by Bill Moody
The noiselessness. The corrosive stillness.
Jonathan stood up and walked out his office to extinguish this dead air with the cacophony of the secretarial cubicle just outside, where Amber would surely have her radio turned on, or be typing loudly on her keyboard, or talking on the phone. Or his law partner Dino might be there, babbling useless drivel into Amber’s ear while undressing her with his eyes, his amplified masculinity tiptoeing the fledgling firm ever closer to a sexual harassment lawsuit. Noise. The comfort of chatter and random sounds. Even that annoying thud of drops from a leaky ceiling hitting the bucket next to Amber’s chair. Any noise would suffice.
Amber looked up at him nonchalantly, a bag of dried banana strips in her hand. She did it so well: pretending not to notice that Jonathan had just ended another yelling match with his ex. It felt odd, as she never muffled her opinions when it came to clients or the other lawyers.
Jonathan, still hearing Linda’s voice bounce around his skull, looked up at the ceiling above her.
“When are they fixing this?”
“Today, supposedly,” Amber replied with a long sigh, brushing back her wavy auburn hair over her bony shoulders.
“If they don’t, we’ll find someone else who will.”
“Well, if the building weren’t a hundred years old.”
“I know, I know.” And he did. She’d reminded him enough. This squalor was the only space he and Dino had agreed on, and that’s with Dino’s insistence that they’d sublet the crappiest of the three offices to yet another lawyer, one who hardly ever showed his face, preferring instead to spend most days hunting for clients at funeral homes and hospitals. Jonathan had accepted the conditions ever since they’d haphazardly joined forces a long four years ago. Because good-paying clients give you choices. Because they were harder to come by these days. Because billable work is what ultimately pays the rent. He stared down the hall at Dino’s closed door.
“Soon,” Amber said quietly. “Very soon.”
“Yes, I’m counting the months,” he uttered, again eyeing her, “and I’m taking you away from this, too.”
She returned a tepid smile. She hadn’t yet said yes. Perhaps she understood Jonathan’s difficult decision. Two months earlier, he’d given Dino notice that he would be out by mid-spring. Out of the partnership that had only fomented frustration. Out on his own, and with whatever clients he’d manage to take. How Jonathan would afford Amber was still a huge question mark, but he’d promised himself to find a way, somehow.
Amber again gazed up at the ceiling. “If Katrina hits us, that leak could get a whole lot worse,” she said, her gaze turning snooty. “My computer isn’t waterproof, you know.”
Jonathan sighed. “We’ll get it done.”
Amber sometimes acted like a princess. She certainly dressed like one; she walked like one; but it annoyed him when she spoke like one—though her resume gave no hint of anything more than a modest upbringing in Baton Rouge and a few stints as a receptionist at law firms no bigger than Jonathan’s. But she was also damn good at what she did, and with the meager salary they’d settled on, she surprised everyone to become the firm’s miracle worker.
“Oh, I forgot,” Amber said, jumping to her feet and stretching her lean build, veiled by an orange sundress, over the edge of the cubicle. “This came in for you a little while ago.” It was a small, gift-wrapped package decorated with a lavender ribbon. “I bet it’s chocolate,” she added, barely disguising her smirk as she shook the box near her ear. “Can’t possibly be from a client.”
“Probably not a client,” Jonathan surmised. He didn’t have many left. His largest client—a subsidiary of a national shipbuilder—had moved offices to Norfolk in June and hired East Coast admiralty lawyers for their future legal needs. And his next largest had given him only a trickle of litigation work over the last year. And none of the remaining clients—all much smaller—would be so kind as to send him anything more than an occasional past due payment. He took the gift and turned toward his office.
“It’s gonna melt in that oven of yours.”
Jonathan’s office hadn’t had a working A/C in two weeks. He’d thought of taking the window unit near Amber’s cube, or even Dino’s. But that would mean war. He half-smiled, chuckled and shut the door.
He plopped down into his creaky chair and lobbed his feet up on the credenza. The ribbon came off easily, as did the neatly wrapped ivory paper. She was right. A box of candy, black, with a label that read “Golden Globes” in both English and what he assumed was Russian. Though he had never mastered Cyrillic, he still remembered enough to mumble the syllables.
“Zolo...Zolotye Kupola,” he whispered, deciphering the characters printed above an image of ornate domes of an orthodox church that covered the front packaging.
A chill suddenly crawled through his veins. Who would send him anything Russian? It had been nine years since his painful experience took him to that country. A client’s banal trial over a collision at sea had mushroomed into a perilous race to save his brother’s life, as well as his own. Now, this box of chocolates scared the bejesus out of him.
His hands began to perspire. Jonathan got back up, tossing the box onto his desk. He paused at the window and gazed out the grimy glass onto a quiet, sun-drenched Julia Street. It can’t be.
A flood of disturbing memories suddenly ransacked his thoughts: his brother lying in a hospital bed gasping for air in a run-down clinic in central Russia; his hand clenching his brother’s until his last glance; his final hard breath. But it wasn’t just what had happened there; it was everything else in his life that had collapsed since then, and as a consequence. He turned and gazed at the box, motionless, tempted to open it but fearing what more it would resurrect.
The eerie silence had returned, this time dragging with it more unbearable wounds from the past. He vented a long sigh as he flipped open the lid. A handwritten note slightly larger than a drink coaster rested on top of four rows of individual candies wrapped in gold-colored foil. He returned to the window with the note in hand and unfolded it slowly.
I need to see you. Urgent.
It was signed simply “M”. His heart began to pound hard at his chest. There was no phone number, no email address, nothing else—only a faint watermark at the center resembling a logo or coat of arms of sorts. The note’s brevity surprised him, but the sender didn’t. It was her, Mariya, just as he’d feared. That Russian hellion who’d murdered a man in cold blood right in front of him. A psychopath extraordinaire who’d both helped and tormented Jonathan nine years ago.
Jonathan rushed back to Amber. “Let me see the original package.”
His question triggered only her raised brow.
“The package!”
Amber shrugged. “It wasn’t mailed.”
Jonathan caught his breath. “But it’s from...Russia.”
“Russia?” she asked with an embellished frown. “What are you talking about? I told you, it wasn’t mailed. Some kid dropped it off.”
Jonathan opened Mariya’s note once more and gazed at the watermark. “Shit...” It suddenly hit him. “The Monteleon,” he mumbled, recognizing the coat of arms of the landmark hotel in the French Quarter. “Isn’t it?” He held the note a few inches from Amber’s face.
She turned to her computer and typed a search for the hotel’s website. An instant later, the screen confirmed his suspicion.
“Dammit, she’s here,” he said, gripping the walls of her cubicle till his fingers hurt.
“Who?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
He stepped back into his office, grabbed his jacket and brushed by Amber on his way to the stairs.
“Wait, wait—listen to this,” she said turning up the radio by her computer monitor. “It may really be headed this way, they’re saying. I’m worried now.”
Jonathan stopped and turned. “What will?”
“Katrina.”
The radio announcer spoke fast. “Folks, the National Hu
rricane Center is now advising that Katrina is turning northward over the Gulf and will probably make landfall in seventy-two hours or so...”
“That’s right,” a second announcer butted in. “Experts we talked to are saying it could become a Category Four—or even Five—real soon, and it could slam anywhere between New Orleans and Mobile, Alabama. We’ll have a better idea by tonight.”
“God...” Amber put her hands to her cheeks and stared vacantly at her boss.
Jonathan knew what this meant. Hell, there wasn’t a maritime lawyer who didn’t know what a hurricane that size could do. “That means landfall on Monday.”
“Guess I’ll take the day off, huh,” Amber said, her hands still over her jaw.
“Don’t trust weathermen.” Jonathan didn’t want her to bail without more certainty about the storm. A key deposition was scheduled for Tuesday, with her playing wingman—at least for appearances—and they needed all of Monday to prepare. Most importantly, it was for Cramer, the owner and president of his largest client, an engineering and logistics company with a handful of lucrative contracts with the Port of New Orleans and the State of Louisiana. Cramer was volatile but a fairly reliable, good-paying client that Jonathan wanted to keep happy—but a client who’d take a sudden schedule change with indignation, regardless of the storm.
Amber lowered the volume. “What if they’re right?”
“They’ve been wrong before; they’ll be wrong again.” Jonathan turned to leave and headed through the cramped guest sitting area between her cubicle and the front door.
“But you have a meeting.”
“Cancel it.”
“But it’s—”
“I’m leaving, so make up something.”
“Are you upset?” Amber asked, her voice tapering.
“No.”
“I mean, it’s not my business or anything...” Her words sputtered. “You don’t have kids and you’ve been divorced three years now—why’d you guys even talk? She’s in Idaho, for heaven’s sake.”
Jonathan froze. “Iowa.”
“And you haven’t even seen her in over a year.”
“Ten months.”
He stared at the frosted glass door with his name etched on the other side in between those of his two co-tenants—an order that still jabbed him with insult, as it did each time he walked in and out of this space.
“I don’t get it, but that’s just my two cents.”
Like being hit by a baseball bat, but without the pain. That’s how Jonathan took the assault. Amber—with her faux blue-blood demeanor, and her bad timing—had come out with all guns blazing, finally breaking her silence about all the crap she’d overheard since he’d hired her almost two years ago. He tilted his head to one side and stabbed Amber with scorn.
“I’m leaving for other reasons, if you must know.”
Jonathan wasn’t sure if he was more embarrassed than angry. Perhaps Amber was right. Yes, Linda and he hadn’t completely severed their ties, despite the long, drawn out divorce—an astoundingly lengthy fifteen-month legal battle to unwind a childless marriage with little property to divide. There was no logic to it then, nor now. Jonathan had confessed this to himself many times, even more so on the nights he’d staggered to bed with a full bottle of wine in his stomach. How could Amber not see this as odd? Especially given the strain she’d seen on his face time and time again. For a brief moment he pondered how ludicrous his tolerance seemed, but he couldn’t fathom changing anything, not yet anyway.
“Please, never bring up Linda again.”
Amber blushed, her eyes widening, and disappeared behind her cubicle wall without uttering another word.
He inhaled the musty air of the decrepit office space before heading to the stairs. Closing the door behind him, he paused, recycling Amber’s shot across the bow, and realized he’d been harsh. He reopened the door and poked his head in.
“I’m sorry...I didn’t mean to react like that,” he said, shaking his head. “Please don’t quit,” he added.
“No worries,” Amber voiced, still sheltered in her cube. Her head emerged timidly. “I know things have been difficult here, but I’m sure it will get better, especially since you’re...you’re going to have your own place, you’ll be done with them.”
Jonathan paused and nodded.
“You’re an amazing lawyer. Just the way to speak with clients; manage their crises; remember their children’s names; make them feel strong; and your near-magical sense of predicting every move from opposing counsel. Do you hear what other lawyers say about you? You’re what every attorney in town wants to become. And you know I’m not exaggerating. But even the best lawyer’s sometimes fall on tough times. What makes them great is that they can get back on their feet faster than anyone.”
“You’re too kind, Amber,” he replied, taking a deep breath, but then worried about Mariya, realizing he didn’t want her to show up here and involve Amber in any way. “If Dino’s out, why don’t you close up early?”
Amber looked surprised. “It’s ten in the morning.”
“Yes, I know, but I’m serious, lock up early and take care of things in case Katrina’s headed this way.”
He sighed and left, his head now bursting from the anxiety of Mariya’s message and Linda’s earlier tirade. This was not the morning he’d wanted, nor the Friday he’d longed for after a grueling week with difficult clients and a judge’s ruling that severely weakened his most promising lawsuit. Then he remembered the radio announcers’ warning. Hurricane Katrina was the last thing he needed, but by the time he’d descended to the darkened lobby, he sensed it would pale in comparison to the storm Mariya was likely to cause if he allowed her to find him.
He stopped at the glass doors that also served as the entrance to a run-down salon full of Vietnamese girls who Jonathan was sure, judging from the demeanor of their male clientele, gave cures to more appendages than simply toes and fingers. Two of the beauticians turned, waving and smiling.
Jonathan now had only Mariya on his mind. He imagined she was back to cause trouble. He could think of no good reasons. He peered through the glass and scanned the street for any sign of her. Looking further down, west and east, he eyed a few pedestrians—none of whom looked like her.
Two blocks, he thought. That’s where he’d parked his car, in an open lot. The shortest path was through an alley across the street, but he’d avoided it since a jewelry store owner got stabbed in broad daylight two months back. He leaned on the door but stopped short of opening it. He had a bad feeling, but he couldn’t let Mariya set the rules. She’d tried long ago, and now, on his turf, he would not allow her to taunt him without paying a price. He’d find her at the Monteleon, he thought. He’d confront her there. She’d likely not do anything stupid in public.
2
Moscow, Russia—Three weeks earlier
“Not on the seventh,” the man whispered his rule alone, unmoved that it was mere superstition. There was no mistaking it. The date leapt from the dial of his watch. But fallacy had so many rules: wear black—anything black—before each hunt; sleep facing east; touch the fallen’s blood after the crimson madness has been splattered—often with strangely chaotic beauty—and calmed; the Bible placed face down under the bed, a virgin bullet resting across Proverbs 6:16. Rules. For justice, for pardon, for survival—all concocted over two decades at the friendly end of a barrel.
Huddled in the driver’s seat, eyeing the nearly empty street, Sal continued to deliberate over the date. Seven had cursed its way into his trade like no other omen. A dagger had gone through his bicep on the seventh of January, the night he’d cleansed the world of a Colombian “horticulturist,” if you will; he’d been trapped in a rat infested tunnel under the Berlin Wall for an agonizing seven hours; his father passed away on the night of his seventh birthday. He sighed and glanced at the wires that dangled from the steering column, searching for anything to dispel the wicked prophecy. He’d started on the sixth, he told himself, but it was
n’t convincing. Now was nevertheless the seventh, and blood would spill today. This can’t be good.
The cell phone began to vibrate loudly, trembling its way across the dash toward his side. The man’s gaze panned to the device as it continued its unanswered path along the molded plastic surface, past the center vents, behind the wheel, which he gripped firmly, his hands perspiring in their motionless state. An assassin’s hand is quick and steady only when things are crystal clear, but they hadn’t been since his botched hit in the seedy Cairo slum of Manshiet Nasser. Then again, things hadn’t gone well for some time, he thought. Not in Damascus, not in Yerevan, not in Tashkent. The phone’s subdued rattle competed with the sounds of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4 that filled the stuffy, cloistered space of the Volga sedan he’d hot-wired the night before. He didn’t answer. The device rumbled a little further, butted the windshield and went quiet.
Cold sweat oozed down his chest. He scrounged his blazer pocket for pills. He unwrapped the wadded tissue, picked his potion, tossing three tablets down his dry tongue, and swallowed. But they did nothing to stop him from plunging right back into his pool of thoughts, a grim mosaic of diffuse images: the cryptic instructions from CONTROL crumpled up and aflame over the logs of his furnace; a fresh cigarette burn on the armrest of his leather chair, the one by the windows, the one he’d sit in for hours before and after each kill; the flag-draped coffin being wheeled out of the back of a plane; the stone-faced doorman slouched over the front desk of his apartment bloc as he departed, weighed down by lead, gun metal and bewilderment. He knew the flickering from reality had long become resistant to the downers, no matter the dose, the frequency, or his sporadic delusions of a cure. He understood without believing.
He gazed ahead at the sooty pavement of the bleak street that bordered an area of shoddy brick warehouses and dilapidated Soviet-era tool shops. Dark smoke spewed from a distant power plant, its funnels piercing the gray morning sky above the nearby rooftop of Clinic Number 14, a pricey medical facility strangely thrown into this unglamorous corner of Moscow.