by Adam Gittlin
How’s that for paranoid.
Over the years, from time to time in different parts of Europe, I would call the count’s number. Probably ten times in total. Just to make sure he was still there in his palatial castle, alive. Most of the time one of his staff would answer. I’d ask if Mr. Derbyshev was in. When they asked who was calling for him, I would hang up. A couple of the times, the count picked up himself.
I hit “call” and lifted the phone to my ear. On the fourth ring a very proper-sounding woman answers.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening to you. Is Mr. Derbyshev available?”
“Who might I say is calling?”
I hit “end.”
CHAPTER 18
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS
2005
Once in Amsterdam, Gaston helped us secure a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment on the second floor of a modest canal house. The address was 133 Langestraat, a twenty-six-foot-wide gray brick coach house. It was a solid location right near Central Station, which was the nucleus of Amsterdam. Everything scales outward from Central Station like rings scale outward from the center of a tree trunk. The landlord was a man named Olig Frindland. And what no one aside from Perry—not Gaston, not Max, no one—knew was that Olig and I also made another deal. One that gave me the top floor apartment at 251 Herengracht. It was only a couple blocks from where we would be living. And it would be my personal studio to perform all research and analysis with regard to my obsession: the missing Imperial Fabergé Easter Eggs. All I really knew was that Andreu’s mother Galina wanted them, and my father had tried to warn me. But I was literally kept up at night as to why Galina wanted them so badly. Why she was willing to risk so much.
What did Galina mean when she wrote that she needed to stay true to her own?
I took a junior broker position with a firm called Oovik Premier Property. Oovik was a small family-run firm with twenty-two commercial canal houses, mostly in the higher-rent district near Central Station, and twenty residential canal houses spread more evenly throughout Amsterdam. I applied for the position solely pertaining to the commercial portion of the portfolio and within a few days was out with my senior broker—Jan Oovik, thirty-eight-year-old son of one of the two older Oovik brother principals—learning our product, showing our space.
I remember our first showing. The address was 24 Singel Straat, an awesome piece of space overlooking the Singel Canal. The potential tenant was Henrik Heesters, a well-known European fashion designer.
“Obviously you are not to speak. Just watch, learn. Showing office space is one thing. Getting potential users to commit is another,” Jan said, arms folded.
I cocked my head left like a curious puppy.
“Henrik Heesters is one of Europe’s premier fashion houses,” he went on, “and they are looking to possibly take this entire canal house. This is the second time they have come to see it. They will ask about the tenants occupying the top two floors—this is where you need to pay special attention. These are the intricacies that make commercial real estate a free-flowing experience, a never-ending puzzle.”
I heard a car pull up out front. I moved to the window to look outside.
“These tenants can be dealt with,” Jan went on. “Just listen and learn how.”
“I understand you loud and clear, Jan,” I say, looking out the window, “but may I offer one thought before Mr. Heesters and his team, who just arrived, step in here? Before I have the opportunity to embarrass myself?”
Jan sighed and dropped his arms to his side.
“Of course, Ivan. Please.”
“Henrik is trying to hide behind his sunglasses, but it isn’t working. He’s discussing a couple aspects of the physical structure of the building, most notably a modification to the front door entrance. I know this because while I can’t see his eyes some of his team are not as subtle. They too may be wearing sunglasses but they are pointing. And the architectural drawings they are holding—clearly of the front of the building—are marked ‘Draft,’ which means they have already been spending time and money planning on this space.”
I turned my attention back into the building toward Jan.
#8220;Of course, I have no idea what you have discussed with Mr. Heesters in terms of price. But you can do better. You’ve been speaking to me for the last hour as if this is one of many options they are looking at. While I believe that is probably the case, I’d be willing to bet this is their first choice.”
“I, that—sounds—”
I looked back toward the window.
“How can—the drawings are of—” Jan continued to sputter.
“The sun’s coming through them. Architectural drawings are created on vellum paper which becomes near transparent with the right light,” I cut him off. “Okay, they’re on their way in. Sir—I would never dare overstep and I am simply honored to be working for a family of such strong real estate minds. But with your permission, should your discussions concerning price tell me you can push harder, might I send you a signal?”
Jan was dumbfounded.
“A what?”
“A signal. I believe you are underestimating the potential tenant’s desire to take your space. Which means you may be selling your own firm short, which I would hate to see happen. If I think you can press, I’ll subtly play with my cuff link like this.”
I showed him.
“This way I won’t have to speak, which means there is no opportunity to let my inexperience show through.”
There was a knock on the door.
“If you feel I am out of line, you can just forge ahead. I know I have very little idea about all of this, but I just want to help.”
Seventy minutes later, following an in-depth walk-through of the entire canal house with Mr. Heesters and his team, I played with my cuff link. Jan Oovik pressed. A deal was struck to occupy the entire building for ten years. At numbers 7 percent higher than previously thought achievable.
Jan Oovik was a tall, slender guy with an equally long and slender face. He went for the tight, black suit and thin black tie on a white button-down look, always wore shiny, pointed black tie-up oxfords that made his feet look like size twenties. One showing and I made Jan Oovik look like a hero to his family. To his credit, Jan didn’t forget it. He took me on as his sidekick. With each showing, with each new potential client for an Oovik property, with each commercial property potentially purchased or sold, I played the part: young, green broker with an innate sense for the industry he’d stumbled into.
Soon I displayed a desire to learn all I could about the properties in the portfolio, pretending to learn more than I had probably already forgotten on the topic over my career. I was wowing and wooing my employers and clients on a daily basis. I had them looking at real estate in a way they never had before—not as brick and mortar but as cash flow; not simply as roofs, walls, and floors but as individual entities with a need to be nurtured. I taught them to see each property—and each space within a property—as a continuously expanding opportunity that flows naturally, unpredictably like water flowing through soil. I was a young, hungry kid who had prided himself on straight living and using the experiences of those I’d read about to see the bigger picture. I brought a level of sophistication to the game these people had never seen before, sophistication I worked painstakingly hard at seeming more innate than previously learned.
We were all falling into a nice rhythm. Perry decided to take on a more casual tone to her life. She got back in touch with the skills that helped her pay her way through college and became a bartender at the uber-hotspot “supperclub,” at night, a joint in the center of Amsterdam, while homeschooling Max during the day. Surprisingly, she loved it. She enjoyed the simplicity of this life as opposed to the one she had lived as a power broker in New York City. She appreciated a life where her work remained at the workplace; where when she left work—she left work.
She loved the time with Max. At night the three of us would take wal
ks. Sometimes we’d go for ice cream and do some good laughing. Other nights we’d stroll quietly and look at the city’s lights sparkling on the water, as if each of us was simply walking alone with our thoughts.
Every moment I was able to steal away to the apartment at 251 Herengracht, I took. A couple hours in the middle of the night here, a small tale to my employers about my needing to leave early for a doctor’s appointment there—I did whatever I could to get into that space and perform my research about the missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs. I had to know what the connection was, what I was missing about them. Yes, my half-brother’s mother, Galina Zhamovsky—secret longtime lover of my father—was more than willing to go to great lengths to retrieve all eight of them currently residing in the United States.
But why?
Why would she put so many people’s lives in jeopardy in order to obtain them—including her own son? What was I missing?
I had to know.
My father had been killed, and my life had been destroyed because of Galina Zhamovsky’s need to obtain these eggs.
I simply would not, could not, let it go.
I had to know.
The apartment was essentially a long, narrow train-track space with uneven plank wood flooring. It was barren aside from a large, unfinished wooden Parsons table in the center that held an iMac and a lamp. There were also a couple of small, shadeless lamps scattered around the space. The place looked like it belonged to some psycho-stalker-murderer. The walls were lined with research clippings, printouts, timelines, and pictures. There were diagrams with different color arrows slicing through them. A different portion of wall was dedicated to each of the eight missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs: the year it was made, what it looked like, what materials were used, what the egg commemorated, what known history there was in terms of the egg’s whereabouts before vanishing, and what documents surrounding each egg had survived. If there was information from some corner of this earth in relation to one of these eight rare treasures—six of which were sitting in Baltimore, Maryland, with a man named Pavel Derbyshev—that information was represented on these walls.
As I mentioned, Perry knew about my secret research quarters. She supported it 100 percent. She would tell me I deserved to get the answers I was looking for. Maybe she also felt me getting the answers I needed would be our ticket back to New York City.
CHAPTER 19
NEW YORK CITY
2013
We roll up to Del Posto.
“Brutus, I appreciate your services tonight.”
I hand him another fifty over his shoulder.
“Will you be needing me again tonight, sir?” he asks as he takes the bill.
“It has been a pleasure, and I wish you good luck. But, no, I won’t.”
I enter the restaurant, which is packed. The place is sophisticated but equally warm, exuding seriousness while at the same time feeling lighthearted, friendly.
I look at my wrist—8:01 p.m. A hostess leads me to the table as everyone else has just arrived. We pass the crowded bar area and enter the main dining room. The large, wide-open space is well lit yet cozy, and dominated by earth tones. A wrought-iron gated balcony, accessed by a dramatic staircase, hangs overhead with even more diners. The windows are covered with long, flowing, red velvet curtains. Tables—of which there isn’t an empty one—are spaced just right, enough room for privacy, yet an overall feeling of festivity. From the moment my nostrils get inside they’re filled with a mixture of savory aromas. Sauces, fine wines, olives—it’s like I blinked and ended up in Rome.
I reach the table where everyone has just been seated. From our end, it’s Cobus and Arnon; from GlassWell, it’s Brand, Julia, a couple other members of the leasing contingent, and a few of the in-house attorneys. Scattered conversations are taking place. There will be a lot of work discussed at this meal, but from the number of cocktails already on the table, it appears everyone is also looking to unwind.
“Missed you this afternoon and evening,” Cobus says to me.
Though Cobus and I are close—we’re professional close, not personal close. This, no doubt, is one of the reasons our relationship has worked so well. I know the basics of Cobus’s life before de Bont Beleggings: He was born and raised in the northwestern Netherlands city of Leiden, attended the University of Leiden where his father was a professor of economics. His mother worked for the city; they were a working-class family. I also know that Cobus had a gift for picking stocks, and what started as a one-man investment shop focused on the financial markets, became a portfolio with 75 percent of its holdings in commercial real estate. According to Cobus, by chance he ended up in an office building deal as a favor to a friend and because the ROI—Return On Investment—potential as well as the fact, unlike stocks, real estate was so tangible, he was hooked. That’s as far as my knowledge about Cobus goes. I’ve never pressed, because Cobus makes no secret of the fact he likes to keep his personal and professional lives separate—something he should only know how much I appreciate. While we spend most of our lives together—all days and many nights—for business, we don’t socialize personally aside from inviting the other to special family occasions or milestones.
Having been so close with my partners in my first life, have I always found his desire for such secrecy odd? Yes. Do I care? Certainly not. Because it has given me the green light to be just as secretive.
Cobus motions to the open chair to his right, between him and Julia who is chatting with the gentleman on her right. “We have a lot to catch up on. How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Thanks. Just one of those things.”
As I move to take my seat, I can’t help but to notice Julia’s lustrous hair. I can only see her from the back. To my surprise, the first thing I feel is how much I’d like to see her from the front.
Just as my ass is about to hit the seat two—not one, but two—white-gloved waiters appear out of nowhere to assist with the chair. Before I can say thank you, I’m offered a cocktail.
“Belvedere, rocks, twist. Thanks.”
I return my attention to Cobus. I need to stay in character. I need to remain—in his eyes—driven by our mission.
“So how was your meeting with Elman?”
“Enlightening,” Cobus responds, his voice a few decibels lower than normal. “The more we discussed the retail tenants, and the fact their leases all roll over so close together—”
Roll over. Expire.
“The more I realized this isn’t the negative we’ve been factoring into our projections. In terms of worst-case scenario potential releasing downtime and so forth. In fact—quite the opposite. I see an opportunity we’ve been missing.”
“Is that right?”
Cobus throws a large swallow of neat scotch back.
“It is.”
“And what opportunity might that be?”
“Terminal five.”
“Terminal what?”
“Terminal five, Ivan. Heathrow. British Airways.”
“What about it?”
“Remember our conversation eighteen months ago? When we were looking into redeveloping the ABN AMRO building in City Centre? What we could do with the retail?”
I think for a second.
“The Soho House of retail,” I say.
“The exact same words you used then.”
British Airways’ terminal at Heathrow, Terminal 5, is not your typical airport. It is a brand-snob’s paradise with shop after shop of names like Cartier, Bulgari, and Prada. If you want to eat—forget Burger King or a hot dog. More like Caviar House or famed sushi haven Itsu.
“This particular submarket of Manhattan is highly trafficked and apparently starving for an infusion of retail energy. In Elman’s words, the area has become a bit stale. It’s prime for the strategy you outlined.”
“Retail exclusivity unlike anything the market has ever seen before,” I move forward. “We market the project as a retail opportunity that’s half brand awareness,
half company showpiece. We divide the space into seven or eight equal-size units to the inch, and invite the top global brands to make their pitch for why they most deserve a unit.”
“The Patek Philippes and Bentleys and Chanels of the world,” Cobus jumps in. “A fine mixture of some of the globe’s classiest brands. Each, once accepted based on their pitch, given a whitewashed shell to bring to life that highlights both their brand as well as their artistic vision as a firm. Each boutique becomes part marketing piece, part art gallery.”
“The deal is the same for each,” I come back at him. “Same per-square-foot price across the board. The number a premium, unlike rents previously seen in this particular market based on the exclusivity. Terms run no longer than twelve or twenty-four months, thus incentivizing tenants to keep their game up. And we include a clause that requires a new look every six months forcing the brands to keep their creative juices flowing.”
“The Soho House of retail,” Cobus reiterates. “Incredible jumping off point buzz, followed by the property becoming a retail staple in Manhattan.”
“All the while setting a new standard for retail rental numbers, not to mention perhaps a whole new model we can utilize back in Amsterdam,” I add. “Or anywhere else we look to conquer.”
The waiter arrives with my drink.
Julia’s eyes turn to it as it’s placed on the table.
“Huh,” she says. “I didn’t realize vodka coated an unsettled stomach.”
Her eyes move to me. I pick the cocktail up, slide a little through my lips. It feels cool as it lines my throat. My eyes join hers.
“Dutch thing,” I respond.
“Is that right?” she asks, the corner of her mouth curling up.
Julia had changed from earlier. Tonight she’s still classy, elegant, but having a bit more fun with it. She’s traded in her Armani suit for a tailored, beige silk, Burberry Maxine trench dress that stops just above the knee. It has a neckline that stops just short of being described as plunging. On her feet are Burberry patent tweed T-strap platform sandals that no doubt put her head in the clouds.