Koschey couldn’t really ask for more.
He’d need more muscle, though. Just in case. Even though it was an added complication, he had no misgivings about killing the two bratki at the motel. He couldn’t let them live. For one thing, they had been sloppy. Yakovlev had failed, and they had been compromised. Proof of that was how easily the Americans had found them. And despite the strict code of silence he knew any bratok would follow religiously, Koschey couldn’t count on that silence. He needed that silence to be permanent, and there was only one way he knew of to guarantee it.
Beyond the risk of exposure, leaving those two bratki alive would have left him open to another, greater risk, one he was even more keen to neutralize: he didn’t know how much they knew. They’d spent several hours babysitting Sokolov’s wife. Koschey didn’t know how much Sokolov had told her, nor did he know what she’d told them. And given what was at stake, given the potential involved, Koschey really didn’t want anyone running around out there who knew, especially not a couple of lowlife incompetent gopniki.
He had a couple of potential sources who could supply him with the muscle he needed, but in a moment of inspired perversity, he decided to go back to the original source. Doing that opened up all kinds of interesting possibilities.
He pulled up the number he’d been given by Vrabinek, and, liking his plan more and more with each passing second, dialed the vor they called the Sledgehammer.
26
Aparo and I were in the A/V lab with Tim Joukowksy from our field intelligence group, our go-to agent on Russian matters who was, as you’d expect, fluent in the language. The listening van outside Mirminsky’s club had been feeding audio files back to home base when they came in, and Joukowsky would listen in on the ones the guys in the van thought merited close attention. He’d alerted us about a call that had just taken place.
It involved Mirminsky and another Russian-a Latvian native, according to Joukowsky, who was an accent and dialect expert. He played the tape for us, stopping it after every noteworthy sentence to explain what had been said.
The mystery caller starts by introducing himself as Afanasyev.
“We have any hits on that?” I asked, knowing it would be a fake.
“Nothing, apart from it being the name of a very prolific author of folktales. Kind of a Russian brother Grimm,” Joukowsky said.
Aparo said, “I’m impressed.”
Joukowsky snorted. “Thank Wikipedia, comrade. No one needs to know anything anymore.”
A caller using a pseudonym like that. It sounded promising. If anything, the guy had a sense of humor.
A sense of humor that disappears right after he introduces himself.
The call continues rather bluntly. Not many words are exchanged. The caller tells Mirminsky he needs some help moving some heavy furniture. Says it’s going to happen tonight. Says he’s gonna need four movers.
The Sledgehammer demurs briefly, then grumbles that he’s already “down two movers on this” and gruffly asks if the caller has any idea what happened to them. The caller then does something unexpected. He tells Mirminsky, “That’s not what I called you about. I called to tell you to get four movers ready for me for tonight.” Just like that. Coldly. Bluntly. Without raising his voice, though the threat in his tone is hard to miss. Even without speaking Russian, I got that. And looking at Joukowsky as we listened to it, he clearly got that too.
Then the Sledgehammer does something even more unexpected. He says nothing for a beat, then he just says, flatly and in a resigned, submissive tone, “It won’t be a problem. They’ll be ready whenever you need them.”
The caller says he’ll get back to him with a time and a place. Then hangs up.
We were stunned.
“A man of a few words,” Joukowsky said.
“Few, but… effective,” I added.
“Did this guy just turn Mirminsky into his bitch or what?” Aparo asked. “I mean, what the hell was that? Who talks to a vor like that?”
“Only two possible answers,” Joukowsky offered. “Either this is someone higher up in the organizatsiya than the Sledgehammer-”
“They don’t really come any higher than him around here, do they?” Aparo asked.
Joukowsky shook his head. “Not really. There are others as big as him, other kingpins. But no one with that level of supremacy.”
“What’s option two?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Option two,” he continued, “would be someone with the kind of backing that would make Mirminsky-or any other Russian for that matter-sit up and take notice and do as he’s told, no matter how powerful, how rich, or how connected he is. Someone he wouldn’t dare disobey under any circumstance.”
Meaning someone with the backing of the boys back in Moscow.
Someone doing the Kremlin’s bidding.
If it was option two, my local homicide investigation was going to get even nastier.
We left the A/V room in a fog of unease. Forensics would run the tape for a voice-print match, but I doubted they’d get a hit. I didn’t think this guy would ever allow himself to be identified that easily. Whoever he was, I sensed he was a new player in town. Which made me think back to the motel.
As if reading my mind, Aparo asked, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“We’ve got two new players in the game. The Olympic gold-medal shooter-and Ivan the Terrible.”
“Two new players?” he questioned, his tone dubious.
“Or just one,” I said, finishing his thought.
“Exactly. But if he’s the same guy from the motel, why’d he kill the two tattoos?”
“Because they screwed up,” I speculated. “They couldn’t handle grabbing a sixty-year-old high school teacher, one of them died in a very public way, they used a car that could be traced back to their hideout. Everything we’ve seen and heard about this guy tells us he’s not just a real badass, but he’s an incredibly efficient badass. And guys like that don’t tolerate screwups.”
“Harsh,” Aparo noted.
“It gets results. It also means he has Sokolov’s wife.” The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that this was the same guy. “Makes you wonder if the Sledgehammer knew the guy he was talking to had just taken out two of his men-and he was now asking for four more.”
“If he did, if he even suspected as much- Jeez, Sister Sledge must be just burning up inside.”
“Maybe we can use that. Okay,” I said, “if he’s the guy from the motel shooting, then whatever’s going down tonight is also about Sokolov. And his wife.”
“A trade?”
“Sounds like it. We’d better be ready. Let’s get a handle on where and when this is happening. You, me, Kubert, and Kanigher, plus a SWAT team and local backup on standby. We need to shut this thing down before it gets even more out of control.”
“Shame the Sokolovs are mixed up in this. We could have just sat it out and let these no-necks slaughter each other and be done with it,” Aparo suggested. “In case you forgot, this guy’s a pretty decent shot.”
“Yeah,” I replied glumly. “We’re gonna need a whole lot of Kevlar.”
27
Over in a run-down industrial park behind Webster Avenue in the Bronx, Sokolov stood in front of a lock-up single garage and looked around.
It was quiet. There was no one around. There rarely was. This was a place where people came for cheap storage, whether for cars or, more likely, for junk they usually forgot about. They didn’t visit often. Back when Sokolov had paid for his first rental-in cash, as he had done ever since-it had been less of a dump than it was now. Whoever owned the place hadn’t bothered to do much to it over the intervening twelve years. Maybe a quick lick of paint, once, without bothering to burn off previous layers or fill in the cracks. It suited Sokolov perfectly. He needed somewhere quiet, discreet, and cheap. Somewhere he could come and tinker without anyone noticing or asking too many questions.