About Face (7 page)

“An unbelievable situation is taking shape in New York City—”

I ran back inside. International correspondent Becky Anderson was reporting from London. As always, her angular jaw was perfectly framed by her cropped brown hair. Her thick British accent that could make the weather sound dire added to the intensity of her words.

“In a storyline seemingly ripped from the world of fiction, two headline news stories seem to be crashing into one another. Just last Saturday morning, prominent Manhattan real estate figure Stan Gray was gunned down on the stoop of his townhouse on the Upper East Side—one of the city's most posh neighborhoods. Thus far, there have been no arrests.”

And there wouldn't be anytime soon, I thought, exterior footage of my childhood home filling the international airwaves. Lloyd Murdoch had covered his tracks well. The only reason the prick is still breathing, after taking my father down like a dog as a
message to me over a deal that was all bullshit, was because I hadn't killed him—though I certainly came close. The only reason I hadn't turned him in was because I hadn't had time.

“Meanwhile, in what seemed like a completely unrelated matter, approximately forty-eight hours ago a New York City police officer was pulled out of Manhattan's East River. He had sustained a single gunshot to the head and his body had been stuffed postmortem in a duffel bag. Few details are being released at this time, the one individual the authorities are seeking in relation to this crime is…”

A photograph of me—taken from my father's house—filled the screen. The picture was snapped at his sixtieth birthday party.

“Jonah Gray. Mr. Gray is a successful commercial real estate broker in New York City and the son of Stan Gray. That's right—the same Stan Gray whom we just mentioned gruesomely murdered on—”

I grabbed the remote and clicked it off. I decided right then and there to never look again. It simply didn't matter anymore. Everything had gotten so fucked up. Now I was running for my life. Unknown to the rest of the world, the cop whom I had killed wasn't some sympathetic figure, but a crooked lowlife who had violated every oath to serve and protect. He was a greedy, loathsome miscreant, shaking me down for
Danish Jubilee Egg
. And, if you recall, I didn't mean to actually shoot him. The gun went off accidentally. My father, animal that he was, was killed because of a deal I was involved in that turned out to be a ruse created by my half-brother Andreu Zhamovsky to get Prevkos shareholders' money into the States. Money that he and his crazy fuck mother would use to get their hands on the coveted missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs.

What's worse? What's maybe the hardest part of the whole sick scenario to swallow?
Danish Jubilee Egg
ending up in my briefcase was never part of Andreu and his mother's original plan—it was a contingency plan that went sour. I was simply somewhere the egg was to be parked for a day or so—a middleman. Only I wasn't
having it. In the process of safely returning the rare treasure for transport to the U.S. Capitol where it was headed for display, I managed to piece together the location of the other six believed missing since the Russian Revolution. They were with a man named Pavel Derbyshev in Baltimore. Pavel Derbyshev is a direct descendant of a man named Piotr Derbyshev. Piotr Derbyshev, though a master stone carver in the House of Fabergé, but never previously in the driver's seat when it came to their creation, was mysteriously asked by Maria Feodorovna to oversee the creation of these particular eggs.

Now why would the czarina of the Russian Empire ask a certain man who worked in the House of Fabergé to craft the eight eggs that would ultimately go missing?

We'll get to that.

Same way we'll get to the fact Galina Zhamovsky—Ia—is a direct descendant of Czar Alexander III: Maria's husband. And the fact these eggs may hold secrets that will ultimately alter the course of history.

For almost thirty years, when it came to things such as the secret of Andreu as well as the truth about the missing Fabergé Imperial Eggs, Galina would communicate secretly through artwork sent to my father that then hung in our home.

My mother's home.

It all still sickens me.

Anyway—none of this mattered now. I had to worry about me. I had to keep moving, and thinking, forward.

I tossed the remote on the floor and lifted my palms up in front of me. My hands were shaking. The last few weeks had been so crazy I doubted it was simply nerves. Was I hungry? No, even though I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. Was it some kind of withdrawal? These last days I'd shunned the cocaine and weed in exchange for a clear head, but had these substances been more engrained in my being than I ever realized?

I opened the minibar. Figuring a little alcohol would dull the edge, I grabbed a Heineken, popped the cap with a bottle opener,
and headed back outside. I fell onto a lounge chair and took a long, savoring sip of my beer. Neo, having concluded his surveillance of the place, leaped into my lap and curled up so tight his head rested on his tail. He was spent, like me, from our journey. The difference is he fell right asleep. Scared of what sunrise would bring, I could only focus on the stars.

I thought I might never sleep again.

S
T
. M
AXIME
, F
RANCE
2004

Neo's sandpapery tongue swept over my lips. When I opened my eyes, the sunlight was so intense I could only squint. We were nose to nose. He was on his hind legs, his two front paws using my chest for balance. It took me a few seconds to remember where I was.

I grabbed Neo under his stomach and put him on the ground. I sat up. I looked at my watch, at the Audemars my mother had given my father. I touched it, remembering all the times she made me smile before she died just days before my fifth birthday. The watch was still on New York City time. The 2:00 a.m. I was looking at translated to 9:00 a.m. local time. I stood up and walked over to the edge of the terrace. The sky was solid blue, like a reflection of the sapphire water below. The gulf was teeming with life. Boats of all colors and sizes drifted about. Down below were scattered people sunbathing at the pool, as well as on the beach just beyond.

I thought about Perry. How much I missed her, hoped she was safe. I wondered if I'd ever see her again. I thought about my father, who I knew I'd never see again. I became choked up. I thought about Jake and Tommy, too. Sure, they were my partners, but they
were also two of my closest friends. I feared they were being pressed about things they knew nothing of, and I was sorry for that.

I walked into the suite, into the bathroom off of the living room, grabbed one of two lowball glasses next to the sink and filled it with water. I walked back out to the terrace, put it on the ground so Neo—following me at my heels—could enjoy it in the warmth of a beautiful morning. I returned inside. It occurred to me that water was one thing, food was another. I contemplated my options. I could order room service or venture out. Either way I would have direct contact with someone new. I decided the farther away this person was from this location, the better.

I walked into the bedroom for the first time since I'd arrived. I stripped off the suit pants and button-down shirt I'd been wearing for almost twenty-four hours, leaving them on the floor. I headed for the door in the far left corner leading to the second bathroom.

With a flip, I turned on the single light in the center of the ceiling. With a counterclockwise twist of a knob, I ran the shower. I tested the water with my hand. Cold, but beginning to even out. My eyes caught the mirror, my bald head. To my palm it felt stubbly and was a touch itchy. It dawned on me that aside from food for Neo, I needed other items. I needed food, toiletries, and casual beach wear that would help me maintain the identity of someone living a normal St. Maxime life. Someone who blends in.

After toweling off, I grabbed the gym bag off the couch in the living room and brought it into the bedroom. I took out the plastic bag containing the clothes I'd picked up at the airport, as well as a pair of underwear and socks. As I slid into the jeans, it occurred to me I had no idea who made them. I chuckled to myself. Days earlier, the only jeans allowed to touch my body had trendy labels and couple-hundred-dollar price tags. Now I was just happy not to be in a jail cell. Or dead.

I put on a black Hanes t-shirt and Yankee cap.

Fuck.

Shoes. All I had were the Ferragamos. The fact that they didn't
exactly match my outfit wasn't the issue. The fact that such a mismatch might stick out was.

I was stuck and could do no better than wait until my first opportunity to replace them. The issue at hand was Neo. Did I leave him here in this room? Even though I didn't plan on being long, what if I got held up? Or my plans called for quickly changing course? I needed to be agile. He didn't even need a leash as he always stayed right at my feet. Still—what if we had to run? What if he couldn't keep up, or we got split up? I exited the hotel, Neo slung on my shoulder in his carrier. I pulled my Yankee cap as low to my eyes as possible without interrupting my vision. The previous evening, I recalled, I had passed St. Maxime's main port, and center of town, only a couple of kilometers before La Belle Aurore appeared. I turned right on Boulevard Jean Moulin, the portion of the Bord de Mer that brought me into town the night before and headed back the way I'd come.

Outside the day was warm, drawing eager, ritzy beachgoers to the hotspots. Music blared from convertibles—everyone within eyeshot was getting loose while I sharpened my senses like a knife. Traffic crawled and every couple hundred yards I turned around to see if I was being followed. After about ten minutes, I decided, for the time being, I was alone.

Ten minutes after that, twenty in all, I came upon the main port. It was vast, orderly; a grand parking lot, only on water. Unlike the more chichi ports along the coast, most of the boats here were of average length. A couple vessels trickled through the inlet, no doubt a no-wake zone. In the distance, out in the gulf toward St. Tropez, I could see a number of mega-yachts scattered in the water. Most likely they were owned by wealthy visitors without a slip right in St. Tropez. Therefore they'd be using motorboats to get to shore for over-the-top, Domaines Ott-soaked lunches at haunts like Cinquante-Cinq and La Voile Rouge.

My black t-shirt was sticking to me. I could feel my socks wet inside my dress shoes. Up ahead I saw a thickening crowd. The last thing I wanted was exposure, but a morning market in the South of
France in the center of town meant for one-stop shopping. Using my time expeditiously, I wouldn't have to venture out again to shop until I had some direction.

Just past the port was La Plage des Elephantes, or the Beach of the Elephants. It's named this because Jean de Brunhoff, creator of Babar the Elephant, wrote his first Babar book in St. Maxime—so a sign told me. The place was buzzing. Bikinis were flat-out everywhere. Unfortunately, this is Europe, which doesn't limit this last statement to gorgeous women. We're talking women, men, young, old—you get the idea. Up ahead a bit farther I could see my destination: the morning market, or Les Puces.

I stepped over the curb, into the fold. The crowd was dense. Body odor, perfumes and colognes, the smell of sweat—it all rolled together into one pungent aroma of life.

Perfect.

There seemed no order to the booths lining each row, and I was immediately reeled in by the smell of sweet crêpes, gripped by the hunger I hadn't felt since jetting from New York. I chose one with Nutella for me and a strawberry one for Neo. I dropped my little partner's sweet treat in his bag and let him go to work. I stood there, people jostling me, and inhaled mine, nutty chocolate sauce running down and between my fingers. Then I ordered a second and did the same. My hunger satisfied, I started moving again with the crowd. Fruits and vegetables were next. I bought fresh blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries. I stocked up on dried fruit such as apricots and prunes figuring they would keep better. I got broccoli, cauliflower, potatoes; I got lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and carrots figuring I could make salad. My plan was to remove every item in the minibar, which would serve as my refrigerator, and simply replace them upon my departure. Which wouldn't be more than sixty hours from this moment.

No matter what.

I could not stay longer.

Perry or not.

Moving on, I peeked in Neo's carrier. He was finishing his
crêpe. He looked at me, his warm eyes glowing with appreciation. Strawberry was all over his white face. He looked like a peppermint candy. He licked his chops. Satisfied.

The next few stations were of no use. Fancy soaps, kitchen items, women's shoes. Next were toys. Surprising myself, I stopped. I wanted to have something ready should Perry and Max appear. I bought a couple of Transformers books, something I imagined all boys liked and something that also made me feel close to home. I moved on. Flip-flops! Ideal? No. Better than my dress shoes? Absolutely. I bought a pair, replaced my Ferragamos with the flip-flops, and continued on.

More stations of no use—costume jewelry, tablecloths, tobacco products, Provencal fabrics. Then I ran into a string of booths that worked for me. Bathing suits: bought one. Charcuterie: purchased some hard salami and pâté. I eyed some bacon and sausage but reminded myself I needed to stay away from things that needed cooking. Freshly baked breads: grabbed some fresh croissants and rolls. Sunglasses: bought two pairs for a combined twelve euros.

As I tucked my change in my pocket and positioned the three medium-size brown paper bags I'd accumulated in my arms, I noticed I had hit the jackpot. Casual shoes and sneakers. As I moved toward them I noticed something else. A pair of eyes seemed to be watching me from two aisles over.

They belonged to a young guy around my age—mid to late thirties. He was tall, fit, wearing jeans, and a hunter-green short-sleeve polo shirt. His skin was light and freckled, he had red hair, and a matching goatee. My pulse quickened. I turned away casually like I hadn't seen him and headed to the sneaker booth. The owner welcomed me, and I began browsing. I picked up a pair of Puma running shoes, pretending to look at them as I strained to keep tabs on my new friend with my peripheral vision.