“It beats me how this stuff gets on the streets of New York. I first thought it might be some sort of phytotoxin, like they use for blowgun darts in the Brazilian rainforests.”
“You mean curare? That would produce the results you saw—it blocks the acetylcholine receptor sites and paralyzes instantly.” Amy was up on her obscure poisons.
“But the tox screen says otherwise. Makes me think this isn’t a robbery.”
“Doesn’t sound like your usual smash and grab, that’s for sure,” Amy agreed. “What did it turn out to be?”
“Good old tetrodoxin, but synthesized to increase the potency and absorption. When was the last time you saw that in a robbery?” Tom liked showing off.
Amy thought it sounded familiar.
“Wow. Like in fugu? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it being used.” Amy was surprised. Fugu was a Japanese puffer fish that contained a deadly tropane alkaloid, tetrodoxin, in some of its organs. Every year, several Japanese died from eating torafugu; the amount required to kill a man was only about two milligrams, which would fit on the head of a pin.
Amy knew about it from reading the literature, and it had stuck in her memory because she couldn’t imagine people eating the fish knowing they could die if it was prepared wrong. But the question was, why would anyone synthesize it? How much deadlier could you make it, and why would you want to?
“Yup. They had it purified down to where just a pinprick’s worth would drop an elephant. I’ve never seen anything like it—I sent the findings off to Washington for a second opinion.”
“Unbelievable. Just when I think I’ve seen every possible type of ugliness, a new one surfaces.” She smiled at Tom, who’d had the hots for her for years. “Sounds like you have your hands full.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Well, I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the info, Tom.” She smiled again. No harm in turning on the charm.
“Yeah, see you around,” Tom said as the door closed.
Amy returned to her office and called Ron to tell him what she had just learned.
They were both at a loss as to what it meant. Whatever the explanation, they were sure it didn’t bode well for the investigation Barry was running. Obscure killing agents, tortured watch merchants, abandoned quarter-million-dollar wristwatches—this was not the stuff of which easy and painless investigations were made.
* * *
Tess returned from her ride soaked with sweat and exhausted. She’d torn around the island at racing speed, then crisscrossed through Central Park to get some additional miles in. Riding calmed her and acted as a salve on her spirits. She supposed a lot of it was the serotonin spike caused by the exercise—the famous “runner’s high”—as well as the sense of self-sufficiency and freedom of being outdoors and moving of her own volition.
She carried her bike up the stairs and positioned it in the usual space in her foyer, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade out of her refrigerator and plopped down on the couch.
Her answering machine was blinking. She reluctantly got up and approached it, and hit the playback button. Three new messages. The first was from her sister, apologizing for her husband’s behavior and asking her to please call back ASAP.
Whatever. She’d get to it later.
The second message was from Duff. He had heard what happened from Frank, and called to tell her he was there for her if she needed anything. She smiled to herself. Duff used to be a gang member who would kill you for looking at him, but after his daughter was born and he took a bunch of slugs in the back, he had an epiphany and decided to go straight.
One night at the Corral he told her about it, and she was fascinated by the brutality and casual violence of the lifestyle. The money was insane, and he was often tempted to go back to it, until he looked into his daughter’s eyes. That always stopped him cold, and every day he swam upstream and did the right thing instead of the easy thing—went to work delivering packages containing documents instead of packages of crack.
That was the sort of story that kept her biking instead of going back to programming: it was a different world on the street - the stakes there were life and death. It was hard to go back to an insulated pseudo-reality after having lived in that environment for a time. Tess thought she had an inkling of what returning soldiers felt like, when they left hand-to-hand combat to return to a reality where their biggest danger was mowing the lawn. Maybe she was just an action junkie, hooked on the pulse of a counter-culture few ever saw or heard about. Add that to her list of faults, she thought.
She listened to the last message. It was Stan checking in, telling her he was at the shop all day. She made a note to call all three back, and then hit the shower for the second time that day.
* * *
The two Asian men had been sitting at the café across the street from Nick’s apartment since eight o’clock that morning, on and off. After the first few hours, they’d moved down the street to a Starbucks and hung out there, before returning to the café for lunch. They were wondering if he’d even returned home last night when the smaller man’s phone went off. He flipped it on.
“Hello.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re staking out the watch shop assistant’s house, waiting for him to surface.”
“That’ll have to wait. I just got very disturbing news. A currency dealer in New York called the Treasury Department and reported he has in his possession a number of bills that look like ours. Treasury is sending someone over to pick them up.” The voice on the phone spoke with deliberation. “That can’t be allowed to happen.”
“I understand. What information do you have on him?”
The smaller man scribbled furiously.
“Time is not on our side today. Please get this handled immediately,” the voice advised.
“You can depend on us.”
The smaller man explained the situation to his partner; they needed to get into the currency dealer’s place as soon as possible, and needed a pretext to do so.
They called their contact person again.
“Can you have your local man in New York contact this currency dealer and arrange a cover story for us to meet him? Perhaps we have some old currency that needs to be authenticated?”
“Perhaps we can. But that could take some time. Why don’t you see if you can find a way in without involving our man just yet. Discretion is less important than speed at the moment. If it’s an impossibility, then call me back and I’ll see about making an arrangement.”
“We’re on our way.”
They rose to leave. As they flagged down a cab, they saw Nick stumble out of his front door looking like he’d been beaten with a board. They regarded one another.
“That’ll be a project for later.” They gave the cabbie an address close to Saul’s building and were on their way.
* * *
Saul had also tried Stan earlier, and also had gotten the machine. He tried again, having decided his news was way too juicy to impart by leaving a message, and was rewarded when Stan answered.
“Stan Issaks.”
“Stan, it’s Saul. How goes the war?”
“So-so, my friend, so-so. I’m not doing well. Yesterday really got me down, you know?” Stan had spent a restless night troubled by images of Robert lying on the floor, bloodied.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I know he was a good friend. It’s a shame, a tragedy,” Saul said.
“That it is.”
“Well, I have interesting news for you. Your instinct there was something fishy going on with the watch transaction? You were right. Those bills are bogus. They’re the best fakes I’ve ever seen, but still fake.” Saul was delighted with himself.
“Really. That’s amazing. What was the giveaway?”
“The watermark was the big one. The hair didn’t look right, and then I noticed the facial expression was a little off from a similar series bill,” Saul said.
“Aren’t all the watermarks the s
ame?” Stan wasn’t on the paper currency side of the fence—his specialty was coins. Both men were snobs, secretly finding the other’s fascination with paper or metal beneath their own interests.
“No, they’re actually quite different. On some Ben looks like a basset hound, on others his eyes are puffy, on others his face a little thinner. So you have to compare serialized runs to be sure. I found an F note like the fakes and compared the watermarks, and they’re wrong.”
“That’s quite a catch, Saul. What do you think? Who has the expertise to produce that level of fake?” Stan was beginning to get an idea in his head, and he didn’t like it.
“To be honest? It seems too sophisticated not to be state-sponsored, Stan. I’ve seen plenty of fakes over the years, and these are almost as good as the real thing. You could pass them anywhere,” Saul explained.
“Robert said the collector was from Korea. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Why not? Either them or Iran, or Syria, or any of a couple of dozen other countries. Ten years ago I would have said maybe the Chinese, but why counterfeit when they basically own everything now? Ha! I still wouldn’t rule them out completely, though…” Saul mused.
“So what are we going to do?” Stan asked.
“I’ve asked Treasury to send some people over. This is big, Stan. Really big. Bigger than anything that ever happened the entire time I was there.” Saul was relishing that he, the black sheep, had discovered the most significant currency fraud in the last eighty years. This was his moment.
“What can I say? You’re a genius. Congratulations.”
“Why don’t you swing up and we can celebrate my discovery over a nice bottle of wine? You available this evening?” Saul was feeling festive, and feeling festive alone sucked.
“Why not? I can be up there before rush hour hits. I was thinking about closing down early anyway; my heart’s not in it today,” Stan said.
“So maybe five-ish?” Saul asked.
“Even a little before that. You want I should bring anything?”
“No, tonight’s on me. I’ll get some decent red and we can have dinner after we toast. See you then.”
* * *
The Asians ambled up the street, stopping at the building next to Saul’s. Three stories, stone façade, bars on the windows of the ground floor. Saul’s looked like half the rest of the buildings in that area of the city. There didn’t look to be any easy way up, at least not from the front. The smaller man made a call.
“You need to get your friend to set us up to go in. I don’t see any simple way into the building.” They could pick the lock, but in daylight on a reasonably well-traveled street it was too dangerous.
“Give me half an hour.”
* * *
Gordon’s private line rang. He was hesitant to pick it up, but had little choice at this stage of the game.
“Samuels.”
“We require some assistance, quickly. Treasury is sending agents over to pick up the bills. My men are in the neighborhood but can’t get into the building.”
“And? What would you like me to do?” Gordon was getting a queasy feeling. He was good on the phone or with a computer monitor, but wasn’t prepared to get physically involved.
“I need you to call this Saul Balinsky and make up some reason for my men to see him. Perhaps you have some older banknotes that require authentication? He is apparently an authority on the topic.”
“That I can do. Give me a few minutes to look up some rare bills on the Web, and I’ll place the call. I still have his contact information.”
“Time is of the essence.”
“Consider it done. I’ll call back in a few minutes to confirm.”
He went online and did a search for antique U.S. currency, and found thirty pages of every imaginable variation. He scratched out some notes. Gordon took a deep breath then dialed Saul’s number.
And got nothing but ringing. Fuck. Time was running out on them. He dialed again. Ring, ring, ring. No answer. Maybe the guy was in the bathroom. He’d give it five minutes, try again.
Gordon paced around his office. It was two o’clock. Treasury would probably get there before five, so in the very best case they had just a few hours to find all the notes and deal with Saul.
That stopped him. Deal with Saul. What precisely did that mean? How were they planning to “deal with Saul” so the whole affair went away? The enormity of what he’d become involved in hit home. He was going to participate in the murder of an innocent man, a man whose only crime was being unlucky enough to take possession of the notes. Had he really fallen so far?
Buck up, Gordon. Think about the billions at stake, not to mention that you’ll lose your fortune if this goes south on you. Sometimes extraordinary measures are required to achieve extraordinary results; this was a cost of doing business.
Besides, he had no direct knowledge that the Asians would kill Saul. They just wanted to get the notes back. He rationalized the cost of the transaction, and decided he was prepared to pay the price—especially since he didn’t have to get his hands dirty.
He tried the number again. No answer.
Chapter 18
Saul whistled as he approached his building. He’d found an excellent bottle of 1995 Bordeaux at his favorite wine shop, and figured he and Stan could try a glass; if it was too closed up they could go have a nice dinner and then return and give it another chance. Such problems to have.
Saul had spent his entire life preparing for an adventure like this. He would go down in Treasury history, no doubt.
He slowly ascended his steps to the ancient front door, sorting through his keys. Once inside, he slammed the door hard—the damn thing didn’t close properly if you didn’t slam it. His landlady had been too lazy to get it fixed for forty years, and he’d long ago reconciled himself with the idea he’d be slamming that door behind him forever.
As he laboriously climbed the stairs, huffing from the exertion of hauling his massive frame up the narrow stairwell, he could hear his phone ringing. Dammit. He picked up the pace, reaching his third floor landing just as the phone went silent.
He unlocked his multiple deadbolts and entered the hallway, taking care to lock the door behind him. The wine needed to be chilled a little, but not too much. He considered the problem and decided placing it by his window-mounted air conditioning unit was the best way to cool it. He delicately balanced it on the window ledge; the phone rang again, startling him and causing him to jolt and knock the bottle off the ledge.
He caught it a few inches before it hit the hardwood floor. Whew. Close one. He replaced the bottle and reached over to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello. Is this Saul Balinsky?”
“The one and the same. Who wants to know?”
“Mr. Balinsky, my name is Gordon Samuels, and I have a bit of a situation I need your assistance on. I have several 1922 $100 Gold Certificates I need authenticated today so I can consummate an agreement to purchase them.” Gordon delivered his pitch; now he’d see how it went.
“The old twenty-two’s, huh? How many do you want me to look at?” Saul knew the market value of those was in the range of five grand apiece, which could make for a nice fee if there were enough of them.
“Ten. But I need them looked at today—the seller’s getting ready to leave town.” Gordon crossed his fingers.
“It’s really kind of late for me to look them over. Can’t we do this tomorrow?” Saul figured he’d need an hour to authenticate ten notes.
“I’m afraid that’s not an option. Look, I can have a courier bring them to you within half an hour. Whatever your normal fee is, I’ll double it. I understand your time is valuable, as is mine, and I’m prepared to compensate you for rearranging your schedule.” Gordon figured a little cash would grease the wheels.
“Well, that’s quite an offer. I’d be hard pressed to turn that down, Mr. Samuels. I’d ordinarily charge eight hundred dollars for that sort of job,
but let’s call it fifteen hundred and I’ll be happy to meet your messenger. Do you need my address?”
“Please,” Gordon answered.
“How did you hear about me, out of curiosity?” Saul asked, making small talk after giving him the address.
Gordon scrambled. What the hell could he say—Myanmar gave me your number? “Oh—the seller indicated you were one of the foremost authorities on this sort of thing. He gave me a list of several reputable people, and you were top of the list.” Gordon hoped that would stick.
“Ha. You can throw that list away, Mr. Samuels. There isn’t anyone more qualified to do the job.” Saul was feeling pretty cocky. It was a big day.
“I hoped that would be the case. Look for my man to be there within half an hour, tops. I trust cash for payment will be acceptable?” Gordon had him hooked, just needed to reel him in.
“My favorite. I’ll look forward to meeting your courier. What’s his name?”
Gordon thought about it. “Ben.”
“Very good. I’ll look forward to seeing Ben when he gets here.”
Gordon hung up, and realized he’d sweated through his shirt even though it was a constant sixty-seven degrees in the office.
He called Myanmar and relayed the information to the minister.
“Ben, is that right? Why Gordon, I think you actually have a sense of humor.”
“Let’s just get the problem solved and move on, shall we?” Gordon was shaken by what he’d just done.
“Of course. I’ll let you know if we require anything else. Thank you for your assistance, as always.” The line went dead.
* * *
Nick was feeling crummy when he called Tess. He’d really overdone it last night, and he was paying the price today. He’d also smoked a bunch of cigarettes at the party—something he only did when he was wasted, and which accentuated the hangover and made it linger, turning it into a full-day affair. Tess picked up on the third ring.
Fatal Exchange Page 14
