From Manhattan with Revenge (The Fourth Book in the Fifth Avenue Series) (17 page)

When he went home each year, it was more
to see his mother, with whom he had an emotional connection that, he supposed
now, upon reflection, might as well be love. As for the rest of them? They
could disappear as far as he was concerned. He’d never been close to his
brothers or sister, uncles, aunts, or cousins, and while they feted him for his
successes in the States when he did go home, he nevertheless sensed a strong
undercurrent of jealousy from the men, which is one of the reasons he refused
to give them any assistance.

If Katzev wanted to, he could put the
Kester cheese in markets all over the world. With a phone call, he could set
things into motion that would improve his family’s situation. Through his
connections, they could be wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.

But he’d never do it.

The only reason they celebrated him when
he came home was because he knew that one day, they hoped he’d share his money
with them.

It’s nothing they’d ever ask him
directly—the Kesters were a proud lot and they’d lose everything before
they ever sank so low as to ask for a handout—but if Iver ever offered,
he knew they’d leap.

He played the video again and watched his
mother’s face when she spoke. “You should be here now, Iver...Before it’s too
late.”

She looked frail to him. Thinner than he
remembered. When he was young, she was strict, but never cruel. She protected
him from his father, who could be brutal, if she felt her husband was being too
hard on him, which was often. Because of her, he’d been spared many beatings.
Should he return the favor and save her and thus the rest of them?

He didn’t know the answer.

If he didn’t get to Carmen immediately,
there was no telling what she’d do with whatever information she had. His
mother did mean something to him. He did remember good times with her. He
remembered once, when he came home from school with one of his many stellar
report cards, that she hugged him and praised him. She often told him she
thought he could go far, well beyond the farm, and that he should live his
dreams in spite of the farm. She was one of the first to encourage him to reach
beyond. He appreciated that, but the syndicate was his and Laurent’s child. For
years, they built it together and they, along with its members, prospered
wildly because of it. So, which was it? Mother or child? What would a mother
do?

Save the child.

He looked across the room at Chloe Philips
and saw her looking straight back at him. In Carmen’s case, what would a mother
do? Same thing. Save the child. He knew her skills as well as her vast amount
of contacts and he couldn’t underestimate them under these circumstances. If
she came for him, he knew she’d bring everything she had. And it had become
clear that she’d die for this child.

He needed advice, but not from the
syndicate. They’d just bicker and complain that they’d been taken away from
their lives again and then a cluster fuck of in-fighting would ensue about how
best to deal with the situation now.

So, he wouldn’t use them. He was, after
all, their leader.

He clicked over to his cell and knew that
when he dialed the number he was about to dial, it would cost him upward of
five millions dollars for the guidance and assistance he needed.

Still, Vincent Spocatti was the best. They
understood each other. For years, they’d had a great working relationship. And
unlike any other assassin Katzev had worked with, only Spocatti valued money
more than anything, including personal relationships, which was critical
because Katzev knew Spocatti had worked with Carmen. Would he kill her for him?

Absolutely.

All Katzev had to do was let Spocatti name
his price and then wire half the money to his account, which he was prepared to
do, and then the other half when the job was done.

He dialed the man’s number. A moment
passed before Spocatti answered.

“It’s Katzev, Vincent.”

A beat passed and Spocatti laughed. “What
took you so long?”

“What does that mean? You’ve been waiting
for me?”

“Of course, I have. You’re screwed without
me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“There’s very little I don’t know, Katzev.
You know that. I’m fully aware of the situation you’re in. When do you need me
there?”

“Immediately.”

“I figured as much.”

“What’s that sound I hear?”

“I’m on a plane,” Spocatti said. “Just a
few hours outside of New York. And here’s a tip—until the other airlines
catch up, fly Singapore. Wireless. Telephone access. Lovely private cabin to
call my own so I can do my work and my life doesn’t get held up. Air travel is
finally as it should be. I’m assuming you want me to handle Carmen?”

“That’s right.”

“And what would that involve?”

“Her death.”

“What about Jake?”

“We’ll take care of him.”

“Poor Jake. Ruled unworthy.”

“He’s a concern, but not like Carmen is.”

“Still,” Spocatti said. “Just to be
brushed off like that. As if he doesn’t matter. It’s so cold. So...Russian.”

Katzev didn’t answer. He knew Spocatti
knew he was a Scot. He knew he was messing with him and ignored it.

“The price is twenty million,” Spocatti
said. “Half up front and wired to my accounts at once. Spread the money out
unevenly. Once I see it deposited, you can consider me committed to the job.”

“Twenty million?”

“That’s the price.”

“You’ve never charged me anywhere near
that before.”

“That’s because you and the syndicate have
never been in such trouble before, especially against Carmen, who nearly is as
good as I am. It’s all unraveling, Katzev. Carmen is seeing to it as we speak.”

Katzev thought about saying to hell with
his mother, letting them murder his family, and bringing in Carmen through
Chloe. But he feared he didn’t have time. He didn’t know what Carmen was
planning next, but he knew her well enough to know that she already was
planning something and it could be disastrous for him and all involved if he
didn’t act now. He heard what sounded like ice rattling against glass on the
other end of the phone and new that Spocatti was impatiently waiting. “All
right,” he said. “But we finish it tonight, Vincent.”

“Great. That’s actually a better fit for
my schedule.”

“Are you able to contact Carmen? Put her
off until you arrive? She’s given me a deadline of one hour to respond to her
requests, or she kills my family. If it’s possible, we’ll save them. If it’s
not, I won’t lose sleep over it.”

“Such a kind son,” Spocatti said. “You’re
willing to off your mother?”

“I’d prefer not to, but I will.”

“So professional of you, Katzev. So
removed. I can call Carmen and put her off. She trusts me implicitly, which
I’ve never understood, but she does. She’s never understood that our relationship
is business and will never be anything but. I’ll tell her I’m on a plane to New
York and that she should wait for me before she does anything else. I’ll tell
her I’m coming to help. We’ll agree on a neutral place for all of us to meet.
You’ll bring the girl and only one of your men, no one else. Come armed. That’s
the agreement. Carmen and I will come together, but we’ll also bring no one
else. She’ll see that as a fair arrangement. In exchange for Chloe, she will
promise not to harm your family. Ever. You give her the girl. When we start to
leave, when she thinks we’re about to go outside and that we’ll be safe, I’ll
shoot them dead. Does that work for you?”

“It does.”

“Have a car waiting for me at LaGuardia in
three hours.” Spocatti gave him the flight number. “We’ll discuss any further
details later. Oh, and can you do me one little favor?” he asked. “Just the
one?”

“What’s that?”

“This Russian bullshit of yours is growing
old. I want to hear Iver. Can you go back to your sheep roots and give me a
taste of Iver Kester, but without the cheese? I want to hear what the real Iver
sounds like. The one who is willing to murder his family, especially his
mother. It will give me insight into who I’m really dealing with.”

Katzev severed the connection and wired
the money.

CHAPTER TWE
NTY-TWO

In his townhouse on 118 East Sixty-First
Street, James Gelling was seated at a desk in his parlor, a telephone at his
ear, listening. When there was a break in the conversation, which he considered
long-since finished, he said, “Thank you, Bonzie. This time you were helpful.
It won’t go unnoticed. As soon as I hear anything about either stock, and I
expect to hear something soon, I’ll be sure to give you a call and share the
information before the market opens in exchange for your kindness. No, no. I
don’t do suppers anymore. I can barely swallow. And I’m in a fucking
wheelchair, Bonzie. You know that. I’m one hundred and three years old. These
days, I can manage broth and tea, but not always the former if it has too much
salt, which causes my throat to seize up. It’s hell being me. Good-bye.”

He hung up the telephone, wrote a few
notes with one of his arthritic hands, and then tried to read what he’d written
through the haze of his milky green eyes. The test was simple. If he could read
his handwriting, which he could, just barely, then others could.

He had two more telephone calls to make
and his job would be complete.

“Frank,” he said. “I need Piggy French’s
telephone number. She has homes in Paris and in New York. I hear she’s in New
York now. I can’t read the damn numbers in my address book anymore, but I know
her numbers are there. Would you mind finding her New York number for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Frank, who was so tall, it fascinated
Gelling, took Gelling’s private book that he kept locked in a safe and fanned
through it. “Piggy French, you said?”

“Awful name, but that’s what I said. They
saddled her with it at Vassar, because when she first arrived at school, she
was a bit too fat for that crowd. When she lost the weight in a matter of
months and became svelte, she decided to keep the name as a reminder to not
gain it back and also not to bow to her bullies. When her transformation was
complete, a beautiful girl was revealed. She and her name became chic. The
irony! But then everything went to hell for her when she married and divorced
and became a drunk of the highest order. This is the sort of useless
information I’m filled with.”

Frank gave Gelling her number and Gelling,
in the meantime, tried to read the time on the watch stitched into Frank’s eye
patch. Not great, but he did have some time left. “Would you like me to dial it
for you?” Frank said.

“That would be helpful, Frank. My fingers
are like pretzels. Here. Give me the receiver. At least I can hold it.”

Within a few moments, he was speaking to
Piggy French.

“Piggy,” he said. “It’s James Gelling. How
are you?”

“Right now, a little drunk, James. Peter
left me.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Was is the drink?”

“Was it the what?”

“What it the drugs?”

“Was it the what?”

“Never mind. I assume—”

“Don’t worry. This time, I had an airtight
prenup. What’s left of Daddy’s money is safe. I learned all about
that
after Dick left me.”

“Why did Dick leave you again?”

“He called me a cunt at Maisie Van Prout’s
swank dinner party for that sheik everyone loves. Whatshisname
Quelquechose
.
Can’t remember right now. But I remember the scene as if it were stamped on
vellum. Can you imagine? That language hurled at me in front of the sheik and
everyone else at the table, which included the legendary Broadway actress, Eve
Darling? When that prick left the room, I excused myself and immediately stuck
my nose in some peonies Maisie had arranged in a vase in her living room. I
just breathed them in. The scent calms me. So sweet. When he took me to court
and got his ten million, I did it again at my own house. Stuck my nose straight
in a vase filled with my own peonies. They didn’t work as well that time,
probably because losing ten million to a bastard like Dick Weatherbee is worse
than being called a cunt by him in front of a popular sheik and a Broadway
legend who was in the bathroom snorting coke throughout the evening.”

She was slurring her words. “What are you
drinking, Piggy?”

“Little bit of everything.”

“Pills?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t do the pills.”

“I loved him, Jamesie.”

“You’ll feel different in a week. You need
to focus on that. You need to think,
rebirth
. Get through the week and
you’ll see things differently.”

“A week will feel like a year. A
lifetime!”

“No, it won’t. And don’t get all
hysterical on me. I’m too old for it. I need you to do this.”