The rectory obscured the school parking lot, but I could see traffic backed up at the intersection to the main road where I was parked. The van couldn’t have followed me if it wanted to. I had an advantage. I could escape.
Only after driving away in my mother’s Buick and seeing no van in the rearview mirror did I remember the white Honda parked a mile away from my mother’s condo in Rocky Hill. I realized there was no need for them to follow me closely. They knew exactly where I was going.
I powered through a yellow light and cursed the car’s lack of acceleration. I considered driving directly to New York City in my mother’s car. That would have allowed me to escape whatever Donnie Angel had planned for me at my mother’s condo. But then what? My mother would have been stuck at home with no car. She couldn’t have operated the Porsche’s manual transmission, and even if she could have driven it, the keys were in my pocket.
I took the exit for Rocky Hill and rounded the twenty-four-hour supermarket. But the white Honda was nowhere to be seen. My car was right where I’d left it across the street from my mother’s home. I circled around the block three times. Two men were fixing the roof. One of my mother’s neighbors was washing his SUV in his driveway. I tooted my horn and waved. He waved back.
That gave me all the confidence I needed to make the switch. I parked the Buick, got into my own car, and drove to the Super 8 to check out of the motel. Fifteen minutes later, I merged onto the Merritt Parkway, my preferred route to New York City. It snaked through western Connecticut via valleys, dips, and blind brows. Trucks were not allowed on the parkway, and in a worst-case situation, the van couldn’t have kept pace with my car.
After an hour of driving, I pulled into a rest stop to use the facilities. I bought a Diet Dr Pepper and a Three Musketeers bar, and only after medicating with some chocolate did the obvious occur to me.
My mother was not at risk. My brother was not at risk.
I was perfectly safe.
My mother’s final words were prophetic. Donnie Angel was a pathological liar. Don’t believe a word he says. Donnie Angel had implied he’d kill me and my family if I didn’t leave Hartford immediately, which was to say, if I didn’t stop asking questions. In fact, per my mother’s assertion, he was lying. He had no plans to kill any of us.
Another death or disappearance would be bad for business. Three more deaths would be infinitely worse. Donnie couldn’t afford any adverse attention from the police or the community. There was too much money at risk. The art and antiquities smuggling ring in which my godfather had participated was too profitable. The last thing Donnie wanted was more trouble. What Donnie needed more than anything was a return to normalcy. And if he wanted a return to normalcy, it meant I was no longer useful to him. He no longer needed me to ask the questions no one would answer for him.
The conclusion was as clear as the whipped nougat was delicious: Donnie Angel had found the money. Whether it was my godfather’s cash, or some art or antiquities that hadn’t been sold yet, I wasn’t sure. But in either case, I’d accomplished his mission, even though I hadn’t achieved my goal. I still didn’t know who’d killed my godfather or why.
I threw the wrapper in the garbage can in the parking lot and sipped my Diet Dr Pepper in my car. After liberating myself in Donnie Angel’s van, I thought I’d never act on emotion again. I assumed I’d crossed a threshold of cumulative adversity such that I’d remain calm and analytical under any circumstances. Now I knew that was wishful thinking. My wiring had not changed. I was no action hero. I didn’t relish conflict or confrontation, and the threat of violence still scared me. It always would. I was still the same person as I’d always been with one exception. I’d proven to myself that I could do the unimaginable if it was necessary to complete my mission.
Donnie Angel’s use of leverage was unoriginal and unsurprising. He’d threatened my family. The effectiveness of his threat was equally unsurprising. I cared so much about my mother and brother that I’d lost my composure, did exactly what he wanted me to do, and ran. In a way, that infuriated me. My relationships with both my mother and brother were frayed or broken. The more I tried to mend them, the worse they got. My mother had told me I was to blame for my husband’s death. My brother had asked me to do him a personal favor and fuck off. I wanted to care less about both of them. Yet no matter how hard I tried to detach myself from them, I couldn’t.
Time passed. Fifteen minutes, half an hour, and then a full hour. I listened to some classical music and sought inspiration as to what to do next. I used the facilities again. When I returned to the car, the logical course of action was obvious to me. A change of scenery would clear my mind and help me think more rationally. The smart move was to return to New York City.
I pulled out of my parking spot and headed toward the entrance ramp for the parkway headed south. When my cell phone rang, I considered ignoring it, but then a vision of Mrs. Smith having a car accident flashed before my eyes. It’s illegal in Connecticut to hold a cell phone and drive at the same time, and I hate steering a car with one hand, so I pulled over before getting on the ramp, and answered it.
It was Paul Obon, my booksmith friend and walking encyclopedia on all matters pertaining to Ukraine.
“It took awhile,” he said, “but I finally heard back from an old colleague in Crimea.”
“Crimea?” The events of the day had dulled my memory. I’d forgotten I’d asked him to make some inquiries regarding the company that had paid for my godfather’s tickets to Ukraine.
“The Black Sea Trading Company is an export company specializing in floating crafts.”
“Boats?” I said.
“Fishing vessels, commercial and recreation. It started as a state-run enterprise and was eventually bought by a man named Boris Takarov. He was a career foreign service officer for the Soviets. When basic industry was privatized in 1996, he had the necessary connections as an insider to get control of the business.”
“Foreign service officer. What does that mean?”
“Takarov was stationed in West Berlin from 1946 to 1950, and then spent twenty-one more years in Vienna, Amsterdam, and Rome.”
“He was a diplomat?”
Obon chuckled. “Yes, in the Russian sense. He was a spy. He was NKVD and KGB.”
“If he was NKVD from 1946 to 1950 and stationed in West Berlin…”
“He was one of the Soviet officers assigned to the administration of Displaced Persons camps.”
I made an obvious deduction from my mother’s insight. “He was SMERSH.”
“It’s impossible to know for certain, but yes, Takarov may have been SMERSH. The Russians began installing the infrastructure for their spy operations in Western Europe immediately after the war. And they did so with the full cooperation of their European and American allies, unwitting as it may have been. The Soviet officers assigned to the DP camps were hand-picked not only to help repatriate the refugees considered to be traitors and collaborators, but to burrow into the fabric of European society. Takarov may have been one of them.”
Whether he was SMERSH or not, Takarov had been stationed in the DP camps. That meant he might have known my godfather. That explained their connection, but not their personal history.
“Is the Black Sea Trading Company involved in any other exports?” I said.
“Such as?”
“Arts and antiquities.”
“Not on record. But a business like this…” Obon hesitated as though he were searching for the right words. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if the shipbuilding was now a front for other businesses as well.”