by John Lansing
“I think they’re going to make themselves scarce for the immediate future. They don’t want anything that can tie them to the Bella Fortuna. I wonder where they went to get Rusty stitched up.”
“Speaking of which, how are you feeling?”
“My arms are longer, my back’s screaming for retribution, I’m happy to be alive, and I have you and Mateo to thank for that. Oh, and I want to exact revenge.”
“The bullet to Rusty’s leg didn’t do it for you?”
“It was a good start. Back to you . . . how are you doing? You handled the situation like a pro, but when the high wears off, you’ve got to live with yourself.”
“So, here’s the deal,” Cruz said. “I feel pretty good. I don’t want to make a habit of having to save your ass”—eliciting a grin from Jack—“but all in all, we pulled it off. I felt like I was tested again and passed.”
“With flying colors. I’ll do what I can to lighten your load, but I was more than happy to see you arrive on-scene. And great entrance line—thinking on your feet—nobody knew what to make of you, and damn if you didn’t show them what you were made of.”
Cruz couldn’t keep a smile from splitting his face. “Thanks, man. So, here’s what I’ve got. I was able to trace Roxy and Trent’s Uber van off of the date, time of drop-off, and license number from your notes. It took some fast talking—”
“Which you’re a pro at.”
“But I got the Uber driver on the phone, and he agreed to check his records.”
“Okay?”
Cruz glanced at his yellow pad. “He picked up Trent and Roxy from an Enterprise rental agency on Venice, near Motor. I called, gave them the plate number and make I pulled off the digital tape from Oakland, and reserved the same Ford Explorer. If they didn’t clean the GPS, and there’s no reason to think they would, I should make short work of hacking the system, and we’ll have their itinerary locked down.”
“Let’s head over.”
Cruz fist-bumped Jack and was first off the cabin cruiser. Jack followed in his wake, feeling a sense of pride at witnessing his young associate’s newly found swagger.
* * *
The Musso & Frank Grill was the oldest restaurant in Hollywood. It had been catering to the showbiz elite since 1919, and some of the waiters in their red tux jackets with black satin lapels and bow ties had been serving meals for thirty years.
It was why Sukarno Lei loved the place. He’d grown up on one of the two thousand islands that comprised Indonesia. His father was a white-collar worker who had provided the bare necessities, which included a public school education.
Young Sukarno’s favorite recreation had been watching black-and-white Hollywood classics from the thirties and forties on a battered television set with tinfoil rabbit ears. The movies allowed the boy to spin dreams and escape into a glamorous world outside of his poor upbringing. Musso’s was one of the last L.A. restaurants that kept the vibe alive.
Sukarno was ushered to a large red leather booth in the center of the smaller dining room and ordered a Grey Goose martini, dry. The walls and accent pieces around the booths were cut from dark mahogany and hammered home the old-world feel. Sukarno always requested the same booth because it offered privacy and the off chance of seeing the occasional star.
What he didn’t see was Mateo walking in behind a party of four and grabbing a central stool at the well-stocked bar, where lunch could also be had. He was dressed in high-end workout clothes, a thick gold chain, and dark Persol glasses; his dark hair was gelled and pulled back tight against his scalp. He looked like a Hollywood hipster and not Mateo Vasquez.
A large beveled mirror hung behind the bar and made the room appear larger. It also allowed Mateo to capture photos with his iPhone of people sitting in the booths against the back wall, directly behind him, in the mirror’s reflection.
Sukarno’s drink arrived at the same time as his lunch partner, who slid into the side of the booth opposite Sukarno like a snake. The round lenses in Gregory’s sunglasses were darker than his heart, and if asked to describe him, most people would draw a blank. Dark hair, darkish skin, no personal identifiers, an everyman.
There was no standing on ceremony, no warm hello; Sukarno was doing business with a stone-cold killer, and the less said the better. The less the shadow broker knew about his personal life, the more likely Sukarno was to come out of this experience alive. Alive and enriched.
Gregory was a man who could ransom a government and live to make another deal with the same country. He was known, respected, and feared in certain circles of the underworld and only took on multimillion-dollar contracts. He was already collecting a hefty retainer, Sukarno knew, because he was light two hundred K just for Gregory taking the meeting.
“You like chicken potpies? It’s potpie Thursday,” Sukarno said.
“No.”
“So get the steak or the lamb chops.”
Gregory nodded.
“You want a cocktail?”
“No.”
“Iced tea’s good here.” Sukarno took a sip of his chilled vodka while Gregory looked at the menu.
Mateo ordered the prime rib sandwich, and when the bartender walked to the end of the bar to place the order, Mateo snapped a few digital shots of Sukarno’s booth and then checked to see what he’d captured. Sukarno’s guest kept his head tilted down as if he felt the presence of a security camera and didn’t want a digital record of his existence.
As the waiter who’d taken their order walked away from the men’s booth, Mateo went to work snapping pictures as if interested in the restaurant’s architecture, until he had a series of shots that might provide a positive ID.
Sukarno started with the Caesar salad with extra anchovies, then the potpie. Gregory ordered a dozen oysters and the lamb chops, rare. They polished off their main courses, and when the coffee was poured, Sukarno pushed an iPad across the table and hit Play. The noise in the dining room had taken on a feverish pitch with the overbooked lunch crowd and became the silent movie’s sound track.
The digital film that Sukarno had edited was the underwater GoPro footage Trent had shot at the nuclear waste depository, and his harvesting of the spent nuclear fuel rods. The next sequence was shot on dry land and featured the assembly of the two dirty bombs. No faces were shown, nothing site-specific, nothing that could be traced back to the team.
In all of sixty seconds Gregory could see that Sukarno had delivered as promised.
On Gregory’s “We’re good,” the deal was struck, and the clock was ticking.
Mateo shot pictures as Gregory slid the iPad across the table and Sukarno gave his new partner a flash drive with the damning footage.
Gregory would deliver the footage to the television networks and the Chinese conglomerate he would be negotiating with.
When the hundred million was wired and the Bitcoins dropped, they would divert to the men’s Bitcoin wallets, get tumbled, split, and delivered to new addresses that existed in an online world driven by mathematics and cryptographic protocols. And one of the largest terrorist attacks on U.S. soil would make history.
Mateo held the phone up and snapped one clean shot of Gregory as he pocketed the flash drive, rose from the table, and exited the restaurant.
A chill ran down Sukarno’s spine as the enormity of the endeavor set in. He took a few faltering breaths, then ordered a crème brûlée, an American coffee, and the bill. He tried not to stare as Harrison Ford walked across the dining room floor, but couldn’t help himself. He’d seen all the Jack Ryan films based on Tom Clancy’s novels and was a huge fan.
Mateo finished his open-faced prime rib sandwich and ordered vodka rocks with lime. He went over the photo gallery and wondered what the iPad show-and-tell was all about. Yesterday’s action had gotten his heart pounding; today it was all about finesse. Nothing boring about his life, he thought. He had enough money, a beautiful woman on his arm, and enough action to keep his heart rate elevated. He took a deep drink of his cock
tail with satisfaction. His drink was dry and his demeanor drier. He laid cash with a healthy tip on the bar, waited until Sukarno exited onto Hollywood Boulevard, and slipped out behind him.
* * *
Jack and Cruz picked up the Ford Explorer at Enterprise, and it took Cruz all of thirty minutes to crack the GPS.
Cruz traced Trent and Roxy’s trip from the rental company on Venice Boulevard, north to Oakland and the assisted-living facility, to a hotel, to the dock and the trawler, and then back down the coast.
They drove to the last GPS input and decided to drive into Playa Vista and fill their stomachs before trying to figure out why Roxy and Trent’s last stop was on Jefferson Boulevard, in the midst of nondescript industrial buildings, because at first glance nothing caught their eyes.
* * *
Vincent Cardona stared at Rusty Mannuzza, and if looks could kill, his soldier would be in a pine box instead of a hospital bed in an urgent-care facility that, for a hefty price, was happy to provide care and not file a police report for a gunshot wound.
Rusty’s face was pale, and he looked diminished in size, if that was even possible, propped up with pillows and wrapped mummy-like in the hospital sheets. He was due to make a court appearance on his money-laundering charges in five days, and if it leaked that he’d been shot or been caught anywhere near a gun, his bail would be rescinded and he’d be remanded to lockup for the duration of his trial.
The incessant beeping of the monitors and fluids being pumped into the little man just irritated the boss.
“You brought this on yourself,” Cardona said.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
Peter was propped against the far wall and raised his eyebrows on Rusty’s response. “It’s the drugs talking,” Peter said, trying to help.
“Ask yourself one question,” Cardona said, ignoring Peter. “Did anybody else get shot?”
“No, because I was doing the heavy lifting.” Rusty directed that jab at Frankie-the-Man, who was blocking the doorway. “Bertolino was ready to talk when his guys showed up.”
“He was about to talk?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Frankie, you’ve been good in these circumstances. In your expert opinion, was Jack about to talk?”
“He would’ve gone to the grave first.”
Rusty bolted up in his bed. “Fuck you. Son of a bitch,” and the pain knocked him back against the pillows. One of the monitors set off a solid wail, and a nurse entered the room, gave the men the evil eye, and reset the monitor. “Time to run, gentlemen. The patient lost a lot of blood, and needs his rest,” she told them.
“Two minutes,” Cardona said through a tight smile.
“I’ll give you all some room,” Peter said, and exited with the nurse.
“You’re becoming a liability, Rusty. I want you on your feet, and I don’t want any more trouble. Are we clear?”
“It’s my leg that’s shot, not my ears.”
Cardona leaned his big hand down on Rusty’s bad leg and exerted pressure. Rusty bared his teeth. His face turned red as he fought the pain and stifled a groan. Cardona’s big head hovered over his gunshot man. “You see, that’s what I’m talking about.” Cardona straightened, sucked in his gut, and left the room.
Frankie-the-Man started out and turned toward the bed. “You never know when to stop. But you’re gonna learn one way or the other.”
“Blow me,” Rusty responded.
Frankie’s eyes were lidded, his vibe deadly. “Guess it’ll be the other way.”
The big man let the intended threat fill the room like fog and joined the huddle in the hallway.
Cardona leaned into Peter and opened his stance to let Frankie in on the conversation. “Bertolino’s being chased by persons unknown to us. He must be getting close to Donato or he wouldn’t be on their radar screen. Take turns if you have to, but I want someone on him twenty-four/seven. I want to know who’s following him and what their story is.”
“What about retaliation against Jack’s men?” Peter asked.
“They were just doing their job.” Cardona flashed a look at Frankie that said he’d fallen short.
“And Mickey can’t be too happy,” Peter said.
“I’ll handle Mickey. So far, he hasn’t brought anything to the table except grief. Get the fuck out of here, both of ya.”
Twenty-seven
“I’ve got a couple things of interest,” Mateo said to Jack while Cruz copied the photos from Musso & Frank off Mateo’s iPhone. “Caroline suggested we look at the security tapes from the second night we were on the Bella Fortuna. She picked up a strange vibe from Roxy when you escorted Angelica across the gaming salon.”
“The wolves are starting to eat their young,” Jack said, eliciting a grin from Mateo, who’d been there and back when he was working for the Colombian drug cartels.
“Okay, here we go.” Cruz started a slide show on his iPad of the photos Mateo had shot at lunch.
“Nothing of interest until now,” Mateo narrated. “Any idea who the mystery man is?”
“Not a clue,” Jack said.
The men watched Sukarno present something on his iPad to a dark-skinned man wearing black circular sunglasses. And then something small enough to be covered by Sukarno’s hand was surreptitiously passed to the man. The only straight-on photograph that could provide a possible ID of the stranger was when lunch ended and he exited the restaurant.
“I followed Sukarno until he returned to his high-rise.”
“I like their potpie,” Cruz said as his stomach grumbled. “I’m picking up a heavy vibe from the dude.”
“I’ll forward the last shot to Agent Hunter,” Jack said. “See if she can run it through their system on the QT.”
“It was a wash over on Jefferson?” Mateo asked.
“The last GPS stop showed them parked on the street with Playa Vista on the left, near Whole Foods, the movie theater, and a thousand condos, and across Jefferson were a series of high-tech industrial buildings and two storage facilities. We paid Public Storage and Security Storage a visit and came up empty. No one could ID Trent or Roxy, and their names didn’t match anyone renting space. I tell you what, let’s print out a photo of Sukarno and run it by their desks. We might get lucky.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Mateo said.
“Here’s the digital tape Caroline wanted us to screen.” The men crowded around the computer and Cruz hit Play. They could see Angelica grab a glass of champagne off a tray before giving Jack a kiss. The couple walked arm in arm past the bar, where Roxy was shaking a mixed drink. Her brow furrowed and her gaze followed the couple, which caused her to splash some of the alcohol onto the bar.
“She does look uptight,” Jack mused.
“She spilled half the drink,” Mateo said.
Roxy grabbed a bar towel, cleaned up, added another shot of vodka to the cocktail shaker, gave it a quick shake, and was back in command.
“Why would seeing you with Angelica rattle her?” Cruz asked.
“If she was up to something and learned for the first time I had an inside edge with the boss. I become a complication she wasn’t expecting. Looks like it threw her. Good call from Caroline,” Jack directed at Mateo, who nodded in agreement.
“So what are you thinking?” Mateo asked.
“Ring her up and find out who’s staffed today. If Roxy’s not on call, I’ll pay her a visit and do some shit-stirring. I won’t show my hand, just turn enough cards to put the fear of God into her.”
“Let’s hope she’s a believer,” Mateo said.
* * *
Jack pulled to a stop in Marina del Rey where Roxy and Trent’s catamaran was docked. A colony of seagulls screamed overhead as they arced across the blue sky and landed noisily on a full Dumpster, scavenged, and fought each other for scraps. The warm sun and cool breeze made Jack forget his ever present pain. As he walked up to the security gate, he noticed movement inside the cabin of the cat. He dial
ed Roxy’s cell number and could hear her ring tone as she picked up.
“Hello?”
“Roxy, how’re you doing?”
“Not bad, Jack. Look, could we do this another time? I’m standing in line at Gelson’s and—”
“Look out your window, Roxy.”
Jack saw her face appear, and then, “Goddammit, Jack.” Roxy stormed out of her cabin and stomped up the dock. “What the hell do you want?”
“With all the lies you’ve been telling, I’d think practice would make perfect. Not so much, huh? Let me in, I have a few things I want to clear up. Fifteen minutes and I’m out of your hair.”
Roxy, pissed but caught off guard, turned the lock. Jack followed her onto the tight deck of the catamaran. He could almost see the heat radiating off her body.
“What?” she snapped.
Jack gazed into the cabin and took a seat on one of the plastic deck chairs. “Just wondering who you were visiting on Jefferson Boulevard.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I know you made a stop on Jefferson before you dropped off the Explorer after your trip north. Must have been important?”
“How so?”
“To make a stop after six hours on the road.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stop fucking with me, Roxy. I know more than you think, and you’re in over your head. I’m the only one who can get you out of the jam, but I need you to stop lying. You’re digging yourself a deep hole.”
“I’m going to the police department and filing a restraining order against you for harassment. I’m going to complain to Vincent Cardona and get you barred from the yacht.”
“Good luck with that,” and Jack decided to drop the bomb. “If I know you stopped on Jefferson, and I know your father’s alive because I visited him at Rush Street Care”—he paused to let that sink in—“isn’t it likely I’m aware of the stops you made in between?”