by Louis Begley
We’ll get them started, I said. By the way, I’ve a question for you that Martin raised. Why didn’t you go to the U.S. attorney with Kerry’s file instead of waiting for me to return?
Good question, she said. Here is the not-so-good answer. I’ll probably go down in Martin’s estimation, perhaps yours as well. I had no doubt you’d be coming back and that you and I could work together. I wanted to wait for that. I didn’t want to throw down my gauntlet to Abner Brown while I was all alone. Witness protection and suchlike are no substitute for having a partner.
You’ve got one now, I said. My friend Scott Prentice is coming here on Friday. I’m having dinner with him. I’d like to ask you to join us, but he has a very personal reason to celebrate, and I think I’d better see him alone. Did you notice, by the way, that I assumed you’d be free? What cheek!
Tsk, tsk, she answered, you get to go back to zero. I’m going to the opera with Mother and Father. An unfortunate Friday habit, because that’s their subscription night. But with prior notice I can sometimes arrange to be free. They invite someone else or give my ticket back to the Met as a contribution.
Duly noted, I said. And then, unless Jeanette’s situation takes a worrisome turn for the worse, I’d like to go to Sag Harbor on Saturday morning. I could, of course, go down to that club—Le Raton, the Cat, what a world!—on Saturday, but frankly I think I need a couple of days off. There’s another reason. Abner last tried to get me killed in Sag Harbor. I don’t necessarily think he’s bound to pull the same stunt this time, but there is something obsessive about him, so perhaps he would. I’d like to give him a chance and give myself a chance to nail whomever he sends to do it.
And you’d like to invite me to come with you as your bodyguard? she asked, grinning.
The thought hadn’t occurred to me, and I didn’t jump in with an answer.
In case you do, and you promise to remember that for the time being I’m the not-so-nice Jewish girl who doesn’t like sleeping with men, I’ll accept. You see, Jack, we’re in this together.
Let’s have a grappa, I said. Departure on Saturday from your house at ten-thirty?
Senz’altro! You’ve got a deal.
—
I’ll walk home, she said, after all you came in a taxi so it’s not as though you would have been followed.
That’s right. But please be very cautious and let Martin’s partner Lee, who is waiting outside, shadow you.
That was all right with her. We hugged on the sidewalk, and she headed uptown at a pace that might have been set by a marine drill sergeant. Having seen us embrace, Lee understood she was the lady he should follow and fell in a short distance behind her. I went back into the restaurant, ordered another grappa at the bar, found I didn’t want to finish it, and went home. There was again a message waiting, left less than a half hour earlier, this time from Martin instead of Jovan.
Do you mind if I come up? he asked when I called back.
For Pete’s sake, Martin, don’t you ever rest? That’s what you were supposed to do.
I will when this is over. Jack, may I come up?
Sure, I said, I’ll break out the Jameson.
He appeared so quickly one might have thought he’d been standing all the while behind the door.
I poured him a whiskey, and in his excitement he blurted out what he had to say before touching the drink.
Listen to this, Jack, it’s good news or bad news, depending on how you read it. This guy Goran is dead. Cardiac arrest. A few hours ago—get this—just before he was supposed to be moved from intensive care to a regular ward. The doctors thought he was out of the woods. What do you think of that? It’s not in the news yet, not even online; I got it from the guy I called about Walker.
Unbelievable.
You’re right. I’ll bet whatever you like, I’ll give you odds, these bastards killed him. They thought he might start singing while he was held pending an extradition hearing. Who knows what sorts of songs he had and how much he could have bargained for.
Any reason other than your Sherlock Holmes instinct to think so?
Yeah, the convenient timing of this cardiac arrest. Mind you, this was professionally done. No obvious traces were left. If I were to bet, potassium chloride injected into the intravenous feed.
So why is this good news or bad news? Sounds to me like very nice good news. One more bad guy gone. No chance of his identifying me, though I must say I don’t see what harm that would have done. I readily admitted we had an unfriendly meeting at the Ravine. He certainly couldn’t have identified me as the man who kicked him down the stairs. He didn’t see me. Couldn’t have seen me!
Very true, very true. The bad news comes if they have some other way of tying you to that One Hundred Third Street caper. Some witness we don’t know about. If there is such a witness, and if no one figures out that our boy Goran was killed at the hospital and didn’t die of injuries, you’ll be looking at a much bigger potential criminal liability. Two big ifs. I don’t deny that.
Is there anything we can do about it?
Only one thing I can think of. I’ll whisper into my NYPD friend’s ear that they should have a thorough autopsy and really study the cause of this guy’s death. Could he have been injected with this or that? I’ll mention potassium chloride. These sons of bitches had to know what they were doing. You inject a guy with the wrong thing, or instill the wrong stuff into the intravenous feed, and boing, all the monitors go ape. They had to know what would work and wouldn’t set off alarms.
Have another drink, old pal. We’ll stand down tomorrow. Let me tell you my story.
First I related Heidi’s explanation for not having gone to the U.S. attorney.
Some lady, he exclaimed. They don’t make them better.
You’re right, I said, and told him about Jeanette.
He proposed to bring Feng over the next day, to which I agreed. Then I played Jovan’s most recent message and explained its astonishing timing. The son of a bitch knew I’d gone to the hospital and knew when I left, I concluded.
I don’t like this, said Martin. I don’t like this at all.
IX
For a change I ran south the next morning, thinking that if I had company I would lead whoever it turned out to be into the Ramble, no worse a place to settle private accounts than the Ravine. The .45 remained in my right-hand desk drawer. My sense of the ridiculous, joined with the conviction that only Secret Service men run with their artillery holstered somewhere out of sight, had won out over caution, but the switchblade was in its place, in the pocket of my windbreaker. Lee wasn’t on his accustomed bench across the avenue. I couldn’t remember what arrangement Martin and I had made, whether he’d said Lee would be on duty at that hour, but I was glad not to see him there. Granted I was paying both of them handsomely for their services, the notion that one or the other of these fine family men—I’d learned that Lee and his wife had three children of preschool age—should be out in the street at five-thirty in the morning just so that Captain Jack Dana could get his exercise at an hour that happened to suit him was the sort of thing that had gotten the French Revolution going. I hit the park’s East Drive, looked around, and, seeing nothing suspicious, picked up speed. None of the few runners going in my direction broke their pace or changed their behavior when, still on the southbound leg of my run, I’d stop and turn to check who was behind me. A banal itinerary suited me fine. I took the Sixty-Fifth Street Transverse going west and zoomed up the park’s West Drive. As I was nearing Eighty-Sixth Street a question occurred to me: was it possible that I did have a tail after all, a runner who hung back far enough not to be fooled by my stop-and-go antics? I came to a halt and waited by the side of a drive, letting runners pass. And there he was, another one of those beefy very fast men who closed in on me and likewise came to a halt, perhaps thirty feet away. Was his face scarred like Slobo’s and impossible to forget once you had seen it, or was he merely cautious? Whatever the reason, he wore a red ski mask matching
his fancy Lycra suit and red running shoes. What was I to do? I took a leaf from Slobo’s book and gave him the finger. He reciprocated by spitting a huge glob of phlegm, the kind of skill I admired among my tobacco-chewing marines. What were we going to do next? Some sort of replay of the confrontation with Goran in the Ravine? Nothing, it occurred to me suddenly, was to be gained by it. I’d simply continue my run, letting him follow as long and as far as he liked, and respond to whatever action he took. That left up for decision the balance of my route. Would I turn east at Ninety-Sixth Street and head home once I’d reached the East Drive or take my new friend to the North Woods and pick up the East Drive above the Ravine? The more extensive itinerary appealed to me, if only because I was feeling pretty good, my pelvis pretending it had never been to Walter Reed. I waved to my running partner and got going. Who am I to plumb the cesspool of criminal minds? Perhaps having this fellow accompany me had a purpose. Such as what? Making sure I knew they were on my case? I’d have had to be pretty dumb to doubt it. Whatever! We ran very fast down the East Drive until we reached Ninety-Sixth Street, where I decided it was time to cool down. We left the park companionably at Seventy-Ninth Street and jogged up Fifth Avenue to my building, my pal a little more than half a block behind me. Should I invite him to come up—out of the question, we hadn’t been introduced—but he rated another friendly wave of my hand. To my chagrin, he left it unacknowledged. In the meantime, the day doorman had come on duty. I greeted him cheerfully, wondering whether he’d be getting on his cell phone to notify his Serbian colleagues of my return. There was no way to know. But if I was still alive at Christmas, I’d think long and hard before distributing tips. Sure enough, there was a message on my telephone, and it wasn’t Heidi or Martin or Scott. You guessed it: the voice I heard was Jovan’s. Fuckhead, he said, now we play. Kill later.
Bad manners! He didn’t leave a callback number.
Show yourself and I’ll have your ass in a casket, I replied, addressing my empty kitchen. And just in case you’re curious, right now I’m going out to breakfast.
I didn’t bother to add that I was going to shower first.
—
I don’t get it, Martin said later that morning, after I’d described to him the morning’s run. Lee was there, in his car, parked on the other side of the avenue. You didn’t see him, but he saw you. He certainly didn’t spot any sort of tail. A guy in a red Lycra suit and red running shoes would have been hard to miss. What’s going on?
I’m pretty sure I understand, I told him. These guys know I enter the park at Seventy-Ninth Street. The tail—the late Goran and now this guy—doesn’t wait near the building. He’s at the entrance to the park. If I show up, he follows. If I don’t, he calls his handler and does whatever it is they do in their spare time. Anyway, if your suspicion about leaks from the building is right, the tail may get a heads-up on his cell phone as soon as I leave.
Possible, very possible, Martin muttered.
You want to hear Jovan’s voice again? I saved the message. Same voice as yesterday evening. The message was waiting when I came back from the run.
So what’s the plan, Captain Jack? I’m stumped.
We move ahead, one step at a time. Why don’t you ask Feng to bring the coffee here. I’ll tell him he’s hired, and he can move in today or tomorrow—whatever suits him best. He’ll have to take Jeanette’s belongings out of his room and put them in the guest room, which is anyway where she’ll be if it turns out that for some reason she comes here from rehab instead of going to her sister’s. While you’re doing that, I’ll forward Jovan’s messages to Scott.
I had taken an immediate liking to Feng. He was big and looked tough enough to be in a kung-fu movie, was dressed in a black Mao suit, spoke intelligibly, could write down messages, and was polite but not to excess. Martin was right. I wouldn’t have to worry about Jovan & Co. messing with him.
Martin, I said after Feng and I had shaken hands on the deal and agreed that he should bring his stuff over right away, I’ve got to go to the hospital to see the neurologist on his rounds. If you’re free, let’s have a quick lunch together. I should be back in a little over an hour.
I am free and I’d like to, he told me.
Good! Heidi wants to ask her father to get his company’s security people to provide protection for her. If they’re good enough, that’s clearly a fine idea. Can you check into it? His name is something or other Krohn. I think you’ll find him on the web. You’re welcome to wait for me here. Use my laptop, do your telephoning, work on my book, whatever strikes your fancy!
—
It’s not good for Jeanette, I told Martin when we settled down in the restaurant. The neurologist thinks there is a significant possibility of cognitive impairment—he doesn’t know yet what kind or the extent—in addition to problems she may have with locomotion. She should stay at the hospital at least until the end of next week. As for rehab, he mentioned Burke. That’s where my friend Simon Lathrop went after his hip replacement. A great big plus is that the inpatient facility is in White Plains. It will be easy for the sister to visit. Do you suppose it was the telephone caller—Jovan?—who did it, or this guy Goran? If it’s Goran, I’m gladder than ever I kicked him down those stairs. If it’s Jovan or another one of those guys, this case won’t be closed until he’s dead.
Prison should be enough, said Martin.
I’m not sure that’s how my mind works. How about an answer to my question?
I don’t know. We might never know. Most likely won’t know until we’ve caught Jovan.
What about security for Heidi?
Krohn and Son Enterprises. It’s quite an operation. Real estate as well as textile manufacturing and fashion. Miss Heidi is a very rich girl—or anyway someday will be. I ran a check on their security department. It’s first class. Former policemen, special agents, and Shin Bet operatives. It’s run by a retired Mossad officer. They’ll take good care of her.
Good. Next point. I’ve got a name for you, Pierrot the Cat or Pierre Lecat. According to Heidi, he’s a pusher Kerry flipped while she was prosecuting a major dealer. One way or another, he later became her supplier. Heidi doesn’t know how he can be reached, but she thinks you’ll be able to find him.
Very likely.
Would you try to? Let’s see whether there is anything useful he could tell us. I sort of doubt it, because I think there is no logical connection between who Kerry bought drugs from and whoever it was that administered the overdose, but who knows? Perhaps he does know something.
Lee and I will get on it. We’ll have something for you tomorrow at the latest.
Good. I think I told you Scott will be here tomorrow. We’re having dinner. Then on Saturday morning, inshallah, I’m going to Sag Harbor. Back on Sunday. By the way, Heidi’s coming with me. It still seems like a good idea not to have her show her face around here, so I’ll pick her up at her place. I’ll make it easy for Jovan so he won’t have to tail me. I’ll tell the elevator man and the doorman I’m picking up my car at the garage and heading for Sag Harbor.
Congratulations! If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s fast work.
Now, now, Martin! It’s not like that. Business oriented and strictly platonic.
That’s too bad, if I may say so. If I may be serious, though, and try to do my job, please listen. Do you think going to Sag Harbor is a good idea? These guys are really out to get you. You’re more exposed there than in the city. Entre nous, I like having Feng in your apartment. Less chance of monkey business in a place where you’d least expect it.
I do think it’s a good idea. I have to take a look at the house. Getting reports from Mary Murphy—she’s my combination housekeeper and house watcher—isn’t the same thing, and entre nous, as you put it, I want to give Jovan, assuming it’s him, a chance to get close to me. Again entre nous, I’ll cut his heart out.
Unless he shoots you first. Firearms have been invented, remember? It will be easier to get a clear shot at you out t
here. Or blow you up with a hand grenade. Would you at least take Feng with you? That way you’d have the house covered.
Is this guy in your profession, by any chance?
Was. Hong Kong Police Force Special Duty Unit—the nickname’s Flying Tigers—and later very successful private detective. Saving your reverence, I don’t know that Marine Corps infantry has much to teach those guys. Had to leave the territory in a hurry after he came upon a situation the mainland people wanted kept under a cover and did his job all the same. That’s the kind of guy he is. No way he can go back, not anytime soon. On account of various things we’ve done together, the Bureau helped get him an immigrant visa so he can stay here and work, but being hired by the Bureau or one of the police departments would be harder than hard. Probably impossible, especially at his age. Even once he’s got his citizenship.
Let me think about taking him to Sag. Probably not this time. I want to give these guys the chance they’re looking for.
And expose Heidi to danger? Just think what they could do to her if they kill you or put you out of action and she’s there.
I am thinking about it. The answer is that she wants to do it and I’ll take care of her, but I really will think some more about taking her and about taking Feng. Let’s you and I talk tomorrow morning, after my run, unless one of us has something special to report.
All right.
By the way, I don’t think there is any need to continue watching my building. We know that one way or another they’re keeping tabs on where I go. So good luck with the Rat and the Cat!
We’ll be on the case, but Lee won’t hit the Rat tonight. He plans on spending time down there tomorrow.
—
I needed to be alone, away from my nannies, one and all, and especially Nanny Sweeney. True, starting in the afternoon, I’d have live-in Nanny Feng to contend with at home, but that was all right. He’d keep his distance—at least for a while. All that the nannies understand is caution, while the simple truth is that the Corps didn’t train me to dig in and sit in a foxhole watching shit land all around. Shit! I was once the leader of a U.S. Marine Force Recon platoon, the guys who go where no one else wants to go, track down the enemy, and do whatever it takes to kill. In my heart, that’s where I’d remained. I wasn’t going to hunker down and wait—wait for what?—not while Kerry’s killer and the thug who crippled Jeanette were on the loose, scratching their balls when they weren’t looking to murder me. The time had come to move out. For instance, Abner and I—we needed a heart-to-heart talk, and it might as well be right now, while my adrenaline was way up. Le Raton would come next. Let Lee prepare his report and deliver it when he was good and ready, but I might have news for him. I wasn’t going to wait; I was going to check it out myself. There was also my book, a living, breathing presence in my office, impatient and waiting for me to write. The way I felt, I could do it all.
