by Tom Grace
“I am Peng,” he announced as he walked up to the man.
“May I take your luggage, sir?” the man asked as he folded the sign and slipped it into his coat pocket.
Peng rolled the wheeled suitcase into the space between them but retained the cooler. The man nodded, took the suitcase by the handle and led the way outside. Peng noted the tight wire coil of a two-way radio earpiece behind the man’s right ear.
“We’re coming out,” the man announced to his unseen compatriots.
As Peng and his escort exited the terminal, a pair of black Cadillac Escalades pulled up against the curb. Both SUVs sat low, Peng noted, doubtless due to the addition of armor plating and bullet resistant glazing. Two men emerged from the passenger side of the lead vehicle. One scanned the area intently while the other walked back to the rear passenger door of the second SUV. The jackets on both men displayed the distinctive bulge of a holstered weapon.
Peng’s escort led him past the first vehicle as the bodyguard standing by the second opened the rear door. The escort halted and motioned for Peng to approach the opening. A thick Plexiglas panel separated the front seats from the rear compartment, which had been reconfigured to seat four people facing each other. The seats on the driver’s side of the SUV were occupied by two physically imposing men. The two seats nearest Peng were empty.
The elder of the pair wore dark Dockers slacks, black slip-on winter moccasins, and a deep plum sweater under a lined brown jacket. He had a ruddy complexion and a receding, close-cropped mane of salt-and-pepper hair. The man’s eyes were nearly black, giving them an intense, shark-like quality. The man beside him was a generation younger, clad in dark grays and blacks with a complementary hirsuteness and brooding presence. The younger man held a black tote bag on his lap.
“Mr. Peng,” the older man said with a polite smile, motioning to the leather bucket seat beside him, “please join us.”
Peng took the offered seat and placed the Igloo cooler on his lap. The bodyguard closed the door, securing the three men inside. Peng’s suitcase was stowed in the lead SUV, and the bodyguards took their seats. The two SUVs then moved into the flow of traffic headed toward the expressway.
“You are Dante Toccare,” Peng said, recalling the scant details provided in his briefing packet. “The facilitator.”
Toccare smiled with a nod. “Yeah, I’m facilitating your bit of off-the-books lab work.”
“And who is this man?” Peng asked.
“Matteo Molfetta,” Toccare replied. “Like you, he has something that needs a little quiet facilitating. Now just sit tight. We have one more facilitator to pick up before we head over to the lab.”
TWENTY-FOUR
9:25 AM
“Mr. Jamison can see you now,” the receptionist reported perfunctorily.
She rose from behind the wood and glass island from which she greeted all visitors to the Jamison Law Office and escorted Nolan and Roxanne into the firm’s stylishly modern inner sanctum. The firm occupied the southern half of an upper floor in a sleek downtown high rise, and the receptionist brought them to the glass door of Walter Jamison’s corner office. In a practiced move, she opened and held the door for them. Jamison stood backlit against a span of floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a commanding view of Santiago Calatrava’s iconic World Trade Center Transportation Hub.
“That will be all,” Jamison said warmly, dismissing the receptionist.
A thickset man in his late fifties, Jamison was of average height and had a distinguished mane of silver-gray hair. From the cut of his pinstripe suit to his wingtip shoes to his college tie, he looked like a New York lawyer from Central Casting.
“Good morning, Mr. Kilkenny,” Jamison said as he turned toward his guests. He scanned Nolan and then locked eyes with Roxanne. “And you are?”
“Roxanne Tao.”
“Charmed,” Jamison said warily. “Please, have a seat.”
Jamison indicated a pair of guest chairs set in front of an expansive, carved wooden desk. Against the twenty-first century decor, the desk looked like a museum piece from an exhibit featuring a long dead captain of the industrial age.
“That’s quite an interesting desk,” Roxanne offered.
“Ah, yes. It’s a family piece—I am a fourth-generation lawyer, and it has been handed down from father to son.”
“We thank you for meeting us on such short notice,” Nolan said.
“A postponement freed up some time, and I was frankly curious about your interest in this matter.”
Jamison picked up a thin file from his desktop, opened it and held it like a poker player concealing his hand.
“I’ve heard my father’s side of the story,” Nolan replied. “What can you tell us about it from your perspective?”
Jamison continued to skim his notes in the file.
“To be blunt, it was a fairly routine matter of establishing the paternal relationship between your father and my client’s infant son. Once that was done, both sides settled on an appropriate figure for the child’s trust fund, and the matter was concluded to everyone’s satisfaction.” Jamison closed the file and returned it to his desktop. “After your call, I actually had to review the file to refresh my memory. The matter was resolved quickly and out of court, so I personally spent very little time on it. May I ask what about this has brought you to me nearly two years after the fact?”
“We believe the child in question is dead.”
Jamison’s eyes narrowed on Nolan. “And what brings you to this conclusion?”
“I recently encountered a young boy who was very ill. He had a life threatening condition and needed a transplant in order to survive. He didn’t get it.”
“Tragic, but I fail to see the relevance.”
“He didn’t get the transplant he needed because none of his relatives were a suitable match. A blind match was found in the donor registry, but not in time to save his life. I was that blind match. Some very sophisticated genetic testing was then done to confirm compatibility—tests of far greater scope and acuity than a paternity test. The reason I believe your client is dead is that this very ill child and I shared a common father.”
“I admit it is possible this unfortunate child was my client’s son,” Jamison said, “but it is equally possible that your father has sired more than one child out of wedlock and my client and her son are quite well and happily living their lives.”
“That is what we would like to confirm,” Roxanne said.
“I’m afraid that I cannot reveal any personal information regarding my client or her son.”
“I’m not one for coincidences,” Nolan said, “but the likelihood of my father impregnating two women almost simultaneously is a bit of a stretch.”
“Not in my experience,” Jamison countered.
“Then there’s the matter of the money.” Roxanne interjected.
“The money?” Jamison asked.
“Five million dollars to be held in trust, to be precise,” Nolan said.
“For the child’s benefit, yes, I recall the trust,” Jamison said. “But what has that to do with this unfortunate child or your father’s other real or hypothetical offspring?”
“The child who died was placed for adoption shortly after the conclusion of your business with my father. Again, not being one for coincidences, the timing of the payoff and the adoption of my stepbrother seems suspicious.”
“Suspicions are hardly facts, and I resent your use of the term payoff. Your father accepted his paternal responsibility for the child and provided for his upbringing in an appropriate manner that benefits the child and both parents.”
“But that’s the problem,” Roxanne said. “If the child who died was your client’s son, then where is the five million provided for his benefit? It certainly didn’t follow him to his adoptive family.”
“Further proof in my mind that the child you found was not my client’s son. While the boy’s mother is due some modest compensation as the trustee, the
bulk of the money was earmarked for the boy’s needs. Only in the event of the child’s death would the money go to the mother as the boy’s sole heir. If she relinquished custody for any reason, the trust would have to follow the child and a new trustee would be assigned. I assure you that the entire arrangement was conducted properly and with the full concurrence of your father’s attorney.”
“Assuming the money my father provided for the child actually made it into the trust. The trust documents given to my father were drafts that did not identify the child or his mother by name, and his cashier’s check was deposited into an escrow account. It’s quite possible that the trust documents were never executed, and the five million vanished from sight as quickly as the child.”
“I resent your implication,” Jamison scoffed.
“Based on the facts available to me, my implication is just as plausible as anything you’ve offered,” Nolan said. “But this matter has a simple and immediate resolution: tell us who your client is so we can verify that my father’s money went where it was intended.”
“As I said earlier, I cannot reveal my client’s identity.”
“And I assure you that we will seek other avenues to learn the truth,” Nolan vowed. “And we will pursue legal action for any crimes committed against my father.”
“That is your prerogative. But in the absence of any evidence of a crime committed by my client against your father, I am bound by the ethics of my profession to protect her identity.” Jamison glanced at his smartphone as it buzzed with an incoming text message. He tapped out a quick response. “Now, I have spared as much time as I can discussing this matter. I have a pressing appointment, and a car is waiting for me. We’re done here.”
TWENTY-FIVE
9:15 AM
Peng asked no further questions of his host or fellow traveler, and the drive through Brooklyn into lower Manhattan passed quietly. The two-vehicle convoy rounded City Hall Park and continued west on Vesey Street toward the World Trade Center. Toccare sent a text message from his smartphone as the SUVs circled the block around a sleek, fifty-two-story skyscraper and pulled up against the curb on Greenwich Street near the lobby entrance of 7 World Trade Center. He silently appraised the quick reply and slipped the phone back into his jacket.
“My guy’s on his way down,” Toccare announced. “We should be on our way in just a couple of minutes.”
Peng nodded politely as if weighing the information to assess its import. His eyes slowly scanned the surrounding area, taking in the reconstruction of the WTC site. That the scene of so much loss and devastation should again stand proud and shimmer resplendent in the morning sun astonished him.
“It’s bigger than the old buildings,” Toccare said matter-of-factly of the towering World Trade Center. “Third tallest building in the world.”
“It is quite impressive,” Peng agreed.
“Shame they didn’t go a little higher to take the title back from those two buildings in the Middle East.”
Toccare glanced past Peng at the long line of tall glass doors and saw a gray haired businessman in a pinstripe suit carrying a leather briefcase.
“There’s our guy.”
Peng saw the man emerge from the lobby followed closely by another man and a woman. The businessman stopped on the sidewalk, visibly perturbed with the couple and turned to face them. From his vantage, Peng did not have a clear view of the couple. The businessman shifted slightly, eclipsing the woman’s face entirely and revealing more of her companion. The man stood roughly two meters tall, had fair skin and red hair. Then Peng felt a sense of uneasy recognition.
Kilkenny? Peng wondered.
Outwardly, Peng’s demeanor remained impassive, completely detached from his mind’s frantic effort to divine a plausible explanation for what he was seeing. As his thoughts settled on the theory that the man was not in fact Nolan Kilkenny, but someone who simply bore a passing resemblance, the businessman turned and resumed his progress toward the SUVs. Peng had to suppress a shudder when he espied the redheaded man’s companion. She was Asian—doubtless of Chinese descent—slender and half a head shorter than the man. Her hair was jet black, not quite shoulder length, and her face—like the man’s—was utterly familiar.
A pair of doppelgängers strained credulity, as did the likelihood of coincidentally crossing paths with Nolan Kilkenny and the spy Roxanne Tao. Peng made a mental note to inquire about Kilkenny and Tao’s current whereabouts through the Chinese consulate to determine if the pair posed any threat to his current assignment.
The businessman turned away from the pair, who did not follow but simply watched his departure with a look of dissatisfaction. They took scant notice of the SUVs, and Peng was certain they could not see him through the smoked glass. The bodyguard in the front passenger seat of the Escalade stepped out to greet the businessman and open the door to the rear compartment.
“Good morning, Mr. Jamison,” the bodyguard said.
“Morning,” Jamison replied curtly before ducking into the vehicle.
“A problem?” Toccare asked.
Jamison set his briefcase down on the carpeted floor and settled into the seat opposite Peng with a sigh. He waited until the door closed before responding.
“Just some potential blowback from an old settlement. I doubt it’ll go anywhere.”
Peng looked past Jamison at the pair on the sidewalk as the SUVs pulled out into traffic. He wondered what possibly could have drawn them here at this moment. Jamison quickly surveyed Peng and Molfetta before his eyes rested on Peng’s cooler.
“How are the samples?” Jamison asked.
“I have been advised that they were prepared for transport as instructed,” Peng replied. “The cooler has not been opened since I received it.”
“Good. When were the samples harvested?”
“Less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“And you?” Jamison asked Molfetta.
Molfetta pulled a stainless steel cylinder from his tote bag.
“The same,” Molfetta replied.
Jamison nodded to Toccare. “Sounds like we’re in good shape.”
Toccare’s motorcade proceeded up Eighth Avenue into Midtown before negotiating the one-way streets in the west sixties to arrive at a twelve-story medical professional building. The two SUVs sidled to the curb in a loading zone in front of the building. The bodyguard got out and opened the rear door for Jamison.
“My associate will take the samples from here,” Toccare announced.
Jamison took the offered tote bag from Molfetta and looped the handles around those of his briefcase. He exited the SUV before reaching back in for Peng’s cooler. He gave a nod to Toccare and stepped back to allow the bodyguard to close the door. Jamison watched as the two vehicles pulled away and then walked toward the building entry.
Inside, Jamison took the elevator to the seventh floor, which was occupied by a single tenant—The Hawthorne Fertility Clinic. He was buzzed through the frosted glass entry doors into a warmly lit and inviting reception space. From the thick padded carpet to the upholstered chairs and sofas to the framed photographs of lush verdant landscapes and tender images of mothers and infants, the room bespoke fertility and life. Two couples sat on opposite ends of the room, doubtless quietly talking about the frustration that brought them here and the hopes still shared.
“Mr. Jamison, to what do we owe the pleasure?” the attractive blonde seated behind the reception window asked as he approached.
“Just a delivery for Deena,” Jamison replied.
“She’s in the lab. I’ll let her know you’re here and take you back to her office.”
The receptionist slid the window closed and disappeared for a moment before opening a flush maple door to the interior of the suite. She led him past a corridor of examination rooms to a tastefully appointed office that enjoyed a southern view of the cityscape. In addition to the doctor’s stone-topped contemporary desk, the office had a leather chair and sofa placed with a long glass
oval table.
“If you’ll have a seat, she will be right with you,” the receptionist said. “Can I get you coffee or some water?”
“Thank you, no. I won’t be here long.”
Jamison set Peng’s cooler on the table and placed Molfetta’s bag beside it. As he sat down on the leather couch, Jamison noticed an inlaid tissue box holder and wondered how many couples had sat here weeping with joy or sorrow. The office was decidedly feminine in character with colorful floral imagery and framed diplomas. The only photograph containing people captured Hawthorne and her investors—a group that included Jamison—cutting the ribbon to open her clinic. Unlike the reception room, this space held no images of babies, no brag board of birth announcements from successful pregnancies or gushing notes from grateful mothers. Hawthorne’s office was quiet and contemplative—it was a place for objective truth.
“So, what do you have for me today?” Hawthorne asked pleasantly as she entered and closed the door behind her.
“Just the seeds of another miracle,” Jamison replied as he rose to greet her.
Pale blue scrubs and a white lab coat clad Deena Hawthorne’s slender figure, and a colorful ribbon hair tie held her wavy brunette mane back in a ponytail. She tipped a pair of lab safety glasses onto the top of her head and gave Jamison a polite peck on the cheek.
“Walter, please tell me this time it’s eggs and semen.”
“Sadly no, or this couple wouldn’t need your special magic.”
“A girl can hope.”
Hawthorne sat in the leather chair and studied the two containers on the table.
What are the particulars?” she asked.
“The mother is healthy and fertile, so you have her eggs.”