I had intended to give something to her but had not come up yet with the right amount. “Good point,” I said, trying to keep it business, even though my heart fluttered for a moment at the thought. “I’ll do something—something good.”
“You better,” he said in a big-brother fashion, and he was right. “I have some news from Julia,” he added. “I’ll share it when we have a moment.”
“I hope it’s good,” I said, “because I have a feeling we’re coming back into a buzz saw.”
“Oh, it’s really good,” he said as he worked on his salad.
I finished up with Franz. He confirmed all the names and account and routing numbers, and indicated that he wanted to bounce the money a few times through some friendly banks, notably one in Nigeria and one in Egypt. He said that they were notoriously difficult to get information out of, which worked well for our interests. He would know—he was the classic Swiss banker.
“Go,” I said. “Let me know when it’s all finished.” He signed off. It was nearly ten p.m. there, yet he was able to affect these wires as if the bank were open for business. Well, it was open: it had a twenty-four–hour operations center, and money flowed through it like red blood cells flowed through the human body.
“I’m going to check in with James and Linda, then Sabra, then Ross, and then I’m going to enjoy a nice lunch,” I said to Lenny. “We need to deal with Lenore.”
“Let me handle that one,” Lenny said, just as she entered with a sizzling filet mignon and lots of seasonal vegetables. The aroma was almost intoxicating. I don’t eat much beef, but after all the stress of the op, I needed some heavy protein to ground me.
“I think I’ll have the same,” I said to her.
“I thought you might; it’s all ready,” she responded. “I’ll just go get it.” She left and came back in two minutes with an identical plate. Man, that looked and smelled good.
“What’s our ETA?” Lenny asked Lenore.
“You have about an hour,” she said, checking her watch.
“Good,” he said as I started cutting and eating the delicious meal. “We need to speak to you. Can you come back in ten minutes?”
“Sure,” she said with no indication that there was any problem. She took Lenny’s salad plate and left. I held up two fingers, and Lenny nodded. It was shorthand for how we would handle Lenore. The pilots were a slightly different matter, probably ones.
We ate like hungry wolves and finished quickly. We were sitting on opposite sides of the plane but across from each other. Lenny retrieved his Google glasses and handed them to me; I put them on and flipped the record button. I opened my second briefcase and took out two packs of cash. Showtime. Lenny buzzed on his armrest, and Lenore appeared.
“Thanks, honey. Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him. I watched with a perfect view of both of them in HD. She was clearly uncomfortable. Her gaze stayed just a little too long on my Google glasses… A tell?
“What’s up?” she asked, not quite as poised as usual.
Lenny leaned forward, a little closer to her. “Do you work for Ross?”
“You mean the FBI agent?” she asked, definitely surprised at the accusation.
“Yes, that guy,” Lenny said with authority.
“No,” she protested. “Why do you think that?”
“You were there in the restaurant, and now you’re here. You want to explain that?”
“I need money to go to school, man. That guy comes into the restaurant sometimes. He always sits at the same table. Sometimes I get him; sometimes the others take care of him. What the fuck is this about?” Her eyes started to water. She choked up. Either she was a high-level professional or we had misjudged her.
“Where’s your purse?” Lenny asked, his PI skills kicking in.
“Up in the flight deck.”
“Let’s go get it,” he said as he stood up.
She rose slowly, clearly fearful. They walked up to the flight deck and opened the door. She went in. Lenny stood at the doorway and watched. She retrieved her purse and handed it to Lenny, who walked it back to his seat. She followed. He looked through it, examined everything, and found nothing to disprove what she had said. He handed it back to her.
“Sorry about this,” he said. “We have to be careful. Seeing you again is a huge tripwire.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said, tissuing her eyes dry.
“What year are you in med school?” he asked, changing the subject toward closure.
“Second year… but I’m going to have to drop out for a while to earn money for the third.”
“Maybe we can help you,” he said. He handed her two packs of cash, twenty thousand dollars. “Would this help?”
“She took the cash and was speechless. More watery eyes. “You’re going to give me this?”
“Yes, we just gave it to you,” he said. “But you’ve gotta be good. Anybody asks, you don’t remember a thing. You get it?”
“Sure.” She quickly placed the money in her purse and snapped it closed. “Who are you guys, anyway?” she said. Before we could reprimand her, she added, “Just joking. I get it; no problem.” She stood up, completely back in control of herself, placed the purse over her shoulder, and pointed to our plates. “You want some more? There’s plenty back there.”
I was about ninety percent sure she was telling the truth. We had her on record if that ten percent proved problematic.
After a delicious meal, Lenore cleared our plates. Lenny told her that we wanted to speak to each pilot privately. She understood. She went up and fetched them, individually, then retreated back to the flight deck. Lenny handled them while I recorded. We gave each a single pack of cash, with the same instructions. They were to remember nothing about us or our trip to Cayman. It was not a negotiation: it was a gift, and they were savvy former-military guys who got it.
Money distribution matters completed. On to phone duty.
I got ready to check in with all of my associates. I put the sat phone on charger, as its battery was getting low. James was to be first, a debrief of sorts. Just as I was ready to tap his number, the phone chimed. It was Linda. I didn’t know whether to feel happy that she had called or frightened about why she might be calling us now.
I accepted. “Hey.”
“You gotta hear this!” she said, not herself.
“Hear what?”
“Listen, it was on our voicemail.” A new voice came on the line, clearly a recording. “‘Hey asshole. You took our fucking money. Big mistake. I know who you are. And I know who your friends are. If that money is not back in our account by six today, I will kill you. And then I’ll kill your friends.’”
It was Lev!
16
As soon as Judge Langdon pounded his gavel and retreated to his chambers, Mary Cole, Assistant State’s Attorney for the Eleventh District, gathered her papers and made a beeline for the door. She walked quickly down the long hallway to the elevators, rode down to the ground floor, and exited the building. The state’s attorney’s offices were one block away. She had work to do, she thought, while also reflecting on the most bizarre court hearing in which she had ever been involved. It had been complete disaster for Attorney Jefferson Pike, who had stayed behind to pay his five thousand dollar contempt fine—in order to avoid spending the day, and maybe even the night, in the civil jail in the basement of the courthouse.
Cole went directly to her office and started preparing the arrest warrants for the two Siroco defendants. After three years in her position, she had prepared hundreds of arrest warrants for judges to sign. But for this one, she knew she could get a little more. In addition to the search of the premises for the individuals, she threw in an extra item. She had seen how angry the judge was at the defendants and their counsel. She included directions for the Marshal’s Office to search the
Siroco premises for the defendants, as well as any other evidence of criminal intent regarding unlicensed automatic weapons. It was as broad as could possibly be written; she was sure the judge would sign it.
About eleven, she walked back to Department 143, where Judge Harris Langdon was finishing up with the last matter on his docket for the day. Cole approached the court clerk and submitted the arrest warrants as the judge had requested. When the hearing in progress was completed, the clerk walked them up to the judge, who gave each a cursory look, glanced up toward Cole, nodded his thanks, and signed off. Good to go.
Cole walked the signed warrants down to the Marshal’s Office, which was on the ground floor of the building. Marshal Bill Thompson came out from the ready room and conferred with Cole about the warrants and what she expected. He was a veteran in the office, there for twenty-some years, and had worked with Cole on other cases.
“I’ll get to this as soon as we can, Mary. I’ll form a team with three other guys. We’ll find these defendants if they’re present. And like it says, we’ll look around for anything that’s not kosher.”
“Thanks, Bill. Let me know when you get back.”
“Copy that,” he said. He turned and walked back toward the ready room, thinking about the lunch they would soon be having at noon for retiring Marshal Steve Clemons. The warrants could wait.
* * *
The four-person Marshall’s Office team took two government-licensed cars over to Palmetto Plaza, only two blocks away, and parked in front in the no-parking space. Thompson checked his watch and noted that it was two-twenty when they arrived on site.
The team marched into the building and stopped at the information desk. Thompson held up the warrants and asked where he could find Siroco International Investments Corporation. The guard fumbled with his lapel, informed Thompson that it occupied the top two floors, then pointed to his left to the elevators. Thompson and his men moved in double formation to the elevators.
Inside the elevator, two of the marshals unsnapped their shoulder holster safety straps in anticipation of—well, of not knowing exactly what to anticipate. The door opened to the forty-fourth floor. Thompson took the lead. He approached the receptionist while his three colleagues spread out in a phalanx, a show of force.
“Good afternoon. We’re US marshals. We have warrants to search these premises. Who’s in charge here?”
“Mr. Lavorosky. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She dialed his extension and told him about the marshals. Two calls came in. She answered, ”Siroco,” then took another call.
Lavorosky appeared. “What’s this about?” he said, irritated.
“We have arrest warrants for a Mr. Igor Ljubov and Mr. Alexi Grigovich. Are they present on these premises?”
“No,” Lev said, “we have no idea who they are.”
“Apparently, your attorney said they were here—today, in court.”
“They’re not here!” Lev raised his voice.
Another call came in at reception. “He’s not available,” she said, looking to Lev.
“No calls now!” he yelled to her.
“Call back later,” she said loudly into her phone, then pushed some buttons on her phone unit, and calls ceased.
“They’re not here. You can leave now. We’re trying to run a business here, in case you didn’t notice. Thanks for coming by.” Lev turned away.
“You!” Thompson called out with the authority he had learned over his twenty years. “Stop!”
Lev kept walking away. One of the marshals had strategically positioned himself further down the hallway, saw what was happening, and stepped in front of Lev.
“Stop or you’re under arrest,” he said calmly and firmly, placing his feet slightly apart in anticipation of a physical confrontation with Lev.
“What do you assholes want? These guys are not here.”
“We’re US marshals, sir, not assholes. Step against that wall and put your hands against it.”
The marshal could see Lev thinking about it: run, fight, evade. The marshal moved quickly, his training kicking in. He grabbed Lev by the shirt and flung him against the wall.
Lev gave up any thoughts of fleeing. The marshal patted him for weapons and found just a cell phone and a clip with several hundred dollars. As he was walking Lev back to the reception area where Thompson was waiting, the elevator opened, and the guard from the desk downstairs exited.
“Delivery for Siroco,” the young building guard with the blue blazer said, holding a small envelope with Siroco handwritten on it. He turned in a full circle to see what was happening.
“Just leave it on the desk,” Thompson said, pointing to the receptionist. The guard placed the envelope on the desk and turned again, appearing curious. “You can go now,” Thompson said to him; he got in the elevator and left.
“Bobby,” Thompson said to the marshal bringing Lev forward. “Stay with Mr. Asshole while we take a look around. Do you have other space in this building?” Thompson asked the receptionist.
“We have the floor below us… but there’s nothing there yet,” she said.
Lev tensed; he could have killed her with the lethal stare he gave her.
“I have work to do. I need to get back to my office!” Lev stammered to Thompson.
“Bobby, take Mr. Asshole back to his office and let him get back to work… but watch him.”
“Copy, chief,” Bobby responded, with something between a smirk and a smile.
Lev started to move away toward his office when his cell phone chimed. He looked at the screen. “I need to take this. It’s my attorney. Remember, this is America,” he grunted.
“Okay, go ahead. No funny shit,” Bobby said, following Lev to his office. After looking around inside and finding nothing that represented a threat, Bobby exited the office—attorney-client rules—and allowed Lev to enter and close the door behind him.
Lev took the call; his head almost exploded at what Ray Gonzalez told him. He quickly started making calls.
* * *
The threat level changed when I heard Lev’s voice. His feral words were chilling. I had never been threatened like that—threatened to be killed! It scared me. Lenny did not react, at least not in any way I could see. We played the message several times, then were interrupted by Lenore, who informed us that wheels-down would be in thirty minutes. It was just about five p.m., an hour before Lev’s deadline. I had no intention of returning his money; besides, all but three mil was already out the door. Time to take active measures—really active!
I called George Madadian and ordered him to get more guys on Linda and the building. I threatened him: if there was any delay, or any lapse, he would be fired. He apologized and strongly reaffirmed that he would take care of it, I could rely on him, et cetera. It had to be good… Linda was the heart of my business.
I called Lauren on her cell, but it went to voicemail, so I called the Prime Mortgage main number. The receptionist buzzed Lauren, got some internal signal that she was in a meeting, and told me that she would leave a message for her after taking my information. That would have to do for now.
Lenny was busy in his suitcase. I saw him take out a strange-looking handgun, something that looked like a flare gun. He noticed me and held it up. “Diablo,” he said. “Twelve-gauge handgun. Guaranteed not to miss.” He handed me a Glock with a belt holster, then strapped his on.
I would have put the Glock on my belt… except Pilot Eddie came from the door to the flight deck with a disturbing look washed across his face.
“There may be a problem,” he said, standing over me with a cell phone in his hand.
“What kind of problem?” I asked and gestured for him to have a seat, which he did.
“There are two men waiting at headquarters, asking when you will arrive. They have accents.” He paused. “And, she says, horrible breath. You know
anything about this”
Lenny and I knew exactly about this. These guys were not only dangerous—they had access to information. And they wanted to kill me.
* * *
Marshal Bill Thompson and his men conducted a thorough search of the Siroco offices on the forty-fourth floor, as well as of the twenty-on employees who were present at that time. Lev remained confined to his office, where he made the best use of that time, burning out calls on his private cell phone. Marshal Bobby entered Lev’s office and summoned him.
Bobby and Lev went to reception, where two Siroco employees, larger men in shirts and ties, were sitting, handcuffed with their arms behind them. Each had reached for weapons when being questioned, a felony infraction—and a stupid reaction.
“What’s this?” Lev asked with a surly tone.
“It’s their lucky day,” Bill responded.
Just then, the elevator doors opened. Richard Adams and another man exited. When Adams saw the marshals and Lev and the two men sitting handcuffed, he turned and pushed the button for the elevator.
“Stop,” yelled Bill. “You, come over here!”
One of his men approached, took Adams and the other man by their elbows, and guided them to where Bill was holding court.
“Who are you?” Bill asked.
“I’m Richard Adams.”
“And what do you want here?”
“I work here. I’m the president.”
“Excellent,” said Bill, who looked at Lev. “What’s your title?”
“I’m just the vice president.”
“Interesting.”
One of the marshals approached Bill. “We’d better have a look at the other floor below.”
“Right,” said Bill, looking between Adams and Lev. “Is it open, your other floor?”
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