“Private,” the big guy in the black suit said when the doors slid open. “Didn’t anybody tell you? No press allowed.” He was holding a small Glock submachine gun loosely at his side. He had a single gold stripe on each sleeve of his jacket. Private army. Ex-Russian special forces, had to be.
“Sorry. I’m freaking lost here.”
Paddy reached for the button, and the doors had started to close when the muscle man stuck his foot out and automatically opened them again.
“Hold on a second,” the guy said. “You’re not Paddy Strelnikov?”
“Dimitri Popov?”
He knew the guy, all right. Gone to high school with him in Brighton Beach. Then his family had moved him back to the Soviet Union. Last time he’d seen Dimitri, it was on TV. Barbara Walters was interviewing him in Athens after he’d won the gold in Olympic wrestling for the Russian Federation.
“All-Beef Paddy!” Popov said, “Yeah, how you doin’, player? Come out here, talk to me. It was you went out and blew up that prison in the boondocks, right? That was some sick shit, huh? Sixty jerkoff cons on Death Row catching the train on the same night? I loved that! And you know what? I wasn’t the only one to think so. You got friends in high places, my man.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Listen, I’m not supposed to do this, but you want a quick look-see around? This is some serious shit up here.”
“What about your elevator?”
“I’ll lock it. Got a remote right here. There. Game’s locked, throw away the key, remember?” He dropped the remote back into his pocket.
“What’s up here?”
“The man, baby. This whole deck is his private world.”
“Ivan?”
“Count Ivan Korsakov, baby. Who else?”
“He’s a count?”
“Fuck no. He’s a god. Come on, there’s a bar down this way. I’m on duty, but I can get you a Bloody Bull. You look like you could use a little eye opener.”
“Jet lag.”
“You know what cures that? Pussy. We got that up here, too. In spades.”
PADDY DRAINED THE last of his second Bloody Bull and put the glass down on the mahogany bar. The bartender, a Ukrainian girl named Anna who was a dead ringer for Scarlett Johansson, whisked his glass away and said, “One more?”
Paddy shook his head and turned to Dimitri. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you think I could get a job working for the man? I mean, directly?”
“Man, I know you could. I’m telling you, he just lost his closest security guy in that latest assassination attempt three months ago in Moscow. Driving out of Red Square. This guy was more than muscle, he was the man’s last surviving brother. In real life, his real brother, is what I’m saying. Lifelong best asshole buddies. The brother took a stomach full of lead for the man. Now he’s got nobody.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“I’m nobody. Backstreet borscht with a gun.”
“Fuck that! Man, he knows you. He knows exactly who you are. That prison thing? Shit, I was in the screening room watching CNN with him the night you showed the world the true meaning of Death Row, man. You should have seen him light up. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t carry your laminated picture around in his fuckin’ wallet. And sinking that Japanese trawler up in Alaska? C’mon, Beef. You think he doesn’t know who’s out there getting his personal shit done for him every day? He knows everything, man.”
“Taking care of business,” Paddy said, twisting his ring around so he could see the lightning bolt. “TCB.”
“Straight up. Yeah. And you know what else, I personally think you should have a little talk with him.”
“What?”
“Talk to him. See if he likes you. Why the fuck not?”
“He’s here?”
“Of course he’s here. You think he checked into the Plaza? This is where he lives half the time. Look, I’m going to call him, all right? Tell him you’re aboard, that we’re old friends and shit. You down with that?”
“Dimitri, hold on a second. What about you? Why don’t you take the job?”
“Are you kidding me? I live in a flying pussy palace, Beef! I ain’t going anywhere. Ever. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”
“You going to call him?”
“Hell, yeah, I am.”
He left. Paddy said to Anna, “I gotta tell you, the views from this thing are unbelievable.” He was staring down at forests of swaying treetops just below. The Pine Barrens, he thought, and that must be the Peconic River over there. Yeah, that’s what it was, all right. They were about sixty miles from the city. A leisurely voyage, and so damn quiet!
“I’ve got the best office in the world,” Anna said with a shy smile.
“You sure do. Tell me something, Anna, at what altitude does the Tsar sail?”
“Oh, right now, I’d say we’re cruising at about six hundred fifty feet. That’s our normal altitude when the winds allow. The captain likes to fly so the passengers have a view.”
“We’ll keep to that all the way out to Montauk?”
“If the winds hold. Normally, we would climb higher if the currents were more favorable aloft. But we’re not trying to get anywhere in a hurry today.”
“How high can you go?”
“Maybe four thousand feet.”
“Anybody ever tell you what a pretty smile you have?”
“Occasionally,” she said, laughing.
“You live on this thing?”
“Of course. It’s my castle in the sky.”
14
Five minutes later, Dimitri was back, deadpan, no expression on his face. He plopped down on the adjacent barstool and ordered another club soda from Anna, then swiveled around and looked at Strelnikov.
“So?” Paddy said. “What? You talk to him?”
“Yeah, I talked to him.”
“And?”
“He’d like very much to talk to you.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.”
“When?”
“Like, uh, now.”
“Now. Where? Here?”
“Of course not here. In private. I’ll take you. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“The music room.”
“Oh. The music room. Why didn’t I guess that?”
“He’s composing a fucking symphony. You believe that? For the Moscow Symphony Orchestra. But he’s going to stop right in the middle of that and talk to you.”
“Holy Jesus.”
“Let’s go.”
They left the bar and turned right down a softly lit corridor hung with what Paddy was pretty sure were paintings he’d seen in books. Each one had its own little brass light on it. Pictures of lily pads, et cetera, little bridges in gardens. French guy, what was his name? Monet or Manet or one of those.
“You’re lucky, Beef,” Popov said. “He’s in a good mood today.”
“Why is that?”
“He got a call from Stockholm early this morning. He’s going to get the Nobel Prize in physics this year.”
“Holy shit. What’d he do?”
“He’s an astrophysicist, you know, just one of his many hobbies. He discovered something called a black body, some kind of radiation that helps prove the big bang theory or something. Dark matter. What do I know? He thinks the real reason he got the prize is the Zeta machine. Making a computer all the Third World countries could afford. He says the Nobel committee loves that do-gooder shit over there. Look at Al Gore, Carter, f’crissakes.”
“Is he psyched? You gotta be, I mean the Nobel Prize, c’mon, jeez mareeze.”
“Yeah. He’s pretty happy about it. Here we are.”
Popov rapped lightly on another leather-padded door, this one unmarked. He then pushed it open and stuck his head inside.
“Let’s go,” Dimitri whispered, taking Paddy’s elbow. “Don’t say anything. We’ll just take a seat over there, and he’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”
Walking into that little room was like stepping back a couple of centuries. It was four white walls with gold moldings everywhere. There were four large paintings depicting fairy-tale musical scenes in heavy gold frames, one on each wall. In the near corner was a harp. There were two men in the room, and Paddy didn’t know who was who. Over in one corner by the window was a tall, gaunt man dressed in a black military uniform. He was standing with his back to the room, hands clasped rigidly behind his back, staring out the window.