City of War

by Neil Russell

  “I need visas into Egypt for Archer, myself and my two pilots. We’ll be arriving day after tomorrow.”

  “Oh, you’re staying over. Delightful. We just redid the guest room. And why don’t you ask for something hard? Egypt? Sounds intriguing. Do tell me.”

  “Not a chance. And it’s not that easy. My pilots aren’t in town yet, and Archer and I can’t leave the house. You’ll have to do it on charm.”

  His grin got wider. “You know the old saying: you can get more with a kind word and a gun than just a kind word. I’ve got some juice with an embassy guy who likes to…”

  I held up my hand. “Not something I need or want to hear.”

  Freddie laughed. “Anything else?”

  “I want to be able to land my plane without the whole world knowing. Maybe a small airfield up north.”

  “Alexandria.”

  “Yes, but not Borg Al-Arab International. I’ve got a history with that place.”

  “Now there’s a story I’ll bet I could make some hay with. How long will you be in-country?”

  “Just a few hours. One meeting and out.”

  “So you’ll probably need to get around some. I’ve got a friend up that way who leases cars. What say we get you into a new Maybach. Maybe a driver too. Egypt’s not an easy place to find your way. Dangerous too.”

  What he meant was, how about letting me add a spy. “No driver, just the car.”

  “That it?”

  “Archer and I could use somebody to do some shopping for us. We’re both a little low on clothes.”

  Freddie clapped his hands with genuine joy. “Terrific. I’ve got just the guy. Vittorio. He’s got the best taste.”

  “I’m not interested in his taste, only his ability to follow instructions.”

  Freddie shook his head. “Still a goddamn fashion dud. I’ll bet your lady friend will be more receptive to a little adventure.”

  “If she wants to trust you, that’s up to her. But I should warn you, the lady can shoot. Okay, Freddie, time for your favorite question. How much? And don’t use Chevy Chase arsonists as a benchmark.” I couldn’t resist the jab, but Freddie was impervious.

  He looked off into space like he was calculating. If he was, it was how big a number he could throw out without having me grab him by the neck. “What say I do it out of friendship?”

  I was ready for him. “Then be on the hook for something down the road? Not a chance. I was on the receiving end of that once before, remember? It cost me about five times what the original favor was worth, not to mention the respect of a really good man.”

  Freddie frowned. “That guy was a fucking asshole. You’re better off.”

  “How much, Freddie?”

  “Let’s say a quarter.”

  “A quarter of what?”

  “Don’t be coy.”

  “For four visas and a landing permit? That yellow crap you’re drinking must be LSD.”

  “You ever hear the one about Mike the Butcher?”

  “If you think it’s worth two hundred and fifty grand, knock yourself out.”

  Freddie leaned toward me. “Lady comes in and asks Mike, how much are pork chops? Five ninety-nine a pound, he tells her. Jesus Christ, she says, Lenny down the street sells them for three ninety-nine. Then buy them from Lenny. The broad gets upset and says, I can’t, he’s sold out. So Mike leans across the counter and says, I should be sold out, you can have them for three ninety-nine.”

  “A hundred grand, not a penny more.”

  “Go see Lenny,” Freddie said. “Price of pork chops here is a quarter million.”

  The prick had me, and we both knew it. I sighed. “For that I get your car too.”

  “My Bentley? Not a fucking chance. It’s worth that much all by itself.”

  “I don’t want to buy it, Freddie. Just use it. When I’m on my way, I’ll call, and you can send somebody to pick it up.”

  “Why not just let me drive you to whatever airport you’re using?” he asked. “What damage could I do?”

  “It’s the other way around, Freddie. Being seen with me right now has nothing but downside.”

  The coward in him told him not to press. “Okay, but only if you promise to park it indoors.”

  “Done.”

  My cell phone rang. I looked at the screen. Bert.

  “Jesus Christ, Rail, why didn’t you call me back?”

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” he said.

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Haven’t you seen the news?” he asked, his voice rising.

  “No.”

  “Well, get to a television. Fast. Then call me back.”

  I started to point to the television across the room, but my professional eavesdropper already had a picture coming up. The reporter on CNN was standing in front of the Pentagon.

  “In an eerie parallel to Admiral Boorda’s 1996 suicide, Army Chief of Staff General Marlon R. Hood evidently shot himself in his office early this morning. He was found by his secretary, and last rites were administered before he was transported to Walter Reed Medical Center, where he was pronounced dead.

  “The president has been notified and will make a statement at four o’clock this afternoon. The general’s widow has gone into seclusion, and some members of Congress are saying that he should not be permitted to be buried at Arlington until there is a full investigation.

  “Several colleagues of General Hood said they saw no indication of any problems, but there is an unverified report that a coworker had recently noticed a pistol on Hood’s desk, and when he asked about it, the general said it was a gift, and he was just waiting for a display case he’d ordered.

  “General Hood began his career…”

  I motioned to Freddie to mute the sound and thought about the chromed gun I’d seen at Starbucks.

  “You know Hood?” Freddie asked.

  “We were at Bragg together,” I answered. “Way back.”

  He started grinning again. “That call wasn’t about way back.”

  The look I gave him got my point across, and he shrugged. “Okay, but if you’re interested, his wife had recently filed for divorce—for the umpteenth time. And word was she was finally going through with it.”

  “How long had they been married?”

  “Thirty-two years. You know who she is, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “A Wentworth.”

  “Correct, so there went the meal ticket. Four-stars do okay, but they live in subdivisions, not the Maryland shore and Park Avenue.”

  “Cause?”

  “What else? Too much pussy, not enough time. The good general fucked just about everybody in town. Hell, he mighta fucked me and Leon too, if we’da stood still. His latest piece of strange was some Italian beav.”

  “Bibiana Cesarotti.”

  “My compliments. You ever get tired of clipping coupons, you can come work for me.” His laugh made my skin crawl.

  When I called Bert back, he was still animated. I let him talk, then asked if he’d come up with a connection between Hood and Truman York.

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t easy.”

  Bert wasn’t a guy who needed a pat on the head, but some people have to get it out their own way. It was also the most excitement he’d had for a while, so I think he wanted to make it last.

  “Once I got their complete service records, I plotted their stations. They were within a few hundred miles of each other a couple of times, but, according to a talkative lieutenant in the air force pension office, there was no official connection unless it was a temporary duty situation, which wouldn’t have been logged. I figured that was too much of a long shot, so I went looking for something else.”

  “Your medical guy.”

  “Yes. Kim told you there had been two Mrs. Yorks before Bess.”

  “Right.”

  “Actually, there were three. The first was while Truman was still in flight school in Colo
rado. Pamela Mason. Local girl. Young. Seventeen. She was killed a year later.”

  “How?”

  “Skiing accident is how it was reported. Novice mistake. Took a wrong turn and went over a cliff. Broke her neck, but apparently not York’s heart. After picking up a hundred grand in insurance, he was off to Lackland in San Antonio. Six months later, he married Charlette Nunley, daughter of a wealthy rancher.”

  “A hundred grand in insurance. On a seventeen-year-old. What foresight,” I said.

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “How’d Wife Number Two work out?”

  “Lasted less time than it took the ink to dry, but at least she got out alive. I managed to track her down. All these years later, and she’s still spitting fire. Damn near broke my eardrum shouting, ‘Yippee,’ when I told her Truman had bought the farm. Said he beat the shit out of her so bad, her daddy had to step in. Annulment, and a transfer—compliments of a well-placed phone call to the Pentagon from a powerful congressman. And there was something else….”

  “What?”

  “Charlette said that after Truman was gone, there was talk that he’d been molesting a couple of young girls. Junior high age. It made her so sick, she went out of her way to avoid finding out more.”

  “How long did it take the next Mrs. York to arrive on scene?”

  “Quite a while, actually. Truman was a captain and stationed in Germany. He was on leave in Paris when he met a young art student named Abigail, who was studying at the Sorbonne. Kim’s future mother. Incidentally, Abigail was an artist. Don’t you find that interesting?”

  Bert and I had had this conversation before. We both believe that genetic predisposition is one of the reasons some families mint doctors and some, criminals. “What about the father?”

  “Banker from New York. One of the wealthiest families in America. Wentworth. And Abigail’s body was never found.”

  I thought my age put me beyond that kind of surprise. It didn’t. I felt my face flush. In some ways, it was good to know that part of me was still in there somewhere.

  “How did she die?”

  “Rental boat capsized off Ibiza. Truman survived.”

  Something wasn’t working for me. “Why would a family as powerful as the Wentworths not move heaven and earth to get that child?”

  Bert hesitated. “I’m sitting here holding two Spanish death certificates. One in the name of Abigail Montrose Wentworth, age twenty-three. And the other for Cassandra Paulette Wentworth-York, age one year, seven months.”

  It took a minute for the full impact of it to hit me. And then Kim’s words. I don’t know why, but I have this almost sickening fear of drowning. And I’m terrified of boats—especially small ones.

  Truman York hadn’t cared about the Wentworth money. He only wanted the daughter. His own daughter. Somebody too young to remember her mother. And somebody who could never file a complaint. I felt the nausea welling up and fought it back, only marginally successfully.

  “Rail, you okay?” Bert asked.

  “No, but I don’t expect you are either.”

  “The implication is almost too depraved to contemplate.”

  “How did you come up with this?”

  “My Pentagon medical guy. He had a hard-on for Hood—something about cutting benefits for World War Two veterans—so he put two people on it. I’ve got a full dossier on both men. Where do you want them sent?”

  “Hang onto them. I’m going to be traveling. And frankly, I’m not sure I care to know any more.”

  Freddie, like he always did, delivered, and Archer and I met Eddie and Jody at the executive terminal of Northeast Philadelphia just after 6:00 p.m. the following day. I parked Freddie’s precious Bentley in the VIP area, which, unfortunately, wasn’t indoors. So along with the keys, I left a five-hundred-dollar check in the glove box and a note to get his ride detailed on me.

  Eddie hugged Archer, and she got teary, which isn’t unusual the first time you see someone after a tragedy.

  Northeast, where many Europe-bound private aircraft embark, was, as usual, standing room only. “Fuckin’-A,” said Eddie. “I had to grease the maintenance chief a grand just to move up five slots.”

  “You, a grand?” I asked.

  “Well, I promised you’d come by and take care of him.”

  I found the guy—Bruno—and after some blue-collar, South Philly negotiating, we got our food and fuel loaded, passed inspection, and were told to roll into takeoff position.

  Half an hour later, we were passing through ten thousand feet, and Jody—a master navigator—had put us on a heading east of Halifax, over Nuuk and into Reykjavík. Assum ing continued good weather, we’d be having pickled herring and scrambled eggs for breakfast. I dialed Freddie and told him where he could find his car.

  “Northeast is one airport I’ve never been to,” he said. “They have inside parking, right?”

  “Of course.” There was no reason to stress him out on the drive up.

  “Bon voyage, my friend. I’ve already called Jake about the money.”

  “You’d have disappointed me if you hadn’t.”

  When we reached our cruising altitude, Archer suddenly reached over and took my hand. “I can’t even begin to guess how much you’ve spent.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you for calling it quits. Nothing’s going to bring Kim back, and I’m finding comfort in her finally being at peace.”

  I smiled. “I appreciate it, but not a chance. Those fuckers shot me too.”

  A little while later, she turned to me with dreamy eyes. “Rail, morning will be here soon, and I won’t have the courage anymore. I need to say this. I love you.”

  I patted her hand.

  “No,” she said, “it’s not just talk. I really love you.”

  By the time it sunk in, she was sound asleep. I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. Eddie—or more likely, one of the ground crew—had the covers turned down and smooth jazz purring. I undressed her and slipped her between the sheets.

  Before I left, I smoothed back her hair. The scar through her bad eyelid was almost invisible in the soft light. I bent down and kissed her. I didn’t know how I felt, but it had been a long time since my touch had been so light.

  I went back to the main cabin and started through the catalogue for Konstantin Serbin’s Norton Simon exhibition. Bert had highlighted some things, the most interesting of which was that Colonel Serbin didn’t live in Russia anymore. He had moved to London. Belgravia, to be precise. The catalogue said his new residence had once been the Yugoslavian Embassy. I knew the place. My grandfather had built it.

  I dimmed the cabin lights and watched the blackness of the North Atlantic for a while, thinking about Kim. No wonder she had been so terrified of drowning.

  I did the math. Kim had died at thirty-one, so Hood and Suzanne had married before York and Abigail had. Which meant they’d known about the baby.

  In leverage terms, the general had owned York. There was nothing, however, that indicated Kim ever knew who her mother was or what happened to her. I couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad, but probably good. I’m a big believer in the truth, but sometimes too much of it is worse than none at all. Not something you’ll hear in church—or from a cop. Sooner or later I was going to have to tell all of this to Archer, but not now. I wasn’t finished processing it myself.

  When I awakened, the sun was breaking over the horizon, and we were in our descent into Iceland.

  34

  Jetway Drivers and Dark Places

  It was foggy and raining in Alexandria, and visibility was nonexistent. That only happens a dozen times a year, and it paralyzed the tiny airport at Al Qasr. Despite Eddie’s cajoling, ground officials insisted on diverting us to Borg Al-Arab. As I told Freddie, that was not a place I wanted to go, not to mention there was an Egyptian military installation on the grounds, and they’d make it a point to inspect a private jet from the States, especially one this
size.

  I was standing in the cockpit door. “Eddie, is this bucket of bolts as sophisticated as the brochures say?”

  “I could put it down on Fifth Avenue in a blackout,” he said.

  “Then land,” I told him.

  Eddie grinned. “I love shit like this.” He keyed his radio and spoke into the headset. “Clear the runway, we’ve got an emergency.” Then he hit the intercom so we could all hear. The controller’s voice, screaming in Arabic, filled the plane.

  “Sorry, no habla,” Eddie replied. He lit a cigarette and exhaled toward the radio. “Coming in. Smoke in the cockpit.”

  The tower hadn’t been lying. We didn’t see ground until we touched it, but Eddie and Boeing brought it in on a wire and Velcroed the wheels to the tarmac. By the time we got parked, the rain had stopped.

  There were angry words with two guys who looked like they’d bought their suits from the KGB, but after everybody got done venting, Eddie and Jody headed off to lunch with them. Eddie had wanted to go with me, but there are horses for courses, and this wasn’t one for a fire-breather. The lone customs official assigned to Al Qasr was on holiday in Cyprus, so we were free to go.

  Freddie’s car guy, Osiris Vagotis, was a slender young Greek in a business suit who looked like he should have been in the movies rather than peddling cars. He was waiting for us just outside the one-story terminal, and as we approached, I saw him discreetly admire Archer. When he introduced himself in perfect English, I decided to take a chance, Freddie notwithstanding. “You busy this afternoon, Osiris?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What would you want to drive us for a few hours?”

  He smiled. “I know all the sights. The restaurants too. You can pay me what you think I’m worth at the end.”

  Good answer. We got in the car, a silver Maybach. Archer said she might want to nap, so I got in front with Osiris. As we pulled out, I turned to our driver, “One more thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “The gentleman who arranged for this car…”

  “Yes, Mr. Rochelle.”