Chapter 15 #2
“When my mother decided she wanted a child, she researched donors.”
“So she wasn’t involved with anyone.”
“No. No one she wanted to procreate with.”
Procreate, Brooks thought. That was a telling word.
“She’d reached a point in her life where she wanted a child.
That’s not accurate,” Abigail decided. “She wanted an offspring, and she had very specific, very detailed, requirements for the donor. My mother is a very intelligent woman, and naturally she wanted to produce an intelligent…offspring. She required high intellect, good health, including family medical history. She had physical requirements, in appearance and body type, stamina.”
“I get the picture.”
“When she’d determined the donor, she scheduled the conception date, through artificial insemination, to correlate with her own personal and professional calendar.
Naturally, she arranged the finest prenatal care available, and I was born through a scheduled cesarean section, and proved very healthy, of the proper weight and size.
She had, of course, already arranged for a nurse, so I was given excellent care, and tested and examined regularly to be certain my development was strong. ”
The birdsong, so happy, seemed out of place, as did the sudden jeweled whirl of a hummingbird toward a pot of scarlet dianthus.
“Do you know all this because you found out, or because she told you?”
“She told me. I always knew. The knowledge was part of my education. Education, along with my physical health, were priorities. My mother is exceptionally beautiful, and she had some disappointment in that while my features are pleasing enough, my coloring good, I didn’t reach the level in appearance she’d hoped for, but I made up for it with intellect and motor skills and retention. Overall, she was very satisfied.”
“Oh, baby.”
She hunched in when he put his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
“You’re just going to have to swallow that one.”
“I’m telling you this so you understand my basic genetic makeup.
My mother, while satisfied with me on the whole, never loved me or wished to.
She never accepted I might have my own goals or desires or plans.
Hers, for me, were again very specific and detailed.
For a very long time I thought she didn’t love me because I was lacking in some area, but I came to understand she simply didn’t love.
She has no capacity or aptitude for love, and no skills at displaying affection.
Factoring genetics and environment, I also lack the capacity.
I may not have the skills for relationships, but I understand emotions and affection are primary needs in developing and maintaining them. ”
Brooks thought, What a load of crap. But he structured his response more carefully. “Let me get this straight. Because your mother’s cold, selfish and appears to have all the finer feelings of a sand flea, you’re genetically predestined to be the same.”
“That’s very harsh.”
“I can be harsher.”
“There’s no need. When factoring both genetics and environment, what’s often termed nature and nurture—”
“I know what the hell it is.”
“Now you’re angry.”
“That’s a mild term for it, but not with you. Let me ask you something else. If you’re so genetically incapable of love and affection, how come you love that dog, and he loves you back. And don’t try to pass it off as training.”
“We need each other.”
“Need’s one part of it. If he got hurt or sick and couldn’t function as a guard dog, would you get rid of him?”
“Of course not.”
“Because it would be cold and selfish and downright mean, and you’re none of that. And because you love him.”
“He’s a dog, not a person. There are people who feel strongly for and about animals, and don’t have the same feelings for or about people.”
“You feel something for me.”
With no helpful answer, Abigail stared down into her wine.
“What about your father?”
“Donor.”
“Okay, what about the donor? If she didn’t tell you specifically who he was, you found out. You’re too smart to let that slide.”
“She wouldn’t give me his name or certain details. When I was twelve I…accessed the information.”
“She kept files.”
“My conclusion was—is—she felt it important to keep track of his health, any potential problem areas. So yes, she kept files. I hacked into them.”
“At twelve.”
“I’ve always had an interest in computers. He’s a physicist. Very successful and respected. He was in his early twenties when he donated, several years younger than my mother at the time.”
“Does he know about you?”
“No. It’s not done.”
“You could have contacted him.”
“Why? Why would I disrupt his life, his family? We have a biological connection and nothing more.”
“He has a family.”
“Yes, he married at thirty-one. At the time I accessed the information, he had one child and was expecting another. He has three children now. I’m not one of them. I’m the result of a donation.”
“Is he still married?”
“Yes.”
“So he can develop and maintain a relationship. You’ve got his genes, too.”
For a moment, a long moment, she watched the flight of the hummingbird—that sapphire blur—until it whizzed out of sight.
“Why would you want to be with someone whose skills and aptitude for personal connections are stunted?”
“Maybe I like the idea of watching them grow, and being part of it. Then there’s the fact that I’m hung up on you. Factor those together.”
“There are other reasons I shouldn’t let this continue. I can’t tell you what they are.”
“Yet. I know you’re on the run from something, something that scares you enough you need that dog, all this security, all those guns.
Whatever it is has you behind locks, actual and metaphorical.
When you trust me enough, when you figure out that needing help isn’t the same as being weak and needy, you’ll tell me.
But for now, I should fire up that grill. ”
She got to her feet when he did. “How much of your interest in me is wondering what’s behind the locks?”
She needed honesty, maybe more than most, so he’d give her honesty. “It started out that way. I still wonder, partly because a cop always wonders. But mostly now? When you opened those locks, even a little, Abigail, you got me. You got me,” he repeated, taking her hand, pressing it to his heart.
She looked at her hand, felt that strong, steady beat. And let herself go, let herself lay her cheek there. When his arms came around her, she squeezed her eyes shut and the emotions rose so fast, so hard and fast. To be held like this on a cool spring night by someone who cared.
It was like a miracle, even for someone who didn’t believe in them.
“I still don’t know what to do with this, with you. With any of it.”
“Let’s see how it goes.”
“I can try. Will you stay tonight?”
He pressed his lips to the crown of her head. “Thought you’d never ask.”
She stepped back, steadied herself by looking into his eyes. “I’ll go make a dressing for the bag o’ salad.”
And saw that quick flash of humor light his face.
“That’d be great.”
When she went inside, he walked over, took the cover off her grill. Oh, she had him, all right, he thought, more than was comfortable. But he believed he’d get used to it, just like he believed easing open those locks, a little at a time, would be worth the effort.
* * *
In Chicago, only two blocks from the club where Ilya had met Elizabeth Fitch one summer night, he toured the dingy apartment that housed one of their most profitable computer scam operations. He often oversaw this area himself, so while his presence generated some nerves, work continued smoothly.
Several operators worked computers, blasting out spam advertising job offers for work at home, Canadian pharmacies, online dating, free downloads.
Some would generate fees—handled by phone operators who conned those naive or desperate enough to call in.
Others would simply steal credit card information, which could be translated into quick profit or identity theft.
Here, the overhead was low, the profit rich and regular.
He’d personally designed a variation on the tried-and-true Nigerian scam that continued to be their top moneymaker.
It brought him considerable pride.
He enjoyed the work, and considered it an intellectual exercise. Business was good, increased from the previous year. No amount of warnings posted online, touted on the nightly news exposés, curbed the hunger in human nature for easy money.
And the only weapons needed to strip the foolish from their wallets were a computer and a phone.
He accepted violence, inflicted it when necessary, ordered it when it was warranted. But he preferred bloodless crime.
He considered himself a businessman, and would soon take a wife, make a family of his own. He would teach his sons to be businessmen, and to leave the blood to others. Men like Korotkii would always be useful, but he had higher plans for the sons he’d make.
He enjoyed hearing the phones ring, and the “operators” read the prepared script, improvising when necessary. “Yes, you can earn money at home! Increase your income, set your own schedule. For a small fee, we’ll provide you with all you need.”
Of course, they’d provide nothing of use, but the fee would already be deposited. The mark would be out just under forty American dollars. Really, a small price for a lesson learned.
He spoke briefly with the supervisor, made a note of the day’s take, then strode for the door.
He enjoyed, too, the communal breath of relief behind him as he stepped out the door.
He’d been born for power, and wore it as naturally as his favored Versace suits.
He walked out of the apartment building to his waiting car.
He slipped into the back, said nothing to the driver.
As the SUV pulled away from the curb, he texted his mistress.
He expected her to be ready for him in two hours.
Then he texted his fiancée. He’d be late but hoped to be finished with his meeting and other business by midnight.
The car pulled to the curb again outside the restaurant, closed tonight for a private party.
His father insisted on this face-to-face meeting every month, though, in Ilya’s opinion, so much could have been accomplished more efficiently through Skype and conference calls.
Still, Ilya saw some value to the personal connections, and there would be good food, good vodka, and the company of men.
Inside, he handed off his cashmere topcoat to the pretty, sloe-eyed brunette. When time allowed, he’d like to fuck her while she wore those black-framed glasses.
His father already sat with several others at the big table set in the main dining room. Sergei’s smile spread wide when he saw his son.
“Come, sit, sit. You are late.”
“I had some business.” Ilya bent down, kissed his father’s cheeks, then his uncle’s. “I have the numbers for the Fifty-first Street operation. I wanted to give them to you tonight. You’ll be pleased.”
“Very good.” Sergei poured Ilya’s vodka himself before lifting his glass. At seventy, he remained robust, a man who enjoyed life’s pleasures and rewards to the fullest.
“To family,” he toasted. “To friends and good business.”
They discussed business while they ate, and always at these meetings ate traditional Russian food.
Ilya spooned up borscht as he listened to reports from brigadiers and trusted soldiers.
Out of respect, he asked questions only when he received his father’s nod.
Over braised spring lamb, Ilya reported on the businesses he oversaw personally.
Problems were discussed—the arrest of a soldier on drug charges, a whore who’d required discipline, the interrogation and dispatch of a suspected informant.
“Misha will speak,” Sergei announced, “on the business of our people inside the police.”
Ilya pushed his plate aside. Too much food in the belly and he wouldn’t enjoy his mistress fully. He looked at his cousin as he sipped his wine.
“Pickto says he hasn’t yet been able to find how the information on some of our business is being fed to the FBI.”
“Then why do we pay him?” Sergei demanded.
“Yes, Uncle, I asked just that. He has warned us on some occasions in time for us to take steps to protect our interests, but he can’t identify the contact within the Bureau, or the method of information.
He believes the contact is one of three people, but they keep a tight lid on this. He asks for more time, and resources.”
“More money.”
“For bribes, he says.”
Misha, now the father of four, continued to eat with gusto. Ilya knew his cousin didn’t have a mistress to satisfy. “I don’t question his loyalty, but I begin to think he, and the two others we have in place, aren’t high enough on the food chain to meet our needs.”
“We will look into these three people. Ilya, you and Misha will take this business. Whoever this FBI police is, whoever the informant, we will end it. This costs us money, men, time. And offends.”
Now Sergei pushed aside his plate. “This brings me to old business. We don’t forget Elizabeth Fitch.”
“There’s no contact with her mother,” Ilya began. “None with the police that we have ever found. If she continues to live, she lives in fear. She’s no threat.”
“As long as she lives, she’s a threat. And again, an insult. This Keegan, we pay him, and he’s useful. But he doesn’t find her. The others, they cannot find her. She is one woman.” He banged his fist on the table. “How can we hold our pride if we are defeated by one woman?”
“We won’t stop looking,” Ilya assured him.
“No, we will never stop. It’s a matter of honor. Yakov?”
“Yes, Uncle.” The years sat lightly on Korotkii, as they did on a man who enjoyed his work.
“Speak to Keegan. Remind him why this is important. And speak to Pickto as well. Money is motivation, yes. So is fear. Make them afraid.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Good. This is good. Now.” Sergei clapped his hands together. “We will have dessert.”