Countdown in Cairo Page 6

  “The settlement has the same name?” she asked.

  “Well, the people are the spirit of the village, so why not?” he asked. He paused. “I’m thinking, assuming you can get free of your other work, maybe you could make a trip down there in the early spring. Or even February before it gets too hot.”

  “I might be able to do that,” she said. “All else being equal.”

  “God willing,” he said.

  She agreed.

  “I should mention,” she said, “one reason I’m in New York is to interview for a job here.”

  “You’re leaving Treasury?” he asked with surprise.

  “No, not at all,” Alex said. “FinCEN is initiating a new operation that will work out of New York. They offered me a potential promotion that would include a transfer here. I interview tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure they’ll invite you to work with them here,” he said.

  “And I’m sure they have fifty qualified candidates for every job that might be open,” Alex answered.

  Collins snorted slightly. “Of course. You and the forty-nine runners up.”

  “You’re too kind,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “and now I’ll be too kind again. My son asked me to continue to administer his apartment while he’s out of the country,” he said. “Chris will be gone for another four months, barring unseen circumstances. So if you’d be comfortable there in his apartment on 21st Street or need a place on short notice, the key is yours. Just say the word, even if it’s on an hour’s notice. Lady Dora will let you in and give you the key. Hotels are so darned impersonal, aren’t they? I believe you were comfortable down on 21st Street.”

  “Very much so and thank you,” Alex said. “And I was right, you are much too kind.”

  ELEVEN

  That evening Alex seated herself in Peacock Alley in the WaldorfAstoria. She selected a table for two that gave her a good view of the elegant lobby in front of her as well as the plush bar and restaurant that was to her back.

  She glanced to the entrance, looking for Federov. Behind her, the bar was busy with wealthy New Yorkers and tourists, largely foreign, meeting for a drink after business, as a prelude to the theater or dinner. A waiter called on her immediately, but she declined to order until the arrival of the gentleman—she used the term loosely—who was to join her. The waiter smiled, disappeared, and returned with a small dish of nuts and pretzels. Alex scanned the lobby again. No Federov. She brought out her cell phone and riffled through the day’s calls. She returned two, finished them, glanced at her watch, and saw that it was 6:32. She looked to the lobby again.

  She spotted Yuri Federov before he spotted her.

  Her first impression was that something had happened to him. His face looked haggard. He seemed years older than when she had seen him last. He walked without the same self-assurance that she had previously seen in Ukraine, Switzerland, Italy, and France. As he crossed the lobby, she saw that he still had a thuggish wise-guy charm about him, if there was such a thing. But he did look, she decided, worn and troubled.

  Then he spotted her. His expression changed and somewhere within him the sun seemed to emerge from clouds.

  He walked directly to her, smiling broadly. “Ah,” he said. “The most beautiful woman in the world.” He extended a hand and took hers. They exchanged a clasp.

  “Hello, Yuri,” she said.

  He drew her close to him and wrapped her in a quick hug, then released. She went with it.

  “What a pleasure this is,” he said affably, sliding his massive frame into the seat next to hers. For some reason, the image flashed before her of them together the previous February at the nightclub in Kiev, Yuri on his home turf in all his overly macho glory, she in a micro-mini dress prying him for information and getting increasingly soused as the evening went along. Well, all in an evening’s work.

  Federov turned and signaled to the waiter.

  “You have to try their specialty drink, ‘The Peacock,’ ” Federov said to Alex.

  “Named after the Shah of Iran?” she asked, making light of it. “He would have liked this place. He used to stay here, in fact, if I remember.”

  Federov laughed. “The place still stinks with Iranians,” he said. “They’re disgusting people.”

  “What’s the drink?” she asked. “The Peacock. What’s in it?”

  “It’s a vodka drink,” he said. “Cranberry-infused vodka and apricot brandy with a sour made from scratch. The vodka is Russian.”

  “Sounds lethal,” she said.

  “It is. Russians are lethal. You know that. That’s why I order it. I had three last night.”

  “Well, you’re still alive,” she said.

  “Ha! Just, hey.”

  The waiter arrived.

  “I’ll take your recommendation,” Alex said. “But I’m sure one will suffice for me,” she said.

  “Two Peacocks,” Federov said to the waiter. “Make mine a double.”

  The waiter nodded approvingly and departed.

  Federov turned to her and smiled. Now Alex got a good look, up close and personal, and he was indeed thinner than she remembered. She couldn’t yet tell whether it was a sign of good health, vigor, and exercise or something more ominous. She dug through the repository of facts on Federov that she kept in her head and tried to recall his age. Given a moment’s thought, she reckoned he was about forty-eight or forty-nine. Not a bad age for a man, depending.

  There was an awkward moment of silence between them. “So,” she said, quickly moving to fill it, “I thought I’d start with a basic question. Are you here in the United States legally?”

  He laughed.

  “Of course, I am,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to break any laws now that I have a clean slate.”

  “The tax thing,” she said. “That got cleared up, I hear. Completely?”

  Federov nodded. “Cleared up perfectly,” he said.

  “Try to keep current in the future,” she said.

  He made a dismissive gesture. “The future. What’s that?” he said. “I’m retired, enjoying the time I have left and the money I’ve stashed. I don’t make money anymore. I try only to keep track of what few millions I have. And you know I’m here legally. You’re the government and have all the computers and the records. You know I came in on a visa, and you even know where I’m staying without me telling you.”

  “Touché,” she said.

  “I hoped you’d get in contact but didn’t know if you would.”

  “Now you know,” she said.

  “Now I know, but I suspect this is business more than pleasure. Thank you, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be surveillance on me. I appreciate that.”

  “There isn’t, and it wasn’t my decision,” she said. “I’m not that powerful.”

  “You are very powerful,” he said, “like opium.”

  She tried to be angry but couldn’t help laughing. “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said.

  “Opium is not good stuff, huh?” he said. “It eats the brain and destroys it. I’ve tried it but don’t recommend.”

  “What do you recommend?” she asked, playing along.

  “Vodka,” he said. And as if on cue the waiter arrived with two drinks, served in the bar’s signature glasses, which were sculpted in the shape of a beautiful woman. The waiter set the single before Alex and the double before Federov. Federov produced a fifty-dollar bill as quickly as some men can snap their fingers. He handed it to the waiter and declined change.

  The waiter bowed most appreciatively.

  Federov lifted his glass to Alex and switched into Russian. “Za tvajó zdaróvye,” he said. To your health.

  “And to yours, Yuri,” she said, lifting her glass, clicking it to his, and reciprocating. “Za tvajó zdaróvye.”

  She sipped. Federov knocked back half of his drink in one long draw. Then he set down his glass, and his gaze landed hard on her
. He grinned.

  “So,” he said, launching one of the lightning non sequiturs that she had come to expect from him. “Why don’t you marry me?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Are you still singing that note?” she asked.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” he said. “I’ve met the perfect woman. So I pursue her as I can. What can I do for you while I’m in New York? May I buy you a yacht or just take you away with me on one for six months?”

  His flirtation was so outrageous that she refused to even take it seriously. “Don’t you ever give up?”

  “Obviously, no. Why should I?”

  “My answer will never change.”

  “Never say never,” he said. “Life changes.”

  “Do you know the old phrase about a snowball’s chance in hell?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered thoughtfully, “and since you like to speak of philosophy and sophisticated notions, it has occurred to me that a snowball might have some small chance in hell.”

  “The snowball’s got a hundred times better chance than you do of marrying me,” she said.

  “Thank you! Very encouraging.”

  “Encouraging?”

  “Yes. This is the first time that you’ve acknowledged that I might have some small chance. I’m heartened.”

  With an overly dramatic gesture, he took her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. These were the same hands that had pulled triggers on unarmed men and beaten several other men and women to within a few inches of their lives. Sometimes she wondered how she had the gumption to play along.

  Federov finished his drink.

  “A lot of women would marry me in a heartbeat,” he said.

  “I’m not a lot of women,” Alex answered.

  “No, but you’re the woman who charms me and excites me. Why don’t you think about it?”

  “Sure. And in the meantime, why don’t we change the subject?”

  “To what?”

  “Why are you in New York?” she asked.

  “Is that what you’re here to discover?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. It is. My superiors at the US Department of Treasury sent me here to find out.”

  “Ah.”

  “So why don’t you tell me and then business will be out of the way.”

  “I’m here to see some doctors,” Federov said. “Some specialists. I have a few health issues.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” she said.

  “American doctors are the best in the world, so I put my trust there.”

  “I’m sure the medical establishment will be flattered to learn that. Is that the only reason you’re here?”

  “If you’re asking me if I’m here to do business,” Federov said, “the answer is no. And why would I lie to you at this point? I’ve made my money; I don’t live in Ukraine or Russia anymore, so I tell you again: I take my winning chips, and I walk away from the table. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “And I have some friends here,” he announced easily. “So I socialize, have dinner and drinks, and mind my own business.”

  “How long are you here for?” she asked.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Alex LaDucova,” he laughed, finishing his drink and signaling to the waiter that he could use another. “I’m sure the record of my air travel has already been given to you. I’m here for ten days. And you knew that.”

  She smiled. “I didn’t say I didn’t know that.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “To see if you’d tell me the truth.”

  Federov raised his thick hand expressively. “Again, why would I not tell the truth at this point? You have all the power here, not me.”

  The waiter presented Federov with his second drink, also a double. Alex was working slowly on the first half of hers.

  “These ‘Peacock’ drinks,” Federov said. “They’re like a woman’s breast. One is not enough and three would be too much.”

  “You said you had three yesterday.”

  “Yes, I’m a pervert and it was too much. Tonight I am a gentleman because I am with a lady.”

  “Tell me about your friend.”

  “Ah, this friend I am seeing this evening,” Federov said next. “I’m glad you can come along. This is, ah, ‘good fortune’—you’re well educated; what is the ten-dollar word?”

  “ ‘Fortuitous’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there an ulterior motive?”

  “There might be,” he said.

  “Why don’t you tell me then, or is it one of those things I have to figure out?”

  “No,” he said. “His name is Paul Guarneri. He is a former business associate of mine in New York. We’re going to meet him at 7:00 p.m. in Little Italy.”

  “What sort of business?” Alex asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “You can ask him that yourself. I’ll tell you right now that Paul is from a ‘connected family’ in New York, but his businesses now are entirely legitimate. Like many people in his position, he has friends on both sides of the law.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “I mentioned you to him. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  “I don’t date wise guys, Yuri. You know that.”

  “His interest is elsewhere,” he said. “Come along. You won’t regret, hey.”

  She processed a lot of information quickly. Then she decided she would go along with it and file a complete report as soon as she returned to Washington. If Guarneri was connected, could an association of this sort hurt her? As an investigator, little tidbits that she picked up at such meetings could sometimes prove of immense value.

  “Okay. That’s fine,” she said. “I look forward to meeting your gangster pal.”

  He laughed again. She sipped more of her drink. The Peacock started to resemble rocket fuel, and she was on the runway. Then she realized he was looking at her very contemplatively, as if there were something else he wished to bring up.

  “What?” she asked.

  He reached directly to her. She held her position, not knowing where his hand was going. It went under her chin to the neckline of her blouse; she allowed it. He fingered the pendant that she wore, the one fashioned by a child for her in Venezuela. He looked at it thoughtfully.

  “You still wear this,” he noted.

  “I do.”

  “You used to wear a little gold cross. I had almost forgotten. That’s what you had when we first met.”

  She opened her mouth to remind him what had happened, but he continued the line of thought for her.

  “But you lost that little cross in Kiev,” he said. “The same day you lost the man you were in love with.”

  “That’s correct,” she said.

  “Life is strange,” he said.

  “It can be. Cruel too.”

  He gently pulled his hand away. In doing so, he eased away from the subject. “I’ve done many rotten things in my life, hurt people I should not have, things I regret,” he said. “Kiev. Moscow. New York.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I think I should clear my ledger, like I did with the tax people. What does your religion say about that?”

  “About what?”

  “Forgiveness. Asking for it.”

  “From another person or from God?”

  “Suppose it would be from you.”

  “If you did something heinous, and I know you have done many such things, I’d be more worried about God than me,” she said.

  “What if I cared more about you than God?”

  “Then I’d say you had your priorities wrong,” she said. “Where are you going with this?”

  He shrugged, retreating from the subject. “I’m just asking,” he said. There was a grave expression on his face, as if his mind had jumped to a place that was very painful.

  He glanced at his watch. “Let’s get a taxi,” he said. “We’re going way downtown. Traffic can be terrible.”

  “I’m
ready when you are,” Alex said.

  Federov found another fifty-dollar bill. He signaled to the waiter that they were leaving and left the fifty on the table. Alex had the impression that the waiter would be sorry to see Federov check out. They finished their drinks. When she stood, she was mildly buzzed. Crossing the lobby, Federov took her hand to guide her to the front entrance on Park Avenue. She made no motion to object, even when he gave it an extra squeeze.

  TWELVE

  Yuri Federov and Alex arrived by yellow cab in front of a restaurant named Il Vagabondo on Carmine Street in Little Italy and stepped out into a light, cold drizzle that had begun on the drive downtown. Manhattan in November; the weather was typical.

  If the New York restaurant critics gave an annual award for Most Sinister Atmosphere, Il Vagabondo might have been in strong contention. Three long black limousines sat outside the restaurant; once she and Yuri stepped inside, Alex saw an array of thick-browed guys at the bar, watching the entrance, watching everyone arrive. The congregation at the bar was solidly male; it looked like the waiting room in a urologist’s office.

  From the bar, the eyes of those assembled suspiciously jumped from her Russian escort, to Alex, then back to Federov again. She knew the routine: check out who is entering, check out the female companion, keep your eyes on the guy. Look for trouble and get a lid on it if you find it. Yuri’s appearance started a few conversations. She wondered how many other Feds were in the place this evening and further wondered if anyone had dropped a wire on it. Probably, she decided.

  The place was decorated in expensive Italian-American eclectic, a style that Robert used to refer to as “Early Al Capone.” There were murals of Sicily on the walls and replica Roman columns at the doorway that led to the dining room. The only things missing were Mount Vesuvius and a signed portrait of Sinatra. The Italian food, however, promised to be outstanding, judging from the atmosphere.