Abinaash had never known ambition, never dreamed of being anything besides what she already was and always had been. But something had been awakened in her. Hildegard had given her a cast-off stethoscope. Abinaash listened to her own heart pound with excitement. She tried to talk herself out of it. Who do you think you are, Abinaash? You are nobody. Your father is a tenant farmer in a small village. You are a girl. You have nothing, you have no money, you have never been to school. You know nothing about the world, about hospitals, about nurses. You are just dreaming. But the dream had planted itself in her thoughts, and it would not be uprooted.
XXXIV
THE CIA HAD HAD AN interest in currency fraud ever since the money operations behind al Qaeda had come to light, and Peter Sanchez was in charge of the CIA’s fraud unit. He had been watching St. John Larrimer since Larrimer, Ltd.’s collapse, and the EisenerBank in Zurich for even longer than that. He knew all about Dimitri Adropov and Gazneft, and in fact had been responsible for gathering the evidence that resulted in the earlier charges against Adropov.
Peter did not quite know what to do now that Louis Morgon had come into the picture. Louis was smart and inventive and extraordinarily enterprising. He had outmaneuvered Peter more than once. But he also had a fanciful understanding of the law and only a vague loyalty to it. He seemed to value what he called “the truth” above American national interests.
Peter did not think Louis could be connected to the Russian mob, although Louis had previously associated with unsavory types—gangbangers, various criminals, Muslim fanatics. So with Louis, anything was possible. Peter picked up the phone. “Tell me what you think Adropov is up to,” he said when Louis answered.
“We’re eating lunch,” said Louis.
“It’s after two,” said Peter.
“That’s when we eat here,” said Louis. “Call me back in an hour.”
Peter did.
“We had cassoulet, in case you’re interested. Sausages, duck, white beans. And a 2006 Bourgeuil. It was delicious.”
“Sounds good.” Peter tried not to sound impatient. “And Adropov: What’s he up to?”
“He’s trying to find Larrimer. He must have seen me at Lorraine Usher’s house—she was Larrimer’s secretary—and must have followed me to my hotel. I didn’t see him after that, but he may just have gotten more careful after running into me.
“By the way,” Louis said, “where’s this Jeremy Gutentag? Have you talked to him? I’m guessing he would be an extremely useful source.”
“We’re waiting until we’ve got more information.”
“So you don’t know where he is either?”
“We know he left for London in a hurry. That’s where he’ll be when it’s time to find him.”
“All right.” Louis decided to let it drop. “Who killed Feather?”
Peter pretended to answer. “Adropov.”
“Maybe,” said Louis. “Except he’s looking for leads, not killing them. At least at the moment.”
“So you tell me,” said Peter.
“Larrimer. Or maybe someone he hired. Like Gutentag.”
Peter tried to change the subject. “Adropov’s back in New York.”
“Well, you don’t come back to town right after you kill someone, do you?”
Peter was silent.
“So what keeps bringing him back? He must know Larrimer’s out of the country.”
“Larrimer’s money,” said Peter.
“It’s out of the country too.”
“Maybe the means to get at it aren’t.”
“By the means, you mean what?”
“The means to hijack Larrimer’s money. That’s what Adropov’s after. I’m convinced he’s got a banking connection in the US. Maybe he’s a decent hacker himself, if only he can get some of the bank’s computer codes.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Louis. “I’m afraid I still write checks and put them in the mail.”
Peter explained that all bank accounts could be accessed by computer. Of course accounts were well protected by a series of firewalls, encryption, and other electronic security measures, as well as internal banking controls. One needed a whole series of passwords and access codes to get through. And having a collaborator inside the bank wouldn’t hurt, since the codes and passwords changed regularly and required entry by at least two different entities. “But the vulnerable point is always the banker. All you really need is a banker with access. A decent understanding of computer algorithms would be a bonus. Get your own banker, and you can get right in.”
“Can you really?” said Louis.
Peter didn’t like the sound of that.
XXXV
ONE REASON ADROPOV was in the US had to be the bank angle. But another was certainly to get to Larrimer. One path to Larrimer started with Jeremy Gutentag. But he wasn’t in New York, and he wasn’t in London either, as far as Louis could tell. He had vanished completely.
Another path to Larrimer started with Lorraine Usher. Unfortunately for her, Adropov had seen Louis at her house, which meant that she was at considerable risk. Louis knew that Adropov would not stay away from the United States for very long. And now that he was back, it was almost certain that he would turn his attention to Lorraine. Of course Lorraine resisted the idea of leaving, especially when Louis explained what he had in mind. “Newark?!” she said. “You must be kidding. Have you ever been to Newark?”
“It’s only for a short period of time, I promise. You’ll be with friends of mine.”
“What about Arthur? Do they like animals?”
“They have a dog.”
“No. I’m sorry. That won’t work.”
“Ask your lawyer what he thinks.”
Bruno thought it was a very good idea, given what Lorraine had told him about her Russian visitor. “I’ll look in on you,” he said. “If it doesn’t work out, we’ll figure out something else. I promise.”
“Now, Lorraine, listen carefully,” said Louis when she got back in touch the next day. “What you’re doing is crucial to what I’m going to be doing. You’re not just hiding out. You’re laying down a false trail for Adropov. Sooner or later, he’ll come to your house and go inside.”
“You mean he’ll break in?”
“He needs information that he thinks you’ve got. So you’re going to give it to him. Here’s what you do: write Larrimer’s Guadeloupe address on a tablet and leave it by the telephone. Write the phone number too. On another page, write down an airline itinerary that takes you to Terre-de-Haut—you can get one on the Internet or from a travel agent. It should look like you’ve written down notes from talking to a travel agent. In fact, dial up a travel agent as the last call you make. That’s important. Adropov will probably check your phone to see who you’ve called. Pack some things and—”
“So the Russian will find the notes—”
“Right. That’s what we want. We’re trying to divert him. And we want to know where he is and what he’s doing. So if you have Bruno check your house regularly, we’ll know when he breaks in. We can then report the break-in and report who did it, which should also bring some heat to bear on the Russian.”
“Maybe I should write down the travel info and tear off the top sheet. Then he can rub the pad with a pencil and find the number.” She had seen that done in the movies.
“He may not have seen those movies,” said Louis. “In any case, meanwhile you’ll be in a car on your way to Newark.” Which was how Lorraine found herself waiting one evening at JFK Terminal Four, Departures Level, as Louis had instructed. She had taken a cab with Arthur’s carrier and her small valise to the airport. She stood watching the passing cars, wondering what to look for, whom to expect, whether anyone would even show up. Whether the Russian might have seen through their ruse. Oh, dear. It was too transparent, too easy, she thought to herself.
“Are you Lorraine?”
She turned to see who had spoken. He was enormous. He wore work boots, black jeans, and a black sleev
eless T-shirt despite the fact that it was only forty-five degrees.
His skin was black, his head was shaved, his arms bulged, and one was encircled by a tattoo. His eyes were covered by wraparound sunglasses. His nose was broad and flat and had been broken at least once. He had a gold stud in one ear and a gold tooth that made his smile, when it finally came, seem even more radiant than it was. She had no choice but to smile back.
“I’m Bobby.” Bobby leaned forward and took her astonished hand in his.
“I’m Lorraine.”
“How ya doin’, Lorraine? Let me take that for you.” He took Arthur’s carrier in one hand and her valise in the other. The valise looked like a toy as he carried it carefully between his thumb and two fingers. When they got to his Cadillac—he always referred to it as his Cadillac, never his car—he gave the passenger door a hard yank. “It sticks,” he said. “You got to kick it to get out.” Once she was in the car, he put the valise and Arthur on the backseat.
They rolled out of the airport and onto the Van Wyck Expressway. “The Van Wyck is always a rough ride,” said Bobby. “Damn potholes. You okay, Lorraine?” They took 495 to 278, then went over the Williamsburg Bridge to Delancey Street and across Manhattan. There was only a short wait into the tunnel. Finally they bounced along the battered streets of Newark past the Bergen Industrial Canal and the Filipo Testaverde Public Housing Project. Halfway down Keyser Street, Bobby swung in and parked by a fire hydrant. He got out and yanked open the passenger door and helped Lorraine out. He picked up the valise and Arthur’s carrier from the backseat. He lifted the carrier to his face, to get a good look at Arthur, and saw Arthur looking back at him.
“Damn! That cat’s got some eyes on him.”
At that moment the door to the house burst open and a large dog came bounding out, barking and jumping and panting, happy beyond all reckoning to see Bobby and whomever he had brought with him. “Stay down, Junior!” Junior rushed up to Lorraine and stuck his snout under her skirt. “He don’t mean nothing by it,” said Bobby. Junior sniffed her valise and the cat carrier. He peered in at Arthur, and Arthur looked back. Junior barked once—which Arthur likely took to mean “Welcome, Your Majesty. I am and will always remain your obedient servant”—and bounded up the front stairs and back into the house.
Bobby and Lillian had been together for twenty-five years and married for five. “Lorraine? That’s a pretty name. You come in here, honey.” Lillian carried the valise into a bedroom just off the living room. “You stay in Felicia’s room. Felicia’s up in Patterson, and she never stays here no more. We’re glad you’re here. You’ll be safe here.”
“Louis said—”
“That Louis!” cried Lillian. “Ain’t he a sweetie? And Pauline. Have you met Pauline? Well, you will, honey. You will. She’s a wonderful person. They’re both good people.” Lillian wrapped Lorraine in a warm embrace. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll be fine here with us.”
“It’s only for a little while—”
“Don’t you worry about that, honey. As long as you need.”
Bobby had recently had his hours cut back at the Newark Airport long-term parking. Lillian still had her beauty shop. “But people don’t have the money anymore. Beauty. That’s always the first thing people give up when times are hard, don’t you know?” Louis had arranged to pay Lillian two hundred dollars a week for Lorraine’s room. Lillian had protested mightily, but Louis had prevailed. And Lorraine also insisted that she would do some cooking and some housekeeping besides.
“Bobby’s awful particular about what he eats,” said Lillian.
The first time Lorraine made her artichoke quiche, Bobby sniffed and poked at it with his fork as though it might jump off the plate and go straight for his jugular.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Bobby, it’s delicious,” said Lillian. “And if you don’t take at least one taste, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
Bobby gave Lillian a look. He took a tiny morsel on his fork and, after studying it closely, then sniffing it, he put it in his mouth. He held it there gingerly, right at the front, so he could spit it out if he had to. Which he fully expected to do.
Bobby took tiny chews. He waited after each chew for the horror to set in. But it didn’t. Bobby got a studied look on his face and swallowed hard. He picked up another small piece of the quiche and put that in his mouth. This time he chewed less hesitantly, more courageously. He allowed the food to make contact with his taste buds. His eyes looked up to the right and then up to the left. He swallowed.
“Damn!” he said. Bobby stared down at his plate in astonishment. Then he lit into the remainder of his slice of quiche with such gusto that it was gone in a minute. He held his empty plate toward Lorraine.
“What do you say, Bobby?” said Lillian with a scowl.
Bobby’s face fell into a huge grin. “Please!”
* * *
Lorraine’s brother-in-law, Bruno, was surprised to get a telephone call from France from Louis Morgon. He knew of Louis of course, but was surprised that Louis knew of him. Bruno expressed gratitude for Louis’s concern for Lorraine’s safety. He had been going by her house every evening, but no one had gone in yet.
“Are you certain?” said Louis.
“Yeah, I’m certain. No jimmied windows, and the front door hasn’t been opened. I’ll let you know as soon as it happens.” Bruno asked whether there was anything else he could do to help.
“Maybe there is,” said Louis. “I’m on my way to New York. Can I see you while I’m there?”
Bruno suggested that he pick Louis up at the airport. They could have dinner together—he knew a nice little Italian place—and talk things over. “How I might possibly assist with your project,” was how Bruno put it.
When Louis emerged from customs, he picked Bruno out immediately. Bruno was maybe fifty, not very tall, balding, wearing a cheap suit and tie and a trench coat. They shook hands. “I just came from work,” he said. “New York City Housing Authority.”
“Lorraine told me. She said you’re a financial analyst and an attorney.”
“Yeah. My job is finding housing and tax cheats.”
“Is it?” said Louis with interest.
“She likes you,” said Bruno. “She said you live in France?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay,” said Bruno. “Good enough. Let’s go eat.” He took Louis’s suitcase.
Guido Ristorante was not very far from the airport. The place was dimly lit, and the tables with their red checkered cloths were far enough apart so that conversations would not be easily overheard. Each table had a lit candle in a Chianti bottle in the center.
“Hey, Bruno! Welcome.” The waiter shook Bruno’s hand and showed them to a table.
“Renee and I come here all the time. It’s good, and it’s not too far from home. And actually my dad started the place.” Both men had lasagna. They drank a Montepulciano, which Louis found very good. They had tortoni for dessert and a wonderful espresso. The waiter brought them a glass of limoncello. “Compliments of the house, Bruno.”
“That was good,” said Bruno. Louis had to agree that it was good. He set the little glass on the table with a contented sigh. “So, Louis,” said Bruno, “how come you live in France?”
“I like it there. I’ve been there almost forty years now. I can’t imagine living anywhere else after all this time.”
“I don’t mean to pry, Louis, but Renee and I, we’re both concerned about Lorraine. She’s told me about what you’re trying to do.”
“It’s natural that you’d be concerned.”
“And you’re not connected with the SEC or law enforcement or anything.”
“If that makes you uncomfortable, Bruno, I would understand if you don’t want to get mixed up in this—”
“Well, let’s just say I’m concerned. I want to help, but I’m a lawyer, and I don’t want to do anything that could, you know, get me or Lorraine in trou
ble. So I’d like to know what you have in mind.”
Louis explained again, as he had to others, that it was his intention to bring St. John Larrimer to justice and to separate him from his ill-gotten gains.
“But you’re working on your own.…”
“I am,” said Louis. “And I’m guessing most law enforcement types won’t like that.”
“Well, most isn’t all,” said Bruno. “Still, forgive me for being blunt, but what do you get out of this?”
“Satisfaction, mostly.”
Bruno studied Louis. “Satisfaction. It’s not the kind of thing people do these days. You know, the Lone Ranger thing…”
“No, it’s not. And that’s probably just as well. I have to confess those closest to me don’t like my doing it. If it makes you uncomfortable, Bruno, as I say—”
“So far, I’m okay. So, what did you want from me?”
Louis explained that what would be useful was some angle on the Russian. “Who he is, his business dealings here and in Russia, his whereabouts, any information you might be able to get on him.”
Bruno looked at his hands while he considered how to respond. “I thought you might ask about him,” he said, turning his hands palms up and then palms down on the checkered tablecloth. “Given where we are and all.” He gestured with his head to indicate that he was talking about the restaurant. “As I said, my dad, Guido Gramicci, started the place back in the fifties. And my brother, Emilio, runs the place now.” While none of the Gramiccis were mobsters or associated with mobsters, some of Guido’s regular customers were. Which gave both Emilio and Bruno what Bruno called “particular insights into the goings-on about town.” Bruno did not have any knowledge of Adropov. “But I know some people who know some people who might.”
The very next day Bruno called. “The Russian, Adropov, he stays in Brooklyn, Brighton Beach. In Russia, he’s in the oil and gas business, on the board of some mobbed-up companies. He comes here, supposedly, to do oil and gas business, but he seems to have other stuff going on too. My source doesn’t know what.
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