Downfall Read online

  “I have an apartment above the bar,” I told the officer. “It has a separate entrance in the back. Is it all right if I go up there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.” I moved away from the crowd that was watching the police—a mix of tourists and neighborhood regulars; of the homeless who’d made this neighborhood their home; of employees of the vintage music shops, the clothing stores, the other bars, the fancy grocery at the end of the street.

  I went up to the apartment. I opened the door and saw a man tapping furiously at a keyboard. He had a bald head; wore a graying goatee and old-fashioned eyeglasses, narrow and black like my grandfather’s, and was in his late forties with a spare, lean build.

  “Hello, Felix.”

  Felix Neare—The Select’s manager—stood up from the computer. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I thought it best to make sure everything up here was safe. The cops didn’t search up here.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Mila called. They’re safe; they’re away from…whatever this is.”

  “They headed back to New Orleans?”

  “Well, via Los Angeles. Mila wanted to keep Daniel and Leonie with her until we knew more information about tonight.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said.

  “What the hell happened? Is this tied to the poisoning of Monroe?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s part of the Round Table, and now our bar’s attacked. No way is that a coincidence.”

  I felt sick.

  “I’ve been busy cleaning any incriminating Round Table evidence off the computers. Just in case you didn’t get released.”

  “They didn’t arrest me yet, but they could decide to charge me.” I explained how speaking Russian to Rostov had been part of the eyewitness accounts and how it had raised DeSoto’s suspicions.

  “Good thing I’ve also found the blueprints for each county jail,” Felix said. “In case I need to break you out tomorrow.”

  “Wow, you’re prepared.” I managed a smile.

  “I even have a shovel.”

  Felix Neare. I’d read a file on him Mila sent me when I arrived in San Francisco. Felix had moved four months ago to San Francisco. He’d worked for the Round Table for seven years, starting up bars/safe houses as a manager, then moving on once the bar was established. Like most of the other bar managers, he had a crime in his past that he’d been wrongly accused of and cleared through the subtle influence of the Round Table. Mila’s report simply said he’d been wrongly tied to embezzlement from his employer. He’d eventually proven his innocence, but the scandal had ruined him; his wife had committed suicide over it. A tragedy. The Round Table had given him a new, fresh start far away from his old life. I hadn’t broached his past; he hadn’t asked about mine.

  It was the same story, I had found, with the managers of my bars in London, New York, Amsterdam, Brussels, and more; the manager’s life had been saved by this group in the shadows, and in return they were willing to help the Round Table fight its own war for justice in the world. They’d helped me find my kidnapped infant son. You cannot buy gratitude like that.

  “This…I don’t see how this connects to Dalton Monroe’s case.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t. But we have to know.” He didn’t look at me. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “What?”

  “You joined the CIA, right? Because of your brother.”

  I supposed Mila had filled Felix in on my history. My older brother Danny, a relief worker, had been slaughtered by extremists. He was trying to follow in our parents’ footsteps, and he’d wanted me to go with him to Afghanistan. I’d stayed at Harvard instead, and after he was killed I joined the CIA two days after graduation. “Yes.”

  “Did you do that because you wanted justice or revenge? They’re different things.”

  His questions surprised me. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I think we’re in danger, and I want to know if you make decisions out of emotion.”

  I stared at him.

  “You don’t want the Monroe incident and tonight’s attack to be related. And I’m worried you’ll blind yourself to a possible danger, just because you don’t want there to be danger. You just want to serve drinks and run the bars.”

  Felix was right. Dead right. I couldn’t dodge this now.

  I picked up my phone. “I want to talk to Leonie,” I said quietly. But her phone was off. So was Mila’s. They might be in the air still, depending on when they’d been able to get on a flight.

  I stripped off the bloodied shirt, the ruined suit jacket. I washed down the fauxhawk, combed my hair smooth. I put on a black turtleneck and black jeans.

  First stop: find out more about the man with the knife. I pulled Grigori Rostov’s ID from my wallet. The address was in Outer Richmond.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Felix asked as I headed down the back stairs.

  “You’re right. We have to make sure this isn’t an attack on us specifically. I want to make sure this is a coincidence. And if it is, then it’s not going to be my problem.”

  9

  Thursday, November 4, late evening

  IT HAD TAKEN JOHN BELIAS a while to decide he was willing to risk breaking into Grigori Rostov’s house, after what he’d learned about Rostov in a few hours on his computer. Glenn might leap before he looked, but not John Belias.

  Finally, he decided it was a necessary risk. Roger wanted to go, but this was an information issue—what did the Russian really know about him and his operation? And what might the police find once they identified the dead man? So Belias went instead.

  Grigori Rostov’s house was in Outer Richmond; it was on 35th Street, off Geary, north of Golden Gate Park. The street was on a gentle slope (for San Francisco) and Rostov, according to an online address search, resided on the top floor of the house. The front of the house had been redone in a modern look and featured a large metal trellis that led up to a small open patio. No cars were parked in the small driveway. Only the light by the door glowed. He walked up the driveway, up the stairs to the top-floor apartment. The lower apartment had a FOR LEASE sign in it, which would make it easier for him if there were no neighbors to overhear his searching.

  The lock wasn’t sophisticated and Belias worked the picks with practiced ease. He felt the little odd rush he felt whenever he invaded another’s private space, whether physical or online or mental. He closed the door behind him and drew the gun from his black jacket, listening for sounds of occupancy.

  But there was only darkness and silence, and he risked turning on a small penlight. He drew all the curtains. If Rostov lived alone, this would be so much easier. He searched the apartment quickly.

  An empty vodka bottle on the counter; magazines from the mother country, including a Cyrillic edition of Playboy; a CD by the Moscow rap group Centr.

  Russians. He frowned. For a moment he thought of Svetlana, the clear purity of her voice ringing in his ears; and then his brain went silent, like he’d slammed a door. Focus. Two bedrooms, one cluttered, one neat.

  That meant a roommate. And the police might arrive at any time; if you ended up on a slab, they tended to come look for family to tell. He might only have minutes to see exactly what Grigori Rostov knew about him.

  Or perhaps the police had already been here. Which meant a grieving roommate, returning from identifying the body, might be back at any moment.

  Two men shared this apartment; he could see photos of both of them on the stereo, toasting the camera with small clear glasses while a tropical sunset gloried the sky behind them. They looked enough alike to be brothers. At the safe house, he’d hacked his way into the California driver’s license database and found a picture of Grigori Rostov. Here on the shelves there were photos of Grigori with a young blonde woman and a smiling lady who might be his mother in the messy room. Lovers and parents were nothing but a way to ti
e you down, keep you from your potential. Except Svetlana, she’d been his muse. Belias pushed her out of his thoughts again. He could not be distracted.

  There was a laptop on the desk. It wasn’t even passworded. Laziness disappointed Belias but it was a constant among the stupid. Holding the penlight in his mouth, he searched the hard drive for his name.

  And found matches.

  He read the e-mails between Rostov and what he guessed was an anonymous account set up by Glenn. And his face began to burn with horror and shame.

  His name is John Belias—not his real name, but when we’ve got him, we’ll force him to tell us who he truly is…So when we’ve caught the young woman, we’ll bring her to him. He may have a man named Roger with him, and Roger you’ll have to kill immediately. He is highly trained and dangerous. And then you will subdue Belias and take him to the address I gave you…You don’t let him near a weapon or near a computer. He can kill you with either. He doesn’t look like much of a threat, but you don’t ever underestimate him. He must be kept bound. Do not kill him. I need him alive. I need his brain working.

  He can tell us who all the others are.

  Betrayal.

  Betrayal was the darkest poison, the hottest acid.

  After all I’ve done for you, Belias thought. I made you, Glenn Marchbanks. I made you. He deleted the e-mails from the server and wiped Grigori Rostov’s account clean. He turned off the laptop, and he flipped the laptop on its back. He cracked the chassis open with a small tool. He carefully pulled the hard drive free of its moorings, cradling it in his gloved hands, slipping it into his coat pocket. No backup hard drive.

  And heard someone at the door. Not the scrape of a key.

  He tongued off the penlight and drew his suppressor-capped gun, stepping back into the shadows of the bedroom. He waited. A physical confrontation was more Roger’s kind of problem to solve, but Roger had taught him self-defense, both armed and unarmed. And Belias thought he’d been a better pupil than Glenn Marchbanks.

  The door opened and closed.

  Whoever came inside was very still. Listening.

  I hear you, Belias thought. Do you hear me?

  A flashlight came on, swept across the den. Belias stayed still, hidden in the darkness.

  From his vantage point he could see part of the den, the entrance to the other bedroom. He remained very still. He saw the light move from the den into the other bedroom, on the opposite side of the condo. Stealthily. Not walking like he belonged. Not turning on lights.

  Then a moment later, the intruder came into the bedroom.

  “Hello.” Belias leveled the gun at him.

  The man froze.

  “Turn on the light,” Belias said.

  The man did. Six feet tall, dressed in a dark turtleneck and black jeans, dark blondish hair, blue eyes. Glenn’s description of the bartender who’d killed the Russian.

  “Well, this is awkward,” the bartender said.

  Aren’t you a cool little customer? Belias thought. “I know who you are. Your reputation precedes you.”

  The bartender tilted his head.

  “I like a vodka martini, three olives. Go make me one.”

  The bartender said nothing.

  “I normally prefer gin but I bet our Russian friends here have vodka on hand,” Belias said. “Are you a Russian, too?”

  “No, I’m not.” Clearly an American.

  “That’s a start as I don’t much care for Russians,” Belias said in Russian.

  “Bigotry is ugly,” the bartender answered in English.

  “It’s a mutual dislike,” Belias said, switching back to English. “What exactly are you, because I think you’re not just a bartender?”

  “You’ve committed brain surgery on his computer.” The bartender glanced toward the Russian’s upended laptop. “I don’t think you’re Mr. Rostov’s roomie.”

  Belias nearly laughed. “You always call someone you kill mister?”

  “We weren’t introduced.”

  “You are a mystery, and I hate those, but you are interesting. Curious about the man you killed?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  “You seem to think I won’t actually shoot you,” Belias said. Most people cowered in front of a gun. This man didn’t.

  “You don’t want to shoot me because you have questions and you correctly assume I have answers.”

  The bartender’s calm began to work under Belias’s skin. “You kill a man and then you come to his house? Really? That’s kind of creepy. What are you?”

  The bartender studied him. “I wanted to know who he was. Who sent him.”

  A cold bolt ran through Belias’s arm. “What does that mean?”

  “I know hired muscle when I see it. The whole way he acted toward the young woman. She was a stranger to him and him to her. He was just doing a job.”

  “Is that normally a bartending skill? Classification of thuggery?”

  “Did you send him?”

  Belias laughed. “This is an interesting collision between you and me. Now. Tell me who you are or I’m going to start shooting you in delicate areas.” He gestured vaguely with the gun. “It will be gross and bloody and I am not optimistic these guys own a mop.”

  And this made Belias’s heart sing, because the bartender didn’t blink. “It sounds terrible. Here’s the problem. You’re connected to this dead Russian but the police don’t know that. I am not connected to this dead Russian but they think I am. I have friends stashed outside who will kill you if you kill me.”

  “Bluffing.”

  The bartender studied the gutted laptop. “Is that why you wanted to clean off his laptop? Because he had proof you sent him after the woman.”

  “I didn’t send this loser after anyone,” Belias said. The bartender’s lack of visible fear impressed Belias. Fear was the best, most potent weapon. Fear was golden. He needed to know who this man was. Glenn had already betrayed him by trying to seize power and he had no sense how deep the damage was. “You did me a favor killing the Russian, bartender. The evening has been most, um, instructive.”

  “Monroe.”

  “Is that your name?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s not mine, either.”

  “Monroe,” the bartender said again.

  “Monroe? Marilyn? President James? What?”

  “I think you’ve answered my question. Tonight was a random encounter. We don’t need to dance together.”

  “You mean did I send those guys to your bar?” Belias said. “Do you mean was I targeting you? No. But we have collided now, and what are we going to do about that?”

  “Your ring. It’s like the charm the suburban dad wore on a necklace.” He pointed at Belias’s finger, at the delicate silver band marked with spaces and bars. “Interesting symbol. Are you two engaged?”

  Belias smiled. “Are you telling me you don’t know the woman you risked your life to save?”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Well. You could be lying. I can’t decide.” Belias tilted his head. “I find you interestingly capable. That’s not random.”

  “I don’t have a beef with you if you don’t have one with me,” the bartender said. “Just stay away from me and my bar and we’re out of each other’s business. Oh, one thing more.”

  “What?”

  “Give up on hurting the woman.”

  “I have the gun yet you’re telling me what I’m going to do. Very nice. I like that. I want to have a drink at your bar with you, friend.”

  “I’m not your friend,” the bartender said.

  “Not yet. But I’m an optimist. So why did you come here?”

  “I want to know who Rostov is.”

  “Why?”

  “In case he has friends who want revenge against me.”

  “Now that I do believe. Back up slowly.”

  The bartender obeyed, moving back into the den, standing by the couch. Using his elbow, Belias flicked on a ceiling light. “L
et’s sit, talk. I’m facing a challenge, so are you. Maybe we can work together.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m impressed by a…bartender who can take down a Russian Special Forces veteran. I don’t want to hurt your girlfriend. Truly, I don’t. What has happened between us was a misunderstanding. You get her to talk to me, let me explain. We can talk to her mom together. You get me that video she has and I’ll make it worth your while. And I can protect you from the Russian’s friends. And he has friends. A whole, bitter violent family of them, more than a bartender can handle. They will kill you. I can protect you.”

  “I’m not interested. I don’t know her. This has nothing to do with me.”

  “You’re in this now,” Belias said simply. “You know too much…” And then the front door opened and a thick-necked man entered the apartment.

  Belias swung the gun toward the man.

  10

  Thursday, November 4, late evening

  I’D KILLED ONE MAN TONIGHT; maybe I could save a second one.

  I threw myself at the man in black, slamming into him, trying to get a hand on the gun. It spit fire, and the hiss of a suppressor is always louder than you think it is. I heard screaming in Russian from the man who’d just arrived—I presumed it was Rostov’s roommate. He was built big like Rostov—they could be brothers. I’d knocked the man in black to the couch and was intent on breaking his grip on the gun. He was stronger than he looked. He grunted as I wrested it from him, slamming my knee into his throat.

  I levered free the gun, and then the Russian swung a heavy backpack that had been on his shoulder hard into my hand. You’d think he’d run for the street but he didn’t. I didn’t have a tight grip on the gun, and it flew over the couch and landed on the carpet toward a corner of the room. The big Russian swung the backpack again and this time I caught it and pulled hard. It brought him into the heel of my hand.