The Clause
Page 14
INVESTIGATIVE DATA WAREHOUSE
SPT SUBSYSTEM
SSA EMPLOYMENT BIO:
UNDERWOOD, GILL # 842-00-1010 DOB AUGUST 23, 1971, BETHESDA, MD
1987—1989 RITEWAY VOLKSWAGEN REPAIR, CLIFTON, NJ
1989—1993 MOUNTAIN SPORTS, MADISON, NJ
1989—1993 FAIRLEIGH DICKINSON UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, MADISON, NJ
1993—2004 US NAVY, WASHINGTON, DC
2004—2005 MANHATTAN WINDOW CLEANING, NEW YORK, NY
2005 *DECEASED*
SSA EMPLOYMENT BIO:
ELWELL, TRUDY # 078-05-1120 DOB MARCH 17, 1974, SCARSDALE, NY
1987—1991 FICAS INDUSTRIES, WHITE PLAINS, NY
1992—2004 US NAVY, WASHINGTON, DC
2005—2010 A1 GOLD COAST REALTORS, FORT LEE, NJ
Thirty-two
DCSNet 6000 Warrant Database
Transcript Cell Phone Track and Trace
Peerless IP Network / Redhook Translation
Target: Tito Raykovic
Date: Monday, August 9, 2010
Time: 1206–1207 EDT
TITO: IDI?
IDI: WHAT IS IT?
TITO: YOU HAVE NOT BEEN HOME SINCE SATURDAY NIGHT.
IDI: I KNOW.
TITO: [UNINTELLIGIBLE] WHAT AM I TO THINK?
IDI: I NEED SOME TIME TO MYSELF, THAT’S ALL.
TITO: WHERE ARE YOU?
IDI: AT A VERY NICE HOTEL IN MANHATTAN.
TITO: IN MANHATTAN?
IDI: OF COURSE.
TITO: MOTHER OF GOD, HOW MUCH IS THAT COSTING ME A NIGHT?
IDI: YOU’RE NOT PAYING FOR IT.
TITO: WHO IS?
IDI: MR. SPIKIC WAS KIND ENOUGH TO GET ME A ROOM. IT HAS BEEN QUITE AN ORDEAL TO HAVE MY THINGS PAWED THROUGH BY STRANGERS, TO HAVE HAD ALL MY JEWELRY STOLEN.
TITO: WHY DON’T YOU COME HOME?
IDI: I LIKE IT HERE. I WILL COME HOME WHEN I FEEL LIKE IT.
TITO: ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH THIS MAN?
IDI: HE IS A GENTLEMAN. HE KNOWS HOW TO TREAT A LADY AND DOESN’T YELL AT ME ABOUT MONEY BECAUSE, UNLIKE YOU, HE HAS IT.
TITO: I AM TRYING NOT TO BE ANGRY. I AM TRYING NOT TO BE JEALOUS. YOU ARE MY WIFE AND I WOULD LIKE YOU TO COME HOME. IT IS NOT RIGHT FOR YOU TO BE STAYING AT A HOTEL THAT ANOTHER MAN PAYS FOR.
IDI: IT WAS NOT RIGHT TO HAVE BEEN ROBBED, IT WAS NOT RIGHT TO HAVE A CARELESS HUSBAND. IT WAS NOT RIGHT THAT—
TITO: I AM COMING TO GET YOU!
IDI: [LAUGHTER] SO YOU THINK YOU ARE MAN ENOUGH TO GO UP AGAINST DRAGAN? HM? HELLO? IDIOT HUNG UP ON ME, JUST [UNINTELLIGIBLE]
*END.*
Thirty-three
I took the crosstown shuttle to Times Square and switched trains to the Downtown 1 train to 23rd Street. I walked toward the Toyota, stopping briefly for a slice of pizza and a Pepsi. At the car I lit up Phone #3 for the first time and called directory assistance. It took me a little squabbling with the operator, but I found a messenger service on 8th near 23rd Street. At a CVS on the corner I looked for a box of some kind. Didn’t have to be anything special, just had to have a little weight. I settled on a boxed set of old-fashioned glasses. I also bought a gift bag and a fancy bow. When I was done it looked like a birthday present. Forgot the card, but I think the message I was sending was clear enough without it.
I walked into Chelsea Messengers. “Hi.”
The Middle Eastern guy at the counter smiled. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. See, I need this delivered to a special friend at four o’clock, at the Banana Republic at Grand Central. It’s his birthday. I’d take it, but I have to catch a flight.”
“Certainly. Do you have an account?”
“No. I have a credit card, but I just sold my car and I’m trying to unload cash. Is that all right?”
“Certainly.” He slid a form in front of me.
I filled it out, handed him the gift and a hundred dollar bill.
He scrutinized the form. “Vugovic?”
“Yes. Deliver to Vugovic at the returns counter at Banana Republic at four. He works there.”
“We need a last name.”
“He only has one. He’s Serbian.”
“They only have one name?”
I shrugged. “Weird, huh?”
He handed me my change and said, “Have a nice day.”
“You too.”
Back at the car I used Phone #3 to call directory assistance for western New Jersey, out in the sticks near Pennsylvania.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Gill Underwood.”
“Jesus. Gill Underwood. Well, how the hell are ya, Gill? I haven’t seen you since Portsmouth Medical.”
“I know, it’s been awhile. This is sort of out of the blue.”
“Man. So how you been?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Whoa. What’s up? You having relapse?”
“Sort of.”
“Have you been going to therapy?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been with Trudy.”
“Trudy Elwell? From IPT?”
“Yup, same Trudy.”
“Holy shit. No kidding. Tell her I said hi.”
“Can I come out for a visit, Larry? I need to talk.”
“You mean right now?”
“Yeah, right now. I can be there in an hour or so, depending on the traffic.”
“You okay to drive, Gill?”
“Yes. I haven’t been drinking, no drugs or anything.”
“I’ll have to move a few things around. I refinish furniture now—funny, huh? Ordinance disposal to woodworking. I know, I know, woodworking is what I chose for interpersonal therapy, but I found I liked it. Sanding and scraping wood is like grinding all the shit out of my brains. What about you? Hell, you’re not a jewel thief or anything, are you? Ha! I sometimes thought about you and that whole role-transition thing with you as a jewel thief.”
“Got directions?”
“Sure, come west on I-80, head north on Route 15 to 206, make a left at Fratelli’s Italian toward Dingman’s Ferry Bridge. In Layton, make a right at the old red schoolhouse, and I’m all the way at the end by the creek with the green pickup.”
“Leaving now.”
“Well, it’s good to hear your voice, Gill, and I look forward to seeing you. I hope I can help.”
“You told me to call anytime, for any reason.”
“Ha! That sounds like something I might say. But I meant it. We go back, and that was hard stuff we did. See you soon.”
As you drive west on I-80, the housing developments thin a little though the shopping malls don’t thin much at all, at least up until you veer off and north on Route 15, where New Jersey gradually becomes hilly and densely wooded. Trudy and I once did a picnic hike into the hilltops of Stokes State Forest, which open up to sweeping valley views. To the north, you see the Delaware River Valley and the Catskills and Kittatinny Range. To the south, you see woodland diced with occasional farms all the way to the Watch-
ung Range, I-80 and a less wild corridor leading back to the city. We saw a bear that day, with her cubs, angling through a blueberry hollow. The mom didn’t look at us, just lifted her nose over her shoulder to give us a sniff as she retreated, the cubs bounding in front of her. That was a good day. A jillion years ago.
When I saw the park entrance on my right, I pulled in, paid the entrance fee, and wound around the curves of the forested road toward the overlook. Every mile or so there’s a pull-out for a trailhead. Where trees thinned, glimpses of the scenic view flashed until the road split and I drove right up a steep road to a parking lot. Only one other car was there. Monday midday in August wasn’t that popular a time for Stokes State Forest, I guessed.
<
br /> It is only a short walk along a well-worn path to the view. The pavilion there looks like a log cabin without any walls, its timbers carved with the names of countless visitors. The summer skies were hazy, not as they’d been in the fall when Trudy and I were there, but you could still make out the Catskills, and the cut of the Delaware Valley. Other people there were on a bench, a middle-aged couple curled up like teenagers. I wondered if they were married, or if they were cheating.
A warm breeze rose from the valley floor, and buzzards skated and roller-coastered on the thermals across the face of the escarpment.
A path led down to a more secluded spot, to a bench and a view off to the southeast. I hiked down and took a seat.
The smell of warm pine and goldenrod washed over me, as did the touch of Trudy’s hand to my face.
“I’m sorry, Gill.”
“I know, sugar, I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
It wasn’t her fault she was dead—it was mine.
My vision swam, and not just with tears; my breathing was rapid and I couldn’t seem to get enough air. My hands trembled when I held them out, and when I tried to stand I lost my balance and lurched toward the edge of the cliff. I fell to my side at the ledge, and kicked my feet to push myself away from tipping over into a seven-hundred-foot tumble. The world was darkening, shadows of the buzzards plunging me into darkness, the sound of their wings crackling on the thermals like death’s snicker, laughing not because I was going to die, but because I was going to live. Because I was going to be the one to survive. Again. I smelled diesel fuel leaking from the upturned transport. A dim shaft of sunlight. Lifeless soldiers bundled in gear. The clutter of guns and ammunition and binoculars and maps.
Cupping my hands over my mouth, I restricted the air to my lungs, and crawled on my elbows and knees back to the bench. I had to stop hyperventilating. I had to stop the panic attack. I focused on being a child in bed by the night-light, the sound of my parents downstairs, the murmur of their voices, the tinkle of ice, a piano and a whiff of tobacco.
“Whoa! Buddy, you okay?”
There was a hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t answer.
“Let’s get him up.”
“He could be injured, we might hurt him.” It was a woman’s voice.
“I don’t see any blood, and we saw him walk down here. I think he’s having a seizure or something. He could roll right off that edge. Help me.”
I felt myself being dragged, and when I opened my eyes the people standing over me were the couple from the bench.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I will be.”
“Should we call you an EMT?” he asked.
“No, it’s passing.”
“Are you epileptic?” she asked. “You shouldn’t come to places like this if you’re epileptic. You could have a fit and fall right off.”
I took my hands away from my mouth and breathed deep and long through my mouth. A vulture was eyeing me from a nearby tree. The couple was just as intent, and so I tried a smile. “Thank you for helping me. I’m not sure what happened. Memories. Too many all at once.”
“Let us drive you to the hospital,” she said.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“If you’d walk me back to my car that would be a big help. I need to shake it off. There’s nothing they can do for me at a hospital.”
I stood and they took my arms.
“Is it mental?” she asked.
We turned and began the climb back to the pavilion.
“Honey, you can’t ask the man that.”
“He as much as said so.”
“Yes, it’s mental,” I said. “But it comes and goes, hasn’t happened in a long time. I’ll be all right, and fine to drive.”
“Are you sure?”
Back at the car I did some deep knee bends and breathing exercises. “Thanks again for helping me.”
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Stay away from high places for a while,” she said.
“Honey, you can’t tell a man what to do. He knows he almost died.”
“I can’t very well let him drive off and then fall off some other cliff, can I?”
I opened the car door. “Thanks again. You were both very nice to help like that. A lot of people wouldn’t have, and I hope I didn’t ruin your day.”
“Go see a doctor,” she said.
He rolled his eyes and led her toward their car.
THE ABLE WARRIORS OF OLD FIRST SITUATED THEMSELVES BEYOND THE POSSIBILITY OF DEFEAT, AND THEN WAITED FOR AN OPPORTUNITY OF DEFEATING THE ENEMY. TO SECURE AGAINST DEFEAT IS IN YOUR POWER, BUT THE OPPORTUNITY OF DEFEATING THE ENEMY IS PROVIDED BY THE ENEMY HIMSELF. THUS THE ABLE WARRIOR IS ABLE TO SECURE HIMSELF AGAINST DEFEAT,
BUT CANNOT MAKE CERTAIN OF DEFEATING THE ENEMY. THUS IT IS SAID: ONE MAY KNOW HOW TO CONQUER WITHOUT BEING ABLE TO DO IT.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Thirty-four
Layton is just an auto mechanic, a post office, a deli, and a bar.
I followed the directions and turned at the schoolhouse, and after the last turn the road turned into gravel that got thinner and thinner until finally a white clapboard house with porch and large barn appeared between the trees. In coveralls, Larry was out front, a yellow mutt hard by his side, a shotgun tucked under one arm lazily.
We both registered surprise—me over his long beard and him over my white hair.
I parked at a worn spot by the barn and got out.
“Larry, have you gone native or what?”
His cheeks went rosy—he was the kind of guy who blushed all the time. Larry lost his hands back in Kuwait, replaced with articulated hooks. He extended one, and I shook it, and he pulled me in for a bear hug.
“Look who’s talking! What’s with the white hair? Lost weight. You look like Billy Idol or something. I hardly recognize you.”
“Long story. What’s with the shotgun?”
“It goes with the beard and overalls, don’t you think?”
“Let’s not forget the dog.”
“That’s my bitch, Marianna.”
The dog panted lazily, with the kind of sleepy contentment you only seem to see in farm dogs.
Larry cocked an eye at me. “Let me show you around.”
The barn was a fully fitted workshop with an array of antiques—dressers, rockers, bureaus, highboys, lowboys, end tables—in various states of repair. There was a dust-free room for drying final finishes, and another that was an office strewn with invoices and empty coffee cups. A small stream ran behind the house and barn, and he’d built a bridge over it to a small clearing and a bench. Sun dappled a gravestone in the middle of the grass clearing. The engraving read: All the Shit That Doesn’t Matter.
I smiled at the gravestone. “Nice.”
“This is my place, this is where I come to re-center myself.” He sank into the bench, Marianna flopping down in the grass next to him. “So what shit matters to you, Gill?”
I settled in next to him, my jaw tightening.
“Okay if I open up here a minute?”
“That’s why you came, that’s why I waited.”
“Here it is in a nutshell. I’m a jewel thief, and so was Trudy. We stole from Gold Coast high-rise apartments from people who flashed it around, you know, not only the gems but the cars, the furs, all that. Not a justification, but these people wouldn’t know what that gravestone meant. Maybe there was a little revenge in it, I’m not sure. You know, getting back at all the people who create that shit that doesn’t matter.”
“Wow, that’s kinda cool, even if it may not have been the most healthy life. You said you are or were a jewel thief?”
I leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the grass.
“I’m not sure what I am now.”
“And Trudy?”
“She died.”
“When?”
“Night before last. In my arms. Shot. During an operation.”
“Damn. As we used to say in the service, life really sucks sometimes. Gill. I am so sorry.”
I couldn’t speak for another five minutes, so lit a Winston. Larry began to hum a slow version of “Amazing Grace.” I could hear him slowly flexing his hooks. But he stopped when I spoke again.
“There’s a lot to regret, and a lot of healing that I need to do. But I have something to do before I can start that.”
“You want to stay here for a while?”
“I have to accomplish something.”
“No, I don’t think you do, Gill. Revenge isn’t the answer.”
“It isn’t revenge. I need to know she didn’t die for nothing.”
“So what is it you have in mind?”
“This operation: we stole from the wrong people, by accident.”
Larry leaned forward. “Which wrong people? Not the Russians.”
“Worse.”
“The Serbs?”
“Yup.”
“Woo boy.” He leaned back again. “I assume you’ve been very tactical?”
“I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t draw them here. In fact, I’d already be chopped up if I hadn’t been careful, especially with the phones. I’ve been using prepaids. They have a hard time listening to those, and I turn them off so they can’t ping them. I’ve been on the move almost constantly.”
“If anybody can stay a step ahead, I guess it would be you. How much you steal?”
“There’s about a hundred and fifty’s worth.”
“Thousand?”
“Million.”
“Million? Holy cow. That’s too much, Gill. The goons will go apeshit and do anything to get that stuff back. Just walk away. Get out of here.”
“I thought about that option, believe me. But I’ve got to complete the operation. I can’t let it end in failure and death.”
“Operation? That sounds like spook speak, must have picked that up from those CIA types you worked with.”