About Face

by Adam Gittlin

  Today I see these buildings for what they are: a twenty-four-foot-wide, five-story, red-brick coach house with red moldings and three tall ground-level windows; followed by a thirty-foot wide, four-story, brown-brick coach house with white moldings and what appears to be a single-windowed attic, or smaller level, on top; followed by a thirty-foot-wide, five-story—you get the idea. The houses, in actuality, are similar but far from the same. Even the pulley—each house has a pulley centrally located on top to hoist objects up since the internal stairways are so narrow—is different in quality and characteristics upon inspection from one to the next. Attention to detail in my constant battle to remain free of my past life, as if I’d shed that life like some spent reptilian skin, has been my greatest ally these past years. Just as it has been my greatest ally in becoming a professional success all over again from scratch.

  I enter the restaurant. A happening bar and restaurant catering to Amsterdam’s young elite throbs before me. Architecturally the space begins and ends with crisp lines. The colors—mostly browns and creams—are earthy yet rich. Although the space is packed, square mirrors running the entire shell of the rectangular bar give an odd illusion of a sea of legs. Slicing upward from the bar, beginning in the center of one of the rectangle’s short sides to the second floor is a golden staircase.

  Abeni, the striking, six-foot-tall African hostess with a shaved head, is mobbed. I wait for her eye. On sight of me, while mid-sentence with a patron, she smiles and motions me upstairs.

  I reach the top, the main restaurant. A waiter points me in the right direction. Cocktail hour is well underway. In the far corner, enmeshed in conversation, is Cobus de Bont. Cobus is my boss. He is the founder of de Bont Beleggings—Beleggings means Investments in Dutch. De Bont Beleggings is one of the largest and most successful private investment firms—and the single largest private owner of commercial real estate—in the Netherlands. The dinner party is in honor of his wife, Annabelle’s, fortieth birthday.

  Cobus, chatting with local real estate player Martin Gemser, sees me. He waves me over. I pass through the crowd, shaking hands and kissing cheeks.

  “De heer Ivan. Hoe we vanavond gevoel?”

  Cobus, who also more readily chooses Dutch over English, just asked me how I’m feeling tonight. From this point on, to make things easier, I’ll go with English in all cases.

  “Feeling great, actually, I even managed to get in a nap this afternoon,” I respond.

  “You know I meant to ask,” Cobus continues, “how was your excursion to Hamburg last weekend? How was your visit with your friend from university?”

  Was I in Hamburg?

  Yes.

  Was I with a friend from university?

  Not quite.

  “The weekend was great. It was a lot of fun catching up. Where’s your beautiful wife?” I change directions. “Has she arrived yet?”

  He points. Annabelle, a gorgeous, smart, blond fashion photographer, is across the room giggling with others at some guy’s story. A waiter approaches, asking if we need cocktails. Before I can answer, Cobus tells him I need a Belvedere over rocks with a twist.

  Yes—I even changed my drink of choice.

  “Three buildings.” Martin continues their previous conversation. “Forty-four Utrechtsestraat and Sixteen Muntplein definitely. Possibly also Eighteen Damrak. Utrechtsestraat and Muntplein alone could be stolen at a seven cap. Easily. We all know how Henrik Bosch markets property. These buildings should have occupancy levels much higher than seventy, seventy-two percent. Because Damrak—”

  “How much?” Cobus interrupts.

  “I—maybe—eighty-five; perhaps a bit—”

  “Where are the rents today?” Cobus continues. “Where should they be?”

  “For which property? I mean—if—”

  “I need to cut you off, Martin. And I apologize in advance if I sound disrespectful. I know you think you’re giving me information. But each time you do this—each time you present me with a potential property minus the meaningful numbers—all you’re really doing is wasting both of our time.”

  “I’m not sure why you say that, Cobus. Even looking at the scenario in general terms—”

  “I don’t do general terms, Martin. You know why?”

  Martin Gemser is a local real estate player with bigger dreams than bank accounts. He’s in nowhere near Cobus’s league and neither of us particularly like him. Unfortunately, Annabelle’s sister is married to this guy. Martin stares back blankly.

  “Because numbers don’t lie. People do. Now, I’m not calling you a liar, Martin. What I’m saying is that, intentionally or unintentionally, people can paint the wrong picture when it comes to real estate. People’s accounts can be—disputable. Not the numbers. The numbers do not—cannot—lie. The numbers, Martin, are indisputable. The numbers are irrefutable.”

  Martin takes a sip from the whiskey-filled lowball glass in his hand.

  “You want to bring me a deal we can make?” Cobus goes on, “Here’s the way I suggest you do it—”

  Martin is too dim-witted to realize he’s about to get a gift. Most individuals anywhere near the commercial real estate game in the Netherlands would kill to hear what Cobus de Bont needs to take a potential deal seriously.

  “Numbers. Nail down every last number. Rents, occupancies, depreciation, commissions to be paid, operating expenses, capital improvements—I want every pertinent line item of the true financial run in front of me so I can see the financial landscape down to the last penny. Include conservative forecasts. Include aggressive forecasts. Include explanations of where the numbers might be improved and include explanations about which numbers may not be as appealing in the years to come. Don’t worry about things like Bosch’s ability to market a property or why a particular building may be a sleeper in terms of the retail space—I’m fine to evaluate all remaining tangible and intangible aspects on my own. All I want from you is one thing.”

  Cobus sips his glass of Chianti.

  “Numbers,” Martin says.

  “Not after a deal is presented—before,” Cobus goes on. “E-mail them to me. This way, to be frank, we’ll both know if a discussion is even going to take place.”

  “Numbers first,” Martin says again, gently nodding his head.

  “Wrapped in a bow.”

  Cobus smiles. He takes another sip.

  “Get me the numbers for the three buildings. If I like them, we’ll talk.”

  This is one of the things—Cobus’s respect for others—I respect most about Cobus. Real estate evaluation, from Amsterdam to New York City to anywhere else for that matter, is a multifaceted undertaking. But anyone with half a brain who plays in property understands clear as day that a deal begins and ends with the numbers. In this same situation another guy of Cobus’s stature might have spoken down to Martin, in some way made him feel inferior. Not Cobus. In typical fashion he used the opportunity to enlighten Martin, to teach him. Knowing Cobus as well as I do, I clearly understand there are two reasons for this. Number one, he genuinely cares for, feels for, people. Number two, the buildings Martin speaks of may, in fact, work for him.

  Martin walks away. Cobus leans over the table next to us. He grabs a toast point and scoops on some steak tartare.

  “Eat something,” he says before taking a bite.

  I look at the table filled with appetizers. There’s caprese with tomato, mozzarella, cucumber, mint, and feta. There’s a rouille—rust sauce—based bouillabaisse, as well as the steak tartare. There are frog’s legs sautéed in a fine fruit sauce paired with crisp, sliced potatoes to be dipped in a chili-pepper mayonnaise. After surveying my options, I, too, drag a toast point through the raw seasoned ground beef.

  Cobus puts his arm around my shoulders. As I chew he takes a sip of his Chianti. Six-feet, two-inches tall with thick, dark hair and dark skin to match his chestnut eyes, Cobus is dressed like always. Black suit, black shirt, black tie. The clothes are perfectly tailored, every edge from hem
to collar knifelike. Since the day I met him, I don’t recall him wearing anything else. Summer, winter, morning, evening—doesn’t matter. He says he has a rare skin condition called Solar urticaria. Exposure of his skin to sunlight results in painful, burning lesions. Hence the ever-present, perfectly manicured five o’clock shadow completing his more Mediterranean than Nordic look. This may be the case, but part of me can’t help feel Cobus doesn’t mind his affliction. His approach to clothes means more time—even a few precious moments a day—to focus on the important matters at hand: Business.

  “Tell me about Willem,” he says to me. “He’s been with us for eight years, Ivan. He’s one of the best in this entire city.”

  Willem Krol. Chief building engineer of Astoria, one of the oldest office buildings in Amsterdam, located on the corner of the intersecting Keizersgracht and Leliegracht canals. Best known for its copper-plated roof, the six-story home to numerous companies is part of the de Bont Beleggings portfolio.

  “It has recently come to my attention Willem Krol may be fabricating some overtime. I still need more facts. But it’s not looking good.”

  Cobus sighs and drops his chin. The waiter arrives with my Belvedere. We clink glasses and each take a hearty sip of our drinks.

  “How about—”

  I answer Cobus’s question before he’s done asking. His tone alone tells me he’s changing direction.

  “Harkin Aeuronautic accepted the higher security deposit and signed the lease. I made it clear the option for another term at their discretion wasn’t going to happen. Staying on the Vinoly Building—”

  The official title is Mahler Four Office Tower, but because of its world-renowned architect—Rafael Vinoly—it is simply referred to as the Vinoly Building. It is one of the most prized office properties in Amsterdam’s highest-end commercial market—the South Axis. It is here one can find modern skyscrapers like those found in New York City or London or Sydney, only on a much smaller scale.

  Completed in 2005, the Vinoly Building is a twenty-four-story rectangular glass L. The bottom six stories make up the base, and the rest of the floors make up the high backstop. It is a sleek, refined structure that appears, oddly, to have a crack running down, around the edge of the tall backstop. Vinoly carved an external fire staircase into the building’s shell. The goal was to incorporate Amsterdam’s innovative spirit into his design. The result is a property that helps define architectural vision.

  Cobus bought the building last spring for forty-four million euros. It is one of three he owns in the South Axis. Our offices are on the top floor.

  “Jaap Jan de Geer let me know CCM Global will not be renewing. They’ll be out in six months, which is more than enough time to market the space. I’m not sure if you recall but their build-out is really high-end. We’re talking about—”

  “Do you two ever tire of talking business?” a female voice asks from behind us.

  We turn around. It’s Annabelle. Wearing a tight, sleeveless, laurel-green embroidered dress with a black leather belt and high black heels, she’s an image out of one of her own photo shoots.

  “Sorry, boys. It’s time for Cobus to toast his best girl.”

  Wasting no time, Annabelle grabs a random empty water glass and begins clinking it with a spoon.

  “I appreciate the update,” Cobus says to me, “but that’s not what I was going to ask.”

  “What then?”

  “If you still think New York City over Berlin is the right move?”

  Ninety minutes later, as we’re finishing dinner, I receive a text. The name pops up with the number. It is from Scott Green. After a few seconds I place the contact. He’s in-house counsel—someone I’ve spoken with only a handful of times—for the Manhattan-based firm with whom we’re about to make a deal.

  CONFIDENTIAL, THE TEXT BEGINS. IVAN—NED TO SEE YOU. IN TOWN HAMMERIG OUT DETAILS WITH YOR LAWYERS. MUST SEE YOU IMEDIATELY. TELL NO ONE.

  I look around. Both confused and intrigued, I return my eyes to my iPhone and read it again. I can’t help but be a bit thrown off by all the misspellings. I’ve seen numerous complicated, detailed legal documents drafted by this man. Scott Green doesn’t strike me as such a careless texter.

  I look at Cobus. He’s whispering in Annabelle’s ear, and she’s grinning ear-to-ear absorbing the tender moment. Figuring it’s most likely a fire I can squelch on my own, I decide not to bother him.

  OF COURSE, I write back. AMSTEL HOTEL?

  This, the finest hotel in the city, is where I recall members of the “Seller’s” team stayed during their last trip to Amsterdam.

  NO, he replies almost immediately. NIEUWE PRINSENGRACHT. HOUSEBOAT. NUMBER 030. CONFIDENTIAL. TEL NO ONE.

  CHAPTER 3

  AMSTERDAM

  2013

  9:40 P.M.

  Standing in the center of a thirty-five-meter-wide, cast-iron footbridge, I look down the narrow canal that splits Nieuwe Prinsengracht Straat. Both sides of the water are lined with houseboats. Beyond the houseboats, on each side, are diagonally parked cars and bicycles followed by the street then the sidewalk. Canal houses tower above all, like bookends mindfully containing the life below.

  The neighborhood is quiet. I hear a baby crying from above through an open window. Barely audible remnants of the weekend crowd enjoying the bars, shops, and restaurants graze me from nearby Rembrandt Square. There’s a cool mist in the air. The lights on the next footbridge up ahead are muted, like a fuzzy photograph.

  I start toward the canal houses to my right. As I get closer, I can see some of the numbers on them. Even, which means I chose correctly. Even-numbered canal houses mean even-numbered houseboats. After a few steps, at the end of the bridge, I turn left.

  The second houseboat down is number 030. This is one of the city’s newest, more like a doublewide trailer home on a mini-barge as opposed to an actual boat. Aesthetically it isn’t much to look at—it’s a white, rectangular box. But unlike the relics of the sixties and seventies moored around this city, what the new generation houseboats lack in character they make up for with running water, electricity, gas heat, and an attachment to the municipal sewer system. Plus, they’re twice the size.

  As I descend an eight-step ladder from street level to the dock, I hear music coming from behind the front door. I can see through a large picture window into the brightly lit living room. I notice the finishes are more upscale than I might have imagined. There are beautifully polished cherrywood floors, a plush, L-shaped chocolate leather couch, a matching square ottoman, and contemporary light fixtures. Then I notice that the room—or what I can see of the room—is empty.

  I knock on the door. The rap of my knuckles nudges it open an inch. “Hang Me Up to Dry” by the Cold War Kids blares much louder than I anticipated. I recognize the music. My young, robotically efficient assistant Angelique is the reason. She listens to this music constantly at her desk, which is just outside my office.

  I find it odd a guy in his fifties would be listening to an American alternative band favored by twenty-somethings. I slowly push the door open. The rest of the living room unfolds to my right. Two steps up lead to the dining area and kitchen. Scott, standing in the latter at the counter next to the sink, pours himself a tall glass of what appears to be scotch or whiskey. He notices me. He gestures for me to close the door, which I do.

  Scott Green is about five foot ten. He’s got a full head of curly gray hair. His wide shoulders and build suggest at one time he was athletic, his potbelly suggests not so much anymore. His nose is a bit large, made to look larger by a poorly selected pair of smallish, round, tortoiseshell glasses. He’s wearing black slacks that strike me as the bottom half of a suit and a half-open light-blue button-down shirt showing more of his chest than I care to see.

  I smell weed in the air, something else I find odd. Green doesn’t strike me as a man interested in Amsterdam’s coffee shops. He offers me a drink over the music by lifting a glass in my direction. I shake my head no, and mouth
“no thanks.”

  He picks up his glass and heads in my direction. With only one step I see he’s hammered. After a couple more, he stops. He holds up the index finger on his free hand and a blank look glazes over his face. He turns back toward the counter and looks for something. He fumbles, then picks up what appears to be a remote control.

  As he stumbles again in my direction, he points the remote at the tuner sitting on a shelf behind me at the end of the room. The volume quickly lowers.

  “Ivan. Ivan … you’re a good man,” he slurs, nearly losing his balance as he navigates the two stairs. “You’re a good man.”

  “A little different from the Amstel,” I say, not exactly sure where to start. “When did you get in?”

  He throws the remote on the couch and takes a gulp of his booze.

  “I got in … um … I got in when, uh …”

  We shake hands. He changes gears as if our hands touching triggered a different thought pattern. His cheeks are rosy, his palm sweaty. He’s overheated.

  “It is definitely different from the Amstel. Yes. Without question. But, you know, it just—it’s a nice change of pace. This way I can just unwind and, I mean, I’ve got the whiskey and I’m fine and I’m here and—”

  His alcohol-saturated breath warms the air between us.

  “It just—”

  He looks around like a proud farmer gazing out over his acreage.

  “It just works.”

  He swings his face back to me fast, a man trying to appear sober, but failing.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks,” I say, not bothering to point out he’d already offered.