by Ben Coes
“Yeah,” the voice said.
“Where have you been?” said Fortuna. “Is it done?”
“No. He got away.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Fortuna said angrily. “So now the government has him?”
“No. Andreas killed the people I sent, then he ran. Cali police gave chase but lost him near the airport, and they couldn’t find him there. No one knows where he is. He’s disappeared.”
“Tell me, then,” said Fortuna between clenched teeth, “how do you propose to find him now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“We have problems on two fronts now. We have this fucking guy, who may or may not know something which could trace back to us. And now we have the very real possibility that interagency will start looking for its leak. Someone will know immediately that the group is compromised. There is no other explanation. We were the only ones who knew about the rendezvous in Cali.”
“How many people are we talking about?’
“I don’t know. Ten, twelve maybe.”
“Bloody fuck, Vic. Who’d you send in there, a bunch of retards?”
“I had an hour to put the operation together. They were from a group I’ve used before, no problems. I’m hanging way the hell out on a limb. I’m cutting it very close to the bone here. This is just the kind of thing that’ll get me caught. That will get us caught.”
“Meaning?”
“I used people connected with my group, guys we’ve hired on jobs before. Do you realize how easily this could come back to bite me?”
“I assume you covered your tracks.”
“If they run a textbook mole hunt, looking at finances, phone docs, that sort of thing, I’m fine. I’ve run more mole hunts than I care to remember. But this is serious shit. After 9/11, Capitana’s got people fired up. I mean, where are you going next with this, Alex? What’s the next target? If this gets any more dangerous, I would not be at all surprised if every member of interagency is interrogated. I’d recommend it if I saw this happen the way it went down. A shot of one of these new synthetics our pharma squad has developed and I’d be telling them everything.”
“Who would run it?”
“FBI. It’s their lead. Our best hope is that they’re distracted right now. But that’s wishful thinking.”
“So what the fuck do you suggest we do?”
“Me? I’m going to run. I need to get out of here.”
“You can’t run,” Fortuna said. “You know that. I need someone inside there telling me how close they’re getting to me. I was clear from day one. That’s why you’re getting so much goddamn money. You’re the canary in my coal mine.”
“Well, that’s all well and good, Alex. But think. If they catch me, they catch you. Pay me the rest of my money and I’ll disappear for good, guaranteed. You can keep doing whatever you have planned. They’re not close to finding you at this point, not within a hundred miles. Hell, they think Saudi Arabia’s behind it.”
“You are not running, Vic. That’s not our deal. You get paid on completion. You want the other forty million, you protect me while I finish the job. And if you do run, I will still complete the job, and then I will find you. When I do, you will learn what real torture is all about. None of that pussy-shit CIA crap. I’ll have you flown to Crimea. I’m talking Stone Age, prebiblical kind of shit; chains, fire. You get my point?”
Fortuna was standing now, the anger coursing through him. He turned toward the large stone fireplace and hurled his wineglass into the fire, where it shattered against the back of the hearth.
Buck was silent.
“I’ll call you in a few hours,” said Fortuna. “And you better answer this time.”
“I want more money, Alex.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“That wasn’t our deal.”
“I’m changing the deal. You were supposed to kill this guy out at sea. Things have changed. I’m at great risk here. You want me to hang around, be your eyes and ears, the price just doubled.”
“Doubled?”
“You heard me. A hundred million. That means ninety million more you owe me.”
“Fine,” said Fortuna. “But only upon completion.”
“No. I want more. Twenty-five million, immediately.”
“You greedy fuck. I’ll wire you five million dollars tomorrow morning. That’s it. Get back to your precious little interagency. If someone starts talking about a mole, deny, deny, deny. Then kill whoever it is that suspects something.”
“Brilliant, Alex.”
Fortuna hung up. As he ended the conversation, a knock came at the door. In Celia’s hands was a dinner tray, which she set down on top of the mahogany table.
“I’ll ring you when I’m done. Smells delicious.”
He cut into the steak. It was red and slightly warm in the center, but charred on the outside, just as he liked it. He took a few bites. Not surprisingly, he found his appetite had dissipated.
Fortuna went upstairs to the master suite. On the walls hung a stunning series of paintings by Ellsworth Kelly, large canvases with geometric squares of color, paintings he loved dearly, the first serious art he’d ever purchased. Now he barely noticed them.
“Andreas.” He said the name out loud. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He opened the top drawer of his dresser and removed a silver box. Inside, he pulled a small silver spoon and scooped a gumdrop-size pile of cocaine and sniffed it into his right nostril. He did it again, this time in his left nostril. The burn calmed him, channeled the anger back into confidence.
He changed his shirt, putting on a striped button-down and a dark blue sweater. He brushed his teeth, then walked back downstairs. He took his overcoat out of the front closet and put it on.
Celia stepped out of the kitchen.
“I’m going out. No need to stay up.”
“Have a good night,” she said.
He drove through East Hampton and back out to Route 27. In Southampton, he took a turn onto Gin Lane and drove until he came to a set of large granite pillars that were illuminated with red and green lights. He turned into the driveway. The pebble lane stretched for as far as he could see, down into the distance toward the water. As he came closer to the big house, each side of the driveway was lined with cars.
The annual Christmas party thrown by the Manhattan art dealer Johnny Caravelle was in full swing. Fortuna drove down to the large circle in front of the house. The house itself was a sweeping stone mansion that perched at the edge of the ocean, built in the 1890s by Conrad Seipp, the founder of the Seipp Brewing company. In the middle of the circle, a large fountain streamed with water. Atop the fountain, a small conifer stood outside the arc of cascading water, decorated in white lights and colored Christmas bulbs.
Fortuna opened the door and left the car running for the valet.
“Evening, Mr. Fortuna.”
“Hi. Merry Christmas,” said Fortuna.
“Merry Christmas to you, sir.”
Fortuna walked in through the big front doors. Inside, the large center hallway was brightly lit. A Christmas tree stood more than twenty feet high, decorated with lights, flowers, bulbs, and figurines. Beneath, box after box of presents filled the space at the base of the tree. To the side of the great entrance hall, a fireplace five feet tall roared with flames. The room itself was crowded with people, most of whom Fortuna recognized: prominent financiers, members of the media establishment, CEOs from the corporate world, a few celebrities from TV, internationally celebrated artists, a movie star or two, several well-known athletes, heavily decorated wives, and a smorgasbord of young beauties, models galore.
Fortuna handed his overcoat to the maid and walked into the party. He circled through the rooms glancing at the guests, saying hello to those he knew. Music played from a Steinway in the corner; a woman in a long black dress played Christmas songs. As always, women turned their heads as he walked by. Fortuna liked to meet
their gazes with blank stares; he’d gotten so used to the sensation of being looked at by members of the opposite sex it didn’t even cause him to think twice when a beautiful woman stared at him, or came up to talk to him, gave him her phone number, or even openly propositioned him.
He walked through a large room filled with couches, chairs, and fireplaces on either end.
“Hey, Alex,” a man yelled from across the room. He had an Australian accent. It was Caravelle. He crossed quickly from across the room. “Merry Christmas.”
Fortuna walked up to Caravelle and shook hands warmly.
“You’ve outdone yourself. Great party.”
“You’re late,” said Caravelle. “Several of the prize Sheilas have already been taken.”
“I’m here for the eggnog.”
Caravelle laughed. “Yeah, right. I know why you come to my parties.”
“I like to see you too, in all sincerity. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. By the way, what was the name of that girl you shagged July Fourth?”
“She was your guest. How the hell should I know? She was good-looking, wasn’t she?”
“Wars have been started over uglier girls,” said Caravelle. “She was someone’s guest, as I recall.”
“Any equals tonight?”
“Leona Lewis is here.”
“I’m not into celebrities,” said Fortuna. “Although, she is a stunner. What about models? Did you do your usual cattle call over to DNA?”
“You know it. You’ll find something you like, I’m sure. Thanks for coming, Alex.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. By the way, is that a personal O’Keeffe? It’s stunning.” Fortuna nodded to the wall above the fireplace. A massive Georgia O’Keeffe painting sat above the black marble mantel. A simple yellow adobe home sat beneath the sun, the dark brown hills behind it capped with snow.
“Not for sale. Unless you really wanted it. Funny money sort of thing.”
“How much funny money?”
“Five million.”
Fortuna paused and stared at the painting. “Done.”
“Can I at least keep it through the end of the party?” Caravelle laughed.
“Yes. Just don’t sell it to someone else.”
Fortuna went to the bar and ordered a mojito. He circulated through the party. He spoke with several people he knew; the CEO of ABC, a partner at Blackstone he went to Princeton with, others. He had another mojito, then another.
He went and sat next to a blond model from Russia, Olga. She had stunning eyes, and a longish, sharp nose. She was with a friend, another Russian, with long brown hair. Fortuna preferred the blonde. They sat on a big red leather couch, speaking to each other in Russian.
“Hello,” he said as he sat down next to them.
“Hi. Merry Christmas,” the brunette said. Her Russian accent was heavy.
“Hi,” said the blonde, smiling at Fortuna.
Then, in Russian, the blonde said to the brown-haired beauty, “He’s cute. Should we take him upstairs and fuck his brains out?”
Fortuna smiled. “That would be nice,” he responded in perfect Russian.
Their momentary surprise was followed by laughter.
On the way through the entrance foyer, he stopped at the bar and grabbed two bottles of Cristal and three glasses.
He led the girls upstairs to a suite of rooms at the western end of the house, overlooking the swimming pool.
They started by climbing into a warm bubble bath in the big marble tub. Fortuna watched as the two girls kissed each other. One of the models moved down and went down on the other as he watched for several minutes. Then they moved over next to Fortuna, and he wrapped his arms around both of them. The brown-haired girl went beneath the water and went down on him while he kissed the blonde. When she reemerged, to catch a breath, they all laughed. The two models took turns.
After the bath, they went to the bedroom. They each wore big terry cloth bathrobes. The blonde went to her small clutch and pulled out a small silver box. Fortuna pulled a large, walnut-framed mirror off the wall. The blonde laid out several lines. Fortuna grabbed a crisp bill out of his pocket and rolled it up. They took turns snorting the lines of cocaine. Soon, the robes fell off and they started to have sex.
Hours later, they fell asleep as the sounds of partiers below died off and the sound of the ocean slapping at the shore created a soothing rhythm.
Much later, Fortuna awoke, his arm still wrapped around the sleeping blonde. The brown-haired girl’s feet were next to his head. He looked at his watch; it was five forty-five in the morning.
Fortuna quietly got up and put his clothing back on. He left the room and went downstairs.
He circled back through the big living room to take another look at the O’Keeffe. Beneath the painting, on top of the mantel, an envelope with the word “Alex” sat.
He opened it.
AF,
If you feel like a game of squash, call me. Hope you enjoyed Team Russia. I’ll have the O’Keeffe delivered to Manhattan.
—Caravelle
Fortuna walked to the closet and looked for his overcoat. It wasn’t there. He walked to the door. Outside, bitter cold greeted him. It was refreshing. He saw the Aston Martin at the far edge of the circle. He walked to it, and climbed in. The keys were in the ignition. He turned on the car and ripped up the long pebble driveway.
Back home at his East Hampton estate, he went straight to his office and called Karim in Manhattan.
“Good morning,” said Karim. “No call yet from Buck.”
“I talked to him last night,” said Alex. “Where’s the remote?”
Karim didn’t answer for a second. He cleared his throat. “The one in the East Hampton house is in the bottom drawer of the desk. The one here in Manhattan is in the ivory box below the Caravaggio.”
Fortuna opened the bottom desk drawer and removed a silver object, slightly larger than a television remote. The remote detonator had two keyboards, one with letters and the other numbers. A thick black antenna folded against the side.
“Give me the codes.”
“The codes? Why?”
“Just do what I fucking say, will you?”
“They’re programmed into the speed dial.”
“All forty-one?”
“Yes—but the cells are not all ready. You can’t just—”
“Then give me the code for one that’s ready. A big target. Now.”
“Okay, okay. Press twelve.”
32
INTERMODAL FACILITY AND BREAK-BULK WAREHOUSE
PORT OF LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA
Neqq felt the first tremor as he sat in the cab of the reach stacker, and he knew.
As the tremor moved the ground, in that first moment, he did not even have the time to move his hands from the gears of the big machine, but he did have time to register the feeling of soft material on his neck, chamois from the sweatshirt he’d purchased from the Target store in Long Beach, soft down against his skin, the last memory he would have on this earth.
The tremor occurred less than four seconds after the detonator that rested in Neqq’s locker received an electronic signal sent via cellular transmission, a signal telling it to pulse on. The tremor occurred less than three seconds after the detonator pulsed on and sent two identical negative ion sparks into the suitcase-sized glob of octanitrocubane mashed into the space below the foot joist in the locker. Less than two seconds after the charges turned, there occurred a reaction in the chemical makeup of the material, causing its cubane atoms to suddenly, atomically, turn upon themselves and flee the once-stable assembly of like atoms and seek oxygen and carbon, to seek it with such hunger and force that the air became like food before a ravenous, starving wolf; the air became consumed outward from the locker in white fire and heat so intense that, could it be measured, it would have resembled the air less than a quarter mile from the bomb that fell on Nagasaki.
By one second before the tremor in Neqq’s c
ab, the massive explosion catapulted outward and leveled the large warehouse and tore across the great plain of decking at water’s edge, striking wood, steel, container ships moored at deck edge, gantry cranes on the docks, and, of course, people. It liquefied anyone and everyone in the warehouse, Mr. Sargent, the men and women who worked in the cafeteria. There was no pain, no recognition, nothing; no time.
The crater grew as the air fed the explosion to life. And when it reached Neqq’s cab halfway across the container field, nearly a half mile from the locker, it was moving at more than a thousand miles per hour. The containers were flung like cards in a windstorm. What terminated Neqq in point of fact was a steel beam from a container blown across the sky. It sailed across the sky like so many others and separated Neqq’s torso from his waist like a knife through butter, though it was soon joined by a wall of destroyed steel and metal; he was soon but a smattering of small parts, the largest the size of a Tootsie Roll, most just wet molecules within the slowing, but still growing, crater of destruction.
Soon the Port of Long Beach was a ball of fire, destroyed by one man, a boy really, who just five years before had, in his wildest imagination, dreamed only of saving enough money to purchase his own cow and join his father farming in the dry plains near Jamrud, growing enough wheat to make bread to feed himself, his mama and papa, and perhaps even a family of his own.
33
WASHINGTON SPORTS CLUB
M STREET, N.W.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Jessica’s cell phone rang as she was getting off the treadmill at the Washington Sports Club, practically deserted at such an early hour. The ring tone—three quick beeps that chimed repeatedly without stopping—meant the call was from CENCOM. Despite her already-elevated pulse, Jessica’s heart jumped.
“Tanzer,” she said.
“Hold for CENCOM Commander Fowler,” said a voice, then two quick clicks.
“Jessica, it’s Bo. We have a level red.”
Suddenly, across the television screens that filled the walls in front of the dozens of treadmills and StairMasters, rowing machines and other pieces of exercise equipment at the tony sports club, the images all became one; a live shot from a distance of several massive mushroom clouds—orange and black explosions spread out over the horizon—flames ballooning out at several points. She ran to the nearest screen and read the ticker at the bottom of the screen.