“I think that’s a good idea,” Stupenagel said. “And maybe you have time for a few questions?”
“Some other day, perhaps,” Karchovski said. “But we’ll drop you back at Battery Park.”
“What about me, boss?” asked Karchovski’s bodyguard, who’d remained standing on the stern of the ferry with two of Grale’s men.
Ivgeny turned to the man, his eyes blazing with anger. “What about you, traitor?”
Before the bodyguard could respond, Grale nodded to his men. One struck the bodyguard on the back of his head with a blackjack, knocking him to the ground.
“Tie his hands and feet,” Ivgeny instructed.
They did as told, then hauled the man to his feet. “Please, Mr. Karchovski, why are you doing this?” The man started to cry.
Karchovski, however, was unmoved. “My only regret is that I do not have the time to deal with you properly,” he said, and spit in the man’s face. “But this is for my friend Gregory, and the others whose blood is on your head.”
“No, I did nothing, I swear to you,” the bodyguard blubbered as Karchovski grabbed him by the lapels of his coat.
“Tell that to the fish,” Karchovski replied, and launched the man over the side of the ferry. Weighed down by his clothes and a bulletproof vest, the man kicked violently in an attempt to keep his mouth above water. He was still kicking, his eyes wide with terror, as he slipped beneath the surface and disappeared into the depths.
The gangster leader turned to Stupenagel and Murrow. “You will forget that you saw that, no?”
“No,” Murrow said, and was nudged in the ribs by Stupenagel. “I mean yes. Never saw a thing. Besides, I believe these are New Jersey waters. No jurisdiction.”
“Honey bunny,” Stupenagel said. “Now would be a good time to be quiet.”
“Right.”
Ivgeny Karchovski smiled and shook his head. He would never understand these Americans and their sense of humor. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said. “But so you know, he was the man who betrayed you and all the other people at the Black Sea Café.”
“Good riddance to bad trash, then,” Stupenagel said.
“Ditto,” Murrow agreed.
“Then please, climb down,” Karchovski said.
A few minutes later, Murrow and Stupenagel were standing on the dock at Battery Park, watching Karchovski’s speedboat roar into the darkness. Murrow sighed. “Well, that was exciting,” he said. “I guess you’ll have another story on the front page.”
Ariadne tousled his hair. “You are one cool cookie, Gilbert my love. Let’s go home…I’ve a deadline to make.”
17
WHILE IVGENY KARCHOVSKI WAS DROWNING A TRAITOR IN New York Harbor, V. T. Newbury’s uncle led him down the hall, past the still smiling receptionist and through a pair of frosted glass doors. Now they were standing in a vestibule outside another elevator and a set of stainless steel doors that looked like the entrance to a bank vault.
His uncle noticed him look at the elevator and said, “VIP. Goes straight to a private area in the parking garage. Sometimes our clients are trying to avoid the intrusions by the overzealous press. They like their privacy, even those who otherwise must lead public lives, and we respect that.”
Dean Newbury turned to the steel doors and paused. “As a matter of fact, I hope you will honor my request to keep the identities of my associates confidential. You may recognize some of them, but all are important men who have to be careful about how their lives are reported, as well as where they go from a security standpoint.”
“You may count on it,” V.T. promised. He saw no reason to want to discuss his uncle’s cronies, and he had to admit that all the buildup was making him curious.
“Good lad, knew I could count on the old Newbury discretion,” Dean said, smiling, and pressed the palm of his right hand against a pad next to the door. There was a slight click and the door slid open, revealing a large meeting room dominated by a round wooden table around which sat eleven men.
Most of the men rose when they entered, except for those who appeared too elderly to rise without assistance. They were all white and ranged in age, he guessed, from forties to nineties.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my nephew, Vinson Talcott Newbury,” Dean said. “The son of my late brother and the last male member of this line of Newburys.”
Eleven pairs of eyes focused on V.T., who felt like a crown prince being presented at court for a throne he wanted no part of.
Dean walked V.T. around the table to introduce him to each man. As they moved from one to the next, V.T. was increasingly impressed by the credentials of this set of “cronies”: a U.S. senator from Tennessee, a congressman from Utah, a general at the Pentagon, the assistant director of an unnamed intelligence agency, a commentator from a television network, two federal judges, two bank presidents, a wealthy entrepreneur, and another prominent attorney, who’d been a recent past president of the American Bar Association—and, of course, his uncle.
V.T. knew several of the men on sight, and a couple more by reputation. But it was safe to assume, as his uncle had pointed out, that this was a council of equals. He thought he recognized several of the older men from his grandfather’s and Quilliam’s funerals.
And now gathered here to meet little ol’ me, V.T. thought. I don’t know whether to be flattered or to try to make a run for it. Looking down at the table, he noted the symbol on Quilliam’s ring—the tre cassyn—was also embossed in gold in the wooden top. He glanced around and noticed that all of the others were, indeed, wearing rings like the one he’d just been given. The thought suddenly made the ring seem very heavy and he longed to take it off, but didn’t out of deference to his uncle.
The members took their seats and V.T.’s uncle continued with the introduction. “Gentlemen, I’ve taken the liberty of explaining that we are members of a sort of ancient fraternity with ties back to Old Europe,” he said. “But I was just thinking that a more apt description might be a ‘think tank’ that meets from time to time to discuss, and perhaps take some action to deal with, issues that confront this country. You will never hear about us in the news, Vinson, but you might be surprised at what we have accomplished behind the scenes for a great many years. But we’ll leave the discussion of history for another day. Am I right, gentlemen?”
The gentlemen nodded their assents, and he continued. “As you all know, I’m trying to persuade my nephew to return to the family fold and possibly take up the mantle of his family’s law firm. I would like nothing better than knowing that when I pass from this world, the firm of Newbury, White & Newbury will be left in the good hands of someone who understands the great responsibility of this charge.”
“Hear, hear,” the others replied, though V.T. thought the “vote” was less than fully enthusiastic.
“To that end, I wanted him to meet you, my most trusted associates and advisors, and perhaps in the company of such an august group, he may also come to understand that there is much he could accomplish at the helm of this law firm and as part of this ‘fraternity.’”
Another round of “Hear, hear”s ended the introduction, and the rest of the meeting was spent chatting while dinner was served. While this was less formal, with one-on-one and small-group conversations, V.T. got the impression that it was actually the more important phase of the “examination.”
Most of the questions seemed aimed at finding out where he stood on the political spectrum. He considered himself somewhat conservative, though with definite liberal tendencies when it came to social issues.
He answered honestly, including what he thought of the Patriot Act, which was that in times of war, a country’s government sometimes needed extraordinary powers. “Especially against such a difficult enemy as global terrorism,” he said. “However, it’s a balancing act between giving government enough tools to protect us from enemies without, and protecting us from the government overstep-ping its bounds in regard to intrusions into priva
te lives.”
After dinner, his uncle escorted him back out of the room and to the elevators that would take him to the lobby. “Well done,” Dean said, shaking V.T.’s hand. “I think that went rather well for a start. Please remember what we agreed regarding our little meeting. Mum’s the word.”
“I promise,” V.T. replied. “Not a peep. So the others are staying?”
Dean looked back toward the stainless steel doors. “Yes, we have a number of business items and housekeeping matters to attend to,” he said. “A regular Rotary club meeting with minutes and reports. It’s boring stuff and, unfortunately, likely to take up the rest of the night. Due to the distances involved, and busy schedules, we don’t get the opportunity to meet face-to-face very often and have to seize the opportunity when it presents itself.”
Placing a hand on V.T.’s arm, he looked his nephew in the eye. “This is an important trust you’ve been offered. Our aspirations for you go beyond this law firm, such as eventually a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court. And why not, there are kingmakers in this room who might be able to help.”
V.T.’s mouth fell open. “You’re telling me that this ‘fraternity’ or ‘think tank’ can arrange to have me appointed to the highest court in the country? I thought that was the prerogative of the president and confirmed by Congress?”
Dean Newbury spread his hands as if to say stranger things have happened. “I wouldn’t say ‘arrange,’ or even guarantee that such a thing could be done. Of course, you would have to be qualified, perhaps by starting with an appointment to a federal bench for a bit of seasoning. But we do have a certain amount of influence in the political arena, as well as with the American Bar Association, which as you may know has for the past fifty years issued its evaluations of the credentials of nominees to the federal bench and particularly the Supreme Court.”
“Yes, I know the ABA issues a report to Congress on whether they believe a candidate is ‘well qualified,’ ‘qualified,’ or ‘not qualified.’ But they have no official standing in the selection process,” V.T. pointed out.
“Perhaps not, but a ‘well qualified’ usually leads to confirmation,” his uncle replied. “Presidents and the Congress can’t be expected to know the qualifications of every nominee. As in any other business, they rely on advisors, including the ABA.”
V.T.’s mind was reeling. He’d promised his uncle that he would keep an open mind, but that was when he thought the job offer was going to be a senior partnership and eventual control of the family firm. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that such things as nominations to the U.S. Supreme Court were free of political maneuvering. Anybody who read a newspaper knew how rancorous and partisan the proceedings could be once the nominee got to the congressional hearings. But something that a few powerful men could arrange?
V.T. thought that the group was a little carried away with its self-importance and influence. Then again, he thought, I’m sure the demagogues of the Christian right sit around convincing themselves that they have more influence than they do. Just like the left-wing appeasers in the Democratic Party think the public will follow them like lemmings just because they rail nonstop against everything the incumbent Republicans try to do, particularly as it relates to counterterrorism. Which is, of course, why they keep getting disappointed in November.
“Well,” he said, flustered. He cleared his throat to give himself a little more time to find the right words without insulting his uncle. “This is certainly unexpected, and I don’t really even know how to respond without a great deal more thought. But I do appreciate the honor that you consider me worth the thought.”
“Well, my boy, I have to admit there’s a little ego involved,” the old man said. “There’s been a Newbury on that council for nearly two hundred years. We don’t want to mess up that run now, do we?”
The elevator opened and V.T. stepped in. He turned around and nodded. “I’d hate to be the one to do that. I’ll give it a fair hearing.”
When the doors closed, Dean Newbury stood for a moment pondering his next move. He turned and reentered the meeting room and immediately addressed the others. “So, gentlemen, your thoughts?”
“Dangerous, this fire you’re playing with,” the television commentator said. “His father betrayed you…us…and your nephew works for the enemy, the Jew Karp.”
“Well, I believe the old, overused saw is ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ But I am not sure that my nephew cannot be turned to a friend,” Dean Newbury replied. “You better than most of us understand how easily opinions can be swayed with the right choice of words and enticement. And besides, haven’t we always held that blood is thicker than water?”
“Blood of firstborn sons,” the senator pointed out. “He was not brought up in the brotherhood.”
Dean Newbury understood the argument. He’d heard it before. The seats around the table had been passed from firstborn son to firstborn son for more than two hundred years. Ever since their ancestors had first arrived, fleeing the reach of the British Navy. But the line of succession had not always been straight. Some of their predecessors had been childless or had not produced male heirs. Or the firstborn son had died, like Quilliam, and there’d even been several who rejected the cause, like Quilliam, and had to be watched carefully for any sign of disloyalty.
Therefore, sometimes the seats had been filled in other ways. Second sons had been indoctrinated and accepted into the brotherhood to replace their fathers, or, as would be V.T.’s case, a first son of a second son. But they usually started the process of “education” much younger than V.T., when the mind was easier to mold.
However, Dean Newbury had been forced into the present situation by several betrayals. The first was his own body, which had failed to produce any more male heirs, only two daughters, who themselves had only produced daughters. The second had been Quilliam, who’d recoiled from his rightful place and joined the marines.
The third betrayal, or actually a series of betrayals, he laid at the feet of his brother, Vincent. Their father had never trusted Dean’s younger brother, who had not been given much more than a basic understanding of the family’s history and did not know the true source and extent of their wealth.
It had been a struggle just to get him to go to law school so that he could at least help the firm’s pantheon of rich and important clients. Then they’d had to wean him from the radical clique of do-good lawyers who met in Brooklyn at Julius Karp’s house and spent their Saturday evenings prattling about a sacrosanct Constitution, when anybody with any intelligence knew that adjustments needed to be made to the document to reflect modern concerns.
However, Vincent had learned more than he should have about the family’s business. Never the full story or the details, or the names of the other members of the council, but enough to be dangerous. Then he’d somehow made it past the state-of-the-art security system, gained access to Dean’s office, and stole the old mustard-colored book that was kept on a shelf. He’d berated himself for keeping the book, or at least for keeping it where someone might see it. But then he hadn’t expected to be betrayed by his own brother.
The reasons for keeping the book were uncharacteristic for Dean Newbury. Most copies of the self-published book had been destroyed before they could get out to the public. It had been written by another traitor in the late 1930s, who had met an untimely end sleeping off a bender inside a warehouse where he kept most copies of the book. The warehouse mysteriously caught fire, killing the author and destroying all other copies of the book and the printing plates that made them. However, several copies had been saved by the arsonist to present to members of the council, including Dean’s father.
How long the book was missing before he noticed it was not in its place, Dean didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure at first who took it because the security camera tapes, which were recycled once a week, had already been wiped clean. It had remained a troubling mystery until a security guard saw his brother on one of the monitors
enter the office and remove something from under his desk.
Nothing was found on a subsequent security sweep, but Dean suspected that his brother had removed a listening device. There’d been a moment of panic, when he recalled a recent conversation he’d had with Jamys Kellagh regarding “the project.” But he calmed down when he thought about the fact that they’d been speaking in the ancient tongue, which few would know how to translate, and even if someone did, they’d spoken in code.
What had been done after that was necessary in regard to his brother’s betrayal. Vincent’s chef had been instructed to prepare a stew with a large amount of foxglove stem cut up in the mix. Foxglove was of course a natural source of digitalis—a useful medication for heart disease, but also fatal if taken in too great an amount. A cursory examination, however, would have led to the conclusion that Vincent was the victim of an accidental overdose. But even that wasn’t a worry, as the Newbury family doctor had pronounced the death was due to a massive heart attack, and then the family’s contact at the Medical Examiner’s Office rubber-stamped the death certificate.
However, the book was not found in Vincent’s office, his apartment in Soho, nor the beach house in Cape Cod. Dean had spent many sleepless nights and countless hours in the day second-guessing himself for not torturing his brother to find the book before he was killed.
Then luck turned their way. Kellagh traced the book to a store in the East Village. However, he also reported that the owner of the bookstore was a friend of Lucy Karp. Kellagh had then made a unilateral decision to destroy the book and kill the people who knew of its existence, a decision that worried the council, though nothing could be done about it at that point.
The book and Magee had perished in the fire, but the Karp girl survived—yet another example of the infernal luck surrounding that family. Dean considered having Kellagh kill her; he was certainly close enough to do it. But on reflection, he wasn’t worried about what she might reveal now that the book was gone. It had been written in the 1930s, the names chosen for disguise were common, and even with the book it would have been difficult to trace them to their current descendants—and, in the case of those members who’d failed to produce male heirs, many of the family names were different. But murdering the daughter of the district attorney would have brought far too much unwanted attention, and his “fraternity” had done everything it could for two hundred years to avoid detection.
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