I was only half listening. Dinara’s shoulder had brushed against something that had been stuck to the inside of the door, and dislodged it. As it floated to the floor, I realized it was a Polaroid photograph. It landed face down, and when I picked it up and turned it over, I almost recoiled in shock.
The faded old image was of Ernie Fisher, Elizabeth Connor and Karl Parker as smiling teenagers, arms around each other’s shoulders, the familiar pose of close friends caught in a moment of pure joy.
Chapter 68
“I took that picture,” Agafiya said wistfully. “I didn’t know he had kept it.”
I studied the picture, my mind in freefall as I tried to come up with a logical explanation for its existence. Two things shocked me about the image. The first was the Spartak Moscow top sported by Karl Parker, and the second was the Russian imagery and signs that surrounded them.
“That was the bar where I met Ernst,” Agafiya continued, “where I used to work.”
She took the photograph from me and stroked Fisher’s likeness tenderly.
“I loved him very much,” she said. “I was younger then. Not too much older than him, but enough. He told me I was his first.”
Dinara had halted her search and looked at the photo in disbelief. “Ernest Fisher, Karl Parker and Elizabeth Conner knew each other,” she remarked in astonishment. “In Russia?”
“I didn’t know the others. Just Ernst,” Agafiya said. “He was a fine young man. It’s very sad what has happened to him.” Tears welled in her eyes.
“Where was this?” I asked.
“Volkovo, north of Rybinsk,” Agafiya replied.
“Do you know what they were doing there?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Ernst always said he could never talk about it. But he told me it was the biggest mistake of his life. Not then, but now. He said he regretted it every day.”
Dinara and I shared a knowing look. Her theory about guilt being behind his drinking was starting to sound plausible. It seemed clear Ernie Fisher had been living a lie.
“But back then he was full of himself. He would come to the bar often and try to win me with his words,” Agafiya said. “His friends only came once. When I took that picture. They were greedy for drink. Vodka. Like it was their last day alive.”
“Were they talking Russian?” I asked.
“I don’t remember about the other two, but Ernst definitely spoke to me in Russian,” she replied. “How else could he hope to win my heart? I didn’t learn English until I came to Moscow many years later.”
“Were you still...?” Dinara trailed off, but Agafiya got her meaning immediately.
“No, no,” she replied. “Our love is a memory. When he found me again, we were only friends. Not even that. I think he just wanted someone to listen to him while he drank. Or maybe he just wanted this basement.”
I looked at the photograph she held in her pale hand, and struggled to make sense of what she’d just told us. My friend, the man I’d crossed half the world to seek justice for, wasn’t the man I thought he was. The younger version of Karl Parker, who grinned up at me from the old picture, was a stranger who wasn’t supposed to exist. Karl Parker had been raised in Clarion, Iowa, and according to all the information Mo-bot had been able to find, he had never once been to Russia.
“You said Ernie Fisher spoke Russian to you in the past. What about now?” I asked.
“Of course,” Agafiya said. “What else would he speak? He was an office administrator for a trading company in Moscow.”
“Didn’t you read the article?” I asked.
She stared at me coldly. “Not beyond the headline announcing the death of my old friend,” she said bitterly.
“Ernie Fisher was the chief of staff for the US ambassador to Moscow,” I said.
“No,” Agafiya responded. “That’s not possible.”
She looked to Dinara for confirmation, and my colleague nodded emphatically.
“We’ve got to go to Volkovo,” I said to Dinara. “I need to find out what they were doing there. I have to know who Karl Parker really was.”
Chapter 69
Ghani took us back to Fisher’s apartment building where Leonid was waiting. I paid the Afghan cab driver a couple of hundred bucks for his help, and he went away smiling.
“Where to?” Leonid asked.
“Volkovo,” Dinara replied. “Yaroslavl Oblast.”
“Really?” the former cop replied uncertainly.
I nodded. “Karl Parker, Elizabeth Connor and Ernie Fisher were there as teenagers. We need to find out why.”
“OK,” Leonid said. “But it’s a long drive, especially in this weather.”
It wasn’t snowing, but the clouds were bruised and swollen and the air had sharp teeth.
“I’ll call Feo and let him know where he can collect his truck,” Dinara said.
“No,” Leonid responded. “We’ll take it. The heating in my uncle’s Lada still doesn’t work.”
Soon we were inside Feo’s truck with the heating on full as we sped through the city. While Leonid drove, I tried the Parker home in Long Island, but there was no answer. I dialed Justine and she responded almost immediately.
“Everything OK, Jack?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “How are things there?”
“The Otkrov story has broken and we’re catching some heat. Mainstream media is reporting the allegations, but some of the conspiracy bloggers are having a field day and digging through every high-profile case we’ve ever worked.”
“And our clients?” I asked.
“No one’s said anything,” Justine replied. “At least not yet.”
“No one will,” I remarked. “We’ll just get termination emails from their lawyers if things get too hot.”
“Speaking of heat, NYPD has been leaned on,” Justine revealed. “We’re not getting their cooperation anymore. Rick Tana, the detective in charge, says it’s come from City Hall, a precautionary measure in case Private really is in bed with the Ninety-nine.”
I sighed. “The Ninety-nine probably doesn’t even exist.”
“The lack of cooperation is making Sci and Mo’s lives more difficult, but they’re fighting on,” she said.
“I’ve got another battle for them. I need everything we can find on Karl Parker’s childhood,” I said. “And I want confirmation he never left America as a kid. Same goes for Ernie Fisher and Elizabeth Connor.”
“Why?” Justine asked.
“We’ve found a photograph that puts them in a small town a few hours north of Moscow. It suggests they knew each other as teenagers.”
“Photos can be faked,” she countered.
“This one feels genuine,” I replied. “And we have a witness.”
“People lie, and the best fakes always seem real,” Justine observed. “But I’ll ask Mo to look into it. Sci is in Washington checking the evidence from the Robert Carlyle crash.”
“Thanks,” I said. “One last thing. I just tried to call Victoria Parker, but there was no answer. Can you ask her to phone me as soon as possible?”
“Sure,” Justine replied. “What time is it there?”
“Ten,” I replied. “We’re heading out of the city to check out the place the photo was taken.”
“Be careful,” Justine cautioned, before hanging up.
“She doesn’t think the picture is genuine?” Dinara asked.
“She’s right,” I conceded. “It could be a fake.”
I took the photograph from my coat pocket. I’d put it inside a cellophane evidence bag to protect it. Everything about the old Polaroid seemed authentic, but Justine was right, it was not beyond the capabilities of a good forger.
“Of course, if it is real...” Dinara trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish her sentence.