High Stakes Read online

The hand from behind pushed me back under the water. Slowly, silently, we moved through the water along the bank of the pond another twenty feet before it let go of my neck. My head bobbed above the water for a quick gasp of air. I heard the voice whisper, “Stay here. Stay down.”

  I was aware of the body beside me lifting itself silently onto the bank and moving like a low shadow toward the trees behind the bench I’d been on. I stayed there frozen in silence until I heard a snap that sounded like bone on bone. The air was silent again.

  Within ten seconds, a face was down beside mine. The same voice was whispering. “Get out of the pond. Move fast. Don’t trust anyone.”

  I sputtered out, “Wait. Who the hell are you? Why …?”

  He stood up. Before he turned, a dim beam from a lamppost caught his face. He was gone before I could call him by the name Harry Wong had given me—Mickey Chan.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I PULLED MY dripping body out of the pond almost as fast as I’d gone into it. Against every impelling urge to do a hundred-yard dash to the underground parking lot in Boston Common where I’d left the car, I stopped to look behind the bench where I’d been sitting. The gunshots had come from that direction, as well as the bone-snapping sound when Mickey Chan disappeared.

  The bushes behind the bench covered all but the legs of a prone, still body. I pulled back a few branches that covered the torso and head, joined by a neck that had an unnatural twist. There was a handgun still clenched in the right hand.

  I risked leaving fingerprints to pull the wallet out of the back pocket. I put the money back, left the gun, and took the wallet.

  The sound of running footsteps made for a quick decision. It could be the Russians. Not good. It could be the police after hearing gunshots. Also not good. I was there alone between two obviously murdered bodies. At best, if it were the police, I’d spend the night at the station answering questions—to which I would have no convincing answers. That would also make me a sitting duck for reattachment of my Russian shadows.

  I followed my instincts and cut a rapid retreat through the bushes and across the grass on a roundabout route across Charles Street to the parking lot.

  I drove straight up Route 1 and checked into the Towne Plaza Motel in Danvers. I needed a bit of respite on neutral ground. A long call to Terry in New Hampshire had just the calming effect I needed for a night’s sleep.

  In the morning, I bought a set of clothes on the way back into Boston to replace the ones I’d taken for a night swim. Fresh clothes, two Dunkin Donuts, and a large black coffee stiffened with two shots of espresso recharged my drained battery for what could be an “interesting” day.

  Before my morning meeting with George at eleven on the Prudential Skywalk, I needed to get a new read on how many thugs, and of what ethnicity, I had to watch for over my shoulder. I parked on Newbury Street close to the Prudential. Mr. Devlin was still in his office when I dialed his direct number. After I gave him a quick update on the Public Garden episode, which did not sit well with his paternal concern for his junior partner, he called Billy Coyne’s secure number and made it a three-way.

  “Where were you last night, kid? The bodies are still mounting up. You know anything about that?”

  “And the very top of the morning to you too, Mr. Coyne. I think we might do each other some good this morning. Shall we trade some information?”

  “Damn, Lex. Now I’ve got to deal with two of you Irish horsetraders. Go ahead, kid. You lay down your cards first. Then we’ll see.”

  “No time for games this morning, Mr. Coyne. Your police found two bodies in Public Garden last night. I need to know something you might know. And vice versa.”

  There was a pause. “Keep talking, kid. No promises.”

  “One of the bodies was a middle-age Chinese man. The other was a gangster. Probably Russian. You found no identification on the latter. I may be able to help you there.”

  “Like you said, kid, no games. Can you identify the Russian, or not? And how the hell do you know him? Were you there last night?”

  “One question at a time, Mr. Coyne. I’m going to give you this much on faith. The Russian behind the bench with the broken neck, his name was ‘Sergei Brackovitch.’”

  I was reading it off of the driver’s license in the wallet I took from his dead body. I heard a low whistle on Mr. Coyne’s end. I gave him a few seconds to put his words together.

  “To hell with a hornet’s nest, kid. You walked into a lion’s den. Do you know who he is … was?”

  “That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Lex, you’ve got to put a leash on that partner of yours. He is so far out of his league …”

  “Say it, Billy. What?”

  “How do I say this in words you’ll take to heart, kid? Brackovitch has been on our radar for years. The Russian mob in Boston answers to the mob in Moscow. Even the Italian mafia doesn’t mess with this bunch. This Brackovitch, he was their top assassin. Cold as a clam. Unlike some in his profession, this one’s intelligent. We’ve been after him for a string of murders. Never laid a glove on him.”

  “Where do these Russians operate? Do they have a center in Boston?”

  “Wait a minute, kid. Still my turn. Someone obviously put him out of business last night, at close range. Not an easy move. Whoever did it could be my next most wanted. What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing I could attest to. I didn’t see it happen. Back to my turn. Where does this Russian mob hang out?”

  “They’re spread out. After the Soviet Union dissolved, the Russian borders opened up. We got a flood of Russians coming in. Most of them good people. Mixed in were a bunch of the worst gangsters on the planet. Some of them former KGB. They centered on Brighton Beach in New York, but we got more than our share around Boston.”

  “Where?”

  “Lot of places. Mostly Lynn, Chestnut Hill, Newton. Even out in Springfield. Nearly as we can tell, the string-pullers are centered in Brighton, our Brighton.”

  “Where in Brighton?”

  Mr. Coyne paused. “Lex, this loose cannon you have for a partner. If I tell him, is he going to go marching in the front door? People have been killed for less.”

  “Tell him where, Billy. At least we’ll know what to avoid.”

  “This comes with a warning, kid. Stay the hell away from there. You hear me?”

  I gave him the sincerest “I hear you” I could muster.

  He lowered his voice. “What I hear … the Moscow Café. It’s on Beacon, near Market Street. Rumor says—and it’s just a rumor—it’s like what Angelo’s in the North End is to the Italian mafia. People have gone in there and never come out.”

  “What are you doing about it?”

  “Damn little. In that neighborhood, nobody talks, in English or Russian.”

  That was more than I wanted to hear. I tried to force down the unpleasant premonition that as things were moving, I might someday find myself on the wrong side of the Moscow Café door.

  Mr. Coyne picked it up. “The Chinese man who was shot last night in the swan boat. What do you know about that?”

  “His name is Mr. Liu. He was the head of the Chinese Merchants Association in Chinatown. He was the one who sent me to Romania for that violin.”

  “What’s his connection with the Russians?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Then tell me everything you know about this man who killed him.”

  “I have no idea who … Wait a minute. You ask that like you know who did it.”

  “Possibly. And every angle I look at with this business, there you are right in the middle of it. Suppose you tell me why the boys in Chinatown wanted him dead.”

  “What boys in Chinatown? How do you know it was the tong?”

  “I’d like to remind you, kid, you’re talking to the deputy district attorney. If you have any information about this, you have a legal obligation—”

  Mr. D. jumped in. “Oh, for the love of God, stop the official bull
-crap, Billy. You’re getting as much as you’re giving here. Give us an answer.”

  Billy dropped his voice.

  “This goes no further …”

  “We know that, Billy. It never has. Now answer the question.”

  “We got a phone tip this morning. Called herself Ming Tan. She has a Chinese grocery shop on Tyler Street in Chinatown. She was walking through Public Garden last night. She saw the man who killed the man you say was Mr. Liu.”

  “Did she know the killer?”

  “Apparently he’s known to people in Chinatown.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “Yeah. Chan. People call him ‘Mickey.’”

  That was unsettling. I was still trying to get the cast of characters divided between the sheep and the goats. That further blurred both categories. The one thing I knew for certain was that I owed my life twice to the man I knew as Mickey Chan.

  * * *

  My pledge of confidentiality to Mr. Coyne was a restraint I had to keep in mind. I owed that to both Mr. Coyne and Mr. Devlin. I was walking a tightrope when I called Harry Wong.

  “That was fast, Mike. What do you need?”

  “I know how sensitive this is, Harry. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if …”

  “We’ve been down this road. Whatever it is, I said I was in. Just say it.”

  “I need to talk to Mickey Chan.”

  I could hear the air intake on the line. I filled the pause. “I have no idea how to reach him. I know you haven’t seen him in years. Thin as it is, you’re my only connection.”

  Harry’s voice was more tense than I’d ever heard it. “Why?”

  “I wish I could tell you. I can’t.”

  “Just tell me that it’s important enough to have me do something I swore I’d never do in this life.”

  I gave it a second’s thought before I said all I could disclose in two words. “It is.”

  I gave Harry the silence he needed. He said all he could say in three words. “I’ll call you.”

  * * *

  It was time to ride the elevator up to the fiftieth floor of the Prudential Building to what’s called the Skywalk. It’s a tourist’s Mecca with glass walls on four sides of the entire floor. It has a view like the Eiffel Tower. On a clear day, you can almost see the Eiffel Tower.

  I was early, but I wanted to be there when the man I knew as George arrived. I also decided to take out a bit of insurance. I called Mr. Devlin back and caught him just before he left for court. He had a thousand questions after our conversation with Mr. Coyne. Most of them led to direct orders to keep my vulnerable body parts out of dangerous situations. Since I could imagine no future in which that was likely to happen, I gave him my usual assurance that I’d do my best to stay out of harm’s way.

  Without raising further alarms, I let Mr. D. know that I was about to meet the man called George on the Skywalk. There was some comfort to both of us in Mr. Coyne’s guess that he was probably Romanian instead of Russian mafioso. I promised a text message that Mr. D. could receive quietly in court as soon as I reached the ground floor intact after the meeting. It probably did nothing for his peace of mind, but having someone in my corner know my whereabouts most certainly helped mine.

  My eyes scanned the area when I stepped off the elevator on the fiftieth floor. There were enough tourists clustered in groups at various points around the glass walls to give me comfort. At the same time, there were plenty of empty patches at the windows for a private conversation.

  I had a rough mental image of George from his voice on the phone. None of the people absorbed in their audio guides met the image.

  As always, I was first drawn to a spot on the west wall to pay homage to the view of Fenway Park—also as always, with a silent prayer for the spirits that still hover there, some alive, others now playing on a different field of dreams. The Splendid Splinter, Ted Williams, always leads off, but Carl—Yaz—Yastrzemski, and lately Big Papi Ortiz get their share. The list goes back beyond my years to my father’s tales of the Babe himself.

  I felt a gentle jarring from the approaching voices of some young tourists that broke the spell. I moved along the glass wall willingly. I felt they should not return to wherever was home without absorbing that view.

  I found a position at the glass with a ten-foot open space facing northeast. My eyes oscillated between our home on the shore in Winthrop and a constant check on the door of the elevator.

  At eleven sharp, a small group stepped off the elevator. It included one who would have been a natural for the role of my imagined vision of George. He was also the only one not to spare a glance at the view. His total attention was given to scanning the scattered crowd. I was a bit jarred when his first look in my direction brought an instant smile of recognition. It was jarring because I was certain we had never seen each other before.

  He walked directly over and introduced himself with one word. “George.”

  I responded in kind. “Michael.”

  “Yes, indeed. May this be the beginning of a fruitful and trusting friendship.”

  “Along that line, I seem to be one step behind.”

  “Oh?”

  “‘Michael’ is my real name, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Would it surprise you to know that ‘George’ is my real name?”

  I matched his smile. “It would surprise me. But then you also know my last name.”

  “I think we’ll leave the name game where it is. For the moment. On the other hand, Michael, I do want your trust. You have an important decision to make, and to make soon. To whom do you give the object in question? Yes?”

  I was struck by the fact that, for the first time, one of the contestants actually suggested that the decision was mine to make. “In terms of trust, George, I notice that you came alone. You scored points there. I’m sure you know that I came alone.”

  He moved to the window by my right side and seemed to take an interest in the view. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps not as alone as you think you are.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You have a definite magnetism for members of a certain Russian organization. Don’t look immediately. Two young muscular men beside the group of tourists. Twenty feet to your left. Black hair, average height. One tan sport coat, the other a gray sweater on this hot day. What do you suppose they conceal?”

  I gave it a few seconds and looked slowly to my left. He was right. They stood out, if you knew what you were looking for.

  I could feel a chill set in. “Damn. How could I have missed them?”

  “You didn’t. They just came up on the same elevator with me. Don’t worry about them.”

  “Thank you for the advice, but they’re probably after me, not you.”

  “They are. Just smile and listen to me.” His voice dropped another notch. “I’m sorry that time doesn’t permit me to build your trust more slowly. You can appreciate the urgency. It’s time you understood the importance of the decision you’re about to make. We need to talk. Not here.”

  He looked straight into my eyes. The smile was gone. “I leave it to you. I have a car waiting. Will you summon enough trust to join me for lunch at the restaurant of my choice? The chef is Romanian. He is beyond excellent. More to the point, we’ll be able to speak in complete privacy.”

  He paused. I had no immediate answer.

  “I promise you this. You’ll be free to leave at any moment you choose. Your decision. Will you come with me now?”

  I knew my options were limited. Staying there with the Russians stood out as the worst choice. Making a run on my own seemed like the second worst, given that the Russians seemed to have little difficulty in reattaching themselves. That left George.

  I nodded slightly in the direction of the two Russians. “What about them?”

  “As I say. Don’t worry about them. Let me do you a personal favor as one more assurance of my good faith.”

  He inched a cell phone out of his pocket. He tapped a few keys
. It was like watching a plan come together. From four different corners, I watched four men drift generally in our direction. One by one they appeared to wander until the four were assembled like a wall surrounding the two Russians.

  I heard a quiet, “Let’s go.” George moved in the direction of the elevator. Just as I began to follow, I saw the two Russians make a quick turn together. I noticed the lips of one of the four move. The Russians froze in place. They seemed to be following an order when they both turned back slowly to focus on the view outside.

  George was holding the door of the elevator from the outside for me to go in.

  “You chose wisely, Michael.”

  “What would you have done if I hadn’t? Left me to work it out with the Russians?”

  He paused as if he were looking for words. “There would be no ‘working it out’ with these people. You’ve been lucky so far. More than you know. Those two at the window. They’re both former KGB. They’re professionals in ways you don’t want to think about. They would surpass your pain threshold very quickly. You’d give them anything you own.”

  “And then they’d kill me?”

  He held his answer while I walked inside and turned to face him. As I passed, he whispered with no smile. “If you were lucky.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I WAITED FOR George to slip into the elevator beside me. Instead, he held the door open from the outside. We were alone, but he still spoke in a whisper.

  “You’ll be met downstairs. My man will take you to the car.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “In a minute. I have a bit of business to finish. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  On the ride down, my imagination ran full throttle over what his “bit of business” might be. I could only assume that it involved the unenviable future of the two Russians.

  By the time the elevator passed the forty-fifth floor on the way down, I had reached a firm conclusion that my trust in George allowed space for some control of my own destiny. I hit a speed dial number on my cell phone. Over the past four years, when obligations to my clients led me into dark corners, my second resort, immediately after prayer, was to Thomas D. Burns, a private security operative, as he preferred to be called, whose fees would be seen as obscene but for the fact that they were worth every cent.