About Face

by Adam Gittlin

  “Danish—whatever—jubilee—isn’t that the Fabergé Egg that was in the news around the time everything went down with Gray?”

  “It is.”

  “Does it have anything to do with what happened? Or why he disappeared?”

  “Perhaps that’s a question for Jonah, Detective. Like I said—I’m no terrorist, and I imagine security is tight to get into that building. I simply need a look at that egg.”

  I knew he’d need a concrete reason to feel comfortable sending me—some European he’s never met before—into the U.S. Capitol. What could be better than a direct connection to the one who got away?

  The one he thinks I can lead him to?

  He looks again toward the water.

  “Tell them I’ll be there for the three twenty p.m. tour. That you know it’s short notice, but it will mean the world to you and a nice return favor for someone the next time they’re in New York City. Once you have confirmation, call Jake and let him know.”

  “Why should I take you for your word? If I do this, how do I know you’ll lead me to Gray?”

  “Something tells me that’s a chance you’re willing to take. If I get what I want, I’ll have Jake call you and tell you what time my return train pulls into Penn Station. I’ll take you to Gray from there.”

  As Kok barrels back west on the LIE, dawn moves into full-blown day.

  “Hallo?”

  “Ernst, Ivan.”

  I need that building in Berlin.

  “Mr. Ivan Janse. I had a feeling I might be hearing from you again in short order.”

  “I have a number for you.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. And it’s a nice one. But before I give it to you, I need to know two things.”

  “Which are?”

  “How close you are to finalizing a deal with Vienna Shanks, and that I have your word until we have agreed on terms, we keep this quiet. The first paperwork, should we be able to come to an agreement, will be the Purchase Agreement. Understood?”

  Ernst thinks for a second.

  “I guess there’s no harm in talking, Ivan.”

  “So we are clear?”

  “We are. As far as putting a deal in place—”

  He doesn’t say the name Vienna Shanks, because it’s Gruden they’re making the deal with. Something he doesn’t think I know.

  “We are handling the final language issues in the Purchase Agreement. Now, what number are you thinking?”

  “Three hundred and five euros per square foot.”

  The number is a good one, and I’m sure higher than the figure Gruden & Wayfield has on the table. It’s definitely higher than what I had previously offered, but then I wasn’t coming in to steal the target from under someone’s nose as I am now. As always, I left myself considerable room the first time around. And, as always, I’ve done the same now.

  “That puts the value of the property at three hundred and six million euros,” I go on, “I’m guessing a better number than you are achieving with Vienna Shanks. No?”

  “I can’t comment on the other deal, Ivan, but I will tell you the three hundred and five euros number is a solid offer. Do you have room there if we need to inch up?”

  Bastard.

  But can’t blame him for trying.

  “I don’t.”

  I actually believe I do. Because poor Ernst—and everyone pursuing this property—has overlooked the air rights situation. Something that in my estimation has everyone significantly undervaluing the property.

  “And, not to make it harder on your end, Ernst, but I need to know if we’re the new buyer in no more than twenty-four hours.”

  “Why so fast? For a building you just recently walked away from?”

  Because this is the deal we should have gone with in the first place, had this strictly been about business. Cobus took me in and let me reclaim my life and get back where I needed to be. Now he’s about to make what could be the biggest deal in his and his firm’s lives—his first in a market outside The Netherlands. Like so many deals before, Cobus has put his faith in me. I owe it to him to make this deal. Especially now that I’m about to kill the one for the Freedom Bank Building.

  “I’m not at liberty to say. But what I can say is that if your side accepts, we’re ready to move forward.”

  “Then let me pass this along. I’ll keep it quiet. And I’ll be back to you.”

  I stop talking and turn my attention out the window. We’re still far enough outside the city that the passing landscape is scarce, a random warehouse or big-box-anchored mall here or there. Everything is covered with a couple inches of snow, which has stopped falling. Many of the trees, still lush with foliage yet draped with thick, white powder, look like they might topple over from the weight.

  My mind moves to Scott Green. And the houseboat. And his brain dripping down the wall. And why he didn’t call the cops—he called me.

  Why was he so scared?

  What am I missing?

  It couldn’t just be the conversations I heard. If that was all there was, anyone with even a bit of sense would have gone to the powers that be at their firm and washed their hands of it from there.

  I need to go through it all again. I shift my sight, now I’m looking out the opposite window. What’s the first thing that comes into my mind when I think of this—whether it wakes me during one of my small stretches of sleep or pops into my head out of nowhere like right now?

  The rambling.

  The drunken fucking rambling.

  I start to go though it all again. I close my eyes, take myself back to the houseboat. I can feel the warm interior. I can smell the weed and booze.

  Go there, I tell myself, actually softly saying the words to myself.

  “Go there.”

  I remember the awkwardness of the situation, my surprise at seeing this seemingly conservative man I barely know out-of-his-mind loaded. Once we got past the niceties and his bumbling explanation about his surroundings, we moved into the living room. From there the rambling carried on and only got crazier. There were comments about me being someone he felt he could trust, comments about his upbringing in Maine. He spoke about being a corporate trial attorney. He spoke about being the first in his family to make it to the big city.

  As if thrown inexplicably back in time, I’m sitting there again, listening, staring down the barrel of a gun.

  “That’s why I did it to myself when all the darkness began,” he says, almost in a whisper. “Talking—you know—darkness. But it makes sense. I know how to do it. One was elsewhere, the—covert, but I learned how to do it. I—for proof.”

  The pen.

  I see the conversation again about the silver pen he offered me, without a reason for doing so.

  “I know that you and Mr. de Bont are headed to New York in a few days,” I remember him saying. “Just make sure you, when you’re there, just be sure to pay attention. When it’s time, just—just make sure the pen is straight. You know, straight forward. Straight. Because you’ll think you’re done. But looking closer is—to look closer—”

  I had found the pen’s rightful home, which had led me to the flash drive and the “proof” he was referring to. But what was he talking about making sure it was straight forward? What did that mean?

  “Because you’ll think you’re done,” I watch him say again.

  Was there more in the study?

  Right under my nose?

  CHAPTER 36

  NEW YORK CITY

  2013

  8:02 a.m.

  T-minus less than nine hours before we’re scheduled to head back to Amsterdam.

  As I walk into the hotel to meet Cobus and Arnon for breakfast, I down another shot of Life Fuel. Then I dial my office from my iPhone.

  “Dag; Ivan Janse’s Kantoor.”

  Again—I’ll give it to you in English.

  “Angelique, Ivan.”

  “What’s up, Boss Man?”

  “I need you to call Willem and c
hange our liftoff time to tonight. Eight p.m. New York time.”

  “You got it. What’s the problem?”

  “No problem. Just the usual housekeeping bullshit that sometimes delays a close. You know the drill.”

  “That I do. Been living in your world for a few minutes.”

  “One more thing, Sunshine, tell him we’ll be heading to Moscow before returning to Amsterdam. And that I’ll need a car waiting when we land.”

  Cobus and Arnon are already seated. The place is bustling with high-energy types all ready to take this city by the balls. I sit down.

  “Gents,” I begin, “How we feeling this morning?”

  “Well, Ivan,” says a smiling Cobus, “in fact, better than well. Because this morning we get to go over to GlassWell and sign this deal, then I get to return to my family who I haven’t seen for three days.”

  Cobus turns to Arnon and continues.

  “We were just settling in. So, Arnon, we all set? Any missing estoppel certificates from the tenants or anything to worry about?”

  “I’m happy to report that after a Herculean effort by everyone, all the docs are in order,” Arnon responds, turning to me. “Is the property ready for transition from your side?”

  Fuck.

  So much to do. My head’s spinning. I don’t know if I need sleep or more caffeine.

  “Everything is officially ready for transfer,” I squeeze out, thinking I might choke and vomit on the words. “The software that keeps all the tenant records, the property management records—it’s all ready for transfer into our system.”

  “And the building personnel?” asks Cobus.

  “The concierges, the porters—we’re ready to transfer their employment from GlassWell to de Bont Beleggings USA.”

  De Bont Beleggings USA is the U.S. subsidiary we had set up just for this deal.

  “The security contract, the messenger center contract—it’s all ready to go. But—”

  We all sit in silence for a few seconds.

  “But, what?” asks Cobus.

  Here we go.

  I take a deep breath.

  It’s time.

  “But, we can’t make this deal.”

  Silence.

  It’s like the world—including Cobus and Arnon—freezes for a second. Then they look at each other and back to me.

  “Excuse me?” asks Cobus.

  “We can’t make this deal,” I reiterate. “It’s simply not in the best interest of de Bont Beleggings.”

  Cobus, composed as always, places the coffee mug he’s drinking from on the table. He leans forward.

  “Ivan, what are you talking about? We’re making this deal. Today. In a matter of minutes, you, Arnon, and I will be walking out of this hotel, getting into a waiting car, and traveling just a short way to GlassWell’s headquarters so we can sign the final papers. You know all of this. We are making this deal. In a matter of hours it will be complete. Thanks to you.”

  “Again, Cobus, making this deal is a mistake. It is not in—”

  Cobus, frustrated, cuts me off.

  “Arnon, please, will you excuse us for a few minutes?”

  Arnon, looking more like a frightened child than our chief in-house counsel, scurries off.

  Cobus pauses, collects his thoughts, then speaks.

  “Ivan, you’ve been acting strange since the moment we touched ground here. Yesterday when you said you were late to breakfast because you had been on the phone with Angelique, I know you were lying. I know you spoke to her for thirty seconds tops. I need to know what’s going on. And I need to know right now.”

  Fuck.

  Decision time.

  I never wanted to drag Cobus into any of this. I wanted to kill this deal, land Berlin, and explain it all on the plane home.

  Which I may be able to do yet.

  But not until I have all the answers.

  Tell him everything?

  Tell him nothing?

  Tell him something?

  “Berlin is the better deal.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Cobus, Berlin is the better deal. I’m serious. I wish I had known sooner, but I know now.”

  “There’s more, isn’t there? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Give him something.

  Keep moving forward.

  Damn my heart is racing.

  “Okay, it’s not as simple as just the numbers or anything so elementary. There’s more. I just can’t tell you. Yet.”

  Or ever?

  Because when you’re a ghost, when no one can ever be given a reason to look directly at you for one second longer than necessary, you have to clean shit up on your own.

  My father, who I’ve learned to feel closer to in his death than in his life, taught me well.

  “Anyway the more is not important. What’s important is making the best deal, the right deal for your firm.”

  “Is that so? We have a signed Purchase Agreement, Ivan. We’re in formality mode at this point. The lawsuit that will come our way will be a heavy one. And one that will come at us fast and hard.”

  “There won’t be a lawsuit,” I counter.

  “Oh, is that right? And how can you be so sure?”

  An image of Brand pops into my head.

  Followed by a movie of me with my hand around his neck squeezing so hard his eyes look ready to pop from their sockets.

  “I’m sure, Cobus. You’ll have to trust me on this.”

  Cobus collects himself and leans back in his chair.

  “Okay, Ivan, let’s be clear about exactly where we are, and exactly what is going to happen. There’s been a lot of time and money spent here.”

  “Not nearly as much as we’re talking about should this deal go through,” I cut him off.

  “Let’s assume I’m fine to learn what more means later on. Which I am. You mentioned Berlin is the better deal. I’m assuming you’ve been spending some of your time seeing if that deal is still alive for us.”

  “It is. I can make it happen. I can land it.”

  Cobus, surprising me, stands up. He grabs his chair, slides it around closer to me, and sits back down. He puts his arm around me. He moves in close and quietly speaks into my ear.

  “I trust you, Ivan. I trust that you believed the deal here in Manhattan was the right one—for the right reasons—and now you don’t. I believe we can still land the Berlin target because you’re telling me we can. I trust you, Ivan, because you’ve never given me a reason not to. So tell me—”

  “Tell you what?”

  “This is about much more than just real estate, isn’t it?”

  I can’t hide myself swallowing.

  I can feel perspiration forming under my collar.

  Shit, I’m tired.

  I want more caffeine.

  “Excuse me!” I say to the first waiter who passes us. “May I have an iced coffee?”

  My eyes meet Cobus’s again. He’s waiting for an answer.

  I don’t give him one.

  With the quickness and subtle grace, precision, of a panther, Cobus surprises me and grabs my wrist so hard it feels like he can break it if he wants to.

  “Everyone has secrets, Ivan. Everyone. But you’d better look me in the eye and promise you have not put yourself or me—my family, my firm—any of us in harm’s way. Can you do that?”

  I’m Cobus de Bont’s right-hand man.

  I’m a warrior on a silent mission. A warrior with unfinished business.

  I’m loyal.

  To many.

  To whom?

  Careful, Cobus.

  “Of course,” I respond.

  Wearing an aura I’ve not seen him in before, he eases up. In posture, in expression, he eases up.

  “I need a few more hours,” I continue. “This deal is wrong. Berlin is right. But I want to finish the job of undercutting Gruden and getting a signed Term Sheet in place before we notify GlassWell we’ll be walking away. I would hate to lose focus and lose both deals. Bu
t you need to let me handle this my way. All I need is a few more hours. I need until this evening.”

  Cobus, surveying me in a way he never has before, stands up, moves his chair to its original spot, and sits back down.

  “Once we’re on that plane tonight, and we’re headed out of New York, I’ll tell you exactly what happened, why GlassWell is not the firm we thought they were. But to do so now would simply be wasting time.”

  “Call the office,” Cobus says. “Tell them we need to push back liftoff until this evening.”

  Check.

  CHAPTER 37

  NEW YORK CITY

  2013

  Back in Murray Hill, I ring the doorbell of Scott Green’s townhouse. Nothing. Just as I’m about to ring again or knock, or both, the door opens. It’s Anne Green.

  “Good morning, Anne. May I come in?”

  “Of course. I was wondering when I was going to hear from you again.”

  I step inside and she closes the door behind me.

  “Did you ever hear of a man named Enzo Alessi?” I ask her.

  “Of course. The restaurateur family. I know they just signed a new lease in one of the GlassWell properties. The building that is in the process of being sold.”

  “That’s right. Ryan Brand, who heads up acquisitions for GlassWell, is the one who put that deal together. The flash drive I took from your husband’s office upstairs? It contained recordings of conversations between Ryan Brand and Enzo Alessi. Conversations that revealed the two were working together for all the wrong reasons.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The details of those dealings are not what’s important. I have a feeling your husband taped these conversations by tapping Brand’s phone because he was being threatened. Because he knew what they were up to and was not going to allow the deal to happen. Because he was a good man. And they are both pieces of shit.”

  “How do—why?”

  “Anne, can I have another look at Scott’s study?”

  We step into the office upstairs, which is exactly as I left it. The people coming by to sit shivah have all since gone. The home and office, while comfortably warm temperature-wise, feels cold, lonely. Like the walls and everything in between them feel as cheated as Scott’s grieving widow. Life can be heard going on, though faintly, past the study windows. In here, death is what hangs in the air.