Invisible

by Andrew Grant

  “We have a problem.” Nataliya couldn’t stand still. “The girl we just sold back to her husband? Yuliya? She had a kid.”

  Mariya sat up in bed. “Are you sure?”

  “I heard the husband say so. He said their little girl’s birthday is this week.”

  “The bastard. Madatov promised. He said he wouldn’t take another girl with a kid. He swore he wouldn’t. What are we going to do?”

  Nataliya stopped dead in the center of the room. “You know what we have to do. It’s what we should have done a long time ago.”

  VIII

  ONE YEAR AGO

  George Carrick looked good in his Brioni tuxedo—the same kind that James Bond wore. He knew he did. And so he should. He’d spent a small fortune having it altered to fit him properly. A second small fortune, when you consider how much the thing cost to start off with. And he’d spent an hour in front of the mirror before leaving his apartment to make sure every last detail was right. He’d tried on four different bow ties before making his final choice. Real ones, not the ready-tied kind, and fixing the knot neatly with fingers as wide and stubby as his was no easy feat. He’d switched back and forth between alternative cummerbunds a dozen times before abandoning them both in favor of a vest, figuring that avoiding horizontal stripes was a smarter move for a guy with a figure like his.

  A martini, shaken not stirred? Or a glass of vintage Bollinger? That was the question in Carrick’s mind as he approached the unmarked door to The Aviary’s private dining room. Or maybe he should start with one of their legendary signature cocktails? He’d need an appropriate drink in his hand, given that he was finally about to look down on the city that for so long had looked down on him. He was still mulling over his beverage options when he reached for the door handle and a guy suddenly appeared from a concealed alcove. He was tall. Broad. His expression was so vacant he could have been a zombie, if he hadn’t moved so fast. And he barely fitted into his tux, but not for the same reason that Carrick’s tailor had struggled with.

  The guy said nothing. He just stood there, blocking the door.

  “I’m George Carrick.” He said it as though it was obvious.

  The guy didn’t respond.

  “I’m here for the party tonight.”

  Carrick wondered why the guy remained like a statue, then the penny dropped. He may have gone up in the social stratosphere, but he was still physically in New York. He reached for his wallet and took out a hundred-dollar bill. The guy didn’t make the slightest move to take it.

  A subdued ping behind Carrick’s back announced the arrival of the elevator. Its door slid open and two guys stepped out. Carrick recognized them. They were investors in the project he was there to celebrate. From the Middle East. They were princes, Carrick had heard, but they never wore crowns. Just regular suits. Not even very nice ones, in Carrick’s opinion.

  The princely investors approached but showed no sign of knowing Carrick. In some unnaturally fluid move the big guy swept him aside and opened the door to let the Arabs go inside. Carrick stepped forward to follow them and found his path implacably blocked again.

  “I’m with them, numb-nuts!” Carrick’s voice came out louder than he’d intended it to. “I need to get inside. Will you move out of my way?”

  “I can’t do that, sir.” The guy could have been a robot for all the empathy he was displaying.

  “Why not?” Carrick was struggling to bring his voice back under control.

  “You’re not on the list.”

  “There’s a list? What list?”

  “It would be best if you step back now, sir.”

  The elevator door opened again and a man emerged. He was on his own, wearing a striking peacock blue suit. It could only be Rigel Walcott. The guy who’d contacted Carrick and brought him into the project in the first place.

  “Rigel.” Carrick stretched out his hand. “Thank goodness you’re here. Will you please tell this jackass to move so I can join you inside?”

  “George.” A flash of recognition crossed Walcott’s face, mixed with a moment of surprise. Then he took Carrick’s hand and gave it a cursory shake. “How nice to see you. Let’s sit for a minute. Over here.” He took Carrick’s elbow and guided him across to a curved bench covered in burgundy velvet in an alcove to the side of the bar’s regular entrance.

  “What’s the story here, Rigel?” Carrick hissed.

  “Well, you know how it is.” Walcott shrugged. “It’s a small room. There are important people. You have to get the right balance.”

  “The right balance? What, do you think the building’s going to tip over?”

  “Well, no.”

  “No. You just mean, not me.”

  “It’s not my decision, obviously, George. I’d have invited you, but that’s not how these things work.”

  “That’s total bullshit. You said the party’s for important people. So tell me. Who’s more important to this project than I am? The answer’s no one. It never would have gotten off the ground without me.”

  “No, George. It never would have got off the ground without money. The bottom line? Nothing’s more important than that.”

  “Bullshit. You can get money anywhere. No one else can bring what I do to the table.”

  “We’re talking billions of dollars.”

  “We’re talking unique expertise. When you came to me this scheme was DOA. If the military was involved, they’d be calling it project fiasco. Project disaster. Project incompetent bunch of spoiled rich assholes.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, George.”

  “Harsh? No. I don’t think so. Why were none of your rich buddies aware that the ban on demolishing single-occupant residences was coming in? That was public knowledge. It had been for two years. When you came to me, there were forty-eight hours left. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get all the contractors on-site that fast? The risks I had to run? There was no time to get permits. I could have gone to jail. There wasn’t even time to get the gas supply switched off. We could have blown up half the city.”

  “But we didn’t, George, did we? It all worked out. There were no explosions. The contractors took the rap for the permit thing. The fine was peanuts, only a couple of million, and we paid it for them, anyway. And you got paid, too. Considerably more than peanuts. And that has to be worth more than hanging out at a boring party with people you don’t even seem to like.”

  “So that’s it? I’m just an employee? A servant? Not fit to be in the same room as the money men?”

  “No.” Walcott put his hand on Carrick’s shoulder. “That’s not it at all. You’re a trusted partner. A highly valued member of the team.”

  “So, I can come to the party?”

  “Like I said. That’s not my call.”

  “Then fuck you, Rigel.” Carrick pushed Walcott’s hand away, stood up, and started toward the elevator. “Fuck you very much. For everything you haven’t done.”

  “Wait.” Walcott was on his feet, too.

  Carrick stopped and turned back. “I can come in?”

  “Well, no. But there’s something else I want to talk about. A new project.”

  Carrick started toward the elevator again.

  “There’s money in it.”

  Carrick reached for the Call button.

  “A lot of money. And remember, money’s the only language these guys speak.”

  Carrick pulled his hand back. “All right. What’s the project? Who’s the client? And what do you need from me this time?”

  “The project’s whatever we want it to be. The client’s a contact of mine. A friend of a friend, from Azerbaijan. Where I used to live. I can vouch for him. And for the depth of his pockets.”

  IX

  A MONTH AGO

  Had Rigel Walcott allowed his standards to slip?

 
He had to admit, it was possible. It was probably hard to avoid when you spent a decade with a corrupt dictator in one corner and the head of his secret police in another. These things had been obvious advantages back in Azerbaijan. They probably wouldn’t have hurt if he’d been able to relocate to Moscow along with the others. But in the United States these last few months, if he was honest, they’d hamstrung him. He hadn’t noticed the full impact at first—he’d been too busy staying ahead of the leeches from the FBI—but his previously legendary attention to detail had been eroded. His sixth sense coated with a layer of rust. That’s how the mistake had been made. How the miscommunication with Madatov had occurred, leading to the raving psychopath’s money getting locked up long term—in what was still a damn good development project, Walcott swore—rather than taking a quick trip around the rinse cycle. And how Walcott had landed in his current predicament.

  The signs could no longer be ignored. Walcott realized it was time to raise his game. Starting immediately. With the food. For the occasion he’d transformed the conference room at his office suite into the approximation of a dining room. The Eames chairs had been wheeled temporarily into his office, and a set of knockoff Louis Quatorze carvers he’d gotten cheap on the Internet put in their places. A blue velvet cloth had been laid over the table and the center of the space filled with cheese and cold cuts and seafood he’d ordered in from Eataly. And around the edge, he’d arranged the pièces de résistance: A vat of swallows’ nest soup in honor of his first guest, Zheng Zhi. An ensemble of matsutake mushrooms, which he knew to be Makoto Yamaguchi’s favorite delicacy. Five tins of Kolikof albino caviar, which he was sure everyone would eat but hoped would particularly impress Sergei Sinitsyn. And a generous platter of jamón Ibérico, which he’d heard Iago Asensio was particularly partial to. Looking over the spread before his guests arrived, Walcott was confident that he’d nailed it: Plenty of fillers, and something special for each of the guys who’d benefited the most from his last three money-laundering schemes. How could that level of consideration not lead to a cooperative atmosphere?

  Walcott didn’t bring up business for the first ninety minutes. He summoned the last of his patience and let his guests enjoy their food, plus a couple of magnums of Boërl & Kroff champagne. He allowed their conversation to roam free. Then, once the first round of Balvenie had been poured, he opened the left-hand panel in the back wall of the room and took out a stack of slim green leather binders.

  “Here you go, gentlemen.” Walcott passed one binder to each guest. “Some food—for thought, this time.”

  Silence descended as each man read Walcott’s proposal.

  Sinitsyn was the first to finish. “No” was all he said before tossing his copy on the floor.

  “No?” Lines creased Walcott’s forehead. “Why not? It should be a no-brainer. My enterprises have worked for you before, haven’t they? You’ve each said you’d be happy to do business together again. All I’m asking is for an advance. One and a quarter million dollars each now, and in return you’ll receive one and a half million dollars’ worth of my services before the end of the year. From your points of view, it’s money for nothing. A quarter of a million mailbox dollars each. How can you possibly decline? Unless that forty-year-old scotch has gone to your heads.”

  “It’s a no from me, too.” Asensio handed Walcott his binder. “Not because I think you’re offering a bad deal. But because we know what you want the money for.”

  “What difference does it make what I want the money for?” Walcott set the binder on the table. “How I spend what I earn is no one’s business but my own.”

  “Not so, my friend.” Yamaguchi shook his head very slightly. “You want the money to settle your debt with the Azerbaijani, Madatov. The man’s a savage. No one’s going to put themselves in the middle of a dispute he initiated.”

  Walcott felt his cheeks begin to burn. The last thing he wanted was for his problems to become common knowledge. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not saying I owe Madatov a penny. But even if I did, why would he care where I get the money from? And if he is indeed a savage, that somewhat argues against him being too scrupulous, yes?”

  “You owe.” Zheng frowned. “He cares. The word is out. You are not to be helped. You made the bed, you lie in it yourself.”

  “You’re all together on this?” Walcott looked at each man in turn, and each one nodded. That was a shame. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to go the other route. Reluctantly he opened the next panel along in the back wall, took out a stack of red binders, and handed them around. “I’ll save you the trouble of reading this time. Here are the details of the last project we worked on together. Minus my involvement, of course, since my proceeds were taken in cash and therefore are untraceable. I’ll be passing a copy to the Feds unless the one point two five each is in my account by close of play tomorrow.”

  Yamaguchi sighed. “This saddens me, Rigel. You’re like the sumo who stepped into the ring one time too many.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is a copy of a wire transfer you made to a bank in the Cayman Islands. How long will it take the Feds to connect it to your case against your partner in the development consultancy that collapsed over there?”

  For the first time in his life, Walcott didn’t have an immediate retort.

  “What you did today was lazy, Rigel.” Sinitsyn got to his feet. “Word is, you have the money to pay Madatov. It’s just not in the United States. Bringing it here might not be easy, but that’s where you should focus your energy. Go to Azerbaijan and carry it home on your back if the banks won’t help. Just don’t try to stiff your friends again.”

  Walcott watched his friends file out of the room in silence, then felt a sudden pain shoot up his left arm. It subsided after a moment, so he reached for the whiskey and poured himself a generous measure. It was an exceptionally fine scotch. He let his mind drift for a moment as he savored the soft vanilla sweetness of its finish. The pleasure it brought him was pure and profound. But he’d have happily given up fine liquor for good in return for a call to Ramil Balayev. One phone call, and the knowledge that his enemies would be taken off the board, no questions asked. Just like the old days.

  X

  TWO WEEKS AGO

  Javid Madatov was a sadly misunderstood man, Roberto di Matteo concluded.

  OK, so there were two sides to his character. Roberto could see how people might take issue with one of those. He himself was more inclined to turn a blind eye to it. Partly because Madatov’s dubious side had kept him lucratively employed for almost his entire career. And partly because he was inclined to chalk it up to the forces of nature. It was like with a spider. If a juicy fly was stupid enough to land in the center of its web, no one complained when it got eaten. And if another spider built its web too close? Well, that was tough. And anyway, Roberto preferred to focus on Madatov’s other side. The good side. The neglected side. The side that led him to stand up for his friends, regardless of circumstances. To look after them. To see they were OK, as long as they were loyal. And to come up with the occasional surprise. Like with the video game store.

  Madatov could easily have sold it after its previous owner was no longer in a position to continue breathing. He could have made a tidy profit. But he didn’t. He knew that playing video games was Roberto’s hobby. So he gave the store to him instead. It offered Roberto early access to all the new releases. Plus a convenient way to get his hands on the classics, which he frankly preferred. And there were practical aspects to the arrangement, too. The store was a perfect cover for channeling payments to bent cops. It saved Roberto from having to attend tedious meetings in parks. Churches. Bars. And all the other bullshit places the less fortunate bagmen have to go. Not to mention that he actually enjoyed putting in a couple of hours, every other Friday. So that day he raised an imaginary toast to the guy he could have at least called half a friend. He hung his jacket on the back of the
chair. Clipped his OWNER/MANAGER badge onto his shirt pocket. And happily stepped from the office onto the shop floor.

  During the first ten minutes of his shift, Roberto relieved an eager teenager of two hundred dollars. Lieutenant Ospina arrived halfway through the transaction. He pretended to browse the shoot-’em-up section until the kid was safely outside, then he approached the register.

  “I bought this last week.” Ospina produced a copy of Grand Theft Auto V from a shopping bag and placed it on the counter. “It didn’t work. I think the DVD-ROM’s scratched or something.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Thanks for giving us the opportunity to put it right.” Roberto opened the game’s case and looked inside. It was empty. “Yep. I can see the problem. I don’t know how this happened, but the easiest thing is just to replace it.” He turned to a shelf on the back wall and took down another box, which he’d previously packed with fifty-dollar bills.

  “Thanks, man.” Ospina reached across to pick the game up, but Roberto kept it pressed to the counter with his fingers.

  “Any news?” Roberto had been scanning the store while they talked and was confident that they were alone, but he kept his voice low, just in case.

  “Everything’s the same.” Ospina glanced over his shoulder. “There’s a pair of detectives all over your guy Madatov. They’ve tied him to four murders in the last six months.”

  “What makes them so sure Madatov’s behind these killings?”

  “All four of the victims were known enemies of his. And there was no sign of forced entry at the crime scenes. Each of the dead guys had been around the block. They were no mugs. They knew the killer. That’s the only way it plays. The only common factor is Madatov. And it’s only a matter of time until the detectives get something on him. It just makes it a little harder, is all, with him not coming out on the streets anymore. Except to do the murders, obviously.”