“Very much.”
“This way.”
The lurker was in the back seat of a police car, eyes wide in fear. He was younger than Ed had expected, much younger — no more than eighteen or nineteen.
Rogers nodded at one of the waiting officers, who opened the door, and pulled the lurker out.
“Please, this is some kind of mistake,” the kid said. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“Then why did you hide under the car when the police arrived?” Ed asked.
The kid blinked, confused by Ed’s American accent or the fact that he wasn’t wearing a uniform or both. “I–I didn’t know it was the police. I just heard them coming toward me.”
“And your first instinct was to hide. Why?”
The kid looked away, clearly not wanting to answer.
“What’s your name?” Ed asked.
“Christopher. Christopher Bedford.”
“Christopher, the more you cooperate, the easier things will go for you.”
Ed’s words obviously had the opposite effect from what he intended as the blood drained from the kid’s face. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“If that’s the case, then just tell us what—”
“Christopher?” a female voice called from across the street.
A young woman about the same age as Christopher ran to the police car. “What happened?” She turned to Rogers. “Why are you holding him?”
“You know this lad?” Rogers asked.
“Yes. He’s my... my friend.”
Ed instantly understood what was going on here. But before he could say anything, a man stepped out of a house across the street, took in the scene, then called, “Caroline, what’s going on? Why are the police here?”
The girl took a step away from the car. “It’s nothing.” She shot Ed and Rogers a quick look, pleading for them not to say anything, then she turned and jogged across the street.
To Christopher, Ed said, “I take it her parents don’t know about the two of you.”
Christopher shook his head.
“I’ll let you handle this,” Ed said to Rogers and then returned to the house.
He was glad it was a false alarm, but for some reason that made him feel more concerned rather than less.
“How about a drink?” Sarah said.
“How about more than one?”
A man on a rooftop, three blocks down from the house where Ed Rawls was staying, lowered his binoculars and called the preprogrammed number on his phone.
“I’ve scouted the location,” he reported.
“Your assessment?” the Sarge asked.
“It’s not worth the trouble.”
“Explain.”
“I don’t know who this guy is, but he must have friends in high places. He’s got at least twenty Metropolitan Police officers protecting this place. Maybe you could get to him, but I wouldn’t bet on your chances of getting away after.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s my job to be sure. Feel free to hire someone else to check it out if you want, but the answer is not going to be any different.”
“Dammit,” the Sarge spat. “All right. I’ll have the second half of your payment wired to your account.”
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
Chapter 60
That evening, in New York City, the family council gathered at the restaurant in Little Italy, in the room that had until recently been Alexei Gromyko’s office.
Asimov arrived first, and purposely took the seat at the head of the table.
When Igor Krupin walked in several minutes later, he was not pleased. As the eldest, the position of chairing the meeting should have been his. “I believe you are in my seat.”
“Your beliefs are not important to me,” Asimov said.
Krupin’s gaze hardened. “Move.”
“I like it here, thank you.” Asimov motioned at the other chairs. “There are plenty of other places for you to choose from.” He turned away, ending the conversation.
The rest began filing in. Those who weren’t part of Asimov’s cabal looked askance at Asimov’s place at the head of the table, but none challenged him. On the other hand, his friends smiled in approval as they filled the chairs nearest him. The only one who looked neither happy nor appalled was the Bean Counter. He was his usual calm, unreadable self, and took a chair midway down the table, right between Asimov’s friends and foes.
“I am sure you have all heard the news,” Asimov said, after everyone had settled, “but in case some haven’t, Egon Pentkovsky — or, as he preferred, Peter Greco — is dead. I know none of us expected to be discussing leadership of the family so soon after we just did, but here we are.”
“Do we know who did it?” one man asked.
“It has to be the same person who had Alexei killed,” another said.
“The lawyer? But I heard Greco was found in Barrington’s office,” a third man said. “Barrington isn’t stupid enough to have killed him there, is he?”
Everyone started talking over each other, asking questions, throwing out theories, and shouting suggestions for retaliation.
Asimov let it go on for a minute, and then slammed his hand on the table. “Enough.”
The room quieted.
“I already have people looking into the circumstances of his death,” Asimov said. “Have no doubt, when the perpetrator is discovered, he will be dealt with in no uncertain terms.”
“Need I remind you how he is dealt with is not your decision to make?” Krupin said. “It is that of the new head of the family.”
Asimov smiled, menacingly. “So it is. Then we should decide who will make that decision.”
“By rights, it should go to Igor,” one of Krupin’s allies said. “He is the senior among us.”
“Is that the will of everyone?” Asimov asked.
A few heads nodded, but from the crease in Krupin’s brow, their number was not as large as he had expected.
A few seats away from Asimov, one of his friends cleared his throat. “I think the job should be yours, Dmitri,” he said, looking at Asimov. “You are a man of action, and that is what’s needed now.”
Several others voiced their agreement. More, Asimov noted, than had for Krupin.
“I’m flattered you think that,” Asimov said.
“We should put it to a vote,” the man said.
“Is there anyone else we should consider?” Asimov asked, wanting to sound egalitarian, when he was anything but.
He looked around the table. The only other name that might be thrown out would be that of the Bean Counter, but the man apparently had no plans to nominate himself, nor did anyone else speak up.
“All right,” Asimov said. “It appears the choice is between Igor and myself.” He turned his attention to the man who’d put Krupin forward. “Kazimir, would you be so kind as to conduct the vote?”
“Of course.”
It came down to a single vote, that of the Bean Counter. Asimov had no idea which way he would go. The man had always been hard to read. When Krupin’s and Asimov’s names had been put forward, the Bean Counter had sat stoically and not displayed support for either man.
If Asimov didn’t win, he and those who supported him had already agreed to take control of the family by force. He inched his hand toward the butt of the pistol hidden under his jacket.
Kazimir said to the Bean Counter, “Mr. Dryga?”
The Bean Counter stared at the table, his lips resting against his clasped hands. Finally, he leaned back, and said, “Dmitri Asimov.”
Though Asimov had known that no matter what happened, he would be in charge at the end of the meeting, achieving his goal was still a shock.
“The council has decided,” Kazimir said. “Dmitri Asimov, the leadership of the family is yours.”
One by one, the members of the council pledged their support, even Krupin, though his face was ashen, like he might drop dead from a heart attack at any moment.