Never Show Them Money

“Humour, drama, adventure, great characters and some real edge-of-the seat moments come together and make a brilliant read.”

Chapter 1

Keera Miles, assistant professor and closet psychic, suffered a lapse of concentration on her Chicago train ride home. An image of a white van appeared in her mind—and she ignored it. Big mistake. She kept gazing through the window at rooftops and wintry backyards, treating it like any normal day.
When she emerged from Sedgwick station and noticed the same van lurch forward from a parking space, she understood the earlier image. Had she held the thought longer and asked for clarification, she would have known the it was a warning—a clear signal to skip her usual station and alight at the next one. Too late now.
A second glance over her shoulder confirmed her fears. The damn thing wasn’t accelerating to drive past: it stayed behind her, matching her pace.
She was a ten-minute walk from her home, a 100-year-old terrace house with solid doors, reinforced windows, and enough security to withstand an angry mob for hours. But it might as well be ten miles away. The van people didn’t intend to let her get that far. That conviction was growing stronger by the second. Keera tried to get a sense of who the occupants were and what they wanted. But her growing unease and internal agitation now blocked her perceptions. She turned around. The van stopped. The driver watched her, not moving. Behind him, the interior in tinted darkness showed nothing. At least they now knew she knew. If that counted as a plus.
They would probably move on her as soon as she turned into an empty street. Best to be unpredictable. She quickened her steps, crossed the road, and ducked into Grinders. The cafe was empty except for two male students at one table, heads close together, fingers interlinked. Josh, the barista, was twenty years, with dark spiky hair and the soft eyes of a baby deer. He broke into a broad smile at the sight of her. “How ya doing? The usual?”
She glanced back at the front window — no van in sight. Okay, a vivid imagination wasn’t always a good thing. Hard information was better. So, Bardo, she said silently to her spirit guide, I need to know more. She held still for a second. Then another.
The answer burst upon her in a vision. The space before her split apart like a curtain unveiling a scene. A van’s interior, three men and a driver. All of them Russian. All armed. None friendly. Three of them preparing to slide the side door open and jump out. Josh placed his hands on the counter. “Are you okay?” Outside, the van slid into view and stopped. Dirty white, no signage, no side windows, a rear-wheel cover missing. It sat at the curb, engine idling. The driver watched her through the store’s glassed front, turned to somebody behind him out of sight, said something.
They were coming.
Keera withdrew her phone from her backpack, but she knew no possible help could arrive in time. She could plead with Josh to barricade the doors, front and rear; to call the cops and pray they arrived fast. He’d do it, of course he would. That would hold the Russians off for as long as it took to kick in a door and point a gun at his face. Then bruise and batter his face with knuckles and unforgiving gun barrels, just to remind him who was the real power.
There had to be an alternative.
She said, “Josh, I have to run. Can I leave my stuff with you?”
He shot out an eager hand, and she passed her pack over.
“If anyone comes in looking for me, tell them I’m in the bathroom, and I’ll be out in a minute.”
Josh cocked his head, but said nothing.
“I’ll explain later,” she added, and strode, as calmly as she could, to the rear.
A tall stack of empty milk crates sat beside the bathroom door. She dragged them further into the corridor to shield her from the view of anyone in the van. They might believe she had entered the bathroom, and wait precious minutes for her return. They might. They might also station a couple of guys at the back to box her in.
She kept moving, pushed open the rear doors to the courtyard, the metal tables unoccupied in the afternoon’s chill. A gate led into a lane lined with dumpsters and spilled trash.
She clanged it open.
Two men in front of her. Leaning against a dumpster, moving their hands behind their backs so she couldn’t see the beer cans.
She said, “Look, you didn’t see me, right?”
Neither man responded.
“You like beer? I leave a case for you with the guy inside tomorrow if you haven’t seen me.”
One man brightened. “A case?”
“A whole case.”
“Modelo?”
“Modelo.”
He wiped a sleeve across his nose. “We saw nothing.” “Deal.”
The man shuffled forward under the weight of his old army parka to shake his grimy hand with hers but Keera edged away. “I have to run. I mean it.”
He lifted his hand in acknowledgment.
“Damn these boots,” she muttered as she broke into a run. “Damn this coat.” She stopped at the corner, looked in every direction she could. No van. She turned away from the main street and ran again. This time, faster.
“Damn that money!” she cried aloud.

◆◆◆

When Zach’s phone buzzed, he found himself talking to Sidirov.
“A friend has arrived today, and you have to meet,” Sidirov said. “In person. Now.”
“This isn’t a good time. Some of us have to work for a living.” He had no deadline that day, no compelling stories to work on, but to assent to every suggestion from this the Russian Mafia mouthpiece without question was to invite later, more violent, discourtesies.
“It doesn’t work like that, Bones. We call, you make time.”
Interesting. He’d given up all pretense of being an independent reporter. Now he sounded like a mob messenger. “Normally, I’d agree with you. You’re important in my life.”
“Ha and ha.”
“I’m not joking. Right now, I’m involved in an urgent situation.”
“If you don’t meet us, your life will be so full of urgent situations you won’t have a career.”
The muscle talk was starting early. “Who do I get to meet?”
“This is not a conversation we can have over any phone. Are you at the Post now?”
“Sure am.”
“Go outside the building and wait.” Sidirov hung up. This is how it starts. They wouldn’t waltz into a room, say hi, how’s it going, and leave with the money. They’d be suspicious as a cat spotting a new puppy in the house. There would be a lot of questions, most of which he couldn’t answer. That would fire up more questions. They might get more forceful than he’d like. All he had was the money, but nothing beat holding a few million bucks when asking people to play nice.
A black BMW SUV drew up as Zach stepped out on the sidewalk. The blond driver emerged and came to him with an outstretched hand.
“Zach? Gennardy Sidirov.”
Zach recognized his voice and gripped his hand briefly, skipping the unpleasantries.
Sidirov opened the rear door and gestured to the seat alongside another passenger, who wore close-cropped hair, a leather jacket, and the tightly wound demeanor of one who smashed heads for a living.
A third man, tall and silent, sat next to Sidirov as they drove north for a few blocks before pulling up at a diner. Inside, a lone occupant stacked chairs. Sidirov pushed the door open and handed the stacker guy money.
Minutes later, the four of them sat in a booth with god-awful coffees in front of them, while the stacker stood outside smoking, waiting, turning his back on whippy gusts. The doors locked on the inside. The backseat guy next to Zach, cozy, like a best friend, but wedging him up against the wall.
“I’m Dmitri,” said the tall man who seated himself opposite Zach. He sported a military-style buzz cut across graying hair and wore a dark woolen overcoat that would have cost double the average weekly wage. Eyes dull as beach pebbles. He drew cigarettes from an inside pocket and shook the pack at Zach, who declined the offer.
“This money you mentioned to my colleague,” Dmitri said after lighting up. “How much is it?”
Good question. His first idea had been to declare the whole three million, and hand it over. But the more he thought about it, the more he remembered how paranoid these Russians were. No matter what amount he told them, they’d believe a higher one was more likely. They’d assume that he, like them, would try to bilk a partner in any transaction. Best if he started low, then “found” more money if necessary. “How much?” he said. “I have approximately one million American dollars for you.”
“And you have no need of this?”
“Not anymore. The money was useful as a bargaining tool. That moment has passed. It’s ready for a good home.”
“You have the kind heart of Boy Scout,” Dmitri said. “But how is it yours to give away?”
“It ended up in my hands,” Zach said. “I’d like to give it to you. No charge, no hidden fees, no ongoing relationship.”
“I hear you take from Vronsky’s bank. This is true?”
Of course, they would have questioned Yuri before this meeting. Their associate, currently enjoying pre-trial jail time in Phoenix, would have told them how Zach got the money. A secret organization was involved, he believed, and would have told them so. This wasn’t the time to explain that the bank details and password were handed to Keera by a dead man. They would punish him for being flippant.
“It’s not important how it arrived,” he said now. “All I care about is that it leaves my possession. I’m sure you’ll find a home for it.”
“Everything has rightful home.” Dmitri inhaled smoke, blew it out. “But how did it travel from Vronsky’s hands to yours? This is fascinating to us.”
Zach didn’t respond. Let them think what they want. They wouldn’t walk away from a million.
Dmitri nodded at the backseat guy, who slammed an elbow into Zach’s nose with the force of a steel door. “Jesus,” Zach groaned, holding his face, inspecting his fingers for blood and finding plenty of it.
“How?” Dmitri said. “Please answer.”
He was right. They smelled the money he hadn’t declared. He took a breath and began his marketing pack of lies.
“The account number and password were given to me.”
“Who gave this to you?” “Yuri must have told you I can’t reveal–”
Back-handed knuckles smashed his nose again. Zach waited thirty seconds for the pain to subside before answering.
“What good would a name do you?” he said, reaching for paper napkins and jamming shreds up his nose. “You could never verify it. Take the money and avoid any unwelcome attention in the future.”
“Yuri said you were government. I don’t believe this. Governments never give anything back to anybody. Especially to people like us.”
“I’m different, I’m more likable.” Zach tilted his head back to staunch the blood flow.
“That’s true. You steal money from Kazak bank and offer it to us. I dream of people like you.”
“Then take the fucking money and let’s part friends.” Dmitri laughed. “We’ll take money, don’t worry, and we’ll remain friends for long time. Just in case you have short memory, let me remind you what we have already done for you. After you called Gennardy and told him that Vronsky had sold our associate Yuri to the police, we acted. Vronsky was eliminated; your life and that of your girlfriend saved. We didn’t know about the money then; Yuri told us later. And, to our surprise, you made contact and offered it to us. This saved us the trouble finding you, and asking for proper payment.”
Dmitri sipped his coffee, grimaced, and said to Sidirov, “Don’t bring me here again.” He crushed his cigarette in the saucer and didn’t light another.
“We would have charged you for removing Vronsky,” he said to Zach, “but instead, you have suggested new way forward. I am glad to have met you.”
They wanted the rest of the money. Like he’d expected. But if he offered it too quickly, they’d up the ante. Stick to the story and see how it unfolded. “There’s no more,” Zach said. “Only the million and change, all yours. Tell me how you want it. And when.” “There is plenty more, my friend. If you can take that much from one account in one day, imagine what you can do if you put your mind to it. Millions every day.” The fucker was crazy, with no way to convince him of the fact. Zach tried a new approach. “I’m just a low-level guy. I have instructions to do one thing only, which is to give this money to you. Account closed. No more. I have no means to do what you want. It’s beyond my powers.” A cell beeped in Dmitri’s pocket. He pulled it out, flicked eyes left-right, left-right, smiled at the screen. “Here’s another thing beyond your powers,” he said. “Your girlfriend. We have your girlfriend.”
Jesus, no.
“It’s amazing how woman can help man concentrate on important things in life, yes?” Dmitri rummaged in a coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. Tossed it on the table. “This is bitcoin wallet number. The money there, by this time tomorrow. After that, we talk about weekly contribution.”
Dmitri rose, the others with him. They sidled out of the booth and sauntered to the front door. As Sidirov turned the key, Dmitri looked back at Zach.
“A million a week,” he said. “Easy for you, Mr. Special Agent.”
The three of them laughed as they opened the door to the shivering guy out front. He scrambled inside as they drove off.
Zach watched him approach the booth and asked, “How much they pay you to look the other way?”
The guy spread his palms. “They paid peanuts, but I had no option, man. You saw what they’re like. I’m just glad they didn’t ice anybody in here. You wanna use the bathroom to clean up?”
“It would start the healing process, yes. But first I have to make a call. Can you give me some privacy?” The guy moved back to the front of the room and pulled a beer from a fridge. Zach pulled out his cell and hit Keera’s number with erratic fingers, bracing himself for a Russian voice.

Chapter 2

Keera stopped running when she reached North Larrabee. Keera stopped running when she reached North Larrabee. By now, they—whoever they were—must have checked inside. Once they saw she was gone, the van would sweep the block in widening circles until they picked her up again. Or, if they already knew where she lived, they’d wait there. Of course they knew. They’d been waiting for her to walk home from the subway. Maybe another team was already outside her place. What she needed was a fast ride out of the neighborhood.
She turned south, away from home. The light traffic left her too exposed on the open boulevard. If the van came around the corner, they’d spot her from two hundred yards. She stopped and slipped into a furniture store doorway, peeking left and right for the van. And for a cab.
A cab appeared first, across the road, its roof light glowing. Keera launched herself from the doorway, sprinted across the median, arm raised. The cab slowed, then stopped.
“South,” she told the driver. “Details in a minute.”
The cabbie hit the meter, threw a U-turn at the next gap in traffic, and drove off. She picked up her phone, then realized everything would be overheard. No shield between her and the driver, and anything she said might alarm him. She slid the phone back into her pocket.
If she couldn’t go home, she couldn’t move in with Zach either. If these new Russians were connected to the previous ones, then they had all they needed to find both of them. Vronsky had seen both their IDs, and it was likely that Yuri had, too. That Yuri was in jail awaiting a murder trial didn’t stop him from communicating with these new guys. He wanted the three million Zach had pulled from Vronsky’s account; these new Russians had to be tied to him.
But Zach had willingly offered the money to them via a Russian reporter Sidirov, and he was waiting for a response. Now the answer had arrived, and it wasn’t the one he’d expected. What the hell was going on? One thing was obvious: they needed a safe haven until this was sorted. That left one option that wasn’t a hotel: her parents’ home—both away in Europe for a month. Her old room still set up for whenever she stayed over. The cook and the maid on leave while the house was empty. Only the gardener came by, and he stayed outside. She and Zach would have the whole place to themselves. A safe place to figure a way out of this new threat. That damn money.
With the immediate future becoming clearer, she relaxed and focused on more minor matters. She had plenty of clothes in the house, but Zach didn’t. “Nordstrom’s on West Grand,” she told the cabbie, and he nodded.
In menswear, her phone chirped. Zach.
“Are you okay?” His voice was raw, shaky. “They told me they have you.”
“They don’t. I saw them outside the café and ran before they could cover the back entrance. Found a cab.” She strained to catch his tone. “What about you?”
“I’m fine.” Relief poured down the line. “Sidirov took me to the boss. Dmitri. He didn’t want much—just a million a week. Forever.”
“What!”
A sales clerk scurried over. “Everything all right?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine.” She lowered her phone. “I was just surprised at the prices.” “
They’re very reasonable for the quality. We insist on high standards of manufacture.”
“That’s good to hear. I’ll continue browsing then.”
“Of course,” he said. “Let me know if you need help.” She watched him walk off, had to be rolling his eyes. Zach was saying, “They figured if I took money out of an account once, I could do it anytime, anywhere. For them.”
Keera sagged against a clothes rack. “How do we convince them otherwise?”
“Dunno, I don’t have a plan yet. I may never have a plan. Where are you now?”
“Nordstrom’s. I’m getting clothes for you.”
“It’s not my birthday, but thanks.”
“We have to stay at my parents’ place until this is over. They won’t know where it is. You’ll need more clothes; you can’t go back to your apartment. Or my place.”
She visualized him mulling this over, the thoughts clanking around, settling into place. “They’re gone for the next month, in Europe. The house is empty. I have the keys. The universe is making the decision for us.” “Where is it?”
“Lake Forest.”
“Of course.”
Zach knew better than to bring up her family wealth anymore, but sometimes, he couldn’t help himself. “Lake views?”
“No. It’s secluded, which is what we want. Don’t we?” “Will we have a live-in chef?”
“Stop it.” His distaste for privilege surfaced again. This wasn’t the time and place to have this discussion.
“Okay,” Zach said. “Let’s do this until we think of something better.” She gave him the address. “I’ll go straight there when I finish up here. When can you get away? And, more importantly, how will you get to Lake Forest without being seen? the Post must be under their surveillance.”
“Beats me. But I’ll give the matter my undivided attention.”
“You better. We need a secure base.” Keera closed the call and tried to visualize Zach sneaking out of the Post building. Nothing came to her. Wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
She looked around for men’s clothes and found Bardo inspecting a rack of dress shirts. Nice time to manifest, when all the action was over.
“Only the wealthy wore such colors in my time,” he offered as a greeting. “Of course, my position precluded me from acquiring such peacockery, but still, a monk could dream.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Keera said, not bothering to ask why he waited until the last minute to warn her. He’d have his reasons, like always, and they wouldn’t be made known to her.
She selected a handful of tees from a pile and placed them on top of a display rack. “Is it a good idea to move to Lake Forest? Will it be safe?”
“Nowhere is safe for long, but you can’t stay where you are.”
“Will we be able to evade these new Russians?” Please say yes.
“Much depends on your actions.”
Gee, thanks. She pulled two pairs of jeans from a pile, guessing Zach’s size, getting that she was right. “How long will this situation last? Will Zach need more than two pairs?”
Bardo smiled. “Two’s plenty; he’s not a fastidious dresser, as you know.”
I’m only telling you what you need to know, not everything you want to know, is what he meant. Spirit guides could be so obdurate like that. She moved to the underwear section; Bardo glided alongside.
She added underwear, socks, and, spying a rack of hoodies, added a couple of them to her purchases. “You know Zach was skeptical again, didn’t want to believe your message,” she said. “Why does he do this, after all we’ve been through? It’s so wearing.” “He’s obstinate by nature, contrary by design. The less you push him, the easier it is for him to accept your beliefs.”
“They’re more than beliefs,” she said. “He’s seen the concrete results of working with the other side.”
“He understands that he may need your abilities to achieve victory over dark forces. But he’s more comfortable with a more orthodox approach.”
The trouble was, this time, there was no orthodox approach. Zach couldn’t admit to the police that he had three million of dirty money without facing an immediate investigation likely to end badly for him. With no plausible way of explaining its existence, the authorities would assume it was the proceeds of crime. Which it was: Vronsky’s crimes. Dozens of kidnappings, including hers.
“It sounds like we don’t have the luxury of choice,” Keera said. “We can’t go to the authorities; you know that.”
Bardo floated over to a rack of raincoats.
“These people are asking the impossible,” she said, as she joined him.
“They often do that. They get surprisingly good results, too. It’s amazing what people will do when faced with stark choices.”
“That’s cheering.” She lifted the clothes she was taking to the cashier. “Is this all I need for now?”
“I’d add something for a rainy day,” Bardo said.

Chapter 3

When Yuri Buteyko called from his jail in Phoenix that Zachary Bones had taken money that he couldn’t keep, Dmitri Rudin surprised him: “We already know. The guy’s offered it to us.” “
What do you mean?”
“He knew we’d ask for a fee for eliminating Vronsky, so he’s made it sound like he’s generous and thoughtful.”
“How much has he offered?” “
He hinted at a million at least.”
“There has to be more.”
“That’s what we thought.”
Rudin posted the million-dollar bail for Yuri and flew him back to Brooklyn. The prosecution argued against any bail for a murder suspect, but the judge overruled them. Yuri had surrendered his passport, that’s all. Something he could replace at the Russian embassy in a day. Money talks freely in those circles. Judges, embassy staff: they all have financial issues that need fixing.
Rudin had decided to meet with Bones in Chicago and had brought his team with him, Yuri included.
“I want to see what he’s made of,” Rudin said. “I can spot a liar kilometers away. He may become more useful than he thinks.”
Rudin hadn’t said, but Yuri had discovered from the talk among the others that Rudin’s career was growing precarious in Brooklyn. His penchant for unnecessary violence had brought unwelcome interest from the cops, and several of his competitors had suggested a fresh start elsewhere would be beneficial to his future, and theirs.
Since Rudin’s main activity had moved from simple extortion to data theft, his base of operations was highly mobile. His data team sat in Moscow; his men on the ground in the USA sent back a list of likely targets. Rudin could monitor his operation from anywhere he liked.
Right now, he liked Chicago.
After a couple of weeks setting up a rental in Highland Park for a base, and sending watchers to scope the movements of both Bones and his girlfriend Keera Miles, Sidirov was sent to collect Bones to meet Rudin, where the reporter would learn the facts of life the Russian way.
When Rudin returned to the house and slammed the door, Yuri figured he hadn’t brought any good news. The morning had promised so much. A couple of watchers planted at the girl’s home, a van posted at the nearest Metro station. So simple to sweep the girl off the street and hold her while Bones completed the tasks Rudin set him.
Sidirov to bring Bones to Rudin where he’d be forced to agree to a simple suggestion: supply a steady cash stream or you never see your girl again. An unbeatable offer.
Now Rudin stalked in alone. No girl. No Sidirov. The guard Grigor, probably stationed outside.
“What happened?” Yuri asked.
“Shit happened,” Rudin said, peeling off his overcoat and throwing it on the leather couch. “Those fools, those duraki, couldn’t even grab the girlfriend. She got away.”
“And Bones?”
“He was resistant to our idea.”
“Even with your powers of persuasion?” Rudin grimaced. “Even Grigor’s elbow didn’t change his mind. He’s no pencil pusher.”
“I told you, he isn’t what he seems. He’s undercover for some organization.”
“You think that? Just because he tracked you down, and mentioned your Moscow address? Any data guy could do that.”
“He knew the name of my aunt!”
“And you thought that was proof? He stumbled on it during the search process, and he pretended to know more stuff than he handed out. Old trick—you fell for it.”
Yuri knew there was no convincing Rudin when he thought he was right. Most of the time it wasn’t a problem—Rudin was rarely wrong, rarely diverted from his quarry. But Yuri had experienced Bones in action and had gained a hearty respect for him. And his organization.
“How much do you think Vronsky lost?” Rudin asked. “You keep asking. He never said any number. Our team had already arranged five kidnappings so he would have taken away half a million each time after expenses at least. He was in the business a long time before I got involved, so he wasn’t broke. He went crazy when he saw it gone.”
“I bet. Bones offered a million. Take it or leave it. Shit, that only covers the bail I posted for you.” Rudin pulled a bottle of Russian Standard off a sideboard and filled a shot glass. Swallowed the vodka in one. “The girl is the key,” Yuri said. “Bones only ever wanted the girl’s safety; money never mentioned except when he stole it to force her release.”
“You might be right. I had a feeling he knew he was in more trouble than he expected when we mentioned his girlfriend. But now?” Rudin poured another vodka. “By now, he knows we tried but failed to grab her. That’ll cheer him up, make us look like a bunch of peasants from the steppes. He’ll be more willing to take us on. That’s all I need.”
“How did she get away?”
“She knew, for God’s sake. She spotted my guys right away. Ran into a coffee joint and straight out the back door. They never got the chance to put anyone around the perimeter.”
Sounded more like they were too slow. “I told you, she’s involved in a high-level surveillance operation. People are watching her all the time.”
“Watching? What for? We’ve been here for weeks. Nothing unusual happens. She goes to university, and then she comes home. Bones arrives later in the evening. They make a lovely couple, I’m sure. And they have my money.”
My money. In Rudin’s mind, every dollar he could grab was already his. Anyone who blocked his path was his enemy.
“Those who watch her would have noticed our people watching her also,” Yuri said. “Like last time, they may intervene. They must have warned her today.”
“But they didn’t interfere, did they? We’ll stay on the streets, and sooner or later she’ll surface. Then we take her.”
Rudin wasn’t giving up anytime soon. Ever since he’d discovered that Bones had stolen Vronsky’s money by mysteriously learning the password, he’d grasped that Bones could be a never-ending supply of cash. Yuri hadn’t even considered this. He’d hoped he’d share in a million or more, just the once. Rudin had opened his eyes to other possibilities. Which was why he was the boss.
Rudin’s deal gave Yuri twenty-five percent of the initial payment, then ten percent of any continuing payments. It sounded generous. But Rudin wasn’t someone who employed transparency in his accounts. He’d expect Yuri to take his word that his share was correct.
That would have to change.

◆◆◆

Zach cleaned his face in the diner’s restroom. The nose was bruised but unbroken, and with the blood removed, it didn’t look too weird. Swollen and yellowing, but still a working nose.
Bastards. No manners. You offer them a million bucks, and they hit you, twice, and don’t even offer a ride back to work. It could have been worse, much worse: they could have grabbed Keera like they said they had.  That would be game over before it started. Now, a new game, one where the rules remained unknown. He left the diner and hailed a cab.
“The Chicago Post,” he said to the wary cabbie scanning his face. “I fell over,” he added. “It hurts to talk.”
The cabbie took the hint and grunted a non-reply. Drove them away. He settled in the back and considered the Russian’s offer. What he couldn’t explain to them was that obtaining Vronsky’s, or anybody’s, password and account number was a one-time trick. Keera had retrieved the details from a dead man—after Yuri killed him.
Zach had emptied the account, and Keera had used the fact of the missing money to force Vronsky to free her. Vronsky was shot dead two days later, and the money had remained in Zach’s possession ever since. If he played along with this Rudin, he could supply a million a week for three weeks before the money ran out. After that, who would believe him when he said there was no more?
Somehow he had to convince them only a million was available. What a crazy situation—he held too much money, and it wasn’t nearly enough.
Back in the office, Howard Hossack, the newspaper’s living encyclopedia, sat at his desk next to Zach’s and contemplated his monitor.
“Howard,” Zach said. “I have a problem.”
“Always willing to oblige, dear boy, if it’s humanly possible.” Howard eyed Zach’s shop-soiled face without comment.
How much could he tell Howard without getting him involved, and uncomfortable about it? “I appear to have become unwittingly involved with some shady characters,” he said.
“How shady?”
“Russian Mafia shady.”
“Ah. Russian Organized Crime, you mean. They’re not so united as to be compared to the Italian Mafia.” Howard pushed away from his desk. “What do you wish to know?”
“I wish I’d never heard of them but…”
Howard waited like a priest in a confessional, calm and expectant, only missing folded hands to complete the picture.
Zach plunged ahead with the truth. “A bunch of them want money from me.” There, he’d said it.
“Your money or anybody’s money?” Howard unperturbed at the revelation.
“Not mine, but it’s not theirs either. I’ve come into it, and I’d like to hand it over to them for the sake of peace. But they want more; there is no more.” “
I see your dilemma.”
“This money came to me—”
Howard held up a hand. “We have no client-lawyer privilege. Best we deal in generalizations.”
“Okay. How do I get these vultures off my back? What’s their usual area of interest? Could I dig something up that would force them to accept my offer, and leave me alone?”
“Hmm. The ROC engages in frauds of all kinds, and credit card thefts. They contain many experienced coders in their ranks, a tribute to the Russian education system, I suppose. Does this help you?” “No.” “
They’re big on extortion.”
“I saw that for myself.” “Violence is their preferred method of communication.”
“I noticed that as well.” Zach touched his aching nose with butterfly fingers. “
There is no monolithic ROC,” Howard said. “They frequently splinter into small groups; loyalty is a foreign concept to them.”
“So, I’m dealing with a small group of violent criminals. That’s not as comforting as it sounds.” Howard turned back to his screen. “Do you have any names?”
“Gennardy Sidirov, a freelance journalist for Russian language newspapers.”
Howard typed the name into an email. “Any more?”
“I met this high-up guy. Name of Dmitri.” Howard examined the ceiling for a few seconds. “Just Dmitri?” “Yes.”
“You do realize this is one of the most popular first names in Russia?”
“I can’t help that. It’s all I was given.”
“They local Russians?”
“No, from New York.” Howard typed some more. “New York State is the home of the ROC. Also home to a thousand Dmitris. This may cost you more than you can afford.”
“You charging me now”
“Don’t be silly. This is way out of my area of expertise. I know this guy who can discover anything you want. But he has to eat. Do you have a budget for this?” Zach pictured the three million in his Cayman account and said yes.
“This Dmitri,” Howard said. “Is he in Chicago right now?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“That makes it easier. If he flew, he’s on a server somewhere. If he drove, he was photographed on the way. His image exists. My friend will find him.”
“Your guy has access to all this?”
“He was linked with the NSA, now in business for himself. I have to assume, given the results delivered in the past, that he’s kept in touch with his government contacts.”
“How come you know him?”
“School chum.” Why bother asking? Howard and his old-boy network probably ran the Illuminati by now.
“Look,” Howard said. “If your Dmitri is involved in the ROC then he’s under surveillance. The FBI will be watching and noting the people he meets, building up a body of evidence so that they can one day nail him, and everybody he’s dealt with. If you dig up stuff we can publish, even better. Long term, you’ll be free of him.”
Long term wasn’t good. He needed a faster solution. Also, if the FBI were already watching Dmitri, then they witnessed today’s meet. His name might be noted; he might be picked up for associating with Dmitri. That wouldn’t be wonderful either. Freedom of the press goes only so far with the FBI.
“Howard,” he said. “You’re right, but I need something more immediate.” He swiveled back to his desk. The first thing was to avoid meeting with Dmitri ever again. Keep his negotiating at arm’s length—especially that goon’s arm.
Five minutes later, after Zach had reflected on the morning’s events, and his anger had grown to a hot hard knot, he called Sidirov, who took his time answering.
“Yeah?” he said eventually. Ever the polite son his mother had hoped for.
“I didn’t appreciate what happened today,” Zach said. “Trying to scare me with an attempt to grab my girlfriend.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sidirov was telling him phones weren’t to be trusted.
“Your guy said he had her, but he didn’t. His credibility is fucked. You understand?”
Sidirov didn’t reply, didn’t have to. The van guys must have assumed Keera was still in the cafe when they texted Dmitri. Their overconfidence had destroyed Dmitri’s smooth command of the meet. Hopefully, Dmitri’s guard was now playing elbow music on the van guys’ noses.
This was a straightforward transaction,” Zach said. “Then all this bullshit starts. And what gives with smacking me? You think I’m a street urchin that needs to keep in line.” Fucking humiliating, that.
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Sidirov said. “We’ll meet tomorrow, and you can get everything off your chest. How’s that?”
“I gotta say that if you guys want to play it like this, I’m going to get totally uninterested in further dealings. Got it?”
Sidirov switched off rather than listen to more, but the message was delivered. That he would withdraw his offer if they continued down the violent route. And that Dmitri and his gang were clowns. Not to be trusted. Made him feel a lot better. Until he realized that Dmitri’s goons had to be watching the Post building.
With Keera escaping them, they’d be doubly sure not to lose track of him. Especially after Sidirov passed on the latest conversation.
“Howard,” he said. “I assume there’s a back way out of here.”
“Your life is so interesting,” he said, not taking his eyes off his screen, “that I’m glad it’s not mine. Take the service elevator to the basement. See if you can hitch a ride out with a delivery truck.” He stopping typing, reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a Red Sox cap. “You might want this.”
“Red Sox? Red Sox? Do you know what city you live in? I’ll give you a clue: it’s not Boston.”
“Old loyalties die hard; I grew up there. I want it back, too.”
Zach jammed the cap on his head and caught the service elevator. He shared it with a guy leaning on an empty two-wheeled trolley. “You been delivering stationery supplies?” he asked.
“Coffee pods. For those espresso machines.”
“You ever drunk one of those?”
“Nope.”
“Keep it that way. Listen, I need to get out of this place without being seen. Can I ride in your truck for a couple of blocks?”
“You kidding?” The guy examined him more carefully. Like bad intentions might be visible if he looked hard enough.
“I’ll give you a twenty, just a ride down the street.”
The guy wasn’t convinced. “You one of those undercover company guys making sure I don’t use my delivery van for private purposes?”
“No way. There are people outside looking to, um, you know, mess with me.”
“Whatcha doing in this building?”
“I’m a journalist. On the Post.”
“You gonna do a story about me using the company van for private reasons?”
So suspicious. Whatever happened to goodwill between all men? “I wouldn’t be this obvious.”
“Why you hiding from these guys?”
“It’s a loan shark thing. I’m late with payments.”
The guy grinned unexpectedly. “Been there myself. They don’t mess about, do they?”
The elevator doors rumbled open. “This way, pal.” The loading dock contained another van delivering office supplies, and one larger truck where two guys wrestled office furniture down a ramp. Coffee Guy threw the hand trolley in the back of his van and climbed in the front, Zach joining him on the other side.
Coffee Guy started the motor and said, “If anybody’s in the access lane, they’ll be sitting in a ten-minute zone to the right. We’ll be going past them. Slide down out of sight. If they saw me come in—and I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings, you understand—then they might remember that I drove in alone.”
Zach pushed his seat back and dropped into the footwell. Wished he was smaller. The Coffee Guy didn’t wait for him to get comfortable, drove out of the yard and turned right.
“There’s a van,” he said. “One driver, one passenger. Not doing nothin’. Standing out like shirkers on a construction site.”
He didn’t slow until he reached the main street. “They’re not moving,” he said, checking the mirror. Took a right and merged with the traffic. He stopped a few blocks down the street, accepted the twenty, and waited for Zach to climb out.
“I woulda agreed faster,” he said, “hadda been a Cubs cap on your head.”

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