“Get us a truffle and mushroom—extra large,” Vlad commanded. “And tell Joe that Vlad’s up front.”
■
Ten minutes later and into the back it was. Vlad and David sat on boxes of ice-cold food inside the food freezer in the rear of the establishment. Perched across from them was the Pie Man himself, Joe Raffaeli. In his early seventies, Joe operated a multidisciplinary business. Of course, he was a restaurateur and a pizza maker, but he was also an entrepreneur. One could even go so far as to call him a trader. At this age, and like most men in senior positions, his hands didn’t touch the heat any longer. Joe simply traded on information. Now, if that information led to a bank robbery, or a bribe intended for the police to look the other direction when it came to a prostitution ring, or to someone’s death . . . so be it. That’s not to say that Joe was evil. He was not. He was simply immoral, and he had a reputation to uphold and a family to support.
“When you met me, I was young, fly, flashy,” Joe started up. He cracked a hand warmer and ran it between his palms. “Now I stalk Kmart for deals on fucking hand warmers.” Joe glanced at David. “Sorry about the cold. Keeps all the bugs out—except for mine.” Joe pointed to a small surveillance camera positioned in the upper corner of the freezer.
“As long as there ain’t any worms eating your brain out, I’m happy,” Vlad said.
“No worms—at least not brain ones. Maybe in my intestinal tract,” Joe replied with a chuckle.
“Less pepperoni. More salad,” Vlad suggested.
“The missus says that to me too. I told her that salad can literally go fuck itself. Ever fuck a salad?” Joe asked.
“Can’t say I have,” Vlad replied.
“I did when I was fourteen. Lotta water in those icebergs. I bet this guy has,” Joe said as he pointed at David. “I know you have fucked some things you wasn’t proud about in your life.”
Not sure whether that was a dig or compliment in Joe’s book, David attempted to keep a straight face. “Why do you say that?” David asked.
“Because you’re a human,” Joe replied.
“Joe. You heard anything ’bout the gold carriage job?” Vlad asked.
“Didn’t even take a little birdie on my shoulder to know that you’d come callin’ about the heist. I guess I’m getting more and more prescient in my old age. Whaddya want from it? Gonna try to find the crew that did it and double tap that shit?” Joe asked.
“Actually, no. I’m trying to save my friend’s life.” Vlad nodded at David.
“Honestly? I ain’t got much besides what they said on CNN. It’s sad but true. I do know that every family in town been ringin’ me the last couple days. I mean, Dom himself called. Fuckin’ Poles, LA, Miami, tons of calls from Toronto . . . even Skinny Joey’s old boys in Philly. And there’s one constant in every single call. None of them know who did it, which is surprising, and they all wanna know—which is not surprising in the slightest.”
“So it wasn’t the Italians?” Vlad asked. “I figured it coulda’ been. They got the transit connections to get the stuff off the continent.”
“Nope.” Joe shook his head.
“Then who the hell else is there?”
“Fuck if I know. Maybe the Chinamen or the Belarusians. I’ll make some more calls,” Joe promised.
“What about the cartels?”
“It don’t play. You know the esés are savages, and the problem with a bunch of coyotes is they’ll eat their young, and they’ll eat their old. They don’t care one bit about the organization or each other. To pull something like this off, you need elders, you need brains, you need brawn, and you need it all to get along with each other. If anything, it’s the Europeans. They’ve been runnin’ big crews and blowin’ up ATMs with gas for a couple years now. Only problem I have with that theory is they haven’t come stateside yet. And you’re telling me the first heist you do, once you’re in America, is on a moving armored car in the middle of Manhattan? Don’t think so,” Joe said.
“Ya,” Vlad agreed.
“Truth is I’m drawing full blanks on this one. That means a dark element’s moving around the streets—some whale taking outsized risks. Someone who I don’t know,” Joe opined. “That’s unusual, and a little bit scary.” Joe stood up. That’s how conversations, and relationships, with Joe operated. When he was done, you were done. He opened the door to the freezer. “Your pie’s ready,” he said.
“How much do we owe you?” David asked.
“A grand will do.”
David whistled lightly through his teeth, but Vlad pulled the cash from his wallet with no complaints.
“Hey, truffles ain’t cheap,” Joe added. “My cousin in the old country had to buy his own breeder so he could train the finest group of Lagottos in the province. Did you know a premium sniffer goes for fifteen grand and you need a pack of at least ten of ’em to pull truffles out of the forest with any reasonable volume?”
“No. I didn’t know that, Joe,” Vlad said.
“Stick with me. I’ll always keep you up and up ’bout the ways of the world,” Joe replied.
■
Driving down a back alley and away from Joe’s Pizza Pies, Vlad and David sat in silence. They were soaking in what Joe had just told them, which had been more than a little disheartening. All of a sudden Vlad perked up out of the malaise. “I’ve been thinking about something, but I don’t really know how to tell you this . . .”
“What?” David asked.
“I have a theory. You won’t like it. But damn it if I won’t be right when we come down to the end.” Vlad took a deep breath. “We’re looking for the wrong crew. They’re right in front of our eyes. It’s your guys.”
“My guys?” David said quizzically. “I don’t have guys.”
“Ya. The bankers,” Vlad said resolutely. “The bankers did this to themselves.”
“That’s . . .” David searched for the right word.
“What?”
“Insane. Completely impossible.”
“Ya, ya. You say that. Of course you’d say that. But hear me out. You heard Joe. Nobody did this. Nobody in our world. No one from the outside. There’s only one more option, and that is the whole robbery was orchestrated from the inside,” Vlad said.
“It’s just too risky. My colleagues have too much to lose. They’re all about limiting liability, not raising it. What would someone who worked at Montgomery have to gain from robbing their own bank?”
“How about a hundred million dollars?” Vlad snapped.
“Okay. But if you work for thirty years at a million bucks a year, and you compound that money by seven percent, you’ll have your hundred million dollars at the end—legally. But if you get caught stealing . . . goodbye to all of it. Hello to divorce and your kid calling another man ‘Daddy.’ Doesn’t make any sense.”
“Money doesn’t mean anything.” Vlad shook his head in ardent disagreement. “Money doesn’t make a man respectable. It won’t satisfy someone who wants more, believes without a shadow of a doubt that they deserve it, and is watching everyone else around them do even better than they are. Just a little bit ago your whole system crashed tens of millions of careers, destroyed millions of lives, and kicked families out of their houses. What type of person knowingly creates and fosters a world that would do that? One type—a psychopath.”
“All the bad weeds were pulled,” David replied, but this time less resolutely. While he couldn’t bring himself to fully agree with Vlad, he was starting to see the logic.
“Let’s just play this out from your side. This thing you said you wrote—this computer thing. Can you run any program you want at any time from your office?” Vlad asked.
“No. We need permission to get into the server room.”
“Who gave you permission?”
David thought for a moment. “Tyler Stanton. My boss. But the thing is that Tyler trusts me. So he’d approve me no matter what—even if I didn’t actually have a real reason for going in there.”
“Had he done that before?”
“Not usually. I’m just saying . . .” David trailed off. “Besides, that was part of the plan.”
“What do you mean?”
“My instructions—on the phone I found in my kitchen. They wrote, ‘Access will be provided to the server room.’ Then they sent me a text during the day: ‘Enter server room at twelve sharp.’ I received it just as I was walking into the building.”
“So they knew Tyler would give you access?” Vlad asked. “Why the hell did your boss give you permission?”
“I don’t know. I’m in and out. I remember the guy at the gate said Tyler approved it. But the thing is . . . who knows? Tyler could be under pressure just like me. Or they could have gotten a RAT into his machine, or the server itself . . .” David trailed off. The list of options was too immense.
“What’s a RAT?” Vlad asked.
“Remote access tool. Gives you control of someone’s computer. You can see what they see, but you can also do whatever you want—without them noticing,” David replied.
“So someone could have tricked Tyler’s computer into approving you. You don’t have antivirus programs?” Vlad inquired.
“We do. They don’t always work.”
“No. The whole grab plays on one thing: you getting into that room. You don’t crash that market, then Montgomery doesn’t move any gold. If Montgomery doesn’t move gold, there’s nothing to steal. So it all hinges on your access to the server room. And from what you’ve told me, everything else was planned down to perfection. So whoever did this . . . they can’t just live on hope. They had to be absolutely, positively sure you’d be let into that room.” Vlad became worked up as he proceeded. “Tell me more about this Tyler Stanton character. I already hate his Waspy-ass name.”
FOURTEEN
DAVID ASCENDED ANCIENT LIMESTONE steps, stopping to admire the ornate ironwork that comprised the railing of a grandiose brownstone in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The macabre faces of gargoyles were carved into each step of the house. Each expression was different. A man has truly made it in the pyramid of life when his hand-carved gargoyles are each as unique and beautiful as God’s own snowflakes. David finally reached the front door and rang the doorbell. He could hear the chime echo throughout the various cherry-accented chambers of the house inside. After a few moments, the door opened. This was Tyler Stanton’s house. He stood in front of David.
“Are you serious, dude?” Tyler asked. Tyler hesitated at the door. Then he reached for his pocket to grab his cell phone. David put his hand out as a gesture of peace.
“Please, Ty. Just give me three minutes. That’s all I want. Then you can call the police and tell them you were out walking and I accosted you. Whatever makes you look good,” David proposed.
“Right now?” Tyler asked.
“All I want is a walk around the block. Just a few minutes,” David pleaded. “What’s it to you? I’m the one whose life is ruined.”
“It’s fucking cold out. And you’re a fugitive. Do you realize that?” Tyler glanced outside. He gazed left and right suspiciously. It was a blustery night, with a light rain beginning to sprinkle. Trees swayed around the old converted gas lamps, casting eerie shadows across the city street. But Tyler didn’t notice anything otherwise off. It was just the quant standing in front of him, after all. Tyler ducked back into the house and yelled to his wife, “Steph? I’m going out for a second. Getting cigarettes.” Tyler emerged with a coat. The two men padded slowly down the sidewalk while the wind howled over their heads. Or maybe it was the gargoyles.
“This isn’t my fault—” David started.
“Seriously? Don’t tell me that’s what you wanted to say. You did this, dude. You ran the algorithm. I mean you’re the only guy who could even write it in the first place, so of course you ran the thing. That’s not even a question. What I really want to know is why? Why’d you do it? What are you getting out of all this? Did you trade against it? You’ll never get away with that. Doesn’t matter what account you used—they’ll trace you, man. Do you know how sophisticated brokerage record keeping is in this day and age?” Tyler said.
“I never said I didn’t write it. I did. I wrote it. I admit that,” David said.
“No shit. SEC is going to sue us. We’ll probably sue you. Oh, also, you’re fired—in case that wasn’t a fact of extreme abundance for you.”
“The least of my worries,” David said. “Listen. There’s just one thing I wanted to ask you—the reason I’m here. The server room . . . Why’d you let me into the server room?”
“You requested it”—Tyler shrugged—“and I trusted you.”
“I didn’t request anything. The approval was already in the system, or it came in within seconds of me being at the door. I’m crystal clear on that.”
“I was sitting at my computer, David,” Tyler said. “Don’t you remember that morning? I was a little pissed at you honestly. ’Cause you were late. Saw it pop up. I figured that meant you were working, trying to get back on my good side, which is all I ever wanted out of you and the rest of the team anyways. So I approved it—right then and there.”
“Without asking me why?” David pondered out loud.
“So what?” Tyler stopped walking and peered directly at David. “Are you telling me that you’re pissed that I trusted you? How the fuck is that logical?” But before David could respond, Tyler kept prodding. “Dude. Is this what this is about? This is why you knocked on my door? Just to ask me why I believed in you?” he asked David.
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
“Clearly I made a huge mistake with you. And because of it, I’m trying not to get fired next. I don’t know what the hell is going wrong in your life. I probably don’t want to. But take me out of it, ’cause it has nothing to do with me,” Tyler said. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Oh, and your time’s up, man. We’re not going a block. This is all I got.”
“I should have known you wouldn’t lift a finger for me,” David said.
“Well, yeah. Duh. Be careful, dude,” Tyler responded as he turned and walked the other direction. The rain rotated from light precipitation to an utter downpour, slinging curtains of water across the city. Tyler’s long trench coat billowed behind him as he paced hurriedly back towards the safety of his house. David stood still in the downpour, observing as Tyler passed a nondescript van parked on the street.
In a flash, the door to the van slid open and three men in balaclavas charged directly at Tyler Stanton. One of them was holding a knife. He jammed it into Tyler’s neck, about a half inch in depth. Blood spilled from a scraped vein, but not enough to threaten Tyler’s life—yet.
“You will be sliced if you scream,” the masked man said in a tone very distinctive and recognizable to everyone except for Tyler. The other two thugs tossed Tyler into the back of the vehicle. The van drove off down the street. It stopped for a brief moment to pick up David, who had known this was coming well before he had ascended the steps to Tyler’s brownstone.
■
A barrage of fists pummeled Tyler’s face. Left. Right. Right. Left. Right. Each strike was surgical—the motion and marks of a professional fighter. David sat in the back of the van behind Tyler. He winced and slowly slid a black balaclava over his own head as he observed the onslaught.
Vlad was doing the punching. Tyler’s hands had been secured, pulled taut by handcuffs to each side of the van. His wallet and Blackberry were ripped from his pockets. As with most young princes who have always achieved their goals in life through a combination of aggressive bluster and above-average intelligence, Tyler remained utterly defiant.
“Who the hell are you?” Tyler screamed between the onslaught of punches.
Tyler’s affront was greeted by an enormous smack to the face from Vlad’s open hand.
“I’m a nightmare for you,” Vlad said as he played with a small gadget in his lap that was built to mirror the contour o
f a gun but was decidedly not one. The device actually looked like a neon-yellow Nerf weapon. “Ever stick your finger in an electrical outlet before?” Vlad asked with menace.
Tyler’s brain immediately clicked. He knew what he was staring at—a taser. The maximum physical intimidation that Tyler had experienced in the past was limited to drunk fistfights on the sidewalk outside of Dorrian’s. Although he was perched halfway to unconsciousness, the worst was yet to come. Vlad unbuttoned Tyler’s shirt.
“Did you know that an electrical outlet contains about two hundred volts? But this piece of shitty plastic made in a sweatshop in Indonesia delivers four hundred times that charge—directly to your heart cavity. In milliseconds,” Vlad orated as he ran the taser gun in circles over Tyler’s bare and hairless chest.
“What do you think I know?” Tyler begged plaintively.
“I’m a man with an interest in gold.”
“Are you serious?” Tyler asked. “You cannot be real right now.”
Vlad took one final look. That was definitely the wrong response. He was deadly serious. He was Vlad. His emotions were binary. He was either messing around or he was gravely definitive. Nothing existed in between. The trick to remaining on Vlad’s good side was the ability to divine which emotion he was feeling in any given moment. Tyler didn’t know that, and he never would.
Vlad turned the safety off on the taser gun. He aimed it at Tyler, lined up the front sight, and pulled the trigger. Two gas-powered fléchettes accelerated through the air directly into Tyler’s chest. All of Tyler’s muscles contracted simultaneously as the charge raced through his body. Tyler screamed bloody murder, his cry like a rippling earthquake from his lungs on out.
“One down. Four to go. These things are goddamn expensive. And you know what happens when I run out of cartridges?” Vlad asked. Vlad pantomimed a gun with his hands. He put his fingers to Tyler’s temple. “Boom,” Vlad threatened. His lips slowly blew air over his index finger, as though there was smoke sailing from the top of a gun.
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