“What is it?” Michael asked.
“
Ta tuleb
,” the two girls said softly.
At first Michael thought he misheard them. It sounded as if they’d said “tattoo” or “the tool.” Neither interpretation made sense. “What did you say?”
“Ta tuleb
,” they repeated.
Michael leaned back, a little surprised. He looked back and forth between his daughters, at the four big blue eyes in the soft blush of the nightlight. “
Ta tuleb
?”
They nodded.
The phrase brought Michael back to his early childhood, to evenings above the Pikk Street Bakery, nights when he would be reading comic books while he was supposed to be doing his homework. When his mother, looking out the kitchen window, her long steel knitting needles in hand, saw Peeter Roman turn the corner onto Ditmars Boulevard, she would yell “
ta tuleb!
” up the stairs, and Michael would immediately get back to his studies.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Charlotte and Emily looked at each other, shrugged, slipped under the covers. Michael took a moment, still a bit bewildered. He tucked the girls in, planted kisses on their foreheads.
On the way out of the bedroom he stood at the door for a moment, thinking.
Ta tuleb
was an Estonian phrase.
His daughters did not speak Estonian.
M
ICHAEL WALKED INTO
the small room on the first floor that served as his office, flipped on a light, opened his briefcase. He studied the photograph of Falynn Harris. She was only fourteen.
Falynn was the daughter of Colin Harris, a Long Island City florist who had been gunned down two years ago in April, murdered in cold blood by one Patrick Sean Ghegan. Ghegan, along with his younger brother Liam, were the demon spawn of Jack Ghegan, a former mid-level Queens mobster currently doing life-plus in Dannemora.
Falynn, who was sneaking a cigarette behind the store, saw the whole thing go down through the back window. She was so traumatized by the horror of the crime she had not said a single word since. And she was the state’s star witness.
Michael Roman had won RICO cases, had prosecuted some of the most hardened career criminals ever to pass through the New York state legal system, had successfully tried two death penalty cases, including the infamous Astrology Killer, had more than once reached for something that far exceeded his grasp, only to thrive. But this one was special. And he knew why. He had lobbied long and hard to get it.
The question was: Could he get Falynn to talk to him? In the next forty-eight hours, with the specter of Colin Harris standing over them, could he get her to remember?
If we will be alive, we will not die.
Coffee. He needed coffee. This was going to be a long night.
On the way to the kitchen he stopped at the foot of the stairs and glanced up at the slightly ajar door to his daughters’ room.
Ta tuleb
, he thought.
It was an Estonian phrase that meant:
He is coming.
As Michael Roman entered the kitchen and took the French press out of the cupboard, a question flitted around his mind like a gypsy moth drawn to a light bulb.
Who
is coming?
FOUR
T
ALLINN
, E
STONIA
A
leksander savisaar stood in the center of the bustling square. It was an unseasonably warm evening, the lilies were pregnant in bloom, and Viru Tänav Street was a carnival of the senses.
He walked a few blocks, sat at a small outdoor café, ordered tea, watched the girls walk by in their springtime dresses, each a long-petalled flower. He had been in many ports in his time, from Kabul to Moscow to a brief tour in Shanghai. His business affairs had taken him many times to Helsinki to Riga to St Petersburg and beyond, yet he was never happy in a city, any city. He could tolerate it all for a few days. Perhaps a week. Sometimes, if his needs were met, he found himself flourishing. But he was not, nor ever would be, at home in any urban setting. His place was the forest, the valley, the hills.
The city of Tallinn sat on the northern coast of Estonia, on the Gulf of Finland. As the capital, it was one of the most completely preserved medieval cities in the world. Since the fall of communism in 1991 it had become one of the more cosmopolitan destinations in the Baltics, with its world class symphony, its thriving tourist business, and even a burgeoning fashion market.
Aleks had driven the E20 route to Narva, in central Estonia, past the rusting relics of Soviet occupation, past the ramshackle buildings, failed collectives, the rusting cars and farm machinery, the slag heaps and stilled conveyor belts.
He then took a small commuter plane from Narva to Tallinn, which meant he’d had to leave a good many things behind. These days, even in small airports, on small airlines, security was quite rigorous.
It was not a problem. He had connections all over Estonia. And he had business. A business that had been a smoldering ember in his heart for four years.
T
HE SCHLÖSSLE WAS A
small elegant boutique hotel in the heart of the old town. Aleks checked in. He showered, shaved, dressed in a dark suit, open-collar, starched white shirt. He called the concierge, arranged for a table at the Restaurant Stenhus.
He had three hours before he had to meet Paulu. Before then, he had to make a purchase.
T
HE SHOP WAS AN
old stone front on busy Müürivahe Street. The small leaded glass window facing the street offered an elegant display, a single sterling silver place setting, washed with a mini-spotlight. In the lower left-hand corner was a hand-painted sign, lettered in gold leaf:
VILLEROY TERARIISTAD
To the right of the thick oaken door was a brushed-chrome panel with a small button. Aleks pressed the button. Moments later the door buzzed softly. He stepped inside.
The interior was long and narrow and quiet, with gleaming glass display cases on both sides, an elevated counter at the rear. It smelled of polished wood, glass cleaner, and the sharp redolence of honing oils. As Aleks made his way to the rear he surveyed the merchandise. The knives were from all over the world, in all manner of styles – hunting knives, stockmen’s knives, Indian kukri. The display case on the right held more exotic wares. Here there were boot knives, diving knives, tanto and throwing knives, the showy but deadly butterfly knife, even a section devoted to neck knives, which were designed to be worn in a sheath around one’s neck.
On the walls were racks of gleaming scissors, kitchen cutlery, straight razors, and other tonsorial wares. Overhead, reaching toward the center of the aisle, in the fashion of a trellis, was a dazzling display of swords – military, ninja, medieval and Viking, as well as samurai katana.
As he reached the rear of the shop a man stood and emerged from behind the counter. He was in his sixties, with pewter gray hair, sloping shoulders. He was at least a head shorter than Aleks’s six-three, and meticulously dressed in charcoal woolen slacks, white broadcloth shirt, and highly polished oxfords. The ring on his left hand said he was married. The signet on his right hand said he was an alumnus of Moscow University.
“Kas sa räägid inglise keelt?”
Aleks asked, inquiring in Estonian if the gentleman spoke English. Aleks was fluent in five different languages, including Russian, German and French.
The man nodded, folded his hands expectantly on the counter.
“You have an impressive selection here,” Aleks said.
“Thank you,” the man replied. “And how may I be of assistance today?”
“I am looking for a knife, something suitable for both city and forest. Something of great utility.”
The man thought for a moment. He gestured to his left. “I’m sure we will have something to please you.” He walked behind the counter, reached beneath the glass, removed a display rack. There, presented on a rich burgundy velvet, were a half dozen folding knives. Aleks lifted them one by one, feeling their weight, their balance. He opened them all, trying the action. After giving them their due, he replaced them.
“All fine quality,” Aleks said. “But I am looking for something special.”
The man returned the rack beneath the case, glanced at Aleks. “I am intrigued.”
“I am looking for a Barhydt.”
The man drew a quick breath in reaction, recovered. “I see.”
Jan-Marie Barhydt was a limited edition armorer from Holland, an artisan of the first order. He produced some of the finest and most sought after knives in the world.
“I’m afraid this is something quite expensive,” the man said. “We are a small, humble shop. We don’t carry these items.”
The dance, Aleks thought. Always the dance. He held the man’s gaze for a moment, then reached into his pocket and removed three money clips, each clasped around a stack of different currency. Euros, US dollars, and Estonian kroon. He placed the three stacks on the counter, like an expensive shell game.
For a few moments, no words were spoken. The man glanced briefly toward the door, and the street beyond. They were indeed alone. He placed his right forefinger on the stack of euros. Aleks put the other currencies away, unclipped the bills. He counted off 3,000 euros, roughly 4,500 US dollars. “If one of these items were to be available here,” Aleks said, “would this be adequate compensation?”
The man’s eyes flashed for a moment. “It most certainly would,” he said. “Would you excuse me?”
“Of course.”
The man disappeared into a back room, emerged moments later. In his hand was a beautiful walnut case. He opened it. Inside was a thing of beauty, a stunning specimen of craftsmanship. The blade was hot-blued Damascus, as were the bolsters. The scales were premium white mother of pearl, the titanium liners were anodized purple, the back bar was inlayed with four pieces of abalone. It was an authentic Barhydt.
“I shall have this,” Aleks said.
“Very good, sir.” The man brought the box to the rear of the store. He slipped the polished case into a felt bag, drew closed the gold twine. Moments later he walked around the counter carrying a handled shopping bag with VILLEROY TERARIISTAD on the side. He handed the bag to Aleks.
Before leaving, Aleks looked at his watch, a gold Piaget he wore on his left wrist, the crystal facing in. Being a purveyor of fine things, Aleks knew the man’s eye would be drawn to the timepiece. What Aleks wanted the man to note was not the expensive piece of jewelry, but rather the elaborate tattoo on Aleks’s wrist, the black star peeking out from beneath his shirt cuff.
When Aleks glanced up at the man, the man was looking at him directly. Aleks did not have to say a further word.
There was no box, no bag. There was no Barhydt. No money had changed hands, no commerce had been conducted. In fact, the tall man with the pale blue eyes and small ragged scar on his left cheek was never there.
P
AULU WAS
vennaskond
, a fellow thief. But
vennaskond
were not merely thieves, they were brothers, and adhered to a strict code. Steal from one, you steal from all. A
vennaskond
was never without someone at his back.
In his early thirties, Paulu was slight of build, but quite robust, with fast movements and a nervous energy that never allowed him to keep still. He had grown up in the city and was therefore never at peace, never at rest. He wore his black hair straight back. A pair of gold hoops ringed his right ear lobe. He displayed his tattoos with unabashed pride on his forearms and neck.
They met on a secluded section of the western shore of Lake ülemiste, just a few miles south of Tallinn city center. The main airport was on the eastern side, and every few minutes another plane roared overhead. The two men spoke in Estonian.
“When will he arrive?” Aleks asked.
“Eleven. They say he is quite punctual.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Not much,” Paulu said. “I told him you have a daughter, a daughter who is pregnant with the child of a Lithuanian. I told him you were in the market to sell the baby.”
“And you are certain he is the man who made the deal to sell my Anna and Marya?”
Paulu nodded. “Through his minions, he made the deal. He has been in the black market for children for many years.”
“Why haven’t I found him before?”
“He is expensive and secretive. There are many people afraid of him, too. I had to meet with three other men first. I had to pay them all.”
This angered Aleks, but he pushed the feeling back. Now was not the time for anger. “He will come alone?”
Paulu smiled. “Yes. He is this arrogant.”
Ten minutes later, bright headlights split the darkness. A vehicle topped the hill; a candy red American SUV with chrome wheels. The sound system blasted Russian rap.
Another gaudy
vory
, Aleks thought.
“That is him,” Paulu said.
Aleks reached into his pocket, pulled out a rubber-banded roll of euros. He handed it to Paulu, who pocketed the roll without looking at it.
“Where do you want me?” Paulu asked.
Aleks nodded to the hill to the west. “Give this five minutes. Then go.”
The smaller man hugged Aleks once – a man he had never met before this night, a man to whom he was bound in ways even deeper than blood – then slipped onto his motorcycle. Moments later he was gone. Aleks knew he would watch from the nearby hill much longer than five minutes. This was the
vennaskond
way.
When Paulu’s bike was out of sight, the SUV cut its lights. The man soon emerged. The Finn was big, nearly as tall as Aleks, but soft in the middle. He wore a tan duster, cowboy boots. He had thinning ice white hair to his shoulders, a yeasty, wattled neck. He wore red wraparounds at night. He would be slow.
His name was Mikko Vänskä.