Psycho Within Us (The Psycho Series Book 2) (45 page)

To his right, more tenebrous tendrils were slapping up against the side of the Priora, feeling for the edges of the door, smacking and cracking the windows.

The SUV slammed up against him on his left side, perhaps trying to drive him into the arms of whatever it was.  Spencer looked over at them, saw wide-eyed concern on the faces of the men inside.  They’d come to finish him off, but had blundered into an invasion by some transdimensional force.  Spencer laughed, “A night to remember, eh, boys?”

A pair of eyes flashed in the road up ahead.  Before Spencer could react, he smashed into the wolf.  The animal was dead as soon as he hit it, and its blood splashed across the hood of the car and across his face.  “Jesus H. fucking Chri—”  He was cut short when something landed on the hood of the car, slid off, and
rolled onto the pavement.  If he didn’t know any better, he would have said it was another wolf. A large one, coated in black fur.

What the fuck is going on here?

The SUV slammed into him again.

Spencer
lifted his Benelli, cocked it, and fired once into the passenger side window of the SUV, shattering it and exploding the head of the goon seated there.  The SUV put on its brakes, fishtailed to one side and went into a ditch.  “Yeah, motherfuckers! 
That’s
what’s up!”  Spencer floored it, the SUV behind him convulsing in the rearview mirror as the impossible limbs vomited themselves into the window.

Panting, he tossed the shotgun into the passenger seat, and took the wheel with both hands.
  He glanced out either side of the car, and muttered a curse.  Glowing eyes bouncing up and down along the side of the road, almost keeping pace with his speed.  Those eyes shone with an unnatural intensity, a reflection of some terrible light.

Spencer knew that packs of wild dogs in Chelyabinsk had mixed with roaming packs of wolves in the wilderness surrou
nding the city, and he knew there were reports of them occasionally attacking people.  But jumping onto the hood of a moving car?  It was no coincidence.  The environment was being affected by the darkness Kaley Dupré unleashed. 
Predators attracted to the darkness
, he thought.  Not unlike him.

It made about as much sense as anything else he’d ever seen when in close proximity to the
Dupré sisters.

The eyes disappeared behind him, but he thought he heard one last howl on the wind. 
They’re hunting all of us
.  An intuition told him that.

The storm had lightened up a bit, but the wind and snow still came rushing in through the shattered windows.  The Priora, battered as she was, wobbled as he made his way back towards
Ekaterininskaya Ulitsa.  It felt like the car’s wheels had been knocked out of alignment; she was jumping and vibrating violently.

Sniveling from behind.  He glanced into the back seat, saw the children still huddled in the floorboard.  On a whim, he reached up to check his ear.  Somehow,
impossibly, the cigarette was still there.  He took it and put it in his mouth, then lit it.  After his first toke, he started laughing.  He laughed long and hard, and relished every moment of it.  His laughter died in the instant that he thought about the little girl.  Then, another thought occurred to him, and he laughed again. 
Nobody kills Kaley Dupré but me
.

That’s how he knew she was alive.

Huffing and running backwards, aiming his silenced weapon all around him, the Grey Wolf finally made it up to the fence.  The storm had
suddenly let up enough that he saw it just before smacking into it, but all the lights were now out, and it was so dark that he couldn’t tell which part of the fence he’d come to.

The laughing things, whatever they had been, were gone.  He didn’t know where to, and he was
n’t sticking around to find out.  Shcherbakov was almost certain that he’d seen a trio of headlights far off in the distance, and he hoped very much that that was Zverev’s reinforcements, and that they’d cornered Pelletier.

After a few minutes of running along the fence, having no luck finding the part topped with his jacket, Shcherbakov happened upon a hole at the bottom of the fence, where it looked like someone had recently
crawled under.  He pushed his way through, and was glad to find himself on pavement.  After a quick jog down the road, however, he was quite displeased to find the Subaru still here and his Priora gone, along with all his tools inside.  Three sets of tire tracks were going through a part in the fence that had been torn open, run over in Pelletier’s escape, no doubt.

Clenching his teeth, the Wolf reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell phone
, called Zverev.  Zverev answered on the second ring.  “Is it done?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I sent my people.  They told me they were almost there.”

“I think he got away.”

“How?”

“He stole
my car,” Shcherbakov said.  Neither one of them spoke for a moment.  Nobody had ever made a fool out of the Grey Wolf before.  This was one of those moments that could be eternally damaging to one’s professional reputation.  “Send someone to pick me up.  I have a feeling he might’ve eluded your people.  If you hurry, we might still catch him.”

“I’ll do that.  I’ll send one of my best men at once
, don’t worry.”

“Very good.”  A solemn howl suddenly filled the air.  Shcherbakov turned, but saw nothing but the endless embankments of driven snow.  He added, “And hurry, cousin, if you please.”

Shcherbakov hung up without another word.  He stood there, looking at the tire tracks and the ruined fence.  Then, he noticed a draft moving up his arm.  Inspecting his sleeve, he found a tear.  An ugly tear.  In all the running, something had really gotten a hold of him, and without him noticing.  There was a gash there, not one that demanded stitches, but deep enough.

Laughter on the wind, retreating.

The storm had lightened up some.  There was even a part in the clouds, through which soft milky moonlight was pouring through.  The Grey Wolf walked over to the fence, looked back down at the dock house.  What little he could make out was utterly ruined.  He fetched his phone back out and sent a text to Zverev
:
Вы должны послать кого-то, чтобы сжечь доки
. 
Translation:
You had best send someone to burn the docks
. 

Zverev wouldn’t like that—in fact, he would be appalled—but i
t would be better than to have some inspectors eventually find it in this state, and go inside to see what had caused the structural damage.  They might find more than Zverev and his people wished.

It was no explosion, so what did this?

That mystery would occupy his thoughts until Zverev’s people came to pick him up.  He took out his silver bear’s-head lighter, lit up a cigarette, inhaled, and pondered.  Somewhere, another dog answered the first one’s howl.

9

Syshka turned out to be a quaint little restaurant nestled in a delightful part of town.  The parking lot wasn’t overly packed, which wasn’t surprising considering the blizzard’s impact.  On the ride over, Rideau had had Detective Yudin turn up the radio.  On it, they heard that so far there were twelve deaths so far attributed to the storm.

She
checked the time on her phone (9:33
PM
), stepped out of the car, and braced herself against the wind.  “Thanks for the lift,” she hollered back to Yudin and Tattar.  “I’ll call a cab later.”  She waved at them as they pulled away, and walked slowly across the parking lot since it was half ice and half slush, with no way to distinguish where one ended and the other began.

Her phone vibrated.  Rideau retrieved it from her pocket.  She barely had any
reception, but the text from her wife came through:
Are you all right over there?  News says the storm is really bad.

Rideau spoke into her phone, using speech-to-text.  “Yes, the storm’s bad, but I’m fine. 
Period.  Love you.  Period.”

At the door, a Japanese woman bowed expressionlessly to her, and
asked in broken Russian what seat she would like.  Rideau did a quick scan of the restaurant, taking stock of the many Japanese murals depicting waterfalls and flamingos.  The room was cast in soft lighting.  A small fountain was bubbling at the center of the main room, and light Japanese folk music was playing on unseen speakers.

She
spotted Dominika over by the large bay windows, seated at a booth and looking very engaged by something on her Droid phone.  Rideau pointed and said, “I’m with her.”  The greeter nodded and moved to greet a couple walking in behind her.

Rideau made her way over to the booth.  Dominika said nothing to her as she removed her coat and shook it once gently to remove some of the snow.  “
As per your request,” she said, sliding into the booth. “Here I am.  Looks like a nice place.  I like the décor.”

The woman across from her nodded almost imperceptibly, then tapped a button on her phone to switch it off, put it in her purse, and finally looked Rideau with those gray, unhumored eyes.
  “I took the liberty of ordering us some drinks.  Water and wine.”

“That’s fine.”

A waiter happened up at exactly that moment, balancing the drinks on his tray.  After passing them out, he produced a notepad and looked at them expectantly.  “Are you ladies ready to order, maybe some appetizers?” he said in fluent Russian.  “Or do you already know what you want?”

“Uh.”  Rideau looked at Dominika.  “Appetizers are fine
while I’m looking over the menu.  Do you recommend anything specific?”

“The soft shell crab,”
Dominika replied.  “It’s my favorite when I come here.  If you like salads, I’d go with the
wakame
.”

Rideau nodded
to the waiter.  “I’ll have that.”

“And I’ll have the crab
appetizer.”

“Thank you, ladies.  I’ll be right back.”

Once he was gone, Dominika lifted her wineglass and took a sip, and perused her menu.  Rideau opened hers and did the same.  “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show,” Dominika said.

She smirked. 
“It took me a moment to pry Tattar away from the scene.”

“Let me guess.  The media?”  Rideau nodded.  “
The lieutenant seems like a private man, but once the lights and cameras are on him, he does like to talk.”

“You’ve worked with him before?”

Dominika nodded.  “When I worked with Moscow Police.  I was lead inspector, and liaised with various agencies.  He used to be up in Saint Petersburg, but he transferred about the same time that I was recruited by FSB.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A little over a year ago.”

Rideau raised an eyebrow.  “You’re relatively new to
the bureau, then.”

“Yes.  I’m still getting my feet wet, as the expression goes.”  She took another sip of wine. 
They sat for a moment in silence, each gauging the other.  Dominika got a text message on her cell phone, and took a couple of minutes to have a back-and-forth with someone.  Rideau checked her own phone: still no reception.  Outside, the wind picked up suddenly, and snow and leaves smacked up against the large bay windows.  “Your plane barely got here before the storm.”

“I know.  There was talk of delay.”

“If that had happened, it’s likely I would’ve missed you.”

Rideau held on to her question while the waiter returned and handed out their appetizer plates.  He pulled his notepad back out and took their orders.  For Rideau, it was sea bass and scallops.  For Dominika, nothing but oysters.  After
collecting their menus with a smile, the waiter disappeared once more.  “So, do you want to tell me what this is about?”

Dominika had already lifted a morsel of crab to her mouth.  She used fork and knife, no chopsticks. 
The type to abandon tradition for expediency
, she thought.  “I told you I’ve been working for FSB for over a year now.”  She took a bite, chewed, swallowed.  “But before that, I worked very closely with the bureau, and was familiar enough that at first they wanted me as not only an agent but as a liaison between agencies—Moscow Police, Chelyabinsk Police, Yekaterinburg Police, Interpol, CIA, et cetera.”  Another bite.  “I had developed a reputation for keeping good communication between all of the domestic police departments and agencies, and so they wanted me to do so in a more official capacity.  This was around the time that Interpol had started promoting more cooperation between Russian agencies and the rest of the world, and I also had some experience liaising with Interpol.  So, they figured I was a natural pick.”  Another bite.

Rideau didn’t want to say much.  It was obvious the woman was getting around to a point, and she didn’t want to throw Dominika off her due track.  So, she got her chopsticks and started into her salad.  “Congratulations on all that,” she put in.

Dominika shook her head.  “It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.  For the most part, I was encouraged to dissuade Interpol from interfering, and, at times, I was ordered to tell certain police agencies here in Russia to hold off on collaborating with investigations between other agencies.  Moscow wasn’t to work too closely with Ufa Police, for instance, if certain investigations were given a new kind of security clearance, a level called ‘non-comply.’ ”

Rideau made a face. 
“What is that?”

“There’s no exact definition.  That is, there
is
one, but the definition is broad enough to include almost anything FSB doesn’t wish to share with various domestic police agencies, or foreign ones.”  She took a bite of crab, adding, “Or Interpol.”

Rideau rummaged around in her salad, then plucked out a
leaf and ate it.  She mulled over what Dominika was saying while chewing.  “I’ve never heard of non-comply.”

“Neither had I, until I got what I thought was a promotion.  As it turns out, I was put in place not to facilitate and ease communication between agencies, but to help sell them on all the reasons that non-comply was in their best interest whenever it was established on a case.  Basically, because I knew them all so well, FSB figured they could ‘sell’ these excuses to Moscow Police and the others if it was coming from me.”  She looked at Rideau.  “Effectively, I was hired to use my communication skills to
undermine
the work Interpol had done, at least when it came to certain investigations.”

That was a very direct way of putting
it, and a stark admission.  Rideau was fascinated by Dominika’s bluntness.  “Why would a case be given non-comply status?”

“As I said, the definition on non-comply is broad—like, eh, the various surveillance acts enacted in the U.K. this year, or the Patriot Act in the U.S.  It can be stamped on anything considered of significant national security.”

Rideau was starting to feel a little annoyed. 
Just when we thought we were making some headway over here
.  “So, no matter what we do at Interpol, no matter how much we bend over backwards, there are still some things that FSB and Moscow Police won’t budge on?  There’s still information that they won’t divulge, even if it helps other member nations of Interpol solve a crime that affects them all?”

“Yes.
  I’m sure you’re not surprised.  Somewhere in the back of your mind you had to know we’d always remain stubborn.”

“It’s not surprising, it’s just…”  Rideau sighed.

Dominika smiled and nodded.  “Frustrating?”

“Yes.”  She played with her salad for a moment.  Then, she looked the FSB woman over. 
“Why are you telling me this now?”

Dominika took a bite of crab, then a sip of wine, and looked out the window.  Her eyes raked the parking lot briefly.  Was she worried someone might be eavesdropping?  She
picked up her wineglass, and then sloshed it around, looking at the vortex at the center. 
She’s working up to something
.  Rideau remained quiet, letting Dominika decide.  “The crime scene you just left has been stamped as non-comply.  In fact, it was done even before you arrived, but you managed to get Tattar to take you to the scene before all involved knew.  By morning, Chelyabinsk Police won’t be allowed to speak to any other agencies in Russia about their findings, and when Interpol asks about it, the response they will get is, ‘What crime scene?’ ”

“But why would they do that?  That breaks down communication.  With someone like Yuri Shcherbakov, we
all
need to have our eyes peeled, and every agency needs a detailed account of what the bastard did.  He killed fellow law enforcement officials, don’t they care about the fraternity of fellow cops?”  Dominika looked at her blankly.  “This non-comply stands in the way of finding the Grey Wolf.  It’s the compiling of data that allows us to track people like him, profile him, and get a handle on his
modus operandi
.”

Dominika took another bite.  “Of course you’re right.  At least, that would be the way of it if anyone wanted him caught.”  She chewed, swallowed, took another bite.

Rideau’s food was frozen midway between plate and mouth.  She lowered her chopsticks.  “Why wouldn’t the FSB want him caught?” she asked.  “They’re the primary intelligence agency of this country.  It’s in their best interest to stop such a person.  It’s in the
public’s
best interest.”

“You know something about
Fenya
, yes?”

Rideau
searched her memory for a moment, then nodded.  “Yes, the thieves’ cant, the secret language the
vory v zakone
use amongst themselves to throw off surveillance and investigators.”

“Did you know that it is a constantly evolving language, that the jargon changes rapidly, and that the
vory
require all their members to become familiar with the cant, especially the upper echelons?”  Rideau nodded.  “And did you know that it changes so rapidly, and that the systems used to alter it are so intricate, that oftentimes our own cryptographers are unable to keep up?”  Rideau nodded.  She had heard this before, but unfortunately neither Moscow Police nor FSB would share much of their data with Interpol cryptographers, or, say, CIA crypto analysts.  “It’s considered the most ingenious and complex secret language ever conceived by any criminal syndicate.  No other comes close, not even that of Cosa Nostra.”

“What has this got to do with non-comply?  How does this play in with the FSB not wanting to bring in
Yuri Shcherbakov?”

Dominika sighed, and took another bite of her crab.  Then, she downed the last of her wine.  It appeared she needed all the courage she could get
to continue.  “The FSB have worked long and hard on decoding the methods behind
Fenya
, and now…now they have
two operatives
on the inside.  Deep, deep inside the operations of the
vory
, deep enough that they are directly involved with those who are regularly sought after to make changes to the cant language.  Now, getting these operatives this embedded has taken FSB
ten years
.  That’s ten years of working various angles and cons, developing fake IDs, passports, and intricate backgrounds for each of these operatives, so that no one would suspect anything.  Both operatives even served time in prison, over two years, making friends on the inside while forsaking their families on the outside, having their names ruined and dragged through the mud, just to make it appear as though they could have nothing to do with law enforcement.  Their covers are ironclad.”

The waiter came by, poured them some wine, and promised them that their main courses would be out soon before he vanished
once again.  Rideau never took her eyes off Dominika.

“It’s because of these operatives that we know exactly where Yuri Shcherbakov is staying while in town, and exactly who’s hired him.”

Rideau laid her chopsticks into her plate now, and leaned over.  “Dominika,” she whispered, “are you telling me that the FSB knows precisely where Shcherbakov is right now, and that they’re doing nothing about it?”