Beating the Babushka (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

“Robin Hood would be impressed.”

Cape leaned against the wall of Sally’s hotel room as she methodically removed items from a black duffel bag. Two curved pieces of wood emerged from a zippered pocket, followed by a coil of string that looked like fishing line. Last came a thick center section wrapped in wire. By themselves the pieces looked like wooden sculpture, or parts to an arcane musical instrument. But when Sally laid all the pieces together on the bed, it was obvious what was being assembled.

The bow was four feet long, bending sharply from the center and curving back in the opposite direction at the tips. Each section was made from dark wood that had been meticulously shaped but not polished, so the bow seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. The sections were joined together by thin shafts of metal that glinted dully in the light from the window. When all the pieces had fused into a single deadly shape, Sally stood the bow upright and pulled the string taut, her forearm rippling from the strain.

“Robin Hood,” she said. “Another great warrior who preferred the company of his own gender.”

“What are you implying?” asked Cape. “Is this another lesbian conspiracy theory?”

“I’m just saying that he spent an awful lot of time with those Merry Men.”

“What about Maid Marion?”

“A cross-dresser,” said Sally definitively. “Very common in those days.”

Cape raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“And what about the tights?” demanded Sally.

Cape frowned. “I’m just glad Errol Flynn isn’t around to hear this.”

“Who?”

“Errol Flynn!” said Cape in disbelief. “He played Robin Hood in the MGM classic opposite Basil Rathbone, who played the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham.”

“Dastardly?”

Cape nodded. “Dastardly. He had the evil-looking mustache and everything.”

Sally looked at him with a blank expression.

“Basil Rathbone!” said Cape insistently. “Probably most famous for being the definitive Sherlock Holmes, both on the radio and in the movies.”

Sally shook her head. “I’m not a movie buff like you, and I definitely don’t watch Western movies.”

“These weren’t Westerns.”

“I meant West—as in America.” Sally rolled her eyes. “As in not Asia, where I grew up. Besides, I didn’t go to the movies much. Too busy at school.”

“Studying archery?”

“Among other things.”

Cape gestured toward the bow. “How good are you with that thing?”

Sally gave him a look. “In feudal Japan, ninjas had to train for a full year with a bow—just a bow—before they were given a single arrow. To perfect their draw on the string.”

“How long before you were given an arrow?”

“Six months,” said Sally, shrugging. “Standards have really fallen off in the last four hundred years.”

Fully assembled, the bow covered the width of the bed. “Isn’t that kind of conspicuous?”

“I’ll carry it broken down.” Sally began sliding arrows from a compartment in the bottom of her bag. They were shorter than Cape expected, the shafts matte black. Hunting arrows, the tips flared and razor sharp. He wondered what other surprises lay hidden in this inconspicuous bag Sally checked onto the plane. Maybe a Gatling gun, broken down to resemble a blow-dryer.

“How long does it take you to put it together?” asked Cape. “In case we’re in a hurry.”

Sally cocked one eyebrow and looked at the bow, as if doing a series of mental calculations. “From the bag?”

“No, already on you.”

Sally shrugged. “About ten seconds.”

“Ten seconds?” Cape raised his eyebrows. “Not bad.”

Sally held up a hand as if she’d forgotten something. “Am I blindfolded?”

“No,” said Cape. “That scenario hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Then six seconds,” she said. “But I’ll already have it assembled.”

“How?”

“I’ll put it together when I’m in position. Before you get there.”

“You never told me where you were last time.”

“One of the trees.”

“In the square?”

“Yup.”

“How’d you get past the women on the bench?”

“They were distracted,” replied Sally. “The pigeons were much more engaging than a short woman in tights.”

Cape shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not much cover.”

“That’s why I want the bow,” replied Sally. “I don’t like the layout of that park. It’s impossible to get close without being spotted.”

“I’m sure that’s why our Russian friend goes there to play chess.”

“You ready?”

Cape pulled up his shirt to reveal a Heckler & Koch USP jammed into his waistband, a compact 9-millimeter with a ten-shot capacity. Sally had taught him a few tricks for hiding unsavory items in his checked luggage. Cape had a carry permit for the gun in California, but carrying in New York could land him behind bars. He figured it was a necessary risk.

“Think it will come to that?” asked Sally.

“Corelli said we’d be on our own,” said Cape. “But I’d rather play chess.”

He let the tail of his shirt drop into place. Sally slipped the pieces of the bow into her bag. Ten minutes later they were on the subway headed to Brighton Beach.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Beau looked at Vincent, who looked disgusted.

It was almost like looking in a mirror, except Vincent was short, white, and dressed immaculately. But if he grew a foot, went from pine to mahogany, and traded in his pleated slacks for a pair of jeans, he and Beau would look exactly the same. Twin cops who needed a break.

“So what have we got?” asked Beau.

“Bupkus.”

“He a suspect?”

Vincent cackled. “I wish.” They sat at the dive bar across from the courthouse, where they’d just testified in another case. A real case with evidence, suspects, the whole nine. Not a circle-jerk. Beau was throwing back coffee while Vincent stuck with mineral water. They were still on duty and sleep was a distant memory.

“How about this,” said Beau. “We work backwards.”

“We tried that.”

“Let’s try again.”

Vincent groaned but didn’t say anything.

“Pretzel Pete got killed by Freddie Wang’s boys.”

“Agreed,” said Vincent, “but we’ll never prove it. The tongs never give up anything.”

“Agreed. And Cecil got stuffed in the slide at the zoo by Frank Alessi’s goons.”

“No doubt,” said Vincent. “Frank has an overdeveloped sense of drama.”

“But we’ll never prove it,” continued Beau.

Vincent looked sullen. “Frank’s off-limits.”

“Respectable businessman,” said Beau. “Big contributor to the mayor’s election campaign.”

“Fuck me.”

Beau shifted in his seat. “Unless we nab one of Frank’s guys on something else and get them to turn.”

“Like who?”

“Was thinking of Gummy.”

“The guy with no front teeth?” said Vincent. “He’s a moron.”

“Crystal meth will do that to you,” said Beau. “Used to have a fine set of molars till he ground ’em down. And he used to be high up in the organization.”

“I’m surprised they keep him around at all.”

“He’s somebody’s nephew,” said Beau. “But he might know something. He hears things, now and again.”

“So do all schizophrenics.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Go back to your list,” said Vincent. “So who killed Otto?”

Beau shrugged. “You forgot about the dead Russian.”

Vincent groaned again. “They’re connected.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Have to be,” said Beau. “Drugs are involved, and the timing’s too close.”

“I don’t know any Russians,” said Vincent.

“Me neither.”

“So maybe we talk to Gummy.”

Beau nodded. “Maybe we do.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

The Pole was at his usual table, studying the board and smoking. The bodyguard was earnestly pouring over the sports page a few tables away. When Cape’s shadow crossed the board, the Pole flashed his stalagmite grin.

“Esli druk akazalsa vdruk,” he said pleasantly. “If a friend appears suddenly.”

“So we’re friends.” Cape sat down.

“I ne druk, i ne vrak, a tak,” the Pole replied. “Well, not a friend, not an enemy.”

“You’re quoting someone.”

The Pole nodded. “Vladimir Vysotsky—you know him?”

Cape shook his head.

“Vysotsky was great poet, great songwriter.” The Pole paused to drag deeply on his cigarette. “His work was banned by the Soviets. You would like him—too bad you don’t speak Russian.”

“Maybe I’ll learn,” said Cape. “So you’ve decided we’re not adversaries?”

“Ah, but we are,” said the Pole, gesturing at the chessboard. “It is the nature of men, eh? But here at this table, we can talk like friends.”

Cape studied the Pole for a minute before answering. “You had me checked out.”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“You have not lied to me,” said the Pole, adding, “yet.”

“Which means I can be trusted?”

“It means you are smart.” A flash of jagged teeth, a gesture at the board. “Your move.” Cape studied the positions carefully before moving a bishop halfway across the board. “You are playing more aggressively than yesterday,” observed the Pole.

“Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.”

The Pole nodded. “And you have been on the defensive, eh?” He plucked a grape from the table to his right. The knife and spoon wobbled and clinked together as his hand passed over them. “Grape?”

“No, thanks.” Cape shook his head. “I’ve been under attack since I started this investigation.”

“And what is it you are investigating?”

“I’m not sure,” said Cape. “I thought I was investigating a murder, then drugs, and now I think it’s something else entirely.”

“Something else.” The Pole’s pale eyes were bright with curiosity.

“Something I haven’t seen yet.”

The Pole pressed his lips together to hide his predator’s grin. “Perhaps something you have seen, but do not recognize.”

Cape looked up from the board. “You know the men who tried to kill me.”

The Pole inhaled deeply on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, squinting at Cape through bluish smoke. “Even before the Soviets, it was hard to be Russian—the common man was always treated like a peasant. In the time of czars, back to the reign of Peter the Great, many Russians were sent to prison camps.”

“As criminals?”

“What is criminal?” asked the Pole rhetorically. “Is feeding your family criminal? Or protecting your neighbor?”

Cape didn’t sat anything. The point was clear.

“So these men that were branded thieves by the State—they banded together. They became vory v zakone.”

Cape cocked an eyebrow.

“You would say thieves-in-law,” explained the Pole. “But we call ourselves vory.”

“We?”

The Pole plucked another grape. “There are plenty of old men who play chess. I am sure there are even one or two in San Francisco.” He poured two glasses of vodka and handed one to Cape. “You came to me for a reason.”

It was too early for anything but coffee, but Cape threw the drink back and felt his nostrils clear as the alcohol evaporated. A whole-wheat breakfast. The Pole nodded his approval. “Na zdorov’ya.”

“You were telling me a story about thieves.”

The Pole set his glass down. “Vory are like brothers, bound together by a strict code of honor.”

“Honor among thieves,” said Cape without sarcasm.

The Pole nodded vigorously. “It is not unheard of, even outside Russia.”

“So what’s the code?”

“To be a vor, you must honor a way of life,” said the Pole proudly. “There is much to the code, but at its core is a promise to resist the oppression of the State. We do not pay taxes and never cooperate with police.”

Cape realized he’d rather not pay taxes and, according to Beau, rarely cooperated with the police. He thought he was a closet libertarian but now wondered if he was really a vor at heart.

“In a corrupt state, becoming criminal is an act of defiance,” continued the Pole. “Is this not the history of America?”

“There’s a big difference between throwing tea in the harbor and running extortion rackets.”

The Pole waved his hand dismissively in a sweeping arc, causing his lighter to skitter across the tray. “Specific crimes do not matter. What matters is the act itself.”

Cape kept his mouth shut.

“In many towns, these men became the law, creating their own courts where common men and women could seek justice.”

“Or revenge?”

The Pole smiled at the question, the razor teeth glistening. “What is justice, if not revenge?”

“These criminals—these men. They became the mafiya?”

“Mafiya to some,” nodded the Pole. “To others, Organizatsiya. Names do not matter.”

“Some names do matter,” said Cape.

The Pole’s eyes flashed mischievously. “You speak of the men you are after—or the men who are after you.”

“The Major and Ursa. Maybe others—those are the names I’m interested in.”

“I know these men,” said the Pole, his tone matter-of-fact. “But they are not part of the Organizatsiya. They are mere gangsters.”

Cape frowned. “No offense, but what’s the difference?”

“Once they were mafiya,” said the Pole. “The Major was KGB.”

“He mentioned that.”

“The KGB—very important after fall of the Soviets. It was KGB that took money from state banks, working with the vory.”

“That’s quite a scam.”

“Russians lack opportunity, but not ambition,” replied the Pole. “Before the KGB was involved, we were very powerful in Russia and a few other countries, but not very organized. Not like the Italians or Chinese.”

“I know about the Triads.”

“Very dangerous,” said the Pole. “Because they are all connected. A dragon with many heads, but still only one dragon. So when the vory agreed to work with KGB and use their connections in other countries—their spies—mafiya became bigger and more powerful. But the brotherhood lost its soul in the bargain.”

“So the Major was on your side?”

“Never my side,” spat the Pole. “A true vor does not associate with Soviet scum—he was an instrument of the State. I would never trust a man like that.”

“But he worked with the mafiya.”

The Pole refilled their glasses. “Until he broke the law.”

Cape almost laughed but caught himself. “Isn’t that the point?”

“The human law,” said the Pole. “The vor way of life. He stole from other mafiya. Killed important members of the Russian mob.”

“That must happen often,” said Cape. “Turf wars, that sort of—”

“Not like this,” said the Pole, cutting him off. “The Major stole indiscriminately. He betrayed the brotherhood.”

“So why isn’t he dead, if you guys are so big on revenge?” asked Cape. “Hasn’t anyone tried to kill him?”

“Many tried,” said the Pole in a tone that suggested he might have been one of them. “But some Russians…some of us are not so easy to kill.” He raised his lumpy fist and tapped his chest where metal shot hid beneath his flesh.

“So that’s why you agreed to talk to me.”

The Pole nodded. “To cooperate with police or FBI—that is not the way. To even talk of these things is to become a musar.”

“A rat?”

The Pole raised his eyebrows. “You said you could not speak Russian.”

“I got the meaning,” replied Cape. “I think every culture has its own rats.”

The Pole nodded. “But you, my friend, are just someone I am playing chess with.”

Cape raised his glass. “Here’s to chess…and talking about mutual friends.”

The Pole took a drink and smiled.

“So what’s the Major doing in San Francisco?” asked Cape.

“This I do not know. He should not be in this country.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know he has tried to come to the United States before but was not allowed. His name appeared on one of your government’s watch lists.”

“We have a lot of those.”

“He is known to Interpol as a dangerous criminal. That is true of many criminals already in this country, of course, but the Major was stopped at least twice. This I know for certain.”

“So he found a way around the system,” said Cape. “He’s persistent.”

“He is dangerous, because he has no honor. The man who tried to kill you in the park—he had Cyrillic writing on his hands?”

“You read that in the paper?”

The Pole didn’t answer. Cape didn’t press it, saying, “Yeah, he did, but I don’t know what it said.”

“It meant he was part of a Russian mob, before working for the Major.”

“Why change loyalties?”

“The vory are not what they once were,” said the Pole sadly. “Many who call themselves mafiya are just baklany—punks. They will do anything for money—or debt, the lack of money. It is usually one or the other in Russia.”

“Any idea what the Major is doing here?” asked Cape. “Or why he would want to kill me?”

The Pole took a new cigarette from his pack and reached out his hand to perform the levitation trick with his lighter. “The Major craves power. In that way he is not unlike other criminals, or other men for that matter. Remember, as KGB he had great power, but much of what he did was invisible. Known only to the State and its victims.”

“So?”

The Pole stared thoughtfully at the board for a moment. “I think he wants to be famous.”

“A famous criminal, like you.”

The Pole frowned. “I am just an old man who plays chess in the park.”

“You’re not that old.”

“No, the Major wants to be like John Gotti—or better yet, like Robert De Niro.”

“You’re kidding.”

“All Russian gangsters love
The Godfather
,” said the Pole. “It is funny, no? Big criminals in real life, watching movies to learn how to act.”

Cape checked his bullshit meter. “You’re serious.”

“I have seen it in Russia, and also here,” replied the Pole. “Grown men. Killers. Sitting around a television hanging on every word.
The Godfather
.
Goodfellas
. These movies are like religion to gangsters.”

“What kind of movies did you watch?”

The Pole shrugged. “I prefer chess.” He slid one of his pawns two paces forward, a move that cleared one of his bishops to threaten Cape’s queen.

Cape blinked, trying to concentrate on the board while absorbing everything he’d just heard. He moved his knight forward, blocking the Pole’s bishop. There didn’t seem to be any other move open to him.

The Pole chuckled softly. “Is that your position, my friend? Are you the errant knight, trying to save your queen?”

“You’re not talking about the chess game, are you?” Cape met his gaze.

The Pole smiled. “Am I not?”

“Unless you have a better idea, I have to see this through.”

The Pole nodded. “It is time to finish the game.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he reached for his bishop.

The board exploded as the air around them tore itself apart. A sharp crack from the cobblestones to their right, chess pieces flying like shrapnel. Cape grabbed the Pole by his collar and yanked hard to the right, rolling them underneath the stone table. Twisting his head around to look upside down across the square, he saw the Pole’s bodyguard standing with a submachine gun braced against his shoulder. He was aiming at the condominiums overlooking the park when a sharp whump stole the air around them. The bodyguard spun around, gun skidding across the stones. Straining his neck to look around their table, Cape caught a glimpse of the bodyguard face down, blood pooling rapidly around his torso.

There was a rapid series of twangs, bass notes from Sally’s bow. Cape released his grip on the Pole and rolled under the nearest table, pulling his gun as he came to a crouch. He stayed under the cement umbrella until he thought he heard the distant squeal of tires, but at this point didn’t really trust his own senses. He held his position, watching the Pole lying under his own table, face down. After no more than a minute he saw Sally’s legs approaching.

“Gone,” she said as Cape stood. He walked over to the Pole, who had rolled onto his back and seemed unharmed. Cape grabbed his arm and helped him stand. The Pole looked from Cape to Sally, scanning her from head to toe. He looked at the bow in her hands and shook his head in wonder. He seemed unconcerned about his bodyguard.

Cape studied the four buildings straddling the boardwalk and spotted one of Sally’s arrows in the wall next to a first story window. Because the condominiums sat above the boardwalk, the shooter had plenty of height to get an angle on the square.

“Ground floor,” said Cape. “Smart.”

Sally nodded. “Easy run to the street and a waiting car. Not enough time for me to follow them.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Couldn’t see the reflection from the scope until the first shot,” she said disgustedly. “The sniper must have used a cover and stood back from the window—we’re dealing with a pro.”

Cape nodded. “But you got a shot off.”

“Three,” said Sally. “Two went through the window.”

“You think you got a piece of him?”

“I hope so,” Sally replied, nostrils flaring. “But I doubt it.”

Cape turned to face the Pole, who was staring at him with a bemused expression.

“You risked your life,” said the Pole.

“I was just using you for cover.”

“For an American, you are not a very good liar.”

“Maybe using you as a shield would be smart,” said Cape. “Just in case you were behind this.”

The Pole smiled broadly to give the full view of his ragged grin. “If I were behind this then you would be dead, my friend.”

“I’ve already been dead once this week,” said Cape. “And I’m getting tired of it.”

“Then you must stop these men.”

Cape studied the icy stare of the Russian’s pale eyes. “You’re saying I’m going to have to kill them.”

“I am not telling you what to do,” said the Pole. “I am telling you I would rather play chess with you than go to your funeral.”