by Curt Weeden
“What is it?”
“I know where to find Seleucus.”
Chapter 26
Doc opened the double glass doors of Ellis Island’s Hearing Room and motioned me inside. The room was the last stop for prospective immigrants who didn’t pass the medical, psychological, or morality requirements. They were given a final chance to persuade the island’s gatekeepers to let them cross America’s threshold. Historians like Doc had to be impressed by how carefully the room had been restored to its early-1900’s look. For me, the room’s best quality was the way it muted the racket coming from the Main Hall only a corridor away.
“Where’s Seleucus?” I asked Doc.
“I think I know.”
“What do you mean you think?”
“The hard-ass woman you were trying to pick up—”
“Whoa,” I stopped him. “That wasn’t what was happening.”
“Whatever you say. Anyway, she’s right. About Seleucus, I mean.”
“Doc, she was talking about some king in Asia Minor. The man I’m looking for is walking around Ellis Island, probably carrying a small computer disk.”
Doc removed his mandatory waitstaff maritime hat. “Don’t think so.”
What little music penetrated the Hearing Room stopped and I heard the first call for dinner. In five minutes, a rabbi from Yeshiva University would be intoning the invocation and Doug would be wondering why there was an empty seat next to Paula Parsons.
“I’ve got no time. Explain.”
“The lady had it right—about Asia Minor. In Anatolia, Seleucus is a common last name.”
“How did we get from Asia Minor to Anatolia?”
“Turkey took over a part of Asia Minor centuries ago. It’s called Anatolia.”
“So?”
“If you did a survey of given names of boys and men living in that part of Turkey during the early nineteen hundreds, Osman would pop up as one of the most popular.”
I looked at my watch. “Where’s this going?”
“To the Immigrant Wall of Honor.”
“What?”
“That’s where you’ll find Osman Seleucus. He was an immigrant from Turkey. At least, I think he was.”
Most of my Gateway clientele were not that hard to read. The professor, on the other hand, had an intellect that could spin you in circles. “What are you talking about, Doc?”
“An outdoor wall that runs around the back of this place. It’s called the American Immigrant Wall of Honor. There are six hundred thousand immigrant names chiseled into it.”
“And you’re telling me Osman Seleucus is one of the names on that wall?”
“It’s a good bet.”
“Betting isn’t your strong suit.” Doc’s mouth twitched, which might have had something to do with a gambling debt that had cost him a testicle.
“Even so, you should check it out.”
“And I’m supposed to spend the rest of the night going through six hundred thousand names? I don’t think so.”
“It won’t take long.” Doc told me to go back to the reception desk in the Baggage Room and ask one of the Ellis Island staff members to do a computer search for Seleucus. “If he’s in the database, they’ll tell you where to find the name on the wall.”
I was again impressed by the professor’s brain. Even if he was wrong about Seleucus, which was unlikely, his memory was awesome. The fact that I so frequently Googled Doc’s storehouse of information sharpened the pang of guilt I had been feeling since my meeting with Manny Maglio. I had yet to tell the professor that Twyla’s uncle had quashed the mob contract that had been hanging around Doc’s neck for years. He was a free man, but didn’t know it. I was holding back the good news because I wanted the professor to stay on high alert; to catch the scent of anything suspicious. Admittedly, it was a selfish decision but until my “free Zeus” campaign was over, I didn’t want Doc slipping into complacency.
I had a few more questions for Doc, but Albert Martone was cruising the second floor on one of his quality-control inspections. The professor was missing from his assigned post in the Registry Room. A split second before Martone barged into the Hearing Room, Doc disappeared.
I saluted the head of catering and retraced my steps to the Registry Room and table twenty-six. Paula Parsons gave me a smile. Or was that some kind of I-don’t-like-to-be-left-standing-alone scowl? Impossible to tell.
“Sorry for the interruption,” I said after pulling out Paula’s chair and seating her at the Sony table. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to excuse myself again. Should be back soon.”
“You’re leaving again?”
Go to enough black-tie charity dinners, and you learn to pick up the social nuances. Like who’s talking to whom, especially if it’s a whispered conversation. Or who’s not seated at a power table. Then there’s the vacant chair. If it’s next to someone like Paula Parsons, the chair becomes the Tyrannosaurus at the table. Somewhere in the room, talk was already starting about how Paula, whose beyond-bitch reputation was legendary, had just sent another poor bastard running for the door.
I was on the stairway heading to the ground floor when the United Way board chairman tapped the podium mike and welcomed seven hundred fifty wealthy and hungry guests to Ellis Island. In the Baggage Room, I literally bumped into the same young woman I had embarrassed earlier in the evening. It was a full frontal collision that jolted out a gasp from each of us.
“Sorry.” I tried disentangling myself from the lady. “Can’t seem to stay away from you,” I chuckled but got nothing back. “Maybe you could help me.”
She turned crimson. “I . . . I don’t know if—”
I fabricated a story about my friend, Osman Seleucus, who cell phoned to apologize for missing the United Way dinner and to ask a favor. Would I check the immigrant wall and find his namesake—a great uncle who had made his way here from Turkey? The young woman waved to an eager-to-please docent in charge of “immigration records and information.” A minute after keystroking a wireless laptop, the docent scribbled a few words on a slip of paper that validated what I already knew: that Doc Waters was a genius.
“Panel 561,” the docent said, pointing to what she had written and giving me directions on how to get to the Wall of Honor. She plucked a pen-sized flashlight labeled BOEING: PROUD SUPPORTER OF UNITED WAY from one of hundreds of gift baskets to be handed out to guests when they left the island. “You’re going to need this.”
I thanked her and headed toward the Peopling of America exhibit that, I had been informed, was where I would find an exit to the backside of the main building.
“Mr. Bullock—wait.” the United Way staffer called after me. “They’ve started dinner.”
I caught the hidden message. Get back to the Registry Room. Very likely, it was a Doug Kool order that had been ingrained in every United Way employee handpicked to work the crowd. All guests should be in their seats when the United Way messaging began. Anyone caught meandering the grounds at the wrong time should be herded to their assigned table.
“Yes, I know,” I called back. “Won’t be long.”
Dusk was on its last legs. In a half hour, the island would be dark except for the well-lit main building and the sliver of a new moon. I should have suffered through the opening round of the dinner and waited for total darkness before playing detective, I thought. Too late. Instead of eating ginger salmon wontons with Napa cabbage and doing my best to tolerate Paula Parsons, I stuck with my plan. The five-course dinner with interruptions for music, dancing, and mini-speeches would stretch out another two hours before the audience was served coffee, dessert, and Arthur Silverstein. That gave me time to penetrate the banker’s defenses ahead of his speech to the faithful.
Outside the main building, I followed a paved path that ran adjacent to the wall, an extraordinary stainless steel circular border that rimmed a huge lawn and garden. It was a long, curved line of individual metal panels each inscribed with hundreds of names. According to the do
cent, it would take two or three minutes to walk to the section of the wall where I would find what I was looking for. On the way, I unfolded the slip of paper she had handed me and used the Boeing penlight to reread her note:
Osman Faruk Seleucus
Smyrna, Turkey, Asia Minor
I called Maurice to make sure he had made the ultimate sacrifice by turning over his phone to Yigal Rosenblatt. I got my answer when the lawyer answered.
“I don’t have a lot of time, so listen up,” I said. “I need you and Twyla to go to the Research Library on the third floor of the main building at eight fifteen. Wait by the library door, and I’ll either meet you or call you.”
“Why? What are we supposed to do?” Concern was working its way through Yigal’s words.
“Agree with anything and everything I say.”
“I should play along is what I should do,” Yigal murmured.
“Exactly. If I say you graduated from rabbinical school in Brooklyn and run a temple in Poughkeepsie, then go with it. If I introduce Twyla as your wife of eight years, don’t call me a liar.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Yigal pledged enthusiastically.
“Here’s the kicker. If I do bring you on stage, Arthur Silverstein is probably going to be your audience.”
“Arthur Silverstein?”
“He didn’t get to be a billionaire by being stupid. So just follow my lead. Can you do that?”
“I can do that,” Yigal assured me. “But why?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Is Twyla with you?”
“Yes. Yes, she is.”
“Let me speak to her.”
Yigal handed over the phone. “Hi, Bullet,” she squeaked. “I found the most amazing gown. It’s a real beautiful red and they have this lady who does adjustments right there in the trailer.”
“You wearing the dress now?”
“I am,” bubbled Twyla. “You won’t believe how good it looks.”
“Terrific,” I said. “In about an hour, Yigal is going to take you to the third floor of the main building.”
“Mr. Martone says I have to give the dress back by nine thirty.”
An interesting picture—Albert Martone and Twyla Tharp discussing high fashion.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Just don’t take the dress off until after we finish our business.” Had there been more time, I would have said the same thing to Yigal.
“What business?” Twyla inquired.
Good question. “You’re going to jog someone’s memory.”
“I am?” Twyla sounded genuinely pleased. “How, Bullet?”
“Just by being you.”
I ended the conversation. A minute later I found Osman Faruk Seleucus at the bottom of the middle column on panel 561. Now what? I was staring at the name of a dead Turk wondering if this search was nothing more than a waste of time. There was, of course, the possibility that the disk might be hidden somewhere in the vicinity of the panel. But the metal wall and adjacent cement sidewalk didn’t offer much in the way of a hiding place.
I searched for something, anything that would lead me to Henri Le Campion’s CD. The Wall of Honor was a continuous lineup of metal teepees, each mounted on a concrete base with one plate facing the main building and the other the harbor. I ran my hand beneath the overhang where the panels met the base. Nothing. Stepping back, I made another scan of the walkway and everything within two or three yards of the panel. The more I looked, the more I was certain the only hiding place for a computer disk was underneath the overhang of the plate I had just inspected. I went flat on my back and peered upward into the narrow gulch that ran from one side of the plate to the other, using my fingers to do a second examination of the seam between steel and cement. This time, my effort paid off. A two-by-eight-inch plug popped free and clanked to the pavement. I pointed my penlight into the narrow opening.
Henri Le Campion’s disk, if that’s what it was, was wrapped in plastic and tape. The CD looked as commonplace as anything you would find in a music store except this one was labeled: Bk. of Nath. Trnscpt. I opened the case. The realization that I was holding what could be the key to freeing Miklos Zeusenoerdorf gave me a rush. At the same time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the disk had its own bad karma. I did my best to push aside the negative vibrations and congratulated myself for getting the best of Quia Vita and the Almira Society. They had paid millions to own what was lying in the palm of my hand. Next question—now that I had the disk, what was I going to do with it? Ten seconds later, someone else gave me the answer.
For a man the size of T Rex, Thaddeus Dong was remarkably agile. I hadn’t seen or heard him maneuver along the opposite side of the wall while I was searching for Seleucus. And when he pulled himself up and over panel 561, I was too stunned to move.
“Stay where you are!” The index finger of Dong’s left hand was aimed at my nose and his right hand locked on the grip of a Glock .45 jammed behind his waistband. When it was obvious I wasn’t about to stand, he fished a cell phone from the pocket of his tux jacket. “He has it.”
During the past few days, I had cheated serious injury or death twice. Maybe because each incident was unexpected, I’d had no time for fear. Tonight, the situation was different. Thaddeus Dong had the look and temperament of a ruthless killer. His phone call told me someone else would issue a live or die order. Not that it mattered. Whether acting on his own or following orders, Dong was the type who could pull a trigger and feel no remorse about sending a slug through my skull.
I made a quick scan of the walkway and lawn that had mostly been swallowed by darkness. There was no apparent means of escape. Dong’s size and the likelihood he knew how to use a pistol made it pointless to consider a dash back to the main building. Maybe there was a way to dupe death a third time, but to figure that out I needed a better view of my options. I leaned to one side and shifted my body weight to my right knee.
“Stay down!” snarled Dong. He used one meaty hand to shove me hard. I landed back on my ass.
Dong loomed over me silently for a couple of minutes. A clack of footsteps broke the stillness, and it wasn’t long after that Arcontius walked into view, his weird body a silhouette against the distant glow of lower Manhattan.
“Question, Mr. Bullock,” Silverstein’s right-hand man said. “Did you underestimate me? Or did I give you too much credit for being smarter than you really are?”
Smart is something one doesn’t feel when parked on his butt looking up at two men who had caught me completely off guard.
“From the second you stepped off the yacht, my people have been watching you,” Arcontius said. “You didn’t make a move without our knowing where you were or what you were doing.”
I was stuck on “my people.” How much of an army did the Almiras Society have? The night had turned cool, but I couldn’t stop sweating.
“By the way—ditto for the two imbeciles you brought with you.”
Which imbeciles? I thought. Doc and Maurice or Twyla and Yigal?
Arcontius answered my unspoken question. “We convinced Albert Martone that both your men needed to be put in time out. They’re getting some much-needed occupational retraining.”
Doc and Maurice were now on the sidelines, which wasn’t good news. At least they were safe—a few hours of hard labor under Martone’s watchful eye was a lot better than floating facedown in New York Harbor.
“What’s this about, Arcontius?” I asked, trying to mask my growing panic.
“It’s about what you’re holding,” said Arcontius. “You’re going to give us the disk, and then we’re going to take a stroll.”
Dong leaned forward, plucked the Book of Nathan CD from my hand and told me to get up. When I stood, Arcontius ordered me to surrender my cell phone and Boeing flashlight. I did what I was told. Dong gave me a fast body check to make sure there was nothing else worth confiscating.
“Just for the record,” Arcontius said as he nudged me toward the east side of the island, “we were read
y to pay the extra two million. Had you handled things differently, we wouldn’t be having this conversation and you’d be a lot richer.”
“The two point five million you already contributed will make life comfortable enough.”
“Will it? Comfortable is not something you’re going to be once we’re done talking.”
We continued walking toward a dark corner of the island. Arcontius pushed open an unlocked chain-link gate that led to a work area cluttered with building materials and construction equipment. Across the harbor, lower Manhattan was ablaze with lights. But the east end of Ellis Island was deserted and foreboding.
Arcontius jabbed Dong’s arm with his free hand. “Let me have the disk.”
Dong passed the CD to Arcontius then fell back several steps. Arcontius was too far ahead of Dong to hear him whisper a few words into a cell phone. Sandwiched between the two men, I was close enough to the Asian to overhear what he was saying.
“He’s got it.”
Pause.
“I’ll take care of it.”
That was the end of it. Dong glided past me, each catlike step so quiet that I was certain Arcontius had no idea what was about to happen. Dong gripped Arcontius’s head with his huge hands, then with one sickening jerk, he yanked Arcontius’s skull back and jammed it hard to the left. A snapping sound cut through the night. The effect was instantaneous. Arcontius was dead before Dong dropped him to the ground.
Chapter 27
Ellis Island’s repository for rare books, unpublished manuscripts, periodicals, and old photos is its Research Library. On this night, the large room tucked into the third-floor corner of the main building was Arthur Silverstein’s hideaway until nine p.m., when he would be escorted one floor below to deliver his brief message to the United Way audience.
Dong unlocked the library door and shoved me inside. Silverstein sat in a leather chair with a small circular glass table at his side. A floor lamp cast a cone-shaped glow of light over the small man.
