I left work at five and headed uptown. There are lots of hotel bars in New York, mostly full of out-of-towners and businessmen. That’s what hotels are about. The bar of the Carlyle is a loud, upscale version, where quiet conversation is impossible. But it has style. The Bemelmans frescoes that lent the place its name, and the eternal jazz piano, make it unlike any place else in the city, a special experience. The experience was shared with tourists in goofy outfits, drunks, and working girls. But the tearoom, just through the bar, is an oasis. Dark Chinese wallpaper, low banquettes, and seductive lighting make it perennially evening, adult, and inviting. The room is quiet, and the tables are well separated. When I settled in at five twenty-five, the tea crowd had mostly gone and the lovers hadn’t yet arrived. Six minutes later, a bathtub-sized, very dry Belvedere martini appeared. I picked the salted macadamias out of the silver bowl of mixed nuts and had a few sips without making a dent in the drink. Alongside the glass was a mini-shaker seated in ice with a partial refill, which could easily render me senseless. I hit the brakes and went back to the nuts. The people in the room were well dressed, and other than a family with two preteen children, the crowd appeared to be locals. My table was too far from the others to catch much of the conversations on either side, which was a good sign. Alison was late. She was a surgeon, and that was unusual. I checked my BlackBerry a couple of times, expecting her excuse for deciding not to show up. She arrived at five forty-five, looking like one of the fashionable Madison Avenue ladies who, until a few minutes ago, had been happily sipping tea and trading gossip around me.
Alison was anything but happy. After a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, she was all business.
“They’ve been through my things.”
“They?”
“Vauxhall Cross, the Firm, who else?”
“Alison, everyone has an eye out for you, not just your masters at the Firm. The NYPD, the smugglers or terrorists or whatever the hell they are, the FBI, the killers, and who knows whoever else. Someone searched your apartment. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Don’t be so smart.”
“Easy, easy.” I held up my hands in capitulation. “There’s no reason to be angry. You’re agitated, so you’re not thinking clearly. That can only make things worse.”
“Right. Sorry.” Alison saw the waiter approaching and smiled over my shoulder. “I would love a Campari and soda in a tall glass with one ice cube, please.”
When the waiter was out of earshot, we resumed. Neither of us knew what the next step should be, but we were damned sure something bad was about to happen. The most frustrating part was the inability to convey urgency to the people who might be able to do something about the situation. I recounted my conversation with Dell, as well as the hardening attitude of Rodriguez. “So, how do we get one of the agencies to act?” I asked.
“We don’t. The position of the FBI and Homeland Security is clear. They have no reason to assume imminent threat. The position of my people is confusing. They have information from good sources. The same information that I have, but they have been stonewalling me and treating this as a drug issue, which isn’t our area. So off it goes with a long memo and a telephone call to the appropriate drug people in the States. But it doesn’t ring true.”
“What doesn’t ring true?”
“That this is a drug case.”
“No, I mean what part of their behavior doesn’t ring true? They have the information, but they may be interpreting it differently than you. Is it an honest difference of opinion . . . you might just be wrong . . . or are they hiding something, keeping you out of the loop?”
“That’s possible. Shit. That’s very possible. If this is as important as we think it is, they may agree and I may be overreaching my need to know. Everything in the intelligence service is separated into silos of knowledge. No one knows the whole story, just their own isolated task. But nothing changed when I reported the shooting. Their response was simply to call me in.”
“Right. That wasn’t stupid. This may be a small part of a bigger operation, and they don’t want to foul it by chasing small potatoes.”
“Small potatoes?”
“Come on, you get the picture.”
“I do. But they are dead wrong, whatever their reason, for ignoring the facts.”
“Maybe they are not ignoring the facts. Maybe we are.”
29
Alison couldn’t leave New York. Her passports—she wasn’t being exactly clear about how many she had—were all official-issue and known to her superiors. She could be stopped at every port of entry or exit. She couldn’t stay at her apartment. Someone was interested in it, as evidenced by the look of it that afternoon. They had been there, and they were likely to return as her absence dragged on. That is if they were the same they who tossed it. She couldn’t use her credit card, and she couldn’t stay at my place, that was for sure. She had gotten me in this up to my neck, and everybody knew where I lived. And there was the issue of whoever had shot at her outside the restaurant. Assuming, as I had, that the target was Alison. Not only could she not stay with me, but it was pretty dumb being seen with her anywhere at all.
What made sense was for me to take a hotel room and install Alison there. There was no reason to assume that my cards or my phone were being monitored—Rodriguez didn’t have that level of pull, and no one else thought I was one of the bad guys.
Lots of weird little hotels had been springing up all over Manhattan. Some were conversions, some updates, and some new construction. What they had in common was a young staff dressed in black that had no idea what good service meant. I chose a new one on West Twenty-ninth Street. For obvious reasons, bellhops were virtually extinct in these places, and no one made a gesture toward my empty rolling bag. It was just as well. I would have been embarrassed when it took flight after the first tug. Alison would stuff it with clothes later. Her place was off-limits, and she would have to shop. The bag would be useful as she moved around. It also made me feel like a proper hotel guest. There was a time when one might even have been denied a room without luggage. Nice hotels didn’t want to be seen as hot-sheets assignation places. We checked in under my name as Mr. and Mrs. and took the elevator to the tenth floor. The room was painted white. It was large and spare. Some people find polished cement floors, steel tables, and plastic chairs modern. I thought it looked uncomfortable and silly. But, hey, I’m getting old, and I was never that hip anyway.
Alison stood at the doorway and looked around. She poked at the electronic console at the bedside and checked the closet and bathroom. Then she shook her head, said “Okay,” and fell onto the bed with her arms spread. She looked out of place stretched out in the stark room in a matronly teatime dress, but that was her style. As the dress rode up on her thighs and she cracked half a smile, she became a pornographic mousy librarian shaking her hair free and lifting her skirt. Alison knew it, and she knew she was not mousy. I was beside her with my hand on the softest part of her thighs and my tongue tracing her lips. She spread her thighs and pressed against my hand.
30
To be perfectly truthful, the idea of playing detective with no authority and no leads was not an inviting prospect. I would have been happy to walk away from the whole thing, but I had already passed Go and couldn’t easily undo whatever involvement others perceived. And then there was Alison. It had actually been a lovely couple of hours together. Narcotics and terrorists be damned. Although the subject was never far from our collective conscious, it was kept at bay by anonymity, closed doors, a minibar, and room service.
My plan was either to head home for the evening walk or call the dog-walker. Instead, I was dozing for the second time when my phone woke me. It was Deuce.
“Your boy Tahani showed up.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Sorry, that was dumb, but it surprised me. Dead or alive?”
“Yeah, surprised me, too.” Deuce didn’t answer my question immediately, a
nd I waited to hear the gory details. He went on, “I thought our man was permanently disappeared. We got a call from the London Metro Police, who got a call from immigration when he landed in Heathrow. They found a nice room for him and had a long conversation. He was a babe in the woods. Ignorant of everything and shocked at the death of his dear friend Farzan.”
“What did he have to say about the mules and the smuggling scheme?”
“Nothing. Knew nothing at all about it. Shocked to hear about it.”
“So, we know nothing other than he isn’t dead.”
“Correct.”
“Sounds like a lot of bullshit, Deuce. Tahani is the key. Maybe not exactly the key, but he’s someone who might actually know something or know someone who knew something. Either way, someone who understands the bigger picture needs to talk to him. Are you going over there?”
“Are you kidding? This is New York; it’s 2013. There’s no money for fishing trips. We’re feeling the pressure. City only has money to paint bike lanes and pray they don’t have to clear the snow. We have to worry about keeping the lights on. This guy is not highest priority, at least when it comes to spending.
“We don’t really know that he did anything. Byarshan suggests he might be involved with the heroin boobs business. Byarshan gets dead. Suspicious? Yeah, but Tahani claims he wasn’t even in New York at the time and says he can prove it. So where’s credible evidence to suspect he did the deed or anything else, and where does that leave us? And how do I convince the brass to spring for a few thou for me to visit London to talk to some guy who isn’t even a suspect? The way these situations are managed now is by e-mail and telephone. They help us; we help them.”
“Point taken,” I agreed, but we both knew better. As little as Tahani may know, it was definitely more than we did, and he was our only living contact with the events of the last few days. He was the lead we had, and we had to follow it. There was no other next step. I couldn’t believe Deuce was giving him a pass. Problem was it was none of my business, except that it was everybody’s business. If something awful was about to happen, I’d be damned if I would walk away from it just because a bunch of civil servants, even if they were my friends, refused to take it seriously. I was tempted to pressure Deuce, but he wasn’t the sort to succumb to pressure. It got his back up, and that was the last thing I needed. Deuce was a good friend to have.
“So there is no place to go on Byarshan’s murder?”
“Right now that’s true. We’re working with Narcotics on this. They have the best chance of scaring up a lead. They’re shaking the trees for every CI in town. Problem is the overlap with the radical Muslim connection. If it’s drug trade, narc has the contacts; if it’s antiterrorism, the feds have it; and we’re at apples and oranges again.”
“Narcotics means that asshole Rodriguez?”
“Afraid so.”
“Jesus.”
“Have a nice day.”
I broke the connection without telling Deuce where I was and without him asking.
I gave Alison the short version, but she had already pieced it together. We chatted for a few minutes and came up with the outline of a plan. It was not a very satisfactory plan, but it was all we had. I headed for the door, kissed Alison good-bye, and was lost in thought when I found myself on the street, staring blankly at a guy in a black outfit waving down a taxi I didn’t remember requesting.
31
I didn’t sleep well. No bad dreams; no dreams at all that I can remember, just turning like a chicken on a spit. Before first light I’d had two cups of coffee and finished packing. I wanted to make arrangements for Tonto and some lame excuses at the office, but normal people were still asleep. Instead, I sent e-mails and was in a cab, heading for the airport, by six. Tonto’s minders were reliable, and the fallback systems made it highly unlikely that I’d find the animal cruelty people at my door when I returned. Still, I rattled chains from the cab until someone was awake enough to reassure me. That settled, I was almost able to relax. Reverse commuting has its moments, and we were at the gate at Terminal 4 at Kennedy at six forty-five. The eight a.m. Virgin flight would make Heathrow at eight p.m., and I could be eating at the bar at Le Caprice by nine thirty. I was becoming a regular. I usually splurge in London and stay at Claridge’s, where I’d been a lifetime ago, just the week before last. But this wasn’t about fun, and time was short. I figured the Stafford, on St. James’s Place, would be a nice fallback, since it was a mini-stroll from dinner and very English. The woman in the overdesigned Virgin Atlantic uniform at the desk was efficient, and I was on my way to the lounge in what seemed like less than a minute. I made good use of the time before boarding by stocking up on newspapers and gorging myself at the breakfast buffet. Nothing like a few thousand calories before seven a.m. to bring on sleep.
I called Tahani’s office from the lounge. It was just past noon in London, and damned if he didn’t take my call. Alison had given me the short course on sniffing him out like a pig after autumn truffles. I was almost disappointed that it was so easy. I dialed his published office number and voilà . . . Mr. Tahm Tahani, plastic surgeon.
It caught me off guard and I was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Yes, Dr. Black, this is Mr. Tahani.”
He repeated himself into the silence and I found my voice.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Tahani.” Surgeons in England are referred to as mister, as in Mr. Tahani, MD. I never know what is expected of a foreigner and I use doctor, as I would for any physician. “I am with the New York City Police Department. If you can spare some time, I would like to talk to you about the death of Farzan Byarshan.” I was balancing the need to play down the doctor part and emphasize the NYPD, but I knew that saying I was a doctor was the best way to get him on the line.
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“Actually, I would like to discuss this in person. I could come by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday—my office is closed.”
“Yes, I assumed that. Perhaps we could meet in the morning. I won’t take too much of your time.”
“Sorry, but I have plans for the day.”
“Then we’ll have to do it at the Metropolitan Police Headquarters.” It seemed worth a try.
“I’ve spoken with the police. Henceforth, my solicitor will deal with this.”
“Something terrible has happened. Like it or not, you are involved. We know all about the implants, the smuggling, and your travel schedule. You can’t run away from this. If you’d like to save yourself a lot of trouble, you can start by talking to me. This is going to get very bad, and you need a friend. Believe me, you need me. Farzan was my friend. He told me everything, and then they killed him. We can get you out of there. Help keep you safe.”
“You didn’t help Farzan,” he said. His voice was breaking, and I thought he might cry. I pressed harder.
“The only way out, the only way to stay alive, is to help us. Then we can help you. If not, you’re a dead man.”
There was quiet, then more of the same, and in the end Tahani grudgingly agreed to see me. I hadn’t thought much past that, but I had a six-hour flight to work something out. The plane was crowded with tired-looking, seasoned travelers dragging full-sized carry-on bags through the aisles. I was seated at a window about halfway into an old-fashioned business-class cabin. I tossed my small bag into the overhead, made my apologies to my stylish young seatmate in tight sweater with exposed midsection and sprayed-on jeans. She sprawled across the space and barely looked up from her cell phone to acknowledge my passing. A perfunctory attempt to draw her legs in offered no more room. In my heart of hearts I envisioned a full-body check, knocking her over the armrest. In the absence of physical violence, at the very least a caustic comment on her rudeness. The reality was I squeezed past and said nothing. I made a careful reconnoitering of the opposition. On second glance, she was older than I thought. Smile lines and softening of the jawline put her solidly in her thirties. St
ill young, but old enough to have better manners. The fierce morning light streaming through the windows onto her heavily painted face made her appear desperate when she could have been elegant. I would avoid making friends.
Studying my neighbor in the relentless, unfiltered, high-altitude sun, I looked around to find my own reflection. The illusion of eternal youth had long ago been dispelled, but I had the urge for a reality check. I was quite comfortable with the gray in my hair, but what did she see? No matter, my neighbor had not yet looked my way. Being over fifty is an odd place when you are healthy and feel young. For the most part, my women friends are age-appropriate, but the first time an eye-catching twenty-five-year-old called me sir, it ruined my day. I thought about that for a moment and laughed at myself. It wasn’t very long ago that I was young and at loose ends in my career. I laughed out loud when I realized that “not very long ago” was twenty years. I shook it off, amused, then settled down, looked at the magazine covers, and flipped my iPad open, and began reading the thriller I had downloaded at the airport.
I was on a mission, maybe a fool’s errand, but it felt right. I ought to have a plan for my confrontation with Tahani. Falling asleep with the iPad in my lap got me nowhere. By the time I had read a few pages and picked some things off the lunch tray, we were just a couple of hours out. The west-to-east flight always caught a big tail-wind and was very quick, and we touched down before eight p.m.
Wendell Black, MD Page 13