by Andrew Grant
I heard Robson coming in through the kitchen door thirty minutes later. He must already have been in the neighborhood when he received my text. He was carrying his backpack in one hand and, bless him, a carryout cup of strong black coffee in the other.
“We need to get a machine.” Robson handed me the drink. “Save me always having to fetch coffee for you. Stop you hogging my tea.”
“One day we will.” The truth is, I’d tried. I’d been to two different stores. But the choice of brands and systems was just too bewildering.
“I got this.” Robson pulled a bottle of wine out of his backpack. It was a Yellow Tail merlot. “What are we celebrating?”
“Nothing.” I set the bottle down on the countertop. “Yet. I’ll buy champagne when we do. I have something else in mind for this. Did you get everything else we need?”
“Piece of cake.” Robson took a featureless black box about the size of a paperback book out of his bag and held it up. “Cloned both computers, and was in and out within ten minutes. Those pressure pads were for amateurs. It was useful knowing about the long PIN, though.”
“Shall we see what we’ve got?”
“Sure.” Robson put the box on the table, then hustled upstairs. I took the wine bottle, put it in the sink, and ran enough water to cover its label. It had just reached a satisfactory level when Robson returned with his laptop. He sat, fired up the computer, connected the black box, and rattled a few keys.
“OK,” he said. “We’re in business. Want to start with Rooney’s?”
“Sounds good.” I sat and leaned across so that I could see the screen. “Check for anything about JD.”
Robson called up a search utility and let it run for a few seconds.
“No hits.” He pointed to a box that had opened in the center of the screen. “But look at this. It’s an exception report. There were three files it couldn’t scan. They’re all big. Password protected. I bet they’re encrypted, too. Forget the plain sight stuff. I’ll start with them.”
“Are you OK breaking into them? Harry’s in town, remember. He helped crack the security on that Azerbaijani data. It’s kind of his thing. I could reach out to him.”
“Harry’s creepy. Let me see how it goes. If I can’t do it in a couple of hours, then maybe we’ll call him. Meanwhile, I’m taking this upstairs. I need to focus.”
“Stay down here, if you want.” I crossed to the sink. “I just need two minutes to deal with the wine, then I’m heading out for a while. Let me know if anything breaks.”
I took the bottle out of the sink and tested its label. The edge gave way easily enough, so I continued to pull and managed to peel the whole thing off in one neat piece. I stripped off the plastic collar. Took a hunk of wire wool from under the sink and scrubbed the glass to take the shine off its surface, paying a little extra attention to the base and neck. Then I ran down to the basement and poked around until I found a nail. I brought it back up. Scratched Th J in my best flowing script into the side of the bottle, an inch from the bottom. I took a cup. Filled it with tea from Robson’s pitcher in the fridge. Dipped the bottle into it, upside down, so that the cork absorbed some of the liquid and lost its pale new sheen. I poured the last of the coffee Robson had brought me over the bottle itself and rubbed in the dregs so that the scratches and scuffs didn’t look so recently made. Then I set it back down to dry and fetched an aluminum Halliburton attaché case that was left over from a sting we’d recently pulled on a particularly obnoxious financier. I put the bottle inside. Left the house. Zigzagged northeast, crossing 11th and 10th Streets. And finally turned north on 9th and followed it the rest of the way up to 57th Street.
* * *
—
Over the years, humint—human intelligence—has been in fashion in military circles. It’s fallen out of fashion. It’s come back in. Over and over the cycle has repeated itself. But for me, there’s never been a debate. I don’t care how cheap online resources can be. It doesn’t matter how good at number-crunching computers are. Some things just need to be seen through human eyes. Preferably your own, or someone’s you trust. Other things need to be heard by human ears. Filtered through a brain, not a microprocessor. Tested by instincts, not spreadsheets. Jimmy Klinsman was a case in point. I needed to get a proper feel for the guy. See him from all sides, like the punk from our video exercise. Currently, based on the information I’d been given, I was badly disposed to him. I could imagine all kinds of unfortunate things happening. But if it turned out he’d needed the money he made by shorting those shares to fund a private orphanage, or to sponsor clean water for some underprivileged community, or to shelter refugees, or to save an endangered species, maybe my mind could be changed. Which is why my next step needed to be to see inside his home. He had several of them. And the one nearest to Hell’s Kitchen, according to the court files, was at 157 57th Street—or One57, as the marketing material billed it. The building was one of the first “super high-rises” on so-called Billionaires’ Row. I heard that a single unit had sold for north of $100m. That didn’t endear the place to me. But due to its proximity it did make sense to start there.
The first order of business was to determine if Klinsman was in.
I knew I was getting close to the building as I headed east on 57th and saw a cluster of S-Class Mercedes and Suburbans lined up at the curb. They were all black. All shiny. All had extra-dark privacy glass. Together they looked menacing, like a pack of predators. I approached on the south side of the street and glanced up at the building. I’d heard it was supposed to look like a waterfall, though I’d never understood why anyone would think that was appropriate in the center of Manhattan. To me the curving top, swooping through ninety degrees from vertical to horizontal, was more reminiscent of an expressionless robot from a ’50s sci-fi movie.
As I drew closer, despite the height, I had to admit that the undulating stripes of silver and various shades of blue did seem to cascade down rather than soar up. The silver bands were the most prominent, plummeting down to the base of the second floor, then jutting out parallel to the sidewalk to form canopies like frozen waves. The entrance to the building’s hotel was on the right, and was five sections wide. The residences’ entrance, flanked by a jewelry store and a gallery with a single abstract exhibit, had three. Its pair of topiaried trees—all spindly trunks and branches with leaves shaped into pom-poms like floral versions of show poodles—was also smaller than the hotel’s. I guess the designer had been aiming for an air of discretion. I thought it just looked cheap. The residences did have one feature the hotel lacked, though—a pair of security guards in gray suits and ties with white curly wires running ostentatiously from their jacket pockets to their ears.
I paced myself so that I’d remain alongside a tourist bus and then cut across the street in line with one of the Suburbans. I stayed in its shelter, helped by the darkness of its glass, and kept low until I reached the driver’s door. Then I stood up straight, strode around the hood, and marched directly toward the entrance to the residences. The key in that type of situation is confidence. To project an air of absolute certainty that you’re going to walk straight in, as if the possibility of being stopped didn’t exist. Carrying a six-hundred-dollar briefcase into a place like that helped, too. Although if I’d been in the guards’ shoes, I’d have been wondering what kind of weapon was hidden in it.
My bluff worked. The first guard stepped to the side while the second opened the door for me and gestured toward the doorman’s station. It was set all the way back on the right-hand side of the lobby. The entire thing was constructed out of black marble with bold white veins—the counter, the walls, and a lowered ceiling. The lighting was subdued and the doorman himself was dressed all in black, giving a disconcerting impression of a disembodied head hovering in a box. The only other thing to catch the eye was a porcelain vase at the far end of the counter, holding a single white lily.
/> I paused when I drew level with the guy. “I’m here to see Mr. Klinsman. I have a delivery for him. Something special.” I nodded to the doors at the side of the gold pipes. “Will you let him know I’m on my way up?”
“Hold it.” The doorman reached under the counter. Stretching for a panic button? A gun? “You must have the wrong building. There’s no Mr. Klinsman living here.”
“Sure there is.” I smiled. “He’s in suite 8001, on the eightieth floor. I’ve been before. Half a dozen times. You don’t recognize me?”
“If you’ve been here before, you’ll know our residents take their privacy very seriously.” The guy was unbearably smug. “You’ll know you can’t go up unless your name’s on the list of pre-authorized visitors.” He took a piece of paper from a shelf beneath the counter and pretended to look at it. “Mr. Klinsman hasn’t listed anyone for today.”
“I might not be on your list, but I’m definitely authorized. Mr. Klinsman told me what he wants. He gave me a list. He said I was to come by the second I found anything on it. Which is what I’m doing. Only, I haven’t found anything. I’ve found his top entry. I’m giving him first shot, due to the prior business we’ve done together. You know about his collection, right? It’s legendary. Only about four bottles short of epic. Which is why he’s so desperate for what I’ve got in this case. Trust me, if he doesn’t snatch it out of my hand, someone else will. There’s no way I can keep this baby under wraps. And if Mr. Klinsman misses out…”
The doorman shuffled on the spot and ran his fingers through his hair, but he didn’t speak.
“OK.” I nodded resignedly. “I’ll show you. But don’t tell anyone you’ve seen this.” I laid the case on the counter and worked its combination. Then I took out the bottle and set it down like it might break if anyone breathed on it too hard. “Here. Look at this. Do you know what it is?”
“A bottle of wine?”
I rolled my eyes and snorted. “No. Not a bottle. The bottle.” I lowered my voice. “The last remaining bottle of Chateau Margaux 1787 in the world.”
The doorman looked blank.
“This wine? Think of it as the holy grail, only in liquid form. Only rarer than that. Do you know where it came from?”
“France?”
“Well, obviously. But where, specifically, in France? And how did it come to the United States?”
“I’m going to guess, a vineyard? And a ship?”
I shook my head and looked away for a moment. “It came from Thomas Jefferson’s personal cellar. Look.” I pointed to the initials I’d scratched into the glass. “Jefferson’s personal mark. His handwriting. Which means that not only is the wine inside the bottle unbelievably rare, so’s the bottle. It was touched by Jefferson himself.”
The doorman shrugged.
“You know who Thomas Jefferson was, right? Third president? Founding Father?”
“Of course I do.”
“Good. But did you know as well as those things, he was once US ambassador to France? And while he was in Paris, he built up the most amazing collection of wine. He had exceptional taste. But because this was so long ago, it was thought that there was none of this particular kind left. Do you know who drank the last bottle?”
The doorman shook his head.
“No one drank it. The guy who owned it wanted to. He was going to. The wine was so special and so rare that the guy arranged for a private dinner at the Four Seasons. The bottle was the star of the evening. It was given pride of place at the center of the table. The sommelier opened it, so it could breathe. But before it could be poured, a waiter knocked it over. It broke. The wine gushed out all over the floor. It was an utter disaster. The guy sued the restaurant. They had to claim it on their insurance. And do you know how much was paid out in the end?”
The doorman shook his head again.
“The guy sued for $500,000. He got $225,000. That’s what the insurance company said that bottle was worth then. This bottle’s worth way more now. There’s inflation to take into account. And the rarity factor. It’s literally a once-in-a-lifetime ownership opportunity. Buyers will be lining up for it as soon as they know it exists. Do you think Mr. Klinsman would be happy to lose out?”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t.” The doorman crossed his arms. “But I still can’t let you go up, if you’re not on the list.”
“OK.” I held up my hands. “Rules. I get it. But I’m trying to do the right thing by a very important client, here. How about you call him? Explain the situation. Be sure to say, ‘Chateaux Margaux. 1787.’ The date’s important. See what he wants to do.”
“I can’t do that, either.” The doorman shook his head. “It’s against the rules as well.”
“Again with the rules!” I took a deep breath. “Look. These are exceptional circumstances.” I pointed to the initials again. “Thomas Jefferson. The guy who deprived the last owner of one of these bottles from enjoying the wine—the waiter—got fired. He never worked in New York again. What do you think would happen to you if you deprive Mr. Klinsman? I’m telling you, that’s a story that won’t end well. Unless you’re harboring a secret desire to work on the door at the only brick structure in Ulaanbaatar.”
“All right. I’ll call. What’s your name?”
“McGarry. Paul McGarry.”
The doorman took a slim cordless handset from its cradle under the counter. He called up a number from its memory. Hit Dial. Listened for a few moments. Then hung up, looked at me, and shook his head. “You’re not going to believe this. It went straight to voicemail. Mr. Klinsman’s message says he’s in England on business until next week.”
“Wait a minute. Was that his regular number you called? His work cell?”
“I guess.”
“Well, how does that help me?” I slapped my forehead with my palm. “I could have called that one myself. Try his other number.”
“What other number?”
“His unlisted number. Oh, come on.” I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly. “We both know that guys like Mr. Klinsman always have a separate personal phone. In case there’s anything discreet or under the radar he needs to know about. Say, his mother shows up and he has an apartment full of hookers. Or his dealer swings by with a fresh batch of fishscale. I know you have it. He knows you have it. What happens if this deal slips through his fingers and you didn’t even try to call?”
The doorman sighed, snatched the handset back up, and dialed a number manually. I shifted closer to him. For a moment I couldn’t hear anything. Then I picked up the sound of a double ring. The phone was connected to a network in a place with a different tone. A place like the UK. The call rang eight more times, then tripped through to its mailbox. “This is the Jester. Leave a message, and I probably won’t get back you.” The doorman hung up.
I put the bottle back in the case, closed it, and spun its locks. “Well, then. Now we know. It’s his loss. Thanks for trying.”
“Wait, you’re going?” The doorman stepped closer to the counter. “Hold up. At least leave the bottle with me.”
“Are you joking? I’ll have gotten rid of it by the end of the afternoon.”
“But Mr. Klinsman?”
I shrugged. “Klinsman snost and lost. Or whatever the international business traveler equivalent is. He can cry me a river.”
“He won’t be happy.”
“Don’t tell him, then.”
I read a story about One57 in a magazine at an airport in Dubai shortly after the plans for the building were announced. It was more of a puff piece than a serious article, and one of the claims it made was that the residences on the higher floors and the Park Hyatt hotel lower down would be completely physically separate. I remember thinking that sounded like bullshit. Management wouldn’t want an arrangement like that. The maintenance guys wouldn’t. And the emergency services would definit
ely be against it. The only people with an interest in spreading a perception like that were in sales and marketing, as they tried to extract every last dollar from the deep pockets of their privacy-conscious clientele. Back then I’d wondered if that view made me cynical. Now it was time to see if I was right.
I made my way across to Seventh Avenue, walked one block north to 58th Street, then looped around until I found the loading dock for the Park Hyatt. I climbed up onto the concrete slab, found a path through the storage area, and followed the sound of voices. They were coming from behind a door marked Auxiliary Plant Room. I knocked and a sudden silence descended. I tried the door. It opened with a piercing shriek from its hinges, and inside the room I saw four stocky guys in overalls playing cards around a table fashioned out of upturned milk crates and a Store to Let sign from a commercial real estate agent. There were a dozen carryout cups on the table, with lids. It could have been coffee in them, I thought. Or it could have been something else.
“Excuse me, fellas. Sorry to interrupt your game.” I pulled out a business card I’d pinched from Rooney’s office and handed it to the nearest of the guys. “I’m here to check the security door between the hotel and the apartments. Someone reported faulty contacts. It’s probably nothing, but a thing like that, I’ve got to check. No one wants an alarm going off in the middle of the night.”
The guy I’d given the card to glanced at my aluminum case and nodded. “You need the service elevator. Go right, right again, then all the way to the end of the corridor. You’ll see twenty-five buttons set out in a square. Two basements. Twenty-one guest floors. And two that are blank, like spares just filling the space. Hit the one on the right and hold it for ten seconds. Then it’ll take you where you need to go. Only, you’ll come out in a kind of closet. It’ll be locked. You’ll need a key to get through to the apartment side, so you’ll have to go see Pablo and sign one out. He’s our supervisor. But do us a favor? Don’t tell him you saw us.”