7

Sophia Kamenka moved through each room in Rada Harkov’s home and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She found the linen closet open, with sheets spilling out; she found the wineglass on the counter; in the hallway, a picture frame was tilted ominously off center. There were traces of a puddle on the bathroom floor. The window showed signs of forced entry.

Rada Harkov, the bank manager, was Sophia’s niece, her brother’s only daughter, and the only thing in Sophia’s life that didn’t seem soiled. Now she was missing. For the past two days every phone call had gone unanswered. She was gone. Hatred twisted in Sophia’s chest and guilt swelled in her belly. Yakov Radionovich, she repeated his name in her head: Yakov Radionovich.

Twelve years ago Sophia had convinced her niece to move from Tel Aviv, where she had been living, to the United States. Sophia had promised it was better here. She had promised that Rada—incorruptible, smart, sweet Rada—would be able to make something of herself. This, she had told her, was a place where you could get ahead. And Rada had. She had gone back to school, gotten a degree from an American university, a job, promotions, married, and divorced. She had gotten a house—this house.

Sophia sat down in her niece’s bedroom, as her thoughts, like glaciers, slowly fell into place; her guilt was complete and total. Images of Yakov Radionovich, his bald head, his sagging, mole-covered face, kept appearing in her mind.

For years Rada Harkov’s position as manager of the bank had been a nagging temptation to Sophia. Every time Rada mentioned the bank, even in passing, Sophia’s mind would drift toward thoughts of stealing. Rada would talk about work, and Sophia would nod her head as though she were listening, but inside she would be thinking, You’re the manager of a bank. How can you not want to rob it?

Rada would have never agreed to it. They both came from a family of criminals, but Rada had long ago aligned herself with the normal life. When Rada was a child, her father, Ivan, used to joke that Rada’s red hair and pale skin marked her as a law-abiding citizen. He had been right.

And Rada would have happily remained in the normal life if Sophia hadn’t made the mistake of doing business with Yakov Radionovich. Both Sophia and Radionovich shared connections with a larger crime syndicate based in Brooklyn, and led by a man named Vadim Vertov. Sophia and Radionovich’s relationship with each other had always been tense. Both felt that they alone should be in control of Vadim Vertov’s San Francisco business ventures. On occasion they were forced to work together, usually when drugs were involved; but for the better part of a decade they had been allowed to operate independently. Sophia believed that Radionovich was too stupid to run such a large operation; he was also, in her opinion, needlessly violent. Radionovich, for his part, still could not accept a woman as his equal, and Sophia knew that he believed that she was not capable of the kind of violence necessary for the mafia life.

Two months ago Sophia had made arrangements to sell forty pounds of crystal meth to an associate in Southern California. The drugs were supplied to her by Radionovich’s gang with the understanding that payment would come after the deal was complete. The man Sophia chose to deliver the drugs had been arrested outside Modesto by the California Highway Patrol. The drugs had been seized.

Radionovich used the occasion to pounce. He’d arranged a meeting at his teahouse, and within minutes of her showing up he’d begun haranguing her. Sophia didn’t understand where his anger was coming from; losing drugs was a natural risk of dealing drugs—she would pay him back—but Radionovich was acting as though this were the first time someone had been arrested. “My money,” she remembered him saying; “it is my money that you lost.”

“So, what do you want me to do?” she had asked.

Radionovich’s face had been red. She remembered him licking his upper and lower lips before he next spoke: “Your niece’s bank,” he’d said. “Take out a loan.”

Sophia, sitting in Rada’s bedroom, tried to remember how the conversation had played out. She remembered feeling a sense of depression at the prospect of bringing Rada into this, but if that were truly the case, why hadn’t she refused the idea right from the start? She remembered Radionovich making vague threats: “Well, if you cannot pay, we have other ways of dealing with it.” But that wasn’t it, either.

There was a part of her that knew she had been willing to go along with Radionovich’s suggestion, but right now, sitting on her missing niece’s bed, she was not ready to examine this willingness; instead she let her hatred of Radionovich take full bloom. She sat in Rada’s bedroom and hated the man with all her soul.

Her mind went back to the meeting: “She will never agree to it,” Sophia had said.

“She will if I don’t give her a choice,” Radionovich had answered.

And that had been the moment when she could have stopped it all; she could have demanded that they bring the debate to Vadim Vertov to settle. In reality it was a small amount of money; she could have moved some assets around and paid Radionovich off within the week. So why had she agreed to go forward? Because Radionovich had been testing her mettle; he had been trying to bait her into going to Vertov, so instead of doing what he wanted she chose to act out of pride. She called his bluff and now her niece was missing.

The rough outlines of the plan had been hashed out over the next few days. Radionovich would confront Sophia in front of her niece; he would demand she make payments on her debt. Sophia knew that Rada would never agree to rob the bank if the plan was brought to her; she had to be under the impression that it was her own idea.

An encounter was arranged. Sophia took her niece to dinner in the Richmond. The restaurant, Russian and formal, was owned by one of Radionovich’s associates. As they were finishing their meal, the establishment cleared of patrons. The waiters casually disappeared to the back. Radionovich, Georgy, and two other men came into the place and sat down around their table.

“You enjoyed your meal?” Radionovich asked in Russian.

“It was exceptional,” said Sophia, trying to act casual.

“You tried the fried liver?”

“Yakov, you know me too well.”

“And you, my dear,” said Radionovich, turning to Rada, “how is the bank?”

Rada looked toward Sophia, hoping she would answer for her, but when Sophia remained silent, Rada answered that the bank was fine.

“What a beautiful thing,” said Radionovich, looking at the two of them sitting at the table. “An aunt and her niece enjoying a nice dinner.” The mood at the table shifted.

“Please, not here,” said Sophia.

“Here is where I found you,” said Radionovich, the words rolling over mucus in his throat.

“Listen to me, I will come to you and we will talk later,” said Sophia, gesturing like she wanted to get up from the table. Georgy stood up, blocking her exit.

“You know your aunt is a real magician,” said Radionovich, moving his hands as he spoke. “She appears and disappears whenever she wants.”

Sophia remained silent. Rada stared down at the table.

“You owe us,” said Radionovich.

“Please, this is not the place.”

Georgy, still standing, walked behind Rada and began massaging her shoulders. “Don’t be so tense,” he whispered in her ear in English. Rada blanched and stared at her aunt.

“Perhaps your niece can arrange a loan,” said Radionovich. The seed was planted.

Sophia felt sick with guilt as this memory played through her mind. How had she let this happen? How had she been so stupid? Of all the wretched things she had done in her life, and there were many, this was the worst. She tried to convince herself that Radionovich had made her do it: he made me, she thought, but it wasn’t true.

Less than a week after the encounter at the restaurant, Sophia finally pretended to give in to her niece’s offers of help. If Rada agreed to help her get out of this one situation, Sophia had said, she would never involve her again. And so they decided to rob the bank.

The plan, created by Sophia herself, was designed so that neither Sophia nor Radionovich would have any direct tie to it. Sophia would find an American girl, a drug addict. The fact that she was American would help distance them from the crime. They would control the girl with drugs: crack and oxycodone to lure her in and keep her settled; a mixture of scopolamine, Estazolam, and amobarbital to break her will.

Radionovich said he could supply a man, a Russian named Benya Stavitsky, to serve as the handler. Stavitsky was desperate and would do exactly as they told him. If he got caught, no problem. If he died, no problem. He was disposable.

Things fell apart almost immediately. It became clear within the first few hours that Benya Stavitsky would not be up to the task. He could not be counted on; he was depressed, and helpless. Within minutes of arriving at the hotel he was smoking crack. He could not handle himself, let alone the American girl. Besides, it was not in Sophia’s DNA to relinquish control. The plan had been orchestrated to ensure that Sophia did not have any contact with the American girl, but shortly after getting Emily to the hotel, Sophia knew she would have to take over. After the first day it became clear that Sophia was on her own. Benya Stavitsky was no help to her; even Georgy—except for his ability to make a credible bomb and his silly little cameras—proved useless.

Sophia was not supposed to ever go to the bank. She was not even supposed to be in the area. Benya Stavitsky was supposed to handle the job, with Georgy following. Now Benya Stavitsky was dead, the drug-addicted American had somehow stolen the money, and Sophia’s only family, her little kulkoka moya, was missing.

Just a few days ago Rada had called Sophia from a pay phone and told her that Radionovich had come by her house. She had insisted that he did not threaten her, that he only wanted to hear her version of events, but for Sophia, the fact that he visited her proved his guilt. She sat on her niece’s bed and tried to calm her fear. If anything happened to Rada she would kill every last person involved. Surely, he must be holding her until the money is found; he’ll return her after that. He must have taken her as some type of insurance policy; it was unthinkable that he would have harmed her. Whatever the case, it was an act of war. They will all meet the devil. I will cut off their hands. They will all be buried in the earth.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her phone vibrating harshly in her pocket. She looked at the phone and saw it was Radionovich’s man, Timothy Nichols. Nichols was an American that Radionovich used to find people. He had been stationed outside Emily’s apartment for the last few days.

“Yes?” answered Sophia.

“I just met your girl,” said the voice on the other line.

Sophia, thinking for a moment that he was talking about her niece, then understanding it was Emily, growled, “Where is she?”

“She’s standing at the corner of Sixth and Minna watching me.”

Sophia closed her eyes for a moment and tried to picture the scene: the image of Emily staring at Nichols while he spoke on the phone seemed absurd.

“Follow her, idiot.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? Why didn’t you stop her?” asked Sophia.

“’Cause she had a pistol pointed at my head.”

“You’re at the Auburn?”

“That’s right.”

“Georgy will be there in five minutes.”