Chapter 37
KATE
Megan claps her hands at the front of the room, demanding the undivided attention of the team she’s assembled.
Unrecognizable behind her wig, fake teeth, and dark contact lenses, she calls out: “Places, everyone. Remember—we have three days to make this happen. If you have any questions, text me through your computer terminals. Everyone stays in character at all times. That boardroom door can open without warning. Questions?”
No one has questions. Every one of Megan’s recruits is a professional grifter.
The whiteboard on the far wall has been carefully decorated. One side is filled with names of Irish mob bosses—Kelly, Boyle, Moran, Lynch. The other has bratva pakhans—Tarasov, Federov, Sobolev, Kuznetsov. Photos accompany each label. Moran and Tarasov are ringed in red.
“All right, folks,” Megan cheers. “Show time!”
Cole and I lock ourselves in the observation room.
A small two-way mirror allows us to view most of the cubicle farm through the door.
A larger mirror looks into the boardroom, where a complex of cameras will transmit audio and video to our computers.
While I’m coaching Richardson and Bennett, Cole will edit the data we’ll ultimately distribute with the help of Ariadne’s Daughters.
I settle a pair of headphones over my hair. Sawgrass has equipped Richardson and Bennett with earpieces so high-tech they’d be the envy of security services in most countries around the world. I’m ready to feed the interrogators questions as needed, drawing on my life in the Canton Crew.
Fiona Moran stands in the doorway to the boardroom, facing Richardson and Bennett.
She’s carefully positioned to be visible from the sound-proof closet that was Nikolai Tarasov’s overnight cell.
The Boston Queen is dressed like she’s on her way to the board meeting of a company that sells high-end lingerie—a white double-breasted jacket with nothing underneath and a microscopic black skirt.
When Megan saw the outfit, she whistled. Apparently, it’s Brioni, and those two garments cost more than all the clothes I’ve ever bought in my life. I have a lot to learn about fashion.
Now, Megan takes her place at the receptionist desk. Tapping the over-size brooch on her orange-and-green-plaid lapel, she speaks into the microphone planted there. “Cocoa Puff!” The sound comes out of the speaker on Cole’s computer. “Mom would be so proud!”
My attention is snagged by a scramble of activity on the far side of the floor. The door to Tarasov’s closet opens. Two Sawgrass soldiers emerge from the shadows, their dark-blue assault uniforms emblazoned with yellow letters shouting FBI. Their hands are clamped on Nikolai Tarasov’s biceps.
Unhooded, the bratva pakhan blinks in the bright lights of the main room. His hands are chained in front of him. Shackles connect his ankles. He’s far too smart to attempt to run.
Even from behind the observation-room door, I can see the shitehawk’s eyes are bloodshot.
His hair stands on end, as if the hood he wore was charged with static electricity.
His clothes look as if he’s slept in them, but that’s not precisely true.
Between thrash metal and the attention of his guards, I suspect Nikolai Tarasov didn’t get a single minute of sleep last night.
Right on cue, Fiona Moran says, “You’re leaving me with no options.” She strikes the perfect aggrieved tone, angry enough that her voice carries across the cubicle farm.
“Twenty-four hours, Ms. Moran,” Bennett insists from inside the boardroom. “If we don’t have a complete list of your so-called donors by this time tomorrow, we begin picking up every known member of the Old Colony Crew. Starting with that rowhouse you call the dún.”
Tarasov zeroes in on Bennett’s voice first—it’s the loudest thing in a room filled with the clatter of typing on keyboards, with the occasional murmur of hard-working employees speaking into phones.
I clock the precise moment he recognizes Fiona.
His eyes go wide in a reaction he might have hidden if he wasn’t already swaying on his feet.
Fiona Moran is a legend in the world of organized crime. Everyone knows how she took over the Old Colony Crew. Everyone has seen the images of her at the Corman Gala, standing under the gigantic photo of her legendary father.
Now, she licks her lips as she cocks her hip. “Why Mr. Bennett,” she says, her tone like whiskey poured over charcoal. “That sounds like a threat.”
He clears his throat. “It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”
Tarasov’s eyes are busy. He scans the room like a professional, measuring dangers and calculating opportunities.
He reveals more visible shock as he takes in the sign over Megan’s desk: Mid-Atlantic Joint Task Force for the Interception and Interdiction of Organized Crime.
He can’t be familiar with the name—we’ve made it up—but he clearly recognizes the FBI and Homeland Security logos.
For the first time since the pakhan was snatched near St. Basil’s, he knows what he’s up against. I wonder how the noose feels, settling around his feckin’ neck.
Fiona snorts and turns on her four-inch Louboutins. Patrick Moran, her husband and enforcer, stands beside a chair in the waiting area. The only path for Fiona to take requires her to walk past Tarasov and his guards.
The Sawgrass men grip their prisoners’ arms tightly, forcing him back half a pace. Fiona storms past, hesitating only a heartbeat as she “discovers” the Russian kingpin. They don’t compete directly for territory, but neither one would hesitate to take over the entire Eastern seaboard.
Patrick steps forward, settling a protective hand on Fiona’s arm.
“Not here,” she says, glancing back at the boardroom.
“But what—” he starts to ask. I’m not sure how well he was briefed, if his protective concern is real or merely very well-acted.
“Not a word in public.” Fiona shoots a hate-filled glance back at Bennett, then allows her scorching gaze to linger on Tarasov. “We need to get home. Now.”
She lets Patrick guide her to the elevators, where she looks back with one more spiteful glare. And then the pair of them disappear to the street, to the airport, to Boston, and home.
Fiona’s job is done here. It didn’t take much time, and she didn’t need to deliver many lines.
But her presence in the boardroom provides a rock-solid foundation for Cole’s Big Store con.
Tarasov has seen another captain of organized crime harried by the task force.
He’s heard an ultimatum. Now he understands precisely what is at risk.
The Sawgrass guards force the pakhan over to the boardroom.
Tarasov drags his feet on the carpet. “I have been taken illegally,” he shouts.
His voice is rough, like his throat has been scraped by jute.
I wonder how long he bellowed in the dark last night, hollering for help that never came.
“This is a violation of my constitutional rights! You cannot hold me here!”
Some of the workers look up from their stations. A couple shake their heads, as if they hear such protests every day. A few swallow smiles and continue with their so-called work.
The guards move with admirable efficiency, marching Tarasov into the boardroom. They force him into his chair and chain his hands to the table.
Richardson and Bennett introduce themselves, formally providing Tarasov with the full name of the task force.
“I know my rights,” he says. “I get a phone call.”
“Not today,” Bennett says.
“Lawyer,” Tarasov snaps.
“I’m afraid there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” Richardson says. “Domestic terrorists are not entitled to counsel.”
“I am not a terrorist.”
“Said every terrorist in the history of the world,” says Bennett with a yawn.
“You cannot hold me here. I know my rights.”
“Wrong on both counts,” Bennett says.
And the interrogation begins.