She tried a few more times, just to be thorough, but all he did was continue to mutter in Russian, curses and, she thought, prayers. She’d played him wrong, she realized: He’d made the connection between Anton and the SVR and Moscow powers, and probably hated them worse than death itself. He was a stubborn, tough old bastard and he wasn’t going to budge. So instead of torturing him with it, she put the last smoke in his mouth and he sucked it eagerly, even gratefully, she thought, and then she unhooked him and let him go.
Joe and Yelena watched TV with Gladys, a Parks & Recreation marathon, the idea being to take their minds off of the day ahead, but Joe couldn’t focus and went into the bedroom and read instead. Finally, when Gladys drained her last drink and went to bed, Yelena did the same.
“Still the poetry?” she asked, lying beside him. “You know, I didn’t go to school, but in Russia we honor our great poets.” She shrugged. “At least until we execute them.” She shut her eyes. “Read me some?”
He read her the first of the Duino Elegies, and then told her the little he knew about their creation, how Rilke, in the midst of a severe psychological crisis, was invited by the Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis to stay in Duino Castle, overlooking the Adriatic Sea, where walking on the cliffs, he heard the wind whisper the opening line in his ear: “Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angel’s hierarchies?” It was ten more years of struggle before he completed the poems.
Yelena liked that. She reached for the book: “Whom can we turn to in our need? Not angels, not humans,” she read, approvingly. “And it says this, too, about lovers . . .” She ran a finger along the text: “They keep on using each other to hide their fate.”
Joe smiled. “Oh yeah? That strikes a chord for you, does it?”
Yelena shrugged and tossed the book onto his stomach. “Anyway he reminds me of you.” She laughed, as she stood and peeled off her T-shirt and jeans. “I bet you would go live in a castle alone and walk the cliffs.” Leaving her clothes in a pile, she switched off the light and slipped into bed beside him. She pressed her mouth to his ear. “Then I’d be the angel that comes and whispers in your ear,” she added, and stuck her tongue in his ear.
“Ha!” He squirmed and turned to face her, though his eyes could not yet make hers out in the dark. “You know what part reminds me of you?” he whispered back.
“Tell me.”
He moved closer, his lips brushing her ear now. “Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror.”
35
DONNA’S DAY WAS GOING pretty well, if you didn’t mind suffocating crowds, boring speeches, and a wide variety of New York smells, including hot dog, spilled beer, and overflowing toilets. Then her walkie squawked. It was NYPD.
“Agent Zamora, you on? Over?”
“Zamora here. What’s up?”
“We’ve got a vehicle out here at the perimeter. Driver said you gave him clearance to enter. Name of Toomey. Rick. You know him?”
Donna scowled at her walkie. “I know him but I didn’t clear him. Vehicle you say?”
“Yeah, he’s a disabled vet. Trying to get into the memorial.”
“Okay hold him there. I’m on my way.”
“Roger that.”
“Can you cover me?” Donna asked Andy. “My date’s here.”
“Date?” he asked, eyes automatically sweeping the crowd behind his shades while he spoke. “Are you joking?”
“I don’t even know,” she admitted. She moved through the crowd, forcing her way gently and showing her badge, until she finally got to the perimeter, where the cops had their barricades, the National Guard stood around in fatigues and rifles, and Homeland Security, slightly more discreet, moved around in Kevlar vests and sunglasses. Most discreet of all were her own kind, FBI and Secret Service, many of whom were dressed as tourists, or vendors, or hidden in sniper positions around the area. She showed her badge and kept walking to the closest corner where a vehicle was allowed. She approached an NYPD sergeant, a dark-skinned woman with her braids up under her cap.
“Excuse me Sarge, I’m Zamora, FBI. Someone called for me?”
“Right.” They shook hands. “I’m Cole. Hoping you can handle this for us. The guy’s a vet, even got a Special Forces decal on his truck, but there’s no way we can let him drive any closer. You understand. No disrespect.”
“No, of course not. I’ve got it. And thanks.”
The sergeant touched her brim and pointed, and Donna went around the corner, where she saw a Jeep Wagoneer, one of the big ones, double parked, with a big white guy leaning against it. He held a cane. He was handsome, she had to admit. And parked illegally.
“Mr. Toomey?” she called out as she drew closer. “I’m Agent Zamora.”
“Hey . . .” he gave her a wide, craggy smile. Dimples even. “I thought we were Rick and Donna. Have I been downgraded?”
She laughed. “Not at all, just in work mode, sorry.” She held out a hand and he shook, firmly but gently, and gave it just a second of extra pressure. “Now what seems to be the problem?”
“Didn’t know there was one. Just another disabled vet trying to get in. I don’t know where to park though. Thought you’d have some kind of VIP access for special needs parking.”
“I’m afraid there’s no way we could clear every car. Not to mention no place to park them. You’ll have to use a lot or find the closest legal spot. But the upside is alternate side of the street rules are suspended. And if walking is a problem, I can get you a ride with the police.” She smiled. “So don’t worry, you’ll still be getting the VIP treatment.”
He laughed. “That kind of special attention I don’t need. The walk will do me good.”
Donna smiled. “Sounds like a plan,” she said and got on her radio. “Sergeant Cole? This is Agent Zamora. You on? Over.”
Her radio squawked. “I’m here. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Rick Toomey is going to park his vehicle legally and return. Can you send him my way?”
“No problem.”
“There you go,” Donna told him with smile.
Toomey kept his cool. As always. The parking problem had thrown a wrench into his plans but of course he had a backup. As always. So he reparked his truck and took a cab back down to the memorial, or as close as it would get him, fiddling with his cane in the back. Now that he’d ditched the vehicle, the whole disabled vet thing was a bit of a nuisance, and he considered “forgetting” his cane in the taxi, but no, he had to keep the limp. He was visiting a secular holy site, not Lourdes, and a little extra pity never hurt, he found, especially with women. Extra especially with women like Zamora—Donna—who clearly had a need to rescue and protect.
He paid his taxi, got out, leaning on the cane of course, then found that African-American sergeant, the one who had given him shit before, smiled, and called her ma’am and was waved on through, pushing his way through the crowd, his VFW hat and his cane helping, people more or less clearing a path, but still, a mongrel crowd, every kind of person mixed up together, like a garbage dump. Half the people selling food or drinks or goddamn 9/11 T-shirts and flags even looked like Islamics. Now what kind of mixed-up world was that?
He wouldn’t be sorry when he had to leave New York.
“Hey, Richards, I’ve got a question? How’s your heroin import business going?”
Still with his gracious host’s smile stuck to his face, Richards turned to Joe.
He was in his adventure gear: multi-pocket hunting vest over white dress shirt and khakis, though most of the men around him—and they were pretty much all men except for some of the caterers and a couple of sleek female PR operatives—wore suits and ties or formal military uniforms with rows of medals. Joe had noted the military vehicles in the parking lot when he’d come in—a few Humvees, limos with military plates, as well as expensive private cars with USMC or Army emblems on the windows and bumpers. Even a Jeep Wagoneer with De Oppresso Liber, the Special Forces motto, on a sticker on the back. He’d ditched
yesterday’s uniform himself, passing unnoticed now in a jacket and tie as he followed the crowd into the elevator and up to the mezzanine, pausing in front of the table where guests were checking in. Then his turn came:
“Good evening ma’am, I’m Yurami, first name Ken,” he said with a slight country twang.
The woman smiled and searched the list.
“Here you are, Mister Kenneth Yurami,” she said, writing his name on a tag.
“Mister Yurami? Only my mother calls me that,” Joe said, with smile. “Just make it Ken please.” He stuck the name to his chest and went through, getting a seltzer from the bar, then mingling with the crowd that circulated around Richards like a giant organism, or one of those huge trash islands that form in the ocean currents. Finally, he floated close enough to ask his question. That got Richards’s attention.
“Excuse me? I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t be modest. It doesn’t suit you, Bob,” Joe laughed. “I’m talking about your new product White Angel. You should be proud of it. It’s killing more junkies than anything else on the street.”
Now the men in suits and the men in medals were frowning and looking uncomfortable. Richards forced a smile, while his eyes searched for security. Jensen, seeing his master’s discomfort, moved closer to Joe.
“I think our friend here has had too much to drink,” Richards said. “I think he needs some air.” He gestured toward a side door, which Jensen held open. “If you gentlemen will excuse us a moment?”
“Yeah why not?” Joe said. “Back in a moment, gentlemen. And waiter . . .” He handed his empty glass to a general. “Get me a refill meantime will you?”
He sauntered through the door after Richards and into the hall, where a security guard was waiting. Jensen shut the door and put a hand on Joe’s left shoulder, while the guard grabbed his right. Richards turned to him with a snarl, hand clenched around his martini glass.
“I don’t know who you are or what you think you know but look, Mister . . .” He narrowed his eyes at the name tag. “Ken Yurami?”
“Drop your pants and I’ll consider it,” Joe said.
The security guard snickered. Richards glared. Jensen pointed at the tag. “That’s not a real name!”
“I’m Ken Yurami to you,” Joe said. “Remember it. Because what I think I know is all about you and Zahir, about the dope coming in through the Wildwater returns, about your deal with the Russians . . .”
Richards laughed. “I have no idea what you’re babbling about. Even if these things happened, they have nothing to do with me. There isn’t a shred of evidence. Threaten me in front of witnesses, and you’ll be the one to get arrested, Joe.” He grinned. “That’s right. I know just who you are. And those men in there? Generals, diplomats, millionaires. If I snap my fingers they will be happy to lock you up. If I don’t have these boys right here snap your neck first. You think I broke the law? Son, as far as you’re concerned, I am the law.”
Joe smiled back at him. “You’re right. But you’ve crossed into my world now, where the law can’t protect you. Your money can’t protect you. Not your powerful friends. Or your hired goons. I saw your speech the other day, about leaving war to the professionals. It’s the same with crime. You should have taken your own advice. If you know my name, then you should know it would take less than ten seconds for me to cut your throat with that glass right now.”
Richards laughed louder, and the two other men joined in, gripping Joe tighter. “Now that I’d like to see.” He raised his glass to Joe in salute, then downed his martini.
“As you wish,” Joe said, and dislocated Jensen’s right arm. Jensen had made the mistake of grabbing Joe up on his shoulder, and though his grip was strong from working out, like a knuckle-buster handshake, his positioning had left him vulnerable. Joe was able to jump back and twist his left arm around Jensen’s extended right, eluding the guard’s looser grip. As Jensen stumbled forward, Joe forced the right arm up between the shoulder blades, till it left the socket with an audible pop. Jensen groaned. In a panic, the guard tried to grab at Joe while also reaching for his shoulder holster, but Jensen was stumbling between them and, with both hands busy, the guard had no defense when Joe hit him, hard and fast in the throat. He gasped for air, clutching his throat, and Joe quickly dipped into the holster and slid out his gun, then hammered him on the forehead with it. He dropped to his knees. Now Jensen was reaching for his own gun, awkwardly, with his left hand, and Joe grabbed that arm and bent it back the same way. “Sorry, but no guns. Someone could get hurt.” Another pop. Jensen screamed.
Richards, who had been watching in shock, flinched as Joe moved toward him with the gun, swinging hard. He shut his eyes. The gun barrel cracked the glass in his hand, breaking it off at the stem, which Joe snatched in his left. Then he pushed Richards up against the elevators, with the edge of broken glass against his jugular.
“How did I do?” Joe asked. “Was that ten?” The guard was on his knees, still trying to breathe. Jensen seemed to be in shock, regarding his two arms, which dangled helplessly. Richards stared at him, frozen in stark terror. Joe could feel him tremble, like a rabbit in the jaws of the wolf. He pressed the elevator call button.
“I’m going to let you get back to your friends. But just remember. You’re living in my world now. Not theirs. And there’s no going back.”
The elevator doors opened. Two uniformed waiters stood there with a serving cart. “Going down?” Joe asked.
They nodded. Joe dropped the broken glass and got on.
Liam and Josh, who were dressed in waiters’ uniforms they’d taken from Old Shenanigan’s, waited for the elevator doors to shut before grinning at Joe.
“That seems to have gone well,” Liam said.
Joe glanced up at the camera. Josh nodded. “We took care of it.”
“It went just like we planned,” Joe said, relaxing. “What about you and Yelena?”
“Ask her yourself,” Josh said and tapped on the cart. The tablecloth parted and Yelena, who’d been curled beneath it, hopped out.
“How’d it go?” Joe asked, helping her to her feet.
“Fine,” she said, brushing out her hair. “He’ll never know I was there.” She was wearing leggings and a sleeveless T-shirt. Now she pulled a clingy dress from her bag. Kicking off her sneakers, she stepped into the dress and pulled it up, then grabbed black heels from her bag and slid them on while Liam and Josh put her sneakers in the bag and stowed it back under the cart. As the doors opened on the lobby, she took Joe’s arm and they walked out while Liam and Josh continued down to the basement.
Joe and Yelena smiled and laughed as they crossed the lobby, nodding at others who came and went. The PR woman was by the door, with a couple of guards.
“Goodbye,” Joe said as he passed her.
“Goodbye, Mr. Yurami . . . I mean Ken . . .” she laughed. “And happy September 11th . . . I mean . . .” she looked disconcerted.
“I know what you mean,” Joe told her. “God bless America.”
Yelena waved happily and they went through the revolving door onto the street. Cash and Juno were waiting in a black limo with tinted windows. As soon as they shut the door, Cash pulled out, rolling half a block to where Liam and Josh had emerged from the parking garage. They’d abandoned the cart in the elevator, and now Josh had Yelena’s bag over his shoulder. They hopped in and, as Cash drove away, Joe leaned to Juno. “Cameras?”
“I’m on it, Boss,” he said, tapping away at his laptop. “I’m erasing the last hour to be on the safe side. Since before you all entered the building.”
“Perfect,” Joe said. “Now that Russian, Sergey. Tell me where his car is.”
“Yeah,” Juno said. “I’ve been checking like you asked. It was at the repair shop and detailing place all day. But now it’s rolling again. Guess not even a Russian gangster can throw out a brand-new Benz just ’cause it gets a little shit on it.”
“A lot of shit
bro.” Cash chuckled from behind the wheel.
“True that,” Juno agreed. “Ol’ Sergey had a real shit day.”
Everyone laughed except for Joe, who glanced at Yelena.
“But not his worst,” he said.
Richards didn’t move a muscle till the elevator doors closed. Then he rushed over to the others. The guard was curled in a ball, taking deep, measured breaths. Jensen was standing there stunned, arms hanging limp like a rag doll.
“Call for help,” Richards ordered him, out of habit.
“I can’t,” Jensen said, staring down at his useless appendages. “My arms won’t move. My walkie is in my pocket.”
“Jesus Christ,” Richards muttered, frowning in distaste as he reached into his underling’s pants. He pressed a button. “This is Bob Richards. We need security in the South Hall on the mezzanine floor.”
Ten minutes later, he was back up in his penthouse office with Nikolai and the team of mercenaries. Trey, who’d had medic training, was seeing to Jensen. The other injured guard had been quietly taken to another room to recover.
“I’m going to have to pop his shoulders back in,” Trey said to Richards. And to Jensen: “It’s going to hurt. A lot.”
Nikolai spoke: “Take him in the other room. All of you. We need to think.”
“Yes, sir,” Trey said, leading a reluctant-looking Jensen out, as Baxter and Dirk followed. As soon as the door shut, Nikolai asked, “Any news from Victoria?”
“She says she is on it,” Richards told him. “And you know what that means.”
“Good.” Nikolai nodded. A blood-curdling scream came from beyond the wall.
“That’s the first arm,” he observed. He put a cigar in his lips and lit it. “And now,” he said, “I take these soldiers of yours to Anton, and let them handle this Brody and his crew.”
“And that girl, Noylaskya. She’s your problem.”
“In a sense, perhaps,” Nikolai reflected. “After all, I created her.” He waved his cigar. “And I will destroy her. She’s just a tool after all. If she fails you, throw her out.”
Against the Law Page 23