About Face (42 page)

“Was it worth it?” I ask. “The threats? The following and taking pictures of this poor man's family? Was it worth it, all in the name of business? Was it worth driving this poor fucking man to blow his
own fucking head off because he felt this was his only fucking option?”

“Please! Please! I didn't follow him or his family or send those pictures—it—I wasn't responsible for that.”

Alessi sent the pictures. Not Brand.

I glance at the Perregaux.

Enzo Alessi.

See you soon.

“But I know that doesn't make any of this right. I never wanted for this to happen! I swear! I swear! The whole thing—the whole thing just got so out of fucking control…”

I take a step back, gun still pointed at his head.

“Take out your phone.”

“What? Why?”

“Just take it out.”

He does. I grab it from him. It's an iPhone, and it's locked.

“Code.”

“One, one, one, seven.”

First I go to the Alarm Junction app. Alarm Junction is the firm that handles security for all the GlassWell properties. These days, everything can be handled for these types of systems remotely via applications or the web—real-time monitoring, camera angle adjustments, cameras being turned on and off, everything. The system is very much like the one we use in The Netherlands. And because we've been in the process of buying the building, and have scoured every aspect of this target up and down, I'm very familiar with what I'm looking at. I even have the username and password I need tucked in my brain, but it isn't necessary as Brand's already logged in. With only a few taps and touches, I turn all the security cameras at the Annex off.

“What are you—”

“Shut up,” I cut him off.

Next I go into the contacts and find Enzo Alessi. I text him.

I NEED TO SEE YOU IN YOUR OFFICE. NOW. IT'S URGENT.

“Ivan,” I hear Julia say behind me through chokes and sobs, “Ivan, please. There has to be—”

Her words may as well be in Japanese. Done with her. I put the gun back to Brand's head. Thirty seconds later, I get the return text from Alessi.

WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE, BUT WILL WAIT FOR YOU. WHAT'S UP?

I drop Brand's phone to the ground. With three quick, hard stomps I destroy it.

I lean down. And whisper in his ear.

“Boom.”

Brand starts crying.

“The biggest mistake you made? Trying to fuck a guy like me. Trying to fuck a firm like de Bont. Thank your lucky stars, Ryan Brand. Had you actually succeeded—had you actually sold us that building—you'd be leaving here today in a body bag.”

I snap back up and kick Brand square across the face with everything in me. In agony, he rolls onto his back. Blood is coming from his nose, from his mouth and cheek. That's when I drop my heel into his face again for good measure, causing both of them to scream.

I lock eyes with Julia.

“The Spencers treated you like family,” I say. “Some sister and daughter you turned out to be.”

Then, I'm gone.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

After stopping at the hotel and grabbing my belongings, I have my car stop at the Freedom Bank Building before heading east across town to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. Before opening the door to get out, and going upstairs to see Alessi, I get a text. It's from Ernst Bjerg.

YOU NEED TO CALL ME, IVAN. 305 IS GOOD. APPARENTLY, NOT GOOD ENOUGH.

“Right on cue,” I say to myself.

One thirty a.m. in Berlin. Ernst, though pushing it, has the green light to make a deal.

Sensing eyes on me, I look up. The driver is staring at me in the rearview. I turn and look out the window at the Freedom Bank Building. At the Annex.

“Why am I here?” I ask myself. This guy—these fucks—they're all going to get what they deserve for what they've done. Their families, their careers, they've all lost more than they even realize yet. I should be on my way to the airport.

Right?

Damn, my chest feels tight. My skin feels warm under my suit. My nerves are shredded.

Yet those same nerves are as steely as ever.

Yeah, they'll all get what's coming. But will they ever really feel it? Scott Green blew his head all over a room after dealing with what must have been days, weeks of pure anguish. Alessi, Brand, Julia if she needs it—they'll all load up on high-powered attorneys, and it will be ages before any of them face any music. When they do, will they even really feel it? Once all the charges through fancy litigation and maneuvering have been watered down? Will they ever really
feel
it? Will they ever feel even an ounce of the pain Green did?

A flash goes off in my brain—my father's gunshot-riddled body on a gurney.

Then another—the starburst of Green's head, brains up on the wall.

I should go to the airport.

I look at the Perregaux.

“Sit tight,” I say, gathering myself. “I won't be long.”

The Annex, like I mentioned, is like its own property affixed to the main building. Therefore it has its own entrance, one much less complex and with less security than the main property. People who work exclusively for the Alessi operation come and go with a cardkey access system. They wave their card in front of the card reader on the wall next to the entrance. So, I'll just wait until someone exits—hopefully—so I can slide in.

Seven thirty p.m.

I'll never make wheels up. I dial Cobus.

“Ivan.”

“I figure you know, but I wanted to mention that I have made it clear to GlassWell we're not closing. They get it. As I said they would.”

“And Berlin?”

“Working on it.”

The door opens. A great-looking, tall, slender woman with dark everything exits the Annex draped in a tight-fitting, chocolate-colored Armani overcoat. I act as if I'm simply a guy on the street talking on the phone, perhaps waiting for someone, as I watch the door. She gives me a quick up and down, smirks, and moves on.

“So why the call, Ivan? You could have told me this when you arrived.”

“I, uh—”

She's ten feet ahead down the sidewalk, her mind most likely already on wherever it is she's going, when I sneak the toe of my shoe between the closing door and doorframe. I slide inside.

“I need a little more time. There's one more stop I need to make.”

Cobus pauses.

“Ivan.”

“Cobus.”

“I sent Arnon back commercial. I decided this was probably best once I learned you decided we will be returning to Amsterdam via Moscow.”

Damn.

“Cobus. If I—”

“As you know, these flights are not as easy to change—either time or destination—as you are treating them. Nine p.m. Ivan. We're wheels up at nine with or without you. My advice? Make it.”

I bypass the elevator and head up the central, spiral staircase. Because of the time, the space is pretty empty.

“Hi, I'm here to meet with Enzo,” I say to a guy coming down the staircase. “Third floor, right?”

Look like you belong. And you do.

“Fourth floor,” the guy says back, barely giving me a thought. “Front corner on the left.”

I let myself into Enzo Alessi's office. The space is more Old World than I would have imagined. The desk is an old, traditional flattop mahogany piece. The oversize windows are adorned with
heavy, navy hanging drapes that match the carpeting. The accompanying furniture—the couches, chairs, coffee table, end tables—all have ornate, curved moldings.

Alessi is standing behind his desk. He's decked out in a custom Brioni suit, minus the jacket, talking on the phone. The knot of his shiny, lilac necktie is huge, tight. He's talking on the phone. I close the door behind me.

“I'll have to call you back,” he says into the phone when he sees me.

He hangs up.

“Ivan, I believe. Can I help you?”

“We need to talk,” I say.

“How did you get in here?” he goes on.

“Front door.”

He takes a glance over my shoulder toward his office door, like he's expecting someone else to walk in. Like Brand.

“Unfortunately, I don't have time. I have a very busy night ahead. Perhaps if you'd like to sit down you can call my assistant tomorrow and we—”

“I think you should reconsider,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

His cordial demeanor, expression, hardens.

“And why is that?”

I take the gun from the back of my waistline, under my jacket, and make sure he sees it as I reposition it in the front of my waistline, just off center enough to remain covered. I walk back, around Alessi, behind him and his desk, over to the first of the huge windows. We're only on the fourth floor, so people in the buildings across the street—if any remain at this hour—can see in. I draw the blinds closed.

“Because you're the reason GlassWell's deal to sell the Freedom Bank Building and Annex is officially dead.”

“What are you talking about?”

I move to the next window.

“The conversations between you and Ryan Brand? The ones that led to GlassWell's in-house counsel blowing his own head off in Amsterdam?”

I draw them as well.

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” he goes on.

He looks to the door again.

“Brand isn't coming,” I enlighten him. “Just you and me.”

I move to the last window, now off to his left and in front of his desk. He returns his eyes to me. He reverses his demeanor, his strategy.

“Look, I think there may be a terrible misunderstanding happening here,” he says. “And perhaps I can spare a few minutes. Why don't you sit down? Can I make you an espresso?”

I don't answer. I draw the last set of blinds, I walk to the front of his desk and face him.

“Put your hand on the desk,” I say, calmly.

“Excuse me?”

“Put your hand on the desk. Now.”

“Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?”

I take the gun out. I point it between his eyes, just inches away.

“Hand. Desk. Now.”

He hesitates, but obliges. I casually take a pair of scissors from the desk. And without hesitation, with all the speed and force I can muster, stab Alessi's hand, securing it to the desk. He lets out a primal scream. I silence it with a fist across his jaw. He's dazed, confused. Blood is coming up through the wound, trickling over the sides of his hand onto the desk. He's still standing, but his torso is laying on the desk to the side of his maimed hand.

“You talk a big game, like some big fucking man when it comes to threatening people. So act like a man. You make one more noise, the first bullet I let go is into your balls to let you bleed out a bit. The second one burrows into your temple and ends your life.”

I take a fistful of tissue from a Kleenex box on the desk. I ball it up and jam it in his mouth, his eyes popping like headlights beaming to life when I do.

“Other hand on the desk,” I continue.

He's hesitant. He knows what's coming. He shakes his head “no,” grunts.

This fear, this moment, this anticipation.

This is for you, Green.

“Fine with me, motherfucker!” I say, and start around the back of the desk.

His free hand reaches for the sky. He starts making whatever noise he can behind the tissue to get my attention.

I stop.

“On the table,” I repeat.

He does as I say. I come back around. I put my gun back in my waist. His eyes watch every inch of my deliberate movement. Slowly, I reach for, pick up the letter opener on the desk. I hold it down at my side. His eyes can't move from the letter opener.

“I suggest you remove me from the memory of this little encounter—perhaps blame it on Brand since he did, after all, text you to meet him here. Understood?”

His eyes move from the opener to my eyes. He gives me no indication he's with me on this last request. I lean forward and place my free hand and fist holding the opener on the desk so we're face-to-face.

“Otherwise, I find your son who enjoys the langoustine fritters so much, gut him like a fish, and spill his insides over your head. So I'll ask you one more time—understand?”

He nods “yes.”

“He had a family. And you? You literally scared him to death. Why? So Brand could steal from his company to help with your tax bill and we'd end up with this building even though you were going to bail to Uruguay. I've seen the pictures you sent him on behalf of you and Brand. The cops are probably looking at them as we speak, while they review the conversations you and Brand had.”

He closes his eyes, absorbing the gravity of all that's happening—what I'm telling him.

“That's right. You have no idea how it's all about to come crashing down on you. So I have to ask you—”

He opens his eyes again. I stand back up. I hold the letter opener in the air. Both of our eyes look up at it.

“Was it worth it?”

I drive the letter opener into and through his other hand. He's stuck to the desk, but his back and neck arch. A primal concoction of gurgling and screaming gets squashed behind the tissue. Every thick, throbbing vein in his neck looks like it might burst. Blood comes up, around the letter opener, coating his hand.

“Get used to that position, asshole,” I say, “considering what the U.S. government is about to do to you.”

As the car rolls down the Van Wyck toward the private jet FBO terminal at JFK, I take out both phones. On the iPhone I go to my contacts and locate Nestor Korolyev—the dude whose doctorate thesis at Ivanovo State University was based on the relationship between Nicholas and Alexander III's relationship before Nicholas's untimely death. And the foul play he believed had taken place. Before this trip, through some simple Googling, I'd learned Dr. Korolyev had gone on to do some more research and had become a teacher. Today, he's a professor at the same university where he wrote the thesis. A couple months back I called him in his office, pretending to be his wireless carrier reaching out about a potential security breach involving his mobile number, which I ended up with as a result of the call. Today, with that number, I'm about to let him change the history books.