Marked Man II - 02 (15 page)

The Russians had not shown themselves to be the most cunning strategists. Usually when Shirokov went after Jordan he sent several large men with guns and hoped for the best, but things were changing. That they lured him out to Mary’s house was a change of pace. Also there was the pizza delivery boy come ninja assassin. The Russians were re-shuffling the deck and he had to figure out what game they were playing, he had to be one step ahead every time.

He stopped at a red light and flexed his calves, presumably waiting for the light to change. Jordan slowed his pace enough so that he would not catch up. When the light turned they crossed, Jordan only a few yards behind with several mid-day shoppers in between them.

When he came to First Avenue he took a left. Jordan tensed, sensing that his destination was near. The combat scenarios played through his head at a hundred miles an hour. Which direction would they come from? He scanned the fire escapes. He looked for the best place to set up an ambush.

The man stopped in front of an old pre-war apartment building. He reached into his basketball shorts, and as he did so Jordan yanked out the .22 and approached from behind. He pulled out a set of keys and began sorting through them, as if he wasn’t sure which to use on the door. All at once he dropped them on the sidewalk. He cursed and bent to pick them up. In so doing he caught a glimpse of Jordan approaching, gun drawn.

All of the sudden the Russians’ plan dawned on him. It made perfect sense. All along the Russians had wanted Jordan to follow this man to a quiet part of the island where they could spring on him all at once. This vitamin man was the bait in an elaborate trap. They expected Jordan to follow the man, then break into the apartment so that he could beat him, interrogate him, find out what he knew about his sister. But the second that the apartment door opened he would get his face blown off by a double-barreled shotgun.

The man panicked at the sight of Jordan coming on with the 22. He fumbled through the keys even faster. He forced a key into the slot, but by then Jordan was on him and he had the muzzle of the warm gun tickling the base of his neck.

“Very tricky. Almost got me there buddy.”

Vitamin man was trembling.

“Oh God. Oh God! What do you want?”

“Let’s go for a walk. To the alley.”

“Ok! I’ll do anything. Just please don’t hurt me. Please.”

Jordan directed him around the side of the building. He kept the gun in his back to force him along. About a dozen yards into the alley he commanded vitamin man to get down on his knees. He did so, still trembling and squeezing his eyes shut tight.

“Open your eyes. How many are up there?”

“How many who?”

Jordan brushed the tip of vitamin man’s nose with the barrel.

“Last chance. How many people are up there waiting for me?”

“Uhhh. Um… just my roommates.”

“How many?”

“Two?”

“Give me your wallet.”

The vitamin man did as he was told and handed it over. Jordan flipped through cash, credit cards, and a dozen Polaroids of dogs in kennels, and all the while the guy begged for him to take whatever he wanted just as long as he please would just please leave him alone he would promise not even to call the police. Jordan found an identification card. The name read Calev Bar Zohar. Below that it said Animal Medical Center - New York City. Jordan read it three times.

“You’re a veterinarian?”

Calev Bar Zohar answered that he was, then asked Jordan Ross to please not hold it against him and please not to hurt him. Slowly, as the realization came over Jordan he felt a burning sensation in his cheeks.

“You’re a veterinarian,” he repeated.

“Yes. Take the wallet. Take whatever you want. Just please.”

Jordan let the vitamin man’s leather wallet drop from his hands like it was infected with rabies. Tucking the 22 away, he looked up and down the length of the alley.

He was relieved that nobody was around to see the robbery, but even more relieved nobody was there to witness his embarrassment.

“I’m sorry…. I…. think I… may have made a mistake,” Jordan said and then ran away.

…

It was muggy hot out in the yard and Vladimir Shirokov did not feel well. He sat on a broken weight-lifting bench, reading Crime and Punishment and every few minutes he pressed a hand to his stomach and let out a low moan.

Anton Askokov was doing dumbbell curls with forty pound weights on the adjacent bench. He made a grunting sound each time he completed a lift. When he heard Shirokov let in a sharp intake of breath Askokov immediately dropped the weights and rushed to his side.

“
Avtorityet
? What is wrong?”

Shirokov swept his underling’s hand away and sighed.

“I am having stomach aches.”

“Should I ask for help? We can call prison doctor. They have good doctors in American prison, I know this. One helped to remove my tooth. It was rotten.”

The Russian boss was about to correct Askokov and inform him that it must have been a dentist, but then he decided it was too hot and his gut pained him too much to bother.

“No doctor. It is not their concern.”

“Are you sure? You do not look well,
avtorityet
.”

“No doctor,” Shirokov spat, but he could not contrive the powerful tone that he would have preferred to use. He had as of yet not informed Askokov of the plan he hatched with the chemist Paviel.

Askokov was a loyal subordinate, but Shirokov was leery. He could not be sure who had pulled the strings to make it happen. The most likely candidates were the District Attorney’s office, perhaps the FBI. Askokov could have been turned, and sent there to glean information from him. There was also the chance that the man who had called Solomon was responsible, but the idea that the voice on the phone was capable of engineering such a thing was as unsettling as a mole in his circle. He pushed the unwelcome thought away.

“NO doctor.” He managed the force this time and returned to his reading. Askokov went back to lifting the dumbbells, sweat pouring into the denim jacket tied around his waist.

Shirokov tried to focus on Dostoyevsky but found his mind wandering. The chemist had warned him to expect some pain as the little balloons of Potassium Perchlorate and Aluminum powder made their way through his system. Knowing that his plot was proceeding well should have done something to ease the discomfort, but it did not.

Glancing up from the page, Shirokov looked around the yard. On a dirt field a few dozen yards away some of the inmates were playing baseball. The crack of the stick hitting the ball echoed through the humid air and the men went scurrying around the diamond according to some logic that Shirokov could not discern. Clouds of dirt kicked up from their cleats wafted up and out towards the river. Shirokov looked longingly at the sparkling blue waters beyond the electrified and razored fence. Behind them on the dilapidated basketball court some other inmates were languidly practicing trick shots. It must have been too hot to play a regular game.

A scuffle broke out on the baseball field. One of the inmates appeared to have injured himself sliding in the dirt. Shirokov watched the others stand over him, pointing and exchanging threats. He lost interest after another few moments and began to read.

The rhythm of Askokov’s grunts became a sort of metronome. As a child Shirokov’s parents had encouraged him to become a concert violinist. The instrument’s steady ticking had a calming effect, and little Vladimir focused and played better when he listened. It was the same with Askokov’s noises. For the first time all day Shirokov was able to concentrate and get through a page without any effort. So it was particularly upsetting when he heard someone yelling at him from the field.

“Hey you! Hey Jewokov!”

Shirokov grumbled and looked up to find two of the Aryan Brotherhood skinheads approaching. They were carrying baseball gloves and their clothes were sprayed with dirt. A few paces away from the benches they came to a stop.

“Yeah I’m talking to you, Jewy D. Jewokov. Do you know baseball?”

The Russian frowned and looked behind them at the field as if seeing it for the first time.

“What about it?”

“Do you know how to play? One of our guys twisted his ankle and we’re a man short.”

Shirokov could not conceive why this should present a problem and he said as much.

“We need nine to play. We gotta have somebody step up. Can you play?”

“No. I have no wish to play. Also I am sick.”

The skinheads seemed to take great offense to this. They shook their heads as if a great honor was being rejected out of hand.

“I don’t give a shit if you don’t wish to play. We need nine. Somebody’s got to step in and substitute for our man. If you’re sick how about your big ape friend? ”

Askokov made a snorting noise and likely would have swung the dumbbell like a medieval mace into the skinhead’s chest, but Shirokov halted him with a clearing of his throat.

“Anton. Remember what I have told you.”

Askokov dropped the dumbbells and lowered his head reverently. Finding this hysterical, the two skinheads doubled over at the waist. They laughed and howled until they were both wheezing and the veins in their necks bulged.

“Would ya look at that. This skinny little Jewokov’s gone and got himself an ape-sized bitch!”

“Ain’t that just the nuttiest ball of shit? He’s got a hun’erd pounds on him. How’d you do it? Tell us your secret Jewokov.”

The conversation had become dull to him so Shirokov picked his book back up and resumed his reading, hoping that the chattering jackals would grow bored and leave. That proved to be a foolish hope. One of the skinheads slapped Sing Sing’s heavily dog-eared paperback copy of Crime and Punishment to the ground.

“Hey! I axed you a question Jewokov. It’s rude to ignore your betters. How’d ya get this big hairy gorilla bent over? Was it any good?”

“YOU SHOULD NOT speak to
avtorityet
in that way.”

For a moment Shirokov thought that Askokov had spoken up in his defense but he realized that the voice came from someone else, someone familiar. He twisted his head around and found himself in the shadow of a giant. While Askokov had a stocky, strong six foot build, this man dwarfed him.

Leonid Yenotin’s shoulders were as broad as a bedframe. His forehead had the downhill slope of a Neanderthal. He looked like he could club a fully grown lion to death with a club and then drag the carcass back to a cave.

The skinheads took a step or two back.

“Holy sweet Jesus there’s two of ‘em.”

Shirokov could spend another time processing this new development. For now, he saw an opportunity to turn away a pest. Despite a sharp stabbing pain in his abdomen he mustered up his trademark imperious air.

“You will be leaving us now.”

When the skinheads hesitated, both Leonid and Anton advanced on them. They turned to go swiftly, cursing and jabbering back and forth as they went.

“It’s a god damn infestation.”

The two newly reunited minions guarded his bench from either side for the remainder of the hour. Shirokov sat placidly and read. Occasionally he looked up at the baseball field to see the Aryan Brotherhood team huddled together, no doubt discussing this latest affront to their white dignity and wondering aloud where all the giant Jewokovs were coming from.

Although he cracked a smile at the thought, Shirokov was just as curious.