Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  Aldis let go of Walcott and stepped back. “You’re a sick bastard.”

  “Sticks and stones, my naïve friend.” The mocking smile faded from Walcott’s face. “Now. It’s decision time.”

  IV

  TWENTY YEARS AGO

  The three guys filed down the basement steps and took their allotted places in the horseshoe of wooden chairs. They were precisely on time as their boss, Javid Madatov, always demanded of them. The strange thing was, Madatov himself hadn’t arrived yet. They’d never known him to be late for anything before, whether here in New York or at home in Baku.

  Counting Madatov’s, which faced the horseshoe, there were three empty seats. Which was another mystery. They all knew why Kamran’s was unoccupied. Kamran was dead. He’d been shot in the face the night before, when their stickup of a backstreet bookmaking operation went pear-shaped. But where was Maksim? Why wasn’t he there?

  They’d all known times could get tough, especially at first. Madatov had warned them. He’d been very clear about that. And he’d also been clear that if they stuck together and rode out the inevitable storms, the move to America would pay off in spades. Surely the boss and his most trusted lieutenant hadn’t cut and run at the first sign of trouble?

  None of the guys spoke. They knew from experience, when the black clouds are gathering, it’s best to keep your doubts to yourself. If the worst happens, bitching about it doesn’t help. And if the clouds pass, you don’t want to look like you lacked faith. That can be bad for your health.

  After ten minutes of silence the door at the top of the staircase scraped open. Madatov appeared. He stood silhouetted against the brighter light for a moment, then strode down the creaky steps with the swagger of a rock star on his way to the stage. He was wearing a black suit and shirt, as usual, but had a large Band-Aid over his right eye and he was carrying an Adidas sports bag that none of them had seen before.

  “Gentlemen, I apologize for keeping you waiting. I had some business to attend to that took longer than expected.” Madatov lowered himself onto his seat. “Then I had to change my clothes.”

  “Boss, have you heard from Maksim?” Pavlo, the guy on the right-hand side of the horseshoe, fidgeted anxiously in his seat. He was separated from the others by the two remaining empty chairs, and it seemed as if the isolation was bothering him. “I tried to call him earlier. I got no answer, and one knows where he is.”

  “I’ll get to Maksim later.” Madatov’s nose wrinkled as if he’d smelled something putrid. “First, we have some business left over from last night.” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to the guy at the opposite end of the horseshoe. “Urfan, this is for you.”

  Urfan opened the envelope and took out its contents—a thousand dollars in cash—and looked up at Madatov with wide, surprised eyes. “Mən başa düşmürəm.”

  “In English, Urfan.” A note of frustration had crept into Madatov’s voice. “For them to obey us, the Americans must understand us. How many times must I tell you this?”

  “Sorry, boss.” Urfan looked down at the floor. “I try to say, I not understand. Last night, we fail. We took no money. Nothing. How can it be so you pay me?”

  “Was it your fault we failed?” Madatov’s voice was calm and reasonable now. “Was it you who sold us out to those pigs who ambushed us? Who cost Kamran his life?”

  “No, boss!” Urfan looked up, his eyes even wider. “You I never betray! And Kamran I love like my brother.”

  “Then why should you be punished?” Madatov raised his eyebrows. “No. You are loyal. You do your work. You get your reward. That’s how it has been, and how it will always be. And it’s the same for everyone.” Madatov took out another envelope and threw it to the next guy in line. “Anar, there’s yours.”

  Anar checked inside the envelope, folded it, and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Thank you, boss.”

  “Now, Pavlo.” Madatov picked up the sports bag and tossed it onto Pavlo’s lap. “You were asking about Maksim earlier. Why he’s missing. I know the answer. So let’s clear that up.”

  Pavlo was completely still, like he’d been turned to stone.

  “You see, the first three jobs we do after coming here, they were perfect. We go in. We come out. No one even breaks his fingernail. Then, last night, disaster. Pavlo, you were outside in the car, so you didn’t see all of what went down. So I will explain it to you. Me, I cut myself on some idiot’s face.” Madatov pointed to his forehead and rolled his eyes. “Urfan, your arm got slashed. Anar, you were knocked unconscious. We had to drag you out. Kamran, well, may he rest in peace. And Maksim? He walked out without a scratch. I lie awake all night, and I get to thinking, why was that? Was Maksim a better fighter than all of us? Did he know some new way to defend himself we could all learn from? So I go to see him. I ask him. And you know what he tells me?”

  The room was completely silent.

  “Maksim tells me, we fail because he told the Russians we plan to come. He told them every detail. And in return, he took big money from them.”

  “Donuz!” Urfan sprang to his feet, sending his chair clattering against the back wall. “Haramzade! Sorry. The English words I do not know.”

  “It’s OK. Sit.” Madatov waited for Urfan to retrieve his chair. “But that wasn’t all Maksim told me. Pavlo, why don’t you open the bag now?”

  Pavlo didn’t move.

  “Pavlo.” Madatov’s voice had dropped an octave. “Open. The. Bag.”

  Pavlo’s hand was shaking almost too much to take hold of the zipper, but eventually he managed to get the bag unfastened.

  “Look inside.”

  Pavlo pulled the sides apart, peered through the opening, and vomited onto the floor.

  “Don’t keep it to yourself.” Madatov laced his fingers together and stretched out his arms, causing each knuckle to crack in turn. “Show your friends your presents.”

  Pavlo’s face was pale. His whole body was quaking. Very slowly he slid his hand through the gap and pulled out a Ziploc bag. Inside was a pair of human ears.

  “Keep going.”

  The next bag Pavlo produced contained four fingers. The next, most of a nose. The last, an eyeball with a section of optic nerve still attached, like a sea creature’s slimy tendrils.

  “The eye, that was when Maksim gave up his other piece of news.” Madatov stared at Pavlo. “He told me he wasn’t working alone. He said it wasn’t even his idea. He said it was yours.”

  “No!” Pavlo jumped up, sending bags of body parts cascading onto the floor. “That’s not true. He was lying. Trying to save his own skin.”

  “No, Pavlo.” Madatov just looked sad now. “Maksim’s skin was well beyond saving, and he knew it. He was telling the truth. Which means you have a decision to make. You can die right now, right here in this room. Or you can help us settle the score.”

  “I’ll help.” Pavlo’s eyes were bulging. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Nothing difficult.” Madatov took a piece of folded paper from his pocket and passed it to Urfan. “Go to a pay phone. Urfan and Anar will go with you. Call your contact, and tell him exactly what’s written on that paper. Remember, Urfan speaks Russian, so if you try anything stupid, he’ll know. And then you’ll get the same as Maksim. Only I’ll start with your balls. I’ll freeze them. Take them to Baku. And make your kids eat them. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, boss.” There was a tremor in Pavlo’s voice.

  “Good. Now. One more thing. Anar—when you’re done with the Russians, call Dimitrij. Tell him, that lawyer he said he’d lined up? The Italian-sounding guy? It’s time for him to start earning his money.”

  V

  TWENTY YEARS AGO

  George Carrick was looking fine in his Brioni tuxedo, he imagined—the same kind that James Bond wore. The ballroom carpet felt
soft and plush beneath the leather soles of his mirror-polished Church’s shoes. He took his time on the way to the stage, casually strolling from his table—front and center, of course—and basking in the rapturous applause from the appreciative audience. He paused modestly in front of the podium before accepting the Waterford crystal trophy from his grateful boss. He stood for a moment, savoring its weight and substance. It must have been expensive. It should have been expensive, to be a fair reflection of his value over the decade he’d spent as the #1 rental agent in the company. Probably the whole city. The whole country, even.

  Then it was time for his speech.

  Except that he didn’t give a speech. He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo—just a slightly stretched black suit a dry cleaner had given his old friend Donny in lieu of protection money the previous month. His shoes were from China, not England. They weren’t shiny. The carpet was as thin as toilet paper. There wasn’t a stage or a podium. And there was only one table, crammed in the corner of the cheapest function room at a hotel where the only kind of balling that took place was in bedrooms that were rented by the hour. The boss had at least given him a trophy, though. A four-inch-high hunk of plastic, crudely molded to look something like a guy striding along, holding a briefcase by his side. It was exactly like the ones he’d won for each of the nine previous years. Had the boss bought them in bulk? Probably. He was cheap enough. And he must have stored them somewhere without air-conditioning, because this one had started to melt. Its legs were bowed slightly, like it had rickets. Receiving it was demeaning. He should stick it up the boss’s ass. But he knew he wouldn’t. The sad truth was, he’d take it home and put it on the shelf in the living room with the others. Only maybe at the back, to hide its deformity.

  At the nine previous award ceremonies, Carrick had split once his dominance had been recognized and he’d noted which of his colleagues had failed to look sufficiently supportive. This year things were different. He was happy to sit for a while. Finish the rubbery chicken in its tasteless, wine-free sauce. Enjoy the boss’s discomfort as he tried to wriggle out of ordering another bottle of the hotel’s cheapest Asti Spumante. Or nasty spumante, as he’d heard the waitstaff call it. That really summed the boss up. He had a new Rolls-Royce outside—which he always left on the street because he would never spring for valet parking even when it was available—but he wouldn’t stump up for drinkable wine, even on his company’s one big event of the year. He claimed that was because only German wine was worth paying restaurant prices for, since his father was from the Rhineland, and there was none on the list. But everyone there knew the truth.

  Carrick drained his final glass and decided it would be wise to hit the bathroom one last time before leaving. When he came out, a coworker named Amber Mitchell was lying in wait for him. Carrick was always wary of Amber. As the only woman on the team, he suspected that she had access to closing techniques that he and the other guys couldn’t offer. Not without subcontracting, which would eat into his commission and was therefore unacceptable. Carrick tried to step around her, but she moved, blocking his path. She reached out, placed her palm on his chest, and started to slide her fingers under his jacket. Carrick was taken aback. He hadn’t seen that coming. Then he realized she wasn’t being amorous. She was going for the trophy in his pocket. He’d had to take it to the bathroom, because with this mob, you can’t even leave a ten-cent trinket unattended.

  “Give it to me!” Amber’s words were slightly slurred.

  Carrick grabbed her wrist and pushed her away. “If you want the prize, work harder, you lazy bitch.”

  “Give it to me.” Amber lunged at him. “You don’t deserve it.”

  “The hell I don’t.” Carrick stepped back. “The numbers don’t lie. I’m number one. I always have been. And I always will be. Although I could coach you, if you think there’s a way to make it worth my while…”

  “You disgust me.”

  “Suit yourself.” Carrick turned to go.

  Amber grabbed his arm. “It’s not your results I have a problem with. It’s how you get them.”

  Carrick shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean. Every deal I do is fair and square.”

  “You’re a liar.” Amber crossed her arms. “How many ethnic minority tenants are there in the buildings you manage?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t keep track.”

  “Well, I do. There are none. Zero. Zip. And if you ask me, that’s no accident.”

  “Are you suggesting I drive ethnic tenants out of my buildings? Because that’s total crap. I’ve never pressured any tenant—of any color or creed—to get out. I swear on the Bible. And I challenge you to prove otherwise.”

  “Bullshit.” Amber was swaying a little. “What you do is deliberate. You dog whistle, then you charge racist assholes like yourself extra to live in whites-only buildings.”

  “That’s pure fantasy.” Carrick shook his head. “Just some kind of nonsense you dreamed up to smear me with because you’re a bad loser.”

  “It’s not nonsense.” Amber wagged her finger. “I have proof. I’ve been watching you. Keeping records. So either you stop, or I’ll turn you in to the city.”

  “How can I stop something I’m not doing? That doesn’t make sense. You’re drunk. Go home. Sleep it off.”

  “No. I’m serious. I have a friend, a lawyer, and she’s going to help.”

  Carrick took a moment to think. He didn’t like where the conversation was heading, all of a sudden. “OK, Amber. Maybe you do have a point. Maybe I do need to make some changes. Some improvements. But I’m sure we can find a more constructive way forward than arguments and threats and lawsuits. Let’s get together. You, me, and your lawyer friend. We can talk. What do you say?”

  Amber’s arms dropped to her sides. “Talk. Sure. We could do that.”

  “Excellent. Now, listen. I have a showing at one of my buildings tomorrow, first thing. So how about we meet afterward? There’s a bar I know in Queens. It’s a nice place. Out of the way. Informal. Say 10:00 A.M.?”

  * * *

  —

  Carrick watched Amber totter back to the table, then he went in search of a pay phone. He did have a cell, but he figured that with some calls it was better if there was no record. Especially those involving Donny. It was good to have someone like him to rely on, but help comes at a price. The thought of the extra cost he was about to incur killed Carrick’s last remnant of enthusiasm for the party, so right after he hung up he headed for the exit. He was almost outside when he heard a man’s booming voice rumbling down the corridor after him, like a peal of thunder.

  “Good night, George.” It was the boss, cutting and running before any more drinks could be ordered. “Congratulations on another win. Same again next year?”

  “Actually, no.” Carrick decided that was as good a moment as any to break his news. “I quit.”

  “What?” The boss grabbed Carrick’s elbow. “Why? Where are you going? Is this about money? Because if it is, don’t be hasty. The grass is not always greener, you know. So let’s sit down in the morning. Come over to the office. I’m positive we can work something out. I sure as hell don’t want to lose my number one guy!”

  “It’s not about money.” Carrick bounced on the balls of his feet. “And I’m not coming to the office. There’s no point wasting your time. Or mine.”

  “So what is it?” The boss leaned in close. “Come on. Tell me. You owe me that much, after ten years.”

  Carrick had promised himself he wouldn’t say any more. It would be better to just drop out of sight. The boss would soon forget about him. Then, in two years—or three, or five at the outside—he’d reintroduce himself. When he bought the company. And closed it down.

  The temptation was too great. Carrick couldn’t hold back. “See, I have money now. And I’ve been putting it to work. I’ve been building my own portfolio. It’s t
ime for me to get serious. For me to be taken seriously. So this is it. I’m crossing the river.”

  A huge smile engulfed the boss’s face, broader even than when Carrick had announced that the rent at his largest building had gone up by forty percent. “The Manhattan set? The movers and shakers? Really? You think those guys will ever accept you?”

  The sound of laughter was still ringing in Carrick’s ears long after the boss had crossed the street and climbed into his dusty six-figure behemoth.

  VI

  TEN YEARS AGO

  The windows rattled behind him, and Rigel Walcott turned from his desk just in time to catch sight of the little gray dart as it disappeared from view. It was the defense secretary’s latest plaything, no doubt. Some decrepit old Soviet contraption that had no business still being in the sky. Walcott couldn’t identify the model—he had no interest whatsoever in planes—but he figured it was a safe enough bet. After all, no one else was allowed to fly over the government compound. And the defense secretary was no fool. A few thousand feet in the air was the place to be if you wanted a little uninterrupted away time. God knew it wasn’t safe on the streets of Baku anymore. Or pleasant, even if you took a few bodyguards along, with all the homeless people lying around. Walcott felt fortunate to prefer the kind of activities you can indulge in without leaving the house.

  Walcott turned his attention back to his visitor. The guy was an executive from a gas distribution outfit and he was droning on about some tedious proposal to increase efficiency through consolidation, which was code for wanting to take a sizable chunk of business away from a rival operation. Such a move would require the approval of the president. And access to the president was controlled exclusively by Walcott.