Book of Nathan

by Curt Weeden

  “Models?”

  “The models! You know, the goddamned people Kool hired to walk around dressed up like goddamned immigrants.”

  I remembered Doug telling me he’d recruited a New York talent placement agency to put together a group of models who would show off eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century garb at the Ellis Island dinner. When it came to special events, Doug was king.

  “Yeah,” I said. “One’s supposed to wear a Jewish outfit and the other is—” I stopped short of plugging in turn-of-the-century hooker. “Uh, she’s good to go in just about anything on the rack.”

  Martone looked leery. “The Jew—what is he? A Hasidic? We could probably use a Hasidic. Is he a Hasidic?”

  “No,” I assured Martone. “He’s a run-of-the-mill Jew.”

  “Can he pass for a Hasidic?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Martone produced two clip-on red tags, which he stuffed in my tux jacket pocket. “Tell ’em to put these on. You got ten minutes to get the both of them on the ferry. And that’s it for favors. Damn Kool needs a kick in the ass.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” I said and jumped into my Buick, picked up Twyla and Yigal, then made the return trip to the pier. There was still time to back off my impromptu strategy of shipping them to Ellis Island. Plan B would be to leave them sitting landside at the ferry terminal for several hours until the United Way dinner ended. Not a good choice given Yigal’s unpredictable and so far unexplainable actions. Better to have both of them closer to me and confined to a small spit of land surrounded on all sides by water.

  “These red tags will get you on the boat and on the island,” I informed the pair. “When you get off the ferry, look for a wardrobe trailer. Twyla, pick out something ethnic and put it on.”

  Twyla looked perplexed. “Who makes ethnic, Bullet?” Then a flash of anticipation. “Wait a minute—is it Louis Vuitton? Oh my God, is it?”

  I rubbed my head. “Ask Yigal,” I suggested. “He knows ethnic.”

  Did he ever.

  Chapter 24

  Arthur Silverstein was last to board the Resolution. The pint-sized king of the investment world gave a wave of his cigar to a small crowd of admirers and was quickly whisked to a stateroom on the main deck. According to Doug, this was the modus operandi for Silverstein at any event he attended. The billionaire was not one to mingle with the masses. If things went according to plan, the United Way’s guest of honor would remain incognito until called to Ellis Island’s Great Hall to make a few pithy remarks put together by his PR staff. Then he would slip back into obscurity.

  As the Resolution left its Liberty State Park mooring, a seven-piece band played “Anchors Aweigh,” the first of a long run of up-tempo selections. Most of the rich and famous had already found the three open bars strategically scattered about the main deck. One man, however, seemed completely uninterested in the premium brand liquors and assorted hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. It was Abraham Arcontius, who stood guard only a few feet in front of the door to Arthur Silverstein’s cabin.

  A few minutes into the short cruise across New York Harbor, the Asian leviathan named Thaddeus Dong sidled up to Arcontius. Since he was only a couple of inches shorter than the Empire State Building, Dong had an eagle’s eye view of the crowd and it wasn’t long before I was on his radar screen. He whispered something to Arcontius, which sent Silverstein’s right-hand man slithering toward me.

  “You have a problem returning phone calls,” Arcontius said. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me, which probably meant Doug had let him know I was on the guest list.

  “I lost your number.”

  Arcontius’s pointy ears turned red. “But not my Internet address, which brings us to the reason you’re here. I assume you got confirmation that we made the installment payments. We moved two point five million to your account.”

  I pretended to study the New York skyline trying to decipher what I was hearing. My last conversation with Judith Russet left me thinking Arcontius was no longer in Quia Vita’s inner circle. If that were true, why had he been informed about the organization’s multimillion dollar payment for Le Campion’s notes? I needed to bring all this into sharper focus, and the only way to make that happen was to pump Arcontius.

  “Two point five million is a lot of money,” I said.

  “We can put this deal to bed before we get to Ellis Island,” said Arcontius. “Give me the disk and I’ll BlackBerry instructions to have the additional two million wired to your account.”

  “Two million?” I asked. My confusion must have come off sounding sarcastic because Arcontinus’s face knotted into a scowl.

  “Don’t go there. You agreed to cut the price for the second payment by five hundred thousand. No more bargaining. Stick with the deal you agreed to.”

  It was like pulling away gauze. Arcontius wasn’t fronting for Quia Vita. He was representing another buyer. Arthur Silverstein? The Almiras Society? I couldn’t be sure. What I did know was whoever stole the disk had discovered a way to rake in millions. Quia Vita and another shopper had each put two point five million on the table to get a peek at Le Campion’s nonencrypted notes. Quia Vita was willing to double down in exchange for the full translation of the Book of Nathan, but Arcontius was coming in $500,000 short. That meant Quia Vita was probably about to become the rightful owner of Le Campion’s CD with Arcontius and company left holding an empty bag.

  I hoped I could shake more information out of the weasel. “What we had was an agreement in principle.” Whatever that meant.

  “I’m finished doing this dance,” said Arcontius. “The total package is four point five million. Period. We owe you another two million. You’re going to take the second payment and you’re going to hand over the goddamned disk.”

  “Before we take this any further, there are a couple of other issues we have to talk about,” I said.

  Even when he wasn’t angry, Arcontius looked like a constipated Jiminy Cricket with a skin condition. Now that he was irate, his pointed head turned fuchsia—I could practically see steam blowing out his elongated ears. “Let me be clear about something. You’re a nauseating thief. You’d be making a mistake if you didn’t settle this now.”

  I straightened my bow tie, turned my back on the Statue of Liberty, and looked Arcontius right in his ball bearing-like eyes. “This isn’t about more money. Just a couple of questions that need answers.”

  Arcontius gave me a look that could melt steel. “What questions?”

  “Questions about Arita Almiras and the Almiras Society.”

  What followed was a long interlude of silence. Arcontius pushed back from the Resolution’s deck rail. Then he gave a slight finger wave to Thaddeus Dong. The Asian giant was still parked by Silverstein’s cabin. It took him only a few steps to make his way across the deck.

  Arcontius tilted his head toward the Asian. “You remember my associate, Mr. Dong.”

  “He’s hard to forget.”

  “Do you know what the Chinese word, Dong, means?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Historian,” replied Arcontius. “And it fits Mr. Dong perfectly. He has a long memory when it comes to people who cross us. He helps us remember to even the score if people don’t live up to their commitments. Do you get what I’m telling you?”

  “Sort of. But with all due respect to Mr. Dong, we still need to chat about Arita Almiras.”

  “Your inquiring mind has a way of pulling you into a tar pit, Mr. Bullock.”

  I nodded. “It’s a curse.”

  “You’d be advised to take your money and walk away.”

  “Not until you tell me what you know about the Almiras Society.”

  The onboard band was finishing “New York, New York” when Arcontius resumed the discussion. “Tell me—does your line of questioning have something to do with Mr. Zeusenoerdorf?”

  “It does.”

  “I’m surprised. I thought your quest for justice would evaporate once you t
urned millionaire.”

  “I’m full of surprises.”

  “Yes, I’m beginning to see that,” Arcontius said. “Very well. We’ll talk. But this is a conversation that has to be private.”

  My alarm bell sounded. “Okay.”

  Arcontius pointed to a door. “The lower deck.” A moment later, we were walking down a steep stairway that led to a section of the yacht that was all engine and storage. Apparently, Arcontius knew the Resolution from bow to stern. I recalled Doug telling me that the anal Arcontius always paved the way for Silverstein, which meant he probably conducted an on-site inspection of the yacht days ago.

  “Dong!” Arcontius looked up to the giant who was still at the top of the stairs. “Make sure we’re not interrupted.” The Asian shut the metal door at the top of the stairway. I pictured Dong standing outside, looking like Mr. Clean on a bad day. No one would be getting past Arcontius’s henchman until the guard dog was told to stand down.

  Arcontius led the way through a door that put us in an open-air area tucked under the main deck. A pair of Yamaha WaveRunners and other small watercraft were stowed and locked in place behind a complicated launch-and-retrieval system. Arcontius waltzed me around until I was standing with my back against two thick cables that passed as a railing. Aside from those strands of twisted metal, there was nothing between me and the brackish water of New York Harbor.

  “What do you know about Arita Almiras?” Arcontius asked.

  I raised my voice so I could be heard over the rumble of the ship’s engines. “I’m the one with the questions. Let’s start over. What do you know about Arita Almiras?”

  “Enough to assure you that it’s a name you would be better off forgetting.”

  “There’s a man named Conway Kyzwoski who did his share of remembering before he died.”

  It was as if Arcontius knew what I was going to say before I said it. “Kyzwoski,” he whispered, “and what did he tell you?”

  “According to Conway, I’m looking at Arita Almiras,” I lied. “Apparently, you’re the major domo for an organization called the Almiras Society. Given different circumstances, what Kyzwoski had to say wouldn’t mean a thing to me. But then Conway added that the society was connected to the Benjamin Kurios murder. He also said your organization had attached itself to me like a tick to a dog.”

  “I’ve heard of Mr. Kyzwoski,” Arcontius conceded. “And I know something about the Almiras Society. But that’s as far as it goes.”

  “Really? Because according to Judith Russet, you know a lot about the society.” I was getting accustomed to stretching the truth.

  This Arcontius had not expected. He looked like he had just been hit by the Resolution’s anchor. The possibility that the head of Quia Vita had openly linked Arcontius with the Almiras Society caught him off guard. “What did Russet tell you?”

  I dodged the question. “How long have you been a pro-life fox in Silverstein’s pro-choice chicken coop?”

  Arcontius did his best to hold himself together. Difficult to do when the verbal bullets were finding their target. “A very serious accusation, Mr. Bullock.”

  “It is,” I agreed. “And one you don’t want Silverstein to hear. Which is why you’ve kept me away from him.”

  “Keeping rubbish away from Silverstein’s door is my job.”

  “Occasio aegre offertur, facile amittitur.”

  Arcontius winced. “Excuse me?”

  “It was your parting shot the last time we were together,” I reminded him. “Opportunity is offered with difficulty but lost with ease. A little more than coincidence that it’s also the Almira Society motto, don’t you think?”

  The pile of evidence had grown too high. Arcontius stopped talking, pushed back his tuxedo jacket and dislodged a Colt .38 snub-nosed pistol from its shoulder holster.

  He waved the weapon at my midsection. “This is to make sure I have your full attention.”

  “I listen better without a muzzle stuck in my belly.”

  “Apparently you think that you can blackmail me into coughing up another five hundred thousand dollars for Le Campion’s disk. Well, you’re a fool.”

  “I told you, I’m not looking for money. I’m looking for a guarantee you’re not going to send another Conway Kyzwoski my way with a video camera or a bullet. And there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Shoot me and you can forget about the Book of Nathan disk. You’ll never see it.”

  The possibility of losing the disk outweighed what I knew Arcontius longed to do. He reholstered his pistol but kept his jacket pulled back.

  “Interesting,” mused Arcontius. “It’s the first time you admitted you have the disk.”

  It wasn’t actually an admission—but I understood how Arcontius might have come to the conclusion I was marketing Le Campion’s disk. I figured this wasn’t the time to set him straight. “Since we’re into confessions, explain why your society has had me in its crosshairs ever since Kurios was killed.”

  “We put you under surveillance not long after your man Zeusenoerdorf was picked up on a murder charge,” Arcontius acknowledged.

  “Zeusenoerdorf’s not my man.”

  Arcontius disregarded the correction. “No one was instructed to take you out—just to follow you and recover the disk. We work hard to minimize loss of life unless we feel it’s absolutely essential to our cause.”

  It was a roundabout confession, but good enough for me. Arcontius had just admitted he was the Almiras Society’s alpha dog.

  “Why was it absolutely essential to kill Benjamin Kurios?”

  “The society had nothing to do with Benjamin’s murder.”

  “What does that mean? You didn’t beat Kurios to death personally but hired someone to take care of it?”

  Arcontius kept talking as if wanting to set the record straight. “I’ll tell you what happened to Kurios.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The society had been keeping an eye on Benjamin after we learned Le Campion sent him the Book of Nathan disk. We were waiting for the right opportunity to work out—how should I put it?—a change in ownership.”

  Arcontius stopped, possibly reconsidering his offer to give me details about how Kurios died. “So, on a dark and rainy night, you pulled Benjamin out of his hotel and beat the shit out of him,” I said.

  His face reddened. “We had nothing to do with abducting Benjamin. But one of our people saw him when he was forced into a van with a little help from a tire iron. When the van took off, our man stayed on its tail.”

  “It was your boy who was driving the blue sedan Zeusenoerdorf saw—the car that ran the van off the road.”

  “Yes.”

  “Juan Perez.”

  Arcontius was unruffled. “Mr. Perez was an experienced investigator.”

  “He was a Venezuelan mercenary.”

  Arcontius raised an eyebrow, telling me he was surprised about how much information I had scraped together.

  “We imported Perez because we needed someone with his skill set.”

  “Skill set?”

  “Most of the members of our society are not trained to handle high-risk situations. I suppose you already know we recruited Perez from one of Silverstein’s security teams in Caracas.”

  “Seems Silverstein’s employees like wearing two hats.” I wondered how Silverstein could be so successful and yet be so myopic. The old man had made billions, but couldn’t spot a double-cross if he tripped over one.

  “Perez did so for many years,” Arcontius confirmed. “He wasn’t just muscle, he was also observant. Perez spotted something important the night Benjamin was beaten.”

  “The Book of Nathan disk,” I guessed.

  “Yes. The van driver took the disk from Benjamin and put it in his pocket just before he took off.”

  “Then what?”

  “It was early in the morning and there was no traffic. We had no idea where the van was heading—where Benjamin and the disk might
end up. When Perez cell phoned to let me know what was going on, I ordered him to stop the van.”

  “Your guy uses his car to slam the van into the bridge piling and out pops Benjamin Kurios.”

  “I assume Mr. Zeusenoerdorf gave you those details. As he also probably told you, Perez ran his car into an abutment. The two drivers ended up in hand-to-hand combat, which is when the disk fell out of the van driver’s pocket and landed not far from Benjamin, who by that time was nearly dead.”

  I knew Arcontius’s story could be bogus. But his description of what happened the night Kurios died matched Zeus’s jailhouse testimony.

  “During the fight, Perez’s neck chain and Quia Vita emblem got ripped off,” I said.

  “Yes,” Arcontius grumbled, showing his distain for his man’s carelessness. Or was it the way Perez wore his affiliation to Judith Russet’s organization around his neck? From my talk with Ida Kyzwoski, I had learned that most Almiras Society members were also connected to Quia Vita. Maybe Arcontius resented Perez for not getting his organizational priorities straight. After all, it was the Almiras Society that was paying the Venezuelan to tail Kurios.

  “Then Zeusenoerdorf arrives.”

  “Carrying a heavy piece of lumber.”

  “It was a cross,” I plugged in the correction.

  Arcontius took a couple of steps to the side, his skinny frame between me and the door to the interior of the yacht. “So it was. The street fight ended. Perez headed back to his car, but was shot twice by the van driver.”

  “Which is why Perez didn’t or couldn’t pick up the disk.”

  Arcontius sighed. “Exactly. He drove a few miles from the scene before he bled to death. Fortunately, there were other society members in Orlando who we called in to clean up the mess. We removed the bullets from the corpse then burned the car and body. A rainy night and a careless driver. Just another accident.”

  “Ever ask yourself why the van driver didn’t circle back and pick up the disk?”

  “Until you put the disk up for sale, we thought that’s just what the van driver had done. Now we think the man either panicked when he saw Zeusenoerdorf or was too disoriented because of his fight with Perez. Are we finished?”