Dr. Rainer took a step back and fired two blind shots at the door—some curses in Russian sounded from outside, curses of anger not pain—and soon the kicking at that door began again. By now the first pursuer had shoved the file cabinet a foot back and was just inches from having it open far enough to squeeze through. He grunted like an enraged beast with each monumental effort.
Until that moment Dr. Rainer had held herself together—had been strong on the outside, anyway—but now she began to tremble, and tears flowed out of her eyes.
“Oh God …” she said. “He’ll make me tell. He’ll do anything. …”
“There’s another connecting office,” Wally said, seeing that the office had a side door similar to the one in the lawyer’s office.
Dr. Rainer seemed incapacitated by fear at that moment, so Wally grabbed the gun from her hand and stepped to the side door, firing two more shots into the door lock. The door swung open, this time revealing the working studio of some sort of craftsman—a builder of architectural models, which were arranged everywhere in the small space—plus a worktable covered with materials for modeling, including paints and solvents.
The women ran into this next space, where the only piece of furniture big enough to block the door behind them was a huge, metal blueprint locker, too heavy for them to move. Wally looked around and discovered a softball trophy atop the blueprint locker. Wally grabbed the trophy and jammed the narrow top end—the figure of a softball player crouched in a batting posture—in between the door and the floor, like a doorstop.
Wally turned back toward Dr. Rainer, who had flung the craftsman’s window up and was now trying to pull the latch under the window that would release the security grate. It was jammed shut. Wally joined in the effort, but the lever would not budge. The fire escape was blocked to them.
There was no second side door to this office, only a front door—where one of the men was already trying to break through—and the door back to the lawyer’s office, jammed shut by the softball trophy, but now that door was under assault also, the second man kicking and heaving himself against it, the sharp edge of the trophy digging into the floor but slowly inching backward, giving in to the pressure.
Wally and Dr. Rainer were cornered here, with no way out. In the midst of this storm of violence—the two Russians throwing themselves relentlessly at each door, ready to break through—Wally felt a strange calm come over her. What was that about? Part of her felt that there would be some sort of relief to surrender, that she would give anything for all the fear and doubt she had been living with to simply end, even if that happened through violence and pain. She felt an urge to open the door to the beasts outside and accept her fate. She turned to Dr. Rainer, who was still nearly paralyzed by fear.
“Tell me now,” Wally said to the terrified doctor. “I know now who my father is. Who is my mother, Dr. Rainer?”
Dr. Rainer looked at Wally and seemed to understand; whatever fate awaited her, Wally could face it bravely if only she knew the answer to that simple question. The doctor smiled a little, sadly, and opened her mouth to speak.
“Oh, Wally,” she said, “you already—”
But those were Dr. Rainer’s last words. Four rapid gunshots sounded from outside the office’s front door, the bullets ripping through the lock—an attempt to blow it open. The lock held strong, miraculously, but one of the shots deflected off the metal with a strange, high-pitched
ping
like a sound effect from a Saturday morning cartoon, and Dr. Rainer’s voice went silent. Wally looked and saw a bullet hole open up in the doctor’s throat, arterial blood spurting out as Charlene Rainer dropped lifeless to the floor.
“No!” Wally howled, and fell to her knees, pulling her scarf off and holding it to the doctor’s throat in a desperate effort to staunch the bleeding, but it was a futile gesture: the woman was dead. In a rage now, Wally stood and fired Dr. Rainer’s gun into the wood of the front door, with no way to know if the barrage had done any damage. The gun’s magazine clicked empty after only four shots.
“Shit!” Wally growled as she tossed the useless weapon aside.
The man out front began heaving himself against the door again, grunting loudly with each effort. The lock and hinges of the door creaked and groaned, ready to give out at any moment, and the same continued from the side door.
Wally looked around desperately for any option, and her eyes fell on the model builder’s worktable, where the cans of paint and solvent sat. The label on the solvent can warned that the liquid was severely toxic and flammable. Wally grabbed the solvent and popped the top off. She stepped to the front door and crouched low, setting the solvent can at the bottom of the door so that the nozzle was stuck underneath, facing outward. Wally stood, pulled a lighter from her pocket, and then, with her left foot, stomped hard down onto the can. The solvent sprayed under the door, and at that moment Wally jumped backward a few steps, lit the lighter, and threw it toward the can.
A flash of light flared from the other side of the door, followed by loud curses from Alexei Klesko. Wally immediately unlocked the door and rushed out, sprinting past Klesko, whose pant legs were now on fire. The enraged man whipped off his leather jacket and started using it to snuff the flames as Wally raced onto the indoor balcony, only to find herself staring straight down the muzzle of a gun held by the other Russian, the young one with the long hair.
“It is over now …” the young man said calmly.
In this fleeting moment, Wally’s eyes met the younger man’s, and between them there was a moment of … what? Confusion?
No.
Recognition
.
At this moment Klesko stomped out of the model builder’s office, his pant legs blackened but the flames all gone. He raised his gun, and now there were two barrels aimed directly at Wally.
“Fucking bitch …” he barked. “You tell me where—”
But suddenly two gunshots exploded from behind them, ripping into the balcony ceiling. Wally and the two Russians looked to discover Atley Greer stalking down the hallway toward them, his service weapon raised in their direction.
“POLICE! NOBODY MOVES!” Atley shouted, but Klesko and the younger man immediately disobeyed, ducking low and using Wally for cover as they turned back down along the balcony and charged in through the door of Dr. Rainer’s office, firing wildly back toward Atley as they went. Wally dropped to the floor as the shots filled the air.
“Stay here!” Greer shouted at Wally as he blew past her on the heels of the two men. He vanished into Charlene Rainer’s office and Wally immediately disobeyed his order also: she stood up and ran.
As Wally reached the stairs, there were more gunshots behind her—Atley Greer and the Russians battling it out—but Wally did not turn to look. She hurried down the stairs, and when she reached the second-floor landing, she ran into Tevin, Jake, and Ella, themselves rushing upward, looking terrified.
“Wally!” Tevin shouted, relieved to see her unharmed.
“What the fuck is happening up there?” Jake demanded.
“Come on!” Wally said. “We have to go, now!” She hustled down the stairs at full speed, the others now racing behind her. They made it out the building and ran along 88th Street, but as they moved, they heard a variety of sounds behind them: more gunshots, muffled somewhat because they were going off inside the shrink’s building, then the sound of words being barked out in Russian, then the sound of footsteps descending the metal steps of a fire escape.
Wally and the others reached Amsterdam Avenue, more shouts and footsteps echoing along the street somewhere not far behind them. The crew continued south until they reached the corner where their bank building stood. They turned east along 87th and slipped into the rear passageway, where they used the key from the lockbox on the back door to get in their usual way.
Wally immediately dropped down to the cold tile floor of the bank, struggling to catch her breath. The bank was dark; the only light came from the streetlights outside, their glow spilling in through the soaped-up windows. Wally continued to breathe deeply, filling her starved lungs and waiting for the intense surge of adrenaline to drain from her system. She was trembling, and Ella was quick to wrap her in her arms.
“Oh my God,” Ella said. “Are you okay, Wally?”
Ella spotted something on Wally’s cheek—a spot—and reached to wipe it away. Her finger came away wet with a smear of blood, and Ella gave out a soft gasp at the sight of it. She showed the blood to Tevin, who was sitting right beside them on the floor, waiting for Wally to recover.
“What happened up there, Wally?” he asked.
Before Wally could summon enough breath to answer, Jake spoke—he was crouched near the window of the bank, looking out.
“They’re here,” he said in a near whisper.
Wally, Ella, and Tevin moved to the window and huddled beside Jake. The crew had scratched a few inconspicuous peepholes in the soaped-over surface of the glass, through which they could see out onto the street but not be seen themselves. In silence and darkness, they watched the street outside where the two Russians stood now, glancing in every direction, looking for them. The two men stalked about, looking frustrated as they checked some of the dark staircases that led to lower-level apartments and the recesses of other doorways. They looked up and down the street, perplexed.
“Who is this girl?” Klesko shouted with a sense of futility into the cold night air.
The words sent a chill down Wally’s spine. As she and the crew sat there, absolutely still and silent, she could not help but wonder what had become of Detective Greer. Wally had no special love for the cop, but he had almost certainly saved her life on the balcony outside Charlene Rainer’s office.
As the Russians continued their search of the street, obviously trying to imagine how Wally and the crew had so quickly disappeared, Alexei Klesko stepped to the bank window and pushed right up against the glass, trying to see through the soap into the interior; his face was only inches from Wally. She and the others kept absolutely still, knowing that any movement might catch Klesko’s attention. She looked into the man’s unseeing eyes, deep gray, just inches away from her own. …
“Ochee chornya …”
Wally whispered.
“What?” Ella whispered back. “What does that mean?”
Dark eyes
, Wally thought, but did not speak it out loud.
Dark eyes, like mine.
Police sirens sounded in the distance. The two men abandoned their search and jogged east on 87th, away from the bank where Wally and the crew huddled together, breathless and trembling.
“They’ll be back,” Wally said. “We can’t stay here anymore.”
EIGHTEEN
It was just after eight
in the morning when Klesko parked the stolen LeMans on 47th Street, just fifty feet east of the Hamlisch Brothers storefront. In the passenger seat, Tiger was about to get out of the car when the door to Hamlisch Brothers opened and a young man emerged from the shop, setting the alarm behind him and rolling down the metal security grate that covered the entire storefront. As the young man proceeded eastward along the sidewalk, he unconsciously tapped his right hand on the left side of his chest, indicating that there was something valuable in the lapel pocket of his simple black suit.
“This must be the young one,” Klesko said.
Tiger was concerned about Klesko’s mood. Though he had escaped any real injury, the episode at the Rainer woman’s office—the previous night—had left Klesko in a sullen, simmering rage. The fire that engulfed his pant legs had been more humiliating than anything else, but the outcome of the event was not at all what they had hoped for: the Rainer woman died before she could tell them anything about Yalena Mayakova’s whereabouts, and their pursuit of the unknown girl had ended with her mysterious disappearance into the night.
The failure of all this was not sitting well with Klesko, and Tiger knew that in this state of mind the man was capable of anything, even stupid eruptions of violence that might leave them exposed.
Their greatest hope for finding Yalena had been in finding either Benjamin Hatch or Charlene Rainer; now both of them were dead, and the Kleskos were no closer to finding their target. Their only potential lead was the young girl who they had found at Rainer’s office. Tiger and Klesko had no idea how she might fit into their search, but she was intriguing nonetheless. The girl was more capable and resourceful than a normal girl of her age—as demonstrated when she set Klesko on fire and then vanished without a trace—and there was the sense, on Tiger’s part anyway, that the girl was familiar in a way that he could not quite explain.
Did the girl have some connection to Yalena Mayakova? Tiger and Klesko did not know yet, but one possible source of information was Isaac Hamlisch, the young diamond merchant who had been gone on a buying trip to Europe when the Kleskos first visited his shop. It was Hamlisch who had listed the alexandrite stone on the international market—only two weeks ago, but to Tiger it felt much longer—and he could reveal the identity of the person who had brought him the stone. Now Hamlisch was back in New York, and walking alone on 47th Street toward the Diamond Buyers Club, one block away.
Tiger stepped out of the car and followed Hamlisch as Klesko started the engine of the car and pulled out into the street, which had almost no traffic at that hour. Once Klesko had pulled the car even with the young merchant, Tiger moved swiftly; he pushed up against young Hamlisch from behind, sticking the barrel of his gun into the man’s ribs.
“Easy,” Tiger whispered into the stunned man’s ear, and steered him onto the street, into the open door of the waiting car. Klesko had shoved the front passenger seat forward, so Tiger and Isaac slid straight into the back of the two-door muscle car. With the car door closed and the front seat folded back into place, the now terrified Isaac Hamlisch was secured beside Tiger in the backseat of the car.
“Oh God,” Hamlisch muttered.