by Adam Gittlin
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Remain calm.
Own your fear. Or your fear will own you.
“I need to go downstairs to check on something. I’ll be back up in a few minutes. In the meantime, I need you to get dressed and get our things together.”
“Should I be nervous? Is something happening?”
“Maybe. Or maybe not. Either way, it’s time to go.”
CHAPTER 10
NEW YORK CITY
2013
The commute to the hotel following the party at Gary Spencer’s abode is a quick one—about thirty feet by foot. We’re staying at the Mandarin Oriental, located in the Time Warner Center—a monster real estate endeavor comprised of retail, office space, condominiums, and our hotel across the street from 15 Central Park West. Cobus and I grab a nightcap in the Stone Rose, a low-lit, swanky cocktail haunt on the fourth floor of the Time Warner Center, and discuss both details of our deal as well as the players we just met. Then we head into the hotel, check-in, and retire to our respective rooms for the evening.
Half an hour later, I’m back downstairs. I walk outside, hail a cab, and jump in. Jose Aceveda, my Latin-blooded cab driver who doesn’t look a day over sixteen, is listening to mariachi music so loud I could swear the band is sitting in the front seat with him.
“Sixty-Eighth between Second and Third,” I borderline scream.
I’m barely done saying the address and Jose tears away from the sidewalk like he’s just been given the green flag in the Daytona 500. I’m headed to Perry’s building. At this point, with all I’ve gone through, where I’ve been, paranoia and being ridiculously careful have become so intertwined I don’t even bother trying to differentiate any more between them. My thinking until this point has been simple. Everything about my life, as well as Perry’s, since we left nine years ago must be under constant surveillance—phone lines, our homes, our bank accounts, anything directly linked to our lives. That’s why I never called her after she and Max were taken. On my cell, from my office, at a pay phone in Amsterdam—it hasn’t mattered to me. Whether I’m crazy or not, I’ve been influenced by the possibility such a call would lead back to me. A chance I simply can’t take.
Could Perry even possibly be there? I mean—even if she is okay, could she possibly just be residing at her Upper East Side condo as if nothing ever happened?
I’ve been through every scenario imaginable. Yes, perhaps, if it was her husband who found her and literally dragged her back to the States. Maybe he took Max, told her if she just accepted she had made the decisions of an unfit mother, she could quietly go on with her life with minimal visitation rights to see her son. Something he wanted for Max—a mother—instead of letting her rot in jail.
On the other hand, if this was somehow related to the authorities finding her, they would have never just let her back into life after what she had done—what she knew—without getting all they could possibly need on me first. And Perry never would have given me up. Anymore than she would have tried to contact me for fear of leading anyone my way.
The ride is quick. Perry’s building is mid-block, but I have Jose drop me off on the corner of Sixty-Eighth and Third. It’s dark. It’s a strange sensation; I grew up in this neighborhood yet as much as it feels like I never left, it feels like a lifetime since I’ve been here. The neighborhood is quiet, calm. I start down the street, looking at the townhouses lining both sides, thinking of the one I grew up in just ten blocks or so from here. The townhouse where my father was gunned down.
An image of his bullet-popped head on a gurney flashes in my mind.
I don’t even flinch from it. I’ve seen it so many times.
About fifty feet from the entrance to Perry’s building, I stop and wait. Though I’m no longer Jonah Gray to the world, for reasons just mentioned I don’t need to be caught on the building’s security cameras as Ivan Janse or anyone else who’s coming looking for a girl who ran with a wanted fugitive years ago.
I stand silently in the night, pretending to speak on my cell phone. A few people walk by, some of them with their dogs. Every few seconds I glance toward the front of the building waiting for my chance. Finally, it comes. A town car pulls up to the front of the building, and the doorman scurries out to open the door. He’s been drawn from the property. He’s still no doubt on camera. But this doesn’t mean I need to be.
A middle-aged woman gets out of the car. The two exchange pleasantries, then she steps in front of him and heads for the building.
“Excuse me,” I say.
The doorman turns around.
“Good evening,” I continue.
I take a few steps in his direction then pretend to roll my ankle. I stumble and partially crumble to the ground. The doorman, concerned, makes his way over to me. He helps me up.
“Are you all right, sir?” he asks.
I grimace, swallow my first few words, play the part.
“Ahh—yes, I think I’m okay. Thanks,” I push out.
He gestures toward the building.
“Would you like to—”
“No, no, really.” I cut him off.
I gingerly take a few steps, “walking it off” in a circle.
“Really. I think it’s fine,” I go on. “I was actually just looking for someone who lives in the building, Perry York. Is she in tonight?”
The doorman doesn’t answer. He is clearly surprised by my inquiry.
“Perry York?” I say again. “Is she home?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, sir, it’s just been a while since anyone mentioned her name. No—Ms. York is not here. In fact, she doesn’t live in this building anymore. She hasn’t for many years.”
“Is that right?” I say, casually as possible. “Huh. Her office must have given me her old address.”
The doorman is looking at me as something more than a European guy with bad information. I want to ask more questions: What happened to the apartment? Who lives there now? What happened to Ms. York? But my danger sensors have already kicked into higher gear. Time to move on.
“Anyway, I’ll take it up with them tomorrow,” I continue. “Sorry to bother you this evening.”
I extend my hand. The doorman takes it.
“No bother,” he says. “I hope that ankle feels better. I’m sorry—I didn’t catch your name.”
That’s because I didn’t give it to you. But nice try.
“Alphonse. Alphonse Bakema.”
Instead of hailing a cab, I head uptown on foot. The Upper East Side is quiet. I can hear the leaves rustling on the few interspaced trees dotting the sidewalks. The cool night air is refreshing as it fills my lungs. Ten minutes, and ten or so blocks later, I’m standing across the street from the brownstone I grew up in. I see the structure, the windows, the front door. But it’s the memories I see that wash through me, and take my breath away.
I remember the commotion in front of the home the day my pop was murdered. I can see myself all over again running toward the yellow police line. I see a lifeless body that turned out to be my gunned-down father covered with a blood-soaked sheet. Images and memories are flying now in no particular order, without any rhyme or reason. It’s like a montage of my life—Jonah Gray’s life—is being projected onto the entire front façade of the four-story townhouse. I see my mother whom I’ve missed every day since she died when I was five. I see my youth. I see myself at all ages coming and going with friends, girls, Pop. I see the beautiful dining room. I see Galina Zhamovsky’s—Ia’s—drawings lining the staircase wall. I see my father’s study.
I see secrets.
So many secrets.
Secrets that led to me being set on so many different paths at once.
Secrets that led me to perhaps giving the world the true meaning behind the lost Imperial Fabergé Easter Eggs.
Secrets that led me to murder.
Secrets that killed Jonah Gray and gave birth to Ivan Janse.
I feel so much I barely feel
anything.
Or is it the other way around?
I ball my hands into fists and clench my jaw.
I hail a cab and head to Times Square. Before going back to the hotel, I stop in one of the electronics stores and buy—as always, with cash—a disposable cell phone that can handle domestic and international calls and texts, photos, attachments—all the capabilities I’m going to need.
CHAPTER 11
ST. MAXIME, FRANCE
2004
I closed the door behind me. Instead of getting on the elevator, where Bernot would more likely be looking to see me coming, I decided to use the stairs. Once on the ground floor, I opened the door a crack. I peeked out to get my bearings. I could see the front entrance. Immediately, I realized I was around a corner from both the front and concierge desks, by a nook where both pay phones and house phones were located. I exited the stairwell and picked up the closest phone to the corner I needed to peer around.
Pretending to speak on the phone, I took a casual look, exposing only one eye. The ground floor was rife with activity. People were coming and going. There was a rowdy group sitting around one of the glass-topped tables, enjoying cocktails and champagne. At the front desk I saw Brigette and a tall, dark-haired man wearing horn-rimmed glasses I assumed was Bernot.
And they were talking with two cops.
“Okay,” I said upon entering the suite. “Everyone ready to get moving?”
Perry was in the final throes of getting our bags together. Max and Neo were playing tug-of-war with a sock.
“Tell you what,” I said, taking her suitcase from her hand, “why don’t you let me handle these?”
Our eyes were locked. Perry didn’t need to say it. She was nervous.
“Max,” I went on, “why don’t you take Neo onto the terrace for one last breath of the ocean air?”
“How do you deal with this feeling?” she asked when they were out of earshot.
I was dying inside like she was. I hated that she had to know such uncertainty, a feeling of fear that threatened paralysis. It was at this moment, I vowed, I would never let her see that from me. Strong as she was, I would always be stronger. Especially, when she needed that from me most.
“Not now, Per—we don’t have time. Here.”
I handed her the car keys.
“We’re driving a silver Opel Astra. It is in the third spot from the entrance, as close as possible to the main road. I need you to take Max and Neo, pull the car out, and wait for me. Can you drive a stick?”
She was having trouble focusing.
“When … when will—”
I put my hands on her shoulders.
“Perry, there are police downstairs and they are no doubt looking for me. I know this is all becoming much more real than you ever imagined, but I need you to focus. You need to trust me.”
She nodded her head yes.
“Can you drive a stick?” I asked again.
“Yes.”
“Good. Take Max and Neo—I’ll give him to you in his carrier—and walk out of the building casually. Like I said—there are police downstairs so try not to look at anyone for too long, especially them. You never checked in, but people may be able to recognize you as having been with me, so don’t draw any attention to yourself. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Yes. Got it. Take Max and Neo, get the car, wait for you.”
“What kind of car?”
“Silver Opel Astra.”
“Where is it?”
“Third spot from the entrance. Near the street.”
“Good girl.”
“What about the bags?”
“They’re coming out the back with me. I don’t want anyone knowing you’re leaving.”
Dusk was upon us. Our three bags next to me—Perry and Max’s suitcase, my small gym bag stuffed with not only the items I grabbed in New York, but my new casual items as well, and my briefcase. I looked over the terrace. I was on the third floor. We’d been in a corner suite. I looked around the corner, around the side of the building back toward the street in front. There was a story-high stone fence separating the rear portion of the property from the beginning of the parking lot area. Which made my life a lot more difficult, as once on the ground, I’d have to completely circumnavigate back the other way around the entire property where I knew I could get around the building.
Pool deck area life below had thinned out, but still had life nonetheless. I picked up the bags and moved with them from the long edge of the terrace to the farthest possible east corner of the terrace. I leaned over as far as I could to survey the situation below, then reached down, grabbed my gym bag, leaned over again—swayed my arms to-and-fro a few times to get the right directional momentum—and dropped it on to the terrace below. I waited quietly for a second to see if perhaps the occupant of the room belonging to that terrace noticed a strange bag falling from the sky.
Nothing.
Next was Perry and Max’s suitcase, then my briefcase.
Now it was my turn.
I looked back at the pool area. Evening around me was getting darker by the second. The remaining people were either into their poolside cocktails or gathering up their children and belongings. Most important, none of them seemed to be looking up in my direction.
Moving around the terrace like I’d been put on fast-forward, I bounced yet again back to the short side. I leaned over. What was the best way exactly to do this? I put my leg up on the rail—but the position didn’t feel right. Going forward meant I was going straight to the ground. I brought my foot back down. My breathing was gaining rapidity. I stepped up again, this time turning around as I did so. I stepped completely over with my right foot, placing it just under the rail on the other side but still on the top of the terrace wall, then my left. Now, hands holding the rail, I was facing the building. I was in a crouched position. My feet were only inches below my hands. I turned my head as far as it would go while looking down. The outside of the terrace was smooth, which meant there was nowhere else to put my feet until the next terrace below.
I was in a stare with the ground below when I heard a door slam. Fuck—was it my room? Had the cops entered my room? Time was ticking. Was Perry clear—or had she run into trouble? I needed to go. At that moment. No more thinking.
I took my feet from the top of the terrace wall and let them slide down below. As I dangled, I removed my right hand hoping to dip down just enough to gain a visual for even one second that might give me an idea of what to grab. Then I heard another door slam and lost my grip completely. As I sped past the top of the second-floor terrace, I stuck my stiffened arms out. I did my best to muffle a scream as my forearms slammed into the top of the railing. My right one bounced right off, but with the will of an Olympic gymnast on the uneven bars I managed to keep my left—post-bounce—close enough to the bar to get one more shot. My left hand grabbed the railing, and in a millisecond my right was back on it as well. I hoisted myself up and over.
My breathing ragged, I grabbed both of my forearms. The pain was shooting, and especially sharp in the right. I looked over, down below. All was still as clear as I could hope. I dropped the three bags over the terrace to the ground. One story I could handle. I got up over the railing, faced forward with both feet on the top of the terrace wall, and jumped.
My timing was right, and my knees gave at precisely the moment I needed them to as I fell into a semicomfortable roll forward, breaking the fall. Quickly I slung the gym bag over my shoulder, picked up the suitcase handle in my left hand, and my briefcase with my right. I headed for the pool deck.
Look natural.
A guest having a last look at the property before departing.
Keeping my gait steady I decided to use the outermost path around the area, the route that took me along the two-and-a-half-foot wall separating the deck from the rocky shore leading to the Mediterranean. Everything was calm. I looked at the building, glowing against the impending night. Hearing the breaking surf, I looked to my
right. I wanted one more look at the white foam, which by now I could barely see.
About halfway around the deck, I heard a new French-speaking voice enter the mix. It was somewhat distant. I looked back toward the building. One of the two cops had appeared. And he was speaking with a bikini-clad male guest.
Without a thought I quietly slinked over the wall. The rocky ground below was more uneven than I’d thought. As I placed the bags down next to me snug up against the wall, the suitcase tumbled about fifteen feet away. I wanted to go after it, but didn’t want to risk being seen moving beyond the wall.
For a few moments, my back against the wall, I sat silently. The two were still talking. After a few more seconds, their conversation ended.
I had no idea where the cop was now or where he was going.
As I gathered my nerve, about to peek over, another conversation started. This time it was the cop and a woman. I listened. Where were they exactly? It sounded like he had walked a bit east on the deck, but I couldn’t be sure. Lifting nothing more than my eyes past the crest of the wall, I looked. I was right. He had walked east. He was about a hundred feet from me. When the conversation came to an end, the cop seemed to be turning in my direction.
Eyes wide, I retook my place, back to the wall. I looked up. The stars were beginning to pop. I listened. I waited.
Thirty seconds later—nothing. He hadn’t initiated another conversation, or at least one I could hear. I had no idea where he was. He could have left. He could have been right upon me. Either way, I needed to keep moving. Perry, Max, and Neo were waiting for me.
And I wasn’t about to leave them waiting because my guard had fallen.
I looked over again. The cop was walking around, surveying the area. He was west of me now, but closer to the wall, no more than thirty feet away. Like a fox lying in wait, I watched him. I registered his every move, breath. If he only came back east, then past me, I could continue in my intended direction along the outside of the wall. But until then—until he was well past me in the opposite direction—I couldn’t risk him hearing me navigate the challenging terrain.