from the gardens of Sans Souci in Potsdam.”
“Russia,” I reminded him. “What about Russia?”
Foley looked around the restaurant. If there were any KGB agents, I didn’t see them. Just the usual suspects-expense account lawyers, overweight accountants, and real estate developers entertaining members of the zoning appeals board. Foley seemed to be trying to figure out whether to say anything else. Finally he sighed and said, “The biggest enchilada of them all. With the market economy, some of the new Russian capitalists are petty thieves, and some not so petty, including a helluva lot of government officials. After the failed coup, then the fall of the Union, it got worse. Corrupt old bureaucrats were replaced by corrupt new bureaucrats who didn’t fear the KGB anymore, now that it’s been reorganized and renamed, and morale is worse than the Pentagon’s after ‘Nam. The new regime looks good on paper, but it’s no controls, no holds barred for the wiseguys.
“In the past, the Soviets had five main exports. Oil, weaponry, gold, platinum, and diamonds. Now, some smart Boris figures there’s hundreds of museums stuffed to the rafters with uncountable fortunes in artwork. The museums are run by low-level functionaries who can be bribed with a set of snow tires for their Lada. You wouldn’t believe what they’ve got-classical Russian stuff plus all the Western art that was accumulated before the Revolution and whatever they could steal during the war. Plus, of course, precious gems, sable pelts, church icons, and historic treasures. They’re being stolen and smuggled into the States and Japan. They slip past customs without paying duties, so the federal government has jurisdiction even if we didn’t want to do the Ruskies any favors.”
“But you do. Our government is doing what the Russian government can’t.”
“If word got out-the piracy of Russia’s precious art-it would be a major embarrassment to the reformers and the new republics. So as a favor from the highest level of our government, we’re tracing the goods back to their source. It’s not much different from what the DEA does with drugs from foreign countries. What you’ve done, Lassiter, is get in the way. You’ve stepped on some toes. Matsuo Yagamata has been under investigation for a long time. So has Severo Soto. They pose as respectable businessmen, but they’re both dirty and ruthless. If you have a problem with either of them, it could be serious, and we’re not in a position to protect you.”
I dipped a piece of crunchy bread in olive oil and took a bite of the veal. “Who killed Francisco Crespo?” I asked.
“Who do you think?”
“I don’t know, but whoever murdered the Russian murdered Crespo to cover it up.”
Foley shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Because Smorodinsky knew something. He was your informant, wasn’t he? A whadayacallit, a mole?”
“Lassiter, this is way out of your league. Go back to your torts and contracts, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. I knew I was lying, but did he?
“The rabbit,” he said.
Oh, I almost forgot. I reached into my pocket and drew out the pendant. It rolled around in my hand until Foley plucked it out. From his shirt pocket, he produced a small plastic bag with a Ziploc top. He dropped the bunny into the bag.
“Hey,” I said. “Just lookee, no keepee.” He ignored me and started to put the bag in his pocket. I reached across the table and caught him by the wrist. I have a good grip. There’s nothing more embarrassing than having a skinny wide receiver pull out of your grasp, so I always worked hard on forearms, hands, and wrist. And now I was squeezing Foley until his fingers unclenched. So I never saw his other hand slip cleanly inside his jacket and go beneath the table.
“A Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic is aimed directly at your balls,” he said quietly.
Various intimate portions of my anatomy tightened, shriveled, and tried to make themselves invisible. “The Model seventeen?”
“No, the Model nineteen Compact. Fits easier under the jacket.”
I nodded. “Watch that pressure on the trigger.” I let go of Foley’s wrist and sat back in my chair. “Perhaps I should donate this unique piece of jewelry to my government,” I said. “Do you think I’ll get a deduction for a charitable contribution?”
He scooped up the rabbit, replaced the gun, and stood. “Watch your ass, Lassiter, and stay out of my way. Your problems have nothing to do with me.”
He walked out of the restaurant, leaving me sitting there, wondering whether I should have the tiramisu for dessert.
14
I dialed a number on the cellular phone, and a gruff voice answered, “Alpha here, over.”
“Where are you, Alpha?”
“Identify yourself, over.”
“Hey, Charlie, we’re on the telephone here. This isn’t Operation Burma.”
“Security violation, over and out.” Click and dial tone.
Damn.
I dialed the same number. “Alpha here, over,” Charlie said again.
“Baker here, you cantankerous old goat.”
“Alpha traveling north on Ponce, subject vehicle turning east on the Trail.”
“Good job. I’m stuck in traffic on Salzedo. Stay with him.”
It’s not easy tailing a guy when you’re driving a Dodge pickup with slabs of Everglades mud protruding like frozen slush from the wheelwells. But Charlie Riggs was doing the best he could and having a blast. I had stayed behind at Domenico’s to have dessert, figuring Foley might have somebody watching me watching him. So Foley had a ten-minute head start by the time I reached my Olds 442, which was parked at a meter on Aragon. Now, headed north toward Tamiami Trail, I looked in the rearview mirror. Best I could tell, no one was following me while I followed Charlie while he followed Foley.
When the cellular phone rang, I pushed the right button and gave a friendly “Yeah.”
Silence.
Okay, okay. “Baker here,” I said.
“Alpha here. Subject headed north on Twelfth Avenue.”
Toward downtown. He could be returning to the federal building on Flagler Street. The CIA maintained a small office there. But it would be quicker to stay right on Tamiami Trail, then take the 1-95 flyover. Where was he going?
It had turned dark, and a breeze from the bay brought temperatures down to manageable levels and also blew some of the mosquitoes back toward the Glades. I had the top down on the convertible and listened to the sounds of salsa as I drove east along the Trail-Calle Ocho-in Little Havana. I passed city parks where old men hunched over their domino games sipping espresso. And I thought about Robert Foley and the little gold rabbit I had begun to think of as mine. What I didn’t stop to consider was exactly why I was doing this. To fulfill a promise to Emilia Crespo, or to mend a broken one. To prove something to myself, maybe. Just as I decided to ponder all of that, the phone bleeped again, and after the obligatory preliminaries, Charlie, a/k/a Alpha, told me Foley had turned his four-door Chrysler northwest onto South River Drive.
Then I knew. Atlantic Seaboard Warehouse.
“Charlie, peel off, old buddy. I got him covered.”
A tractor-trailer with a supermarket logo on the side was pulling out of the gate when I walked up. I had parked the car in an empty lot a block away. With any luck, it would be there when I got back, hubcaps and aerial still attached.
I was feeling good. I knew the territory from preparing Crespo’s case. There would be two security guards, one on the river side, the other on the loading dock facing the parking lot. They worked twelve-hour shifts four days a week, seven guards rotating so that the place was always protected. I had interviewed all of them.
The asphalt of the parking lot shimmered green under the mercury vapor lamps. Foley’s gray Chrysler was in
