Dead and Gone

“So? Such people are no threat to us.”

“That’s right,” I told him truthfully. “But Dmitri’s a merchant. If he’ll sell to Nazis, he’ll sell to Arabs.”

“All Arabs are not our enemy. That is what you Americans believe, perhaps, but it is wrong. Only a tiny minority thwart the possibility of peace between us.”

“A tiny minority’s enough, today. Arab extremists in America aren’t any different from our home-grown Nazis. They both like to blow things up. The World Trade Center, Oklahoma City … what difference? You know how it works. They may hate each other, but when it comes to Jews, they’re all of one mind.”

“You are saying … what?”

“It’s what you said. Dmitri was in Spetsnaz, so he was military. Elite military. And there’s no doubt that tons of heavy weapons were left over when the U.S.S.R. came apart. It’s out there, and it’s for sale. Hell, I’ve even heard talk about plutonium.…”

I let my voice trail away, watching his eyes. He was good, but I caught the spark, used it to jump-start the rest of my pitch: “But what Dmitri’s outfit’s running here isn’t military supply,” I told him. “It’s just straight crime product: drugs, whores, gambling, loan-sharking, extortion. When I wanted to work that shipment of guns to the Albanians, I dealt with Dmitri personally, not his crew. The ordnance part is all his … his own separate piece. You understand what I’m saying?”

“That is why you wanted to know who Dmitri’s successor would be, yes?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“It would be nobody from Spetsnaz. He was a rogue even within his own unit, in Russia. Whoever replaces him will be a gangster, not a soldier.”

“Without access to the military stuff, then? Without the contacts?”

“Yes. Of course. Dmitri would never share such …”

As his voice faded, he finally found my good eye. And held it this time.

I shaved carefully—no picnic with my distorted depth perception. Spent some time looking at my face in the mirror. My new face. A nerve jumped in my right cheek, the bullet scar at the center of the tic. I pressed against the spot and the tic died.

The ambulette was a converted Chrysler minivan, painted a dull beige, with red crosses on both sides and the back. It cruised the Brooklyn block slowly, searching for an opening. Finding none, it double-parked right in front of Dmitri’s joint. The light-bar on its roof went into action, indicating pickup or delivery. The driver dismounted, came around to the curb side of the van, opened the sliding door. A hydraulic device noiselessly lowered a wheelchair to the street. Inside was a man wrapped against the fall cold in a heavy quilted robe. The driver became an attendant, wheeling the man onto the sidewalk. He returned to the van, pulled the sliding door closed. Then he pushed the wheelchair inside the restaurant.

A short, squat man with dense black hair covering the backs of his hands came from behind a small counter to the right. He stared expectantly, but said nothing.

The driver, who looked like Central Casting for Aryan—tall, well built, blond-and-blue—said, “Dmitri?”

“Over there,” the squat man said, pointing at a table to the left, where a thick-bodied man in a dark suit sat alone, his back to the wall.

The driver pushed the cripple over to Dmitri. The Russian didn’t offer his hand. Just watched, taking a long, deep drag of his cigarette. The red Dunhills package was on the table to his left.

The cripple waved his hand vaguely at the attendant, who immediately turned smartly and walked out of the restaurant. The attendant paused on the sidewalk for maybe five seconds. Then he re-entered the ambulette, climbing behind the wheel.

I was alone with Dmitri.

“So?” is all he said.

“You don’t recognize me, old friend?” I asked him.

“No. How would I—?”

“Listen to my voice, Dmitri. Listen close. You’ve heard it before. On the phone. In person. When we were packing that satchel together a few months ago. Remember?”

“You’re …”

“In my hand, under the tablecloth, there’s a .357 Magnum. Six heavy hollowpoints in the chamber. Listen. …”

The sound of the hammer clicking back was a thunderclap in the silence between us, as distinctive to Dmitri as a cancerous cell to an oncologist.

“We are not alone here,” he said, calmly.

“Every one of your men’s behind me. They couldn’t get between you and the bullets.”

“Perhaps not. But you would never—”

“I don’t care,” I said softly. Giving him time to read my face, see that I meant it.

He nodded slowly. “What do you want?”

“Good,” I said, acknowledging his understanding. “You thought I was dead, right?”

“Everybody thought you were dead,” he said, shrugging.

“Sure. There’s only two ways it could have gone down. Either you set me up, or someone set you up.”

“There is another way.”