“Liam, Kelsen’s connected to Dmitri.”
“How do you know that?”
“I can’t tell you. But Kelsen, Dmitri, and a man named Evgeniy have been involved in fixing sporting events. Kelsen’s in bed with the Russians. They’ve been working together.”
“But Dmitri stole Kelsen’s money.”
“He doesn’t seem like a very good partner, does he?”
“Do we know anything more about this Dmitri character, like where he lives and where he banks?”
“No, only the first name.”
“I wonder if Kelsen suspects Dmitri’s behind the embezzlement.”
“I doubt it. He’s certain Sommers stole the money. You should see him in court. He has to be restrained by his lawyers. He has so much rage. I doubt that he has any notion that Dmitri has his money.”
“We need more information on Dmitri. What if you were to bring up Dmitri’s name a couple of times at Kelsen’s deposition tomorrow? Just throw it out there? See what happens.”
“Hmm. That’s a great idea.”
“I get ’em now and then.”
“That’s why we make such a good couple. We’re so damn diabolical. Love you, Liam.”
“Do you really think we make a good couple?”
“What? Of course I do. Why did you say that?”
“No reason. Love you too.”
SIXTY-THREE
VICTOR KELSEN AND HIS attorney arrived at Jenkins & Fairchild’s office promptly at 2:00 P.M. and took their seats around the conference table. A court reporter, her steno machine between her knees, her laptop on the desk, and her microphone in the middle of the table, sat poised to take down all of the questions, answers, and lawyers’s posturing. Catherine sat at the end of the table, a legal pad and a stack of documents before her. Walter Jenkins sat to her right, his well-manicured hands folded on the table. Kelsen raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth.
“Mr. Kelsen,” Catherine said, “would you please say your full name for the record?”
“Victor Wallace Kelsen.”
“Are you an officer of Kelsen Manufacturing, Inc.?”
“I’m the president.”
“Are you also a shareholder?”
“One hundred percent.”
“What is the business of Kelsen Manufacturing?”
“You mean what was the business? We sold it.”
“Very well, what was the business before you sold it?”
“We manufactured and sold packaging materials. Why does any of that matter? Where’s my money?”
“Who was Dennis Harrington?”
“Kelsen Manufacturing’s CFO.”
“Was he involved in the sale of your company?”
Kelsen looked at his lawyer and made a face as if to say, Is she kidding?
“Mr. Kelsen,” Catherine said, “he can’t answer the questions for you. You have to answer them yourself.”
“Yeah, he was involved. Of course he was involved. Maybe too involved, because he got himself killed.”
“What were his responsibilities with regard to the sale of your company?”
“He was working directly with Walter Jenkins, or whoever Jenkins assigned to do the paperwork. How the hell do I know? He did what had to be done. That’s why I paid him.”
“And as far as you know, did Mr. Harrington review and approve all the paperwork?”
“Yeah.”
“All of the loan documents?”
“Right.”
“All of the financials?”
“Right.”
“Because that’s what you were paying him to do.”
“Exactly.”
“Including reviewing and approving all of the escrow paperwork?”
“Oh, I see where you’re going. Mr. Sommers reviewed them too. Kelsen Manufacturing was paying exorbitant legal fees to this man over there”—Kelsen pointed a stiff finger in Jenkins’s direction—“to protect us so we wouldn’t be cheated out of our money.” Kelsen stood up. “You were supposed to protect me, you pompous fuck. Look at him in his fancy suit. Fancy paneled office. Offers me a cigar. Goody-two-shoes asshole.”
“Really, Mr. Russell,” Catherine said calmly, “do you think you might control your client and remind him of the decorum of a deposition, and that these outbursts are on the record?”
Kelsen’s attorney gave a small tug on Kelsen’s jacket. “Sit down, Vic. There’ll be plenty of time for emotion later.”
“That’s not good enough,” Catherine said. “Mr. Kelsen, we’re not in a courtroom, but according to the rules, the examination and cross-examination in a deposition are to proceed as they would at trial. For example, the same rules of perjury apply. Everything you say today is being memorialized in the stenographic record, including your abusive tirade of a moment ago. If you refuse to conduct yourself in a civil manner, I will have the court reporter transcribe this proceeding and present it to the judge with a request that you be held in contempt. Are we clear?”
Kelsen turned his head and looked out the window.
“Are we clear, Mr. Kelsen?”
He flicked his head nonchalantly. “Yeah.”
“Fine. Do you claim that someone stole your company’s money?”
“What are you, crazy? You know they did. Eighty-eight million. I was supposed to have a profit of ninety-six million dollars, but I only ended up with eight million dollars. Jenkins let some slimy lawyer steal the money that was supposed to pay off Exchange Bank. I had to make that payment myself out of my net profits.”
“What slimy lawyer stole your money?”
“Sommers did, or he let someone else, I don’t know.”
“Do you have evidence that Sommers took the money?” said Catherine.
“No, but I don’t have to. It was Jenkins’s job to protect me.”
“Was it Jenkins and Fairchild’s job to protect you from yourself?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Who was Mr. Harrington’s boss?”
“I was.”
“I understand that Mr. Harrington went missing right after the closing and you couldn’t find him, is that right?”
“Yeah. Him and Sommers. Both of ’em.”
“Did Mr. Harrington take any of that money?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“Exactly my point. You don’t know whether Mr. Harrington, Mr. Ellis, Mr. Sommers, or some other person managed to misdirect the wired funds, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I hired Walter Jenkins. Jenkins was supposed to protect me. From all enemies, foreign and domestic.”
“Interesting you should use that phrase. Speaking of foreign enemies, do you know a man named Dmitri?”
Catherine noticed that Kelsen’s body twitched and he blinked hard. “Dmitri who?”
“That’s what I’m asking. Do you know a man named Dmitri?”
“I know a lot of people. What’s his last name?”
“How many Dmitris do you know?”
He turned to his lawyer. “Can I get a glass of water here?”
A silver pitcher sat on a tray in the middle of the table. Catherine gestured toward it. “Help yourself.”
Kelsen poured a glass of water. His hand shook slightly. He took a sip and placed it down. “I don’t know any Dmitri. Dmitri who? Does he go by another name, maybe?”
“I wouldn’t know. Just so the record is clear, under oath, subject to penalties for perjury, you are stating that you are not acquainted with any person named Dmitri, correct?”
“Dmitri who? Dmitri who? I don’t know. I meet a lot of people, maybe once I met someone named Dmitri.”
“I understand, Mr. Kelsen, that you are quite the basketball fan. Is that right?”
“Does this have something to do with the money that was stolen from me? Was it stolen by a basketball player?” Kelsen laughed nervously and looked at his lawyer, who shrugged.
“I guess that all depends on your definition of player, doesn’
t it?” Catherine said.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, some might refer to people who gamble on basketball games as players.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Why, nothing at all. I just asked if you were a basketball fan. I had heard that you attend all the St. Joseph games.”
“I’m not answering any stupid questions about basketball. I sued Jenkins for the money that was stolen. Ask your questions about that. You’re irrelevant, immaterial, and unconstitutional.”
“Did you and Dmitri bet on basketball games?”
Kelsen’s face turned deep red. He screamed at his lawyer, “Russell, are you going to do something, or are you going to let her throw shit at me all afternoon?”
“Ms. Lockhart, your questions are abusive and harassing. This deposition is being conducted in bad faith, in a manner designed to embarrass and oppress the deponent. Betting on basketball? Really? Unless you confine your questions to the issues at hand, we will seek a protective order.”
“This is my deposition, Mr. Russell, and I will decide which questions to ask.”
“How does betting on basketball have anything to do with this case?”
“I don’t see the need to educate you on my theories, Mr. Russell, but I’m sure you realize that in fraud and embezzlement cases, the claimant’s financial condition is material. Accordingly, his gambling activities may very well lead to relevant information.”
“You gonna let her tell you what to do?” Kelsen said to his lawyer.
“She has a point, Vic. We have to let her ask a few questions in that area. The rules don’t permit me to instruct you not to answer a question on the basis of relevance.” Then Russell turned to Catherine and spoke brusquely. “But we will not countenance abuse and harassment.”
Catherine tapped her pencil. “Let’s get back to basketball. Did you go to the St. Joe games with Dmitri?”
“No. I don’t know any Dmitri, but maybe I met one once, but I don’t go to games with any Dmitris.”
“Are you acquainted with Darius McCord?”
Kelsen swallowed audibly. “He plays for the Deacons.”
“Well, not since his injury. Have you ever met Darius McCord?”
“Probably at some booster event, I’m not sure.”
“Are you acquainted with a man named Evgeniy?”
Kelsen shook his head. He reached for his glass of water but tipped it over. Catherine placed a stack of napkins on the table.
“Let’s get back to Evgeniy, Mr. Kelsen. Do you know him?”
“Russell, do something, will you?” he snapped at his lawyer.
Russell shrugged. “Just answer the question, Vic. Tell her if you know a man named Evgeniy.”
“I don’t know any Evgeniys, I don’t know any Dmitris, I don’t know Darius McCord, except maybe from the basketball luncheons. I’m not answering any more of your bullshit questions.”
Kelsen stood, grabbed his coat and headed for the door, but stopped before his lawyer. “Why didn’t you object, Russell? That’s your fucking job. Irrelevant and immaterial. Abusive and harassing. What a dogshit lawyer you are. File a petition to protect me.” Kelsen stormed out of the office.
When he reached the street, Kelsen pulled out his phone. His fingers shook so badly he could barely dial. “Hello, Dmitri, Dmitri? Dammit, answer the phone. Call me back, we got serious problems. They’re asking me about the games.” He paused. “Fuck it, I’ll see you later.”
SIXTY-FOUR
MARCY SAT WITH HER stack of magazines in Room 8 of Queen’s ICU. Bundles of tubes and wires hooked unconscious Jack Sommers to a panel of monitors. Doctors thought it best that he stay sedated for the first few days in order to manage the pain and reduce movement. Nevertheless, Marcy kept vigil, leaving his bedside only to grab a sandwich or to use the ladies’ room.
From time to time, she’d rub his arm, wipe his brow, or hold his hand. Even though he slept soundly, she would talk to him: “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to pull through this. You’re a fighter, the bravest man I know.”
She stared at the monitors as if they were TV screens. Green heartbeats popping up and down. Sommers’s breathing was slow and deep. She squeezed his hand. “Well, I sure got myself mixed up in a fine mess. Falling for my best friend’s husband, who just happens to be a guy wanted by the police and the Russian mob. I can’t say you didn’t warn me. You said, ‘Marcy get out now.’ But did Marcy listen? Nope. I should have trusted my instincts and said, ‘Good-bye, Jack or Eugene or whoever you’re calling yourself today.’ But you knew I couldn’t do that, didn’t you? You knew I was just as committed to rescuing Sophie as you were. But I didn’t have to fall in love. That was my own doing. I should never have had that second bottle of Grenache. I think that was my Rubicon. Way before the Fishman wedding. Down goes Marcy.”
She stood to stretch her legs and walked to the other side of the bed. “Is it totally naïve to believe that when this is over the government will clear you? Liam said there’s a play for you. If the government wants your help, they’re going to have to pay for it. They cut people deals all the time—immunity, pardon, clemency, whatever the hell they call it.”
She wiped his brow and kissed his cheek. “So, maybe it’s not so crazy to think we’ll be together—you, me, Sophie. We could get a house, maybe out on the North Shore, one with a big backyard. And, of course, a piano. Maybe Sophie could have a brother. What do you think?” She kissed him again. “Liam and Kayla, I have faith in them. It’s going to work out, Jack, we’re going to get Sophie and we’re going to make a life together.” She looked at his sleeping face and smiled. “You don’t have to say yes right now.”
Early in the afternoon, Liam stopped in to visit Sommers. Marcy set her magazine on the table and greeted him with a hug.
“How’s he doing?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a catch in her throat. A tear rolled down her cheek. “They’re giving him a lot of drugs.” She pointed to the patient monitor. “But his heartbeat is steady and his breathing is good.”
Liam smiled and nodded.
“He’s still listed as critical, but the doctor said he thought he was stabilizing. That’s a good sign, right?”
Liam put his arm around her. “I’m sure it is. Has he been conscious at all today?”
Marcy shook her head. “They don’t want him to be conscious. You know, the pain. They said maybe in a few days. Is that policeman still sitting in the hallway?”
Liam nodded. “As far as we know, the two men in the Cadillac are still at large. They tried once, they could try again.”
“Where’s Kayla?”
“Haven’t seen her yet today. She was headed to the federal building for a meeting. Why don’t you go home for a while, Marcy? Or at least take a walk. I’ll stay with Jack.”
Marcy smiled. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I picked up a turkey sandwich and I’m just sitting here reading. It’s okay, really.”
* * *
IT WAS NEARLY SUNSET when Kayla strolled into the Beach Bar at the Moana Surfrider and found Liam sitting at the far end of the veranda, where the brick pavers met the sand. He watched her approach on confident steps. The combination of the evening breeze and the diaphanous fabric caused her pastel blue sundress to hug her shapely legs and accent the contour of her stride.
“I just came from the hospital.”
Liam pulled a chair over for her. “I was there earlier. Any change in his condition?”
She shook her head, and her shoulder-length black hair danced and tousled in the gusts of the evening trade winds. “No, he’s pretty much the same. I spoke with his doctors. They’re going to take him off sedation tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I thought they said a few days.”
Kayla leaned forward and spoke in a whispered voice. “Liam, we need him now. We’ve received disturbing news from Hebron. Whatever al-Zahani’s group is planning, it’s set to occur on Yom Ha’atzmaut. Nine days away
. That’s Israel’s Independence Day, and several celebrations are scheduled. We can’t let it happen.”
“How do you know that?”
“The bug I placed at the bakery.”
“What else do you know?”
She shook her head. “Pieces of information. Not enough to provide any clear answers. Something about two thousand bags that have been delivered to a warehouse in Jerusalem. Bags of what—we don’t know. The location of the warehouse—we don’t know. Initially we thought the bags would contain component parts to be assembled somewhere for a WMD. Or a bunch of IEDs. But the conspirators talked about each bag having a single victim. Three hundred extra bags would mean three hundred dead enemies, they said. And they talked about using surplus bags for a future operation in Tel Aviv.”
“So you think each bag contains a single weapon?”
She nodded. “There are more bags being manufactured by al-Zahani—he said he can make forty a day—and I’m certain that it’s all being done in that outbuilding in his compound.”
“Do we have any intelligence that al-Zahani is a munitions expert?”
“No. He’s spent his entire professional life in a white coat. Medical school, laboratories. Hospitals. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be supervising munitions construction.”
“What about chemicals?”
“Could be, but why describe them as bags? Toxic chemicals would be dispersed from cylinders, warheads, spray tanks. And a chemical dispersion in the air or the water wouldn’t focus on a single victim. The conspirators said, ‘Three hundred more bags means three hundred more victims.’”
“What about biological? He’s a doctor and a lab scientist. What if he’s growing germs?”
“Well, we thought about that, but we’ve dismissed it. There are insurmountable challenges for a small Palestinian group like the Sons of Canaan to use biological weaponry. An effective dispersal mechanism, storage, a delivery medium. It’d have to be introduced through the food chain. Water supply. Even atmospheric. You don’t disperse germs from a bag. All of the toxins we know about that are suitable for such a small operation would be largely ineffective. They certainly would not be thought of in terms of one bag, one victim.”
“Yet, al-Zahani said he could produce forty a day?”
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