“So you must be happy he’s out of the picture.”
“It makes certain things simpler; you are correct.”
Blake watched him for a minute. “I need to know how the hit was set up. I need to know so I can catch Wardell. We’re not interested in anything else right now.”
Korakovski’s stare flitted to Banner again. She returned it. He looked like he was going to ask her a question, but then changed his mind and turned back to Blake.
“If I were able to cooperate with you, to offer my advice on a purely hypothetical basis… perhaps you could do a favor in return for me.”
Banner breathed in through her nose, watching Blake carefully. This was the moment when the devil produced the expensive fountain pen and asked you to sign on the dotted line. She wondered how he’d handle it.
Blake shook his head slowly. Like Korakovski, not angry but amused. “The favor has already been done. Your debt to Yuri Leonov is wiped clean from today.”
For the first time, Korakovski showed some teeth, a wide grin that defied Blake to blame him for trying.
“Fair enough,” he said. “As you say, a fair return on a modest investment, in this case information that costs me nothing. And, of course, I’m always delighted to help the authorities.”
“Aren’t we all?” Blake asked.
Korakovski looked at Banner again. Sensing that now was the time to speak, she reiterated what Blake had said. “We’re not interested in anything else at the moment. In fact, we’re not even here at all.”
He nodded, seeming to find this acceptable.
“The man you mentioned, Mitchell, was, as you say, a potential thorn in my side. We’d been trying to… reach out to him for some time. To convince him of his mistake. Initially, it did not prove easy. We were told that this particular goal was impossible to satisfy.”
Banner was pleased to hear it; it showed witness protection did some things right. But she wondered what he meant by “initially.”
“And how did you change that situation?” Blake said.
“We didn’t. We were approached by a man who proved to be most helpful.”
“Paul Summers?” Blake suggested.
The prisoner transfer coordinator — the guy who’d shot himself. Or had he? Banner was beginning to question everything about this setup.
Korakovski shook his head. “No. We did speak to Mr. Summers later on, but this first man was someone else.”
“Did he have a name? Who was he working for?”
Korakovski spaced his hands apart. “Names and jobs do not interest me. The only thing that interests me is what someone can do for me. This man promised he could deliver something considerable.”
“Clarence Mitchell on a silver platter.”
Korakovski nodded. “We were furnished with all of the intelligence we needed. We were also assured that the path would be cleared for us. That was when we were put in touch with Mr. Summers.”
“And you paid him a hundred thousand dollars. Why did you do it so obviously? I mean, a wire transfer into his regular bank account? That can’t be how you generally do business.”
For the first time, Korakovski looked mildly irritated. It seemed you could impugn his character, but not his professionalism. “It is not how we do business. We did not pay Summers a hundred thousand. We did not pay him anything.”
Blake’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Summers was already fully cooperative. He needed no persuasion. We assumed he had been appropriately compensated, or persuaded, by the other party.”
“And you didn’t think that was strange?”
“Come now, Blake. Do you forget my background?”
Banner thought about that, sized him up. If Korakovski was in his late fifties and had arrived in America within the last two decades, that meant he reached adulthood well before the final decline of the Soviet Union.
Blake was nodding, interested. “Go on.”
“Citizens in my country were and are, even today, strongly discouraged from questioning the activities of the state. Sometimes the Kremlin and the KGB allowed certain activities to proceed that benefited their long-term interests. I was not interested in their motives then, and I’m not now.”
Banner couldn’t hold it in any longer. “The state? Surely you’re not suggesting—”
“I suggest nothing, Elaine. I’m speaking figuratively. I’m speaking about power. The state. The Kremlin. The US Government. The police. The media. The so-called Mob. All powerful forces — nothing more, nothing less. Occasionally their goals… converge.”
“Except this time they didn’t,” Blake said. “Not quite. Whoever greased the wheels for you wasn’t interested in a hit on Mitchell. Mitchell was just the carrot they dangled in front of you to get you to carry out the ambush.”
Korakovski just looked back at Blake. Not offering confirmation, but not looking as though this came as any kind of revelation to him.
“You don’t like being used.”
“I am a realist, Mr. Blake. We are all used by forces greater than ourselves from time to time.” He paused and pointed a finger at Blake’s chest. “Even you.”
Blake said nothing.
Korakovski continued. “I entered into a business arrangement, and I gained what I wanted out of it. However, the party with which I entered into this arrangement was not entirely candid with me, resulting in the loss of three valued members of my staff. While this was still a net gain, I would not be… displeased if problems were caused for the other party.” He drew himself back up in his chair and looked at both of them. “I hope this meeting has been useful to you.”
Blake said, “It has. One last thing.”
“Yes?”
“The first man, the one who approached you. Did you meet him in person?”
“On two occasions.”
Blake produced the picture card from the FBI identification he’d taken from the body at Hatcher’s house. He held it up for Korakovski to examine, covering the half that said FBI. The Russian stared at the picture for a moment and nodded.
Blake put the photograph back in his pocket and stood up. Banner followed suit. Korakovski stayed seated. As they turned to head for the door, he stopped them by speaking Blake’s name.
“Yes?” Blake said.
“Notwithstanding the arrangements you made with Leonov, I would be most interested in retaining your services. From time to time, I have need of certain talents that you seem to possess in abundance.”
Blake shook his head, almost amiably. “Sorry, Korakovski. No deal. I don’t work for bad guys.”
Korakovski seemed to think about it and then shrugged. No harm done. The rhino scowled and opened the door for the two of them.
“Then I apologize. I was misinformed,” Korakovski said in parting. “Perhaps I too have the wrong guy.”
59
Interstate truck stops: just about the only place you could reliably expect to find a pay phone these days. Wardell didn’t suppose it would be hard to get hold of a cell phone, but then he only needed to make the one call.
Unlike the one he’d used to call Nolan the other day, this pay phone didn’t have Internet access, but that was fine. He dialed the number from memory. It was answered on the second ring.
“Bellamy.”
“Is Mike Whitford there?”
“Who is this?”
“His great-aunt Petunia. Put Whitford on the line.”
Wardell heard a muttered asshole and the sound of the receiver being passed to someone at the next desk.
“Whitford.” The voice sounded anxious, on edge. Like he knew who’d be on the line and why he’d avoided calling Whitford direct.