Heirs of Cain (33 page)

In this case, Seneca knew he had stored more data in his memory bank than was necessary. He knew this because of the red
X
marked on the blueprint. The room where the meeting was to take place—in the library on the east side of the house.

Where the large window opened to a picturesque view of the Atlantic.

He smiled.
Idiots. Don’t they know anything about security? Don’t they know to stay away from windows?
He thought about changing his plan and launching his attack through that very window. It could easily be done. A rocket-propelled grenade launcher would make hamburger meat out of everyone in the room. But … maybe another time, another job. For this special occasion, he had something else in mind.

A surprise.

One the whole world would remember.

Forever.

Cain entered his hotel room, sat on the bed, and opened his cell phone. There was one missed call and a message.

“This message is for Michael Collins. Mr. Collins, this is Emily Melendez. You said I should contact you if we found anything else. I know this sounds stupid, but we found a note crumpled up in Simon Buckman’s hand. How we missed it, I’ll never know. Anyway, the note said July 30, Camp David, 10 a.m. And it ended with these three words. French, I think. I can’t pronounce them, so I’ll spell it out for you: T-U-E-Z-L-E-M-E-S-S-A-G-E-R. Hope that helps.”

The doorman was in his mid-twenties and had that familiar forget-this-monkey-costume-I’m-really-an-actor look about him. He was handsome, with a chiseled face, blond hair, a big smile, and sensitive blue eyes. A young, cut-rate version of Robert Redford. He flashed a mouthful of white when he saw Cain approaching.

“You look like a man seeking information,” he said.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Cain answered.

“Know how I knew that?”

“How?”

“‘Cause you’ve been eyein’ the place since early this morning.”

The kid was right. Cain had spent the morning in a coffee shop across from the West 54
^th
Street apartment building. After four hours on his ass and half a dozen cups of coffee, there had been no sign of Nastasia Ivanovna or Seneca.

Cain checked the kid’s name tag. “You should be a cop, Doug.”

“Played one once.
The Sopranos
. Bit part, only a couple of lines. But, hey, I got a paycheck, just like James Gandolfini, only his had a few more zeroes.” He opened the door for an elderly woman carrying a shopping bag from Gucci’s. Turning back to Cain, he asked, “How can I help you?”

“You know David Rainwater?”

“Nah. Can’t say that I do.”

“George Armstrong?”

“Sure. Dr. Ivanovna’s ‘friend.’ Lousy fuckin’ tipper.”

“Is he here now?”

“Nah. He left early this morning, right after I came on duty—7:10, maybe. Had me get his car for him. I heard him tell Dr. Ivanovna he’d be back around six.”

“She’s out, too?”

“Nah, she’s here. She was just getting back from her morning walk when Mr. Armstrong was leaving. That’s how I happened to hear him.”

Doug stepped away and opened the door for a couple and their two small children. The oldest kid, a boy of about seven, grinned and exchanged a high-five with Doug. The boy’s father nodded and handed Doug a crunched-up bill.

“Nice folks,” Doug said, walking back toward Cain. “Unlike Mr. Armstrong. He’s a sullen, tight-ass bastard, if you want my opinion. Dr. Ivanovna, she’s okay. Kinda quiet, but usually pretty nice. For a Russian.” He laughed. “That Mr. Armstrong. What is he, an Indian?”

“Cherokee. Listen, Doug, does he have any habits that you know of?”

“Who? Mr. Armstrong?”

“Yeah.”

“Habits? You mean, like drugs or alcohol or kinky sex? Stuff like that?”

“No. Routines he follows, certain patterns—that kind of thing.”

“Well, when he’s here, he runs every night. Regular as clockwork. Up in Central Park. Leaves the building about eleven and usually gets back a couple of hours later. I used to work nights, so that’s how I know. Personally, I think he’s nuts for running up there at night. I mean, this city ain’t that safe, regardless of what the mayor says. Dr. Ivanovna walks in the morning. I told you that already, didn’t I?”

“I need to see her,” Cain said, “but I don’t want you to buzz her.”

“I’m not supposed to do that. Could get me in a lot of trouble, you know. Maybe even cost me this gig. And, you know, this is perfect. I have lots of time off to make auditions.”

Cain took out a roll of bills and peeled off five twenties. “Will a hundred help ease your conscience?”

Doug smiled and pocketed the cash. “What conscience? She’s on the fifth floor. Apartment 505.”

Cain disregarded his old rule and took the elevator to the fifth floor. He found 505, knocked, and stepped back. Seconds later the door opened, a woman’s left eye the only thing visible to him.

“Yes? What is it you want?” she said.

“To speak to you.”

“Whatever you sell, I don’t want. So, please, go away.”

Cain pressed his right shoulder against the door and forced it open. Ivanovna backed away, stumbling slightly when she bumped into a small wooden table. Quickly regaining her balance, she gave Cain the coldest smile he’d ever seen. Her dark eyes burned with hatred, but lacked any sign of fear.

“Where’s Seneca?” Cain asked.

“I am not familiar with anyone named Seneca.”

“No games, please. I haven’t the time.” He walked past her, into the den. “I want to know where Seneca is and how he plans to take out his intended targets.”

“I cannot help you on either count,” she said.

“I don’t believe you.”

The reptilian smile again. “You must be Cain.”

“What about it?”

“I’ve heard of you.”

“That’s nice. Tell me: where’s Seneca?”

“I don’t know. He left very early this morning in the car. Said he’d be back late this afternoon. That’s all I can tell you. Now, please leave.”

“How is he going to eliminate his target?”

“Target? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do.”

“Leave. Now.”

“I can make you talk. You know that.”

“You Americans are so arrogant. I do not fear you or your threats of torture. I am Russian. We perfected torture.”

“There’s a big difference in perfecting it and withstanding it. How are you in that department?”

“I will say nothing.”

“We’ll see.” He pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.” She remained standing, her dark eyes locked on his. “I do not take orders from you. Nor do I fear your threats.” He pushed her into the chair. “Where is Seneca?”

“I do not know where he is.”

“Tell me all you know about his plan. His target.”

“I know nothing of these targets you ask about. This plan.”

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you did, right?”

She smiled. “No. Under no circumstances would I tell you.”

“Funny thing about circumstances. They can be most unpleasant.”

“I do not fear you.”

“You will.”

She rose and moved directly in front of him. “You are going to kill me, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.”

“Then don’t worry about it.”

“You are eager to kill me, yes?”

“When will Seneca be back?”

“Will you enjoy killing me?”

“Almost as much as I’ll enjoy making you tell me where Seneca is and who his targets are.”

“I will tell you nothing.”

“You’ll tell; then you’ll die.”

“No. I think I will deny you that pleasure.”

Reaching into her pants pocket, she removed a white capsule, put it into her mouth, and swallowed hard. Within seconds her face contorted into a mask of pain and her skin turned an ashen, almost bluish color. Her body shook violently, she slammed against the wall, then slumped forward onto the floor, her eyes still open.

Cain felt for a pulse; there was none. Ivanovna had checked herself out. Kneeling next to the body, he caught a familiar odor. Cyanide. The coward’s number one alternative to prolonged pain.

After giving the apartment a perfunctory going-over, which yielded nothing, Cain locked the door and hurried to the elevator.

Outside, Doug was helping a woman load her luggage into the trunk of her Lexus. He saw Cain, looked at his watch, and frowned. “That didn’t take long.”

“She didn’t answer,” Cain said. “You sure she’s there?”

“I never saw her leave, so, yeah, she should be there. Unless something’s wrong.”

“Maybe you ought to have someone look in on her. Make sure everything’s okay.”

“I’ll do that.”

The Daniel Cohen estate was located three miles outside of East Hampton on Long Island. It was more of a compound than an estate, surrounded on three sides by a ten-foot-high brick wall and by the Atlantic Ocean on the east side. The extreme security measures had been deemed necessary by the estate’s previous owner, fabled mobster Meyer Lansky.

Daniel Cohen’s father, Isaac, purchased the estate from Lansky in the mid-1960s. The elder Cohen, a noted criminal defense attorney, knew Lansky well and had, on several occasions, successfully represented him in court. Lansky was that rarest of mob creatures. He never spent a day behind bars, and he died of old age, worth a reported half-billion dollars. Isaac Cohen’s reward for keeping his celebrated client from behind bars was this estate. Lansky sold it to Cohen for one thousand dollars.

Daniel Cohen had not followed in his father’s footsteps, nor had he remained in contact with the old man’s business associates. Despite his father’s considerable wealth and influence, Daniel was a self-made man. He graduated from Columbia University, then spent many years living and working in Israel. There he met and married his wife, fought in the Six Day War, and was elected to the Israeli Knesset. After returning to the states in the late ‘70s he bought a small clothing store from an uncle, eventually turning it into a highly profitable national chain. He also bought several run-down warehouses in Brooklyn, which he converted into luxury apartment buildings and business offices. Both endeavors had made him a very wealthy man.

Daniel Cohen’s way of life demanded neither a ten-foot brick wall with electric wiring across the top nor an on-duty guard in the shack at the main entrance. Despite his vast wealth, his life was simple, safe, without controversy or conflict.

But Daniel Cohen hadn’t left Israel without learning some important lessons. There were certain times, special moments in history, when security was all that stood between freedom and slavery. If four thousand years of history had taught the Jews anything, it was this: the line between survival and annihilation is often thinner than a blade of grass.

This was, he knew, one of those special moments. Daniel Cohen smiled when he saw the handsome, dark-haired man drive onto the estate and exit his car. He waved and began walking briskly toward the visitor.

“Hello,” Daniel said. “I didn’t expect any security personnel until Wednesday morning.”

“How do you know I’m part of the security detail?” the man asked.

“Well … I’m assuming you are.”

“Never assume anything.” The dark-haired man removed his sunglasses and extended his right hand. “But your assumption is correct—this time. I’m George Armstrong. From the FBI.”