Number 7, Rue Jacob

by Wendy Hornsby

  “My, my, sugar pie, the circles you travel in,” I said as we drove out of central Milan toward the financial district. I unzipped the bank pouch and pulled out a wad of cash. “You may need some of this before we get to Paris.”

  He hesitated, but he accepted the money. Without counting the bills, he folded them and slipped them into his right front pants pocket.

  The city center was an architectural salad, from Gothic through Baroque and art deco to modern cheap-and-practical. But the financial district was an apparition out of a sci-fi movie. Tall crystalline structures shaped in cylinders, or undulating waves, or clusters of stand-alone arcs, and a tall, narrow, jagged shard, seemed to have risen out of some architect’s wild acid trip. Every high-rise façade was glass, and from the direction we were approaching every façade had nothing to reflect except its high-rise neighbors and the bleak winter sky above.

  “Is this the Emerald City?” I asked. Jean-Paul shrugged, unfamiliar perhaps with the reference. I said, “The Wizard of Oz. Dorothy, Toto, Kansas?”

  “Ah.” He smiled as he looked up at the buildings out his window. “Green, yes, for money. Though even American money isn’t actually green, is it?”

  “I suppose not.” We could converse easily enough in either French or English, and though we understood the words the other used, sometimes we still needed a translator.

  The driver pulled over at a designated taxi stop along a stone-paved circular plaza, and we got out. Four very tall semi­circular buildings ringed the plaza. Through gaps between the segments I could see the Alps to the north, the old city to the south, and glass neighbors east and west. While I waited for Jean-Paul to pay the driver, I was thinking what a nightmare it would be to try to find my way home after dark, especially after a few drinks, if I lived in one of those identical towers. Standing in the middle of the plaza in the middle of the night, with no visible sun to cast shadows, what would be one’s frame of reference? It occurred to me as I looked for landmarks that what I was actually doing was scouting an escape route.

  Jean-Paul took my arm as the cab pulled back onto the street, and we started walking. It was cold, but it felt good to be outside in fresh air, and moving.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” I asked.

  “Bien sûr.” Of course, he would. “Two blocks that way. At the top of the building that looks like the London Gherkin.”

  We walked past sleek glass façades and sleek Italian people, through a massive, shiny glass door, into a futuristic lobby that rose through the center of all forty-one stories of blue-tinged glass above. Jean-Paul gave our names and the name of our host to a man in a Pucci-esque uniform standing watch behind a high counter. The man snapped his fingers and a woman in a similar uniform escorted us to the cylindrical glass express elevator that rose through the center of the lobby, pushed the only button on the panel, and wished us a good day. When the doors opened again, a young man wearing a perfect black suit greeted us.

  “Signore Ponti has arrived and is waiting in the Gehry dining room. May I take your coats?”

  I checked my pockets before handing mine over, and Jean-Paul did the same. The backpack and still-fragrant shopping bag dangled from my hand.

  “Do you wish to check your bags with your coats?”

  I had to think for a moment about relinquishing the backpack. In the end, I kept it, gave him the bag with the stinky mortadella and cheese, half bottle of water and a loaf of bread that must have been smashed flat by now. As I did, I said, “Handle gently, please, this is very special. Very special, indeed.”

  That seemed perfectly reasonable to him. He handed our things to a young woman who appeared as if from nowhere before he ushered us past the club’s main dining room, down a marble-lined hallway to a door marked gehry. With a little bow, he opened the door and gestured for us to go through. Shoulders back, chin up, pearls gleaming on my wrist, new red bag diagonally across my torso, tatty old backpack hanging from my hand, I took Jean-Paul’s arm and entered.

  The room was small. I had the feeling it had been furnished especially for our luncheon trio. A round table set for three sat dead center, a sideboard with serving pieces was against the far wall, and, in a corner, there was a seating area with three upholstered chairs and a little table for coffee or cocktails, or feet if one dared. Posh doesn’t quite describe the quiet opulence of the room or the man who broke off his conversation with a black-suited waiter to greet us. Our host, Luca Ponti, was a compact man of about Jean-Paul’s age, fifty, whose posture suggested that there were lifts inside his handcrafted shoes. Small in stature, maybe, but big in charm and presence.

  “Bernard, my dear friend, how happy I am to see you.” Grinning broadly, he opened his arms to Jean-Paul, saw the empty sleeve, acknowledged that there was an injury with a sympathetic nod, and adjusted his approach so that he only lightly touched the left shoulder when he enveloped Jean-Paul in an embrace. Cheeks were kissed, and then he turned his full wattage on me. “And you are Maggie.”

  Introductions were taken care of and we were seated. At a signal, the waiter served us cold, bubbly Prosecco in tall crystal flutes and Persian melon wrapped in prosciutto. I noticed that the melon was not cut into the usual long wedges, but was in bite-size pieces to accommodate Jean-Paul, who could not ply knife and fork with only one hand. I wondered, then, how much Luca already knew about what had happened to his friend.

  While we ate, the two men caught up on personal news: Jean-Paul’s son, Dominic, was in the first year of his baccalauréate course, preparing to enter university; Luca’s daughter was about to make him a grandfather for the first time; my daughter, Casey, was in her third year at UCLA, studying physiology and biology. All our mothers were, by God’s grace, quite healthy, thank you. The melon plates were taken away and the pasta course arrived: perfectly al dente bucatini tossed with roasted root vegetables, garlic, and olive oil, and finished with micro-thin shavings of black truffle. A second wine, an amber-colored fifteen-year-old white from Friuli, was poured into new glasses and exclaimed over as conversation segued to shared histories.

  Though they spoke often, the two men had not seen each other for over three years, not since before Jean-Paul left for his consular appointment in Los Angeles. The last time they were together, Luca said after some thought, was at the memorial service for Jean-Paul’s wife, Marian, whose sudden death from an aneurysm was still incomprehensible. “So young, so lovely, so full of life.”

  Luca knew that I, as well, was widowed before I met Jean-Paul. He covered my hand with his, looked at me with moist brown eyes, and said, “Now, I am afraid, it is my turn to mourn.”

  Jean-Paul froze with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. “Carla? My friend, what happened?”

  Luca shrugged, made a little moue. “She ran away with a Swedish photo-journalist named Analiese.”

  There was a pause, a stillness so profound it seemed as if the earth had stalled on its axis. And then they both burst out laughing. I looked from one to the other, at a loss.

  “Well, who could blame her?” Jean-Paul said, wiping his eyes.

  “It is sad, yes? But who wouldn’t prefer a tall, beautiful globe-trotting Swede to an aging, balding businessman with lifts in his shoes?”

  “I wondered why you were walking so strangely,” Jean-Paul said. “Have lifts helped at all?”

  “Not yet, but I’m hopeful. Dating was trying enough when I was young and had all my hair, but now? I dread getting out there again. Tell me, how did you two meet?”

  “My grandmother arranged it,” I said.

  “Do you think she would help me find someone?”

  “You’re pretty cute,” I said. “She just might keep you for herself. But, before I let you anywhere near my dear grand-mère, tell me why you two find it so funny that your wife left you.”

  “It isn’t the first time she’s left me,” Luca said. “It’s the first time this year, but then this is only February.”

  “Do you expect her to co
me back?” I asked.

  “She always does,” he said. “The last time she left—a young guy she met at the gym—I moved her things out of my bedroom. This time, I moved them into a little apartment in the Brera district. I finally came to realize that when I come home in the evening, if I need drama, I can turn on the television. And, if I tire of it, I can shut it off again.”

  I asked, “How did you and Jean-Paul meet?”

  “University,” Luca said after a glance at his friend. “A graduate course in international affairs. I was very disappointed during the first seminar to discover the topic was trade and not, you see, affairs.”

  “Some idiot tossed us into the same room in a student hovel in New Haven,” Jean-Paul said. “Two years we spent together in that hole. I learned to tolerate Luca, and actually found him to be almost likable. Loveable, even. Except he snores like a dying diesel engine.”

  “It’s true,” Luca said. “It’s so bad I even wake myself.”

  “What sort of work do you do?” I asked, setting my pasta fork across my plate so the waiter could remove it.

  “The hardest work I do,” he said, quickly glancing at the waiter as he relinquished his plate, “is avoiding work. But I am paid by a commission that endeavors to protect European trade. My project at the moment is counterfeits. Take for example your very handsome handbag. At first glance, it could pass for Prada’s Esplanade model. But on second glance, I could see that, though it was made in an Italian factory, perhaps even the same factory Prada uses, which would be no surprise, the bag is not in fact a Prada. I was happy to see that it did not pretend to be. Your bag has no counterfeit Prada logo or the signature zipper lock. It is instead a pastiche, an homage, perhaps, but it isn’t a Prada. And it’s legal because it doesn’t pretend to be other than it is, a very attractive red handbag.”

  “What would you do if it were a counterfeit?” I asked.

  “Confiscate your bag, of course. Grill you about where you found it, go after the vendor, find his source, shut them all down. Or shut them out at the ports.”

  He and Jean-Paul went on to talk about the problem of keeping cheap knockoffs of very expensive European designer goods from pouring out of Asia to buyers around the globe. When he was consul general of Los Angeles, I knew that Jean-Paul had worked with American customs to keep counterfeits of French luxury goods out of the marketplace. The conversation was interesting, but I knew we were not there to talk shop over lunch with an old friend. Though the waiter was nearly invisible, it quickly became clear to me that we would not speak of anything of substance until the meal was over, and we were alone. To all appearances, Jean-Paul and I were out-of-town visitors, sharing a meal with a friend. And nothing more.

  When the waiter left the room to fetch the next course, Luca waited for the door latch to click before leaning in close to speak to Jean-Paul. He kept his voice low. “I did as you as you asked and spoke with Eduardo Suarez. He explained to me what happened.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “At home in Madrid, resting. He asked me to assure you that he’s all right. But, are you?”

  Jean-Paul nodded, just a forward jut of the chin as the service door began to open again.

  A beautiful whole steamed sole was wheeled in on a cart. The fish was boned beside the table and served with white asparagus finished with olive oil and grated Asiago cheese. The discussion turned to the weather, and general hopes that the coming storm would be the last before spring. The fish plates were removed and, at last, icy cold Limoncello, dark chocolate gelato, a bowl of hothouse strawberries, and black coffee were served. Luca thanked the waiter, who bowed and left the room. When he was gone, the real conversation began.

  “Jean-Paul, I sent your identification of Sabri Qosja to my contact at Interpol.” Luca cleared the table in front of him to make space for the laptop he pulled out of a case on the floor beside his chair. “They were quite interested to learn that he’s back in Europe. The last information they had was that he was brought up on charges for kidnapping and assault in Argentina a year ago. Authorities in Argentina told my contact that Qosja fled the country before trial and somehow the charges went away.”

  “The charges went away?” I said. “Was someone bought off?”

  “Probably,” Luca said with a sad little smile that meant to me that such an activity was not only common, but to be expected. “Using the bank routing number your little Venetian hacker found, we were able to find a London account, as I told you, that belongs to a company called InterCentro. There was no direct financial link between InterCentro and Qosja. However, we found a payment from InterCentro to a somewhat spurious private security agency that recruits trained combat veterans. Mercenaries, if you will.”

  Luca tapped a few computer keys and the home page for a company called ProtX4 popped up. The graphics were bright, the services offered provocative: Need to recover assets or locate missing personnel? Need an armed courier, escort, or bodyguard? Need firearms training for you or your staff? ProtX4 has the right man for the job. There was a disclaimer at the bottom of the home page that local laws were always strictly obeyed, but the print was quite small.

  “In the U.S. you can go to Guns R Us and fill your trunk with weaponry,” I said. “But this is Europe. You can’t carry weapons here, but is it legal to hire armed protection?”

  “There are circumstances, yes,” Luca said. “The web site is very careful to offer nothing that is strictly illegal, though what actually occurs is another matter. I’m certain, for example, that sending in an armed drone is beyond the law. But that happened, yes?”

  “Were you able to link Qosja to ProtX4?” Jean-Paul asked as he scrolled through the web site’s tabs.

  “We did. In truth, Interpol did the work. They have been following a fairly regular stream of electronic deposits from ProtX4 into the accounts of various less-than-savory sorts that they keep tabs on. Qosja is among those they watch. Because ProtX4 contracts its workers by the job, it is sometimes possible to link an individual with a particular event by the dates of payment. Their contractors receive an advance fee before the job, and a final payment when, and if, the job is completed. When I contacted Interpol, they already knew that just a week ago ProtX4 made an electronic transfer to Qosja’s account in the Cayman Islands. Interpol’s forensics agents then tracked backward to see who had paid ProtX4 at nearly the same time, and among those they collided with was InterCentro.”

  “Provocative,” I said. “But is that proof?”

  “Alone, no. Our agents found that just two minutes after funds were sent to Qosja, ProtX4 made an identical deposit into a numbered account in Macau. The Macau account is owned by this man.”

  Luca tapped a computer key and the big blonde’s face filled the monitor. The photo was several years old, but there was no mistaking him for anyone else.

  “Meet Johann Bord,” Luca said. “Though I believe you have already met, yes? Is this not the man in the photo you sent me?”

  “Glory be,” I said. “You’re a wonder, Luca.”

  “Don’t credit me,” he said with a smile. “All the work was done by Interpol’s investigators and forensic accounting people. Because Interpol keeps tabs on ProtX4, they are very happy to help. It was their face-recognition software of your photo that gave us Bord’s name. Once they had a name, they could pull his dossier from their files.”

  “Who is Bord?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Like Qosja, he’s a man without a country. He was raised in Apartheid-era South Africa; the family were Afrikaans, farmers, old Dutch Boers. After Apartheid, their plantation was burned out, a bit of payback, one supposes, and they emigrated to Zimbabwe. When Bord came of age, he joined the army there, then spent a few years with the national police. For the last twelve years, he’s worked as a freelance investigator, promising he can find anyone, anywhere in the world. Kidnapping seems to be his forte, but rumor is that he’s out of favor; one too many screw-ups. The recent payment from ProtX4 was the first s
ince he was deported from Singapore last spring. And that my dear friends, is all I know.”

  “Deported, why?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Carrying a weapon.”

  “He’s here, in Milan,” I said, pulling out my little camera and scrolling to the photo I took of Bord on his ass at the train station. “He missed us by minutes.”

  “Interesting.” Luca took out his phone, snapped a screen shot of my picture, tapped out a message, and sent it somewhere.

  “You amaze me, my friend,” Jean-Paul said, patting Luca’s shoulder. “But can you tell us who or what is InterCentro?”

  “I wish I had more to tell you, but you only dropped this on me last night. So far, I’ve found very little except a list of their board of directors.” Luca leaned down and pulled a single sheet of paper from his case and handed it to Jean-Paul. I got up to read over his shoulder. There were five Russian-sounding names on the page. Not one of them was familiar to me. I looked at Jean-Paul, but he shook his head. Nothing to him, either.

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “Russian oligarchs, would be my guess. Two are in Brussels, another in New York, one in Shanghai, the last in London. The company is registered with the EU as an organization that promotes Russian arts and culture globally. I’m sure it’s a front for something nefarious.”

  “I’m impressed, Luca, that you got this far,” I said. “Thank you, I think. I don’t know of a single reason for these folks to have any interest in me. But I can’t speak for Jean-Paul because I honestly do not know exactly what it is he does, though he certainly has connections to a great network of very interesting, sometimes spookily interesting, friends.”

  Luca laughed. “Jean-Paul, you haven’t told Maggie what you do?”

  “Of course I have,” my Prince Charming said with all innocence. “I am a quite boring businessman, and that’s all I am.”

  “What is that business, though?” I asked.

  Luca leaned in close to me and took my hand. “If he told you—”