by Brian Wiprud
The wall behind me jolted me from near-sleep.
I was at the peephole a moment later.
The door to the first room was open, shadows of people moving around inside, but no voices.
A black woman and a Hispanic man soon came out and carefully closed the door behind them. They were both in FBI windbreakers that they were in a hurry to remove and push into shoulder bags before moving past my peephole and out of sight.
I got a good look at them. She had angular features, swept-back hair, and a crooked mouth. He had a heavy brow and frame, low hairline, not particularly tall.
I rubbed my jaw, trying to iron out this wrinkle. The Bureau hadn’t showed up to the party over Tito’s missing Cartier sparks. If the FBI were on to me, they had to be after the Britany-Swindol sparks, and the only way they would know I had them was if they first knew the Kurac had them. And if they knew the Serbs had them in New York, it most likely meant that they weren’t just spectators. They intended to intercept them and bust the Kurac. Probably at the point of sale to catch them red-handed. And then I came along and screwed up everybody’s plans. I wondered if Roberto knew about this, too, and decided to keep it to himself.
My brain did a flip, thinking about how much more complicated this made the mission. It was one thing to play cat and mouse with goons, and another with the Bureau. The FBI could stop an airplane on the runway, stop it from taking off, stop me from getting away. I had little doubt they had been listening in on everything the Kurac had said on their phones, maybe the Hong Kong friends too, and had a complete bio on Gill Underwood. They found my room because they had a tag on my credit card so that as soon as it was used they got an alert. The Kurac would be a step behind because they had to go through the Russians.
You might have thought that these syndicates would be as savvy as me about the phones, about not using them so freely. But they generally weren’t, at least not at that point; it wasn’t widely enough understood how sophisticated surveillance had become. Yet I’d had firsthand experience with the information that government data mining and SIGINT could provide. Believe it or not, and counter to their mandate and Title 50 of the United States Code that restricts spying on ordinary citizenry, the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA—between them—literally record everything that is said. Both over the phone and in many cases out in the open, by satellite. Everything texted or emailed is of course also stored and studied by software. This surveillance is of all U.S. citizens, and of course many, many people overseas, though I’m sure if you live in a yurt tending yaks or in a thatched hut collecting açai you may not be targeted. Whether an actual person actually listens, analyzes, and acts on what it recorded and the software flags is another matter. I don’t think they or the software care if you are cheating on your spouse or conducting shady business practices. Not yet, anyway.
Three adversaries might not seem that much worse than two, but mathematically it actually complicates the combinations of things to go wrong from four to nine permutations.
I sank down in front of the TV. On the screen was a telemarketer trying to sell a miracle rag.
Another movie flashed through my mind, another I didn’t know the name of. I saw a lot of them when I was at Portsmouth Medical cooling my heels. A gunslinger comes to a town split down the middle by two competing gangs, and this part I remember: the Rojos and the Baxters. The Rojos ambush a Mexican army payroll convoy and try to make it look like the Baxters did it. Meanwhile, our gunslinger joins both gangs without the other knowing; his loyalties are only his own. He plays one against the other so that the Baxters are destroyed. To make the Rojos show their hand, the gunslinger unearths a dead Mexican soldier who he positions outside of town as a survivor of the payroll heist and potential witness. While the Rojos ride out of town to dispatch this supposed witness, our gunslinger searches for and finds the gold. He is discovered and beaten, but escapes and recovers. When he returns to confront the Rojos, he has a steel plate hidden under his poncho, which freaks out the Rojo leader who only shoots for the heart, and is killed as a result. The gunslinger probably gets the gold, or some of it. I don’t remember.
I guess the reason that came to mind was because my odds would be improved if one of my adversaries were out of the picture. The Chinese had to stay because they were the only ones I had a remote chance of actually selling the Britany-Swindol sparks to and luring the Kurac into a confrontation. After the fiasco in the Weehawken tunnel, I was pretty sure the Chinese would have had enough theatrics and might meet. Ten million was a bargain, after all. If they didn’t make the drop, I could pull the plug and vanish. Regroup, maybe fly off and then come back for the sparks. Or just let the fire hose inspector have them. Fucket, the sparks and the mission weren’t worth my life. At least I hoped not.
Serbs would be in the game until the FBI took them out. Both were waiting for the sparks to show before they made a move. If one was in, so was the other.
If I was extremely lucky, the Chinese would show up at JFK just before the others. I had to plan for all three to make the scene, and use that to my advantage.
The wall behind me jarred, and I went back to the peephole.
One of the muscle-T Kuracs with snakeskin shoes was standing to one side of the open door to the other room. He was watching the hallway, one hand playing with an unlit cigarette.
I checked Tito’s watch. It had taken them about an hour and a half to locate me through my credit card swipe at the front desk. A little less for the FBI.
A moment later two Chinese in leather sport coats appeared at the end of the hallway and froze.
My mind immediately went to work on where I could hide so that the flying bullets wouldn’t tear through the walls and into me. Bathroom: the tile would help stop the bullets. Or I could curl up in the tub.
Vugovic was standing in the doorway to the other room, pointing at the Chinese.
“Get your boss, we need to talk.”
The Chinese pulled cell phones slowly from their belts while shrinking back around the corner, out of sight.
Vugovic turned back into the room, and I could hear the Kurac talking and rummaging around, stripping the sheets off the bed. I’m not sure what they hoped to find—I would have thought it seemed pretty obvious that I wasn’t in the room long enough to have left anything that would tell them where I was going next.
The two Chinese thugs appeared at the end of the hallway again. Two steps behind them was an older goon with black-framed, yellow-tinted glasses and a damaged complexion. They all had their hands in their jacket pockets. Slowly, chins up, they approached.
The Kurac guarding the door clucked his tongue, and Vugovic reappeared with a goon. It was good to get a closer look at Vugovic than before from the hill over the barn through binoculars. The streaked ponytail and close-cut hair to the sides looked the same, but from the peephole I could see that he had sort of a pinched, tucked-in jaw and bushy eyebrows over those flat, darting eyes. He looked like a major-league shitbag.
The Chinese stopped about ten feet back from Vugovic, the muscle parting so the boss could step forward.
“You have lost something, yes?” China Boss smiled, showing cruel teeth.
Vugovic cocked his head. “We will find what was misplaced.”
“Not in there.” China Boss pointed at the empty room. “Not at the beach. The search is not promising. For you.”
“We are getting closer, he is getting tired and sloppy. He took a taxi here. What of the girl?”
“Our arrangements with Mr. Underwood and his woman are our affair.”
“I was hoping we might combine resources.”
China Boss snorted. “Why are we talking?”
“Because I do not think it does either of us any good to have a shootout. If you try to make an exchange with Underwood, it is likely we will show up, you know this?”
A sh
rug and another scary smile was China Boss’s reply.
Vugovic kept trying. “If you recover the gems first, we can offer a finder’s fee, avoid bloodshed.”
China Boss’s eyes widened briefly, and then he shook his head. “We know how the Kurac honor their agreements. They do not. While it is unfortunate that you have misplaced your belongings, your clumsiness is your own affair. I suggest you do not confront us. You only have a handful of men here in the States. We will smother you like a pillow on a grandmother’s face. Then you lose the gems and your lives. Learn from your mistakes, Serbian. Go home, steal again. Just not from us.” He turned and passed back between his men, who held their ground until China Boss was around the corner. Then they drifted backward around the corner, too.
Vugovic said something in Serbian to no one in particular, and by the tone I didn’t need a translation. It may even have been Serbian for douchebag. What came through loud and clear was that he didn’t think much of the Chinese.
Vugovic and his goons closed the door to the other room and walked right past my peephole and down the hall.
What had I learned? Nothing I didn’t already suspect. JFK would likely turn into a gun battle. There was a good side to that, though. Confusion and mayhem make opponents slow to adjust to unexpected threats. Neither the Kurac nor the Chinese knew that the FBI was involved. Probably not, anyway.
It was another ten minutes before those two agents from the FBI showed up, went into the room, and came back out. My hunch was they’d left some sort of bug in there the first visit and had just come to retrieve it.
I fell back onto the bed, closed my eyes, and tried to think about taffy, tinkling ice, and my father’s piano playing.
Twenty-three
DCSNet 6000 Warrant Database
Transcript Cellular DCD
Peerless IP Network / Redhook Translation
Target: Loj Vugovic
Plaza Hotel Room / 13th Floor
Date: Monday, August 9, 2010
Time: 311–317 EDT
VUGOVIC: WE ARE GETTING CLOSER. THE SHOWER IS STILL WET. HE WAS HERE NO MORE THAN A HALF-HOUR AGO.
UNKNOWN: MAYBE HE IS STILL IN THE BUILDING. I WILL CALL DOWNSTAIRS TO THE MEN THERE TO WATCH THE DOOR CAREFULLY.
VUGOVIC: BAH. HE COULD BE ACROSS TOWN BY NOW, HE COULD BE ANYWHERE, SO REALLY WE ARE NO CLOSER. I SEE NO EVIDENCE OF THE GIRL. PERHAPS HE IS LEADING US AWAY FROM HER THE WAY A DUCK LEADS THE FOX AWAY FROM HER CHICKS.
UNKNOWN: PERHAPS SHE IS DEAD.
VUGOVIC: THAT COULD BE SO. I WOULD DEARLY LIKE TO DISCOVER HER SITUATION ONE WAY OR THE OTHER. WITHOUT HER HIS TACTICS WILL BE MORE TRANSPARENT.
UNKNOWN: HIS SHIRT STINKS.
VUGOVIC: LET ME SMELL. IT IS SOMETIMES IMPORTANT TO KNOW A MAN BY HIS SMELL.
UNKNOWN: HE STINKS, SO WHAT?
VUGOVIC: YOU ARE YOUNG. EXPERIENCE WILL TELL YOU HOW TO READ A MAN BY HIS SMELL. HAVE YOU EVER NOTICED THE PARTICULAR SMELL OF A MAN AS HE IS BEING INTERROGATED? OR WHEN HE IS NEAR DEATH? OR WHEN HE IS ABOUT TO FIGHT OVER A WOMAN?
UNKNOWN: NO.
VUGOVIC: USE ALL YOUR SENSES. IT COULD SAVE YOUR LIFE.
UNKNOWN: WHAT DOES HIS SMELL ON THE SHIRT TELL YOU?
VUGOVIC: HE IS NOT AS AFRAID AS HE SHOULD BE, YET HE IS VERY TENSE AND EATING MOSTLY SUGAR AND STARCH FOR ENERGY. A LACK OF PROTEIN WILL MAKE HIS MIND WEAK.
UNKNOWN: YOU CAN SMELL ALL THAT?
VUGOVIC: AND MORE. I DO NOT DETECT THE SMELL OF A MAN PROTECTING A WOMAN.
OTHER: [UNINTELLIGIBLE]
UNKNOWN: WHAT’S THAT? CHINESE? IN THE HALLWAY.
[UNINTELLIGIBLE]
[BACKGROUND SOUND]
VUGOVIC: LET US SEE IF THE CHINESE WILL BE REASONABLE AND WEAK WHEN THEIR BOSS ARRIVES. STRIP THE BED.
UNKNOWN: IT IS STILL MADE.
VUGOVIC: STRIP IT. YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU WILL FIND IF YOU DO NOT LOOK. I CAN SEE HE HAS CHANGED AT LEAST SOME OF HIS STINKING CLOTHES. NO LONGER ANY HAT.
UNKNOWN: THE CAB DRIVER SAID HE HAD WHITE HAIR.
VUGOVIC: YES, I COULD SMELL THE RESIDUE OF THE HAIR DYE IN THE SHOWER. SO HE IS NOW WITH WHITE HAIR, SAME PANTS, DIFFERENT SHIRT, NO HAT, PROBABLY WILL WEAR SUNGLASSES DURING THE DAY. IS THE WINDOW LOCKED?
UNKNOWN: LET ME SEE. YES. BUT WHERE WOULD HE GO OUT THERE?
VUGOVIC: HE GOT INTO THAT WORM’S APARTMENT TO STEAL OUR GEMS, DIDN’T HE? THIS SPIDER CRAWLS AROUND ON ROOFTOPS AND LEDGES WITH THE SAME EASE A DOG LICKS HIS BALLS. WHAT’S THIS IN THE SADDLE BAG?
UNKNOWN: I LOOKED. GUM WRAPPERS.
VUGOVIC: ALL OF THEM?
UNKNOWN: THEY SEEM TO BE ALL THE SAME.
VUGOVIC: IDIOT! DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A GUM WRAPPER?
UNKNOWN: LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING IS WRITTEN ON IT.
VUGOVIC: YES, IT DOES, DOESN’T IT? IT’S AN ADDRESS, IN MANHATTAN. DO YOU NOT SEE HOW YOUR INCOMPETENCE ALMOST LET THIS SLIP BY UNNOTICED? THIS COULD BE THE ADDRESS OF A MISTRESS OR CONCUBINE OR HOME OF A FRIEND WHERE HE INTENDS TO SLEEP.
OTHER: [UNINTELLIGIBLE]
UNKNOWN: CHINESE ARE BACK WITH A THIRD.
[UNINTELLIGIBLE]
[BACKGROUND NOISE]
[DOOR CLOSING]
*END*
SUCCESS IN WARFARE IS ACHIEVED BY ADOPTING THE ENEMY’S PURPOSE, AND BY STAYING CLOSE TO THE ENEMY’S FLANK. SUCCESS WILL IN TIME BE YOURS AT THE EXPENSE OF YOUR ENEMY IF YOU ACCOMPLISH THIS TWIN FEAT OF CUNNING.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Twenty-four
It was like I had blinked. One moment I was lying atop the bed and it was dark. The next moment I was in the exact same position and it was light. The window glowed with early sunlight. The alarm clock said 6:05. I’d slept a little over two hours.
At first consciousness, I assumed I was at my apartment, and that the previous day had not happened, that Trudy was at her apartment getting ready for a day of work at A1 Gold Coast Realtors. It was Monday and the Screen Man had a whole day’s worth of appointments. Sometimes we wake from a dream that seems so real that we have to force ourselves back to reality. It was only a dream, a nightmare, none of it happened. Then there are times when the reverse happens, when the nightmare is true, when you wake up in a hospital with no hands or upside down in an armored vehicle full of dead soldiers, and you have to force yourself to accept the new reality, that the simple life you had is no more.
It was made more chilling that morning by waking up in a strange room, the flood of Sunday’s events overwhelming me to the point where I wondered if I just stayed in bed and went back to sleep maybe I would wake up back in that other reality where the nightmare wasn’t true. Or maybe if I just lay there and didn’t move, the Chinese and the Kurac and the FBI would blow through like a storm. If I just stayed where I was I could wait it out and emerge into the sunshine a free man.
There was a crash in the hallway.
I jumped to my feet and checked the peephole. Across the way room service was picking up a dropped tray.
Showers—I couldn’t seem to get enough of them. I toweled off and dressed in the drab CVS shirt, the cargo pants, belly bag, straw trilby, and a large pair of sunglasses. As I exited the Plaza Hotel, a doorman in a stiff uniform bowed.
“Good morning, sir. Cab? Or are you out for breakfast?”
I was startled by the doorman’s booming voice as much as by the fact that he was so cheerful. He didn’t fit in with my new reality where everybody was trying to rip me off or kill me. When you consider my idiotic trilby hat, sunglasses, and shirt, it makes it even more surprising. Fucket: I looked like a douchebag. I guess when you pump twelve hundred dollars into a single night’s stay at a hotel the staff can afford to be cheerful. When I looked at the guy’s pink face and clear blue eyes, I realized he was just a guy, probably with a family and a small house in Queens, who liked going
through life being happy, who realized that having enough is actually good enough. I used to feel that way sometimes at the beach house. There was a lot of contentment to be had in enough. Nobody would ever hunt him down or plot how to vivisect him.
“Good morning. Don’t need a cab. I’m walking.” I smiled, but my eyes were scanning the sidewalks for any lingerers, any Kurac or Chinese or FBI who might have been camped out waiting for me. I didn’t see any. Maybe the storm had blown through.
“It’s going to be a nice day, sir, not too hot, though we may have a storm in the late afternoon. We have umbrellas if you like. Are you here on business?”
“Passing through.” The fountain in Grand Army Plaza gushed and cascaded before me, the smell of warm trees in the park tracing a light, undecided breeze. I walked down the steps and stopped, still looking.
“You don’t seem in a hurry. I can recommend an excellent place for breakfast if you like. Just that way, on 56th.”
“Do you eat there?”
He laughed. “No sir, on my salary I eat at the diner on Second Avenue. I would recommend that as well. But it’s a walk.”
The doorman’s obliviousness to my situation, and his simple notions about the importance of weather and breakfast, somehow made me feel more whole, like there would be a corner I would turn someday and I, too, would be normal again. He gave me hope.
“Thanks.”
“Enjoy your day and your stay.”
I walked two blocks east through Midtown’s canyon, checking my reflection in the store windows to make sure I wasn’t being followed. I wasn’t.