White Mountain (2 page)

Now, here he was, tailing a stoop-shouldered old man with a fondness for borscht.
 
He didn’t look like a ghost to Rostov, but from the color of his complexion, he wasn’t far from becoming one.

When the old man stopped at a crosswalk, Rostov paused, too, turning toward the windows of the jewelry shop by which he was standing.
 
To the passersby, it would appear that his interest was on the display of rubies and pears, but in truth, the window was his mirror to the sidewalk across the street.

He stood until the light turned green and the Walk sign began to flash, then he pivoted quickly.
 
Dodging traffic, he bolted across the street, losing himself in the stream of pedestrians through which the old man was moving.

He knew the man’s name was Frank Walton.
 
Supposedly a retired botanist from Braden, Montana, who had come to Brighton Beach for a holiday.
 
But there was a particular reason why Vasili Rostov had been yanked out of retirement and sent on this mission, and the picture in his pocket was part of the mystery.
 
Tonight he would meet this old man face-to-face.
 
If what Rostov suspected was true, his name would once again be spoken with respect.

Frank laid his safety razor by the sink and then peered at his face in the foggy mirror before pronouncing himself shave.
 
His belly hurt—part of the growing cancer eating away at his inner parts—yet he was determined not to let it ruin the upcoming evening.
 
The hotel concierge had told him about a wonderful restaurant only a few blocks from the hotel that offered a floor show with dinner.
 
The chance to hear more music from his homeland was too enticing to miss.
 
Ignoring the gnawing pain, he swiped a towel across his face, splashed on some pine-scented aftershave and went to finish dressing.

Tomorrow he would be going back to Montanan—back to his friends and to Isabella.
 
He smiled as he thought of her—dark, laughing eyes and a heart-shaped face—the daughter he’d never had.
 
She called him Uncle, just as she did all of Samuel’s friends.

Samuel Abbott was Isabella’s father.
 
He’d been their leader from the beginning.
 
A frown turned his smile upside down as he glanced at the phone.
 
They hadn’t wanted him to leave Braden, and yet he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell them why.
 
They didn’t know about the cancer.
 
He would tell them later—when he could no longer conceal the pain.

He glanced again at the phone.
 
He should really call and let them know he was coming home tomorrow, but then he looked at the clock and changed his mind.
 
It was getting late, and if he didn’t hurry, he would be late for his reservation.
 
He didn’t want to miss the start of the show.

Shrugging off the thought, he told himself it wouldn’t really matter.
 
He would be home by this time tomorrow, and then he could talk to his heart’s content.

A few minutes later he was in the hotel lobby, then out on the street.
 
More than a dozen people were curbside, waiting for cabs.
 
He frowned, realizing he should have called ahead for a cab, and then looked at his watch to check the time.
 
If he waited much longer he would be late.
 
The restaurant was about twenty blocks away, which, in his weakened state, might as well have been miles, yet he opted to walk.

It was a fine September evening.
 
Traffic was brisk.
 
The air had cooled since sunset, making the walk more pleasant.
 
Obviously he wasn’t the only one who thought so.
 
The sidewalk traffic was a s busy as that in the well-lit streets.
 
He walked with his head up and his shoulders back, and for a time he let himself believe he was young and strong—and home.

About five blocks from his destination, he heard someone call out a name.
 
At first, it didn’t register, and he kept on walking.
 
But then he heard it again.

Vacklav Waller.
 
Someone had yelled the name Vaclav Waller.

He stumble, then froze—afraid to turn around, afraid not to.
 
Before he could move, a man stepped out of the alley to his right.
 
The man spoke again, and only then did Frank realize the man was speaking to him in Russian.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pretending ignorance.
 
“Were you speaking to me?”

This time the answer came back in perfect English.

“What do you think, old man?”

When Vasili Rostov stepped into the light, Frank Walton shuddered.
 
He didn’t know him, but he knew his kind.
 
He’d seen that cold, passionless gaze far too many times in his youth not to know the kind of man he was facing.
 
And with recognition came the knowledge that they’d found him—after all these years, when he was almost at the end of his life.

“I think you’ve made a mistake,” Frank muttered, and began to walk away.
 
He’d taken only three steps when the man grabbed his arm.

“No mistake,” Rostov said, speaking Russian again.
 
“We talk.”

Before Frank could call out for help, the man stuck a knife to his throat and forcibly pulled him into the darkened alley.
 
Still speaking in Russian, the man lowered his voice and told Frank to keep quiet, then increased the pressure of the blade against Frank’s throat.

A sudden stinging sensation was all Frank needed to know that the man had drawn blood.
 
Fear momentarily stilled his voice, but it was followed by sudden anger.
 
He might be old and dying, but he would not be threatened—not now, and not by the likes of a man such as this.

“I know who you are,” the man said.

Frank answered in English.
 
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

The sting against his throat became pain.

“Don’t lie to me, old man.
 
I knew you in Minsk.
 
I was assigned to guard you at a medical symposium.
 
You were born and raised in Georgia and educated in Moscow.
 
You are Vaclav Waller.
 
You were nominated for a Nobel Prize in 1969 and reported to have died in a plane crash of the southern coast of the United Stated in 1970.”

Frank stifled a groan.
 
He didn’t know how this had happened, but he could only blame himself.
 
Someone here must have recognized him.
 
He had come to Brighton Beach to pay homage to his roots and instead had brought down the fragile house of cards that he’d built for himself.

“Wheat do you want?” Frank asked.
 
“I have money.
 
Take my wallet.
 
It’s in my coat pocket.”

Rostov cursed.
 
“I do not want your money, old man.
 
I want the truth.”

Frank blinked.
 
This time the man had spoken in English again.
 
Was he starting to buy his story, or was he just playing along?

“I don’t know the truth of which you speak,” Frank said.
 
“Just take my money and let me go.
 
I don’t want trouble.”

At that moment a car sped by outside the alley.
 
Behind it the sound of approaching sirens could be heard, and Rostov’s hold tightened.

Frank saw how the sirens made the big man antsy.
 
The police were obviously after someone else, but maybe he could make this work to his advantage.

“The police are coming,” he said.
 
“Someone saw you drag me into this alley.
 
Just let me go and I won’t tell.
 
I am an old man.
 
I don’t want any trouble.”

“Your trouble is just beginning.” Rostov said.
 
“You don’t have to talk to me.
 
You can talk to my superiors…when we get back to Moscow.”

Frank saw him reach toward his pocket with one hand.
 
He knew the drill.
 
Inside there would be a hypodermic syringe filled with some sort of drug that would render him unconscious.
 
It only took a moment for the decision to be made.
 
Yes, he’d wanted to go home once more before he died, but not like this.
 
He was going to die anyway.
 
Now was as good a time as any.

Before Rostov knew what was happening, Frank grabbed his hand and lunged forward, plunging the knife blade into his own chest.

Rostov grunted in surprise and took a sudden step backward, but it was too late.
 
The damage was already done.

“What have you done?” he cried, as Frank Walton slumped to the ground.

The taste of blood was in Frank’s mouth.
 
“Killed the messenger,” he mumbled, then exhaled slowly.
 
So this is dying.
 
Thought ceased.
 
He’d cheated cancer after all.

Two police cars sped quickly past the entrance to the alley, in obvious pursuit of the car that had just passed, but Rostov was in a panic.
 
He’d misjudged the old fool.
 
Who would have thought he still had it in him?

Kneeling by the dead man’s side, he quickly removed all the identification from the body, then used Walton’s handkerchief to remove his fingerprints from the knife.
 
Nervous now, and not wanting to be seen in the alley where a dead man was lying, he tossed the knife into a nearby Dumpster, then slipped over the fence at the back of the alley.

Ten blocks away, he stripped the cash and identification papers from the wallet, dropped Frank’s hotel key into his pocket and then tossed the empty wallet into a trash can by a bus stop.
 
The body wouldn’t be found until morning.
 
It would take even longer for it to be identified.
 
Confident that the death would appear to have bee robber, he headed for Frank’s hotel.
 
That crazy old man had upset his plans completely.
 
Now he was torn between having to lie to his superiors and admitting that he was too old for this job after all.

It wasn’t until he was standing at a street corner and waiting for the light to change that he realized the old man’s last words had been spoken in fluent and perfect Russian.

He cursed beneath his breath as he started across the street.
 
All he could do was hope he would find a clue in Walton’s hotel room that would keep him in good standing with the powers that be.

A few minutes later, he entered the hotel and headed straight for the elevator, confident that he would not be noticed.
 
He’d followed the old man more than once, so he already knew the floor and room number.
 
There was no one in the hallway when he exited the elevator, so he headed straight for room 617 without hesitation.

Once inside, he began a thorough sweep of the room, hoping to find something that would give answers as to why Vaclav Waller had faked his own death, as well as what he had been doing for the past thirty years.
 
All he found were some out-of-style clothes and a plane ticket to Braden, Montana.
 
The flight was due out at 9:45 a.m. tomorrow.

He stood for a moment, contemplating the wisdom of what he was thinking, and then a slight smile broke the somberness of his face.
 
He had Walton’s ID.
 
It would be a simple matter to substitute his picture for Walton’s and fly back to Braden on Walton’s ticket.

He nodded to himself, slipped the plane ticket into his jacket pocket and began methodically packing Walton’s clothes into his suitcase.
 
It wouldn’t do to have the hotel put out an alarm when the old man went missing.
 
All he had to do was leave the room key on the bed and walk away with Frank Walton’s things.
 
The hotel would assume the man was gone, bill the room to the credit card he would have had to show when checking in, and no one would be the wiser.
 
Less than an hour later, room 617 was empty and Rostov was gone, taking the last vestiges of Frank Walton’s presence in Brighton Beach with him.

Detective Mike Butoli was nursing a hangover and a broken toe when he came in to work.
 
The coffee he’d purchased from the coffee shop on the corner was too weak for the condition he was in.
 
He needed some of his father’s recipe this morning, with a healthy shot of the “hair of the dog,” and then he just might be able to make it through the day.
 
However, his father had been dead for years, and thanks to a weak moment last night, he was going to have to start all over on a new sobriety day.

He’d made it almost six months this time and was pissed at himself for giving in to temptation.
 
When he drank, he had blackouts, so he had no idea which had come first, the broken toe or the first drink, and from the way he was feeling, it didn’t really matter.
 
His goddamn foot hurt almost as much as his head.