Tarasov’s bellow is pure rage. His Russian curses are garbled by his swelling nose.
I say, “You have to report something. Your bosses will figure out you let him go if you don’t haveanythingto turn in.”
Bennett feeds that too.
“Ask him about the protection money he took from the Canton Crew’s local. The Emerald Arms. Last year, on Christmas Eve. Get him to give you that.” It was a lousy nine hundred dollars. But it left Da mortified he couldn’t protect his clan at Christmas.
Bennett pushes.
Tarasov resists.
Richardson pleads. She wants to help him. She wants to set him free. She just needs this one little thing. The Emerald Arms was probably a misunderstanding. Tit for tat. Even if some Baltimore DAdidget hold of it, the charge would only add up to misdemeanor extortion. If Tarasov can’t make one small tender, they cannot let him go.
At the far end of the room, Bennett shifts his weight. His hip knocks against the table and metal clanks against metal. He straightens, holding a hacksaw.
Tarasov’s face turns gray beneath the crusting blood from his nose. “Yes,” he finally says. “I ordered my men to take it.” He closes his eyes as his voice shakes with exhaustion. “Nine hundred dollars. The Emerald Arms. On Christmas Eve.”
Beside me, Cole says, “Got it!” It only takes him a moment to add the FBI logo to the recording, making it look like an officialgovernment record. Fingers shaking, I follow the protocol we rehearsed for days, feeding the video to my waiting crew.
Ariadne’s Daughters start the confession’s journey across the internet.
In those few seconds, though, Tarasov’s brain has caught up to his agonized body. Looming hacksaw or not, he has committed the one unforgivable sin of an organized crime kingpin: Ratting out his crew to the feds. He drops his head to the table, clearly stunned.
“Don’t let up,” I say into the headset.
Bennett slams his fist onto the table, close enough to make Tarasov’s head bounce. A drop of blood splatters on the blue tarp. Leaning close to the pakhan’s ear, Bennett whispers, “What will your bratva do now? Your goddamn Russian brotherhood? How long before one of your fucking thieves puts a knife between your ribs?”
Richardson steps up as if they’ve choreographed this ballet. “Come on,” she says to her partner. “We can go to the boss with this. Get him into witness protection.”
“WITSEC?” Bennett snorts. “You think stealing nine hundred bucks from a mick bar is enough to put this piece of shit inWITSEC?”
Richardson crouches at Tarasov’s eye level. “Work with me,” she begs, like they’re on the same team. “What can I take upstairs?”
Tarasov hunches his shoulders. If his wrists weren’t chained to the table, he’d fold his arms around his ribs. But his wristsarechained, and his thumb still dangles. He’s on the very edge. All he needs is a single, well-placed push.
“Fiona Moran gave you real dirt,” I whisper into the earpiece. “She gave up a prostitution ring and a string of murders dating back to the nineties.”
Cole chokes on the coffee he’s drinking. I flash him a savage grin.
Bennett takes the bit. He says to Richardson, “We’ve barely got the budget to putoneof these assholes in the program. And if we have to choose, I vote for the Irish bitch.”
Richardson says, “Moran gave us a couple of whores. A few dead bodies. She clammed up tight about that extortion scheme.”
“What do you think?” Bennett says to Tarasov. “Can you deliver more than some mick girl?”
Tarasov closes his eyes. He takes a noisy breath through his ruined nose. He shakes his head slowly, like he’s reciting a prayer for the dead. But he finally says, “My son, Pyotr Nikolaevich Tarasov, took out Fat Sammy, the man who had all the drug trade west of Patterson Park.”
Cole manipulates the camera feed at a record pace, trimming away all the talk about Fiona. He adds the FBI logo, along with captions at the bottom. I send the edited confession to Ariadne’s Daughters.
But Nikolai admitting to Pyotr’s sins is like a lizard casting off its tail. He’s doing his best to wriggle free. I speak into my headset: “The FBI already has Pyotr’s confessions. Keep the gobshite talking.”
Bennett prods. Richardson pleads. Tarasov repeats names and details we already have from the Viktor software. Pyotr bought off dockworkers to boost containers off ships. Pyotr paid Baltimore’s mayor for a construction contract to build a new school. Pyotr skimmed pension payments from nurses at County General.
Cole prepares it all. I transfer it to my waiting network. And Bennett finally says, “Enough about Pyotr. That won’t get you WITSEC.”
Tarasov says, “Pyotr raped a child.”
This was in the Viktor files too—so many children… I want to weep for the eight-year-old I was.
