bright. I stopped my car and let Miata out, told Natalie and Alena to wait. Dan was still in the kitchen, where he'd killed another two longnecks, talking on his cell phone in Russian. When he saw me he changed his tone, making a quick end to the conversation, then stowed the phone back in his pocket.
"She's here?"
I gestured for him to follow me.
They were still in the Audi, the engine idling, and when Natalie saw us coming, she shut off the car and opened her door. Dan started around for Alena's side, and I looked past him to her, trying to read what she wanted. She didn't seem to have any objection to Dan's approach, and so I let him help her out of the vehicle while I started unloading the rental. Between Natalie and myself we had my shopping unloaded and the bags from the Audi inside in three trips, just as Alena had reached the top of the porch. Dan was walking behind her, and his manner reminded me of nothing as much as an overprotective sibling watching out for his little sister. But when he offered to give her his elbow for support, she snapped something in Russian at him, and again it was clear that, whatever else he felt for her, she scared him.
Natalie set about a quick walk-through of the house while I unloaded the groceries, and Alena settled into one of the chairs in the kitchen, Dan again back at the table. I didn't say anything while I restocked the cabinets and fridge. The two of them spoke in Russian to one another, voices soft, though twice Alena's tone sharpened, and Dan said something conciliatory. I was folding the shopping bags and putting them away when I realized the conversation, whatever it had been about before, had now turned and made me the subject.
Natalie came back and rolled her eyes at me, and I moved to join her in the hall, saying, "I know, it's not good. It's not god-awful, but it's not good."
"The hot tub helps," she said.
"Sure, if you want to be picked off from outside."
"She taught you how to snipe, did she?"
"No," I said. "Sniping's woman's work."
"Well, let's talk about man's work, then. What do you want to do about the alarms?"
"I picked up some stuff at Radio Shack. Tomorrow we can wire a panic button to whatever room we're putting her in. Other than that, I'm not sure what else we can do."
"Be nice if we had Corry for this," she mused.
"And Dale for the vehicles, but we don't. Which room do you like for her?"
"The second bedroom upstairs, the one between the master bedroom and the smaller bathroom. You and I can take the beds on either side, she'll be covered."
I moved my head to indicate the flight of stairs. "Be trouble if we have to get her out in a hurry."
"Atticus," Natalie said. "If we have to get her out in a hurry, odds are none of us will be leaving alive anyway."
"We'll ask her what she wants."
Natalie looked past me, back into the kitchen. "You have any idea what they're talking about?"
"Probably me," I said.
"Oh, that's egocentric."
"Maybe. But I heard Dan use my name, and I don't think it was in passing. Not sure what the relationship is there."
"Not sure what the relationship is, here," Natalie pointed out.
I started to respond when, from the kitchen, Alena called, "Dan's going to go back into the city, get things ready for tomorrow."
Natalie and I stepped back into the kitchen, saw that Dan was already on his feet. He looked at me and asked, "If that's all right with you?"
There was no condescension in his tone at all.
"That's fine," I answered. "Thanks."
" 'Tasha says you'll pay me tomorrow."
"I'll have the money by the afternoon."
"That's good, then."
He adjusted his coat, glanced at Alena, then made his way out of the house. Natalie turned and followed him to the door, locking it after he left, staying at the window until his car was out of sight. I pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat down with Alena.
"How do you feel about being upstairs?"
"The stairs will be difficult, but I'll manage. It will be fine." She set her crutches aside, propping them against the table. "Dan says you were unhappy with him."
"Not with him. There are problems with the house, it's not ideal. But it'll serve."
"He says I changed you."
"You did."
"He says I made you like me."
"That I'm not so sure about. But at least I'm no longer addicted to caffeine."
She smiled, but didn't laugh. "When is Fowler coming to speak with me?"
I was only a little surprised. "He's waiting for my call."
"Tonight would be best."
That was more surprising. "I thought you'd take some convincing."
"No, it was to be expected, and if you had not already contacted him, I would have asked you to. I will give him information."
"Like?"
"Oxford has certainly been hired by the same people who told you I had killed in Dallas. They lied to you, hoping you would make their jobs easier. They hoped I would contact you, and that you in turn would contact them. They most certainly planned to then forward that information to Oxford, helping him to narrow his search. Since they are Oxford's employers, only they can end the contract. But if I give information to Fowler, information embarrassing to those people, Fowler will share it with his superiors, and that will force them back into hiding."
"Nice plan if it'll work. Do you think it'll work?"
She shook her head. "But it will complicate things for Oxford at the least, perhaps buy us more time. Understand, I will speak to Fowler only because we can use him."
"He doesn't want to arrest you."
"I'm glad to hear that, because I won't allow it to happen."
"I'll make sure he understands," I said. "You don't have to worry about Scott, he's a good guy."
"Another of your friends."
"He's a good friend."
"I noticed that only Natalie agreed to help you."
"Dale and Corry are still my friends."
"And yet they are not here."
She shut her eyes, tired. It occurred to me that her leg was giving her a lot of pain. She opened her eyes again, then leaned over to where I was sitting and put her lips lightly against my cheek.
"Call your friend," she said.