Dead and Gone (7 page)

Before Max could answer, she knelt and spoke directly to Flower. “It is Burke, child.
Your
Burke. Don’t be frightened. There was an accident. Burke was hurt. But he’s getting better now, all right?”

The little girl looked up at me. “It’s true,” I told her. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“I’m not scared,” she said solemnly. “It looks like it … hurts you.”

“Nah. Let’s face it, I wasn’t all that good-looking to start with, right?”

But I was aiming at the wrong spot. That might have gotten a giggle from a teenager, but Flower was too young and too old to respond that way. “No man is as handsome as my father,” she said. “But you always looked … like … I don’t know … not like this.”

“I won’t always look like this, Flower. Promise.”

“I don’t care how you
look,”
she said, stamping her little foot. “I just don’t want you to
hurt
.”

Immaculata shot a glance at Max over the child’s shoulder. It was short of fatal, but not by a whole lot.

Max made a gesture for “true,” tapped his ear, pointed to Flower. Then he made the sign of pouring one test tube into another, holding up the receiving vessel to the light, checking the results.

Immaculata nodded, slowly. Getting it, but not liking it much. I’d been asking everyone if my voice sounded the same to them—it sure as hell didn’t to me. They’d all assured me that I sounded the same, but Flower, innocent Flower, she was the perfect test. She hadn’t seen me since I’d been there. But when she’d heard my voice …

“I’m sorry,” I told Immaculata, trying to take the weight for Max.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I understand. And so does Flower.”

The little girl nodded, solemn but not distressed anymore.

“Thank you,” I said, bowing. Max understood the thanks were for Immaculata, and the bow for him. I knew what it had cost him to use his precious child in any kind of experiment. But he was right—it was the only way to tell.

I
didn’t need my voice to say goodbye to Pansy. The Mole showed me where she was buried, her grave nestled in a triangle of rusting steel girders, long lengths of rebar wound through it to make a wreath. It was strangely beautiful, like the charred ground beneath a launched rocket.

Mama had given me a box of brilliantly colored little papier-mâché constructions. “Burn when you say goodbye to puppy. Be waiting for her in new place.” Each was a perfectly rendered miniature. Everything Pansy could ever want, even an exact replica of her treasured giant rawhide bone. And a sheepskin mat that looked as if it had been cut from the original.

I’d seen those symbolic representations for use at funerals in Chinatown shops, but never ones like these. Mama had to have custom-commissioned them. And brought them over to Max’s place herself. It was the first time I’d ever seen her outside her restaurant.

“What about the play money?” I asked, expecting her to tell me a dog wouldn’t need money.

“Real puppy. Send real money,” she said. And handed me a thousand in crisp new centuries.

We all have our beliefs. Mama lived hers.

Standing there, I realized I couldn’t say anything. I’d said it all while Pansy was with me. Said it the only way that ever counts … with my behavior. Nothing to say, but I stood there for a long time. First trying not to cry. Then letting it go.

Belle was there, too. In that same graveyard. Belle, who loved me and died for me. I didn’t miss her any the less after I’d settled her score. Didn’t hate myself any the less for having put her in harm’s way, either. But I gave her the respect she’d earned, honoring that she’d gone out the way she’d wanted to.

Belle had drawn a pack of squad cars off me, out-driving the best NYPD had and making it back to where we were supposed to meet. But they’d poured enough lead into her that all she had left was the strength to say goodbye.

You can never really balance the scales. Taking a life doesn’t return the one the killer took. But any death of a loved one is a test of faith. And my religion is revenge.

With Belle, he’d been easy to find. I knew who he was. Her father. I knew
what
he was, too. So killing him was even easier.

With Pansy, I didn’t know who. Not yet. But when I did, it would play out like this: they were gone, or I was.

“I’ll see you soon, girl,” is all I could make myself say to her.

T
he Mole set up the meet. He’d done it before. It was always the same—I wanted something from them or they wanted something from me. Money never changed hands. What we traded was information. Or work.

“Dmitri is ex-Spetsnaz,” the unremarkable man said. He was a little shorter than me, slim, with dark wiry hair and leathery skin that made him look older than he was … I guessed. He wasn’t one I’d ever seen before, but his eyes had the same look they all have.

“What’s that?” I asked him.

“The elite of the Russian military. Like the Special Forces or the SEALs. But now, in today’s Russia, they are not heroes; they are throwaways. They are paid nothing, they live in squalor, they have no prospects.”

“So they hire out?”

“Some do. Not all. Some are loyalists to the core, waiting for the return of Communist Russia. But most of them could not survive without some other employment.”

“Dmitri?”

“Dmitri is a criminal. He was a criminal in Russia; he is a criminal here. But his group is small. Operatives for hire, not what you Americans like to call ‘organized crime.’ His group has no foothold that would interest the Mafia, so he has no basis for a partnership.”

“What kind of foothold
would
interest them?”

“Gas stations are one example. The Mafia arranges for all the stations to buy bootleg and avoid the gas tax, which is enormous. Then the profits are divided. Money laundering is another. There are many small businesses in the Russian neighborhoods. All-cash businesses. But Dmitri is no businessman, despite his opinion of himself.”

“So he could have just been hired to do the job?”

“An assassination? Certainly. But it is not likely.”

“Why?”

“It was too elaborate. You have been alone with this man, more than once, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So he had many opportunities. Dmitri has military training, but he is no master tactician. If he had been paid—paid
enough
—to risk a homicide, he would have acted on it when he had the chance, not given you so much time to ascertain his intent.”

“Is he an enemy of your people?”

“Perhaps once.” The man shrugged. “If he was paid to be so, perhaps again. But all Dmitri wants now is money. A pogrom would not bother him morally, but he would not participate unless he was paid. And now in Russia there is no one to pay him. Afghanistan was their Vietnam. But, unlike America, they never recovered.

“The IMF had to bail the Kremlin out after it defaulted on its own bonds, and devalued the ruble. There
is
no ‘Russia’ anymore. And what shreds are left would not,
could
not spend the time or the resources to keep our people imprisoned. A little corruption, a little bribery, yes. After all, Russia was once the ultimate bureaucracy. But there is no government policy preventing our people from coming home.”

“Still, you know a lot about him.…”

“We know a lot about many people. They are not
our
people, but they could be of use, someday. In our trade, today’s enemy is tomorrow’s asset.”

“Would you know who his second-in-command is?”

“They are no longer military, Mr. Burke. No more chain of command. He has fellow thugs, that is all. He is the boss, not the general.”

“So if he were to step down …?”

“Hah! Dmitri would never
step
down. Ever. And should he be … removed, there would be the usual scramble for power. An orderly succession is highly unlikely.”

“But, eventually, no matter who took over, you would know, right?”

“Yes. They have no secrets from us. Some we buy, some we … acquire. But all we get, eventually.”

“Thank you. For all this. I know the value of information. If I can ever be of service to you …”

“You are with our brother,” the man said quietly, for the first time including the Mole in his glance. “This is for him, not for you.”

I
had to play it as if the Israeli’s info was gospel. And I had to play my lone ace very carefully. You only get one chance to take advantage of someone believing you’re dead.

I
took another ten days to set up a meet with Dmitri. The prelims were handled over pay phones. I was a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy, voice-filtered. The “buyer” was a crazy old man with maybe six months to live—advanced aplastic anemia. He wanted some surface-to-air missiles so he could bring down one of the camouflaged helicopters ZOG kept sending over his compound. That way, he could show the whole world the kind of covert surveillance the Jewocracy was conducting against patriotic Americans.

Not only that, the old man was psycho enough to pay retail. A sweet score for Dmitri. Ten points to me for the steering, talked down from twenty-five.

But Dmitri wasn’t moving from his restaurant. Dealing with strangers, that was the only place he’d do business, no exceptions. The guy was in a wheelchair, too fucking bad—they could just wheel him in. And no problem about an interpreter—Dmitri was proud of his English.

“N
o,” I said, flatly.

“They’d never—”

“No,” I told Michelle again. “If this doesn’t work out, it’s going to be messy.”

“And you think I can’t—?”

“It’s not for you,” I said. “That’s the end of it.”

“Because
…?” she insisted.

“Because they won’t recognize
me
. I won’t look like this forever, but, for now, I’ll get right past their screens,” I said, wondering even then if I was being honest with myself. “But
anyone
would know
you
again, honey.”

Michelle loved to shop, but she wasn’t buying any of my lame flattery that night. “Who, then? You think
Max
is going to be able to disguise himself. As
what?
The Mole? Sure! And don’t even
think
about the Prof or Clarence; the last time a black man was in that neighborhood was before the Russians took over. They’d get more eyeballing than a porno movie. But a woman in a nurse’s outfit … Just
think
about it for a minute.”

“I …”

“Oh, wait here. I’ll be back,” she snapped.

We had almost three more hours to keep planning before Michelle returned. Only now she was a blonde, with skin tanned so deeply she looked like a Puerto Rican in a wig. Her heart-shaped face was roundish now, her full lips were much thinner. And her eyes were a bright, fake blue. “Who’s going to recognize me
now?”
she demanded.

The Prof looked her over appreciatively. “You don’t loosen up on that skirt, they gonna follow you home anyway,” he said.

“Fine!” Michelle snapped back, in no mood to play. “I’ll be in a nurse’s uniform, remember?”

“I know a better way,” I said.

“Y
ou are sure of this?” the Israeli asked me.

“Are you asking if I’m guessing, or if I’m lying?”

“If you are guessing, you are a fool. And we will not work with fools. If you are lying …”

“He is not lying,” the Mole said quietly.

The Mossad man turned to face me, his dark eyes trying to hold mine. But his eyes were a normal person’s, working as one. So he had to settle for only one of mine at a time, and it threw him off. “Dmitri is going to sell SAMs to Nazis, that is what you are telling us?”

“Not
German
Nazis. Not some remnants from World War II.
American
Nazis. A few assorted freaks with Master Race fantasies.”

“So? Such people are no threat to us.”

“That’s right,” I told him truthfully. “But Dmitri’s a merchant. If he’ll sell to Nazis, he’ll sell to Arabs.”

“All Arabs are not our enemy. That is what you Americans believe, perhaps, but it is wrong. Only a tiny minority thwart the possibility of peace between us.”

“A tiny minority’s enough, today. Arab extremists in America aren’t any different from our home-grown Nazis. They both like to blow things up. The World Trade Center, Oklahoma City … what difference? You know how it works. They may hate each other, but when it comes to Jews, they’re all of one mind.”

“You are saying … what?”

“It’s what
you
said. Dmitri was in Spetsnaz, so he was military.
Elite
military. And there’s no doubt that
tons
of heavy weapons were left over when the U.S.S.R. came apart. It’s out there, and it’s for sale. Hell, I’ve even heard talk about plutonium.…”

I let my voice trail away, watching his eyes. He was good, but I caught the spark, used it to jump-start the rest of my pitch: “But what Dmitri’s outfit’s running here isn’t military supply,” I told him. “It’s just straight crime product: drugs, whores, gambling, loan-sharking, extortion. When I wanted to work that shipment of guns to the Albanians, I dealt with Dmitri personally, not his crew. The ordnance part is all his … his own separate piece. You understand what I’m saying?”

“That is why you wanted to know who Dmitri’s successor would be, yes?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“It would be nobody from Spetsnaz. He was a rogue even within his own unit, in Russia. Whoever replaces him will be a gangster, not a soldier.”

“Without access to the military stuff, then? Without the contacts?”

“Yes. Of course. Dmitri would never share such …”

As his voice faded, he finally found my good eye. And held it this time.

I
shaved carefully—no picnic with my distorted depth perception. Spent some time looking at my face in the mirror. My new face. A nerve jumped in my right cheek, the bullet scar at the center of the tic. I pressed against the spot and the tic died.

T
he ambulette was a converted Chrysler minivan, painted a dull beige, with red crosses on both sides and the back. It cruised the Brooklyn block slowly, searching for an opening. Finding none, it double-parked right in front of Dmitri’s joint. The light-bar on its roof went into action, indicating pickup or delivery. The driver dismounted, came around to the curb side of the van, opened the sliding door. A hydraulic device noiselessly lowered a wheelchair to the street. Inside was a man wrapped against the fall cold in a heavy quilted robe. The driver became an attendant, wheeling the man onto the sidewalk. He returned to the van, pulled the sliding door closed. Then he pushed the wheelchair inside the restaurant.