Blindside (Michael Bennett) Read online

  I said through the open window, “Forgive me if I don’t trust the word of an FBI agent telling me he’s doing me a favor. And as a New Yorker, your Boston accent makes it sound even less plausible.”

  “Always with the wisecracks. Shut up and get in the car.” He waited for a moment and added, “Now.”

  I nodded to the Estonian cop and slipped into the front seat of the Peugeot.

  As we pulled away, Fiore said, “The Estonian cops couldn’t care less what US law enforcement is doing in their country. As long as we don’t cause problems. And that’s the only reason you’re here, Detective Bennett. To cause problems.”

  “And how would you know that, Special Agent Fiore?”

  “Because I’m not a dumbass. You think I don’t know who helped you escape at the airport?”

  “Maybe you’re not as stupid as you look.”

  Fiore chuckled. “I could say the same about you.”

  I said, “So we’re fighting a turf war four thousand miles from home?”

  “It’s not a turf war. You have no jurisdiction. And now your ass is going home.”

  I said, “You don’t even know exactly why I’m here. I’m looking for a missing girl.”

  “I know, I know. Spoiled rich girl whose father could fire you.”

  “It’s not like that. He hasn’t threatened me or offered me anything. You don’t understand. She’s fallen in with a group of cybercriminals. She could be in danger.”

  He pulled the car roughly to the curb and turned to me. His voice ticked up in volume. “No, you don’t understand. She’s with that group. She’s helping them. They’ve caused all kinds of shit and made enemies on both sides of the law. Even the goddamn yakuza thinks they’ve been disrespected. A Colombian cartel wants them to pay tribute. And don’t get me started on the Russians. Who knows what those dickwads will do.”

  “She may be a kidnap victim. I might even have a location. A warehouse over on Tartu Maantee, across from a café named Toit’s City.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Too dangerous. We can’t have a shoot-out in Tallinn. It’s not the South Side of Chicago. I intend to get you to the airport and sit with you until your flight at 2100 local time. You’ll be back in New York tomorrow. As I understand it, you’re a pretty decent homicide dick. Go back to solving murders.”

  I gave him a sideways glance as an idea popped into my head. “You had to be some kind of real cop before the FBI.” The real cop dig was inadvertent. Every big-city detective knows the FBI hates that. It just came naturally.

  Fiore was used to it. He proudly said, “Brookline, Mass. How could you tell?”

  “The ‘homicide dick’ comment. Only an old-school cop would use a term like that.”

  He nodded his agreement.

  “I can’t believe a cop would let a missing girl go without any investigation. You’ve been with the Feebs too long.”

  “Suck it, Mr. NYPD. I’m just following orders.”

  “So were the guards at Auschwitz.”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  I sighed and looked down at my lap. Then I set the trap. “I guess you know all about me.”

  “More than I care to.”

  “So you know my grandfather is a Catholic priest.”

  “It’s about the only thing redeeming I’ve heard about you.”

  “He asked me to pick up research documents while I’m here. They can’t be mailed or shipped. They’re at a Russian Orthodox Church named St. Laszlo’s. Do you know it?”

  “Sure. It’s not a main tourist attraction like Alexander Nevsky, up on the hill, but I’ve passed it a million times.”

  “If I leave the country quietly, will you just let me pick up the envelope first? At least I’ll accomplish one thing on this trip.” I felt a little guilty pulling the Catholic card, but Fiore relented.

  “As long as it only takes a minute.”

  CHAPTER 62

  CHRISTOPH AND OLLIE had wasted no time once their Nordica flight landed early in the morning. Henry had someone meet them at the airport who provided a car and a couple of Czech pistols, but Christoph still had to run by their apartment and pick up his favorite knife. He never knew when he might need it.

  Ollie had slept only a couple of hours, but he seemed alert and ready to go. Christoph often marveled at his partner’s ability to bounce back after a hard night of partying. Although he’d seen that hash had less of an effect on Ollie than heroin.

  They were lucky to catch the American cop just as he walked out of his hotel. They followed the cab and waited for the right moment to strike. Henry had instructed them to capture the detective and bring him back to their current headquarters. As a last resort, they were authorized to shoot him.

  From the very beginning, Ollie mocked the American cop. He laughed at the way the cop stood in front of the hotel, waiting for a cab. He was tall and handsome and looked like a statue. Ollie stuck his hand in his shirt like Napoleon and posed. He said, “Why is an American detective here? Maybe he can scare criminals into surrendering in New York, but does he realize he has no pull here?”

  Christoph laughed. He didn’t know why the American detective was here or what his interest in Henry was. All he knew was that his boss wanted the cop brought to him and that Henry paid well. For someone who made his living beating and killing people, it was a pretty simple task.

  They were both shocked to see the cop go directly to the warehouse where Henry used to have an operation. This guy was well connected and informed.

  Ollie said, “Let’s grab him as soon as he comes out of the warehouse. We can slip him into the back seat without anyone noticing.”

  “What if he gives us a fight?”

  “Henry said we could shoot him. You stand by with your pistol in case he gives me any shit.”

  Christoph shrugged. His partner’s plan was simple and direct. He liked it.

  The hitch came when they noticed an Estonian policeman they recognized approach the entrance to the warehouse.

  Ollie said, “What’s that uptight prick doing here?”

  “Probably the same thing as us.”

  “Too bad Henry couldn’t get him on the payroll.”

  Christoph said, “You think Henry would appreciate it if we blasted both of them right now?”

  The decision was moot when a green Peugeot pulled up and the detective got inside.

  Ollie said, “What should we do? Probably stay with him for a while, huh?”

  Christoph had to agree.

  CHAPTER 63

  I CALLED MY grandfather.

  Fiore made me put the phone on speaker so he could hear everything we said. It was a pretty smart move. Too bad I had confidence that my grandfather was craftier than any FBI agent ever born.

  He answered his personal residence phone immediately. He had a slight scratch in his throat and I knew I had woken him from a sound sleep.

  I said, “Hey, Grandpa, it’s Michael calling from Estonia.” Me calling him “Grandpa” would’ve immediately alerted him that something was up. I could tell by the pause he was trying to figure it out.

  He said, “What time is it there, Michael? Because it’s god-awful early here. Everything all right?”

  “Sorry. I forgot you’re seven hours behind us in New York.”

  “How’s the trip so far?”

  I could tell he was stalling as he figured out what was going on. He had to hear that we were on speakerphone. I wasn’t going to make the obvious move and tell him. That might tip off the FBI agent that we were planning something.

  “Everything’s good. I’m coming home early.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The FBI is forcing me to go home. In fact, an agent is driving me to the airport right now. Can you call your friend at St. Laszlo’s and tell him I’ll pick up that reference material you needed?”

  Seamus played it perfectly. All he said was “You bet, boyo.”

  I thanked him and hung up. I looked over at Bill Fiore and sai
d, “Satisfied?”

  He nodded.

  “I won’t tell an elderly priest that a good Catholic boy from Brookline, Massachusetts, didn’t trust him. And that you made me talk to him on speaker.”

  Fiore visibly softened for a moment. “I know you’re not a bad guy. My guess is you’re over here for all the right reasons. But the FBI has to maintain a relationship with all the countries that allow us to operate within their borders. I can’t have every hotshot cop in the US coming over here, thinking they can do whatever they want.”

  “How many cops want to come to Estonia?”

  “You have no idea how much cybercrime originates from here. Teenagers with access to high-speed internet are figuring out schemes to bilk old people out of money in the US. Every swinging dick in this country has a computer.”

  “Sounds like it’s a good idea for me to leave.”

  “Finally you’re making some sense.”

  CHAPTER 64

  THANK GOD ST. LASZLO’S was on the way to the hotel, where I still needed to pick up my carry-on bag. It was hard enough to convince the FBI agent to bring me to the church, let alone to let me get my bag before we headed to the airport.

  The church was certainly not as grand as the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral on the hill in Old Town; it looked more like a suburban church in Baltimore. But it was still clearly Orthodox, with the three horizontal bars on the cross, the bottom bar at an angle and much smaller than the middle bar.

  There were no tourists here. Only a few cars were in the parking lot alongside the church, probably the staff vehicles and something for the priest to drive.

  We parked on the street directly in front, where a walkway lined with budding bushes led to the main entrance.

  I opened the door, and Fiore opened the driver’s door. He just looked at me and said, “You think I’m going to let you just walk away? I’m with you until I see your smiling face walk down the Jetway to your plane.”

  This could get tricky. I considered how far I’d be willing to go to escape the FBI’s custody.

  A priest in his clerical cassock stepped out the front door and waved to me. He was nothing like I had expected. I don’t know why I had assumed a friend of my grandfather’s would also be an elderly man, but this priest was in his early fifties with slightly graying hair. He looked to be in pretty good shape and had clear, blue eyes.

  He hurried down the steps and along the walkway, extending his hand. “You have got to be Seamus’s grandson, Michael. I would see the resemblance anywhere.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. But I shook his hand and thanked him. I said, “This is my”—I paused for a moment, then finished—“friend, Bill Fiore.”

  The priest said, “I’m Martin Zlatic, but everyone calls me Marty.” His accent was almost unnoticeable.

  We chatted for a minute about some of the work my grandfather had done and his interest in history. I guess we went on too long because the FBI agent said, “I hate to break this up, but can we grab your grandfather’s envelope and get going?”

  Marty said, “I’m so sorry. Yes, of course. Follow me, please.”

  If my grandfather had called and tipped Marty off, he was one of the best actors I had ever met.

  He took a moment to show us the altar, mentioning that his congregation stood during mass, which explained why there were no pews. I thought about some of the sermons I’d sat through in my childhood—that was a long time to stand.

  I knew the clock was ticking. Whatever this priest had in store for me, I hoped he did it soon. Fiore was getting more impatient by the second and could call this whole thing off. I tried to signal Father Marty with a look, communicating that we were up against a deadline.

  He led us past the altar into the back corridors. They felt like a maze. I noticed Marty subtly picking up his pace as Bill Fiore started to drift farther back from me. It was right then that I realized this priest wasn’t fooling around. He knew exactly what he was doing. And he was exactly the kind of friend I’d expect my grandfather to have.

  We took one corner, then another, and I swear we were headed back to the altar, but instead we just kept walking.

  I heard Fiore call out, “Hey, wait up.” He took a wrong turn and I heard some language that shouldn’t be used in a church. Then a more urgent, “Where’d you guys go?”

  Suddenly and without warning, Father Marty pressed what looked like a solid wall and shoved me into an opening. I slipped inside just as I heard Fiore yell, “Bennett, you better not leave this church.” I thought I heard the FBI agent running as Marty followed me inside the dark, narrow corridor and set the panel back in place.

  He said, “There’s no time to lose. Come with me.” He squeezed past me and nearly jogged down the remarkably constricted hallway.

  We took a flight of stairs down. I had to hunch over to make it through the next hallway. Then we descended a long staircase that disappeared into the dark.

  My heart was racing as I wondered what I could accomplish while trying to avoid the FBI. It seemed like it took a full minute, but it probably wasn’t nearly that long before Marty opened the last door. The sun hit me right in the face. I looked around and didn’t recognize anything.

  Marty pointed up the hill and I saw that we’d traveled through some sort of basement and out a back door. We might’ve been as far as three blocks away from where Bill Fiore had parked his car, if you considered the elevation. It was the cleanest getaway I’d ever made.

  Marty smiled and said, “Old Russian Orthodox churches are full of surprises. I’m glad we could use them to help you on your mission.”

  “My grandfather told you why I’m here?”

  “To save a girl who’s missing.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  The priest frowned and said, “I can delay the FBI agent a few more minutes still. Find this girl.”

  CHAPTER 65

  AFTER HIDING OUT in a tourist welcome center for a while, I hailed a taxi and told him exactly what Gunnar, the janitor, had told me. Twenty minutes later, I saw Toit’s City café and a series of office buildings and warehouses across the street. This had to be the place.

  I was literally like the dog who’d chased a car and caught it. Now what to do with it? I was standing there, looking at a likely location for the infamous Endrik “Henry” Laar, and only then did I realize I needed backup. Damn. Good luck and a little help from a priest had put me in a position to find Natalie, but I didn’t think it was smart to barge in. I did have a gun, but only sixteen rounds of 9mm ammo, and there was no telling what was inside the warehouse.

  I stepped into the café. A few minutes later, I was seated with a cup of coffee for my own version of surveillance. I had no vehicle, no official authority, and no backup. Suddenly my brilliant plan looked like a six-year-old’s idea.

  I pulled out a paper napkin and made a few notes on it. If nothing else, once the FBI caught up to me, I could give it to them. But I wasn’t ready to surrender just yet.

  I kept watching the windows of the building across the street. There was definitely someone inside. So far, I had counted only two men. One matched the general description of Henry. Well under six feet, around thirty, neatly groomed, and wearing a blue T-shirt with some sort of emblem on it. The other man was older and heavier. If there were just two men, I might have a decent chance if I got inside.

  I wondered if that was my attempt to build confidence. But I had no chance of finding Natalie if I didn’t at least go into this warehouse. I did, for about thirty seconds, consider how it might screw up Fiore’s operation if there was a large-scale investigation into the cybercrime organization.

  I’d seen these conflicts of interest a dozen times, like when the FBI arrested someone on a minor fraud charge who the NYPD had under surveillance for a major RICO charge. Even within the NYPD, different units would step on one another’s feet; more than one homicide surveillance I had conducted had been interrupted when the Nar
cotics unit made a quick bust.

  But I decided I had to take the chance. Sorry, Fiore.

  CHAPTER 66

  CHRISTOPH ALWAYS WOKE before his roommate and business partner, Ollie. Even if they were just taking a midday nap. Christoph wondered what would happen if he weren’t around. Would Ollie sleep twenty hours a day, like a house cat?

  Often Christoph used the time to work out or run, to counter the effects of all the partying they did. Not today. He woke from his little nap with a brutal headache. He needed something to take the edge off and started to look through the apartment.

  Christoph was astounded when he opened the medicine cabinet, looking for aspirin. The cabinet was a stoner’s dream. There were at least twenty ounces of pot organized by different strains. Even the strains were divided between indica and sativa so Ollie would know what would relax him and what would give him energy.

  Ollie also had at least six eight-balls of heroin. They all looked to be from the same batch of Brown Sugar.

  And on the bottom shelf, Ollie had bottles and bottles of pills.

  Christoph smiled. Ollie was nothing like he appeared. He was organized and deliberate, even if he looked like he perpetually just woke up.

  Their apartment in Tallinn was nothing special, a two-bedroom with a nice living room. Someone from Henry’s operation had managed to hack into the neighbors’ Wi-Fi and entertainment package so they could stream movies while they were high and watch Blauw-Wit Amsterdam football. The apartment, in Maakri, wasn’t far from either the Olympic Park or Grand Prix Rävala casino, with easy access to bars.

  They’d stayed on the American cop after his discussion with the Estonian national policeman, following him with another man in the green Peugeot. They called the plates in to Henry’s people; the tag came back as from some holding company in Latvia. They wondered how to get a better fix on who could be driving the cop around.