About Face (3 page)

I look at the table filled with appetizers. There's caprese with tomato, mozzarella, cucumber, mint, and feta. There's a rouille—rust sauce—based bouillabaisse, as well as the steak tartare. There are frog's legs sautéed in a fine fruit sauce paired with crisp, sliced potatoes to be dipped in a chili-pepper mayonnaise. After surveying my options, I, too, drag a toast point through the raw seasoned ground beef.

Cobus puts his arm around my shoulders. As I chew he takes a sip of his Chianti. Six-feet, two-inches tall with thick, dark hair and dark skin to match his chestnut eyes, Cobus is dressed like always. Black suit, black shirt, black tie. The clothes are perfectly tailored, every edge from hem to collar knifelike. Since the day I met him, I don't recall him wearing anything else. Summer, winter, morning, evening—doesn't matter. He says he has a rare skin condition called Solar urticaria. Exposure of his skin to sunlight results in painful, burning lesions. Hence the ever-present, perfectly
manicured five o'clock shadow completing his more Mediterranean than Nordic look. This may be the case, but part of me can't help feel Cobus doesn't mind his affliction. His approach to clothes means more time—even a few precious moments a day—to focus on the important matters at hand: Business.

“Tell me about Willem,” he says to me. “He's been with us for eight years, Ivan. He's one of the best in this entire city.”

Willem Krol. Chief building engineer of Astoria, one of the oldest office buildings in Amsterdam, located on the corner of the intersecting Keizersgracht and Leliegracht canals. Best known for its copper-plated roof, the six-story home to numerous companies is part of the de Bont Beleggings portfolio.

“It has recently come to my attention Willem Krol may be fabricating some overtime. I still need more facts. But it's not looking good.”

Cobus sighs and drops his chin. The waiter arrives with my Belvedere. We clink glasses and each take a hearty sip of our drinks.

“How about—”

I answer Cobus's question before he's done asking. His tone alone tells me he's changing direction.

“Harkin Aeuronautic accepted the higher security deposit and signed the lease. I made it clear the option for another term at their discretion wasn't going to happen. Staying on the Vinoly Building—”

The official title is Mahler Four Office Tower, but because of its world-renowned architect—Rafael Vinoly—it is simply referred to as the Vinoly Building. It is one of the most prized office properties in Amsterdam's highest-end commercial market—the South Axis. It is here one can find modern skyscrapers like those found in New York City or London or Sydney, only on a much smaller scale.

Completed in 2005, the Vinoly Building is a twenty-four-story rectangular glass
L
. The bottom six stories make up the base, and the rest of the floors make up the high backstop. It is a sleek, refined structure that appears, oddly, to have a crack running down, around
the edge of the tall backstop. Vinoly carved an external fire staircase into the building's shell. The goal was to incorporate Amsterdam's innovative spirit into his design. The result is a property that helps define architectural vision.

Cobus bought the building last spring for forty-four million euros. It is one of three he owns in the South Axis. Our offices are on the top floor.

“Jaap Jan de Geer let me know CCM Global will not be renewing. They'll be out in six months, which is more than enough time to market the space. I'm not sure if you recall but their build-out is really high-end. We're talking about—”

“Do you two ever tire of talking business?” a female voice asks from behind us.

We turn around. It's Annabelle. Wearing a tight, sleeveless, laurel-green embroidered dress with a black leather belt and high black heels, she's an image out of one of her own photo shoots.

“Sorry, boys. It's time for Cobus to toast his best girl.”

Wasting no time, Annabelle grabs a random empty water glass and begins clinking it with a spoon.

“I appreciate the update,” Cobus says to me, “but that's not what I was going to ask.”

“What then?”

“If you still think New York City over Berlin is the right move?”

Ninety minutes later, as we're finishing dinner, I receive a text. The name pops up with the number. It is from Scott Green. After a few seconds I place the contact. He's in-house counsel—someone I've spoken with only a handful of times—for the Manhattan-based firm with whom we're about to make a deal.

CONFIDENTIAL, THE TEXT BEGINS. IVAN—NED TO SEE YOU. IN TOWN HAMMERIG OUT DETAILS WITH YOR LAWYERS. MUST SEE YOU IMEDIATELY. TELL NO ONE.

I look around. Both confused and intrigued, I return my eyes to my iPhone and read it again. I can't help but be a bit thrown off by
all the misspellings. I've seen numerous complicated, detailed legal documents drafted by this man. Scott Green doesn't strike me as such a careless texter.

I look at Cobus. He's whispering in Annabelle's ear, and she's grinning ear-to-ear absorbing the tender moment. Figuring it's most likely a fire I can squelch on my own, I decide not to bother him.

OF COURSE, I write back. AMSTEL HOTEL?

This, the finest hotel in the city, is where I recall members of the “Seller's” team stayed during their last trip to Amsterdam.

NO, he replies almost immediately. NIEUWE PRINSENGRACHT. HOUSEBOAT. NUMBER 030. CONFIDENTIAL. TEL NO ONE.

A
MSTERDAM
2013

9:40
P.M
.

Standing in the center of a thirty-five-meter-wide, cast-iron footbridge, I look down the narrow canal that splits Nieuwe Prinsengracht Straat. Both sides of the water are lined with houseboats. Beyond the houseboats, on each side, are diagonally parked cars and bicycles followed by the street then the sidewalk. Canal houses tower above all, like bookends mindfully containing the life below.

The neighborhood is quiet. I hear a baby crying from above through an open window. Barely audible remnants of the weekend crowd enjoying the bars, shops, and restaurants graze me from nearby Rembrandt Square. There's a cool mist in the air. The lights on the next footbridge up ahead are muted, like a fuzzy photograph.

I start toward the canal houses to my right. As I get closer, I can see some of the numbers on them. Even, which means I chose correctly. Even-numbered canal houses mean even-numbered houseboats. After a few steps, at the end of the bridge, I turn left.

The second houseboat down is number 030. This is one of the city's newest, more like a doublewide trailer home on a mini-barge
as opposed to an actual boat. Aesthetically it isn't much to look at—it's a white, rectangular box. But unlike the relics of the sixties and seventies moored around this city, what the new generation houseboats lack in character they make up for with running water, electricity, gas heat, and an attachment to the municipal sewer system. Plus, they're twice the size.

As I descend an eight-step ladder from street level to the dock, I hear music coming from behind the front door. I can see through a large picture window into the brightly lit living room. I notice the finishes are more upscale than I might have imagined. There are beautifully polished cherrywood floors, a plush, L-shaped chocolate leather couch, a matching square ottoman, and contemporary light fixtures. Then I notice that the room—or what I can see of the room—is empty.

I knock on the door. The rap of my knuckles nudges it open an inch. “Hang Me Up to Dry” by the Cold War Kids blares much louder than I anticipated. I recognize the music. My young, robotically efficient assistant Angelique is the reason. She listens to this music constantly at her desk, which is just outside my office.

I find it odd a guy in his fifties would be listening to an American alternative band favored by twenty-somethings. I slowly push the door open. The rest of the living room unfolds to my right. Two steps up lead to the dining area and kitchen. Scott, standing in the latter at the counter next to the sink, pours himself a tall glass of what appears to be scotch or whiskey. He notices me. He gestures for me to close the door, which I do.

Scott Green is about five foot ten. He's got a full head of curly gray hair. His wide shoulders and build suggest at one time he was athletic, his potbelly suggests not so much anymore. His nose is a bit large, made to look larger by a poorly selected pair of smallish, round, tortoiseshell glasses. He's wearing black slacks that strike me as the bottom half of a suit and a half-open light-blue button-down shirt showing more of his chest than I care to see.

I smell weed in the air, something else I find odd. Green doesn't strike me as a man interested in Amsterdam's coffee shops. He
offers me a drink over the music by lifting a glass in my direction. I shake my head no, and mouth “no thanks.”

He picks up his glass and heads in my direction. With only one step I see he's hammered. After a couple more, he stops. He holds up the index finger on his free hand and a blank look glazes over his face. He turns back toward the counter and looks for something. He fumbles, then picks up what appears to be a remote control.

As he stumbles again in my direction, he points the remote at the tuner sitting on a shelf behind me at the end of the room. The volume quickly lowers.

“Ivan. Ivan … you're a good man,” he slurs, nearly losing his balance as he navigates the two stairs. “You're a good man.”

“A little different from the Amstel,” I say, not exactly sure where to start. “When did you get in?”

He throws the remote on the couch and takes a gulp of his booze.

“I got in … um … I got in when, uh …”

We shake hands. He changes gears as if our hands touching triggered a different thought pattern. His cheeks are rosy, his palm sweaty. He's overheated.

“It is definitely different from the Amstel. Yes. Without question. But, you know, it just—it's a nice change of pace. This way I can just unwind and, I mean, I've got the whiskey and I'm fine and I'm here and—”

His alcohol-saturated breath warms the air between us.

“It just—”

He looks around like a proud farmer gazing out over his acreage.

“It just
works
.”

He swings his face back to me fast, a man trying to appear sober, but failing.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” I say, not bothering to point out he'd already offered.

Awkward silence.

“So, Scott, I was surprised to receive your text,” I say.

“Oh, I can imagine,” he responds. “But when—please, please, sit down. Please, come in and—”

His sentence and thought vanish into thin air. I take one of the two seats opposite the couch.

“I got in just this morning,” he says, going back to the first question I asked him. “But I'm always just—it's just, I'm always just working. So it's the weekend, so I figured, I'm just—”

He clumsily moves toward the couch. The whiskey sloshes violently in his glass. He falls into the leather, facing me. He takes a long, sloppy sip of his cocktail. Some of the liquid never reaches his mouth and runs down his chin instead.

I can't help feeling frustrated. There's a ton riding on this deal. About six months ago a few of the larger, global firms in commercial real estate expressed interest in acquiring the commercial real estate portion of de Bont Beleggings's holdings. Cobus turned them down. He wasn't interested in selling out. But he did agree that it was time to take the firm to new heights.

Indeed, Cobus decided, it was time to make our first foray into another market. Since that moment, he's been looking for the right property. It now came down to two deals—one in Berlin, the other in New York City. Cobus wanted to go with Berlin. I convinced him to go after New York City.

We're close to the end. That's why Green is here. Our attorneys have done the bulk of the flying lately. As an act of good faith, the seller in Manhattan—a firm called GlassWell—sent their counsel over for what should be the last serious round of legal discussions surrounding the language in the documents as we move toward closing in the coming days.

A lot of people will be watching de Bont Beleggings's entrance into a new market. The Berlin opportunity seems to have found another suitor. The last thing I need is a problem.

“The text you sent me this evening—,” I say.

He points to the ottoman. There's nothing on it but a silver pen.

“Please,” he says. “The pen. Take it.”

Confused, I lean forward and pick it up.

“I know that you and Mr. de Bont are headed to New York in a few days,” he continues. “Just make sure you, when you're there, just be sure to pay attention. When it's time, just, with, just make sure the pen is straight. You know, straight forward. Straight. Because you'll think you're done. But looking closer is—to look closer—”

I look at the pen. It is sterling silver, long, slim at the tips but fatter in the center and has lengthwise grooves. It doesn't have a cap. It looks like a pen from a desktop set. The butt is flat and engraved with the letter
D
.

“I'm sorry, I'm not clear,” I say. “What does this pen have to do with our deal?”

Green leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands dangle, the one holding the drink so limp he's about to spill. His glassy eyes suddenly become serious.

“That pen has everything to do with this deal,” he responds. “That pen, my young friend, is everything.”

He sits back again.

“I like you, Ivan. I know, when, I know we've only met a couple times but with certain folks you know they can, there can be, they can be trusted. I feel okay to count on you.”

“Count on me?” I ask, hoping to elicit some clarity.

No answer. With his free hand, he takes a half-smoked joint and small, blue plastic lighter out of his pants pocket. He manages the dope cigarette into his mouth and fires it up. In doing so, he barely misses singeing one of his eyebrows. He tosses the lighter onto the ottoman.