The Bootlegger

“To get rid of his watchdog.”

“No.” She shook her head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You say no, but you’re thinking that it is possible that he killed Yuri, aren’t you?”

She was silent a long moment, then said in a bleak and empty voice. “Yuri was my friend.”

“He was a murderer,” said Isaac Bell. “Forty times over.”

“I didn’t know he was going to do it.”

Bell made no effort to hide his disgust. “Whether you are a traitor, or a foolish young woman who — as I said generously, earlier — fell in with the ‘wrong crowd,’ will depend on your next move.”

“Betray him?”

“I will make it easy for you.”

“How?”

“I just told you. He’s already betrayed you. And your workers’ cause.”

“How?”

“You introduced him to Newtown Storms. Storms invests the enormous sums of cash that Marat Zolner earns bootlegging. Do you deny that he uses the money Storms makes in the stock market to finance his Comintern attack on our country?”

Fern Hawley returned Bell’s wintery gaze in silence.

“I am asking you privately,” said Bell. He had thought on this all afternoon. He had much bigger fish to fry than one confused spoiled brat. “Confidentially, Fern. Between you and me. All alone on your yacht in the middle of a harbor of a remote British colony.”

“Why are you protecting me?” she asked in a small voice.

“Two reasons. One, I truly do believe that you fell in with the wrong crowd.”

“What makes you believe that? You don’t know me.”

“A character reference from a colleague whose judgment I trust.”

“Who?”

“Pauline.”

“She’s yours?”

“She’s Van Dorn’s.”

Fern covered her face. “Oh, do I feel like a fool.”

“You aren’t the first. Pauline is the sharpest detective you will ever meet. She sees a possibility of something worthwhile in you, and what Pauline sees is good enough for me.”

“What is the second reason?”

“The second reason is far more important. You can give me Marat Zolner. Which is why I ask you about the Stormses’ investments financing the Comintern attack.”

Fern smirked the smirk that said she knew more than Bell did. “Actually, most of it comes straight from the bootlegging. Storms hasn’t made him as much as he hoped.”

“Oh yes he has,” said Bell. “Storms is good at what he does, and the market has been kind.”

“That’s not what Marat said.”

“That’s because Marat siphons off most of his stock earnings. He has secret, personal accounts with Storms & Storms. He stashed money in London and Paris and Berlin and Switzerland. He has made himself a very wealthy Bolshevik.”

Fern Hawley flushed. She took a deep breath. “Do you remember I told you he’s an optimist? That’s the least of it. He is a brilliant, natural-born liar. That dirty son of a—”

“I was hoping you would say that,” said Isaac Bell.

37

With his muted engines turning just enough revolutions to make headway through the deepening chop, Marat Zolner kept Maya between him and the town as he eased Black Bird alongside the big yacht in the dead of the night. He tossed a canvas-wrapped grappling hook over the teak rail, pulled himself up, and went to Fern’s cabin.

She was rubbing her beautiful face with a night cream and saw him in the mirror.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Sadly, the cat has only a moment. What did you tell Isaac Bell?”

“No more than I had to to make him go away.”

“What did he ask?”

“He asked about the tanker. He knew the Comintern bought it. I confirmed that to keep him from asking more questions.”

“Did you tell him where it is?”

“No. That was the point of answering his previous question.”

“You’re good at this.”

“I was taught by a master… What are you doing here, Marat?”

Zolner gave her a strange smile. For as long as she had known him, she could rarely tell what he was really thinking. He looked sad, but she couldn’t swear to it, even when he asked, “Is the bank open tonight?”

Fern Hawley hoped that she was not a fool to wish that somehow what Isaac Bell had told her was not true. She opened her arms, saying, “All night.”

It turned out to be a short night, and, afterward, he looked even sadder, she thought.

“What is it?”

“Isaac Bell has beaten me.”

“How?”

“Detroit’s exploded. They’re killing each other like rats in a sewer. And I can’t control New York without being on top of it. And now, thanks to Isaac Bell, I can’t get money from Storms. But I will tell you this: Isaac Bell will wish he had died when I go home a hero.”

“Russia?”

“You will come with me.”

“Do you really want me, Marat?”

“Of course I want you. Now I need your help. Bell has put out a general alarm for my arrest.”

“How can he do that?”

“The Van Dorns have the ear of the Department of Justice and every police chief on the East Coast. I can’t take a train. I can’t land in a flying boat. I can’t board a liner.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m going to New York.”

“You just said there’s nothing for you in New York.”

“Comrades will hide me on a ship.”

“How will you get there?”

“Black Bird.”

“It’s over a thousand miles.”

“Twelve hundred.”

“But you could find a ship in Havana. Or San Juan. Or Port-au-Prince.”

“I have business to finish in New York.”

“What business?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Marat, how can I trust you if you won’t trust me?”

“It’s something Yuri and I were doing.”

“Shall I meet you there?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It is something you would not understand. Meet me in Rotterdam. We’ll go home heroes.”

38

At breakfast in the Hotel Lucerne, nervous guests were discussing the storm. Gale warnings were flying from the stone fort that overlooked the harbor, and the morning newspaper quoted radio transmissions from Havana: Hurricane winds were sweeping Cuba, fashionable resorts were flooded.

“Brace yourself, Isaac,” Pauline whispered. “She’s back.”

Fern Hawley rushed in, wild-eyed and windblown. She looked like she had not slept.

A brisk nod from Bell caused Ed Tobin and Asa Somers to excuse themselves from the table. Fern sat across from him and Pauline. “Marat came to me last night.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s on his way to Russia. He wants me to come with him.”

“Where is he now?”

“He left in the night. For New York. To meet a ship that will smuggle him back to Europe.”

“He’ll never make it. I’ve got trains and ports covered.”

“He’s going on Black Bird.”

“By motorboat? It’s twelve hundred miles.”

“That’s what I said. It doesn’t make sense. He could escape faster and more easily by ru

“Then to Russia?” asked Pauline.

“That’s what he said. Through Rotterdam. He said that you’d be sorry, Isaac, when he went home a hero.”

“A hero of the revolution?” said Bell.

“He said you’ll wish you were dead.”

Pauline asked, “Why are you telling us this now?”

“Because I think he’s up to something terrible.”

Bell said, “You told me earlier that you didn’t know where the alcohol tanker is. Do you?”

“Yes. It’s anchored off Eleuthera. We stopped there on the way down. My captain will have the exact position in his log.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I gave you everything, Isaac. I wanted to keep something for myself.”

Before Bell could answer, he felt Pauline’s knee firmly against his, warning Don’t speak, let Fern do it. And, indeed, Fern did speak. “I thought he kept the tanker at Eleuthera to do a stretching operation. But he could stretch in Nassau. Or up on Rum Row. So I wondered, was he hiding it for some reason?” She shrugged. “Maybe he was waiting for the price to rise.”