“They’ll throw us out of country,” Katya said. “We’re not supposed to be here. At least not on the immigration computers.”
“A lot depends on your cooperation,” Bree said. “The more you cooperate, the more likely a judge is to look at you favorably.”
Katya thought about that. Spoke to one of her friends, who nodded.
“What do you want to know?” she said.
“Tell me about Edita.”
Katya said her older sister had come first, almost eight years ago. The agreement Edita had struck with the Russian broker was similar to the terms Alex had heard from the woman he and Sampson rescued from the refrigerated trucks at the tobacco-shed massacre site.
In return for five years of her life, Edita got false documents and a way into the United States. She was moved up and down the East Coast for two years before finding a permanent position with the Phoenix Club.
According to Katya, the club was not a high-volume brothel. Members paid a fifty-thousand-dollar initiation fee to join, and ten thousand a year in dues thereafter. In return, they got access to the club, its facilities, all the booze and illicit drugs they wanted, and the company of the women.
“What happened when Edita’s five years were up?” Bree asked.
“They gave her back her passport and even gave her a green card, and then they said she had a choice,” Katya said. “Leave, make a new life. Or become part of the management.”
“She took management.”
“No, Edita is … she was smart girl,” Katya said. “She found an apartment in Washington and worked here. She ran the club in the evening, and Stavros and Bogrov pay her much money. She uses the money to become a lawyer.”
Katya said this with such pride that Bree was touched.
“Did she ever mention a man named Tom McGrath?”
Katya’s face clouded. “He is the one who killed her?”
“No, he died with her. Thomas McGrath.”
“Tommy?” Katya said, her face clouding further. “Yes, Edita tells me about Tommy. Too much about Tommy.”
Edita had met McGrath when he’d come to speak at her criminal law class. She was ten years older than the other students, and he was funny and handsome, and his wife had recently thrown him out of the house and said she didn’t love him anymore. Edita and McGrath had had a drink after class and dinner the next night.
“They became lovers,” Katya said. “Edita was the happiest I have seen her. Ever. For a month, maybe.”
“Then what happened?”
Katya said McGrath ran a background check on Edita and discovered that the green card she had was fake, and there were no records in INS of an Edita Kravic applying for citizenship.
“They lie,” Katya said. “Bogrov and the others. They sell to Edita a lie.”
After discovering the forgery, Katya said, McGrath forced Edita to come clean and tell him everything. But the more she told him about the Phoenix Club, the more he wanted to know. Tommy asked Edita to break into the club’s computers and copy things for him.
Katya stopped talking and looked up angrily. “Tommy, he says he loves Edita, but she has to prove she loves him. So he pushes and pushes, and she loves him, but she is so scared the last time I saw her. Tommy would not listen to her about Bogrov and Stavros, how they are bad men, crazy men. You ask me, Tommy got my Edita killed, and Tommy, he got himself killed too.”
Part Five
A BLIMP RUNNETH
CHAPTER
87
THE SUN WAS setting as John Brown ended his briefing with a description of that evening’s goal and the plan beyond it.
Brown looked around at the fifteen men and women in his living room, seeing mild shock in some faces, profound concern in others. He understood. His plan was bold and audacious, so audacious that—
“It’s insane,” Hobbes said, arms crossed.
Fender said, “We’ll be either shot or hanged.”
“You knew from the get-go what this was,” Brown said coldly. “Wasn’t it you, Hobbes, who said people would have to clean house to make way for the revolution in this country?”
“I did, but—”
“But nothing. You’re in this to clean house and see the revolution sparked or you’re not in this at all. Fender, you also agreed with that strategy. Or am I wrong?”
Hobbes squirmed in his chair, said nothing. Fender glared at Brown.
Brown was about to ask the room for a vote when Cass said, “Shit.”
He looked over at her, saw her staring at the muted TV tuned to CNN. Special Agent Ned Mahoney was walking toward a bank of microphones with the big FBI emblem on the wall behind them. Low on the screen, the banner read FBI Raids Sex Club Believed Linked to Vigilante Killings.
“Turn that up,” Brown said sharply.
Cass grabbed the remote and punched off the mute. They heard Mahoney say, “I’ll get to the Phoenix Club in Vienna, Virginia, but first we’d like to release two photographs of people we believe are part of the vigilante group.”
The screen split in two, and images appeared of Hobbes and Cass without their hoods inside the late Antonin Guryev’s house on Mobjack Bay.