Killer, Come Hither

by Louis Begley

  Then why did you tell Hobson that you didn’t want my uncle to do your work anymore?

  It’s none of your business, but I don’t mind telling you. Your uncle was a fine lawyer so long as he stuck to lawyering. His problem was he got too big for his britches. He was telling me what to do, instead of doing what I told him to do and what I paid him for. And I paid a lot. So I told him to keep his fucking nose out of things that he wasn’t hired to take care of and it turned out that he couldn’t understand that simple instruction. Instead, he had the balls to come here in my plane and give me a lecture on my behavior! Said he’d take measures—that’s the expression he dared to use—if I didn’t do this and that and that! He was fucking going to blackmail me! Let me tell you, young man, nobody does that. That’s when I told him to get out of my office and turn over all the work he was doing for me to Will Hobson and whoever in his firm Hobson designated.

  I see, I replied. And for good measure you had Harry killed.

  Brown rose. There was on his desk one of the Italian Renaissance bronzes Kerry had admired, a Hermes standing on one foot, his other foot, also shod in a winged sandal, raised in the classical pose. The messenger god on his way, to do Zeus’s or Hera’s bidding. Brown seized him by the foot he had set on the ground and advanced toward me.

  Easy, I said, put that nice statuette down. I’ll break your arm if you come near me.

  Brown retreated a few steps but held on to the bronze, determined, I supposed, not to lose face. But that is exactly what I wanted him to lose, so I said, I’m going to count to three. Either you put Hermes down or I’ll take him from you. And don’t even think of pressing any buttons. I’ll kill you with my two hands before any of your goons get through the door. One, I counted, two…

  He put the bronze back on the desk.

  Good, I said, I note that you haven’t denied that you had Harry murdered.

  Of course I deny it, he answered slowly, you’re raving.

  No, I’m not, I told him, I’ve got a couple of things for you to look at that will change your tune. First, here is a copy of the letter Harry wrote and left in an envelope addressed to me on the desk in the room where he was found hanging. Read it. You knew Harry very well. You tell me whether this was a suicide note he wrote voluntarily or one that he was forced to write.

  I put the sheet on the desk before him. He picked it up and I could see by the movement of his eyes actually read it.

  So what the fuck? he replied. It reads like a letter written by a fucking queer. I always thought he was one. How am I supposed to know what kind of suicide letter he’d write?

  I’ve been told you’re very smart and I thought you’d use your imagination and your judgment. But never mind. I’ve got something for you that’s more direct and easier to understand. I see you’ve got quite a sound system here.

  I motioned toward the Bang & Olufsen stereo components installed on the bookshelves.

  Here is a CD, I continued and handed it to him, of the murder scene, the scene during which Harry was forced to hang himself. It was recorded on Harry’s iPhone, which the murderer you sent failed to notice. Go ahead, put it on. You’ll find it’s good listening. Instructive.

  As though in a trance, Brown inserted the disk into the player, pushed the right buttons. The Voice filled the room.

  Brown had listened standing up, leaning against the bookshelf. He shook his head afterward, walked briskly toward his desk, and sat down.

  What do you want? he said. This recording doesn’t prove I sent this guy. You have no proof. Why don’t you get into your Hertz car, drive to the airport like a good boy, take the plane back to New York, and hope that nothing unpleasant happens to you? Got it?

  I laughed. He had genuinely amused me.

  It’s in your interest to make sure that nothing untoward happens to me. If it did, the original of this recording, right on Harry’s iPhone, and the original of the letter, and more information besides, would be placed in the hands of prosecutors. There is nothing you or I could do to stop it. You see, whether or not I have proof, I’m convinced that this Croat or Serbian thug was sent by you, and I’m also convinced that you arranged the murder of Harry’s secretary, Barbara Diamond. There is no end to the evil in you, Brown.

  Cut the fucking bullshit, Dana, he replied.

  I was glad to see that a little color showed on his face.

  It’s not bullshit, I said, it’s the truth and it has consequences. You see, Harry left behind something even more interesting than his letter. He left a detailed map of your crimes—your crimes and the crimes of your businesses. It’s the crimes he stuck his nose into, right? It’s because he figured out exactly what you were up to that you wanted him out of your affairs, it’s because of the discovery of your companies’ pervasive and systemic corruption and illegality that you had him and Barbara killed. Isn’t that exactly right?

  This is bullshit too, he replied, and you’re taking way too much of my time. Once again, what do you want?

  I want you to send this guy to me. Send him to kill me, because I’m going to kill him instead, and that is what I want. I want to kill him. I want to watch him die. And you better be quick. There are only so many days before I release the stuff I have to the government.

  It was Brown’s turn to laugh. And laugh he did—hysterically. You want me to admit to you that I had anything to do with your uncle’s death? You want me to concede that I know the meathead on the recording, and you want me to send Slobo to you?…Dana, I’m not an idiot, and apparently you’re a hell of a lot dumber than you look. If I were you, I’d be damn careful from now on. And the same goes for whatever other motherfuckers you’ve roped into your crazy little plot against me. You may be a war hero, but you’re in way over your head on this one and you’ve left me with only one option.

  XII

  He’d said his name! He’d actually said it! He knows that the Voice is called Slobo.

  So it was war now, a condition with which I am thoroughly familiar. And I’ll confess that it’s one with which I am thoroughly comfortable. If you’re going to kill your enemy and survive, you need training, meticulous attention to detail, and luck. The training I’d received in the Corps is the best in the world, and I know how to keep my eye on the ball. I’d been lucky during successive dangerous deployments, the kind of wounds I’d received being par for the course. Would my luck hold? I figured I was about to find out.

  My Hertz Lexus was in the Brown parking lot. I approached it carefully, dropped down to one knee, and inspected the undercarriage. Nothing out of the ordinary there. I’d pasted a strip of Scotch tape across the right-hand corner of the trunk cover before heading for the Brown Tower. It hadn’t been disturbed. No one had monkeyed with the trunk. The Lexus was equipped with new technology that allows you to unlock the car’s doors and start the motor from as far away as twenty or twenty-five feet. I looked around. There was no one nearby I’d be putting in danger. I took the electronic key out of my pocket, pressed the open and ignition buttons, and took cover behind an SUV. Just in case. I guess Brown wasn’t in that much of a hurry or he didn’t want to have to explain a murder in his parking lot. There was no explosion. I drove to the airport, got rid of the car, and took the shuttle bus to the AA terminal. There was a flight for Washington, D.C., leaving a few minutes before the scheduled departure of my JFK flight. I had plenty of time. I switched my reservation, got a new boarding pass, and, not being sure whether Brown, who surely knew my cell-phone number, could tap into it, found a pay phone. First I called Scott, told him I was coming to D.C., and asked whether I could see him and spend the night at his house. The answer to both questions was yes. Next I called Kerry, on her BlackBerry as she had recommended. She was in a meeting and, when I asked whether I could call back, said she’d be free in fifteen minutes. I took advantage of that time to call Martin, the bodyguard.

  I had the meeting with the employer, I told him, and I delivered the message almost exactly as I said I would. He heard
me out and said, in slightly different words, you’re dead, and so is everyone else you’ve gotten involved in this bullshit.

  Martin gave a long whistle. Were you wired when you talked? he asked.

  I didn’t even try, I told him, I knew his security wouldn’t let me get away with it.

  Right, he interjected, that was a stupid question but I sure wish you had been.

  Anyway, I continued, we both know this is bad news for Kerry. You should consider yourself on high alert.

  Right, said Martin again, and I’ll put my partner Lee on high alert too. It would be a great help if the young lady accepted our presence and cooperated. If you can get her to do that, she should call me on my cell phone. I’ll take it from there and make the necessary arrangements.

  Exactly what I think, I told him. I’ll be speaking to her in a few minutes.

  Kerry was in her office when I got her, waiting for my call. I told her I was going through D.C. to see Scott and wouldn’t get to the city until tomorrow and gave her the highlights of the conversation with Brown.

  He’s really something, she said. What a slip of the tongue!

  Or maybe he doesn’t give a shit, I replied. Anyway, he’s vicious and dangerous. I owe you an apology: when you said you didn’t want a bodyguard, I pretended to let the subject drop. In reality there is this guy—a very capable and civilized former FBI man—who has been shadowing you. I take Brown’s threat very seriously, and I really want you to cooperate with this guy—his name is Martin Sweeney—and his partner, Lee. Please call Martin and work things out with him so that you are as safe as possible with the least interference in your daily routine and so forth. This is an absolute necessity. They thought nothing of killing Barbara, and they’ll think nothing of murdering you.

  She protested but only feebly, and we made a dinner and sleepover date for the evening of my return. At her house.

  —

  What can I do to help? asked Scott, in addition to giving this guy’s name to my boys, which I’m doing right now.

  He was busy tapping on his cell phone.

  Send a drone! I replied and held out my glass for a refill of bourbon.

  You talk as though this were some kind of big joke, he complained, but I’m dead serious. A Predator is just what is called for, but we don’t use them stateside.

  The time will come, I laughed, all too soon…. Quite seriously, I have been giving thought to how they’ll go about getting rid of me. Somehow I don’t believe that they’ll go for a straightforward assassination. It would provoke the most energetic police reaction. And I don’t think they’ll try to have me commit suicide. It would be hard to get people to believe it runs in the family. So I think it’s most likely that this guy will be told to make whatever happens to me look like an accident. I don’t see how they’d stage it at my place on Fifth Avenue or even at Kerry’s, where I’m happy to report I’m spending tomorrow night.

  Is Martin on the job? Scott interrupted.

  Yes, I said, and she’s playing along—at least for now. So, to go back to the accident, an obvious choice is to have me hit by a car or a motorbike running a red light or jumping on the sidewalk. That sort of thing happens all the time, and in many cases the hit-and-run driver manages to disappear even if it’s a real accident. Right or wrong, that doesn’t worry me. The subway is something else, but I hardly ever take the subway and won’t do so until this is over. Of course, the range of possibilities increases exponentially if they plain want to kill me. You have the possibility of a gangland-style shooting by someone walking behind me in the street or from a parked car or when I’m running in the park. The guy could also use a knife. I’ll be careful.

  Scott nodded.

  Pursuing the idea of an accident, I tend to think that a sadistic bastard like Slobo wouldn’t mind returning to the scene of an earlier triumph. In that case, wouldn’t he want to do the deed in the Sag Harbor house, and wouldn’t he want to do it in a way that will give him time to play with me? That takes me to the question of timing. Logically, Brown should want to have me killed tonight or tomorrow, the sooner the better, to minimize the chances that I’ll go public with whatever it is I have. But it’s got to be done right. If you accept my Sag Harbor hypothesis, since I’m not going out there this weekend, but am going the weekend after, I think that is when Slobo and I have a date.

  You aren’t taking Kerry, are you?

  I shook my head.

  Then let me come with you. This doesn’t have to be some sort of duel.

  I’d love to have you, I said, but he’d realize you’re there and decide it’s no longer a solo job, particularly if it’s supposed to be an accident. You’d spook him. There is another thing. To tell you the truth, I want to do it alone.

  Scott’s pager, or whatever device it was, beeped and he went into the kitchen.

  That was the office, he said. Hot off the press. It may just be that we know your Slobo. The first name, Slobo, is the usual nickname for Slobodan. The profile, to the extent that we can extrapolate, points to one Slobodan Milić. Born in 1975, Bosniak Serb, fought in one of Karadžić’s units, a gangster and killer on Interpol’s wanted list. How he slipped in on a tourist visa in 2008 is for the moment a mystery—one I’ll try to elucidate. Another example of the State Department’s and Homeland Security’s prowess. Of course, there is no record of his leaving, which in itself means nothing, or of his whereabouts. But all this will be looked into right away. We do have his fingerprints, but in Sag Harbor the son of a bitch must have worn gloves and was goddamn careful. As you know there was nothing in the house, nothing on the rope, nothing on your uncle’s clothes, nothing on the shears that cut the poor cat’s whiskers. And we do have his mug shot, which will be coming here over the wire. That I think is helpful. As soon as I have it I’ll email it to Martin. Is he working with Lee?

  I nodded.

  That’s another good man. I think knowing what the guy looks like makes their job easier provided that they don’t start assuming—and you shouldn’t start assuming either—that Brown will necessarily use Slobo. Don’t forget that Slobo made a big mistake by not checking thoroughly for any sort of recording device. He may be in big trouble.

  I nodded again.

  We also have his weight, one hundred ninety pounds, and height, six foot one. Shorter than you but more solid. And don’t forget that anyone who fought with Karadžić has had a lot of on-the-job training. Not like yours, but still nothing to take lightly.

  Thanks, I said. I wonder whether Slobo’s and my paths haven’t crossed already. We can talk about that over dinner—if dinner is on the program.

  It is, said Scott, and now let’s get to the core of the problem. You’re my best friend, probably my only real friend. So I’m not going to pull an agency stunt on you and grab whatever that paper is that we put in the safe. I could, and perhaps I even have a duty to do it, because if I read you right it’s a fucking guide to Brown’s illegal businesses. I’ve been looking at his activities, and if what you’ve told me about your uncle is accurate, and if my hunch is right, those activities probably affect the security of the U.S. Why should you then delay turning the document over and delay our getting on his tail? And why should you, along the way, expose yourself to mortal danger when you have everything to live for? Kerry. Your new book. You can make your own list.

  I remained silent for a while before answering. These are the reasons, I said finally. First, I want to kill that bastard. You know that, and you and I know chances are that he’ll get away while you’re cranking up your apparatus. Not because you want to be slow, but because bureaucracies are slow. Second, even if the feds or whoever catch Slobo, he’ll get off with a prison term. That isn’t acceptable to me. Third, there is the problem of Brown’s influence. You’ve mentioned the senators and God knows who else he has in his pocket. Suppose he derails the pursuit? What then? That’s why I want to go first. If a couple of weeks pass and nothing happens, you can have Harry’s document, or you and Kerry
can have it, and you can do whatever is most efficient in the circumstances. And you’ll have the document if I get killed. All right?

  It was Scott’s turn to mull things over before speaking.

  Another drink before we think of dinner? he asked.

  Sure, I said. Then we do have a deal?

  He nodded.

  When he came back with the drinks I said, I don’t want you to believe that I think you’re Q and I’m 007, but there are a couple of items of equipment I could use.

  Speak, Captain!

  I wonder whether you guys could come up with a pistol or revolver that would explode when fired. A small explosion. Enough to rip the shooter’s hand off, but not so strong as to do much more damage to him or to someone standing a few feet away. The second item is a blowgun or an air pistol and darts that would paralyze someone Slobo’s size, that would work if they passed through a couple of layers of clothing, and would, if possible, leave him able to speak. Being able to speak isn’t important if the paralysis is of relatively short duration. But whatever agent the dart is spiked with would have to work pretty fast, in seconds.

  I’m pretty sure I can provide the handgun, said Scott. It so happens that I know we have such a gadget. The tranquilizing dart is a problem. It’s difficult to use. I’ll have to look into how we can meet your specifications, Captain. Since you’re staying in the city this weekend, I’ll drop in on you and Kerry and bring whatever goodies I can find.

  Before going out to dinner, Scott checked his computer. The photo came up on the screen. A full pale face with a surprisingly thin nose, on the left cheek a scar from what was likely a deep knife cut that wasn’t sewn up promptly, small blue eyes, brown hair combed back in a style that was familiar to me from travel in Greece and Turkey.

  Fairly distinctive, I said, hardly a face you’d forget if you looked at it hard.

  We went to the same restaurant as on my previous visit. Over soft-shell crabs and peas I told Scott about Bozo-on-the-Beach, and said the guy’s size and heft made me think he was Slobo. That nose, the scar, I continued, no wonder he wears a ski mask when he doesn’t want to be remembered by his public.