“Now perhaps the case would be destroyed. But this is no great help to me. I must get to Karavitch before he is transferred to federal custody. Then my Croat friend calls me again. He says that Croatian nationalists have kidnapped the prosecutor in the case, you, Mr. Karp, and they plan to exchange him for Karavitch. Naturally, I must try to prevent this.
“Then Miss Ciampi comes to see me. She has the information I am lacking about Karavitch’s location and movements. This confuses me because naturally I believe that the district attorney is working with the CIA. But perhaps, I think, there is a personal involvement. Perhaps she is more interested in Karp than in Karavitch. This is why I tell her that I have an agent with the terrorists, which is a lie, but I see by her face that she fears for your life. So I believe she is operating privately. Of course, I believe the police are involved, and that therefore she will not go to them. Obviously I have been mistaken in this. But all in all, I still believe it was a chance I had to take.”
Karp glanced at Marlene. She said, “It jibes.”
“Yeah, it does,” he answered. “Look, Mr. Terzich, I think that’s all we need from you tonight. I’ll come by with a stenographer tomorrow and take a formal statement. We’re going to have to hold you and your people for a while, but I want you to know we appreciate your cooperation.”
He got up and called one of the cops Denton had left on duty. As Terzich stood to go, Karp said, “Wait a second, Mr. Terzich. Let me ask you one more thing: does the name Josef Dreb mean anything to you?”
Terzich nodded slowly, his expression neutral. “Yes, he was an SS officer based in Zagreb during the war and then later with the Prinz Eugen Division. A war criminal. Why do you ask that?”
“His name came up in connection with the case. What happened to him, do you know?”
“He escaped Yugoslavia after the war, but I recall he died shortly thereafter. Murdered in Italy, I think, by one of his companions.”
“I see. OK, that’s it. Oh, one more thing. Have you got any idea why Karavitch would have wanted to hijack an airliner and plant a bomb at this particular time?”
Terzich appeared to consider this question for a long moment. Then he said, “You mean that it was irrational for an elderly man, who was secure in his situation, and besides an important link in a terrorist organization, to risk all for so futile a gesture. I have considered this as well, and I have come up with no rational answer. But perhaps there are irrational answers. You and I once had a pleasant conversation about the history of my country. You know that if a child is tormented and deprived enough, there is a good chance that he will grow up to be a madman. In the same way, some nations have a history so dreadful that their politics can become a kind of insanity. Often I think it is like that with Yugoslavia. In that view, for Karavitch to end his career in a demented fashion is perhaps understandable, even natural.
“There is a little story about this. A viper waits on the banks of the Drina. He wishes to cross, but he cannot swim. Soon an ox comes by and the viper asks it if he can ride across on its back. The ox says, ‘Of course not! You are a viper and you will bite me.’ So the viper says, ‘Don’t be foolish. If I bite you, we will both drown. Why would I bite you?’ So the ox sees that this is true and he allows the viper to climb up on his back. Halfway across, the ox feels the sting of the viper’s fangs. As he sinks he cries out, ‘Why have you bitten me, viper? Now we are both doomed.’ And the viper says, ‘You forgot, ox. We are in the Balkans.’ Perhaps you will get a better answer than this from Karavitch, Mr. Karp, but I doubt it.”
“God, I’m tired,” Karp said. “What time is it?”
“Almost three,” said Marlene. “Want to go home?”
They were sitting on the couch in the outer office. The cops and their prisoners had gone, leaving nothing but a wastebasket full of broken glass and plaster shards, and the dried bloodstains where the injured Yugoslavian had lain.
He let out a short, exhausted chuckle. “Yeah, can you carry me over your back? I can’t believe I’m going through this shit. I’m a lawyer, it’s supposed to be indoor work with no heavy lifting.” He paused and pulled her close. “I didn’t say I was sorry yet for bitching at you. You rescued me, all right, just like in that song.”
“‘Tam Lin.’ But from Israelis, another layer of weirdness. What’s the story on that? You were going to tell me.”
He filled her in on what had happened since the attempted assassination in front of the courthouse. She took it all in, and then said, “So what do you think? Karavitch is Karavitch? Or Karavitch is this Nazi, Dreb?”
“I don’t know. It seems kind of academic at this point, except to Leventhal and company. Who gives a rat’s ass what his real name is. He killed Terry Doyle and he’s going down for it. It’s funny, though. This case started with a million questions. I wrote them down on a Chinese menu—who was doing what to whom and why. They’re almost all answered now. The Church was screwing up the investigation because they didn’t want one of their heroes exposed as a fascist killer. Pillman was screwing it up because of the connection between a couple of the Croats and a gang of Cubans the Bureau had been using for dirty tricks down south. The CIA? Because of the same Cubans, but mainly to protect whoever knowingly recruited a Nazi war criminal who had murdered American troops.
“The CIA involved Terzich because they needed a stooge to trash the case. And since it couldn’t be any of Roberts’s white shoe lawyers and it certainly couldn’t be our glorious leader the DA, who better than a commie agent? They protect their people in Europe and knock out a senior agent in one shot, not to mention keeping the cover pulled up over World War fucking Two.”
“And Bloom went for it because … ?”
“He’s a schmuck. Somebody called him from Washington and enlisted him in the service of this great nation. Somebody with major party connections, no doubt, who got him dreaming about Albany or the Senate, provided he did the right thing. And also, I hope I’m not flattering myself, it was a chance to get rid of the kid here. So, that fills in all the boxes, except for the big one, which could be the stopper if we don’t get a good answer.”
“You mean the ox’s question—why did he do it?”
“Yeah. It’s time to go back and talk to the bad guys a little. And I think we can do it with more cooperation from their distinguished counsel than we have had heretofore. If we could just get some kind of total crusher on Karavitch or—who the hell is that?”
Somebody was walking down the hall singing an upbeat version of “I Love New York,” pausing to tap out the rhythm on the glass doors of the offices with something metallic and jingling as he passed them. At the door of the Criminal Courts office he beat a particularly loud crescendo as he finished the song and flung open the door.
“Guma! What are you doing here?” Karp asked in amazement.
Guma was equally amazed. “Butch, you got rescued! What happened? Marlene! What’s going on?”
“Don’t ask,” she replied. “Butch is safe and the bad guys are out of action. Hey, Guma, what’s that funny smell?”
“Like aftershave, you mean?”
“No, sweeter, like candy.” She sniffed closer. “Smells like grape jelly.”
“Oh, yeah, I got a bite to eat on the way down. I must of spilled some on me. But look, what’d you mean they’re out of action? What about Ruiz?”
“He sleeps with the fishes,” Karp answered.
Guma whistled. “Damn. Way to go. Who got him?”
“Later, Goom, I can’t go through this whole thing again. But what are you doing here?”
“Oh, tonight was my big date with the divine Rhoda. I just thought I’d come by and clear up some details.”
“How’d it go?” Marlene asked.
“Great. I’m in love. By the way, I got to talk to you, Marlene, about these rumors you’re spreading about my style in the rack. This shit gets around, it’s gonna scare off all the cocktail waitresses.”
“Yeah, but Mad Dog,” Karp
asked, “how’d it go? Did you get the keys?”
Guma grinned and held up the object he had been using to tap out the time: Klepp’s key ring. “I just came by to pick up some blank tape. Then I was going to raid the DA’s office, pull the originals, make copies, and get the originals back before morning.”
“Mad Dog, I love you! Hey, many hands make light work. Let’s me and Marlene help.”
“I thought you were wiped out,” she said.
“I am, but this is too good to miss. Look, we should do the taping over at my place. I got this great stereo Marlene bought me.”
Guma said, “Sounds good. We’ll go up, steal Bloom’s shit, I’ll drive you down to your joint, and while you do the copy, I’ll go find somebody to slip Rhoda’s keys back to her before she gets up.”
“Goom,” Marlene said, “it’s past three in the morning. Who you going to get to run an errand like that?”
“Hey, babe, the city never sleeps. I’ll find somebody suitable. OK, now give with the story, Butch. I’m on fucking hooks here.”
Rhoda Klepp groaned and tried to force her scrambled brains into order. It was a mistake. With consciousness came sensation, none of it pleasant. Her head hurt, a sharp, white-hot bar between her eyes. Eyes? She couldn’t see. She tried to remove whatever was blocking her vision, and found that her hands wouldn’t go to her face. She shook her head violently and chunks of something cool and slimy fell down past the side of her head. Then she got the smell, a sour garbagey odor, with something sweet added that seemed to be emanating from her own body. Then nausea hit her, and both ends of her digestive system demanded a visit to the bathroom at the earliest opportunity.
Rhoda heaved herself up, came to the end of her chains, and collapsed back on the bed. Memory returned in a hideous rush. “Guma!” she howled. “You bastard! Get me out of this right now!” Nothing. She knew the apartment was empty. She shrieked and cursed for a minute or two, and tears of rage poured down her greasy cheeks. Then she stopped short. Somebody was opening the door to her apartment.
“Guma, get in here, you son of a bitch! I’ll murder you!”
Silence. The knob on the bedroom door turned. The door slowly opened.
“Guma?” she said, the first shivers of fear beginning to rise through her. “Guma, is that you?”
The door opened wide and he came into the room. Rhoda put back her head and screamed. She closed her eyes tight and screamed her head off, but she could not close her nostrils.
“Ahhrnk’oon’od uh ennk’y,” said the Walking Booger, coming closer.
20
AS CONRAD WHARTON tied his yellow tie in front of the mirror, he wondered fleetingly, but not for the first time, whether he could wear a bow tie. A bow tie was distinctive and bespoke confidence. More important, you could wear it forever without fear of getting food stains on it, something that eventually happened with a four-in-hand tie no matter how careful one was, and then it was shot to hell. You might as well throw it away, because the cleaners never got the stains out right. Wharton spent a lot of money on his ties. This one was a Countess Mara, thirty-two fifty, but he felt it was worth it, especially when he removed his jacket and you could see the little monogram on the bottom. His shirts were monogrammed too, on the cuffs, a W inside a C. He had designed it himself, and approved the memos emanating from his office with the same mark. He called it his chop mark.
He studied his face, wishing for length and cragginess, then sighed. No, a bow tie would make him look even more like a cheap doll, one with a ribbon around its neck. He attached his tie tack, a pair of miniature silver handcuffs, and donned the jacket of his dark gray suit. He buttoned it, then let it hang open, revealing the tie tack and the Countess Mara monogram. He loved this effect, the combination of class and a touch of violence—handcuffs. It wiped the chicks out in the singles bars, where he found it an unfailing conversation starter. Women loved a crime fighter.
Unfortunately, when he stood up to give his speech this afternoon at the Waldorf, he would have to keep his jacket buttoned. As he thought of the speech, butterflies jumped from little perches in his belly and started to flutter about. It was an important speech, one that would make his reputation in the wider world represented by the International Association of Prosecuting Attorneys, at whose winter meeting he was speaking. It was an important step for him; Bloom, he well knew, had wider ambitions—the governorship for starters—and in a year or so would leave a convenient hole for somebody with the right political connections, reputation, and skills.
Wharton collected his wallet, keys, and briefcase, slipped into a camel-hair overcoat, and left his apartment. It was shaping up very well, he thought. The missing ingredient was serious money, because if Bloom decided to run for higher office, there would be a real race for the job and plenty of money would be required to make a real stab at the DA’s slot. And he thought he would make a start on getting close to serious money this afternoon, because he was having lunch with V.T. Newbury.
Wharton had been sucking around Newbury ever since he found out that his father was Edwin Brace Newbury, senior partner at Vernon Cornwell Gibbs, and among the half dozen wealthiest and most influential lawyers in New York. Until now, unaccountably, and despite the offer of numerous favors, he had met with no luck. Newbury always seemed to be busy for lunch and never showed up at the evenings Wharton arranged in his apartment for selected pols and presentable attorneys from the office. Two days ago, however, Newbury had called him up and actually invited him to lunch. They had arranged to eat at what Newbury had described as the best little Northern Italian restaurant in New York. The speech was at two. He had time for a leisurely meal and then an unhurried cab ride uptown to the Waldorf. As he walked out onto the chilly street, the butterflies vanished. It was all working out. He was golden.
His good mood dissipated abruptly when he got to the office and found that Rhoda Klepp had not reported for work that morning. Wharton made it a point never to appear at any official function without at least one special assistant to carry things and dance attendance. Rhoda was scheduled to meet him at the hotel, and more important, she had written the speech itself and was supposed to have left it on his desk. Yet it was not to be found.
“What do you mean you can’t find her,” Wharton shrieked at his secretary. “Just find her!”
“I called her ten times,” the secretary responded. “She doesn’t answer her phone. Maybe she’s real sick.”
“Oh don’t be stupid, Rhoda’s never sick,” he snapped. “What am I supposed to do now? I’ve got to give a speech this afternoon. Do you think you could find that maybe?”
He stomped into his office and slammed the door. While he sulked, all other administrative work stopped as half a dozen public employees examined every stack of exposed paper in the office and thumbed through every file drawer. Eventually a carbon of the speech was found in one of Rhoda Klepp’s desk drawers. It had to be retyped, naturally, since Wharton could not be expected to give a speech from a carbon copy.
After that, peace reigned in the Bureau of Administration, and Wharton left for his luncheon appointment at eleven-fifty with a jaunty wave. Everybody in the outer office smiled and waved back, and wished him good luck on his speech. Wharton liked what he called a happy ship. In fact, he demanded it.
Karp stood up, stretched, and went to his bedroom window. He twitched the cord on the Venetian blinds and pale morning sunlight streamed in. On the bed, Marlene groaned and covered her eyes. “It can’t be morning already,” she wailed. “I reject that entire concept.”
“I’m afraid it is, cutie. We danced the night away and now it’s time to go to work.”
“Oh, let’s bag work. I can’t believe we just spent six hours listening to that moron schmoozing on the phone.” She groaned again and rolled facedown. Then she popped her head back up. “No, Christ, we can’t bag work, can we? Today’s the big day.”
“Yeah, lots to do. God, this fucking case! I can’t believe we’re going to
wrap up Karavitch today. And Bloom. You think it’ll really go down like we figured?”
“No question. We’re the two greatest prosecutors in the galaxy and we’re on a roll. Why are you worried about Bloom? Shit, he’s dead meat with what we got on those tapes.” She giggled. “I still can’t believe it. Arthur Bingham Roberts and Sanford Bloom, two of the great legal minds of the century, dancing around each other to see how they can get this case thrown out with tainted evidence without actually coming out and saying it—‘I’m a scumbag, Sandy, and so are you, so get the fucking typewriter admitted, and it’s a wrap.’ Oh, no, too indelicate. How did it go? I got it here somewhere.”
She rummaged through the sheets and pads of yellow legal paper that were scattered around the bed and the floor, found what she was looking for, put on her glasses, and read.
“OK, this is the part I love. Roberts says, ‘Yes, I quite understand. It’s unfortunate that the victim should have been a policeman.’ And Bloom says, ‘Yes, there’s no question of simply dropping the case. The publicity, ah, and of course the evidence is heavily against them, the bomb and the note. I mean, Arthur, they did plant the thing.’ Roberts says, ‘Yes, unless some technicality should intrude that would taint the evidence.’ Bloom: ‘Technicality?’ Duhhhh! It’s like the Three Stooges. Then Roberts: ‘Yes. That young man you have on the case, Karp. He seems like a hard charger. Perhaps he could be induced to charge a bit too hard.’ Bloom says, ‘Umm, naturally, the integrity of my office can’t be compromised in any way.’ He means, how am I going to cover my personal tushie. Roberts gives him the zinger: ‘Naturally. And of course we feel the same way. But you’ll recall that there is a translator involved here, a Professor Terzich. Now our man Evans has regrettably let slip to this Terzich the consequences of the defense providing the prosecution with evidence obtained during constitutionally protected conversation between the defense counsel and the defendant. We have reason to believe that Terzich would not be adverse to a dismissal in this case, and can be counted on to cooperate. Now, if somehow the police were to contact Terzich and obtain this evidence—do you follow?’ Does he follow? Does the pope have indoor plumbing? Bloom says, ‘Umm, what sort of evidence are we talking about here?’ And Roberts says, ‘The typewriter that typed the note with the bomb, Sandy. Rukovina’s typewriter. Tempting, wouldn’t you say?’ And Bloom gives this little conspiratorial chuckle, and he says, ‘Oh, yeah, tempting as hell. OK, Arthur, I think I can handle things at this end, all right. This could just about solve our little problem here.’ And Roberts says, ‘I thought it might. I trust that this Karp is not indispensable to your organization?’ And our leader says, ‘Oh, he’s dispensable, is he ever dispensable! He’s a piece of Kleenex, the son of a bitch.’ Bango! Go directly to jail, Mr. Bloom. Shit, they’ll burn his license to practice law in Foley Square at high noon. And Roberts’s too. I love it!”
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