Crime Spells Part 11

I stopped at run-down storefront, dark green paint peeling off the weathered wood in long curls like shavings coming off pencil sharpener. There were dead chickens in window, hanging upside down. Dead chickens and dead rats and dead snakes and G.o.d knows what else, but all of it skinned and ready for pot.

"Traditional Chinese Remedies," said sign over window, and that made me laugh. Sure, nothing's more traditional than heroin.

I shouldered my way through door. Store inside was tiny, six feet front to back and same side to side.

A wizened old man sat behind a polished mahogany counter watching me kick snow off fine leather boots I'd conjured up night before.

Behind him were shelves of everything pract.i.tioner of Chinese magic might need. I saw scorpions crawling over each other in gla.s.s jar, individually wrapped tiger p.e.n.i.ses, stoppered vials of snake venom, ground sea-horse, duck tongues, million other things. Shelves went up forever, so high I couldn't see ceiling.

"Valeri Kozlov?" said the man behind the counter. He was short, not much over five feet, and he really did look wise. I might've mistaken him for Confucius if he hadn't been dressed in jeans and a black Rush tee-s.h.i.+rt.

"Da," I said.

"I have your item, just as you asked." He showed me a square box, ten inches on a side, and pulled off the top.

Inside was a blackened monkey's hand, desiccated and curled into a claw.

I blinked. I'd never spoken with this man before, so why the "gift"? Was this some obscure message from Zhang Shaoming?

I smiled graciously. "Thank you. May we discuss after meeting?"

He bowed his head and raised a hinged section of the countertop. I stepped through and into sudden darkness. Just like that, I was somewhere else.

I pulled out my cell and glanced at backlit screen: "NO SERVICE." My network promises coverage in all of United States and three parallel dimensions, so wherever I was, it wasn't store.

I turned in a slow circle, seeing nothing but darkness. I turned again and this time saw a white light s.h.i.+ning down on circular table fas.h.i.+oned from polished teak.

Two men sat at table. One I recognized as Zhang Shaoming, Chicago overlord of the Black Dragons.

Zhang was dressed like he just stepped out of GQ: periwinkle polo s.h.i.+rt and charcoal slacks. I'm not sure how old he was (it was rumored he'd been friends with one of the Ming emperors), but he looked late thirties, dark hair smoothed back, eyes black, handsome face relaxed and calm.

Next to him was a wisp of a man, frail and cadaverous. His clothes hung off him, his bony arms swimming in the sleeves of his white Oxford s.h.i.+rt. He wore dark gla.s.ses.

He looked like some species of undead. If Zhang thought he could unnerve me with zombie, he was badly mistaken. We Russians know zombies. During Soviet era Russia was even ruled by zombies. Twice.

Missing was any sign of muscle. That scared the living h.e.l.l out of me. No one had bothered to take the Glock snuggled up against the small of my back, and there was no muscle. That meant Zhang wasn't worried about me at all.

I felt a little flutter of fear deep in my gut.

We were meeting under an a.s.sumption of neutrality, and my safety was guaranteed during meeting. That guarantee was built upon Black Dragon and Krasny Mafiya desire to avoid war.

But if Zhang had already decided that we had hit him, my life was forfeit.

I bowed politely. "It is always an honor, Zhang Shaoming."

"Valeri Kozlov of the Red Mafia," said Zhang in a pleasant, conversational tone. "Or should I say Krasny Mafiya?"

I shrugged.

"Someone has stolen my property, Valeri Kozlov."

I swallowed in a dry mouth. Right to business? No intricate courtesy accompanied by a cup of jade oo-long? This was not the Zhang Shaoming I knew.

He had to be angry.

"We also learned this," I said, "through our police sources."

"And you are here to tell me it wasn't you." I actually heard the tightness in Zhang's voice. Very angry.

I started to sweat. "I am here to tell you truth," I said. "Krasny Mafiya had no part in this."

"Then who do you think it was?"

I shrugged. "Maybe Yakuza. Or Vietnamese. Or Italians."

He snorted. "The Italians?"

"I do not know who it was. I do know it was not us."

And that was the truth. Georgi hadn't brought in any out-of-town talent, and the only Krasny Mafiya muscle in Chicago who could take down five Chinese magicians without being caught was him and me. Georgi wouldn't take risk if there was someone else he could use, and my evening had been spent with Charlene the blonde hooker.

Zhang studied my face for a long moment. "Please sit with us, Valeri."

I pulled out chair and sat down. The zombie still hadn't moved.

Zhang leaned across the table. "Why do you think Georgi Dorbayeva sent you to this meeting?"

"After what happened, you must be, ah, angry. And so a meeting like this carries with it certain... risks."

Zhang nodded. "So Dorbayeva would not come himself. Instead he sent someone who could be trusted to speak for him but who could also be sacrificed."

I said nothing.

"Dorbayeva has been head of the Russian mob in Chicago for eleven years," said Zhang. "How do you think he has lasted so long?"

"He is a great and terrible magician," I said. "And he is surrounded by army of loyal supporters who would avenge his death."

"Like you," said Zhang.

"Like me," I said.

"I can't help but wonder if your loyalty has been repaid."

"What do you mean?"

"There are few in the Red Mafia who could steal our product despite our careful attention. If Dorbayeva took the heroin and sent you to this meeting..." His voice trailed off suggestively.

A twinge of doubt twisted my stomach. Still, I leaned forward and flashed him a wintry smile. "You will not turn me against my brother."

Zhang sat back and smiled innocently. "Of course not. We are just having a friendly talk."

I grunted.

"I have always admired you, Valeri. Powerful like Dorbayeva, but subtle, too. Smart." His eyebrows went up. "And courteous. So few Russians appreciate the value of courtesy. I have found our discussions to be most productive."

The zombie took off his dark gla.s.ses, revealing blank eyes like hardboiled eggs.

"I would like to keep it that way," murmured Zhang.

That's when I felt first feathery touch in my mind.

The zombie wasn't a zombie, he was sifter.

Right then I went for the Glock, but nothing happened. I couldn't move. Not even a twitch of my finger.

Zhang smiled. "The first thing Mr. Xi took from you was muscle control."

I tried to shout. Nothing.

"Don't worry," said Zhang in an easy voice. "You won't need to talk for this next part. Mr. Xi will search your mind for the appropriate information and bring it to the surface where I can read it. Now." He leaned forward. "Where were you last night, Valeri?"

I felt other seeping through my mind, trickling in like cold mountain stream working its way under and around and through stones. I tried to fight it, but it was in me and I just couldn't- And then I was with Charlene, my hand combing through her thick blonde mane, my mouth on hers, tasting salt and vodka and bitter European tobacco, urgently pulling off her blouse, my hands on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, astringent smell of s.e.x, her body slick with sweat, moving together, together, together until- Suddenly a flash of somewhere else: silver bright moonlight on snow, a crooked path leading down to darkness, darkness beneath a stone bridge. Something there-a, a crucifix-bone white in the moon's pale light, and then- And then Charlene's body is moving under me, rocking with an ancient rhythm that is its own kind of magic, and my mind is lost to my need and- I came out of the trance, trembling, soaked with sweat, my breath harsh and ragged in my ears.

"Well," said Zhang. "It seems you had a better evening than I did last night."

"Is dangerous," I rasped. "To use mind sifter. Sometimes." I paused to breathe. "There is damage."

"It is more dangerous to cross me, Valeri. A fact I trust you will share with Georgi Dorbayeva at your earliest possible opportunity."

And then I was standing in the store again, so stunned that I barely registered it when wise, old man in the Rush tee-s.h.i.+rt slipped the square box into pocket of my overcoat.

I fled into the winter cold. Head down, hands thrust into the pockets of my overcoat, scurrying up Federal Street. The sky was overcast, lending the berms of snow between sidewalk and street its gray color. The wind came up, picking up the chill off the lake. I huddled into my overcoat, but it didn't do any good. The cold knifed right through thin sh.e.l.l of warmth.

At least my feet were warm, thanks to my new boots-brown leather lined with lamb's wool.

We Russians know how to deal with the cold.

Not to mention Chinese.

Despite the cold, the street was filled with people going about their business. I pa.s.sed mult.i.tiered temple, with three green tile roofs, the last topped with a scarlet and gold spire. I pa.s.sed a bakery just as woman stepped out and was tempted by smell of ginger and warm bread. A dragon fas.h.i.+oned from golden light danced and capered over fireworks store. Well, the new year was coming up.

As I walked, an uncomfortable picture started to form.

First, mind sifter. Zhang had taken big risk using one on me. If the sifter had broken the mind of an apparatchik of Russian chieftain during a neutral meeting, he would've set off war. And war between Krasny Mafiya and Black Dragons would be brutal and dangerous.

So. Zhang had to be after something worth the risk. He wanted to know who hit him, yes, but there was something more important.

He wanted his heroin.

Only thing it could be. Forty-seven kilos of heroin was street value of 32 million dollars, American.

But we didn't take it, yes? After all, Zhang let me go.

Something kept returning to me: the image that interrupted my memory of Charlene's fierce lovemaking. Secluded bridge at night. Christian cross.

Surely Zhang had seen it, too.

Which meant he only let me go so his men could follow me right to the stolen drugs.

I had claimed we didn't steal Chinese heroin. Zhang believed we did and thought Georgi was using it as opportunity to rid himself of a dangerous rival.

Me.

But there was third possibility.

What if Georgi had ordered me to steal Chinese heroin and then covered up my true memory with false one? Such a thing was possible, but dangerous. Overuse of memory sculpting could leave victim lost in a maze of fantasy, unsure of what was real and what was not, lost to everyday world.

In bad sculpting jobs sometimes the actual memory (bridge) leaked through even though prompt (cross) was needed to bring true memories back. But Georgi would've gotten me the best sculptor in city.

Unless he wanted me dead.

Americans have always compared Russia to bear, but the truth is she is more like a pack of wolves. We follow lead wolf.

Until he shows even slightest sign of weakness.

Then the pack is on him, snarling and snapping, until the snow is stained bright red.

Maybe Georgi was looking to take out the second wolf as a warning to all challengers: no weakness here.

I turned the idea over in my head. After my father was killed by the KGB in the eighties, Dorbayevas took me in. Georgi and I had grown up together, we were brothers.

Still, I couldn't rule it out.

Tightness in my gut returned. I am not religious man, but I said little prayer to St. Peter. Please don't let it be Georgi.

The key to it all was the H. If I could just find heroin, I'd also find truth.

I stopped and looked up. Some time in my wandering I'd walked to a small park: dormant see-saws and swings blanketed with snow, naked elms mixing with lightly frosted pines, an unused path curling through the trees.

And beyond it the arc of a stone bridge, a pool of darkness at its heart.

While I stood there, it started to snow, big heavy flakes sticking to the cold, cold earth. The snow seemed to soak up all the sounds of the city, covering the park in a blanket of white silence.

There is a magic that requires no spells or charms, a magic older and more powerful than mankind itself.

The ancient forces of the earth had claimed this little park as their own. As long as silence of snow reigned here, no human being could follow me into this place. I would not be observed.

So much for Chinese tailing me to drugs.