by Dave Lacey
Bastiaan had made the decision that he and his wife should relocate rather than face the prospect of a lengthy prison sentence for him, and a great many years of hardship for her. So, three days later, they left Holland on a container ship headed for the New World. They had no money, very few possessions and even less English, but they remained unshakeable in their belief that a new beginning with limitless horizons waited for them in America. It had not turned out that way.
They had arrived, and because they had no money, which meant no easy way to travel, they had stayed there. Initially they had lived in squalid conditions, cockroach ridden holes where the damp climbed the walls almost as quickly as the insect residents had. Bastiaan struggled to find work, and was still unemployed after six months. Aaltje had managed to find some cleaning work, and they clung to it desperately. She had picked up the jobs because her English had improved quicker than Bastiaan’s, and because she was more amenable. Eventually, the only opportunity that arose for her husband was that of a fetcher for an eastern European crook called Ambrosii Ryabukha.
Things had improved in terms of their standard of living and finding a more permanent home to live in, but their quality of life changed little. When he wasn’t running jobs for his boss, Bastiaan was in a local bar trying to forget about the direction his life had taken. It took a lot to forget, but, when he arrived home, the sight of his wife reminded him. So much so that he had forgotten that he had once considered himself a man of principle and honour, and became just another drunk that beat his wife. He started to enjoy his work, and consequently he rose through the ranks of the ‘organisation’.
He went home less and less often, preferring instead to carouse after a hard day’s crime.
On one occasion, rather than beat his wife, he had decided to bestow an altogether new torment upon her and his own tortured mind. The result was Zefram, and for Aaltje her child became the reason for her to go on. As her life turned for the better, so Bastiaan’s life plunged further into a chaotic downward spiral. Aaltje raised Zefram with all the love she could muster, and, as she had no love to give Bastiaan, this was not an inconsiderable amount.
On April 7th 1985, when Zefram was just two years old and had already had his first beating from his father, Bastiaan Mayer (the Meijer’s had changed their name upon arrival to the United States) was shot and killed as he attempted to hold up a bank in Downtown New York with four of his colleagues. Ambrosii Ryabukha himself had visited Aaltje to deliver the news. A large and terrifying visage to his enemies and friends alike, he was now reduced to a red eyed, mumbling mass. As he sat on her sofa, fumbling with his hat in his lap, explaining how revered her husband had been in the organisation, and to him especially.
Aaltje sat in the armchair opposite and tried to contain her relief at the news. Any feelings of love, or even liking, she had had for her husband had long since departed, so that when he had hit Zefram those feelings were replaced with hatred. She allowed her visitor to fumble his way through yet more platitudes, until eventually he had run dry. Then he explained how he would continue to pay their rent and contribute to the monthly income. It was the least he could do, and it would be his honour.
Aaltje had nodded, and accepted the gift gratefully. They were free, she and her little boy, free. Ten years later, Aaltje Mayer died from asbestosis in the Bellevue Hospital Center on East 26th Street in Manhattan. Zefram was just twelve years old, with no living relatives, and so was taken into care. Zefram got through the next six years, but later he would think of that time in terms of surviving, not living. He missed his mother terribly, her love and devotion, her cooking, her assertion that he was special, her tales of Europe and the epic journey to the land of the free.
It had all disappeared with a sad little ceremony, consisting of a priest, two grave diggers and Zefram. The home he had shared with his mother was still there waiting for him when he left his final foster home. It was full of memories and sounds, sights and smells. He didn’t know what to do. He went to visit the only man he knew, the man who had been a constant, if unwelcome, visitor throughout his young life: Ambrosii Ryabukha.
At first, Ryabukha had been delighted to see him, welcoming him like a long lost son. He had tried for years with Zefram, in his own ham fisted way, to be some sort of male role model. He had done many bad things over the years, but deep down he knew there was still goodness in him; he knew it because the death of Zefram’s father had brought out his paternal instincts. So in the beginning he had tried to help the boy out with legitimate jobs. But soon it became apparent that Zefram had other ideas. He was a smart boy, but not smart enough to know that those other ideas generally ended abruptly, and badly. As they had for his father.
Ambrosii had tried to dissuade him, he really had, but in the end he had realised that Zefram could either be crooked for him or for somebody less scrupulous. And so it was that the twenty-two year old Mayer boy became a lower level lieutenant in the Ryabukha crime syndicate. He ran errands, looked after some of the girls, delivered packages and was sent, along with older, bigger men, to intimidate. His surrogate father tried to keep him out of the more dangerous, high risk business areas, but it was difficult. Zefram spoke with the other men and wanted to do what they were doing. So, eventually, he did. And though he didn’t know it, Ambrosii had kept him out of harm’s way for the previous three years, while he played at being a mobster.
Now, as he continued the family tradition, he turned and realised he could no longer see his pursuer. He slowed to a fast walk while he checked all directions. Nothing. He was hugely relieved, but figured he should get out of the area just the same. Taxis were in short supply in the Murray Hill area at this time of night, so he decided at the corner of East 37th and 3rd, he would take a left and head toward Grand Central. Except when he turned left, the guy was there. How? Zefram didn’t stop too long to consider, and instead burst into a sprint continuing down East 37th. Now he was panicked; now he was really panicked.
This guy wasn’t the usual crook; he was well dressed and very patient. Zefram knew that if he could just get to the corner facing the Murray Hill Dermatology Center, he could take a right onto Tunnel Entrance Street. The tunnel wasn’t perfect, but it gave him a chance. The streets became quieter the further from Park Avenue he went, and that was not good. As he approached the corner where he was to turn right, a black suburban squealed to a halt half on, half off the sidewalk in front of him. He almost ran into it. As he turned to make a break for it, the rear door opened and an old looking man leant forward and barked.
“Get in quickly, he’s right behind you!”
“Who the fuck are you? And who the fuck is he?”
“No time. Get in now, or you’re on your own.” Zefram thought about it for a few seconds, and then leapt into the back seat.
“Go!” he shouted.
But the vehicle didn’t move. He frantically looked around at its occupants, desperate for them to take off. Then realisation dawned on him. There were two men in the front seats: the driver, whom he had never seen before, and the passenger, his assailant.
“You know Zefram?” The older man spoke again, calmly. “You’re not as bright as I thought you were. And you talk too much.”
At that, he smiled a self satisfied smile, and Zefram felt a powerful jolt in his thigh. Within seconds, he was slipping sideways into unconsciousness. Just before the darkness took him, he thought to himself, this is about The End.
***
After being dropped at his apartment building, the old man from the suburban waited for it to turn the corner, then proceeded across the street. He walked another two blocks, then crossed the street to the nearest payphone. He dialled the number he had been given eighteen months earlier. It was a number he could not forget now, even if he chose to. It was the number, the only number that mattered. There were many people who held positions of power in this great country, and many who just thought they did, but the man at the other end of this number… well, he was the man. W
hen he said things would happen, they did. When he said things would be in place, they were. When he gave an order, you carried it out. Otherwise, you ceased to be asked. And when you ceased to be asked, very soon afterwards you simply ceased to be.
The phone rang twice before it was answered.
“Is it done?” There was no pre-amble.
“Yes. He will be discovered–”
“No details. You know better than that.”
“I’m sorry. Of course.”
“Will it be enough?”
“I don’t know right now – we will monitor the situation closely.”
“Good. If it should transpire that others are aware, then you have my blessing to do what is required.”
“Thank you, sir. I should say if he knew, then it is reasonable to assume that others know also. He was nothing, a nobody. How would he have known?”
“That is for you to find out. Don’t be clumsy. It is important that we discover all of the disparate threads before we start to sever them. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir, you can trust me.”
“If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I understand. If we start to unravel the threads, and as a result…” He was trying to be discreet.
“We have to make certain decisions, the police may make connections.”
“Once again, it is your duty to ensure that they don’t. We have talked enough. Don’t call me until you have good news.”
The man from the suburban slowly placed the receiver back in its cradle and stood for a moment staring at it. He was privileged, he knew this, and he was in a position of great power, but sometimes it felt as if he were nothing more than a pawn. Treated with disdain by the man at the other end of the phone, he knew with great certainty that failure to complete any of his tasks would result in him suffering the same fate as Zefram Mayer.
The scenario that had been mentioned to his contact on the phone, regarding others having the same knowledge as Zefram Mayer, and how to take care of them, loomed large in his mind. There were others, and they almost certainly knew what Mayer knew. The question was whether to remove them before they became a problem, or wait until there was yet another name to add to the list of the people that knew. There was no moral question here: if they had to go, then they would go. No, the issue was that the more deaths there were, the more the police became involved and the more chance there was of them stumbling across the truth behind the deaths. And that would not do. No, for the moment he would wait it out. He turned away from the phone and headed back toward his apartment block.
As he crossed the lobby, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Yes?” It was one of his subordinates.
“It’s done,” came the flat voice at the other end.
“Where we said?”
“Yes, sir. He was discovered as we drove away.”
“You weren’t seen?” The question was sharp.
“No, sir, absolutely not.”
“Good. Then go home, I will see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, sir.”
Both parties hung up.
***
Detective Nick Moretti was the first plain clothes officer to arrive at the scene between Queens Boulevard and Honeywell Street. He hadn’t been called out, but was on his way to talk with a snitch when the call had come over the police radio. It was late, around twelve forty five a.m., and he had been in a bad mood. But when the uniformed cops had announced the name Zefram Mayer over the radio, he had decided to make a detour. His mood had darkened further since the call. In another lifetime, Zefram Mayer had been his friend. They had both been at the same children’s home in New York City, and although they had gone to different foster homes through the years, they had remained friends.
After they had both reached eighteen, life had led them along differing paths. As one had chosen a life of petty crime, so the other had chosen to dedicate himself to crime prevention. Naturally, this made it much tougher to stay in touch. They had last seen each other the previous Christmas, when they had both paid a visit to the home where they first met. Awkward at first, the barriers had soon come down and they fell back into their rapport of old. They had found a quiet local bar, and had sat there until nearly two in the morning, laughing and reminiscing. The two had vowed to stay in touch, but, as is the way with life, this had been more difficult than it sounded.
Before he got out of the car, Nick tried his partner on his cell phone. He didn’t like calling this late, especially on a night off. Two rings…if there was no answer, then hang up. Leshaun Jackson was a former all-state linebacker whose career had been brought to an abrupt end six years before when he suffered anterior cruciate ligament damage to his right knee. At six foot four and two hundred and forty-five pounds, he was a comforting and immovable presence for his partner, and his patient and intelligent demeanour united them from the very start. Leshaun was a more than capable detective, and, when his attributes were combined with Moretti’s, the team was complete. Jackson answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Nick, what’s happenin’?”
“Hey man, sorry to call so late. I was on my way to see Linetti, you know, about the Hoffman shooting?” He took a deep breath, then let it ease out. “Well, a suicide was called in over the radio. I think it’s my friend Zef.” He didn’t yet know for certain, but the odds were not long.
“Shit man, you sure it’s him?”
“Pretty sure. I’m at the scene, just building up the courage to go on up there.”
“Listen, if it’s him, let the uniforms confirm it. Don’t go upsetting yourself unnecessarily. How’d it happen?”
“Train.”
“Goddamn. Nick, don’t be a fool, leave it to them and check it out later man.”
“I can’t, he was my friend. It doesn’t make much sense to me, you know, that he would do this. I haven’t seen him for a while, but when we were last together he was okay. Good, in fact. I know it’s been a while since then, but…”
“Nicky, it has been a while, and you’ve no idea what happened since then. He could have been involved in anything, bad stuff–” Nick tried to cut him off. “I know, I know. You said before that he wasn’t into anything bad, but you don’t really know.”
“It doesn’t feel right, Leshaun. It just doesn’t.”
“You want me to come out there? I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“No, God, no. It’s bad enough I call you this late. I’m gonna go up there in a few minutes and confirm things. Then I’m gonna go home, take a long shower and try to sleep.”
“Okay. You call me if you need me. Don’t go trying to carry this burden alone, it ain’t necessary.”
“Thanks, buddy, I’ll see you tomorrow. Leshaun?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a good friend.”
“Ah hell, don’t go all mushy on me Nicky, people will talk.”
“Goodnight then, you big freak.” He hung up.
Nick got out of the car and climbed the fence to where the uniforms were congregated, presumably around the body. It quickly became evident that they were gathered around only a part of the body. Barely able to suppress his nausea, Nick approached the officer in charge.
“Evening officer, Detective Nick Moretti. Sorry to butt in.”
“Hey Detective, Officer Starkey. Can I ask why you’re here?”
“I think the deceased may have been a friend of mine. I heard the call over the radio, and thought I’d check it out. I’m not here to interfere.”
Officer Starkey looked pained.
“I see. I don’t think you should be here if that’s the case. I understand you’ve probably seen your fair share of ugly crime scenes, but if it is your friend, I don’t think you have anything to gain by seeing this one.” The officer looked genuinely sympathetic, and clearly only had Nick’s best interests in mind.
“That bad?”
“That bad.”
Nick considered the situation, and decided that he needed to know, that he could cope with anything that he may see.
“I really appreciate your concern, Officer, but I need to see him. I may be the only person who’ll even care that he’s here. We grew up together.”
“It’s your call, Detective.” Starkey gestured toward the far side of the tracks. “The upper half of his torso is over here.”
They walked over, Nick dreading what he was about to see. There was quite a bit of blood, and further down the tracks the train stood idle, with its interior lights still burning. The passengers, what few there had been, had been shepherded from the train and were waiting down on the side road for alternative transport. The driver was currently with two junior officers, undoubtedly being questioned and consoled in equal measure.
Quicker than he had hoped, they reached the blanket covering the upper half of the body. Nick braced himself, then turned the corner of the blanket down to reveal the face of the deceased. His breath caught and his eyes quickly stung as he recognised his friend. Astonishingly, Zefram’s face had escaped significant damage, and if anything he looked at peace. He knelt on one knee for a couple of excruciating minutes, then replaced the blanket. And so a lonely, turbulent life had come to an abrupt end. The question that pushed itself unbidden into Nick’s mind was Why?
Chapter 3
National Security Agency HQ, Maryland, Baltimore.
General Burt Waldron sat in his comfortable desk chair with his back to the room, surveying the view from his top floor window. The vast car park that accommodated those who worked at the NSA Headquarters at Fort Meade seemed to stretch to the horizon. From his humble beginnings, Waldron had never imagined himself as a general in the US Army, much less Director of the NSA, but here he was. And, somehow, he had managed to make a mess of things. Comfortable as his chair might be, he was not. Any moment now his phone was going to ring, and it would be The Man. The Man without a name, and he would not be happy. What had he been thinking? Had he even been thinking? The whole thing was a crap shoot, and it was his fault.
