The Deal

by Adam Gittlin

  “Why someone wanted you to see it there,” I repeated.

  Grasso continued on but I no longer heard him. All I heard was the sound of my own voice in my thoughts. Timing, working for or against me, had until this point seemed to be the key to the entire, still unidentifiable, game. Only now, because of Dick Grasso’s words, I had the timing of something else to look at, something that hadn’t until this moment popped.

  It was natural by this point to think the three weeks Andreu had given me to complete our deal was a concern. Now, it occurred to me that perhaps the timing of the deal, meaning the actual buildings changing ownership, wasn’t what begged to be examined.

  Perhaps, as Mr. Chairman had suggested, it was the timing — more important, the placement — of the money.

  I looked down at Neo, the phones. Neither stirred. Mattheau passed through my mind again as did someone I hadn’t seen in a long time. Someone unexpected. Someone I had once trusted who disappointed me. Someone, it chillingly occurred to me, I had no choice but to find.

  I picked up the cell. With a quick touch I entered my address book and hit “S.”

  Stern, Ryan.

  I hit “send.” Within seconds I heard his familiar voice.

  “Ryan Stern.”

  Ryan Stern. Executive vice president of institutional services at Salton Lynear Bank, the firm housing the Prevkos’ deal funds.

  “Ryan, it’s Jonah.”

  Ryan knew me well. He was just surprised most likely because he never thought he’d be on the receiving end of a call from me again.

  “Jonah. Wow! I, I’m—”

  Maybe everything does happen for a reason, I thought.

  “Where are you right now?” I asked.

  I paced on the corner of Broadway and Eighty-third Street. I had stripped myself of the tie, but in an attempt to keep myself together I checked and straightened the collars on both my suit jacket and shirt. The breeze was stronger than usual. A whispery, baby tornado swirled a wrapper in the middle of the street. About a quarter to ten Ryan emerged from the restaurant. He located me and we walked toward one another.

  “Jonah.”

  He put his hand out. I reluctantly shook it.

  “Been a long time, Ryan.”

  “You’re telling me. Must be two, maybe three—”

  “Two years, seven months, sixteen days since they decided not to charge me.”

  He briefly looked away as he inhaled my comment before turning back.

  “You know I never meant for any of that to happen, Jonah. I was told—”

  I cut him off. “That the cash was in the account, which meant the termination agreement had gone into effect. I know. Only it wasn’t. Because of you I told Murray—”

  Murray-Reed Financial Partners, one of the largest hedge fund groups in the world and my former client.

  “— to sign their leases and wire a sixteen point seven million dollar deposit for space that wasn’t even theirs to an account I had access to.”

  “The story never changed. When I called Ian—”

  “I didn’t count on Ian for information, Ryan. I counted on you. Because I did there’s an angry Special Agent Simon who’ll be waiting for his chance to pounce on me until the day I die. Your fuck-up had me in so deep I actually slept on the floor of my closet to see if I could handle a jail cell.”

  “Jonah, now—”

  “Just because I didn’t take you down doesn’t mean I couldn’t have, Ryan. I covered for you huge. We both know it.”

  “I never asked you to.”

  “By not coming forward, I’d say that’s debatable. Anyway, I did. I hope you don’t make me regret it.”

  Ryan, looking back toward the restaurant, jammed his hands deep into his pockets.

  “Jonah, what is it that you want?”

  Twenty minutes later Ryan and I approached the world headquarters of Salton Lynear Bank, a chiseled, imposing monstrosity on Park Avenue that soars into the sky. Built in 1972, primarily with concrete and steel, the property is finished with a black glass shell that plays with whatever city light it can pick up, even in the night. I looked up at the square, three-tier wedding cake. I can still remember, past the black building, being able to see the thin black clouds moving through the black evening sky.

  “You want to wait out here?”

  You’d be surprised how lively a building like this could be on a Saturday night, the result of having thousands of employees. I could hear it in his voice. He didn’t want me coming through security. Unfortunately for him, we had already been on high-resolution digital camera for at least a hundred feet. Anyway it didn’t matter. I wasn’t letting him out of my sight until I had or didn’t have what I needed.

  “Why don’t you just give me the name you want me to look up?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Two weeks earlier Salton had completed the six-month process of relocating their corporate headquarters.

  “And not get a chance to check out the new offices?”

  I followed Ryan down a bright, crisp, new-smelling hallway.

  “So?”

  “Zhamovsky,” I answered as I vacantly browsed the craftsmanship.

  “What?”

  I snapped back to Ryan.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said ‘so’? What do you think about how the offices turned out?”

  Gratuitously I scanned the place one more time as we walked. Light gray, sterile, wireless, beaming.

  “Offices.”

  “What was that you just said? Za-what?”

  “Zhamovsky. The name our search starts with.”

  Ryan flipped the switch to his corner office. It was at this moment I couldn’t ignore, even for one second, how tight the place had turned out.

  “Damn.”

  Mahogany in all the right places. Top of the line light fixtures. Plasma-screen video conference center. Two soft, leather couches around the glass coffee table that matched his desk that so nicely displayed the framed pictures of his family.

  “Core Architecture and Design.”

  The firm who designed and built the space.

  “I knew I should have been giving them more business.”

  Ryan had nothing with him so he went straight for the chair behind his desk. He reached under and booted his computer.

  “It needs a second.”

  Awkward silence.

  “What’s going on, Jonah? You in trouble?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Not your concern.”

  “Maybe if—”

  The machine beeped; I charged around the desk just as the company’s internal home page appeared on the monitor.

  “Do you really need to stand over me like this?”

  “Don’t for one fucking second think I trust you, Ryan. I don’t. This goes my way. The quicker you satisfy me, the quicker you go back to your wife and try to justify whatever bullshit excuse you gave her why you were leaving the restaurant. You with me?”

  The log-in page was waiting for his username and password.

  “Log in.”

  He did. Off we went.

  “Who is it you want information on?”

  “Andreu Zhamovsky.”

  I spelled it. He started typing.

  “He’s a big corporate player out of Moscow, and we’re involved in a deal. We both have access to the same commercial escrow account so I know he’s in your system. What I don’t know is if he has any other accounts here. Personal or professional.”

  A little more typing, a couple of clicks of the mouse, and there was his name surrounded by all types of number sets and corporate financial jargon.

  “There! Zhamovsky!” I barked.

  “Yeah, but—” he continued to examine the screen, “he’s only associated with one account here. The one you were talking about.”

  “You sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

&nb
sp; “Fuck!”

  Having been hunched over trying to get a good look at the screen I straightened myself up and kick-started my brain. I thought back to when everything began.

  “Last week, Monday,” I thought out loud, “check the date and go back to last Monday. Maybe Sunday and Tuesday also. Let’s take a look at all the Russian-based accounts, personal and business, opened those days.”

  Ryan said nothing. He didn’t type. He just slowly turned around.

  “Are you kidding me? Jonah, we’re one of the largest fucking banks in the world.”

  I turned and faced the window. The building directly across Park Avenue looked like a checkerboard from scattered office lights. I closed my eyes, squeezed them shut in hopes, ironically, of seeing.

  Fuck.

  Think.

  React.

  “Tuesday!”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Last Tuesday. It was the day after I told him which bank I’d be—”

  I opened my eyes and turned back around.

  “We need to look at last Tuesday. We need to go through all Russian accounts opened that day.”

  “Jonah, I just told you—”

  “My way, Ryan. Remember that. I can’t leave until I’m satisfied, which means I’m prepared to sit here until the office starts filling up Monday morning if I have to.”

  Again Ryan typed. Because we were talking about Russian-based accounts being opened on one specific day at one specific institution in the U.S., the search wasn’t too bad and took little over an hour with only one problem. No sign of Andreu.

  Ryan took his hands from the keyboard.

  “Look, maybe if you just go home and think—”

  “I’m not satisfied yet, Ryan,” I said as I moved out from behind the desk, “which means neither of us is going anywhere.”

  I turned my back and moved toward the couches at the far end of the office.

  “Jonah, just listen to me.”

  I was trying to think.

  “Just be quiet. I need a second.”

  “Jonah—”

  I heard Ryan lift out of his seat. That’s when the coke flowing through me, along with the roaring paranoia, took hold. I swung around, pistol extended.

  “Holy fuck,” Ryan sputtered, sheepishly raising his arms at the elbows.

  I was as surprised as he was.

  “Just sit down, Ryan. I’m serious.”

  I looked at the gun. Then I dropped my arm.

  “Just sit back down.”

  He did. I put away the piece and took a seat on one of the couches where I could see him. We both sat in silence for a few seconds, Ryan staring at the computer, me staring at Ryan.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” he squeezed out.

  He raised his chin, looked my way.

  “Jonah—”

  “Ryan, I’m sorry,” I cut him off, putting my hand up. “I am. Just—”

  Boom.

  Thunder and lightning cracked my skull all at once.

  I stood up.

  “American accounts.”

  After all, the money was coming here. The venue for my thoughts, difficult as they were, quickly became standing room only. First there was my father. I could see him implicating Archmont at The Four Seasons as clearly as I could see the Russian stock certificates. Then there was the timing of my showing up to Archmont’s wedding. He knew I was coming. Had he set me up? Had Angie? She had entered the beach house and made full eye contact with me almost on cue just as I was about to leave. She then immediately took a cell phone call. There was also, of course, Andreu, who had—

  Fuck!

  “We need to go through all American accounts opened that same day, both personal and corporate.”

  I started again for the desk. Ryan instinctively cowered back in his chair which, although I couldn’t tell him, made me feel terrible.

  “Don’t worry, Ryan. I mean it. I have no intention of hurting you. I just—”

  I have no intention of hurting you I repeated in my head, shocked by such thug-like verbiage. What had I become?

  “Just American accounts. Please. From that same day.”

  Four hours later, done with the corporate accounts and well into the personal ones, the screen was starting to make my corneas sting. I was sitting in my own chair next to Ryan’s as I grappled with the thought of calling it a night and sucking up the fact my instincts had been wrong. Only just as I got ready to put the miscue behind me, something clicked. A name that seemed familiar, seemed to mean something, appeared on the monitor.

  “Stop.”

  I sat up in my chair and leaned forward.

  Pavel Derbyshev.

  “Derbyshev,” I said out loud. “Derbyshev. Why do I know that name?”

  The fact it was a Russian name on a personal American account opened on the day in question was interesting in its own right. It felt like something more. It felt like I had just literally seen or heard that exact name.

  I shot out of my chair sending it straight into the wall. Pavel Derbyshev, same last name as Piotr Derbyshev who, according to the history, was one of Henrik Wigstrom’s most trusted hands at the House of Fabergé. One of two craftsmen believed responsible for creating the eight eggs that would one day go missing.

  Chapter 35

  After returning home somewhere around four and crashing in the living room, the landline rang at 8:02 a.m. My eyes sprung open only to close again about halfway. The sun’s fury was beaming, splintered, as it came knifing into the living room. My shirt was sticking to me. I was warm. To my left, Neo was still asleep, his white fur shining from the glare as his chest moved rhythmically.

  I looked at the caller ID. The call was coming from my father’s townhouse. Moving as fast as I could I answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Jonah, it’s Mattheau.”

  I sensed trouble in his voice.

  “What is it, Mattheau? What’s wrong?”

  He paused, so I continued with caution. I was concerned about speaking on the phone.

  “Was the...how was...is...”

  “All is well,” Mattheau said, taking my cue.

  I should have been relieved, but I felt there was more. Was something going on between my father and Mattheau? Had I been wrong to trust him?

  “You need to come to your father’s, Jonah,” he said. “Now.”

  I didn’t answer him.

  “Now Jonah. I promise. It’s all right to come here.”

  “What’s the...when was...”

  “Jonah. Come now!”

  Mattheau spoke with honest urgency. I grabbed the gun and cell phone on my way out.

  The Upper East Side is quiet early on a Saturday morning, especially in the summer. The rear windows of the cab were down and the city whooshed by. I tried desperately to figure out what could possibly be happening. I couldn’t.

  As we pulled around the final corner I was surprised, frightened by the fact that there was apparent commotion going on in front of the home. When the cab stopped I handed the driver a twenty for a five-dollar fare telling him to keep the change. I looked out the window again once more before opening the door. Faces were looking back. If I had taken off at this point it would have been suspicious. I forced myself out of the car.

  I had not anticipated the scene ahead. There were cops wearing the familiar blue uniforms, and others in street clothes with their shields in full view. Detectives, I presumed. I thought, did Mattheau fuck me and go to the cops? I started looking for him, the bags of money, Pangaea-Man’s remains, anything related to the crime.

  A plainclothes detective was calmly walking toward me at the moment I noticed the police line by the front door. Mattheau saw him coming toward me and started my way as well.

  “Can I help you?” the cop asked.

  He was calm, matter of fact. No colleagues following him. No gun drawn. He genuinely had no idea who I was. There
I stood—murderer, conspirator, thief, illegal gun carrier, illicit drug user—and this fucking cop was clueless. So clueless, in fact, that he had just asked me if I needed his help.

  “I live here,” I started. “I mean, I used to. It’s my father’s house.”

  Mattheau reached us. I addressed both of them.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Jonah,” Mattheau said, turning his attention to the front door area and back again. “I couldn’t tell you over the phone.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Like a slap across the face, I then realized the only reason in the world Mattheau would have brought me back to the house that morning was my father. Either Pop knew what was going on or something had happened to him. I looked again toward the front of the house. Before my eyes, the yellow of the police line became brighter than the rest of the scene, like it was doing all that it could to become fluorescent. Like it was doing all that it could to tell me something. I found myself drawn toward it.

  “No,” I said, quietly.

  I slowly started in the direction of the front door.

  “No,” I said again.

  “Jonah, I don’t think you—” started Mattheau.

  The cop put his hand on my shoulder. I swatted it away and darted toward the police line.

  “A little help,” the cop yelled to the others.

  Everyone’s attention was pulled toward me as I headed in their direction. They were all staring at me though I barely noticed any of them. I just felt them, their concern, their desire to protect me, as I made my way. At one point I almost lost my balance, but I kept going without hesitation, never even dropping my chin. The feeling of disaster in front of the townhouse, all of which I felt was being funneled toward me, was beyond palpable. It was downright telling.

  As I approached the landing I saw a white sheet draped over a lifeless body. Blood had seeped through the thin fabric toward one of the edges. A few feet before the yellow tape, arms began to grab for me, brace me, from all angles.

  “Pop!” I yelled as my momentum was halted. “Pop—”

  I continued my thought silently. What the fuck did you do?

  I only wanted to peel back the sheet and have one quick look underneath. It was all of the hope I had left of seeing that it wasn’t what I thought; that I would get to see my father again. These cops, these arms, they were all trying to restrain me. I started to fight.