“How do these damn kids become such experts at worrying parents to death, anyhow?” I said as I took out my phone to text Brian yet again. “The second they outgrow the playpen, it’s over.”
Chapter 50
Brian Bennett took a quick peek at his vibrating phone as he stood at the greasy window inside a Chinese take-out dump called New Dragon Palace on Westchester Avenue in some misbegotten, run-down section of the Bronx.
He looked up from his dad’s latest freak-out of a text and put his eyes back on the car underneath the elevated track across the street.
It was a Mercedes, a two-door glossy silver E320 ghettoed out with big silver rims and dark tinted windows. He’d been doing nothing but stare at it for the last ten minutes.
It was because of Marvin.
Marvin was now in the car doing who knew what with that old psycho gangbanger dude who seemed to be stalking him.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening, Brian thought. What was supposed to be happening was Brian and Marvin attending the Holy Name skate-athon with everybody at the rink in Harlem.
But after school, Marvin said he had something to do and would meet him later. Brian knew what that meant, so, on an impulse, he decided to follow him.
It was quite the odyssey. The B train at Fordham Road to Yankee Stadium. The 4 train from there to 125th, where Marvin got a third train, an uptown 6 that had taken them back into the Bronx here, to a place called St. Lawrence Avenue.
He didn’t know what St. Lawrence was the patron saint of, but his street was one of the sketchiest blocks Brian had ever set foot on. Coming from the stairs of the subway, he’d passed an auto glass store that looked like it had been torched beside a bodega with a bulletproof glass sidewalk kiosk. The only light on the dilapidated block seemed to be from the bloodred neon PETEY’S DISCOUNT LIQUORS, in front of which the Merc was parked.
It didn’t make sense, Brian thought, shaking his head. Marvin was the coolest dude. Enthusiastic and humble and nice to everybody—parents, even freshmen. A solid B student, with his athletics he was a shoo-in for a good college scholarship.
He even talked about his future plans all the time. He said he knew he probably wasn’t good enough for the pros, and that he was going to major in management. He had an uncle who owned a bunch of tire stores down south, and he wanted to do something like that: manage a franchise or something and work with colleagues and customers.
At sixteen, he was by far the most mature of all their friends, Brian knew.
And yet in spite of all that, he was here in Fort Apache, the Bronx, doing some…sinister drug deal or something.
It just didn’t make sense.
Chapter 51
What would Dad do? Brian wondered as he continued to stare at the car.
That was easy. He’d probably walk on over across the street, tap on the tinted window, and demand to know what the hell was happening.
But Dad was a cop, wasn’t he? He had a gun and a badge and twenty years’ experience in crazy, dangerous, drug-infested places like this.
What did he have? Brian thought. A book bag and a friendly smile?
Brian winced as he listened to the steel drum rattle of a passing 6 on the elevated track overhead.
What the hell would happen next? he wondered as Marvin suddenly got out of the car with a small duffel bag.
Brian immediately bolted out of the restaurant and crossed the street, tailing Marvin north under the El toward the intersection of St. Lawrence. As he got to the corner, he watched as Marvin made a beeline toward a tenement on the north side of the street. The run-down structure had an NYPD SAFE HALLWAYS sign above its main door that even Brian knew meant it was a hard-core drug building. Just then, three people—two jacked gangster-looking black guys and a tough-seeming, probably Hispanic chick with cornrows—came out of the building’s front door and sat on its stoop. The girl lit a cigarette, and then one of the cold-eyed black guys snatched it out of her mouth as the other guy laughed.
Brian ran up as Marvin was about to cross the street.
“Marvin! Yo, Marvin!” he cried.
“Brian?!” Marvin said, staring at him in shock. “What the hell are you doing? Following me? You shouldn’t be here, man. What are you doing? Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone?”
“What am I doing?” Brian cried. “What are you doing? You have to stop all this crazy stuff, Marvin. I saw you in that car with that crazy dude. Are you out of your frickin’ mind? You’re gonna get arrested or killed. Why are you throwing your life away?”
Instead of answering, Marvin turned and watched over Brian’s shoulder as a car passed by back on Westchester Avenue. It was a beat-up maroon Chevy. It slowed and stopped on the corner. The three street toughs on the tenement stoop immediately scattered as some chubby white guys climbed out of the car.
“Oh, damn! It’s cops! C’mon!” Marvin said, tugging at Brian’s jacket.
Before he could stop and think about it, Brian was moving quickly with Marvin down St. Lawrence. They took a left on an even worse disaster of a street called Gleason and started running. They hooked another left on a street called Beach. Halfway down Beach, Brian watched as Marvin threw the duffel bag over a graffiti-covered wood fence into an abandoned lot. Then they ran all the way back to the elevated subway station on Westchester.
“C’mon, Marvin. Let’s just get the hell out of here,” said Brian as they huffed and puffed on the stairs for the El. Brian looked over by PETEY’S DISCOUNT LIQUORS, but the Merc was gone.
Marvin shook his head.
“No, man. We just need to wait a few minutes. I have to go back.”
“Go back?” Brian said, disbelieving.
“I have to go back for that bag,” Marvin said.
“Why? What the hell is in it, anyway?”
Marvin gave him a fierce look.
“Don’t you worry about that. Just wait here,” Marvin said, pointing at him. “I’ll be ten minutes, tops, okay? Just wait.”
Brian’s phone went off again as he helplessly watched Marvin run back across the street the way they’d come.
Where the hell are you guys? Dad wanted to know. I’m not kidding, Brian. You should have been here an hour ago. Where the hell are you? Tell me now.
Brian looked around as another train arrived above, its violent, industrial rattle like a death metal drum solo.
As if I know, he thought.
Sorry, Dad. We were stuck in a tunnel. Just got out. Train’s stuck again though, Brian lied, typing quickly. But we should be on our way any minute.
If we’re both still alive, Brian thought, shaking his head again as he hit Send.
Part Three
Catch Me if You Can
Chapter 52
Paul Ernenwein and I were called to a surprise lunch meeting with Secret Service special agent in charge Margaret Foley, at the famous Bull and Bear Prime Steakhouse at the Waldorf Astoria.
We found Agent Foley at a black leather banquette in the corner, sitting with a boyish dark-haired fortysomething gentleman in a tailored navy suit.
“Guys, I’d like you to meet Mark Evrard,” she said. “Mark’s with the DSS.”
DSS was the Diplomatic Security Service, I knew, the security and law enforcement service of the State Department. They were the guys who protected US ambassadors and embassies all around the world.
“After you brought up the Russian angle at our last meeting, I asked around, and a friend got me in touch with Mark,” Agent Foley said as we sat. “He’s been with the DSS for the last fifteen years at the American embassy in Moscow. He also teaches a Russian foreign relations seminar at Johns Hopkins and is considered one of the most knowledgeable people about Russia in all of Washington. If anyone could broaden our understanding about the Russians and the way they think, it’s Mark.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Evrard said in a down-to-earth Chicago accent after a sip of his whiskey sour. “But maybe I can help. What kind of Russki info a
re you guys looking for?”
“Well, I guess the first question is, how credible do you think it is that Putin or anybody else in the Russian government would actually try to kill President Buckland?” I said.
“Exactly,” said Paul Ernenwein. “I mean, I know some of these Russian mobsters are nuts, but is it also true of officials in the Russian government? Of people that high up?”
Evrard took another sip of his drink.
“You’re actually talking about the same people,” he said, smoothing his tie. “Along with the oligarchs who seized control of the Russian industries after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Russian mafia and the Russian government are all part of the same power structure.”
I shook my head as that sunk in.
“It’s that bad? I mean, it’s obvious Russia has some corruption issues, but that’s nuts, isn’t it?”
“Yep, it is nuts, and tragically true,” Evrard said, looking at me calmly. “They all work together. The Russian mafia provides security and muscle for Russian industry bigwigs. Russian industry bigwigs pay off corrupt politicians and bureaucrats and cops.
“You actually have corrupt Moscow cops who have multimillion-dollar properties in places like Switzerland and Dubai. Politically connected oligarchs have vacation mansions built on protected public land. They say Putin himself had a billion-dollar summer palace built for himself on the Black Sea with Russian tax money.”
“How can that be? How can they get away with that?” I said.
“Easy. When asked about it, the spokespeople at the Kremlin all have the same standard Russian answer: ‘We are not authorized to speak on this issue.’ Reporters who push harder have a funny way of ending up dying under mysterious circumstances. Everybody scratches everybody else’s back. It’s all one big rotten family.”
“With Putin as the daddy,” Paul said.
“Yep. He’s the top of the pyramid, the shot caller. He was KGB in the old days, and ruthlessly worked his way up to prime minister, and then president. Some say he put the squeeze on all the oligarchs during his first two presidential terms for a hefty slice of Russia’s entire economy. All its oil, mining, logging, fleet fishing, telecommunications—everything. Because of this, the same people say that Putin is probably the richest guy in the entire world.”
“Does that make him crazy enough to go after Buckland?” I said.
“Have you ever heard of the Russian apartment building bombings of 1999?”
I shook my head.
“In 1999, apartment buildings in three Russian cities suddenly blew up, causing upwards of three hundred deaths. Putin and the Russian government quickly blamed it on Chechen terrorists, despite the fact that massive amounts of highly sophisticated RDX Russian military explosives were used. Then Putin, who was prime minister, ramped up the Chechen war and then rode the war’s popularity into the presidency.”
“You’re saying it might have been a false flag?” I said. “That he might have killed three hundred of his own citizens to get his poll numbers up?”
Evrard nodded.
“And it’s not just in Russia that he’s not afraid to take off the gloves,” he said. “In 2006, Alexander Litvinenko, a Russian ex-FSB agent and Putin critic who emigrated, was actually poisoned and assassinated with radioactive material in London.”
“Okay, that answers that,” Paul said. “Putin apparently has no qualms about anything.”
“Which brings me to the other reason why I wanted to have this meeting,” Foley cut in. “Putin is coming. Putin is coming here to New York to join the UN talks.”
“Putin is coming here?” I said. “But I thought Buckland was coming.”
“He is!” Foley said. “As if we need another ball to juggle. They’re both coming. Putin and Buckland will be in town at the same time.”
Chapter 53
With no traffic, it took the British assassin two hours flat to get to East Hampton, Long Island, in the Camaro.
It was the first time he had ever been there. He’d read that it was supposed to be a big deal, a tony artist colony and summer playground for the rich. But driving down Montauk Highway, its main street, and passing a lousy Starbucks and a CVS pharmacy, he wasn’t seeing it. Billionaires were attracted to this dump?
What a grubby, horrid country America was, he thought, not for the first time. He couldn’t wait until this job was finally done so he could get back to civilization.
His final destination was east of Montauk Highway near Two Mile Hollow Beach. Behind the chain-link, the address was more wood-shingled shack than house. There was a broken surfboard propped beside the front door and the rusting shell of an old Jaguar coupe under a listing carport. As he stood there, an old filthy dog that might have been a German shepherd came out from behind the ruined sports car and began barking.
A moment later, a man in faded blue coveralls opened the hovel’s front door. He took off a pair of oil-covered black rubber gloves as he came out into the yard.
“Down, Airplane,” Billy Dee said to the dog as he gave it a soft kick. “Manners, now, girl. We have a visitor.”
Billy Dee was a tall, lanky Australian with dirty-blond hair, dark-brown eyes, and a netlike crisscross of fine lines up and down his long, weather-beaten face. He had a reputation as a highly competent and discreet mechanic and designer who’d work for anyone for the right price. He’d worked for the cartels. Wall Street hustlers. Even Hollywood.
The back of the house was one big studiolike workroom piled with tools and spare parts. The British assassin couldn’t make out what half the stuff was. There was a drill press beside a 3-D printer. An engine crankshaft on a blue rag-covered workbench. Wired circuits on an elaborate breadboard hanging from the far wall.
“It’s a big job, is it?” the Aussie wanted to know. “I only ask because you came with the highest of recommendations.”
“Where is it?” the British assassin said, ignoring him.
“Straight to business, eh? No problem, friend. I got your baby right over here,” Billy Dee said as he brought over a milk crate from a corner and placed it down beside the crankshaft.
Inside the plastic crate was what looked like a mix between a metal skeleton of a robot and a bagpipe. It was a jumble of hydraulic cylinders and pistons and clamps and wires, all jutting from the torso of a large electric motor box.
“How does it work?” the British assassin said.
“Okay,” Billy Dee said excitedly as he lifted one of the pistons. “The signal opens the float switch in the control box here, which engages the magnetic contact over here, and—”
“I don’t give a fuck how it works technically, monkey wrench,” the assassin said coldly. “I meant, how do I work it?”
The Aussie looked hurt.
“Install the hardware, then hit that app I already e-mailed you. Everything pops up on your phone screen, the video feed, the whole shebang, and Bob’s your uncle, you’re in control.”
“What’s the range?”
Even more lines appeared on Billy Dee’s Old Man and the Sea face when he smiled. His crooked yellow teeth were sickening.
“What’s the range of a wireless cell phone signal? Infinite?” the Australian said, and began laughing. “That’s the real beauty here. You could be anywhere, mate. You could work her from the other side of the world.”
The British assassin smiled himself as he looked at the contraption, picturing it. It just might work after all.
He took out the large manila envelope with the hundred thousand in it and placed it next to the crankshaft.
“I’ll see myself out,” the British assassin said as he lifted the crate.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” said the Australian, already thumbing hundreds.
A moment later, the big Aussie made less noise than expected as he dropped to the workshop floor with the back of his head blown open.
The British assassin stepped over Billy Dee, straddling his waist, as he put two more in the bigmouthed grease m
onkey—this time in his temple—with his suppressed .22.
There was no way he could have let him live. Not at this point. The risk was too great.
The man had actually been right. This was a big job. The biggest probably of all time.
Too big to fail, he thought with a smile.
“Pleasure’s all mine, mate,” the British assassin finally said as he aimed his gun to take care of the dog.
Chapter 54
There were over a hundred people in the West Chelsea gallery that night for the opening.
You could tell right away that these were not the PBS tote bag–schlepping bridge-and-tunnelers you sometimes saw at MoMA and the Met. Quite the contrary. With the amount of Botox and Hermès Birkin bags and bespoke tailoring on display, it was obvious that some of the most serious players in the multibillion-dollar downtown NYC art world were on the scene.
In front of the mixed-media installations and huge paintings, you could hear exotic languages being spoken: Portuguese, Chinese, Russian. The art market, like the real estate market, in New York was red-hot right now with the new influx of foreign billionaire money. One had to have something just so to hang on the wall of one’s new twenty-million-dollar sky-view apartment, after all.
Since I wasn’t a foreign oligarch and my art collection consisted mostly of finger paintings on my fridge, I was there because I was on the job, of course. In the Chanel-scented crowded gallery behind me, about twenty feet away, over my right shoulder, stood Matthew and Sophie Leroux, the ex-CIA art dealers who for some unknown reason seemed to want to pull a Lee Harvey Oswald on President Buckland. They were under 24/7 surveillance now, and we’d been on them from the second they left their SoHo town house an hour before.
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