the courage to do it, and he knows that Mother and Father knew, in the recesses of their minds, even as they sent him off to Lefortovo, that he’d been brave and wise and just-
He opens his eyes, adjusts the volume control on the stereo so that Horowitz’s piano is very loud but not deafening. Then he walks into the bathroom.
Her naked body is in a ball, stuffed horizontally into the tub. He debates it for a second, then takes her ankles and moves her legs over the side of the tub. Now she is on her back, looking up with vacant eyes at the ceiling. Her nose is broken. So is her neck. Otherwise, she is beautiful.
Leo tugs on the chain saw, the violent buzz drowning out the music.
McCoy PREFACES HER COMMENTS. No one is sure about this. The government had its suspicions but never confirmed them.
“After the Soviet Union collapsed,” she explains, “we learned a lot of things about them. Some of it was ancient history. Some of it not so ancient. Koslenko’s name came up once during a debriefing. That’s all.”
McDermott nods along, impatient. “What did Leo Koslenko do from 1984 to 1986, Jane?”
McCoy clears her throat. “This isn’t my specialty, Mike. But you needed this on short notice, so I’ll try.” She takes a moment. “There is something known as the ‘Thirteenth Department.’ It was the part of the Soviet State Security Service-the KGB-devoted to what they called ‘executive action: We learned in 1993, from a former spy, that Leonid Koslenko may have been recruited from Lefortovo to be a part of the Thirteenth.”
McDermott stares at her for a long time without speaking.
“There is some suspicion,” she continues, “that this is why he only served two years in Lefortovo. It was not unheard of for the Soviets to recruit people from their asylums, or their prisons, for this executive action work.”
McDermott raises his eyebrows. “And executive action is?”
“Wet work. Abductions, beatings, torture,” McCoy says. “Maybe murder. Strong-arm stuff. Domestic, mostly. It wouldn’t be uncommon for them to use someone from an asylum with the requisite talents, then throw them back inside. If they try to talk about it, the simple explanation is that these people are ‘crazy.’ They’d be easily discredited. Who’s going to believe a loony tune?”
McDermott looks away, again trying to ignore the remark.
“Oh, shit.” McCoy covers her face. “Mike, I’m so sorry. I didn‘t-”
“Forget it.” He pushes himself out of his chair, shows McCoy his back.
“I’m such an idiot, Mike. How-how is Grace doing?”
He doesn’t answer. It’s not the time to think about his daughter. McCoy cusses herself out again, tries again for the apology, while McDermott works on the information. He thinks about what he found in Koslenko’s basement. The massive documentation about the Bentleys and Paul Riley and Terry Burgos, the photos of the prostitutes.
“You’re telling me,” he says slowly, “that Leo Koslenko was a Soviet operative?”
“I’m using past tense, Mike. There is no ‘Soviet’ anymore. And I’m saying maybe. Look”-she frames her hands-“we’re not talking about a guy who could assassinate a target from a hundred yards away. We’re not talking about a guy who could be trusted with state secrets. But a lot of what the KGB did wasn’t sophisticated at all. It was simply keeping the dissidents in line. Bring them in for some friendly, government-style torture. Shake them awake in the middle of the night and remind them that you know where they live.”
McDermott drops his head. “I’m talking about a guy who can get past a locked door. Who can come in and out without a trace. A guy who knows how to torture for information.”
She nods. “He’d be the perfect candidate. He had mental problems, so deniability would be easy. They’d just put an idea in his head, wind him up, and turn him loose.”
“This conversation never happened,” she reminds him. “No foolin’.”
Right. The government doesn’t want to admit it let a psychotic into the country. There can be no blowback, she’s saying. That’s why McCoy came herself to tell him, and why she needs the A-file back. Because no one was supposed to tell him any of this. It could mean her job, if it came out.
“So the Soviets taught this guy how to torture and kill and sent him here.”
“What I’m hearing,” she replies, “is that the Koslenko family had serious sway in the government. They got wind of what he was doing and got him out. They played it like he was a political dissident unfairly accused of a mental disorder to silence him. And like you already know, he had help on this side.”
“Great. That’s a real consolation.”
“Mike, none of this came out until the nineties, and, even then, it wasn’t something we could prove. And, look, from what we knew, this guy had been a good citizen while he was here.”
A good citizen. A good citizen, that is, until someone put an idea in his head, wound him up, and turned him loose.
43
McDERMOTT STANDS in the conference room, his head against the wall. “I’m thinking, that’s what I’m doing,” he says before Stoletti can ask.
“Professor Albany’s here, Mike. What did the fed tell you?”
McDermott gives Stoletti the
“A KGB henchman,” she says. “Holy Christ.”
McDermott pushes himself off the wall. “It explains his proficiency. We’re looking at a professionally trained paranoid schizophrenic.”
One of the detectives, Williams, pokes his head in. “Mike, Paul Riley’s on the phone.”
“Okay, tell him-”
“He says it’s urgent, Mike,” says Williams. “You should probably take it.”
“THE GUY IN THIS PHOTO is named Leo Koslenko.” Riley shows them the photo, points at the tough guy in the background. “He was an immigrant laborer for the Bentleys.”
McDermott isn’t sure how to play this. He’s off guard here, in every way. He didn’t sleep a wink last night and feels the effects, the fuzzy brain, dirty clothes, heavy eyes. Maybe he should feign surprise, but neither he nor Stoletti has the spirit for it.
Riley’s no dummy, anyway, reading their expressions. “You know this,” he says.
“Just found out. We raided his house a few hours ago.” He nods in acknowledgment at Riley. “He left his prints on Brandon’s door, like you said.”
