Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (24 page)

41

“I WONDERED HOW I might reach you Vladimir,” Teplov said. “You have saved me the trouble and found me yourself.”

The two men stared at each other, each with a gun pointed at the other’s chest. Zheglov said nothing.

“Vladimir Zheglov. I’ve heard good things about you. Pasha Boyavov said you are very good. I can see that for myself. What you did at Genken’s was very impressive. Let me guess how you found me. Ruchkin was always a weak link.”

He looked for confirmation. Zheglov’s eyes never left his eyes or blinked. The stare was disconcerting.

“Let me assure you,” Teplov said, “We are on the same side of this unfortunate set of circumstances. It is time we put down our weapons of mutually assured destruction and figure out what to do next. Together. There is a place for you in the new order.”

“You put down your gun first,” Vlad said.

Teplov sighed and lowered his Makarov, confident . . . almost . . . that Zheglov would work with him. The truth was, he was looking for Vladimir and did need him—and there was a future for him in the
bratva
, which would now be under total control of Moscow. None of the five active brigadiers had been selected as next Pakhan. But he could make sure Zheglov was part of the deal. Have him tie up a few loose ends, then send him overseas for a year until things cooled. When he came back he could report to the new Pakhan and become eyes and ears for him in Moscow.

Or he could just have him killed for his role in killing Genken.

“Sit, Vladimir. Let’s talk. Then we will toast a bright future.”

The two men sat across from each other in comfortable leather chairs in his suite at the London Hotel. Their guns sat on a coffee
table in front of them. I am good but Zheglov might be better, Teplov thought. As he prepared to speak his phone buzzed.

“Vladimir, I am going to reach in my top pocket and accept this call. If you would like to pick up your gun to feel comfortable, you may do so.”

Zheglov picked up his Springfield XDM 45, a nice handgun the Springfield Armory had manufactured by HS Produkt in Carlovac, Croatia. It was based on a model the Croats commissioned for their war with the Bosnians. It was reliable, which was all the trust Vladimir needed.

“This is Sergei,” Teplov answered.

The volume was set high and Vlad could hear the response: “This is Anasenko.
U nas yest’ problemy,
Sergei.”

If it was Anasenko Sadowsky, it meant problems in Chicago too. Nothing could measure up to all that was going on in New York City.

Teplov smiled at Zhelnov and said, “We have no problems, Anasenko. We only have solutions.”

Zheglov noticed he pushed the phone tighter to his hear to block him from hearing what came next.

After thirty seconds of listening and nodding, Teplov broke into a broad smile.

“Describe him, Anasenko.”

He burst out laughing.

“Anasenko, someone is playing you for the fool. What you tell me is impossible. Vladimir Zheglov is sitting right in front of me at this very moment.”

Zheglov didn’t like that and the gun raised a couple centimeters.

Teplov raised a hand and said loudly, “Anasenko, do nothing. Think nothing. I will call you back in an hour and the mystery will be solved.”

He turned to Zheglov and said, “Put down the gun, Vladimir. We have a puzzle to solve and then some work to do. Tell me if you can
figure something out for me. Sadowsky tells me a man has come to him. He is a giant, as big as a bear. No hair on his face or head. He says his name is Vladimir Zheglov.”

Sadowsky didn’t have to wait an hour. Teplov called two minutes after they hung up.

“Kill him. Make him disappear.”

42

KRISTEN FUMBLED AROUND in the cluttered bedroom for her wallet—she hadn’t started laundry yet. Where did you hide? She wanted to get to the door. Her phone chirped. What now? I have cashew chicken calling my name. Klarissa.

“Let me call you back, Sis, we need to talk.”

“I know we do. So what’s the rush?”

“I’ve got a delivery guy at the door.”

“Nice try. Mom told me you’re back at the condo. So I know you don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be difficult. I know you don’t have a delivery guy at the door.”

“Yes I do.”

“Impossible. No deliveries are allowed to individual units.”

“Then why is there a guy from Golden Palace ringing the doorbell?”

“If you say so,” she says. “But they make me pick up at the lobby. Homeowner’s Association is very strict on this point. So stop trying to con me.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“What if Bernard likes me more than he likes you?”

“Not possible. Bernard makes all of us feel like he loves us most. And he’s strictest with the rules.”

The hairs on Kristen’s neck stood up.

“I’ll call back, Klarissa.”

“Don’t hang up!”

Too late. She pulled her Sig Sauer from the lock box after turning the key with a shaking hand. She did a quick status check. Ten in the
clip and one in the barrel. She released the safety. Just don’t point a gun at Mr. Bernard if he’s knocking because you left something in the lobby.

She crept toward the front hall.

43

FANCY CAR. FANCY place. She’s corrupt. Too bad I had to punch the old man guarding the door. He should have just told me her number. Why do people make things so difficult? Good thing her name was on the mailbox. K. Conner.

But this is getting too complicated. I did very good, my very best with Sadowsky. But now my head is hurting from thinking too much. He hit the doorbell again.

Just come to the door skinny, little girl. Just stick your eye in the hole.

He looked at his watch. He figured he needed to be clear of the Lake Building in another two or three minutes. He parked three blocks away. After walking past the front door several times he didn’t figure there was much chance the old man in the crazy purple suit would let him in without a good reason. He walked five blocks and bought a to-go pizza from Armand’s. He had them put everything on it and extra sausage. It would be his dinner after this Detective Conner business was done. He knew he had said he would wait until St. Louis or Tulsa, but the deed would be done, so he would wash it down with a bottle of Stolichnaya.

Rule number one if someone potentially dangerous is knocking on your door is call the police. I am the police so I can check that off. Rule number two: don’t stick your eye in the peephole. What you don’t know is out there might kill you—or at least put out an eye.

The doorbell rings again, followed by five sharp raps.

Do I just wait until something happens? Do I yank the door open and point a gun in someone’s face? That someone might be Bernard if
he’s still on duty. I don’t think Klarissa lived here long enough to know anyone else in the building. Would someone stop by to ask for an egg or cup of sugar? I don’t think they do things like that here.

Maybe the person on the floor below heard me doing burpees. I doubt it. The walls and floors are thick and insulated to keep sounds out. I guess I hear classical music coming from next door sometimes. But it’s very low. I’ve never heard anything above or below.

Patience isn’t my strong suit. I decide to yank it open.

44

REYNOLDS NODDED AND the three men stood abruptly. They’d been at it for three hours. He gave Pasha Boyarov a hard stare as he knocked to have the door opened from the outside. No inside handle. Boyarov met his eyes and glared back just as fiercely. Reynolds hated to be the first man to blink but one of the two guards at the door was coughing softly. Boyarov was a savage murderer with and without a weapon. Even with numbers on your side, the remanding guidelines specified not to give him room to move and attack. He was a loose cannon and very unpredictable.

As Reynolds turned, he saw the smile on Boyarov’s face.

Ten minutes alone tough guy. Let’s see who is standing.

This guy is going to be a tough nut to crack, he thought. We gave him too much up front and he isn’t afraid. We’ll have to figure out how to change that.

He exited the goldfish bowl and went up to Deputy Director Robert Willingham who was watching the interview with Dr. Leslie Van Guten, an FBI profiler and his ex-spouse, and a translator for those exchanges when Boyarov seemed to forget his English despite living the US for more than twenty-five years. He had arrived as a young teen.

“What do you think?” he asked Willingham.

Willingham shrugged and looked at Van Guten.

“He’s just playing,” she answered. “He’s sizing you up, Austin. And he’s doing quite well. You need to curb your testosterone in the interview room.”

“That I am very aware of,” Reynolds said, trying to stymie the steam that was rising from him. “But what I’m asking is if you see a man who is going to be of any help to us. Will he settle down and get to business?”

“If you need fast answers on this potential bioweapons threat, no,” she said. “If he knows as much as you think he does about the American
bratva
, then yes, he will help you tremendously. Everyone talks eventually. But Austin, I suspect you will be on to something new before that happens.”

Reynolds smiled. Van Guten liked to get her digs in any chance she got.

“Can you tell when he’s lying?” Reynolds asked.

“Russian communication characteristics aren’t my specialty. I’ve already told you that, Austin.”

“Back to Reynolds’ first question,” Willingham interrupted. “Did you see any response from Boyarov on the key questions that might indicate he has knowledge that can help us on the bio threat, however we get him to talk?”

“I can only surmise what you two already know,” she answered. “He knows a lot. But it’s now out of his control. I don’t think he ever really knew who his champion was against Genken. Part of the reason he’s playing tough guy is there’s a lot you are asking that he doesn’t know. That’s why he came in. That’s the only reason he would turn himself in.”

“Felt like bravado to me, too,” Willingham said.

“There was desperation beneath it,” Van Guten added. “And something else. Maybe shame.”

“I know it’s a guess,” Reynolds continued, “but do you think he knows what he was buying from Nelson and PathoGen?”

“Yes, but with a caveat.”

She paused and straightened the cat’s-eye glasses she wore to look smart. Actually, she is plenty smart without the glasses as a prop, Reynolds corrected himself.

“So, shoot,” Willingham said, impatient now.

“He probably knows broad parameters but I don’t think he’s high enough up in the hierarchy to know details.”

“How are the computer techs doing?” Reynolds asked Willingham, glad to shift the focus from Van Guten.

“His transaction with Nelson was very sophisticated. And maybe impossible to crack because the program was hosted in several international locations on the deep net before it erased itself.”

The deep net, home to hackers the world over. It was much more vast than what the world assumed was the extent of the worldwide web. Finding traces there, without having the originating hardware, was like looking for a needle in a haystack, no matter how many spiders the NSA had trolling.

“Did the Russians get what we think they did?” Reynolds asked.

“No way to tell at this point—and maybe never. But we do have one lead. In Switzerland to be exact. I’ve been told the transaction protocol matches a whisper of a fingerprint of a broker in Geneva. The problem is, if it’s the man we suspect of facilitating the transfer of a biotech code in exchange for a large sum of money, he sets it up so not even he knows how to retrieve the electronic files and transfers.”

“That’s convenient,” said Reynolds said.

“Very convenient,” Willingham said. “It’s his way of staying out of jail and, more importantly, staying alive. If he is powerless to do anything, he has fundamentally shielded himself from dangerous clients that aren’t satisfied with his services. Best of both worlds. He explains it very clearly up front and has a document signed by both parties that nothing criminal is being exchanged.”

“He learned from the best,” Reynolds added. “No one better than the Swiss bankers at maintaining an aura of neutrality to help bad people. They were Hitler’s best friends.”

“Things have changed,” Willingham said. “They’ve had to cave to international pressure so they’ve lost some of their business based on losing absolute confidentiality in regard to their clients. But yes, this echoes what some of their best and brightest—and richest—did during World War II with the Nazis.”

Reynolds looked through the one-way glass at Boyarov. There were ways to get him to talk. But none were legal. He doubted if the top floor of Homeland Security would change that reality without a battery of meetings that could take days or weeks—time they didn’t have.

“What next?” Reynolds asked. “I’m ready to spend more quality time with Pasha.”

“I wouldn’t advise it right now,” Van Guten answered for Willingham. “You two are in an alpha struggle of epic proportions. I know you both will hate what I have to say, but give Boyarov a day by himself. Let him think. Let his imagination click in. Let him get annoyed no one is paying attention to him. You’ll get a lot more out of him next time you talk.”

“Do we have time for a slow dance?” Reynolds asked Willingham. “If this guy has secured a bioweapons formula for the Russians, we need to squeeze him now.”

“Every bit of Intel suggests the operation failed,” Willingham answered after a pause. “Could be part of the plan to make it look that way, but I don’t think so. Even if the American
bratva
is relatively independent of Moscow control, no way would Putin and the oligarchs allow this lucrative and destabilizing foothold on American soil to cannibalize itself the way it has the past week. What we’re going to get from Pasha is ammo to do more damage to the Red Mafiya here, not find out who is trying to secure classified scientific secrets.”

“I hope you’re right,” Reynolds said.

“Van Guten is right,” Willingham said with a chuckle. “You are my ‘shock and awe’ hammer Austin. Usually works. Didn’t with the Russian. At least not this first go round. No surprise there. I’ve got a team looking for our friend from Switzerland and there’s nothing you can help with for a day. I think you’ve done all you can taking apart the Pathogen offices and labs in California. You work too hard. Take a day off. Go somewhere. Why don’t you got to Chicago and decompress for a day?”

Van Guten knew all about Reynolds’ relationship with Detective Kristen Conner and rolled her eyes.

“That’s where I’m heading. Want to hitch a ride?” she asked him, with exaggerated sweetness. “I was able to snag the company jet. I can’t be more difficult to talk to than Pasha Boyarov.”

That set Willingham to laughing.

“I might take you up on that ride,” Reynolds said to her, wondering if this was Willingham’s plan all along. “Anything happening with the Cutter Shark?” he asked her politely.

“Quite a lot actually,” Van Guten answered. “He’s decided to stoop down from his throne on Mount Olympus and talk to me, just a mere mortal.”

“Better you than me,” Reynolds said. “I think we need to ignore the jack wagon and push harder on the prosecutorial schedule. But you already know what I think on that.”

She didn’t respond to Reynolds’ barb but looked at Willingham who nodded yes.

“We have a new development, Austin,” she said. “And a new approach . . . He’s lawyered up. He thinks he can challenge his arrest. He’s so happy plotting his escape that he’s talking.”

“What’s his legal basis?”

“Conner broke in on him without an arrest warrant.”

“Imminent Danger.”

“But how did she know that there was imminent danger in that townhome?” Van Guten asked, again too innocently, arched eyebrows.

“Oh brother,” Reynolds sighed in exasperation. “Don’t tell me you got the wheels of this turning.”

He looked at Van Guten and Willingham. Neither were answering. Bad sign. This is Leslie’s doing and Willingham has okayed it.

“Let’s not get too clever and let him get away with something. It is possible to outsmart yourself,” Reynolds said, staring pointedly at Van Guten.

“We’re on it and he’s not getting away with squat,” Willingham broke in brusquely. “But . . . we are going to let him think he’s getting somewhere to embolden him to talk more.”

“Is Conner in on this new approach?” Reynolds asked.

“Absolutely not—and she won’t be,” Willingham said. “That’s an important element of the plan.”

“I think I’m going to skip Chicago and head back to California,” Reynolds said, knowing where the deputy director and his ex-wife were headed. He had enough troubles in his relationship with Kristen and didn’t want to add more. She might not figure things out immediately, but when she did, something that smelled bad would hit the fan. She struggled enough with trust. He didn’t think their relationship could withstand anything close to this kind of breach, whether a greater good was involved or not.

“There’s nothing more you can help with in California,” Willingham said, a hand raised to brook any objection. “Go to Chicago and see your friend. Just make sure she remains clueless that we’re helping the Cutter Shark open up.”

Reynolds loved his boss—and hated him almost as much. Willingham was a legend. No one in the bureau had more big kills under his belt. He was the agent responsible for locating the terrorists who planned the downing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. Willingham was charming. But ruthless. Willingham set up a job offer for Conner in the FBI. He thought the Bureau was too dependent on technology and wasn’t hiring enough hard-nosed street detectives. Willingham admired Kristen’s handling of the Cutter Shark case and grew fond of her, rough edges and all. He was still plotting ways to lure her to the FBI. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use her. Or me.

Conner was hard-nosed, no doubt. He knew that too well. After she left for the airport in New York City he called Klarissa to meet with him so he could ask for advice on how to win the heart of her elusive
sister—or if she thought it was even possible. He’d been content to let things float along. He wanted to see if something real was there. He knew his feelings were real but if she wouldn’t or couldn’t reciprocate, it was time to move on with his life. Klarissa’s advice was simple.

“Give Kristen her space. Go to church with her—I think that’s a non-negotiable. Fight her tooth and nail on the mat. Babysit the kids once a month without complaining. Do things her way. Then tell her how much you love her. No guarantees, but I think that might work.”

They both laughed and toasted that.