and Hannibal was driven to dash toward it. Ivanovich, ahead of him by a small margin, already had a hand on the doorknob.
“No,” Hannibal said, grabbing Ivanovich’s sleeve. The Russian turned blazing eyes on him and for the first time Hannibal saw the killer inside the man.
“Because of him, Viktoriya is in danger,” Ivanovich said. “But not for long.”
“And if he’s not working alone?” Hannibal asked. “Will you take your revenge while his followers storm in here and take out the girl?”
“What would you have me do?” Ivanovich asked, his eyes flicking toward Viktoriya. “I am a hunter, not a protector.”
“Well, for just a little while we’re going to have to exchange roles.” Hannibal pulled out his wallet and dropped bills on the dresser. “Go downstairs and rent the room next door. Then stay out of sight and watch this door. Watch the landing. Watch the stairs. Watch the parking lot. If you want to keep Viktoriya safe, you’ll be looking everywhere except at her. Got it?”
All the way across town Hannibal had thought about nothing except what he might find when he arrived at the address Sidorov gave him. Boris Tolstaya might be holed up alone, or he could have an army of Eastern European thugs with him. He could greet Hannibal as the smooth gangster he appeared to be in his photos or as the hardened killer Hannibal now suspected him of being. He might panic, or he might offer money for Hannibal’s silence. It didn’t matter. All Hannibal really wanted to do was to establish his location as a certainty, appraise the relative risk he presented, and call Rissik to take him into custody. With any luck, he would squeeze the location of the money out of Tolstaya and return it to Uspensky to end any chance that people would hunt Viktoriya. After he got the man to admit which murders he had committed, of course.
Doubt didn’t begin to creep into his mind until he was parked two houses from Tolstaya’s residence. The house was a modest rambler in suburban Silver Spring with a small yard and stained vinyl siding. He felt very close to the answers he had been seeking for days. He also felt very close to death. A wise man would call the police right then. Hannibal drew his Sig Sauer, charged the slide back, clicked the safety off, and slid it back into his holster.
Hannibal expected a long wait after he rang the doorbell. It seemed unlikely that Tolstaya would know who he was. He might suspect police, but they wouldn’t send a lone man to the door with no vest. He might be expecting his doctor or a delivery boy. In any case, Hannibal would have only seconds to make him feel safe. He figured he would start with one truth that should not be threatening, that Yakov Sidorov had sent him.
It would be hard to say who was more surprised when Renata opened the door. Hannibal knew immediately why Boris had been so hard to find. She was able to rent a house as Renata “Queenie” Cochran without raising any alarms while police watched for activity in the name of Tolstaya.
“Nice to see you,” Hannibal said, watching Renata’s red-rimmed mouth hang open. “Should I be surprised? It seems your loyalties flow rather fluidly.”
“Ben is safe, and he doesn’t need me anymore,” she shot back, searching the street behind Hannibal. “How did you find me?”
“I’m alone. And Dr. Sidorov sent me to check up on his patient. May I come in?”
Her eyes flashed from side to side as if she was searching for an alternative. Not seeing one, she stepped back. As Hannibal entered, she took his arm and guided him to the dining area. She sat and, seeing no one else, he sat also, but with his back toward a wall.
“Where is Boris, Queenie?” Hannibal asked. “Or is it Renata again?”
“Queenie, please,” she said. “Even Boris calls me that now. He’s in the backyard. He likes to be out in the sun.”
Hannibal nodded. “He might not see a lot more of that. He must feel the net closing in on him after he got rid of Dani Gana.”
Queenie leaned back, her brows reaching up toward her scarlet bangs. “Boris didn’t get rid of anybody. He’s not dangerous. He’s running for his life. They’ll kill him if they find him.”
“You must mean Uspensky and the mob boys,” Hannibal said. “Boris was your concern all along, wasn’t he? Poor Ben.”
Queenie’s eyes went down to the table. Then, with a good deal of apparent effort, she raised her eyes to face his. Her brow wore deep furrows and her lower lip began a slight tremble. Hannibal thought he read sincere remorse in her eyes.
“You’re right. I took advantage of Ben. I took advantage of his love because I knew he could help me try to get Boris’s money back. If Dani had been reasonable, he’d have negotiated with Ben and we could have found out where he hid the money. But instead he…” She couldn’t go on, so Hannibal filled in the blank.
“Instead he beat the man half to death. All because Boris couldn’t take care of his own business.”
“You have to understand,” she said, straining not to shout. “Boris’s life was at stake. These men in the Mafiya, you don’t know these men. He had to stay in hiding. God, I need a cigarette.”
“Well, before you fire one up, I’ll just wander outside and have a few words with your husband du jour.”
Hannibal walked slowly thorough the kitchen and turned sideways to peer through the window. The man in the yard was sitting on the far side of a wooden table with his back to the house. Hannibal couldn’t see his hands. It was possible, he supposed, that the man was sitting there with a shotgun in his hand, waiting for trouble to call. There was really only one way to find out.
“Mr. Tolstaya,” Hannibal called as he opened the back door. “Yakov Sidorov sent me to check on you. My name is Hannibal Jones.”
“Sidorov,” Tolstaya repeated, not moving. “He may be the only man alive smart enough to not want any of the missing money.”
“Maybe,” Hannibal said, stepping out into the sunshine, onto the neat, level lawn, “but it would sure make a lot of people’s lives better if you returned it to its rightful owner.” Tolstaya’s mention of the stolen money left no doubt that he knew who Hannibal was.
“I am the rightful owner,” Tolstaya said. “That money belongs to me. Gartee Roberts stole it from me, left the country, and changed his name.”
“And that’s why you killed him, isn’t it?” Hannibal asked, stepping closer to the still figure. “That’s murder number three for you, isn’t it?”
The scent of grass that had been mowed that morning spoke to him of life, not death. Hannibal wasn’t sure what he expected next, but it was not the sound of grass bending under rubber wheels and a subtle squeaking as Boris Tolstaya turned his chair toward his visitor and rolled closer.
“You can’t pin Dani’s murder on me,” Tolstaya said. “You can’t pin any murder on me.”
He rolled his chair closer, into Hannibal’s silence. The face was the one in the photographs of Boris Tolstaya, except that it was a little thinner. The black hair was a little thinner too. The change in his body was more profound. This man was half the size of the rakish gambler whose photograph Hannibal had been carrying around in his pocket. He wore a heavy sweater and slacks that hung on his frame. Two transparent plastic tubes snaked up from the back of the chair to clip into his nose. Tolstaya stopped just three feet in front of Hannibal. The left side of his mouth curled into a half smile.
“You didn’t know,” Tolstaya said. “Sidorov kept his word after all.”
“I guess he did,” Hannibal said. “What happened to you?”
Tolstaya laughed, a weak but real laugh. “You Americans. Always so direct. But you are right, you never learn anything otherwise. What has happened to me, Mr. Jones, is called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”
“ALS,” Hannibal muttered.
“Yes, the disease named after your baseball player Lou Gehrig,” Tolstaya said, turning and rolling back toward the table. “I soldiered in Afghanistan at the same time that Nikita Petrova was there. I believe I was exposed to many of the same chemicals and toxins your soldiers faced during your Gulf War of 1991. Most escaped without harmful effects. Many did not. I am among them. It’s neurological, you know. This wasting disease progresses quickly once it gets hold of you.”
“I’d read that nobody knows what causes ALS,” Hannibal said, sitting at the table opposite Tolstaya.
“I know,” Tolstoya said. “Many soldiers know. Of course, they don’t have much of a voice. No one survives this disease. There is no cure. I no longer have the strength to move my legs, Mr. Jones. My arms will be next and
