A Date You Can't Refuse Page 26

  “Lukashenko.”

  “Oh. Well, even an old Socialist like me prefers free elections to fixed ones, so no, I have to say that he's not a favorite. But he's kept the developers away from the Pripet River and the surrounding wetlands—so far—so from the ecological point of view, things could be worse. That's sacred ground to all Greenies.”

  Wetlands. That rang a bell. “Wait—this guy's ecologically progressive?”

  “It's more that he's anti capitalism and Westernization and free markets, all those things that can wreak havoc on the environment in developing countries.”

  I was trying to get a clear picture of Yuri's political agenda, but this wasn't helping. The Milos family was aggressively green, but if Lukashenko wasn't a big environmental threat … “Uncle Theo,” I said, studying the map, “I see Chernobyl right here across the border. That must've had an impact on Belarus, the nuclear reactor disaster.”

  “Oh, dreadful. Belarusians suffered right along with the Ukrainians.”

  “I guess there was a big international aid effort when that happened?” I thought of Donatella. “Italy, for instance?”

  “Everyone. The whole world helped. From China to Cuba. And Italy? Why, did you know that radiocesium was found in Italy, not so long ago, as a result of Chernobyl?”

  I did not know, since I'd never heard of radiocesium, but a picture was coming into view of the MediasRex team coming together around the time of Chernobyl—Donatella, Yuri, Alik's mother, and Zeffie, too, a physician from Cuba, helping with the relief effort. What it had to do with secret intelligence organizations, I didn't know. Or DVD piracy. I was on my own search for the theory of everything, but the words on the atlas were swimming under my bleary eyes now, so I thanked Uncle Theo, put back the atlas, and took off for House of Blue, exhausted beyond belief.

  I walked by Nell's room, but it was still empty. And in my dreams I heard footsteps outside my bedroom door while Nell was locked in a cupboard in the gun room, crying out to me for help.

  FORTY

  The next morning I did not watch the DVD or plant the bug. Nor did I call the frozen yogurt store. I couldn't risk getting a return message that Grusha would pick up and Yuri might hear about, because that could look suspicious, that all my social calls involved yogurt.

  I thought about Chai, as I dressed in her clothes. Her “accident,” it now occurred to me, could've been expertly staged to fool the cops. In a school for professional spies, wouldn't “corpse removal” be part of the curriculum? A cleanup course, to ensure that civilians didn't stumble over the carnage left in the wake of some black op? Grusha probably taught it.

  I knew I would never be reconciled to Chai's death now. Crispin had begged me to look into it, and that had turned into a sort of last request, assuming a certain weight. Not to mention Crispin's own death, which more than weighed on me, it gnawed at me.

  Yuri's spy operation was another story.

  I'd already reported what I'd seen to the FBI, all the strange little clues that turned out to be about espionage training. If the feds chose to ignore what didn't fit into their specific crime scenario, it wasn't my problem. I wasn't going to now hand them the answer to a riddle they'd shown no interest in, endangering a mission I might well believe in, if I knew the particulars. I didn't want to break the promise I'd made to Yuri.

  Of course, neither was I telling Yuri about the film piracy operation that someone—Alik, probably—was about to get busted for. It would be a big headache for Yuri, and a public relations nightmare, but he could deal with it if anyone could. And Alik could handle a big fine and even a few years in federal prison. Those were the nice prisons, right? As opposed to the chain-gang prisons? And he'd be in the white-collar wing, surely.

  It was tricky business, making à la carte decisions about loyalties, and my plan still left out Chai and Crispin, and that's what I couldn't reconcile. Was Yuri capable of murder? Or condoning murder?

  Wasn't anyone who was in the business of espionage?

  Except me. I couldn't kill anyone, and I was in the espionage business. Sort of.

  I knew at the very least that Yuri hadn't killed those two kids. Why would he? If he'd been frightened of Chai blabbing about his paramilitary stuff, he wouldn't then tell me all about it, as he'd done last night. No. He'd said Chai knew nothing about the spy training, and I believed him. Besides, if Yuri had killed Crispin, he'd have done a better job of body disposal, dumped him farther from the compound, not gone hiking there the next day.

  Someone at MediasRex had done a double murder, or two single murders, but it wasn't Yuri. I didn't want it to be Yuri. Father issues, apparently. Of course, I was still left with the problem of who had done the murders, but as long as it wasn't Stasik, my date du jour, I was going to put it aside for a few hours.

  I stuck the unplanted bug in my pocket and the DVD in my purse. I'd call Yogi Yogurt on the way to Santa Barbara, meet with Bennett Graham, hand over the DVD, turn in my resignation, keep the feds' secret from Yuri, keep his secret from them—my God, this was complicated. Did it make me a double agent, not ratting out Yuri to the feds? Or was I a double agent only if Yuri thought I wouldn't rat him out and then I did rat him out? Or was I a double agent if I told Yuri about the feds? I asked myself these questions in the mirror as I flossed my teeth, but I had no answers. I needed a spy dictionary.

  Stasik gave me a hard time before we were out of the garage. For starters, he was dressed in a black T-shirt with cargo pants and hiking boots, while I wore Armani silk shantung pants and a satin shirt of the same color, eggshell. I'd thought I made a good choice, as it reeked of class—even Lucrezia would say so—and there was no chance I'd be having parking-lot sex today. Plus, it wouldn't hurt to impress Mrs. Winter-bottom when I went to pick up P.B. But my elegance was wasted on Stasik, and next to him I felt all wrong, like crêpe suzette alongside a roast beef sandwich. And, as Yuri had predicted, Stasik was in high dudgeon over not being allowed to drive. I only got him to wear a seat belt by threatening to use the slow lane all the way to Santa Barbara.

  “Do you even like to drive?” he asked, buckling up with bad grace. “They couldn't find someone for this bloody job who likes doing it?”

  “This bloody job requires a little bit more than chauffeuring,” I snapped. “Like a talent for—excuse me.” My phone, hitting cell signal range, came to life. “Hello?”

  “Wollie? Kimberly What's your AO?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. Where are you? I need you to pick up Zbiggo on Old Topanga, just east of Mulholland Highway. We're on the hiking trail and he's falling apart on me.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Should I take him home, then? Or—”

  “No, I need you to look after him today. If he's on his own, he gets into trouble. If it's not booze, it's food. Or worse. You don't want to know.”

  “The thing is, I've got Stasik, it's our big date, we're heading to Santa Barbara—”

  “Take Zbiggo too. He'll like Santa Barbara. I'll square it with Yuri now.”

  I did an awkward U-turn, to Stasik's amused contempt, and six minutes later saw Kimberly, cell to her ear, flagging me down. Zbiggo sat under a nearby tree, head between his knees. Felix sat next to him, cross-legged, reading. I pulled over onto the dirt shoulder.

  “Hey, guys,” Kimberly said, then into her cell, “Sweetheart, what the hell do you expect me to do? I can't clone her … Okay, but take it easy. You're doing forty thousand things and you're not twenty anymore.”

  She hung up. “Yuri made reservations for all of you at Via Vai, in Santa Barbara. Felix is now joining you. I know, it's not optimal dating circumstances, but do what you can. Write up a full report. Yuri loved yesterday's, by the way, especially the illustrations, but next time use the computer. Gotta be typed. Didn't anyone go over that in the orientation? Okay, I gotta run. Good luck.”

  “Okay but wait—shouldn't I take the guys back to the compound to change clothes?”

  “No time. Frida
y traffic to Santa Barbara sucks, even at ten a.m. Also …” She pulled me aside and whispered into my ear. “Zbiggo's doing drugs. Grusha keeps finding pills squirreled away in his room. Not a good day for him to be on the loose, because sheriff's deputies are starting to show up again, out on the trail, investigating that poor kid's death. There was a thing in the paper, that they're waiting on the autopsy report. Yuri says there are reporters at the guard gate. Anyhow, he wants the trainees gone, especially Zbiggo.”

  “Okay. No problem,” I said.

  Of course, once we were all in the Suburban and headed to the freeway I realized there was a problem. Zbiggo, twenty minutes into the expedition, roused himself from his post-hike stupor to ask when we'd be home.

  “We're not going home,” I said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Didn't Kimberly tell you? We're all going to Santa Barbara for the day.”

  When comprehension set in, Zbiggo started bellowing in Russian.

  Stasik bellowed right back at him, also in Russian, and then all hell broke loose.

  Zbiggo was way in the back, but he unbuckled his seat belt, apparently to come up front and hijack the Suburban. He made his move, which I saw in the mirror as I negotiated the traffic on the 101 North. I'd let out no more than an aghast “Ackk!” when Stasik, next to me, had his seat belt unbuckled and was diving over the front console into the back. Felix, just behind me, moved at the same time to intercept Zbiggo.

  I was sure that Felix and Stasik were no match for a professional heavyweight boxer, but I was wrong. After more Russian—including a lot of tvoyu mats—Zbiggo was out cold. Or else meditating.

  I squinted into the mirror. “He's—he's not dead, is he?” I asked, seeing Zbiggo on the floor at Felix's feet.

  “He's not dead, and he's damned lucky he's not,” Stasik said. “Bloody idiot.”

  “Don't worry,” Felix said. “Zbiggo is just suddenly tired. This happens in life.”

  “Can you get him to wear a seat belt?” I asked. “Zbiggo? Are you awake? Zbiggo! You need to buckle up.” No answer from Zbiggo. “Guys, he needs to be buckled up, honestly. They give tickets for that. Shall I get off at the next exit or pull over?”

  “No need,” Felix said cheerfully, and he and Stasik got Zbiggo up into a seat and trussed him in. Zbiggo's head flopped over. He really did look dead. Again. Great. Half my job seemed to be driving an un conscious or dead world heavyweight contender around Southern California.

  I turned my attention back to the road. He had to be unconscious. There was no way to spin this in a report to Yuri, that one team member had been killed by the other two in some sort of Vulcan death grip.

  My phone rang. It was Fredreeq. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Halfway to Santa Barbara,” I said.

  “No way! I'm in Oxnard. Meet me.”

  “I can't meet you,” I said. “I've got a carload of men that I'm supposed to be dating, one of whom may be—never mind that. What are you doing in Oxnard?”

  “My cousin Ramone's gallbladder operation—never mind that. I've got something that is going to blow your mind. I'll get back to you.” She hung up.

  I wasn't sure I wanted my mind blown, especially if it had anything to with gallbladders. I drove on.

  My phone rang again. Joey this time. “Where in Santa Barbara are you going to be?”

  “Haven Lane to see P.B., and then Via Vai,” I said. “Are you in Oxnard too?”

  “Yes,” Joey said. “Can you stop on the way up? Fredreeq scored something big.”

  “Oxnard?” Stasik's head whipped around. “I want to see Oxnard.”

  “No, you don't,” I said. “There's nothing happening in Oxnard.”

  “That's not true,” Felix said. “I believe there is—”

  “What?” Stasik asked, glancing back at him.

  “Nothing. Only I have always wanted to see Oxnard.”

  “Joey,” I said back into the phone, “Oxnard seems to be very popular all of a sudden. But I'm supposed to get everyone to Santa Barbara and the traffic's bad and—”

  “Oxnard's two minutes out of your way. Take the Vineyard exit and we'll be at the IHOP. You won't regret it.”

  I had just hung up when the phone rang again. “What?” I yelled into it.

  “Wollie? Bennett Graham.”

  “Oh. Hello.”

  “I understand you have a package to deliver. Where are you?”

  “Uh—101 North, heading to Santa Barbara.”

  “You have the package with you now?”

  “Yes,” I said, glancing at my purse.

  “The nature of the package?”

  “And I haven't had a chance to, uh, view the contents, lacking the, uh, necessary device and an opportunity, but I think you'll find it—”

  “Good enough. When will you return to your base of operations?”

  “No idea. Late afternoon, maybe.”

  “Keep your cell phone on. I'd like to accept delivery today, so I may have someone come and find you.”

  “May I ask something? If certain people in Calabasas are unaware— innocent—as far as this—thingy—goes, would you leave them alone? Would you single out just the key player?”

  “Why is this relevant?”

  “I'm just curious.”

  “This is something best discussed in person. Santa Barbara, you say?”

  “If you hurry, you could find me in Oxnard,” I said. “I might be stopping there. Through no fault of my own.”

  I lost the cell signal, and lost the vote, as everyone but Zbiggo seemed smitten with the city of Oxnard. Or, as none of us really knew Oxnard, the concept of Oxnard. Bowing to the collective consciousness, I got off the 101 North four exits later.

  The International House of Pancakes, despite its cosmopolitan name, had a tired, small-town feel to it, at odds with the “Come Hungry, Leave Happy” motto emblazoned on everything in sight. The host, gathering up oversized menus, seemed put out by the number in our party— Zbiggo, praise God, was now conscious and even walking—although it seemed to me that four new customers wasn't cause for alarm in a restaurant with a maximum occupancy of 164 and only two tables filled.

  Fredreeq and Joey waved to us from a booth in the back. Zbiggo was not so groggy that he couldn't maneuver a spot next to Fredreeq, even before I could make introductions, but then he lapsed back into a state of stupor. Stasik sat next to Joey. The host resisted the request for an extra chair, so Felix and I squeezed ourselves in on each end. Then I squeezed myself out again so that Stasik could use the men's room. This put me next to Joey. Or, rather, next to Joey's purse.

  “Look,” she said, pulling from it a worn book with a faded cover illustrated with daisies. “Pay dirt.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She leaned to whisper in my ear. “Chai's diary.”

  I gasped. “You're kidding. Where'd you get this?”

  “Her mom,” Joey said, sotto voce. “Chai visited her mom shortly before she died and left it there. And we've read it all.” Joey pointed out the bits of IHOP napkin stuck in the entries they felt were pertinent.

  “Um, Felix?” I said, unable to contain myself. “Zbiggo should walk around. Would you like to show him that machine over there? The one with those little balls of gum in it?”

  “The gumball machine?”

  “Yes. Exactly. In fact, I'd like to take some gumballs to Santa Barbara.” I began searching through my purse for coins.

  “Why?”

  “In America, it's customary to take a housewarming present when you go to visit someone. Someone's house. In this case, a halfway house. Where my brother lives.”

  “The custom is gumballs?”

  “Not gumballs, per se. Gumballs is one option.”

  “How many gumballs?”

  “As many as you can manage.” I dumped a collection of coins on the table. Fredreeq added to the stash from her own purse. “Zbiggo?” I said. “Wake up, Zbiggo. Gumball time.”

  We roused Zbiggo from h
is coma and got him to accompany Felix. I turned to Joey and Fredreeq. “So you read the whole thing? How long have you guys been sitting here?”

  “Not that long,” Joey said. “Chai was not a deep thinker. You won't find a lot of philosophical insights.”

  “What will I find?” I asked, flipping through it. It was only half-filled, stopping midentry with the words he's so cute, he'd be perfect if he just wouldn't always be so—

  “Poison.”

  “What do you mean, like negativity?” I asked.

  “No, poison. Chai was being poisoned.”

  I looked up, a sick feeling sweeping over me. “What were the symptoms?”

  Joey took the book and flipped through it to a napkin-marked page near the end and handed it back. I read it.

  Icky feeling again. Couldn't go out with Vlad tonight. Wasted. No wine even at dinner—worse than yesterday and now I'm like too sick to smoke, so that's good, and not gaining any weight, so that's super-good, but like zero energy. Crummy tummy. Everything Grusha makes looks really gross to eat. And scaly hands and feet super-creepy and Donatella gave me her Borghese tonic, the Effecto Inmediato! which I could NOT believe she would let me use, but like useless. Then! This morning clumps of hair in my hairbrush. Gross! Me! Out! I like can't stop crying cuz my HAIR!!! Plus, no clue! Mom's like, Don't tell anyone, you'll get canned! If I tell Kimberly, number one, she makes me do the carrot juice colonic. No way. And now I'm on probation, Yuri hears this and that's it. Over. So I can't be too sick to work. Only, I'm kind of too sick to care. But it's cool to be super-skinny but no energy to even think about new shots for my book or go-sees and who'd want me with scaly skin and bald anyway? Next year flu shot definitely! Not going through this again.

  I looked up. “Chai's mom just gave this to you? Her dead child's last words?”

  “We told her we'd immortalize her dead child.”

  Fredreeq leaned over the table. “Joey and I are a writing team. We do celebrity biographies. Classy stuff. Nothing cheesy.”

  “What do you mean, you're a writing team?” I asked. “Since when?”