About Face (43 page)

I enter the Russian mobile number into the disposable, setting up a text. I attach the first photo taken with the writing from the eggs—the one of
Hen Egg with Sapphire Pendant.
Then I type a message.

INTERESTING DOCTORAL THESIS. HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE RIGHT?

I hit “send.”

I send another set of texts.

MORE PICTURES TO FOLLOW IN ORDER FROM THE MISSING FABERGÉ IMPERIAL EASTER EGGS. THE EIGHT WERE MADE BY A MAN NAMED PAVEL DERBYSHEV FOR MARIA, ONLY HE WASN'T REALLY PAVEL DERBYSHEV. HE WAS A MAN NAMED GUSTAV BJERG, AND HE WAS MARIA'S COUSIN. GO CONNECT THE DOTS. HE WAS HER SPY. AND THE EGGS WERE HIS WAY OF GETTING HER PROOF OF WHAT SHE BELIEVED; WHAT YOU BELIEVE. THAT'S WHY IN THE CHAOS OF THE REVOLUTION THEY ARE THE ONES SHE MADE SURE OF SAVING. GO SET HISTORY STRAIGHT. GOOD LUCK.

I forward the rest of the pictures. Then I break the disposable in half, and crush each half under my heel. I open the window and toss one of the halves to the side of the highway. A few miles farther I do the same with the second half.

I look at the recently dialed numbers on the iPhone. I tap one.

“Ivan.”

“Ernst.”

“Ivan, look, the three oh five is close, but we really need to—”

“Three ten,” I cut him off. “That's the best I can do.”

“Three ten,” he repeats.

“Three hundred ten per foot. Take it or leave it. And I need to know yesterday. Understood?”

He probably would have done the deal at three hundred five per foot, but I decide to make it a no-brainer. Because as far as I'm concerned, I'm still buying the building cheap.

“Understood. I'll be back to you.”

In the throes of all the chaos once again surrounding my life, an image comes to me bringing comfort. An image that makes me think of all the years past, an image that reinforces the urgency of me finding strength in the moment, an image that reminds me the future is far from surety. I hit Face Time on my iPhone, and dial a number.

“
Dag Ivan. Hoe is uw reis?
”

“
Dag Laura
,” I reply.

I'll give it to you in English.

“My trip's going well—thanks. How's my favorite boy?”

“I'll get him for you. You can ask him yourself.”

I can tell Laura's in the kitchen. She places her iPhone on the island. The live feed image goes everywhere before settling on a shot of the ceiling. I hear her in the background calling for Aldo. Suddenly she reappears and picks the phone back up.

“Look who I found,” she says, the two of them on the screen, their faces side by side.

“How's my best guy?”

At the sound of my voice Neo visibly becomes excited. He cranes his neck forward and licks the screen.

I smile.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

Exhausted, but still riled up, I board the de Bont Gulfstream. I drop my things and walk over to Cobus, who's sitting on the couch with a cocktail, legs crossed, looking very relaxed. As usual, he's dressed impeccably tight in his usual black uniform like he's just started his day as opposed to finishing it. He doesn't say a word. Just stares at me.

I look out the window, into the night. Airport vehicles move in all directions amongst the different colored lights lining the runway and the signs that make no sense to civilians. I take a Life Fuel out, down it, and place the empty bottle on the table. Then I take my suit jacket off and lay it on the couch.

I look back at Cobus. He's still staring at me. He hasn't moved. I don't think he's blinked.

“May I bring you a drink?” asks Aimee, our perky, blond flight attendant, as she picks up the empty Life Fuel bottle.

I'm so frayed, I'm flying. I'm soaring as I'm sinking. My mind and body can't decide who's coming, who's going.

“Get him a Belvedere on the rocks with a twist,” Cobus says. “A double. Bring me another too.”

“I, uh, I'm not sure I need that right now,” I respond.

“Trust me, you want it. For the conversation we're about to have, you'll need it.”

Using just his eyes, Cobus encourages Aimee to run along, then for me, motions to the couch. I sit down.

“Cobus, I know this has all—”

“Stop.”

“Stop?”

“That's right. Stop.”

“Why?”

“I'd like you to slow down for a second, breathe, and have a sip or two of your cocktail. Then we can get down to business.”

This, actually, sounds good. I look out the window again. I put my hand to my chest. My heart is literally racing. After all this time, I made it back to New York City. Now, I'm leaving again. I feel a certain satisfaction for what I accomplished. A lot of years of research and planning gone right. I feel equally disappointed I may have fucked this deal up for Cobus. I feel undeniable sadness I still don't have Perry back, that I have no idea if she's safe.

“Here you are,” says Aimee, placing two coasters down followed by our drinks on the table.

“Aimee, we're going to need complete privacy,” Cobus says. “Please don't reenter the cabin until I call for you.”

“Of course, sir.”

Aimee disappears. I hesitate, but can't resist how cool, refreshing the cocktail looks. I pick it up and knock a bit back. Cobus doesn't budge. He's staring at me again. Seconds later, we begin taxiing toward the runway. I decide to try and break the ice again.

“Cobus, I would have never killed this deal unless it was best for us. Unless it was right. You'll understand this once—”

“Why do you think you ended up in Amsterdam?” Cobus cuts me off.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. But perhaps I should ask the question in another manner. In a way you won't have to think so hard in order to
come up with an answer, as I assume that must become extremely exhausting.”

“I'm not following.”

“Why do you think Gaston chose Amsterdam for you, Jonah?” The second he says my name—my real name—every hair on my body stands on end. I can feel all the blood in my body rush south. My hands start trembling. Fear swallows me.

“What are you talking about?”

Gaston Piccard.

Pop's Swiss financial consultant and my springboard to a second life.

How does he know Gaston?

“Who?”

Immediately, my mind starts strategizing, starts preparing to go that place I've learned to go.

I'm trapped in the air.

I have a gun.

Cobus, like nothing out of the ordinary has just happened, picks up his cocktail, leans back again in his chair, and takes a healthy sip.

“You heard me, Jonah. Jonah Gray. Gaston Piccard suggested Amsterdam was the place for you to restart your life—you and Perry. Max—”

What doesn't he know?

What am I missing?

“Did you ever stop to ask why? Or was it simply that he was a trusted member of your father's inner circle? And that's all you needed to know?”

“What the hell is going on?”

“What's going on? After all these years, you and I are about to get acquainted. That's what's going on.”

Instinct has kicked in. Adrenaline and caffeine—survival—flowing, I grab my jacket and in one quick motion I grab my gun. I don't point it, I just rest it in my lap.

“What's that for?”

Cobus hasn't flinched. He takes another sip, then swirls the lowball, the ice cubes jingling as they hit the glass.

“Just so we're clear,” I say. “Ivan Janse respects you. As a businessman and as a friend. Jonah Gray, on the other hand, doesn't fuck around.”

“Is that right?”

“That's right.”

“Actually, Jonah. I know that about you. In fact, I'm surprised by how big your balls are. I mean, high-speed midnight chases with the police? Tackling all this other shit while we're here for three days to close a deal—
and
finding the time to sleep with Julia? It's no wonder your eyes look like that. Like fire's about to shoot out of them.”

“How do you—when—”

“Now, why don't I tell you a little something about me,” Cobus goes on.

He throws down the rest of the drink and puts the glass on the table. He leans back in his chair again, only now he's less relaxed. His posture is more serious.

“Have you ever noticed that I'm always the first one off our plane?”

The question surprises me. I'm thinking about it, but have no idea.

“If I'm not the first person off my plane—ever—everyone else on that plane dies. Pilot, flight attendants, Arnon—you. Doesn't matter. Before anyone has a chance to leave the aircraft—they'll all be dead. You know why?”

“I—”

I have no idea what's going on. My head's spinning one way, the interior of the aircraft the other way. I shake my head “no.”

“Because if I'm not the first person off the plane, those literally watching my back at all times know I'm dead. And that one of the people on board is the reason. Doesn't matter which one. The fact that someone like me is dead is a much bigger deal than the collateral damage.”

I can feel myself squinting from the confusion.

“I'm not following,” I say.

“What I'm saying is that you should probably put your little gun away now. God forbid something happens to me, you won't only have killed yourself, you will have signed off on the death of everyone else on this plane.”

I don't move. Cobus leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands.

“That's not a request,” he continues.

His face becomes more serious than I've ever seen it before. It's like I'm looking at a different person.

“Put the fucking gun away, now.”

This is the first time I've ever heard Cobus use profanity. No matter what's going on, it's clear that something is taking place bigger than perhaps I realize. Obviously, I'm not going anywhere right now. So in formulating my best strategy, going along for now seems to be the best choice. I do as he says.

Cobus's expression softens, but not much. He sits back again in his chair.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he goes on. “In fact, quite the contrary. You know why?”

I don't even know what fucking language he's talking anymore.

“Try me.”

“Because I swore to Gaston you'd be in good hands.”

“Let's, for sake of discussion, say I do know Gaston,” I say. “How do you two know each other?”

“Gaston Piccard, as you know, is one of the preeminent bankers in Switzerland. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Gaston has a very high-level clientele. You know because you—your family—have been clients for years. In fact, your father, Stan, and Gaston were very close, so close Gaston trusted your father with information about the clients he represents—and how he represents them.”

Cobus pauses, staring on a forty-five-degree angle at the table as he chooses his words. Then he moves his eyes back to me.

“Information you used to bribe him into creating your new identity. Ivan Janse.”

A sliver of clarity.

“So you've known since the beginning? You've known about me since I've been in Amsterdam?”

“I knew about you the second Gaston agreed to assist you. I knew the plan would be for you to end up in Amsterdam from the moment the surgeons began working on your face. This gave me more than ample time to get specific plans in place to watch you.”

“Watch me? I don't get it. Why watch me?”

“Because there is a side of Gaston Piccard's business he wants people like you and your father to see—the side of wealthy families from around the world and governments who trust him with billions of dollars. But there is another side of Gaston's business that accounts for just as much, if not more, of his net worth. A clientele of a more unsavory type.”

My mind is sprinting, I'm processing.

“What do you mean unsavory?”

“What do you think I mean, Jonah?”

Sure, Cobus has a lot of information, but not sure what any of this means—what's real, what's not—I let the use of my true name roll down my back. I stay in character as Ivan.

“What? Like white-collar crime types? People who know how to manipulate markets, steal from corporations, things like that?”

“Things like that and then some. That, my friend, is why Gaston needed you looked after. Why he needed eyes kept on you. Should something have ever happened to you, and it became public knowledge there is a connection between him and a global fugitive like you, both sides of his business would have blown up in his face. The legit side because wealthy families and governments can't be associated with a financial advisor who harbors and assists the FBI's Most Wanted. The other side because criminals and the like
can't be associated with a financial advisor on the authorities' radar.”

“So why Amsterdam? Why did Gaston call—”

Before I complete my sentence I feel a tingling in my midsection.

Am I looking at a man, a self-made real estate magnate, named Cobus de Bont?

Or some kind of different animal altogether?

Cobus leans forward, then reaches out, picks my cocktail up, and downs the entire thing. He puts the glass back on the coaster and stands up. For a few seconds he does nothing, just stares down at me. He slowly removes his suit jacket and carefully, neatly, places it on the chair next to the one he's sitting in. Then he reaches up with both hands and begins undoing his necktie.

“You remember why I wear these same clothes no matter the circumstances?” he asks. “You remember the name of my affliction?”

“Solar something,” I answer. “Solar … Urli … Urtlit … Urticarial. Solar Urticarial.”

“That's right. Solar Urticaria.”

Once the knot of his tie is undone, he pulls it around, off his neck, and lays it on the suit jacket. He reaches to his waist, and untucks his shirt with both hands all around. He starts to unbutton his black dress shirt from the top down.