About Face

by Adam Gittlin

“Let’s, for sake of discussion, say I do know Gaston,” I say. “How do you two know each other?”

  “Gaston Piccard, as you know, is one of the preeminent bankers in Switzerland. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Gaston has a very high-level clientele. You know because you—your family—have been clients for years. In fact, your father, Stan, and Gaston were very close, so close Gaston trusted your father with information about the clients he represents—and how he represents them.”

  Cobus pauses, staring on a forty-five-degree angle at the table as he chooses his words. Then he moves his eyes back to me.

  “Information you used to bribe him into creating your new identity. Ivan Janse.”

  A sliver of clarity.

  “So you’ve known since the beginning? You’ve known about me since I’ve been in Amsterdam?”

  “I knew about you the second Gaston agreed to assist you. I knew the plan would be for you to end up in Amsterdam from the moment the surgeons began working on your face. This gave me more than ample time to get specific plans in place to watch you.”

  “Watch me? I don’t get it. Why watch me?”

  “Because there is a side of Gaston Piccard’s business he wants people like you and your father to see—the side of wealthy families from around the world and governments who trust him with billions of dollars. But there is another side of Gaston’s business that accounts for just as much, if not more, of his net worth. A clientele of a more unsavory type.”

  My mind is sprinting, I’m processing.

  “What do you mean unsavory?”

  “What do you think I mean, Jonah?”

  Sure, Cobus has a lot of information, but not sure what any of this means—what’s real, what’s not—I let the use of my true name roll down my back. I stay in character as Ivan.

  “What? Like white-collar crime types? People who know how to manipulate markets, steal from corporations, things like that?”

  “Things like that and then some. That, my friend, is why Gaston needed you looked after. Why he needed eyes kept on you. Should something have ever happened to you, and it became public knowledge there is a connection between him and a global fugitive like you, both sides of his business would have blown up in his face. The legit side because wealthy families and governments can’t be associated with a financial advisor who harbors and assists the FBI’s Most Wanted. The other side because criminals and the like can’t be associated with a financial advisor on the authorities’ radar.”

  “So why Amsterdam? Why did Gaston call—”

  Before I complete my sentence I feel a tingling in my midsection.

  Am I looking at a man, a self-made real estate magnate, named Cobus de Bont?

  Or some kind of different animal altogether?

  Cobus leans forward, then reaches out, picks my cocktail up, and downs the entire thing. He puts the glass back on the coaster and stands up. For a few seconds he does nothing, just stares down at me. He slowly removes his suit jacket and carefully, neatly, places it on the chair next to the one he’s sitting in. Then he reaches up with both hands and begins undoing his necktie.

  “You remember why I wear these same clothes no matter the circumstances?” he asks. “You remember the name of my affliction?”

  “Solar something,” I answer. “Solar … Urli … Urtlit … Urticarial. Solar Urticarial.”

  “That’s right. Solar Urticaria.”

  Once the knot of his tie is undone, he pulls it around, off his neck, and lays it on the suit jacket. He reaches to his waist, and untucks his shirt with both hands all around. He starts to unbutton his black dress shirt from the top down.

  “Cobus, why the undressing?”

  He disregards me. He keeps going. Once the first few buttons are undone, and the two sides of the shirt begin to separate, I see something underneath on his skin. It’s black. It’s ink.

  “What the fuck,” I think out loud in a whisper.

  “The reason Gaston called me, Jonah, is because I’m his best kind of client. I’m both sides of his business. Gaston reached out to me because he knew I had the ability to keep you safe should you run into trouble. Something in both of our best interests. Little did I know you’d be somewhat of a handful at times.”

  He’s completely unbuttoned. The shirt hangs open. Cobus drops his arms to his side.

  “Who do you think was responsible for the gunshots fired at the van when Perry and Max were abducted? Who do you think ran over that guy on the subway platform just a few hours ago before he cornered you? The guy you rode back from D.C. with?”

  The strip of skin running north to south between his hanging shirt sides is covered with squiggly black lines I can’t make out. They are thin, tight. It appears as if there’s more ink than skin. He removes the shirt and neatly places it on top of the tie and jacket. He stands back up.

  “You’re good, Jonah. A badass motherfucker, actually. But you’re alive because I’ve made sure you remain out of harm’s way. I’ve stayed out of sight on the periphery of your life only stepping in when absolutely necessary.”

  I barely hear him. I’m mesmerized by what I’m looking at. There isn’t a hair on Cobus’s body. He’s lean, but ridiculously muscular. I can see every box in his stomach, every striation in each muscle from his shoulders to his arms and down his torso. And he’s literally covered in black ink. Letters, numbers, names—it’s all neat, orderly, tight like there was a fear from the very beginning running out of skin one day would be an issue. It starts on his neck, right where the top of his collar sits, and goes right on down to his waist. Some of the writing is cut off. I’m guessing it goes below the waistline as well. I think I even see some sort of map on his right shoulder.

  “But, how … if … how did you know to—”

  “I never wanted you so close. At least, that wasn’t the plan. Amsterdam was the place for you. I could put a team together easily to keep an eye on you. I didn’t give a fuck what you were doing. You were working for the Ooviks. You and Perry were re-creating your lives. Everything was cool. Then you started taking trips everywhere. Copenhagen here, Prague there—it was getting too hard to keep track. That’s when I decided to make a play for the Oovikses’ portfolio. And make a play for you. Someone else? We probably go in another direction. But you? You … you were like—what’s that my Jewish friends call something like this? Two souls who are supposed to—”

  “Bashert,” I finish his thought.

  I grew up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He thinks he has Jews to quote?

  “Yes! Bashert! I wanted to be real estate, you are real estate. Why do you think Gaston made you see the light when you were talking about pursuing a different career with your second act? Anyway, that’s when I decided keeping you close was the only way to go. For a multitude of reasons.”

  “You bought me a house.”

  “You earned that house.”

  “To keep eyes, and probably ears, on me,” I finish my thought, deducing what really went down.

  “Eyes, yes. Ears, no. I never gave a fuck what you were doing. I get it from the apartment at Herengracht and the weekend trips it was about Fabergé eggs and whatnot, but I never really got it nor did I ever care. Whatever you were going to do you, I was responsible for not letting you get caught if you got too close to the edge. Or killed. Simple as that.”

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “You’ll never have my name. And you don’t want it. There are a number of large organized-crime syndicates in this world. Let’s just say one of them answers to me.”

  Exasperated, stunned, I point at him.

  “What is all that?”

  “Insurance. Dirt. Bargaining power. Though few can get to me—or even know my true identity—there are a lot of people who want me brought down in this world. I’m very careful about who I get in bed with. But when I do decide to deal with someone, there’s nothing for buying loyalty like showing them their name next to an account number I kn
ow they use for money laundering tattooed to my body. Or maybe their name next to an address that represents a safe house where a certain missing person is buried in the concrete foundation. My connections run deep—in business, in government, in the underworld. No one will ever get to me, and they know that. This—what you see—is my way of letting those I allow into my world, whether they like it or not, know there is no turning back. And they’d better be looking out for my best interests. Because it doesn’t matter whether it’s the authorities or another crime syndicate. There isn’t a database in the world that can bring down the house more than my body should it fall into the wrong hands.”

  I continue to scan his naked torso in awe, confusion.

  “Which name do you think I’ve written for you? Ivan Janse or Jonah Gray?”

  My eyes move from his body, meet his.

  “Hint. Your little secret has to do with both.”

  From Cobus de Bont’s right-hand man to casualty of whatever war this guy’s fighting. Just like that.

  In a blink.

  “So, de Bont Beleggings—what?” I change direction. “It’s all bullshit? Just some front company?”

  “Oh, no. Not in the least. De Bont Beleggings is the complete opposite. And the accomplishment outside of my children of which I’m the most proud. The world has changed. Once it became clear I would be taking the reins, I knew I would need a life to hide behind, a legitimate cover with legitimate business dealings. In line with the story you know, I started with a securities trading shop and built from there. But when we fell into the commercial real estate game, for the first time something really stirred inside me.”

  Cobus grabs his shirt and starts rebuttoning it.

  “I was born into this world, if you will,” he continues. “It was all my family knew, all we had for earning money, sustaining life. We had friends, we had enemies. So if I had to be in that world, I was going to become the master of that world. That’s just my nature. But I always wanted something more, something for me. That’s what I found in real estate. I was instantly fascinated by the complexity of this world—and I loved the challenge. I always knew my best bet for keeping myself out of harm’s way would be a seriously legitimate business. Only once the real estate world came my way, I decided I wanted an empire. Because in all my working life nothing had ever made me feel like a success in this world more than growing my portfolio of buildings.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask. “Why now?”

  He starts tucking his shirt in.

  “Because in learning how to best keep myself where I need to be, I have become, well, you know. Like you, Jonah. Real estate is in my bones whether I like it or not. Survival is one thing, but I have learned more than anything I want to thrive. I want to win. I have built up a legitimate empire for my family. My wife, my kids. Because of real estate, my children will not have to live the kind of life I’ve led.”

  He reaches for his tie. He wraps it around his neck, and begins tying it.

  “Why am I telling you this? Because without a care in the world—no matter our history, or how I’ve trusted you and made you my guy—you fucked with my livelihood. You treated a few-hundred-million-euro deal—I now see—as nothing more than a means to an end. A return home. I trust you so much, you said New York over Berlin I believed New York over Berlin.”

  “Cob—whoever you are—it’s not like that. I really believed this was a deal we could—”

  “I don’t doubt that. But do you think the Freedom Bank Building is special because of the Annex? Or a scary property because of the Annex? One that’s probably not the best choice for a firm’s first venture in a foreign market?”

  I don’t answer.

  “The day you taught me about signals in a meeting, Jonah—what the touch of a cuff link can mean, what a request for water can mean—is the day I knew you were not like anything I’ve ever met. I’ve put all my faith in you, which means I’d expect you to realize you’ve taught me more than you know. Without thinking de Bont is anything but my family’s everything, you chose you over the hand that feeds you.”

  He puts his jacket back on. Looking just as he did when I boarded the plane, he hits a button and requests Aimee. She appears, he orders a fresh round of drinks, and she’s gone again.

  “Why am I telling you this?” he says again. “You needed to hear—and see—that Cobus de Bont might be someone who will tolerate what you pulled. I, on the other hand, will not.”

  In the moment, I’m overwhelmed. Yet, surprisingly, at the same time I’m comfortable. Relieved. Better sense tells me I should fear whoever this is. But I don’t. Because to me, this is Cobus de Bont. And if he wanted me to think of him as anyone else—All-World Mobster, Gangster, White-Collar Motherfucker, whatever—he would have told me his real name. He would have given me more to go on to remember him, fear him, certainly after he just told me more than he’s probably told anyone before. Then he would have killed me.

  Cobus de Bont has been looking out for me.

  Because Cobus de Bont needs me.

  Not just me alive.

  Me.

  “Berlin is still—” I start.

  “I don’t care. I want—”

  “I didn’t finish,” I cut him off. “You want to know how we still end up with Berlin? Or you want to spend some more time telling me how big your balls are?”

  Cobus juts his lower jaw toward me. He’s thinking about what he just heard. Then, as Aimee appears with our drinks, he starts laughing. Cracking up like I’ve never seen him crack up before.

  “Berlin will still be ours,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Because I still have a chip. And I’m finally about to get my chance to use it.”

  I lift my drink from the coaster and extend it toward Cobus. He obliges by lifting his as well. We clink. We drink.

  “After the shit you pulled, I can only imagine one thing that would give you the nerve to take us to Moscow,” Cobus says. “But I want to hear it from you.”

  “Perry.”

  “Perry,” he repeats. “And Max? Or Johan?”

  “He’s not with her. He’s in New York. He’s safe.”

  I lift my glass toward him again, toasting him.

  “We’ll be watching, Jonah Gray. As always, I’ll have the manpower to step in if we’re needed. But do you have a plan?”

  “Look where we are,” I respond. “I always have a plan.”

  Same plan as always.

  Go fucking get it.

  Worry about the mess later.

  “Why didn’t you just kill me?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When Gaston called you all those years ago. Why didn’t you just kill me?”

  “Because of Gaston himself.”

  “He told you not to?”

  “To be clear, if I tell Gaston to take a crap, he asks how big. Gaston Piccard doesn’t tell me anything. He asks me.”

  “So, he asked you?”

  He takes a healthy sip.

  “That’s right. He did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he said he owed it to your father. Because your father, apparently, wasn’t just a close friend, your father built his career. Sent him his first big U.S. clients, as well as some others in Europe, which allowed him to take off. According to Gaston, if it weren’t for Stan Gray his professional life simply wouldn’t have happened. In his words—‘looking out for Jonah is the least I can do for his father. Jonah says he’s innocent. I owe him—them—the chance to prove that. And get his life back.’”

  I stare him in the eye.

  Animal to animal.

  “You happy he made that request?” I ask.

  Cobus looks at his watch.

  “Get some sleep. You need it.”

  Sleep. Right.

  “I’ll wake you when we’re forty-five minutes or so out. God help you from there,” he says.

  Said with the most devilish smirk I’ve ever seen.

&n
bsp; CHAPTER 43

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  2013

  An immigration officer boards the plane and we clear customs. My gun in the rear of my waistline, I step off the de Bont Gulfstream at Moscow Domodedovo Airport in a fresh suit, and into the waiting black Mercedes E Class. In the few moments between the two, as I breathe the biting Russian air, I notice the weather is sunny and freezing. I’d barely slept. It’s two p.m. in Moscow. Between the eight-hour flight and eight-hour time difference my body is even more out of whack than when we left New York. The driver is a tall older guy, bald with a thick mustache, wearing a gray overcoat over his uniform. He asks where we’re headed, his strong English wrapped in a Russian accent. I tell him to sit tight for a moment as I dial Andreu’s number.

  “Zdravstvuitye.”

  “I’m here, I’m in Moscow,” I start. “Where is she?”

  “Ah, Jonah. Wow. You weren’t kidding.”

  “Where is she?” I repeat.

  “You have what I need?”

  “You only get what I have once I have Perry. So I suggest we get started.”

  He pauses.

  “Come toward the heart of the city. When you—”

  “I want somewhere secluded,” I cut him off, “and you’d better have her with you.”

  “And I want somewhere crowded,” he comes back at me. “Because I don’t trust you for shit.”

  “Fuck that. I’m on your turf, which means—”

  “That’s right, Jonah!” Andreu barks, “You’re in my city now. So if you want to see Perry again, you’ll do things my way.”

  I take a deep breath and accept I’m going to have to follow Andreu’s lead.

  “Where am I going?”

  “Near Red Square is a mall called the TSUM. Across the street is a restaurant called Vogue Café. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  He hangs up.

  Talk about feeling out of place. Not being able to read the street signs or billboards is one thing. Not even recognizing the symbols that are in fact the letters of the Russian alphabet is another. As we approach the nucleus of Moscow, traffic is thick. The roads and intersections are like runways, seemingly ten-lanes wide on each side. At some of the intersections I can’t see from one corner to the other. The architecture in the heart of Moscow is massive and old, yet wildly eclectic. There are blocky, austere structures that along with the wide roads scream Stalin. There are the famous ornate Orthodox cathedrals. Coming up on Red Square, I can see the colorful, swirling turrets atop the Kremlin, but we veer off and stop in front of a brown, six-story building on Petrovka Street.