Cries of the Lost (32 page)

“You like money?” Natsumi asked.

“Yeah. I do,” said the woman.

Natsumi wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it over. “If you see anyone go in or out of those offices, call this number. If it’s true, you get a thousand dollars.”

The woman studied the number, then looked up. “How do I know you’re good for this?” she asked.

“You don’t,” said Natsumi, “but why not make the call anyway and see what happens?”

The woman seemed to consider this seriously, and left us after sticking the number in the back pocket of her black denim jeans.

After that, we decided there was nothing left to do but find a restaurant and go eat, just like we were regular people. That we weren’t was proven by the dinner conversation.

“You think you’ll have to break in?” asked Natsumi, after the hors d’oeuvres arrived.

“I don’t know. I think Nose Stud might come through.”

“We know nothing about the building, or their offices. Or even if they have offices.”

“It could be another shell. An empty address.”

“Pretty expensive shell,” she said. “A million bucks gets you a studio apartment in this part of town.”

“No more than the other safe houses. Florencia had expensive tastes.”

“So what do we do now?” Natsumi asked.

“We need to shake the tree again. This time, let’s not be standing underneath.”

I
WAITED
until two in the morning, believing that Joselito would be off his computer and sound asleep. Using the mirroring software, I went into his email and wrote a letter.

Señor Mariñelarena:

I am in possession of information that would be of great value to you. It relates to a substantial amount of money belonging to your organization that was withdrawn from a bank in Grand Cayman. Regaining these funds would go a long way toward replenishing your real estate holdings recently compromised in London, Madrid and Menaggio.

As you can see, I know a great deal about you. I note this only to prove the legitimacy of my offer, and the potential consequences of a refusal. Understand that I could make the same offer to the VG, but I have come to abhor their motives, tactics and philosophy. You are, in a very real sense, the lesser of two evils.

Given the sensitivity of these matters, I will insist we meet face to face here in New York City.

Respond to this message and we will move forward with further arrangements.

Joselito Gorrotxategi

Before letting it go, I attached a sub-program to the email that would route the return message through Joselito’s computer, bypassing his inbox, and send it to one of my own.

“Shake, shake, shake,” I sang to myself as I hit the send button.

T
HE
NEXT
morning I got a call from Evelyn, who was still Down Under, but getting antsy.

“I do love it here, Arthur, but I have a cardiology practice to support back in Stamford,” she said.

“Any news on the sale of the agency?”

“The buyers are identified. We’re in due diligence now. Auditors are crawling all over the books. You can understand why they got out the fine-tooth comb, given what happened. It takes time.”

“Like what?”

“Like another month,” she said.

“What’s your position on Bosniak gangsters?”

I told her as much as I dared about Little Boy and his crew. Evelyn was a hard-nosed woman with a greater commitment to privacy than personal safety. I knew it would be a tough sell, and it was.

“No way.”

We argued, in the gentle, mostly good-natured way we always had, for nearly an hour. Then I pulled out my last card.

“Do it for me,” I said. “If you’re coming home, I’ll be constantly worried about your safety and won’t be able to concentrate. And that might mean I’ll make a mistake that’ll get us all killed.”

“That’s a low blow.”

“I know, but it’s the truth.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“That’s not my job right now. What I really want to do is scare the crap out of you so you’ll do what I’m asking.”

“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “What’s his name again, Little John? Do I also get Friar Tuck?”

After I got off the phone with her, I called Shelly.

“A new number,” he said when he heard my voice. “What do you do, change these things every day?”

“Nearly. Cancel the request for protection for the insurance agency owner. Private services have been retained.”

“That’s good, because I couldn’t get it anyway. In fact, they’re politely asking me to go back to my retirement in Rocky Hill.”

“Really.”

“I can’t tell you anything more because it might compromise their investigation, which would be very bad for me and my pension. My advice to you is to come in. Now that they’re serious, there’s no way this can end well. New York is a big town, but you can’t hide there forever.”

How did he know we were in New York? I thought, then hit the end button and yelled to Natsumi that we were moving again. In a hurry.

Shortly after, we were in a hotel overlooking Central Park on the Upper West Side. My first impulse had been to fly to Cleveland or Patagonia, but Natsumi’s cooler head prevailed, voting strongly that we’d come too far to abandon everything now. And, ultimately, our safety would rely more on reaching some conclusion to this thing than constantly running around the world.

“We’ve already talked about this,” she said. “If you give up now, it’ll eat you to death, and that won’t be any fun for either of us.”

What I had to chew on, at that moment, was a new reality. Pissed at me as he may have been, Shelly had intentionally sent a clear message—they were tracking us down. There was a vulnerability somewhere in my systems, a breach. One likely suspect was the disposable phone. They couldn’t connect it to me directly, but they likely monitored my calls to Shelly, then traced the connection back to the city, maybe even to the repeater closest to the Remsenberg Hotel.

Everything I’d done on the computer since waking up from the coma was either obliterated or backed up on a pair of terabyte hard drives. I could spend a year searching around for digital spies and find nothing. Or, I could simply start all over again.

I told Natsumi my plan, which began with a new disposable phone and a few hours on a park bench verbally phishing for social security numbers from a list of dead people I’d been holding in reserve. This should have been very difficult, but I’d learned all the tricks from a project I once did for an insurance company that was designing identity theft coverage, so it wasn’t long before I had three strong numbers gladly provided by grief-addled family members.

Thus armed, I opened a new bank account so I could get a fresh credit card. I used the card to go shopping for a new laptop, wireless access via cell service, external hard drives and a few more disposable phones.

My first online purchase was space in a storage facility in Connecticut, where I sent all my old gear, with the exception of a terabyte drive containing the backed-up files. Bypassing the hotel’s wireless access, I imported over a few select files and applications, including the programs monitoring Joselito’s computer. I scrubbed all the documents, files and programs with antivirus and antimalware tools, which claimed everything was clean and safe—which I prayed was true, recognizing that the U.S. government could do things a hacker couldn’t dream of. Thus occupied, it was more than a day before I checked for Rodrigo’s response to Joselito’s email. I’d directed it to one of my fresh new email accounts.

Sr. Gorrotxategi:

You interest me. I have heard of you. Perhaps because we travel in the same universe, though within different orbits. We will meet, though you understand security demands a great deal of caution. Preparations will need to be made.

Rodrigo Mariñelarena

I wrote him back:

Sr. Mariñelarena:

Thank you for your prompt and respectful response. I appreciate your caution, because I am also a very cautious man, which is why I am still here among the living. However, this is not a matter that will tolerate a long negotiation. I have other options and must take the course most advantageous to my interests. I am sure you understand.

Joselito Gorrotxategi

The next response was even more prompt and respectful.

Sr. Gorrotxategi:

I do understand and appreciate the position you are in. You will find I am both a swift and flexible negotiator. Arrangements are being made. Please stand by for further instructions.

Mariñelarena

“You think he’s chomped on the bait?” asked Natsumi, when I showed her the exchange.

“I do. It’s not just the money, it’s Joselito’s apparent operational awareness. That’s got to spook Rodrigo big-time.”

“He’ll come to New York?”

“I think he will. This is too important to sit on his hands in Europe.”

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“Take it to the street.”

I
SPENT
the next three days playing a homeless guy who’d taken up residence across the street from United Aquitania’s building. I had a grocery cart filled with empty bottles and cans, a sleeping bag, long greasy hair and beard and more ratty clothes than the temperature required.

A cardboard sign, next to an open cardboard box, said, T
HE
E
MPIRE
HAS
DESTROYED
J
EDI
K
NIGHT
RETIREMENT
ACCOUNTS
. D
ONATIONS
APPRECIATED
.

I actually did pretty well with that, bringing in a little more than four hundred dollars during the three-day stint. Made me reconsider past career decisions.

The beat cops checked in with me on the first day, and I told them it was a temporary situation, that I was scheduled to start a program—meaning city-sponsored rehab—any minute now. One of the cops said fine, not believing me, then told me their neighborhood’s sidewalk housing statute of limitations was five days. Max.

“Then you know what happens,” he said.

“I do,” I said, even though I didn’t.

Living conditions could have been worse, though I’m not sure how. Cement sidewalks are the coldest and hardest surfaces ever conceived. The sleeping bag, purchased like most of my other homeless gear at the Salvation Army, had most of the stuffing long since beat out of it, so it wasn’t much of a mattress.

The best moment was when another homeless person, a woman with a livid face and dirty hands, sat down next to me and offered up a midsized 7UP bottle half filled with straight vodka. I demurred, which gave her no offense.

“That’s fine. More for me.”

“Though it was a generous offer,” I said.

“You bet it was. I got kicked out of this very same place, what, a year ago? So what the fuck?”

“I have three days left.”

“Oh. Then they do the thing.”

“The thing?” I asked.

She looked at me in semi-bewilderment.

“You new here?”

“I am. Down from Connecticut,” I said.

She sniffed and shrugged, as if to say, you don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.

“What, Greenwich?” she asked.

“Yeah, Greenwich. I got a hedge fund run by Jesuit monks. Those guys aren’t a lot of fun, but crazy honest, you know what I mean?”