Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  * * *

  —

  There was a sudden knock on the door. Carrick cursed himself for letting his receptionist go home before he left himself. Maybe if he kept quiet, whoever it was would go away? No. That wasn’t his style. He swung his feet back down to the floor and slipped on his shoes. Then he paused. What if it was one of Madatov’s guys? Coming to snatch him? No. It couldn’t be. Madatov’s guys wouldn’t bother to knock.

  “Yes?” He finished tying his shoelaces. “Who is it?”

  The door opened and a guy stepped into the office. He was enormous. In terms of height, anyway. At least six feet eight. But the guy wasn’t wide. He wasn’t skinny, either. He was just in good shape. He had a nice suit, too. It was obviously bespoke. The tailoring was subtle, but Carrick had been around enough security-conscious guys to see that it was cut to accommodate a weapon. He opened another desk drawer with the pretext of returning his cigar. And then he left it open, his own gun conveniently within reach.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Mr. Carrick.” The tall guy came closer to the desk. “But it’s urgent. Mr. Walcott sent me. I need your help.”

  “Walcott?” Carrick leaned back in his chair. “What does that one-armed Irish bastard think I can help you with?”

  The tall guy smiled. “Nice try, Mr. Carrick. But Mr. Walcott’s not Irish. He was born on Long Island. His father claims to be able to trace his family back to the Mayflower. His mother’s German, from Hamburg. And he had both his arms when I saw him yesterday at his office on Wall Street.”

  Carrick nodded. “Very good. So really, how is the old bastard? I haven’t seen him since he got back from Uzbekistan.”

  “It was Azerbaijan, where he was. And the two of you have done business in the last month.”

  “OK.” Carrick held up his hands. “You know Rigel. But why did he send you to me? What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “I need money.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, my friend. Rigel’s wasted your time. And mine.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not looking for a loan. I’m trying to sell a building. Mr. Walcott had agreed to buy it. And at the last minute, he pulled out. He thought you might be interested in stepping into his shoes.”

  “What’s wrong with the place, to make Rigel pull out?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with the building. The problem’s with him. He wouldn’t go into detail, but he said he has a cash-flow problem. He asked me to agree to a structured payment deal, with the first installment delayed for six months. Unfortunately I had to say no. I need the money now.”

  “Why?”

  “Personal reasons.”

  “If Rigel pulled out, why don’t you sue him? For breach of contract. I would, and I’m basically his partner.”

  “It was a handshake deal.”

  Carrick shook his head. “You’re screwed, then, I guess. Unless…What kind of building is it?”

  “Residential. A brownstone. It’s a big, beautiful place. I had planned to live in it myself. You could sell it as a single-family home. Or convert it into apartments. There are lots of other conversions nearby. It has great revenue potential. I have all the projections. I’d be happy to share them with you.”

  “Where is the place?”

  “Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “How much are you looking for?”

  “It was appraised for thirty-two mil. I’d take twenty-eight for a quick sale.”

  “Sorry.” Carrick shrugged. “That’s too rich for my blood. I can’t help you.”

  “There’s room for flexibility, if you’d be able to close fast.”

  “I don’t know. Leave me whatever information you have. I’ll think about it.”

  “Great.” A broad smile spread across the tall guy’s face. “And here’s something else to chew over. I’m in a situation where I need to put my hands on some cash. It would be in both our interests for the sale price to appear low. So if you want the building, I’ll knock off ten percent in return for a cash deposit, off the books.”

  “I could see that part working. But your asking price is still way too high.”

  “I could go to twenty-five.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Twenty-two five.”

  “OK.”

  “But only if it checks out. And if I like it. I need to see it. Because no one has a better instinct for real estate than me.”

  XV

  PRESENT DAY

  The doorman flicked through his Moleskine notebook, nodded, secured the page he’d selected with the book’s elastic strap, and laid it on the counter.

  “See?” He pointed to the top line. “I wrote that down myself. ‘RW, business trip, no return date.’ ” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I put ‘RW’ because Mr. Walcott doesn’t like anyone writing down his full name.”

  The visitor placed his attaché case on the counter. He opened it. Extracted a $100 note. And tucked it into the flap in the back cover of the notebook.

  “I’m not lying!” The doorman crossed his arms.

  “I’m sure you’re not.” The visitor closed his case and reset its combination lock. “What I’ve just given you is a fee, in return for a service I’d like you to perform. It’s a very straightforward service. All I want is for you to call Walcott’s number and leave him a message. What harm can there be in that?”

  “I guess I could.” The doorman didn’t look convinced. “What do you want the message to say?”

  “Pass me a pen. I’ll write it down for you.”

  The visitor turned to a fresh page in the Moleskine and carefully printed Paul McCann. Reception. First installment for Madatov.

  * * *

  —

  The doorman waited for the visitor to sit in the waiting area, then self-consciously read the message out loud to a cellphone voicemail box. Six minutes later one of the elevators’ doors slid open. Two guys stepped out. They were tall and broad, dressed all in black, and had large chrome-plated pistols strapped to their belts. The visitor recognized them as the security guards who’d escorted Walcott to his office on the day the phones had failed. The security guards figured they were seeing the visitor for the first time.

  “Mr. McCann?” One of the security guys took a step toward reception.

  The visitor stood up. “That’s me.”

  “Come with us, please, sir. Mr. Walcott will see you now.”

  * * *

  —

  There was a lot of white in Walcott’s apartment. The floor, which was bleached wood. The walls. The Le Corbusier furniture. The inside of the blinds, which were drawn over every window, as if to guard against surveillance from drones or helicopters. The only relief from the overwhelming paleness came from the Steinway Grand in the living room, and a pair of Miró prints that were hanging in the hallway.

  Walcott emerged from his bedroom wearing a royal blue robe and slippers, and beckoned for the visitor to join him in the living room.

  “So.” Walcott wiped his glasses on the sleeve of his robe. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”

  “My name’s Paul McCann.” The visitor balanced his case across his knees. “I’m a friend of a friend.”

  “This friend being Madatov?”

  The visitor nodded. “He and I were talking—trying to solve a problem, in fact—and your name came up.”

  “How do you know my address?”

  “Well, Madatov told me, obviously. When he suggested I get in touch with you.”

  Walcott’s eyes widened and he slumped back on the couch, deflated. “Madatov knows I’m here?”

  “Listen.” The visitor leaned forward. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea. Mr. Madatov hasn’t sent me here to hurt you. He’s a smart guy. He sees that we both have, shall we say, geo
graphically influenced liquidity issues right now. Granted, yours is a little more pressing, as you owe him a great deal of money and he’s not famed for his patience. But he figured that if we put our heads together, we could both benefit.”

  “OK.” Walcott sat up a little straighter. “How do we help each other?”

  “It’s like this.” The visitor paused, as if he was marshaling his thoughts. “I’m a businessman. I own an import/export company. Right now I need to pay a supplier who’s overseas. And the problem is, my money’s here. For reasons I don’t need to bore you with, the FBI is watching it. I can’t transfer it. Not through the regular channels, anyway. So I asked Mr. Madatov if he could help. He still has resources in the old country. And contacts. Ramil Balayev is a mutual friend, for example. I believe you knew him, as well, from his time in the government? Anyway, Mr. Madatov agreed to assist me. But then he came up with an alternative idea. He said you have a similar problem, but in reverse. Your money’s stuck abroad, and your creditors are here.”

  “That seems like a fair assessment. So what do you and Mr. Madatov suggest we do about it?”

  “It’s really simple. I give you cash, here. You transfer the equivalent amount in local currency from your foreign bank to my foreign bank. That way we both end up with our money where we need it. There are no records. And nothing touches the US banking system. It’s an absolute no-brainer.”

  “So what’s the catch?”

  “There isn’t one. As long as we trust each other. Which is why I brought this.”

  The visitor worked the combination locks and then passed the attaché case to Walcott.

  “That’s $100,000. Well, $99,900, actually, because I had to bribe your doorman to leave you the message. I’m going to walk out of here without it, and trust that you transfer the equivalent into my bank in Sofia. The routing information is in the case, as well as the cash.”

  “I can transfer that amount right away. So what’s next?”

  “When I see that the deposit’s arrived, we can move on to dealing with the real money. Then I can pay my supplier, and you can pay Mr. Madatov.”

  “Are you sure you know the kind of numbers we’re talking about here?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Because I need five million dollars. That’s a lot of cash to put your hands on. Can you handle it?”

  “Actually, that is a problem. Five million’s no good to me in Bulgaria. I need seven point seven million. I can get the cash, no problem. The question is, are you happy to make the transfer?”

  “Of course I am.” A smile started to spread across Walcott’s face. “Seven point seven’s actually better for me. It’ll leave me some spending money, once I’ve cleared my debt with Madatov. One question, though. What about the timescale? I’m under a little pressure to settle up.”

  “Doing it quickly suits me, too. I can get the cash together within the next couple of days. Give me your cell number and I’ll text you to confirm.”

  “Will do.”

  “And in terms of logistics with the cash. Shall I bring it here?”

  “That works for me.”

  “Excellent. Then I’ll be in touch.”

  XVI

  PRESENT DAY

  Roberto di Matteo nailed the one, final alien, then tried to catch his breath while the screen refreshed and the next extraterrestrial horde lined up to attack the earth. He was about to start blasting again when his office door burst open and a guy strode in. Roberto’s secretary followed, gripping the intruder’s arm as if being towed in his wake.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The woman let go and folded her arms. “I couldn’t stop him.”

  “It’s OK, Gloria. I’ll handle it.” Di Matteo quit the game, scowled, and waited for her to leave.

  The intruder sat down and placed his briefcase on the floor by his side.

  “McDougall? What the hell do you think you’re doing? I told you when you were here before that was the last time I was going to help!”

  “You said it would be the last time you helped George Carrick. Today, I’m here on behalf of a different client.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Rigel Walcott.”

  Di Matteo paused. “What does he want?”

  “He wants to propose a deal, so he needs you to set up a meeting.”

  “With Madatov?”

  “Why else would I be here?”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Walcott owes Madatov money. Five million dollars. Walcott’s happy to settle his debt, but he proposes to pay with information. Or rather, suppression.”

  “You’re making no sense.”

  The intruder took an envelope from his briefcase and tossed it onto the desk. Di Matteo cautiously opened it and looked inside. There were six photographs. He pulled them out. Each one showed a bedroom. Each bedroom contained a pair of filthy cots. Each cot was set up with an equally filthy IV stand.

  “Should these mean something to me?”

  “They were taken at Madatov’s apartment, within the last week. They show that he’s actively engaged in human trafficking.”

  Di Matteo shrugged and slid the pictures back into their envelope. “No, they don’t. Even if the pictures were taken at his building, they prove nothing of the kind.”

  “Think of them as an anonymous tip. They certainly give probable cause for a search warrant. I imagine Madatov would prefer to keep the police out of his home and his business.”

  Di Matteo screwed his eyes closed for a moment. “Listen, burn the pictures. Tell Walcott trying to blackmail Madatov would be an epic mistake.”

  “You’ve got this all wrong. It isn’t blackmail. It’s trade. Knowledge is power, and power comes at a price.”

  “You really don’t understand what a bad idea this is.”

  “Trust me, I know exactly what kind of an idea this is. And no one’s changing their minds about it. So please, pass the message on. These are the only copies. You can keep them. Walcott will hand the phone they were taken with, and the memory card they were stored on, to Madatov himself. It has to be him, and it has to be in person. That’s the only way the pictures won’t see the inside of the police department.”

  “All right. I’ll pass it on. But I can’t promise what kind of response you’re going to get.” Di Matteo paused for a moment, wishing that life was as simple as a video game. “If Madatov agrees to it, when and where will the meeting be?”

  “Central Manhattan. Tuesday. I’ll text you the address with an hour’s notice.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The place was immaculate.

  That was my first surprise when I finally set foot inside the house in Hell’s Kitchen that my father had owned. I’d pictured it having rooms full of moldering Victorian furniture shrouded with cobwebs, and walls crammed with creepy oil paintings of psychotic-looking ancestors. Or having been overrun by meth cooks. Or addicts. Or the homeless. I certainly hadn’t expected it to have the scrubbed, antiseptic feel of a safe house. All it was missing was the standard selection of cheap beds and couches and a fridge full of bland, inoffensive food.

  My second surprise was that the house was gorgeous. From the outside it was fairly anonymous. I’d walked past it on my way to and from the Masons’ building and nothing about it had stood out. But inside, it was spectacular. The woodwork on show in the hallways and the staircases wouldn’t have looked out of place in a stately English home. There was mahogany. Cherry. Bird’s-eye maple. Stuff you can hardly find anywhere, anymore. And the tile in the bathrooms was equally magnificent. It was good enough to be in a museum. So was the marble in the entrance hall. The proportions of the rooms were perfectly balanced. And the top floor? The whole thing was a ballroom, complete with a sprung floor and an uninterrupted view of the Hudson.

  The situation was a little disor
ienting. I’d never even owned a studio apartment before, and now I’d inherited a virtual palace. My father could have made a fortune stripping the place and selling the architraves and chandeliers and plaster moldings. It wasn’t like him to have missed the opportunity, but I was suddenly very glad he’d left everything intact. Anything else would have been sheer vandalism. Although it did mean I felt obliged to be extra careful with the microphone I was there to install. And the wireless cameras. And the Sheetrock.

  * * *

  —

  The second time I visited the house was only a day later. I let myself in, checked that all the cameras were working, then settled down to wait.

  I knew within five seconds of John Robson escorting him inside that George Carrick would take the deal. I could see it on his face. He just couldn’t conceal his excitement and greed. He still insisted on touring the whole house, though. I knew he’d want Robson to see his famous instinct at work. He stroked the banisters. Tested the grout with his thumbnail. Knocked on the pipework with his knuckles. Checked the dimensions of the principal rooms using a laser measure he produced from the pilot’s case he was carrying. And he wound up in the kitchen, at the back of the house, as planned and on schedule.

  “This is such a beautiful, spacious room, isn’t it?” Robson crossed to the window. “And so bright. It would be great for parties. It has a separate pantry for storing food. A wine cellar. You could even create a dedicated space down there for your cigars. Unless you decide to flip the house, in which case all these features would make excellent selling points.”