“He has no friends, no contacts,” Queenie said, trailing along. “They would go to her mother for help.”
“Didn’t you hear?” They stopped when Hannibal realized they were back at the hospital entrance. “Her mother’s been killed. Probably by Boris’s boys getting close to the trail.”
“Then there is no one left they can trust,” Queenie said, dropping her cigarette and grinding it into the sidewalk.
“Maybe for him,” Hannibal said. “There might be one person left she can rely on, and I’d better find him fast.” He turned toward the parking lot.
“Wait,” Queenie called. “What can I do?”
“You need to get up to that hospital room,” Hannibal said over his shoulder. “There’s a man up there who needs you.”
Hannibal imagined that on a Friday or Saturday night, with the acid jazz booming, the Russia House lounge would be a virtual clubhouse for Washington's Russian and Eastern European community. But on Sunday, just after the official opening at five pm, it was just a good place to sip vodka and soak up the atmosphere.
As soon as Hannibal walked in, the bartender pointed him to the far end of the bar. He slipped past the collection of patrons, most looking too grim to be having a good time, and slid onto the empty stool beside Yakov Sidorov.
Yakov raised his bushy eyebrows, but his surprise soon faded. He nodded and turned back to his drink. Hannibal signaled the bartender, careful not to smile any more than any of the other somber drinkers.
“Jewel of Russia,” he said, in a tone that said it was his usual brand. He faced forward while waiting for his drink. When it arrived, he sipped just a little of his vodka and nodded at the glass. Yakov slid a plate across the bar to the space just to the side of Hannibal’s glass. The platter held a pile of small dumplings. Hannibal nodded his thanks and picked one up. A bite told him they were stuffed with potatoes and onions and a meat that was not quite chicken. He looked at Yakov.
“Smoked duck,” Yakov said. “These are the best pierogi in the Western Hemisphere.” Then Yakov got one for himself and dipped it in the cream in a nearby bowl. Hannibal tried it and found the sauce quite spicy. This beat the hell out of bar peanuts.
“You’ve heard about Raisa,” he said when his mouth was empty. It was not a question. Yakov nodded.
“A tragic loss,” Hannibal said, “and I don’t even know if her daughter has been notified. Where is Viktoriya?”
“With Gartee Roberts,” Yakov said just before draining his glass.
“Where have they gone?”
Yakov shrugged his shoulders and picked up another pierogi.
“I thought if her mother didn’t answer the phone she might call on you.”
“I wish it were so,” Yakov said. He waited just long enough for the bartender to fill his glass before snatching it up and drinking down half the contents. “The girl is like a daughter to me. But she does not realize what she has gotten into by marrying this man.”
“You were against the marriage?”
Yakov nodded. “I tried several times to convince Raisa to forbid their union.”
Hannibal emptied his glass. He hadn’t noticed the slight sweetness in the Russian vodka before. Things are so often different the second time you consider them. Yakov was not part of Gana’s support system as the old photographs implied. Other connections now became possibilities. What if Gana wasn’t paying for the girl at all? What if Viktoriya was insurance against revenge from someone close? Or taking care of her could be payback for something else. When he turned to Yakov, Hannibal spoke very softly.
“You broke with Gartee Roberts because he is somehow connected to Nikita Petrova’s murder.”
“He and Boris Tolstaya,” Yakov said. His dour face looked close to tears. “I am the reason they all met. I introduced Boris to Nikita. It seemed natural since they both had health issues from the war. But yes, now I am sure that he and Roberts had something to do with Nikita’s death.”
When Hannibal turned to the bar, his glass was full again. He took another sip of vodka. “Raisa must have known. Why else would she accept payoff money from Roberts? Gana. Whatever.”
“Roberts?” Yakov stopped, his glass held halfway to his mouth. “No, Raisa would never have accepted money from him.”
“Sorry, Yakov, but your friend Nikita didn’t leave much behind when he died. How do you think Raisa has been taking care of herself?” The room noise was getting louder. To Hannibal it was more like white noise than usual because most of it was in a language he didn’t understand. Yakov Sidorov leaned close as if he feared someone might overhear them even in that noisy setting.
“Raisa Petrova was blackmailing Boris Tolstaya.” He shook his head with grim finality. “She found out somehow, and she knew that Boris was the evil one. When he left town right after Nikita’s death he took Roberts with him, but I don’t think he wanted to go.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said, turning his head to look very closely into Yakov’s reddened eyes. “He was evil, and you are the man who brought him in here and introduced him to Nikita in the first place.”
Yakov finally downed his drink, but Hannibal suspected that his body and mind were already numb. Maybe that was his objective. He stared at his glass.
“Boris Tolstaya was a powerful, dangerous man,” Yakov told his empty glass. “I invested with him and did very well. Then I gambled with him. I lost. A lot. This, you see, was his way to gain control of people. And this was the leverage he used to force me to bring him here, to introduce him and Renata to certain people who were influential in the local Russian community. People like Nikita Petrova.”
“Come on, Yakov,” Hannibal said, brushing Yakov’s shoulder with the back of his fingertips. “You knew Tolstaya was a snake, yet you introduced him to Nikita. I could understand steering strangers to him, but how could you do that to your good friend?
The room was filling up, and a few strangers stared at Hannibal after his outburst. Yakov lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “After Nikita betrayed me, it was easy.”
“Betrayed you?”
“With Anastasiya.” It was almost a whisper, which Yakov chased back down his throat with more vodka.
Hannibal returned his gaze to the bottles behind the bar to give Yakov some privacy, to let his grief and his guilt fight it out in peace. He had brought the Tolstayas into the picture, but he didn’t seem to have anything to do with Gartee Roberts. Tolstaya must have met the name-changing waiter in the club and seen something there he could use. Or maybe Roberts saw something he could use.
It appeared that Anastasiya’s suspicions were just her projecting her own weakness onto her husband. The more likely truth was that he tried to look after Nikita’s surviving wife and daughter out of guilt because, one way or another, introducing Tolstaya to Nikita had led to Nikita’s death. And now he had failed to protect poor Raisa. Now he, like Hannibal, was worried that Viktoriya would be lost as well, but where was she?
Beside him, Yakov Sidorov jumped as if he had received an electric shock. When he began fishing in his jacket pockets Hannibal realized he must have a cell phone set on vibrate. Yakov fished the phone out, glanced at the screen display, and then pressed it against his ear. He mumbled softly into it, but ended the conversation with, “Of course, child, as soon as possible.”
Hannibal could only imagine one person he might call “child” and faced Yakov with an expectant stare. The older man didn’t hesitate.
“It was Viktoriya. She needs help right away.”
“Is she OK?”
“For now, yes. But Dani Gana has been shot.”
24
Ten minutes later, Hannibal was merging onto Route 50 East. The good news was that once he crossed into Maryland he knew that even the higher speed limit, sixty-five miles per hour, was just a suggestion and the high
