Then he raised his right hand and got a very gentle grip on Queenie’s right hand, moving it down and away from his arm.
“And if Gana said no?” Hannibal asked, staring down into her eyes. “Would you then take the photo to Boris? Would you sentence Gana to death?”
“He is a thief. And Boris Tolstaya is still my husband.”
“Uh huh.” Her self-righteousness was as thin as the wisps of smoke rising from her cigarette, which was also almost burned out. “And feeding him Gana would put you back in his good graces, wouldn’t it? I get a feeling old Ben would be left in the dust if things went that way.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” Hannibal asked. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? You saw a two-way bet and you took it.”
Queenie took a step back and looked at Hannibal as if for the first time. He could see her reevaluating, rejecting her original judgment of him, and deciding just what kind of sucker he really was. When she shook her head, he wondered how accurate her new evaluation was.
“If you help us, I will never have to face that option,” she said. “And I will commit to staying with Ben. He’s the man who loves me, after all.”
“That’s big of you,” Hannibal said, turning back toward the hospital.
“Besides, there is the matter of the million dollars we could split.”
“I don’t want your money,” Hannibal said, in part to convince himself, “but I sure want to get to Gana and Viktoriya before your ex does. If he is mob connected, they’ll never make it out of the area on a plane or train or bus. Gana’s car is in the shop so he’d have to rent one to drive. The Russian mafia would have an eye on them too. So they’re probably still in town.”
“He has no friends, no contacts,” Queenie said, trailing along. “They would go to her mother for help.”
“Didn’t you hear?” They stopped when Hannibal realized they were back at the hospital entrance. “Her mother’s been killed. Probably by Boris’s boys getting close to the trail.”
“Then there is no one left they can trust,” Queenie said, dropping her cigarette and grinding it into the sidewalk.
“Maybe for him,” Hannibal said. “There might be one person left she can rely on, and I’d better find him fast.” He turned toward the parking lot.
“Wait,” Queenie called. “What can I do?”
“You need to get up to that hospital room,” Hannibal said over his shoulder. “There’s a man up there who needs you.”
Hannibal imagined that on a Friday or Saturday night, with the acid jazz booming, the Russia House lounge would be a virtual clubhouse for Washington's Russian and Eastern European community. But on Sunday, just after the official opening at five pm, it was just a good place to sip vodka and soak up the atmosphere.
As soon as Hannibal walked in, the bartender pointed him to the far end of the bar. He slipped past the collection of patrons, most looking too grim to be having a good time, and slid onto the empty stool beside Yakov Sidorov.
Yakov raised his bushy eyebrows, but his surprise soon faded. He nodded and turned back to his drink. Hannibal signaled the bartender, careful not to smile any more than any of the other somber drinkers.
“Jewel of Russia,” he said, in a tone that said it was his usual brand. He faced forward while waiting for his drink. When it arrived, he sipped just a little of his vodka and nodded at the glass. Yakov slid a plate across the bar to the space just to the side of Hannibal’s glass. The platter held a pile of small dumplings. Hannibal nodded his thanks and picked one up. A bite told him they were stuffed with potatoes and onions and a meat that was not quite chicken. He looked at Yakov.
“Smoked duck,” Yakov said. “These are the best pierogi in the Western Hemisphere.” Then Yakov got one for himself and dipped it in the cream in a nearby bowl. Hannibal tried it and found the sauce quite spicy. This beat the hell out of bar peanuts.
“You’ve heard about Raisa,” he said when his mouth was empty. It was not a question. Yakov nodded.
“A tragic loss,” Hannibal said, “and I don’t even know if her daughter has been notified. Where is Viktoriya?”
“With Gartee Roberts,” Yakov said just before draining his glass.
“Where have they gone?”
Yakov shrugged his shoulders and picked up another pierogi.
“I thought if her mother didn’t answer the phone she might call on you.”
“I wish it were so,” Yakov said. He waited just long enough for the bartender to fill his glass before snatching it up and drinking down half the contents. “The girl is like a daughter to me. But she does not realize what she has gotten into by marrying this man.”
“You were against the marriage?”
Yakov nodded. “I tried several times to convince Raisa to forbid their union.”
Hannibal emptied his glass. He hadn’t noticed the slight sweetness in the Russian vodka before. Things are so often different the second time you consider them. Yakov was not part of Gana’s support system as the old photographs implied. Other connections now became possibilities. What if Gana wasn’t paying for the girl at all? What if Viktoriya was insurance against revenge from someone close? Or taking care of her could be payback for something else. When he turned to Yakov, Hannibal spoke very softly.
“You broke with Gartee Roberts because he is somehow connected to Nikita Petrova’s murder.”
“He and Boris Tolstaya,” Yakov said. His dour face looked close to tears. “I am the reason they all met. I introduced Boris to Nikita. It seemed natural since they both had health issues from the war. But yes, now I am sure that he and Roberts had something to do with Nikita’s death.”
When Hannibal turned to the bar, his glass was full again. He took another sip of vodka. “Raisa must have known. Why else would she accept payoff money from Roberts? Gana. Whatever.”
“Roberts?” Yakov stopped, his glass held halfway to his mouth. “No, Raisa would never have accepted money from him.”
“Sorry, Yakov, but your friend Nikita didn’t leave much behind when he died. How do you think Raisa has been taking care of herself?” The room noise was getting louder. To Hannibal it was more like white noise than usual because most of it was in a language he didn’t understand. Yakov Sidorov leaned close as if he feared someone might overhear them even in that noisy setting.
“Raisa Petrova was blackmailing Boris Tolstaya.” He shook his head with grim finality. “She found out somehow, and she knew that Boris was the evil one. When he left town right after Nikita’s death he took Roberts with him, but I don’t think he wanted to go.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said, turning his head to look very closely into Yakov’s reddened eyes. “He was evil, and you are the man who brought him in here and introduced him to Nikita in the first place.”
Yakov finally downed his drink, but Hannibal suspected that his body and mind were already numb. Maybe that was his objective. He stared at his glass.
“Boris Tolstaya was a powerful, dangerous man,” Yakov told his empty glass. “I invested with him and did very well. Then I gambled with him. I lost. A lot. This, you see, was his way to gain control of people. And this was the leverage he used to force me to bring him here, to introduce him and Renata to certain people who were influential in the local Russian community. People like Nikita Petrova.”
“Come on, Yakov,” Hannibal said, brushing Yakov’s shoulder with the back of his fingertips. “You knew Tolstaya was a snake, yet you introduced him to Nikita. I could understand steering strangers to him, but how could you do that to your good friend?
The room was filling up, and a few strangers stared at Hannibal after his outburst. Yakov lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “After Nikita betrayed me, it was easy.”
“Betrayed you?”
“With Anastasiya.” It was almost a whisper, which Yakov chased back down his throat with more vodka.