Darker Realms, page 5
The heroin that had caused so much trouble.
Johnson put me in the car and we drove away, the Chinese watching us go.
“Hey, mebe I can help,” I said from the caged back seat.
Johnson snorted. “We tried that already.”
I glanced back at the Chinese mob. They were still staring at the car, not making a sound.
“No,” I said, “really. Look, it’s in my interest to avoid full-scale Russian-Chinese war. And it’s in city’s interest, too. Let me help.”
Johnson was quiet for long time, thinking it through. He is actually smart, for policemens, at least.
“I don’t trust you,” he finally said.
I shrugged. “You shouldn’t trust anyone.”
“What do you need.”
“Let’s start with crime scene photos.”
***
So I sat in leetle interrogation room, watched through one-way glass, perched on painted-gray steel chair, behind painted-gray steel table, looking at picture after picture after picture after picture.
Crime scene techs are all apparently budding photojournalists. I had said Zhang Shaoming had been smashed into million pieces, well there was a shot of every piece, each from several different angles. And pictures of the neatly-groomed lawn. And the rock path. And the burnt-out light bulb Zhang was coming out to change when he died. And the new light bulb that Zhang planned to replace it with. And the porch light that was home to light bulb. It was regular light bulb docudrama.
If the chair hadn’t satisfied the Geneva Convention definition for torture, than surely all the light bulb pictures did.
Here’s the thing I was wondering. Zhang was one of the most powerful wizards in all of Chicagoland. And yet someone killed him. And not just killed him, but humiliated him. They’d turned him into a terracotta soldier, for God’s sake.
What if Zhang’s murder and the attempt on my life were connected? Ever since I stole the Chinese H, my life and his, my survival and his, had been intertwined. And here he was murdered on the same night when someone had tried to kill me.
And both acts of violence displayed a twisted sense of humor. Killing a Russian with a zombie seemed to fit with turning the most powerful Chinese wizard in North America into a terracotta statue. After all, during Soviet era, Russia was ruled by Zombies. Twice.
But no matter how long I looked at the pictures I couldn’t seem to find it. The missing piece.
“How’s it coming?”
I looked up. Johnson was leaning over me, one hand on the table, studying the pictures over my shoulder.
My eyes flickered to the one-way glass and then away. I was tired of being watched.
He followed my quick look and let the air leak out of his lungs in a long sigh. “Come on. I’ll walk you out of the building.”
I didn’t say a word until we reached the street.
The pink glow in the eastern sky behind a row of blond-brick apartment buildings was the only hint that the sun was coming up, but the city’s peasants already crowded the sidewalks. An el rumbled past the tracks mounted across the street. The morning smelled like diesel exhaust and rust and motor oil and, just slightly, the promise of rain. It was already blazing hot.
Standing there in the privacy of the crowd, I was willing to talk.
“There’s something in the pictures,” I said.
He raised his right eyebrow as if to say, Well?
I shrugged. “I can’t say what it is, but it’s there.”
He chewed on this for a moment. What I’d told him sounded helpful, but offered no concrete way forward. It was just what I’d say if I was playing him. I wasn’t, but that’s how Johnson would read it.
“Anything else?” he asked, his voice carefully even.
“What if Zhang’s murder is connected to . . . what happened to me last night?”
Johnson gave me a piercing look.
“Think,” I said. “You kill leaders of two strongest families and you throw city in turmoil.”
“Who does that help? Family number three?”
I shook my head slowly. “There is no number three.”
The Chinese had ultimately blamed the Yakuza for the heroin theft and had wiped out the Japanese gangsters. And the Italians were engaging in an ugly turf war with the Salvadorans. Break all the dishes and then pick up the pieces is a good strategy—but only if there’s someone left at the end.
“Then what?” said Johnson.
I said nothing.
“Don’t leave the city,” he said.
I barked out tired laughter. If there was something out there that could murder Zhang Shaoming and turn my own zombie against me, where was there to go?
***
I walked down the street, hands shoved deep into the pockets of my filthy, blue suit, thinking hard but not getting anywhere, when I felt someone press the muzzle of a machine pistol into the small of my back. Someone else pulled my Glock out of my pants so expertly I didn’t even feel his hand brush against my back.
Apparently the privacy of the crowd wasn’t as private as I’d thought.
One of the someones whispered in my ear. “Speak any words, Russian Dog, and you’ll be peeing blood out of a catheter.”
The speaker was a man. A Chinese man.
They’d come for me.
***
They put me in a car and I expected them to drive me to a lonely construction site where a concrete foundation was conveniently being poured, but they didn’t. Instead they took me to the Palmer House, one of the ritziest hotels in city. I didn’t understand why until they escorted me into the grand ballroom, the chandeliers glowing softly, wall-mounted lights shaped like candles bringing out the gold of the wallpaper, intricate arabesque patterns painted on the plaster ceiling in gold leaf.
And sitting in the center of the room, a single man.
Except he wasn’t really a man—I could see that right off. Like the FBI’s unicorn, he was showing me a glamour. I knew what he was, but I wouldn’t say it aloud and I wouldn’t ask what he was called. True names hold power and so this kind of creature never liked to give a name, didn’t even want you to guess.
As I walked toward the creature it showed me its true self, just for a moment, a hundred feet of golden coils as thick as a horse’s body, crocodilian scutes running down its spine, tendril feathered back from its great head, each of its razor-sharp teeth as long as my forearm.
A golden dragon.
Now here was a creature powerful enough to reach through the veil of death and turn my zombie against me.
My mouth tasted like burnt metal.
And then it was a man again, a small, still man in a gold brocade coat open at the front, his folded hands disappearing into oversized sleeves, jet black hair framing a passive face, but his dark eyes dangerously alert.
I stopped a respectful distance from the great creature and offered it a little bow. “Good morning,” I said, fighting the impulse to add an honorific.
“Valeri Kozlov,” the man who was not a man said softly, “you have caused much trouble for Zhang Shaoming.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “but not yesterday.”
The dragon looked at me closely.
You cannot lie to a dragon, they are too clever for that. If you are a fool, you may try to mislead them. Generally, that just pisses them off.
“So you did not kill our servant?” said the dragon.
“No,” I said, flat out. No attempts at diversion or evasion, just no.
“Who did?”
“I do not know.” That, too, was the truth.
The dragon regarded me coolly. Finally it said, “Zhang Shaoming has served us longer than the United States has been a country. We were most fond of him. We are most distressed at the dishonor done to him.”
And right then, I saw the danger. Because so far I had been able to answer all the questions honestly. But we were coming to a point where I wouldn’t be able to, and the dragon would smell the lie on me.
“Here is what we really want to—”
I took a step toward the man who was not a man. “No,” I said.
The man’s dark eyes flashed gold. “No?” it said, and the word was a dangerous rumble from deep in its chest.
It is never wise to say no to a dragon—and it is even worse to interrupt to do it.
“I am Krasny Mafiya. I did not murder Zhang Shaoming, I am not your servant, and I’m not here to answer all your questions.”
Dragons were powerful and dangerous creatures not to be crossed lightly. But the Russian mob had its own powerful allies. This dragon could kill me easily enough—but not without consequences.
The creature’s control slipped. For heartbeat I could see the coiled dragon, its long, golden tail twitching nervously.
Then the man was back.
“This is what I believe,” it said. “I believe you took the missing 47 kilos of heroin, not Yakuza as Shaoming believed. And I believe your actions led to his death, even if you did not kill him yourself.”
“I did not kill him,” I said ignoring the first part of his statement. “Nor did I order him killed.”
The dragon glared at me and I glared right back. Only strength would get me out of this room alive.
Courtesy and consideration would get me killed.
“You answer my questions very carefully,” the dragon observed.
I shrugged, not trusting myself to say anything.
“You are expecting the power of the Red Mafia to protect you against retaliation.” It wasn’t really a question.
I answered it anyway. “You would find us to be formidable adversaries.”
The dragon leaned back in his chair. “I invite you to demonstrate that your actions did not cause Zhang Shaoming’s death.”
I frowned. “How can I possibly do that? I don’t know who killed him.”
The dragon’s lips quirked slightly. “I am sure I do not know,” he said, “but I suggest you solve the riddle soon. Or Krasny Mafiya will be forced to choose which wish to preserve—peace with Black Dragon Triad.
“Or your life.”
***
My mind raced as I stepped out of Palmer House and onto East Monroe Street. I was of great value to Krasny Mafia. But I had no illusions about what would happen if the organization were forced to choose between my life—and all out war with a dragon. Especially if it seemed that I’d engineered the whole crisis by stealing Chinese heroin and using it as cover to murder my chieftain.
The only way to save myself was to find Zhang’s killer and hope his motives were unrelated to the mystery of the stolen heroin.
Such were my thoughts when I was kidnapped for the second time in 45 minutes.
This time I ended up in a black SUV sitting on the bench seat in the back next to Special Agent Percival. Right then it occurred to me that a unicorn would also have had the power to pierce the veil of death—and turn a zombie against its master.
Percival casually examined his fingernails. “For someone who claims to be innocent of any involvement with the Zhang murder, you certainly spend a lot of time talking to the Black Dragon Triad.”
Here is where I was going to pay for all those stupid horse jokes.
I snorted. “Apparently you can lead FBI agent to smart but you can’t make him think.”
Okay, obviously I just couldn’t help myself.
“You think you are funny?” said Special Agent Unicorn, his voice flat. “As of this moment, you are barred from talking to my agents, barred from contact with Detective Johnson, barred from all discussions with Black Dragon Triad.”
“You can’t do that,” I snapped.
“Oh? Fail to comply and I’ll get a material witness warrant and stick you in jail. Think I can’t do it? We have places to put you that make Gitmo look like a vacation spot. How would you like to go to a detention center on Jupiter’s largest moon?”
“You have a detention center on Ganymede?” I asked, shocked.
“No,” he said, “on Gabriel.”
I blinked, shook my head. “Ganymede is Jupiter’s largest moon.”
“In this dimension, he growled.
I didn’t display emotion, but inside I was quaking. When FBI decides to send you to alternate Jovian moon, is problem.
So if I obeyed Chinese dragon and investigated Zhang’s murder, Percival would throw me into a lightless hole. If I instead obeyed Percival and didn’t investigate Zhang’s murder, golden dragon would kill me.
It was my worst nightmare. I was caught between oversized lizard and a unicorn with a badge.
Percival was still talking. “—and don’t think I won’t know,” he said, “because I will have every agent in the Chicago Office watching you. We’ll be so tight on your ass, Kozlov, that if you take a crap, my people will feel the splash.”
I looked at him for a second and then I just burst out laughing. Because suddenly I understood everything.
***
An hour later I was back in the precinct interrogation rooms, though this time I was on the happy side of the one-way glass.
“Are you sure about this, man?” said Johnson. “‘Cause I’m not even ‘sposed to talk to you.”
I studied the man sitting in the interrogation room. It was the Afghan middleman who was transshipping H to the Chinese. Except, I suddenly thought all of that was wrong.
“I’m sure,” I said.
Long pause.
Then: “Thanks for picking him up.”
“No problem,” he said, “as long as you deliver.”
I picked up the crime scene photos and pushed into the interview room, Johnson right behind me.
The little Afghani looked up at us. He had pulled his pakol off his head and was twisting the brown, wool cap in his hands. He looked small and scared and pathetic.
But he was really none of those things.
“What name are you using?” I asked.
“Abdul Kabuli,” he said.
I looked at Johnson. “The first thing you need to understand,” I told him, “Is that the murder of Zhang and the attempt on my life were committed by same perp—and they show a twisted and cruel sense of humor.”
“I do not know what you’re talking about,” said Mr. Kabuli. “Maybe I should to leave so you can finish your discussion?”
He looked hopefully at Johnson.
“The rest of it was in the crime scene photos, I said.
I laid down 18 different photos, all taken with high-speed, color film.
Of light bulbs.
“Zhang was killed after he went to change a burnt-out bulb. And the attempt on my life only happened after I flicked on my flashlight. So Detective Johnson, what creature has a nasty sense of humor and is obsessed with lights. Or to put it another way, is obsessed with lamps.”
“A djinn,” Johnson whispered, his light bulb finally going off.
“A djinn,” I agreed.
We both turned to look at Kabuli.
“Please to say, sir, I am not a djinn. I am humble farmer and I wish to contact my embassy.”
“The part I couldn’t understand,” I said, still talking to Johnson, “was who would benefit from the killings. Not the Chinese—they’ve lost their leader. Not we Russians—we would be forced to fight an all-out war with Chinese. Not Chicago PD, you’d have to referee a blood-bath. Not even poor, stupid FBI, because they are spending all their resources to deal with this problem, Percival told me himself. So who benefits?”
Johnson thought about it a moment. I let him work it out on his own. People always believe ideas more strongly when they think they thought of it themselves.
The djinn, a creature of great power from Arab lands, Mr. Kabuli, a man from the Islamic world.
A distracted FBI.
Johnson connected the dots. “Terrorism,” he breathed.
See? Smart.
“That’s right,” I said. “You just figured out the what. Now Mr. Kabuli is going to tell us the who.”
The djinn hiding in the little man’s body snorted. “Am I?” Gone was the broken English and the fawning attitude. “And what if I don’t? Are you going to waterboard me? Do you have a water elemental handy?”
I flashed him a tight smile. Because I was off the hook. If Zhang had been killed by a djinn acting on behalf of Islamic terrorists I could prove to the golden dragon that it had nothing to with me or missing heroin. And, yes, I’d violated Percival’s injunction to stay clear of the investigation. But he was going to have difficult time sending me to secret prison when I’d uncovered a major terrorist plot and handed it to the authorities.
For the first time since Dorbayeva set out to get rid of me, I was safe. I’d won!
And then I looked over at Dexter Johnson’s face.
Johnson was good at keeping emotions off his face, but for a moment there was flash of something there. Fear and anger, sure, but something else, infinitely more terrible.
Grief.
I wasn’t mind reader, but I was sure I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking of his city, his beloved Chicago, and all the people who would be killed or hurt in an attack.
Dexter Johnson had been my adversary ever since I came to this country.
But I could see there was something noble in this man.
So I drew a deep breath and sat down at the table across from the djinn. “You’re going to tell us, because you want to tell us.”
Kabuli chuckled. “If this is a new torture technique it’s not working. It’s actually rather amusing.”
“A djinn’s wishes always backfire on the wisher,” said Johnson.
Kabuli slapped the table, his face reddening. “Don’t tell me my business.”
“Look,” I said softly. “You don’t want to do this, otherwise you never would have let us catch you.”
