Cutter gritted his teeth as his thigh reminded him he had been shot. He hoped it was no more than a flesh wound, that it wouldn’t hinder him.
He drove out of East LA, skirted downtown and, when he was in the central part, reached for his phone and sent a text message.
It’s Cutter. I’m coming.
On La Cienega Boulevard, with just the radio to keep him company, he heard a journalist breathlessly reporting that Boyle Heights was under attack.
He shook his head and grinned mirthlessly at the exaggeration. Entered Beverly Hills, drove to Foothill Road and approached a black metal gate, which rolled back. He drove down a concrete driveway and parked in front of a large triple garage. Got out of his vehicle and limped to its side, where a man stood.
‘I was hoping you were dead.’ The man sized him up.
Cutter had fans all over the world.
‘Good to see you, too,’ he growled and winced when his leg complained as he climbed the single step and followed the man inside.
Yevgeny Kozlov had been a doctor in Moscow, but he wasn’t the kind any random citizen could go to for their ailments. He worked in GRU, the secretive military intelligence agency that carried out covert attacks all over the world. The agency was widely believed to be behind election manipulation in the Western world, hacking on an industrial scale, and assassinations.
Kozlov had walked into the US Embassy in Moscow on a spring morning and turned himself in. He had given up intel on active Russian agents in the US, Germany and UK and had been immediately flown to the US, where he had been further debriefed and rehabilitated under a new identity.
The Russian had established himself as a cosmetic surgeon of repute and was on speed-dial on every A-lister’s phone.
‘That’s recent,’ the doctor commented as he cut the EMT uniform’s legs and inspected the wound.
‘Would I come to you if it weren’t?’
‘Of all the gin joints in the world, you had to pick mine.’ Kozlov cleaned Cutter’s thigh as he paraphrased. ‘You want the good news or the bad news?’ He went to a chest of drawers and brought out a bottle of vodka. Poured a generous shot into a glass and offered it to Cutter, who shook his head.
‘I don’t drink. Have you forgotten?’
‘I wish I never remembered anything about you.’ The doctor emptied the glass in one swallow and donned his gloves.
‘You’re going to operate on me after that drink?’
‘That’s how it’s done in Moscow.’
‘We’re in LA.’
‘Be my guest.’ Kozlov gestured expansively. ‘Find someone else who will treat you no-questions-asked.’
Cutter gave up. He had yet to work out why everyone in his life was stubborn, headstrong, and got great pleasure from yanking his chain.
He lay down on the bed and then remembered and propped himself up on an elbow. ‘What’s the good and bad news?’
‘Ah, that.’ The Russian picked up gleaming instruments. ‘It’s not serious. The bullet grazed the side of your thigh, took out a chunk of flesh, but you won’t die. You don’t even need complicated surgery.’
‘What’s the bad news, in that case?’ Cutter eyed him suspiciously.
‘It’s going to hurt,’ and with that Kozlov jabbed him right on the wound.
‘You passed out,’ the doctor said unsympathetically when Cutter came to. ‘For maybe fifteen minutes.’
‘That’s what happens when you torture someone.’
‘Torture, droog? That was not even close. I should know. I worked in the GRU, in case you were forgetting.’
Droog. Friend. That’s who Kozlov was to him, despite his attitude.
It was Cutter who had escorted him from Moscow to the States, and during the flight and in the subsequent months, they had developed a close friendship. Cutter was at his side when Kozlov heard from Moscow that his parents had been arrested in retaliation for his defection. He held the Russian when they heard the news that his folks had died after being tortured. He had been best man when the defector had married Marta, another Russian émigré, a psychiatrist.
Kozlov cleaned up and bandaged his thigh. Washed his hands in the sink and cocked his head at Cutter, who was inspecting what remained of the EMT coveralls.
‘I guess I have to provide you with some clothing,’ he sighed. He went to a dresser and returned with a clean Tee and a pair of jeans.
‘They’re mine. They should fit. We’re the same size.’
‘Neat place,’ Cutter commented after he had put on the clothes.
‘Yeah.’ Kozlov had developed an American accent as he established his business. ‘Marta would have killed me if I started seeing patients in the house. Turning the garage into my surgery was the obvious choice. I didn’t need it anyway.’
‘How is she? The kids?’
‘She misses you. No,’ he replied quickly when Cutter looked up. ‘She doesn’t know you’re here. Vasily’s in New York, working in a law firm, while Taty’s at Princeton.’
Cutter smiled absently at the pride in Kozlov’s voice and tested his leg by pacing the room. It throbbed dully, but he could move.
‘Painkiller will wear off in a few hours. There are more in that baggie. Take them regularly. I’ve written a prescription too, in case you need more.’
Cutter inspected the medicines and pocketed them. Reached for his wallet and got his hand slapped.
‘Don’t,’ Kozlov told him roughly. ‘You should rest for a few days. Let your leg heal.’
I can’t.
‘You won’t, will you? What have you gotten yourself into this time? I thought you were in New York. Marta was proud when you came up on TV. She told all her friends how close we were.’
‘It’s better you don’t know.’
Kozlov nodded, as if he had been expecting just that response.
‘You’ll have to erase your security camera footage.’
‘This isn’t the first time you or other operators have turned up in the middle of the night. I know what to do.’
Cutter grinned and squeezed his shoulder. Went to the door when the Russian turned off the inside lights and slipped out.
‘Try not to get killed,’ his friend told him in a low voice when he climbed into his car.
He drove away on that upbeat note, and in the coolness of Beverly Hills worked out his next moves.
I can’t go back to Sycamore Avenue or Vienna’s house. Cops will be watching those places.
He was confident there was nothing to link him to the burning house or the ambulance. However, LAPD already suspected him. I don’t have an alibi. They’ll find the burner phones if they search hard enough.
They wouldn’t find his arms caches because he had stashed them in various locations all over the city.
What of Covarra? Will this attack be enough for him to call me?
He would have to find other places to hit if the shot-caller didn’t respond. Which would be a challenge, since he didn’t know any others.
His hands tightened on the wheel as he drove through the night.
I won’t give up, he vowed. But his words felt hollow, even to himself. All the Street Front boss had to do was stay silent, and that would leave Cutter with nothing and nowhere to go.
He drove to Pacific Palisades, an upmarket neighborhood on the west side of the city, and checked into a hotel.
The thought came to him just as he dropped off to sleep.
I can ask Janikyan. He might know where Covarra’s warehouses are.