by Adam Gittlin
“You’ve got fucking balls, Brand. Fucking balls. I’d be very careful. Desperation has brought down many before you and is certain to be the downfall of many more.”
“You’re damn right, Alessi—I got balls the size of a bison. So let’s just wade through the bullshit once and for all. You’ve got resources. I get it. But hopefully you can listen to this conversation and hear quite clearly I have resources as well. Good ones. In high places.”
“Having some people with pull looking to peek into rooms where they are not welcome for a few bucks is not resources. Having—”
“What I have, Enzo, is all the motivation I need to get you in that building. And all the artillery I need to show the U.S. government you’re planning on skipping out on a certain unpaid check should you choose to not work with me.”
Nothing. Someone hangs up. Enzo, I assume.
Next call.
“I need something in return,” Enzo begins.
“I’d say my not getting you locked up for the rest of your life, disgraced and shamed, is something enough.”
“We both know you’re not going to the government, Ryan. You care about one thing—winning. And here, your winning is not my downfall, something that fucks you as well. Here, your winning is getting this building sold for the highest price you can get.”
No response.
“I don’t care what you think you know about my family, my company, my plans. Your silly little words and threats don’t bother me one bit. You’re a clueless, spineless little worm in way over his head. A worm I’ll squish into the pavement with my heel when it’s time. But for now, I need to focus on my firm’s—reorganization. And I can’t have needless outside distractions. Besides, we both know that should something unforeseen happen with us as a tenant, there’s nothing that really prevents word getting to your buyer once you have already closed that you knew all along there could be an issue with payment. In fact, that you orchestrated the deal that put the tenant in the property knowing full well they never intended on paying. Which, of course, will never be the case with us. Simply speaking hypothetically.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Is it? You say the word. This conversation, this negotiation, is over.”
Brand pauses.
“What is it you want?”
“Help with my unpaid tax bill to the United States government. From proceeds of the impending sale.”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible is nothing, Ryan. Just ask your fellow American Muhammad Ali.”
“God, you’re a scumbag. Can’t happen. Sorry.”
“And what would prevent you from doing this? When it means you selling the building, actually reaping a huge profit for both your firm and name, and moving on?”
“You know full well why it can’t happen. There are simply too many eyes on a deal like this. From beginning to end. Every last dollar will be accounted for by numerous parties, both pre- and postclosing. It simply—”
“Make it happen, Ryan. That’s the beauty of being one of the forces running a private company. Get creative. Because either you help me with my little tax problem, or you have nothing to go on besides the hand you already showed me. You’re so impressed with your sources? Go ask them how Enzo Alessi is at moving mountains. Let alone a little digging and reburying to get rid of a bone or two.”
I upload all of the conversations to my laptop. Then I place the flash drive back in my inside left jacket pocket.
CHAPTER 20
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS
2007
Two years into my stint with the Ooviks I was called into Jan’s office. They had received a call from de Bont Beleggings—one of the fastest-growing commercial real estate firms in The Netherlands. Jan asked me if I was up to date with regard to de Bont Beleggings’s strategy.
“Somewhat,” I said. “I don’t know details, but I know they have made some recent purchases.”
Always staying in character, I downplayed my full understanding of the situation. I knew all one could about de Bont Beleggings—just as I did all the players in Europe—as someone could who didn’t reside on the inside. This conversation with Jan took me back to my days in Manhattan.
To Tommy Wingate, my mentor.
Always know the competition in excruciating detail.
De Bont Beleggings was the competition.
Little did the Ooviks know they were my competition too.
Ivan Janse was an island in this world now—one Perry and Max resided on.
An island with a mission.
“They are interested in our portfolio,” Jan continued.
I wasn’t surprised. De Bont Beleggings was on the prowl for commercial property. Class A office buildings, high-end commercial canal houses like the Oovik portfolio, all of it.
“They have requested a tour of the portfolio next week. Cobus de Bont himself will be attending. And my family has decided we want you to lead the tour.”
I waited in front of the first property with Jan. At 9:00 a.m. sharp a black Maybach pulled up. Cobus de Bont, same black suit, shirt, and tie he wears today, got out. He was with two others, a man and a woman, who looked to be around his age.
“Cobus de Bont,” he said as we shook hands. “Pleasure.”
“Ivan Janse,” I reciprocated.
“I know.”
Shit. He knows me?
“The pleasure is ours,” I went on.
All six of us introduced ourselves and exchanged pleasantries. I liked Cobus right away. His handshake was strong, confident, the handshake of a real man. And his definite eye contact never wavered. He was reading me exactly as I was reading him.
“So, Ivan Janse, what is the plan of attack?”
“I thought we’d start here and move on to Geldersekade and Valkenburgerstraat. These properties are very similar to a portion of the Dudok Portfolio you purchased last month. As you’ll see, we’ve done some terrific renovations and come up with some very creative ideas for use of space.”
“Have they translated into the rent increases you anticipated?” Cobus asked.
“Exceeded them.”
We all started inside. I led. Cobus was right behind me.
“Congratulations on Concertgebouwplein Twenty-Five. Great property,” I said. “I was surprised you were able to pull it off. I know The Swagerman Group was very keen on landing it.”
“Not as keen as I was.”
It had been less than twenty-four hours since de Bont Beleggings had closed on this property. I had gotten the word from an insider at Swagerman with whom I often exchanged market information. I’d known the deal was in the works for months.
“You seem to be pretty tuned in to my firm,” Cobus said.
I stopped and faced the group. My eyes locked with Cobus’s.
“That’s nice of you to notice, sir. But I’d be lying if I said it was just de Bont Beleggings. It’s my obligation to the Oovik family to be tuned in to every firm and every aspect of this market. Period.”
I looked toward the others.
“Shall we get started?”
The next morning, as I stepped into my office, the phone was ringing. I dropped my briefcase and answered it.
“Ivan Janse.”
“Good morning, Ivan. Cobus de Bont.”
I smiled. He had called me directly. I knew what was coming.
“I want the portfolio. And I want you to come work for me.”
My rise through the ranks at de Bont Beleggings was meteoric. I was brought in to immediately oversee a portion of the fast-growing commercial real estate portfolio, including the Oovik buildings we’d just purchased. My portion of the portfolio was far outperforming those buildings I wasn’t responsible for. Rents were higher, costs were lower, occupancy was higher, turnover was lower. The buildings were running like clockwork. I was strategically working the personnel, contractors, and vendors like a never-ending chess game. Yes, I was Ivan Janse. But only Jonah Gray could become so entrenched
once again in commercial real estate.
A year later, I was running the entire European commercial real estate operation. Then, eighteen months after that, Cobus and I were having dinner at Christophe’.
“I believe in fate, Ivan.”
He took a sip of his scotch.
“Do you?”
I didn’t respond immediately. I swirled the Belvedere and rocks in my glass, looking down into it as if the answer would appear.
“I don’t know,” I finally said. “I think I tend to put a little more stock in us as individuals as opposed to believing it’s all some journey we have no control over.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I like to believe we all make our luck. Work hard, push yourself to see what this life really has to offer. You just might put yourself in the position to have something really great happen with a little luck.”
I knocked a sip back.
“Is that how you view this?” Cobus asked. “Your meeting me? Your time at de Bont? Us?”
I was always in character.
Where Jonah was brash and cavalier, Ivan was humble, yet confident. Where Jonah was often driven by balls, flash, and the present, Ivan was often driven by respect, privacy, and a day yet to come.
“I’d like to believe that, Cobus,” I said. “I’m just a kid from The Hague who made a commitment early on in my life to work hard and see where that takes me. And it has taken me to this moment, here, working for someone like you who I believe in.”
“Huh,” he said, thinking. “Your work with my firm, my team, your quick rise, if you will—it validates this belief for you,” he deduced.
“What it does, Cobus, is make me want to work harder each day than I did the previous one.”
He raised his glass to me.
“I truly believe I was put here to help this industry, this economy, create jobs and give people great places to go to work every day,” Cobus said. “Places where they can work free of mind to make their dreams come alive as mine are. Every day.”
I raised my glass, toasted Cobus back, and took a healthy swallow.
“I’m a true believer that my path is predetermined, Ivan. But I equally believe that in order to fulfill what I’m hopefully here to do, God is making sure I’m surrounded by the right people. Which is why there is something I need to ask you.”
“Whatever you need, Cobus. You ask, it’s done.”
“I need you to be my right hand, Ivan. We are prime for serious growth. I need someone with your loyalty and real estate instinct to be with me at all times. I want everyone of rank on the commercial real estate end of our firm to report to you—not just in Amsterdam, but all four markets. Ludolf Mondrian will take over your position. From here going forward, he as well as the top officers in The Hague, Rotterdam, and Utrecht will all report to you.”
Cobus de Bont was a smart, savvy businessman. My face remained stone, as if I was expecting this.
Which I was.
“I appreciate the confidence, Cobus. I’ll certainly do everything I can to help you take this firm to the next level.”
“That level is international, Ivan. We still have some work to do here in The Netherlands. There are a number of markets and properties we need to secure in order to unequivocally be viewed as the premier commercial real estate player in this country. But that shouldn’t take more than a couple years, max. It will then be time to make our move.”
CHAPTER 21
NEW YORK CITY
2013
At ten fifty p.m., wearing the navy Canali suit I’d been in all day minus the tie and jacket that is folded in the passenger seat, I settle into the camel-colored, leather bucket seat of L’s new Maserati. The ergonomically state-of-the-art seat absorbs me like a big fat aunt or uncle giving a giant hug—soft and comfortable, yet sturdy to handle the sharp turns that come with driving such a world-class machine. I think about my old Porsche, what must have happened to it. I look quickly around the interior of L’s ride, marveling at the craftsmanship. The Shiny Titan Tex finishes. The perfectly treated leather. The chrome-finished steering paddles. The name of the model—Quattroporte GTS—in relief on the dashboard.
I put the key in and turn the engine over.
Boom.
The engine roars to life.
I touch the gas pedal. The engine puffs its chest a bit as if ready to breathe fire. I let the car warm up for a few seconds, taking in the even, purring sound of such high-level engineering. Twenty seconds later, I tap the paddle and shift the car into first gear. Slowly, I pull out onto the cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District. I head uptown toward the Lincoln Tunnel.
Conscious of the speed limit, I move through the well-lit tube running from Manhattan to New Jersey. I look at the time—10:56 p.m. The crew has a breakfast meeting tomorrow at eight a.m.—plenty of time to get to Baltimore and back. And get what I need from Derbyshev.
I put the address—one of the notes I used to keep but eventually no longer needed—into the navigation system. After a quick calculation, it spits out the route and the specifics of the itinerary: 187.6 Miles, 3 hours and 31 minutes.
I compute this in regard to my timing. Three and a half hours puts me at Derbyshev’s at two thirty a.m. or so. Tomorrow morning I should be back at the hotel no later than seven a.m. in order to shower and regroup; this means I need to leave Derbyshev no later than four a.m. in order to make it back to the city with plenty of time to drop L’s car and get back uptown.
As the Maserati glides onto the New Jersey Turnpike headed south, I roll the windows down. Cool air rushes through the car. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, then look in the rearview mirror.
My eyes.
Whose eyes?
Jonah? Ivan?
Where does this all lead? Can I possibly accomplish all I have set out to?
My eyes move from the mirror to the speedometer. I’m moving right at the speed limit. No music. Instead, I listen to the sound of an airplane approaching Liberty International Airport in Newark, the passing cars, and my thoughts.
I think about Perry. How much I miss her. I think about what Max said to me in the schoolyard when I asked if his father had mentioned his mother.
“Dad said she went away. And that she isn’t ever coming back.”
Is she dead? Lobotomized? Dropped in some Indian or Turkish prison under a different name? Was her memory wiped out with one of those Men in Black neuralyzers?
Whatever it is, I won’t stop until I know. I owe it to Perry. I owe it to her son.
I think about what else Max said his father told him: “That sometimes the stars align when we least expect it. That’s how I made it back to him.”
Dr. Brian York.
See you soon.
As the Maserati rolls farther south, my thoughts start spinning. My mental index is like a million-blade fan on high. I stick a pen in. When I do, the blade it stops on is Andreu Zhamovsky. Where has he been? I’d like to think in jail, but between his contacts and his disregard for the law altogether, something tells me I should know better. I had tried to get information on him, but it wasn’t as easy as one might think. Careful as always not to inquire when in Amsterdam, I would do so when traveling to other parts of Europe. There was no reason to try the headquarters of Prevkos—the Russian-based natural gas conglomerate he used to run in succession of his father. Because when news broke years back that I was a fugitive on the run wanted for the murder of a police officer, news was also breaking that Andreu Zhamovsky had embezzled half a billion dollars from his shareholders. And it had been me who redirected that Prevkos’s shareholder money to an account in Switzerland with Andreu Zhamovsky’s name on it.
Needless to say, his time at Prevkos had ended prematurely.
Using calling cards and the like from pay phones, I reached out to his home. The goal was always to find out if he was still in jail—and if not, where he was. It was useless. These people were as tight-lipped as it gets. In hopes of getting a quick answer o
f if he was there or not—which alone would have been helpful—I would always pretend to be someone who seemed relevant to his past or daily life. It didn’t matter. His home staff, his assistants—they would never answer my initial inquiry, always moving right into a question of their own of who I was. No matter what name I gave, they would put me on hold to verify. In which case, each time, I hung up.
There’d been nothing in the news about him. Ever. To be clear, I don’t know for sure he’s out of jail. What I do know is: there’s no telling what he’ll do to find me or get those eggs one day for his mother. The question remains why.
As the Maserati merges onto I-895, I look at the clock—1:15 a.m. Detective Morante pops into my brain. At the time I fled, not only did he think I murdered the dirty cop pulled from the East River, he believed—rightly so—I was somehow tied to my father’s murder as well. He just couldn’t figure out how. He had no idea that the connection was a simple one—the murder a sinister message to me—any more than he had a clue that I took care of the man responsible on my own, leaving him within a millimeter of his life before I left New York City.
All over again, after all this time, it makes my blood boil. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. I feel the white Zegna button-down covering my torso starting to stick a bit on the arms and around the neck.
I have to find Morante. For more reasons than just the obvious.
I have less than forty-eight hours.
Detective Tim Morante.
See you soon.
I must …
WWWWEEEEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!!!!!
Startling me, from the grass infield dividing the two sides of the highway, police car lights come to life in unison with a blaring siren from the blackness.
No.
Fuck.
As I pass the car, which is stationary and facing me in the opposite direction I’m driving, I look at the speedometer. It reads eighty-nine mph. Thinking about Morante, getting heated, my foot must have reacted like the rest of my body. Tensed up, gotten away from me, pressed.
Think.
Add it up.
Option one. Immediately slow down, pull over, and—