by Andrew Grant
“You can trust me. I swear. Listen. I’ll get my lawyer to write it up. We’ll make it a legal contract. I’ll guarantee that everyone will be looked after.”
“They can all go together to the same building, if they want?”
“Of course.”
“They can stay in the same neighborhood?”
“If they want to.”
“They’ll pay the same rent as now. And that’ll be frozen.”
“Not frozen. I’ll give them the same terms as rent control. That’s what they have now. Most people in New York would kill for that.”
“OK. But the point is—no monster rent increases. Now, Mrs. Mason. She’ll either need a first-floor apartment or a building with an elevator.”
“No problem.”
“And she’ll need help with her medical bills. There’s a possible new treatment, which might get her out of her wheelchair.”
“No way.” Carrick crossed his arms. “How much would that cost?”
“I don’t know. How much is it worth to stay out jail?”
Carrick stood up, crossed to the window, and bounced on the balls of his feet as he stared out over the city. “All right.” Carrick turned back around. “I’ll help with her bills. Within reason.”
“And if she is permanently in a wheelchair, you’ll pay for her to have a helper.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“What? You’re happy to pay assholes like Davies to hurt people, but not to help them?”
“OK. A helper. If she stays in the chair. But not twenty-four/seven. Only when she needs to go out. To the store, say once a week, or to the doctor.”
“To the doctor whenever necessary. And three trips out every week, wherever she wants to go.”
Carrick rolled his eyes, then nodded.
“Good.” I smiled at him. “Seems like we have a deal, then.”
“Not quite. I need the tape of Davies’s confession, plus all the copies you made.”
“There’s no need. The point is, I’m keeping you out of jail so you can provide for the tenants.”
“I understand that. But humor me. Please.”
“OK. I’ll give you the tapes once the agreement’s signed. Have the papers sent to my hotel. The Brincliffe.”
“Give me a day.”
“No problem. But one thing. At the hotel, have your messenger leave the papers addressed to Paul McKenzie. There was a snafu with my name when I registered, and I’ve been too busy to sort it out.”
Chapter Twenty-one
I stopped at the Brincliffe Hotel to collect some things on my way to the courthouse, then went on to the Grosvenor to make myself another reservation. It was a nuisance having to rent two rooms until Carrick had the legal papers delivered, but I was back to battling my old habits. I couldn’t have anyone knowing where I was staying. And it was a small price to pay to solve an immediate problem. It was good to know that Carrick’s tenants would be properly looked after. And hopefully the new treatment would help Mrs. Mason. I would have liked to see Carrick behind bars, though. It left a bad taste in my mouth, allowing scum like him to stay on the streets, but I couldn’t see a way around it. I had to settle for the lesser of two evils. As for the others, I had more decisions to make. With Carrick staying out of jail, it would seem harsh to get Davies locked up. He couldn’t just walk away from the attack on Mrs. Mason, though. Could he volunteer for something? Do some kind of community service? I could talk to Carrodus, before or after my shift. He seemed to have his finger on that kind of pulse. Then there was the Azerbaijani dude, Madatov. I had to do something about him. We can’t have ex–Soviet gangsters throwing Americans out of their homes so they can improve their view. I wanted to root out his contact in the NYPD, as well. And Walcott? I wasn’t sure. Money laundering wasn’t something I knew too much about. Which meant I needed to make one more call before heading to the courthouse.
* * *
—
Ro’s availability was limited that day, so I had to swallow my frustration and cut my shift a little short. I cleaned what was absolutely necessary, but that only left me enough time to search two extra rooms. I had to wait for people to leave each of them. A small group came out of the first one, bubbling with elation. More people were involved in the second. They were dressed smartly for the occasion, but their mood seemed somber and disappointed. Almost depressed. I wondered how I’d have felt if I’d been at Pardew’s trial. And I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to find out.
Ro was at her standing desk when I arrived. She had a sharply tailored black suit on with silver sneakers, and her heels were waiting by the door with her snakeskin briefcase. Her laptop was open, but I couldn’t help wonder how it could compete with the view. She seemed to be watching it out of one eye, like she couldn’t be completely disconnected from the pulse of the city. She seemed to feed off its energy.
“You really do pick ’em, Paul.” She half turned and shook her head at me. “If Carrick’s iffy, Walcott’s an absolute sleaze. He was, anyway, before he left the United States. He was a campaign consultant. And a lobbyist. Only with a difference. If his client had a rival who was too strong? If a politician was reluctant to vote the right way? Or wanted too big of a bribe? Walcott had ways of making that kind of problem go away. Shady ways. Actually, he was beyond shady. He was in total darkness. The FBI was watching him. He knew they were closing in. So he went to Armenia, when it looked like they had the upper hand in the Caucasus. Then he flipped to Azerbaijan when the balance of power changed. It’s one of the ex–Soviet republics.”
“I’ve heard of it.” In fact, I’d more than heard of the place. I’d been fully briefed on it, years ago, ready for an assignment. I didn’t go, though, due to a last-minute change of allocation. I heard that the guy who replaced me got on the wrong end of a bad conduct discharge. The rumor was he landed in the pocket of a local sleaze merchant. An American expat who was high up in the government, but I hadn’t heard a name before. “Were there any other Americans over there, doing what he did? Or just Walcott?”
“No others.” Ro paused to watch a fire truck barge its way through the traffic. “The place was an utter cesspool of corruption. So, naturally, Walcott fit right in. He had skills. He had no morals. Which was the perfect formula for worming his way in with the elite. All the way up to the president. There was a rumor that he had his own suite in the palace.”
“In return for doing what?”
“First, you’ve got to understand the economic situation over there. It’s all about oil and gas. The country’s awash with the stuff. When the USSR fell, those industries were privatized. Which is a fancy way of saying stolen. The inner circle amassed outrageous wealth. The president had a private zoo, believe it or not, and he stocked it with some of the rarest animals in the world. The defense secretary built a collection of flightworthy vintage MiG fighter planes, which he kept at his own personal airfield. The commerce and industry secretary liked cars, so he bought dozens of them on the taxpayers’ dime. And nothing cheap. We’re talking Ferraris. Lamborghinis. Aston Martins. Maseratis. All this time thousands were starving in the streets. And against that backdrop, Walcott did two things. He ran the spin machine, holding off a revolution by making people think things were getting better and that the elections were real. And he helped his buddies get the bulk of their wealth out of the country. Even they knew that times were too good—for themselves—to last. Then eventually the regime did fall, and the fat cats all had to flee.”
“To the United States?”
“No, actually. Walcott’s buddies all went to Moscow. I guess they stuck him with the blame for the worst of their excesses, and the Russians bought it. They made it clear that Walcott wasn’t welcome. He came back to New York on his own. And he’s having trouble getting on his feet, I hear. FBI agents are like elephants. They never forget. Apparently th
ey’re still all over his finances. Rumor has it he was too greedy. He kept his cash in Baku for too long. He didn’t want to lose any. Even money shrinks in the wash, you know. Now he can’t bring it here without opening a giant can of federal worms. No one knows where the money he has is coming from, but reading between the lines, I bet he’s back to his old tricks.”
“Which lines are you reading between?”
“Well, he seems to be spending most of his time in property development. That makes sense—he has the foreign contacts, and they have the cash. And nearly every deal he touches falls apart.”
“Perhaps he’s lost his touch?”
“On the contrary. I think he wanted them to fail.”
“Why? To hurt people?”
“No. To help them. A failed deal is not the best way to launder large amounts of cash, but it’s quick and easy. Think about it. Here’s what you do. You start by forming an investment consortium, which is a bona fide legal entity. It’s new, but clean. All the partners deposit their shares. A project comes up. They make their proposal. And lose, on purpose. Then they dissolve the consortium and retrieve their cash. Now they can take it to the bank, because they received it from a legitimate organization and have the paper trail to prove it. I think Walcott arranges everything, then takes a cut at the end. In cash. It’s lucrative, and invisible.”
“It’s downright devious.”
“Not as devious as the Cayman double dip. If you want a twofer, you do this as well: Set up a consultancy in the Caymans. It’s capitalized at, say, twenty million. On paper that’s split fifty-fifty between you and a partner. Except actually all the cash is yours. Your consultancy advises on the development deal, which of course fails. Then you sue your partner, saying it was his fault. You win, because it’s the Caymans and you get what you pay for. You’re awarded ten million in damages. The company collapses, and the receiver pays you back your supposed original stake—the remaining ten million. So you get the whole twenty, less costs, now clean.”
“OK. I see the mechanics. But what about Walcott himself? Can you help me get a feel for the guy? I know he facilitates crooked deals. But are his hands dirty? Are Americans getting hurt by the things he does?”
“I’d say yes, and yes. Guys like him are unlikely to be choosy. It’s a dime to a dollar that if he’s laundering money for the Azerbaijanis, he’s also doing it for drug dealers, mob bosses, you name it. Plus, the Azerbaijanis who are here are bad, bad guys from what I hear. Hiding their money makes it harder for the police to arrest them. So you end up with more drugs on the street. More women being trafficked. And so on. People think money laundering is victimless, but it’s not. And even when Walcott and his buddies bankroll developments that do go ahead—what are they? Expensive. And mostly vacant. They’re stopping regular folks from buying homes in the city.”
“OK. So how do you take a guy like Walcott down? And what kind of time would he get?” I thought of Pardew’s case. “I’ve heard that white-collar crimes can be hard for juries to understand.”
“You’re right. They can be. So I’d do this. Associate Walcott with a bad guy whose money he cleaned. Show that the money came from a criminal enterprise. If anyone died during the commission of any of the crimes, it becomes an automatic felony homicide. And if you get an aggressive enough ADA—I know a couple if you need names and numbers—she could argue for accessory after the fact.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Before talking with Ro, I’d been flirting with the idea of giving Walcott a pass. I’d thought, maybe he wasn’t as bad as a guy like Madatov. Now I wondered if he was worse, skulking around in the shadows, enabling other people’s crimes, and growing fat in the process.
After the conversation I googled Walcott, so I’d seen his jowly face. That made him a tangible target. But there was nothing online about Madatov. No biography. No photograph. That made him a mystery. So that evening as I sat outside his house in Hell’s Kitchen in the van I’d stolen from Norman Davies, I willed him to come out. I wanted to put a face to a name, as if that would somehow make it easier to size the guy up.
I’d been watching for half an hour when a car pulled up outside the house. It was a late-model town car, the rounded version, in obligatory black. I reached for my camera. The front door opened, and a security guard came out. He looked up and down the street, then ushered someone out. A man. But not Madatov. It was his lawyer. Roberto di Matteo. I’d googled him, too.
After another ten minutes the only light in any of the upstairs windows went out. Then the same procedure played out with a town car arriving and a security guard checking the street. Only this time two women left the house. Madatov’s mistresses. They were both tall and blond with short mink jackets and shorter leather skirts. Their legs were long and their heels were high, and they moved with a practiced elegance.
Another hour went by, and there was still no sign of Madatov. He must have been there earlier, to meet with the lawyer. But now the house was dark. He could still be home, but asleep. Or he could have slipped out unnoticed to take care of some private business. Heads or tails…
In training at Fort Huachuca we were taught never to go into a building cold. To always wait for intel. For plans. Blueprints. Eyewitness accounts. Anything to give us an edge. But in the field, we soon discovered that intel was often wrong. Plans could be out-of-date. Blueprints, inaccurate. Accounts, false. So we learned to read buildings, and their circumstances and surroundings. Then decide for ourselves whether to go in.
This building was designed to discourage intruders. It had six stories, the same as the Masons’ building, which was the historic limit for the area. So there were no taller neighboring buildings to drop down from. The front door was modern. It didn’t match the rest of the façade. That was deliberate. It was to draw attention to the giant lock. The door glass was laminated and I’d guarantee it was real, not like at the courthouse. The first- and second-floor windows were barred. They used a subtle decorative pattern, but they looked strong. There were no downpipes to climb. No trees with convenient limbs to give you a boost. Cameras were mounted on the wall, ostentatiously angled toward the steps. There was an oversized alarm box, complete with a monitoring company’s warning signs. Inside, there were guards. Two were on duty, with maybe more stood down. The ones I could see were tall and wide. They moved like soldiers, and they were armed. They carried radios and constantly appeared busy, checking monitors and tapping away at keyboards. Their workstation was brightly lit and it was huge, like it had been taken from a major corporate headquarters.
I took in all the detail, and I was encouraged. The alarm system might alert the security guards but there was no way it would make a sound or link to a monitoring station. If Madatov was the heavyweight he was reputed to be, the last thing he’d want would be noise, attracting attention and maybe prompting someone to call the cops. Likewise, he’d want to avoid any scenario that could bring overeager rent-a-cops snooping around his premises. It would be a similar story with the cameras. The external ones would be linked to the guards’ monitors, but if there were any at all inside they wouldn’t go any higher than the first floor. Madatov wouldn’t want anyone seeing—or recording—what he was up to and who was with him. Carrick had mentioned that Madatov was the only resident, so there was no risk of bumping into a neighbor carrying a basket of clothes back from the laundry. The window bars were pointless. You’d never break in at the front, where passersby could see. You’d go for the roof. Which was no higher than the neighbors’, due to the historic limit. It was only separated by a four-foot gap. And it had a boiler house on top, which meant there was definite access to the rest of the building.
I grabbed my pack, checked my equipment, and eased out of the van onto the sidewalk. I didn’t go to the next building, because if I was handling security for Madatov I’d put a discreet camera there, too, just in case. I went to the one after that. And I went t
o the right, because for some reason most people default to the left.
The building was simple to get into. The door clicked open after I tried just one buzzer. I didn’t even need to make up an excuse. No one saw me on my way up the main stairs, and I quickly found the small service flight that led to the roof. Someone who lived there kept bees. There were two wooden hives, six feet high, with taps on the sides for harvesting the honey. That was a good idea. There’s a world shortage of bees. It was nice to see New York doing its bit.
I stepped across to the next roof. There were two round tables folded up on this one, ten chairs, and a propane grill under a bespoke cover. Four wooden planters overflowed with bright flowers. There was a door to the stairs, an outdoor clock, and a thermometer. I crouched near the wall and checked Madatov’s roof. It was empty. The surface wasn’t finished, just sprinkled with gravel to help distribute rainwater. I took my time, using my flashlight to methodically quarter the area and look for the glint of a tripwire or the raised profile of a pressure pad. When I was satisfied it was clear, I stepped across.
I moved slowly to avoid disrupting any gravel and made it safely to the door. It was locked. It took two minutes to pick, then I slipped inside and crept down one flight of stairs to the top corridor. There were doors to two apartments. I listened at the first one. There was silence, so I picked that lock, too. I guessed the place had been rehabbed sometime in the last five years, but I’m no expert. The fittings—the kitchen, the bathrooms, the door furniture, the windows—all felt expensive. And unused. There was no furniture. No appliances. No possessions. I wondered, was it an investment in property, or privacy? Or both?
It was the same story in the other apartment on sixth, and both of them on fifth. But when I reached the fourth, I could see that something was different. The lock on the front apartment’s door caught my attention. It stood out from the others because it was huge. Serious-looking. And solid. It took three minutes to get it open, mainly because I was being so careful not to scratch its shiny gold surface.