by Adam Gittlin
I bypass the elevator and head up the central, spiral staircase. Because of the time, the space is pretty empty.
“Hi, I’m here to meet with Enzo,” I say to a guy coming down the staircase. “Third floor, right?”
Look like you belong. And you do.
“Fourth floor,” the guy says back, barely giving me a thought. “Front corner on the left.”
I let myself into Enzo Alessi’s office. The space is more Old World than I would have imagined. The desk is an old, traditional flattop mahogany piece. The oversize windows are adorned with heavy, navy hanging drapes that match the carpeting. The accompanying furniture—the couches, chairs, coffee table, end tables—all have ornate, curved moldings.
Alessi is standing behind his desk. He’s decked out in a custom Brioni suit, minus the jacket, talking on the phone. The knot of his shiny, lilac necktie is huge, tight. He’s talking on the phone. I close the door behind me.
“I’ll have to call you back,” he says into the phone when he sees me.
He hangs up.
“Ivan, I believe. Can I help you?”
“We need to talk,” I say.
“How did you get in here?” he goes on.
“Front door.”
He takes a glance over my shoulder toward his office door, like he’s expecting someone else to walk in. Like Brand.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have time. I have a very busy night ahead. Perhaps if you’d like to sit down you can call my assistant tomorrow and we—”
“I think you should reconsider,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
His cordial demeanor, expression, hardens.
“And why is that?”
I take the gun from the back of my waistline, under my jacket, and make sure he sees it as I reposition it in the front of my waistline, just off center enough to remain covered. I walk back, around Alessi, behind him and his desk, over to the first of the huge windows. We’re only on the fourth floor, so people in the buildings across the street—if any remain at this hour—can see in. I draw the blinds closed.
“Because you’re the reason GlassWell’s deal to sell the Freedom Bank Building and Annex is officially dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
I move to the next window.
“The conversations between you and Ryan Brand? The ones that led to GlassWell’s in-house counsel blowing his own head off in Amsterdam?”
I draw them as well.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he goes on.
He looks to the door again.
“Brand isn’t coming,” I enlighten him. “Just you and me.”
I move to the last window, now off to his left and in front of his desk. He returns his eyes to me. He reverses his demeanor, his strategy.
“Look, I think there may be a terrible misunderstanding happening here,” he says. “And perhaps I can spare a few minutes. Why don’t you sit down? Can I make you an espresso?”
I don’t answer. I draw the last set of blinds, I walk to the front of his desk and face him.
“Put your hand on the desk,” I say, calmly.
“Excuse me?”
“Put your hand on the desk. Now.”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
I take the gun out. I point it between his eyes, just inches away.
“Hand. Desk. Now.”
He hesitates, but obliges. I casually take a pair of scissors from the desk. And without hesitation, with all the speed and force I can muster, stab Alessi’s hand, securing it to the desk. He lets out a primal scream. I silence it with a fist across his jaw. He’s dazed, confused. Blood is coming up through the wound, trickling over the sides of his hand onto the desk. He’s still standing, but his torso is laying on the desk to the side of his maimed hand.
“You talk a big game, like some big fucking man when it comes to threatening people. So act like a man. You make one more noise, the first bullet I let go is into your balls to let you bleed out a bit. The second one burrows into your temple and ends your life.”
I take a fistful of tissue from a Kleenex box on the desk. I ball it up and jam it in his mouth, his eyes popping like headlights beaming to life when I do.
“Other hand on the desk,” I continue.
He’s hesitant. He knows what’s coming. He shakes his head “no,” grunts.
This fear, this moment, this anticipation.
This is for you, Green.
“Fine with me, motherfucker!” I say, and start around the back of the desk.
His free hand reaches for the sky. He starts making whatever noise he can behind the tissue to get my attention.
I stop.
“On the table,” I repeat.
He does as I say. I come back around. I put my gun back in my waist. His eyes watch every inch of my deliberate movement. Slowly, I reach for, pick up the letter opener on the desk. I hold it down at my side. His eyes can’t move from the letter opener.
“I suggest you remove me from the memory of this little encounter—perhaps blame it on Brand since he did, after all, text you to meet him here. Understood?”
His eyes move from the opener to my eyes. He gives me no indication he’s with me on this last request. I lean forward and place my free hand and fist holding the opener on the desk so we’re face-to-face.
“Otherwise, I find your son who enjoys the langoustine fritters so much, gut him like a fish, and spill his insides over your head. So I’ll ask you one more time—understand?”
He nods “yes.”
“He had a family. And you? You literally scared him to death. Why? So Brand could steal from his company to help with your tax bill and we’d end up with this building even though you were going to bail to Uruguay. I’ve seen the pictures you sent him on behalf of you and Brand. The cops are probably looking at them as we speak, while they review the conversations you and Brand had.”
He closes his eyes, absorbing the gravity of all that’s happening—what I’m telling him.
“That’s right. You have no idea how it’s all about to come crashing down on you. So I have to ask you—”
He opens his eyes again. I stand back up. I hold the letter opener in the air. Both of our eyes look up at it.
“Was it worth it?”
I drive the letter opener into and through his other hand. He’s stuck to the desk, but his back and neck arch. A primal concoction of gurgling and screaming gets squashed behind the tissue. Every thick, throbbing vein in his neck looks like it might burst. Blood comes up, around the letter opener, coating his hand.
“Get used to that position, asshole,” I say, “considering what the U.S. government is about to do to you.”
As the car rolls down the Van Wyck toward the private jet FBO terminal at JFK, I take out both phones. On the iPhone I go to my contacts and locate Nestor Korolyev—the dude whose doctorate thesis at Ivanovo State University was based on the relationship between Nicholas and Alexander III’s relationship before Nicholas’s untimely death. And the foul play he believed had taken place. Before this trip, through some simple Googling, I’d learned Dr. Korolyev had gone on to do some more research and had become a teacher. Today, he’s a professor at the same university where he wrote the thesis. A couple months back I called him in his office, pretending to be his wireless carrier reaching out about a potential security breach involving his mobile number, which I ended up with as a result of the call. Today, with that number, I’m about to let him change the history books.
I enter the Russian mobile number into the disposable, setting up a text. I attach the first photo taken with the writing from the eggs—the one of Hen Egg with Sapphire Pendant. Then I type a message.
INTERESTING DOCTORAL THESIS. HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE RIGHT?
I hit “send.”
I send another set of texts.
MORE PICTURES TO FOLLOW IN ORDER FROM THE MISSING FABERGÉ IMPERIAL EASTER
EGGS. THE EIGHT WERE MADE BY A MAN NAMED PAVEL DERBYSHEV FOR MARIA, ONLY HE WASN’T REALLY PAVEL DERBYSHEV. HE WAS A MAN NAMED GUSTAV BJERG, AND HE WAS MARIA’S COUSIN. GO CONNECT THE DOTS. HE WAS HER SPY. AND THE EGGS WERE HIS WAY OF GETTING HER PROOF OF WHAT SHE BELIEVED; WHAT YOU BELIEVE. THAT’S WHY IN THE CHAOS OF THE REVOLUTION THEY ARE THE ONES SHE MADE SURE OF SAVING. GO SET HISTORY STRAIGHT. GOOD LUCK.
I forward the rest of the pictures. Then I break the disposable in half, and crush each half under my heel. I open the window and toss one of the halves to the side of the highway. A few miles farther I do the same with the second half.
I look at the recently dialed numbers on the iPhone. I tap one.
“Ivan.”
“Ernst.”
“Ivan, look, the three oh five is close, but we really need to—”
“Three ten,” I cut him off. “That’s the best I can do.”
“Three ten,” he repeats.
“Three hundred ten per foot. Take it or leave it. And I need to know yesterday. Understood?”
He probably would have done the deal at three hundred five per foot, but I decide to make it a no-brainer. Because as far as I’m concerned, I’m still buying the building cheap.
“Understood. I’ll be back to you.”
In the throes of all the chaos once again surrounding my life, an image comes to me bringing comfort. An image that makes me think of all the years past, an image that reinforces the urgency of me finding strength in the moment, an image that reminds me the future is far from surety. I hit Face Time on my iPhone, and dial a number.
“Dag Ivan. Hoe is uw reis?”
“Dag Laura,” I reply.
I’ll give it to you in English.
“My trip’s going well—thanks. How’s my favorite boy?”
“I’ll get him for you. You can ask him yourself.”
I can tell Laura’s in the kitchen. She places her iPhone on the island. The live feed image goes everywhere before settling on a shot of the ceiling. I hear her in the background calling for Aldo. Suddenly she reappears and picks the phone back up.
“Look who I found,” she says, the two of them on the screen, their faces side by side.
“How’s my best guy?”
At the sound of my voice Neo visibly becomes excited. He cranes his neck forward and licks the screen.
I smile.
CHAPTER 42
NEW YORK CITY
2013
Exhausted, but still riled up, I board the de Bont Gulfstream. I drop my things and walk over to Cobus, who’s sitting on the couch with a cocktail, legs crossed, looking very relaxed. As usual, he’s dressed impeccably tight in his usual black uniform like he’s just started his day as opposed to finishing it. He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at me.
I look out the window, into the night. Airport vehicles move in all directions amongst the different colored lights lining the runway and the signs that make no sense to civilians. I take a Life Fuel out, down it, and place the empty bottle on the table. Then I take my suit jacket off and lay it on the couch.
I look back at Cobus. He’s still staring at me. He hasn’t moved. I don’t think he’s blinked.
“May I bring you a drink?” asks Aimee, our perky, blond flight attendant, as she picks up the empty Life Fuel bottle.
I’m so frayed, I’m flying. I’m soaring as I’m sinking. My mind and body can’t decide who’s coming, who’s going.
“Get him a Belvedere on the rocks with a twist,” Cobus says. “A double. Bring me another too.”
“I, uh, I’m not sure I need that right now,” I respond.
“Trust me, you want it. For the conversation we’re about to have, you’ll need it.”
Using just his eyes, Cobus encourages Aimee to run along, then for me, motions to the couch. I sit down.
“Cobus, I know this has all—”
“Stop.”
“Stop?”
“That’s right. Stop.”
“Why?”
“I’d like you to slow down for a second, breathe, and have a sip or two of your cocktail. Then we can get down to business.”
This, actually, sounds good. I look out the window again. I put my hand to my chest. My heart is literally racing. After all this time, I made it back to New York City. Now, I’m leaving again. I feel a certain satisfaction for what I accomplished. A lot of years of research and planning gone right. I feel equally disappointed I may have fucked this deal up for Cobus. I feel undeniable sadness I still don’t have Perry back, that I have no idea if she’s safe.
“Here you are,” says Aimee, placing two coasters down followed by our drinks on the table.
“Aimee, we’re going to need complete privacy,” Cobus says. “Please don’t reenter the cabin until I call for you.”
“Of course, sir.”
Aimee disappears. I hesitate, but can’t resist how cool, refreshing the cocktail looks. I pick it up and knock a bit back. Cobus doesn’t budge. He’s staring at me again. Seconds later, we begin taxiing toward the runway. I decide to try and break the ice again.
“Cobus, I would have never killed this deal unless it was best for us. Unless it was right. You’ll understand this once—”
“Why do you think you ended up in Amsterdam?” Cobus cuts me off.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. But perhaps I should ask the question in another manner. In a way you won’t have to think so hard in order to come up with an answer, as I assume that must become extremely exhausting.”
“I’m not following.”
“Why do you think Gaston chose Amsterdam for you, Jonah?” The second he says my name—my real name—every hair on my body stands on end. I can feel all the blood in my body rush south. My hands start trembling. Fear swallows me.
“What are you talking about?”
Gaston Piccard.
Pop’s Swiss financial consultant and my springboard to a second life.
How does he know Gaston?
“Who?”
Immediately, my mind starts strategizing, starts preparing to go that place I’ve learned to go.
I’m trapped in the air.
I have a gun.
Cobus, like nothing out of the ordinary has just happened, picks up his cocktail, leans back again in his chair, and takes a healthy sip.
“You heard me, Jonah. Jonah Gray. Gaston Piccard suggested Amsterdam was the place for you to restart your life—you and Perry. Max—”
What doesn’t he know?
What am I missing?
“Did you ever stop to ask why? Or was it simply that he was a trusted member of your father’s inner circle? And that’s all you needed to know?”
“What the hell is going on?”
“What’s going on? After all these years, you and I are about to get acquainted. That’s what’s going on.”
Instinct has kicked in. Adrenaline and caffeine—survival—flowing, I grab my jacket and in one quick motion I grab my gun. I don’t point it, I just rest it in my lap.
“What’s that for?”
Cobus hasn’t flinched. He takes another sip, then swirls the lowball, the ice cubes jingling as they hit the glass.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say. “Ivan Janse respects you. As a businessman and as a friend. Jonah Gray, on the other hand, doesn’t fuck around.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Actually, Jonah. I know that about you. In fact, I’m surprised by how big your balls are. I mean, high-speed midnight chases with the police? Tackling all this other shit while we’re here for three days to close a deal—and finding the time to sleep with Julia? It’s no wonder your eyes look like that. Like fire’s about to shoot out of them.”
“How do you—when—”
“Now, why don’t I tell you a little something about me,” Cobus goes on.
He throws down the rest of the drink and puts the glass on the table. He leans back in his chair again, only now he’s
less relaxed. His posture is more serious.
“Have you ever noticed that I’m always the first one off our plane?”
The question surprises me. I’m thinking about it, but have no idea.
“If I’m not the first person off my plane—ever—everyone else on that plane dies. Pilot, flight attendants, Arnon—you. Doesn’t matter. Before anyone has a chance to leave the aircraft—they’ll all be dead. You know why?”
“I—”
I have no idea what’s going on. My head’s spinning one way, the interior of the aircraft the other way. I shake my head “no.”
“Because if I’m not the first person off the plane, those literally watching my back at all times know I’m dead. And that one of the people on board is the reason. Doesn’t matter which one. The fact that someone like me is dead is a much bigger deal than the collateral damage.”
I can feel myself squinting from the confusion.
“I’m not following,” I say.
“What I’m saying is that you should probably put your little gun away now. God forbid something happens to me, you won’t only have killed yourself, you will have signed off on the death of everyone else on this plane.”
I don’t move. Cobus leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands.
“That’s not a request,” he continues.
His face becomes more serious than I’ve ever seen it before. It’s like I’m looking at a different person.
“Put the fucking gun away, now.”
This is the first time I’ve ever heard Cobus use profanity. No matter what’s going on, it’s clear that something is taking place bigger than perhaps I realize. Obviously, I’m not going anywhere right now. So in formulating my best strategy, going along for now seems to be the best choice. I do as he says.
Cobus’s expression softens, but not much. He sits back again in his chair.
“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he goes on. “In fact, quite the contrary. You know why?”
I don’t even know what fucking language he’s talking anymore.
“Try me.”
“Because I swore to Gaston you’d be in good hands.”