“Gana’s a dead end. As a matter of fact, so is Gartee Roberts. Thank goodness you tracked the boy back to Hamed Barek. That appears to be a real person. And you’re not going to believe who he really is.”
29
Hannibal pulled up in front of his building long enough for Ivanovich to run out and hop into the passenger seat. As they pulled away, Ivanovich again straightened his suit coat. A bad habit, Hannibal thought, for a man who is always concealing a firearm. Others will know that he is armed.
“Note this gesture of trust,” Ivanovich said. “You call. I come, with no idea of where we may be going.”
“I’m taking you to Viktoriya,” Hannibal said, never taking his eyes off the traffic. “You can stay there until I straighten this whole thing out.”
“Thank you,” Ivanovich said. Then, after a beat, “Why?”
Hannibal smiled, and turned up the stereo. Steely Dan boomed out, Donald Fagan calling their attention to the glory of the royal scam. “Don’t worry, you’ll be chaperoned. But I think her late husband’s enemies may be even bigger and more varied than I thought before, and I want her protected right while I’m out tying off the loose ends.”
“You have news?” Ivanovich asked, taking out a handkerchief and laying it on his lap.
“Well, I found out this morning that Dani Gana, AKA Gartee Roberts, was in the country illegally.”
“INS is no trouble,” Ivanovich said, drawing his weapon. “They rarely find anyone unless there is heavy political pressure.”
“I also now know that Hamed Barek is his real name. And Rissik just called to tell me that Barek is a Moroccan ambassador.”
“I see.” Ivanovich watched the road while he disassembled the pistol in his lap. “Possible international intrigue in relation to the mob money. Yes, there may be more professional people involved.”
Hannibal rolled up onto the beltway pointed north as he went through it all. “So this Barek, a diplomat from Morocco, steals money from the Russian mob. He vanishes, by which we can assume he goes home with his fortune, which can neither be traced nor claimed by the previous owners. But then he returns to the U.S. Why?”
“Is it not obvious?” Ivanovich asked, pushing the slide back onto his gun’s receiver. “He came back for her. She shines in a world full of ugliness.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Hannibal said. But as he pulled into New York Avenue, he wondered if Ivanovich might be right. After their first meeting Hannibal suspected Dani Gana of planning to con a helpless young girl out of her virtue and her father’s fortune. Could Gana have been, in reality, no more than a lovesick hustler risking it all for the woman he fell for in college?
Hannibal pulled off of I-495 and into Capital Heights, just outside of the District, as Steely Dan declared that they had found their home at last. He didn’t think so. Technically, they were in Maryland but as is so often the case, there was no clear line between the little town and Washington. Watching his mirrors closely he pulled into the parking lot of a pink, two-story building with a Motel 6 sign over the entrance. Ivanovich got out of the car at the same second he did. Both men scanned the area carefully, verifying that they had not been followed.
“You brought my Viktoriya here?”
“Inconspicuous, out of the way, and the last place anyone would expect to find her,” Hannibal said, deciding to let the “my Viktoriya” pass for the moment. He led the way up the exposed stairs to the landing surrounding the building. They walked around to the back of the building. Hannibal knocked on a door and called out his own first name. He heard two locks turned and the door opened a crack with the security bar still in place.
“Yakov, if it wasn’t me, that security device wouldn’t stop anyone from shooting you,” Hannibal said. “Just let us in, all right?”
To call the room modest would have been a kindness. The carpet was new but cheap, the wallpaper was intact but dull, and the curtains were sun-faded. But the room was clean and the flowered bedspreads lent a bit of brightness.
Viktoriya lay on the second of the two full beds. Her hair was splayed out like a black silk fan across the pillow as she dozed. She lay atop the covers in a white peasant dress that was definitely not what Hannibal had seen her in before.
“Tell me you didn’t let her go shopping.”
“I went out long enough to buy her some clothes and other necessities,” Sidorov said. “I was careful.”
“I hope so,” Hannibal said. “The people looking for her now could be very, very good.”
Sidorov snorted. “I grew up in the shadow of the KGB. I know how to be careful.”
“Who knows you are here?” Ivanovich asked, watching Viktoriya’s chest rise and fall.
“No one,” Sidorov said, waving at Ivanovich to keep his voice down. “Not even my wife. I would never endanger my Viktoriya.”
“She looks awfully quiet,” Hannibal said, sitting on the unoccupied bed.
“I’ve given her a mild sedative,” Sidorov said. “She became upset.”
As if to contradict him, Viktoriya opened her eyes and looked around the room with unfocused eyes. When her gaze did settle on something, it was Hannibal or perhaps her own reflection in his glasses.
“Uncle Yakov?”
“I am here, child,” Yakov said.
“Everything is fine,” Hannibal said. “You’re safe and sound.”
Her eyes clouded up. “But my Dani. Dani is gone. I waited. He came back. But now he’s gone.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Ivanovich said, stepping into her view. She visibly started.
“Aleksandr?”
“He’s just here for extra protection,” Hannibal said.
“I know,” Viktoriya said through a soft smile. “Everyone always wants to protect me. Daddy. Aleksandr. Even Uncle Yakov back when I worked for him.”
Hannibal and Ivanovich both turned to stare at the older man.
“During college, she was my receptionist for a short time,” Sidorov said. Then his cell phone interrupted him and he snatched it out of his jacket.
“Yes, this is he,” Sidorov said in a professional tone. He kept talking as he pulled out a notepad. “Yes. Yes, of course. And the patient?” The conversation continued and Sidorov scribbled at a furious pace on his tiny pad, ripping off pages and writing again. Hannibal lost interest and turned to the big windows. He had placed his bet on obscurity but right then, inside that little room, he felt trapped and cornered. An enemy who located them would have no trouble disposing of them all.
Sidorov closed his phone and put it away. Then he sat at the little table under the gaudy hanging lamp and nodded to himself for a few seconds before he spoke.
“Do you believe in divine providence, Mr. Jones?”
“Is this a trick question?” Hannibal asked.
“That was my service,” Sidorov said as a smile blossomed on his face. “I told you that Boris Tolstaya had health issues, although I have kept his confidentiality as to the type or severity of his problem.”
“So?” Ivanovich asked.
“Boris is under the care of another physician,” Sidorov said. “This new doctor called my office for Boris’s medical records. The girl called for my permission to release the records. Of course, while she was speaking with the other physician, she updated our patient records. And that included Boris Tolstaya’s current address.”
30
Hannibal felt a surge of electricity shoot up his spine as he took in this news. It sucked the air out of his lungs but then drove him to his feet. Tolstaya-killer, threat to Viktoriya, holder of the missing fortune-was the finish line
