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Dark Sundays Page 25
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“One day, a man comes to see him. A man who smiles, and compliments him on his craft, and then tells the young performer that he has an opportunity to travel to a far land. And in this land, he will stage his greatest act of all—in fact, his whole life will become a performance.”
Masterkov fell silent. When he continued, his voice was soft. “And if the young performer refuses, then everyone he knows and loves will suffer. They will be sent to gulags, or tortured, or put to death. The performer comes from a large family—something he always thought of as a blessing. But now that blessing is turned against him. The number of people he loves—who love him—means simply that the state has a surplus of hostages. They can afford to destroy one or two, just to convince him that they are serious. There are always more.”
Nick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He wasn’t sure what he should say.
“But family, in the end, is always a strength. The young performer came from a long line of performers, you see, men and women who had been taught their skills by their parents and grandparents. The circus is more than a family, more than a way of life; it is, in some ways, like belonging to another species entirely. And a species can outlast many things—even political ideology.
“It took many decades, but things changed. The United Soviet Socialist Republic fell. The performer—not so young anymore—made a deal with certain people. An agreement was reached, and his family was able to join him in the new land, hostages no more.” Masterkov shrugged. “Perhaps that is where the story ends.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Masterkov. In fact, from my point of view, that’s where the story starts.” Nick leaned forward. “It goes something like this. A retired spy, living in Vegas, runs into his old KGB handler. There’s no love lost between the two—in fact, I think it’s pretty fair to say the ex-spy hates the ex-KGB man with a passion. But the handler—let’s call him Mr. D—is now a big wheel with the Red Mafiya. He’s just as dangerous and untouchable as he ever was. But the situation has changed, because the ex-spy is no longer alone.
“He’s got his family with him now, a family with a whole host of very specialized talents. So he decides to put on one more show—a real barn burner—for the benefit of Mr. D.
“It takes a lot of preparation. It has to convince someone whose entire life has been based around deception, and do so in a way that will persuade him to stick his own neck out. The reward has to be as substantial as the risk. But if there’s any town in the world where those two things go together, it’s Vegas.”
Masterkov raised his eyebrows. “And what, do you think, that reward would have been?”
“A casino. The ability to manipulate the value, input, and output of every single chip that passed through its doors. A prize like that would be incalculable, and not just for the sheer monetary worth; a criminal enterprise like the Red Mafiya could use it to launder hundreds of millions in illegal income. There’s no way Mr. D could pass up something like that—not when someone else was willing to take all the risks. Well, almost all of them; the chips themselves would have to be manufactured, and they aren’t cheap. Throw in overhead, profit sharing for all the people involved, plus the price tag for whatever advanced tech was supposed to let him control the RFID chips, and I’m thinking our ex-spy talked Mr. D into one heck of a layout of cash. Enough that when it didn’t pay off, Mr. D paid the ultimate price.”
“I think I like your story. How about we give a name to that number, just for fun? I’m thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of, oh. . . say ten million dollars.”
It was Nick’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Ten million?”
“Why not? It’s just a story, after all.”
Nick grinned and shook his head. “Fair enough. It’s a pretty good one, too—but there are still a few plot points that bother me.”
Masterkov spread his hands to either side. “Well, we seem to be doing a fine job of collaborating so far. Tell me your concerns—perhaps I can suggest a few details.”
“From a forensics point of view, all of the facts lined up—all except for one. DNA found in some bandages should have belonged to the strongman who supposedly hauled the chips up the elevator shaft—but it wasn’t a match. In fact, it belonged to the ex-spy.”
Masterkov gave Nick a slow smile. “Yes, that is curious. I can think of two reasons for it, one practical, one personal. First, it provides a rather elegant alibi, does it not? This retired intelligence operative, I take it he is somewhat advanced in years? Not so advanced that he couldn’t wrap something around his body to make it appear larger—a fire hose, perhaps—then add a layer of bandages over that . . . but certainly too frail to be performing superhuman feats of strength.”
“I guess not.”
“And second—it sends a message, does it not? A way, perhaps, of claiming responsibility after the fact.”
“Or of reclaiming something else?” said Nick.
Masterkov nodded. “Yes. Something he thought he lost a long time ago, something he can’t really give a name to anymore. Pride? Honor? Courage? A little of all of those things, I suspect. After lying and hiding for all those years, I think our ex-spy wanted to finally stand up and receive his due. A small bit of truth in a mirage of deception.”
“Sounds to me like he earned it,” said Nick. He got to his feet. “Well, I don’t think our ex-spy has anything to worry about. The only crime he could even be prosecuted for is the arson, and all of the evidence in that part of the case is speculative. The Russian mob isn’t going to complain about being defrauded—though they might decide they want their money back.”
Masterkov chuckled. “Only if they know who to ask for it. I have the feeling that our Mr. D might have been keeping this enterprise entirely to himself. That way, all of the profit would have been his.”
“And all of the blame when it didn’t work out.” Nick paused. “Nice and neat, every puzzle piece in place. The thing is, a lot of those pieces were only ever seen by a very limited number of eyes—eyes belonging to CSIs or people who work in the lab. If the target was Mr. D, why all the attention to forensic detail? The only person who actually had to believe it was a real heist was the one financing it.”
Masterkov smiled. “I take it you know something of the history of Nevada and the intelligence community? That it was rife with recruiters and turncoats in the first years of the Cold War?”
“I’ve heard that, yes.”
“Well, what do you think happened to them all? Some have moved away or died, to be sure. . . but not all. If our ex-spy is still alive and well, then others certainly are, too. Some of them would have worked their way into positions of influence, even though they no longer report to their masters. A former KGB operative would be able to exert a considerable deal of pressure on these people; in fact, for them, the Cold War might as well have never ended.”
Nick frowned. “You’re telling me Mr. D still had spies feeding him information? Spies inside the lab or the police?”
Masterkov shrugged. “I’m not telling you anything, Mr. Stokes. I’m merely an old man, spinning a story to pass the time. But all stories are true, in one way or another, and the truth to this story is this: people are always watching. No matter who or where you are, no matter what you do, someone is taking notice. And if that someone has secrets, too, they may give away yours in order to protect their own.”
Nick shook his head. “That’s a very paranoid way to live, Mr. Masterkov.”
Masterkov sighed. “Yes, it is. . . but I have lived that way for a very long time. And there is one question that you have failed to consider, Mr. Stokes.”
“What’s that?”
“In order for this hypothetical plan to succeed, the former spy would have to have produced a very convincing counterfeit casino chip ahead of time, in order to sell the idea—an imitation of a chip not in circulation yet, one kept under lock and key. How do you think he did that?”
Nick gave him a slow nod and a smile. “I guess maybe Mr
. D wasn’t the only guy in town with a few contacts left. Spaseba, Mr. Masterkov.”
“You’re very welcome, Mr. Stokes.”
“She’ll live,” Ray said.
Catherine looked down at the hospital bed in the ICU unit. Theria Kostapolis’s eyes were closed, but her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.
“We got to her in time,” said Ray. “She’s in rough shape, but she’ll recover. Exposure to BZ isn’t lethal, and neither is Cotard’s syndrome. I can’t speak to her mental condition, but people with Cotard’s have recovered.”
“I hope so. She’s suffered so much, Ray. She’s literally been to hell and back.”
“I suppose she has. I wish I had better news for her when she wakes up.” John Bannister had slipped into a coma a little more than an hour after Theria was rescued. “Corticobasal degeneration is fatal; life expectancy postdiagnosis is six to eight years. Exposure to the BZ might have worsened his condition—he may never recover from the coma.”
“There’s no treatment?”
“Not for the disease itself, no. The best we can do is treat some of the symptoms and try to make him comfortable. It’s not a pleasant way to go—gradually increasing dementia, loss of muscular control and even the ability to speak.”
“So maybe not waking up isn’t so bad in his case.” Catherine shook her head. “Poor guy deserves some peace, though. He fought pretty hard to give Theria her chance at it. His mind might have been somewhere else, but his heart was in the right place.”
“ ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make Heaven of Hell, and a Hell of Heaven.’ ”
Catherine glanced at him and smiled. “A Milton quote? How very Grissom of you, Professor.”
Ray smiled back. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
Catherine looked back at Theria, and her smile faded. “I’ve got a quote for you myself—I think John Bannister would appreciate it. Something Winston Churchill said.”
“What’s that?”
“If you find yourself going through hell? Keep going.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DONN CORTEZ is the pseudonym for Don DeBrandt, who has authored several novels. He lives in Vancouver, Canada.