a child of perhaps fourteen. “Your childhood sweetheart. Touching. And you come to the U.S. to help launch a crime family and learn that her father is in fact a godfather.”
Ivanovich turned, spilling his drink as he moved closer to stare into Hannibal’s eyes. “You asked a question. I open my heart and you greet this with sarcasm?”
Hannibal stared back, leaning even closer. “Save that shit for somebody who’s scared of you. Which maybe isn’t as many people as I thought. I know you’re here because you’re hiding out from the mob, and now I know why. Daddy wouldn’t let you have his little girl, so you got him out of the way.”
Ivanovich’s eyes blazed and for a moment Hannibal thought he would get a chance to kick this arrogant Russian’s ass. Instead, Ivanovich looked down at the bottle and refilled his glass.
“Nikita Petrova was a great man,” he said in a low voice. “He was my mentor when I arrived here and explained to me that I did not need to live in thrall to the colonel. I could be my own man and do my work for anyone in the mob. I did not kill him.”
“Well, your fellow mobsters sure think you did.”
Ivanovich strode to the window again, staring out at the darkness. “Nikita Petrova killed himself. He stepped off the roof of an apartment building he had bought over in Virginia as an investment for Raisa. Ask the police if you don’t believe me.”
“From what I’ve heard, he was respected by the underground. He was wealthy and had a great family. Now why on earth would he commit suicide?”
Just as Ivanovich turned to return to the desk, Hannibal noticed the pistol. In the second it took him to fully realize its significance Ivanovich was back beside it. “Not everyone knew his pain.”
“Pain?”
“Nikita was in constant pain,” Invanovich said, leaning against the wall behind the desk. “Shrapnel had sliced into him in Afghanistan. Doctors said that he would not survive an attempt to remove it. He had a terrible limp from it. It must have become too much for him.”
Hannibal stood at the front of the desk and casually leaned his hand on it. “But the entire Russian mob thinks you did him, as you have so many men who were in somebody else’s way. Because he was so popular, I guess you aren’t so popular. You’ll never get her back, you know. So why am I working so hard to dig up dirt on this Dani Gana guy?”
“It is as Trent Reznor says. Sometimes, just as nothing seems worth saving.” Then Ivanovich focused his eyes on Hannibal’s again. “I can’t watch her slip away.”
“So, what if Gana really is bad for her, which I doubt,” Hannibal said. “After all, he’s rich, handsome, smooth, apparently legitimate, and, by the way, he sure looks like he loves her.” He wondered if Ivanovich was drunk enough, and emotional enough, to get careless.
“You are wrong.” Ivanovich crossed his arms, his jaw jutting out. It was less the picture of a deadly killer and more a study in stubbornness.
“What if I am?” Hannibal asked, wrapping his right hand around the bottle. “She’s a farmer’s daughter turned Washington socialite. She’s got nothing to do with the way her father made his fortune here. Do you really think she’d give the time of day to a hired killer like you?” With the location of the pistol locked in his mind, he watched Ivanovich’s eyes.
“You can say this? You?” Ivanovich emptied his glass again and crossed his arms. “We are the same, you and I. Don’t you realize that?”
“I don’t go around killing innocent people,” Hannibal said, lifting the bottle to refill his glass.
“Nor do I,” Ivanovich said, his words carrying a slight slur. “I remove only those who are already preying on the innocent. Most people, they are like sheep. You know this. The people I work for are wolves, preying on those sheep. The people who hire me send me to cull the herd of the wolves that can’t follow the rules of the pack leaders.”
“Right. You’re trying to tell me that you’re just there to maintain order.”
“Yes,” Ivanovich said with a grim smile, pointing at Hannibal. “Just like you. That is why I came to you for help. Because we are alike.”
“Don’t you dare compare yourself to me,” Hannibal said. “I am not like you.”
“You don’t see yourself as a wolf?” Ivanovich crossed his arms again, leaning back against the wall, his eyes again hooded, his mouth set in a derisive smirk. “Are you then one of the sheep?”
“Nope. I’m one of the sheepdogs. I keep the wolves at bay. And you…” In midsentence, Hannibal’s left hand released his glass and darted toward the spot on the desk where the silenced automatic lay.
But it was already gone.
Hannibal leaned on his hand in an awkward position, frozen, staring at the muzzle of the silencer aim at the spot between his eyes. A few tense seconds passed in silence.
“And I?” Ivanovich said, his words no longer slurred. “I am a little faster than you. A little faster, and a little smarter than you think I am.”
Hannibal righted himself, backing off two steps. His eyes never wavered from Ivanovich’s eyes. The odor of spilled alcohol was sharp in his nose, and he thought he could feel more alcohol popping out of the pores of his forehead, but he would not let his voice waver.
“I had to try.”
“Of course,” Ivanovich said, smiling. “I would have. In a way, I would have been disappointed if you didn’t try. But now, how can I trust you? And if all you say is true, then maybe my efforts here have no purpose. In which case, you no longer serve any purpose for me.”
Hannibal clenched his teeth, prepared to pay the price for his gamble. Watching Ivanovich’s finger tighten on the trigger, Hannibal regretted that there was no one else to protect Cindy.
11
The knock at the door made Hannibal’s breath catch in his throat. Ray’s voice tripled his pulse rate.
“Hey, Hannibal. You in there, Paco?”
Ivanovich moved the pistol’s barrel two degrees to the left. Now the bullet would brush past Hannibal and poke a tiny hole in the office door and Ray Santiago’s chest. A quick follow-up shot could still take Hannibal down before he had time to move. He couldn’t stop the Russian from killing them both, but he had to try. Ray didn’t deserve to die. He was an innocent in this case.
“One of the sheep,” Hannibal said under his breath. Ivanovich heard and shifted his focus from the wooden door back to Hannibal’s face.
“Come on, man,” Ray said. “I wanted to let you know. That guy you’re investigating? He ain’t for real.”
Ivanovich looked at Hannibal with an open-mouthed half smile. Hannibal interpreted the expression as a look of relief. Relief to hear he might be proven right, and maybe relief at having a good reason not to kill Ray. Keeping his gun on Hannibal, he went to the next room and pulled the pocket doors together, leaving just enough of a gap to see through. Or shoot through.
Hannibal released his breath, feeling some relief himself. He knew that Ivanovich shared his curiosity and would not kill anyone now. He wanted to know what Ray had to say. Hannibal unlocked the door and Ray started in past him, but stopped as he recognized the look on Hannibal’s face.
“Hey, Paco.” Ray grasped Hannibal’s shoulders. “You’re not looking too good. And whew, what is that? You been in there drinking alone all night?”
“Not yet,” Hannibal said. “And the smell is so strong because I dropped a glass and spilled a while ago. But never mind that. What did you mean about Dani Gana not being for real?”
“He ain’t,” Ray said. He brushed past Hannibal to drop heavily into the chair Hannibal had vacated a few seconds earlier. “You remember you said he needed a driver for a couple days? Well, I called him and set it up. Thanks, by the way, for the lead. Bachir says he’s one hell of a tipper.”
“Bachir?” Hannibal asked, still standing in the doorway.
“Yeah. He’s Algerian. I figured your man would like having a driver from the same country, you know?”
“Makes sense.”
