Johnson woke up in plenty of time for Jo von Hildebrand’s news conference. He had been especially careful around Jo von H since he had gotten back. He said all the same sort of things politically that he always had, but with more calculation than ever, and it wouldn’t surprise him if she noticed. People liked to scoff behind her back that she was a mere social climber posing as a publisher-intellectual. He always thought in reply when he heard these comments, “Well, if you’re so much smarter, why is she Jo von H, and you’re not?”
Since his return she’d really laid on the pressure for him to write about the Iran business. She wanted a massive piece as the seed for a book, I Know Why They Hate Us: Guest of Iran, American Hostage, or something in that vein. He claimed it was too painful to write at the moment, that he needed to spend more time with Giselle, that he was blocked—anything to hold her off, and she did the courtesy of believing him, for the time being. He knew eventually she would sit him down and dictate the piece, if that’s what it took: visions of cable appearances, newspaper coverage, and blog rantings dancing in her head.
So by way of placating her, he resolved to go to the presser and do his best to channel Jo von H, to ask the questions she would most want to hear. Though Yasmine Farouk and Dr. Pahlevi Yahdzi were the last people on earth he wanted to see. Dutifully, he packed his mini-digital tape recorder, his note pad, and a few Uniball pens, blue.
Once again he met Neville Poore, columnist for the Times, in Josephine von Hildebrand’s elevator on the way up. This time, the man wasn’t chatty as he’d been on the night of the party those years ago. In a foul mood. Clearly, the last thing he wanted was some gaseous Metropolitan light opera—or even worse—breaking news at Jo von H’s press conference preempting his column topic for tomorrow. A planned hit piece on the American flag pin: “the McCarthyism of America’s lapels, disgracing the country’s jackets with a simulacrum of patriotism.”
He pouted at Johnson with a mixture of jealousy, repellence, admiration, and respect. Wondering how a notorious drunken putz like Peter rated an Iranian kidnapping, a wild escape, and a mysterious repatriation, while he, Neville Poore, New York Times editorial-page columnist, was still just feeding his own publisher a laundry list of cherry-picked quotes and facts for his next clip-job bestseller. Now a cute Iranian physicist pops up as VIP du jour, and dammit Peter even knew her from back when. Life was so unfair.
“You’re looking well, Peter.”
And Johnson nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t know how he’d react seeing Yasmine and Yahdzi, those frauds so thoroughgoing they made him seem like Mr. Transparency. The elevator cage doors opened, and they both walked down that long, endless hallway again, the sounds from the large oval foyer with those chalky voices fluttering back to meet them.
The grand foyer was packed shoulder to shoulder with the ducklings of the media summoned to bear witness. ABC, CBS, NBC, the major and even minor wire services were all represented at this cattle call. As was every newspaper in New York, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Miami. Neville Poore’s face dropped like a stone. “Oh, Gawd . . .” And Johnson nodded in appreciation of his disdain at the sheer fuss over it all.
One consolation, though. In the press of the crowd, Johnson himself wouldn’t stand out. But then he noticed the best-coiffed hair a man’s money could buy: $187 (including tips) at John Frieda Salon, the gorgeous locks visible over the shoulder of a burly cameraman. Was it? Could it be? Johnson moved a step to his right to get a different angle, and sure enough—Anton. So Frenchie banker’s been invited to the presser too? Johnson couldn’t possibly get over to him with the crush of people and mentally put it in his WTF file until the show was over.
A battery of microphones attached to the official podium of The Crusader stood near one curved wall, the cables snaking off to a general Wi-Fi box on the floor. Josephine von Hildebrand only pulled out The Big Podium on the most important occasions. The magazine didn’t boast a logo, just the name in Georgia font large enough to read across the room.
The Crusader
Planting the magazine’s imprimatur like Excalibur, the sword in the stone over the whole proceedings for everyone to see.
At a silent signal, a pocket door near the battery of microphones opened, and Jo von H emerged, brimming with gravity and suppressed enthusiasm. Behind her followed Dr. Yasmine Farouk, PhD, of the Tehran Polytechnic Institute. And following her dutifully came Dr. Ramses Pahlevi Yahdzi of the University of Isfahan. He looked just the same as the day Johnson walked into his office in the basement of the Gonabad facility, only dressed more neatly.
The questions from the hysterical press ran the gamut from pointless to criminally stupid. As Josephine knew all the gathered ducklings, she picked and chose who got to make fools of themselves, telling the crowd in a schoolmarm’s voice, “Let’s keep things simple, ladies and gentlemen—no two- and three-part questions, all right?”
So naturally the first question asked by the reporter from Le Monde began with the words, “One question and a follow-up, Monsieur Doktaire Yahdzi—” Johnson caught Neville Poore rolling his eyes in contempt. What didn’t that little French canard understand about no two-parters?
The question went something like this: “In your experience with international inspecting bodies have you ever had the opportunity to raise the question about nuclear inspections of United States facilities or Israeli facilities? And if so, when and with whom both in Washington and Jerusalem?” Obviously the fellow was searching for the headline: Iranian Physicist Blocked from Evidence of Planned Rogue Israeli Preemptive Nuclear Strike.
Dr. Ramses Pahlevi Yahdzi of the University of Isfahan cocked his head as though trying to listen very hard and dissect the meaning of the words aimed at him. He did it with an attitude of immense patience and amusement, as if wondering what manner of creature was clucking at him. Finally answering with a thick accent Johnson never heard before and the halting speech of a man unaccustomed to speaking English. A masterly performance.
“Yes, I—um—yes. Jews refuse inspections. Always do.” Then bowing his head in Yasmine’s direction, where she spoke sotto voce into his tilted ear. Him nodding sagely as she explained some detail. Then finally addressing the reporter from Le Monde:
“We ask repeatedly. First seven years ago, then three times a year for every year.” Then speaking with some inspiration, “Iran never give up trying to find truth from United States and Zionists.”
And on it went. One stupid question after another. And Yahdzi making a dumb show for a gullible press.
Finally it was Johnson’s turn to join the charade. He raised his hand, Uniball pen between first and second fingers. Josephine recognized him immediately. “Peter, please.”
Neither Yasmine nor Yahdzi acknowledged Johnson’s extraordinary past with them. They stared blankly and receptively waited for Johnson to speak. After all, why bother acknowledging what never occurred? The only accusations came from the execrable Sheik Kutmar on NITV, National Iranian Television, that one time. Purposely vague. Later, the usual suspects and guilty powers Johnson named were all alphabet soup, CIA-FBI-NSA and so forth. But not Iranian. No harm, no foul.
“Dr. Farouk,” he said to Yasmine. And here the smarm in Johnson slithered up like an old friend. Yasmine’s eyes opened wide in total innocence as she listened intently. “The last time we talked”—a knowing twitter went through the crowd of reporters, thinking of Johnson’s Iranian adventure—“you spoke movingly of how your country’s development had been held back for so long by the West, and that now, finally, the Islamic Republic is coming into its own. What do you say to those who would stop it?”
Without missing a beat, Yasmine said, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Johnson. And I’m gratified your treatment by the United States government upon your return from the Middle East was less harsh than those now being held as illegal prisoners in the military prisons of your country . . . ”
“You’re not the only one!” Joh
nson interjected, provoking a gale of laughter as approving faces turned his way from around the room.
But Yasmine’s didn’t approve. She didn’t appreciate being interrupted. In fact, she would probably only be truly happy if she could make him piss razors again.
She feigned a smile and continued, “We are a sovereign nation. One that represents the world’s greatest civilization, although one that has been beset by Western colonialism and arrogance for too long. We are strong now and getting stronger, so strong that you will never be able to keep us from taking our place in the sun. So what I say is, we are the rising tide, and how do you say? ‘Time and tide wait for no man’? Or in American: Get over it.”
Charmed chuckles from the reporters.
Johnson nodded his head, gravely taking down everything the woman said. Then raising his hand: “And if I may ask the second half of my one-part question.” The crowd lapped it up.
“Dr. Yahdzi,” Johnson said, “I’m glad to see the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated,” which got another general guffaw of approval. And it made Dr. Yahdzi smile, though he seemed unfamiliar with the reference to that greatest of all American raconteurs. “Once again, last time we spoke you seemed concerned—worried you would be denied the ability to finish your work either by American or Israeli aggression. Are you still concerned?”
Here, Yahdzi cocked his head once more to Yasmine’s softly speaking lips for a faux Farsi translation. Johnson waited patiently. At last Dr. Ramses Pahlevi Yahdzi of the University of Isfahan spoke, simply:
“Americans and Zionists stand in way at own risk. Iran have every right. American Jews have no right stop us. We are peaceful people. But enemies beware.”
“If I may speak for those at The Crusader, the sponsors of this gathering, Professor,” Johnson said, “they wholeheartedly endorse that sentiment, and send their best wishes to your country’s long-suffering people.”
The physicist bowed slightly, and Jo von H mouthed over to him, “Nice, Peter.”
The news conference broke up after an hour with no one more informed than when they went in, which was the unstated purpose of most news conferences. The endless repetition of political positions or outright falsehoods constructed to advance those positions. News conferences merely a means to an end. In the case of Iranian Nuclear Authorities their ability to put a smiley face on Armageddon.
Neville Poore sidled up to him afterwards with a one-word verdict, “Banal.” But Johnson ignored him, trying to keep his eye on Anton, who headed straight to Jo von H. His relentless Ex was mingling in triumph near the front of the room. But Anton didn’t introduce himself, didn’t need to. She put her hand around the young man’s neck and whispered something; then he headed straight to a bar that had magically appeared to service the assembled scribes and strutting TV talent. Johnson stood transfixed. His WTF file was bulging to the breaking point.
Anton pushed his way straight to the bar and hustled back with a drink that looked like bourbon and handed it to Josephine, who opened up her charmed circle to him and gave him pride of place close to her. Too close. Johnson felt as if he were going to gag but couldn’t believe he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. And then in the midst of making a point that delighted everyone around her, Josephine’s left hand drifted behind Anton and settled on the backside of his shimmery, tailored-to-the-nines suit.
Oh. No. She. Didn’t. Yes, she did. She squeezed the Charmin.
Johnson almost let out a little yelp as if it’d been his backside that was tweaked. He charged toward them, and the circle opened up with murmurs of “Ahh” and “Here’s the man!” Anton’s face lit up: “Peter!” And he gave him a big hug that Johnson wouldn’t have reciprocated if the Iranians had tried to torture it out of him: “You were marvelous!” Jo von H looked at Peter admiringly and shook her head as if she were constantly astounded by his abilities, and then with softer eyes, doe eyes—to the extent her wizened peepers could make them—at Anton: “We both thought so, darling.”
Right. We. Her and her new Lancelot.
Johnson raised a finger to make a point he couldn’t even begin to formulate, when Anton interrupted him, “Peter, I’d still love to have a word with you afterwards.” A word with him. Peter stumbled out, “Yeah, sure. I’ll be waiting downstairs,” and he hardly saw anything until he was out on the street, pacing and punching up his cell phone.
Trying Wallets. Voice mail. Tried it again. Voice mail. Tried it again—and an annoyed voice: “Peter, what the hell is it?”
“Is that French son of a bitch two-timing on my daughter with my ex-wife?”
A long pause. “Hold on,” Wallets said. And he heard mumbling and then muffled sounds and finally a woman’s voice: “Hello?”
“Who’s this?” Johnson demanded, keeping an eye out behind him.
“Agent Smith. I’ve been working this case with Wallets. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yeah. Tell me something. Has that Frenchie salaud been diddling my ex-wife and my daughter?”
A couple walking by looked at him a long time and then giggled when they were past him.
“Hold on.”
More mumbling at the other end of the call, and he thought he heard the word “cougar,” but it might have been his imagination; then another voice, a baffled-sounding male: “Hello???” Johnson knew the drill; he was getting passed down the food chain and didn’t like it.
“Who’s this?”
“My name’s Bryce. What’s yours again?”
“Oh, hell.” Anton floated out the front door, looking both ways and tilting his head up in recognition and smiling when he saw him further up the sidewalk. Johnson clapped his phone shut. “Peter!” Just as delighted to see him as he had been upstairs. “I know just the place to go,” and he hooked his arm in Johnson’s playfully and yanked him up the sidewalk.
He prattled on, while Johnson fumed and tried to think rationally. He kept coming back to what Wallets would want him to do, and that was unquestionable: Play it cool, and play out the string. Anton led them into a dark wine bar off Broadway called Veivers, where the Frenchman was hailed as if he were Norm arriving at the bar in an episode from Cheers.
They were served glasses of Pinot noir without asking and a tiny bowl of olives. Anton was still in prattling mode, as he popped an olive in his mouth and delicately removed the pit: “I’ve so enjoyed getting to know your family. Josephine is exquisite.” Johnson couldn’t help a tiny grimace, which Anton didn’t seem to notice. In any case the young man changed his tone and got down to business: “I’ve got myself into a spot of trouble. If you could help me, the debt would last my lifetime.”
Johnson raised his eyebrows and opened his hands, pray tell. Concern dripped off him like sweet beads of honey. “Anton, anything,” Johnson said, manfully trying to keep the sarcasm to himself. Right now the boy was all about tête-à-tête and the young fellow made every effort to seem sincere.
“There’s a man in Japan, an industrialist who wants to bid on a large New York real estate property. But he doesn’t want his name used for the simple reason that if this industrialist’s name were known, the price of the property would go through the roof. Simply because he was interested. I made the foolish mistake of promising this industrialist I could handle the transaction for him. Now my reputation is at stake, as is the reputation of Banque Luxembourg. If I fail, he’ll take all his business somewhere else. And that amount is far larger than the bidding money on this single transaction. Ordinarily I would have asked Jan Breuer to help me, despite everything, but . . .” And here he drifted off.
Johnson took a deep breath. “I think I understand,” he said at last. “You want to have the industrialist’s money wired to my account and have me transfer it in my name into Banque Luxembourg for him. Like the currency says, legal tender for all debts public and private. And it makes sense; he wants it private. There are power-of-attorney papers involved, but there’s no law that says you can’t give money to
someone to deposit, as long as the taxes are eventually paid.”
Anton sighed a huge breath of relief. “And they will be paid; I give you my word, Peter, and the word of Banque Luxembourg’s lawyers. No one expects you to pay the tax on a transaction of $35 million.”
Thirty-five million dollars. A real-estate buy for a wealthy anonymous Jap. Sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Banquo’s Ghosts
Banquo stood at his tenth-floor office window at 30 Rockefeller Plaza looking down the promenade to Fifth Avenue and Saks Department Store. A yellow Ryder delivery truck had pulled up in the middle of the block. For what, he didn’t know, as deliveries never came in the front. It idled with its hazards flashing directly in front of the gold front doors, framed by an august stone entrance emblazoned at the top “SAKS & COMPANY.”
The truck glowed at Banquo, like Nasrallah’s turban on one of those satellite images, and it lit up the synapses down a well-worn path of Banquo’s mind. He felt his throat catch, and he couldn’t help what happened next, his imagination taking that Ryder truck parked outside the store, then leaping to a herky-jerky Zapruder 8mm film behind his eyes.
First, the exaggerated silence—then the sucking sensation. Finally the flash and boom as his office window shook. A cloud of concrete dust rolled down the Rockefeller Promenade, mixing with a thousand windows falling to the ground. Through the wafting smoke an awful clearing: the facade of the lower stories of the Saks building sheared away, metal rods drooping out of the front. The truck nonexistent and the passing traffic turned into twisted metal, unrecognizable except for an axle or chassis—right there on Fifth Avenue. Pools of blood. Limbs. Burned people, half naked and running heedlessly. Survivors staring, their faces contorted in a kind of madness. The color of powdered concrete.
Banquo's Ghosts Page 26