Clean Hands

by Patrick Hoffman

  “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time,” he said, smiling, walking toward her, and holding out his hand. “Redgrave, Jonathan Redgrave.”

  He was an ugly man: pitted skin, thin hair, close-set eyes, but he moved with confidence. Valencia said, “Nice to meet you.”

  They shook hands, and he moved her toward the bench. They sat facing a meadow and for a few minutes he carried on about work she’d done for the Clandestine Services. He mentioned specific assignments she’d been involved in, secret assignments, some that were never put on paper. She took this as a kind of credential-proving, and she stared out at the green grass while he spoke, nodded vaguely when he looked at her, and wondered just how big of a mistake she’d made in accepting this meeting.

  It had stopped raining. They both sat in silence for a moment, and then, after shifting on the bench to face her more directly, he brought up what he wanted. “Carlyle, Driscoll, Hathaway,” he said.

  Valencia didn’t say anything.

  “They work for the Calcott Corporation,” he added. “Calcott is in the midst of a civil suit against Emerson Trust Bank.”

  Valencia told him she was aware of the case, and that she read the newspapers. He smiled at that, dropped his head to the side. “National security,” he said. They sat in silence for a moment. “The case has been deemed a threat to the security of the United States. It needs to come to an end.”

  “Deemed by who?”

  “Colonel Pollock.”

  Valencia explained that she didn’t work for Carlyle, Driscoll, Hathaway, that she certainly didn’t choose what cases they worked on, or how they were handled—and that she was only occasionally called by them to take care of thorny situations.

  “Well, this is as thorny as it gets,” he said. “The case is getting into some uncomfortable—”

  She interrupted him, “I’m sorry, with all due respect, I actually don’t want to hear any of this,” she said.

  “Colonel Pollock needs a friend on the inside, someone close to Elizabeth—”

  “I don’t work for Carlyle, Driscoll, Hathaway,” she said. “And I don’t work for Colonel Pollock. I don’t work for Langley.” She looked at him and wondered whether he might be mentally unstable. “I’m sorry.”

  “Elizabeth Carlyle is going to call on you. You’ll do what she asks you.” He stopped her from protesting by raising a hand. “After that, you will politely suggest that Calcott withdraw their side of the case. That’s it. It’s simple. Two steps. Clean as a whistle.”

  Valencia’s mind spun out a few quick calculations about the risk of simply refusing, thanking him for his time, and walking away. The risk wasn’t minimal.

  Still, she said, “I’m sorry, I won’t be able to help you on this one.”

  She started to get up, but Redgrave put his hand above her waist—he didn’t make contact, but the gesture stopped her progress. “We’re already fully operational,” he said. “At this point, you gotta ask yourself if it’s safer inside or out.” He moved his hand away from her waist.

  She turned her gaze back to the field in front of them. The man had just threatened her. It was absolutely breathtaking; it was unprecedented. She sat there blinking for a moment, searching her mind for the appropriate party to report this to.

  He wasn’t done. “Think what Demet would do.”

  Demet Harmanci was one of Valencia’s oldest friends. They’d been roommates in college. They’d just spoken on the phone that morning.

  “Think what Amanda Bautista would do,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  Valencia had just returned an email to Amanda. She’d done it while she was waiting for Spencer to join her in the park.

  You are fucking insane, she thought. Who the fuck do you think you are? She shifted on the bench so she could look directly into his face. You want to start a war with me, she thought. You want to start an unprovoked war with me? Do you have any idea who I am?

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be paid,” he said. He rubbed his eyes and pretended to make some kind of mental calculation. “Three hundred and forty thousand. It’s already budgeted. Bill them whatever you want. We’ll pay you on top—Bitcoin.” He held his hand out. “Are we good?”

  In the space of a single breath cycle she concluded that any push-back would have to come later. Refusing right there wouldn’t be the best move. First, she’d have to fully assess the situation. She wasn’t in a place to make a rash decision. Her heart was beating like she was in the middle of an actual physical fight.

  She swallowed her anger, reached out, and took his clammy hand in her own. “Yeah we’re good,” she said. She smiled warmly and they shook. “If that’s the extent of it, we’re good.”

  Her memory from the park was interrupted by the taxi driver asking if he should drop her on the corner. “You want?” he asked, looking in the mirror.

  “Can you loop around, please? Pass by once.” She pointed toward Thirty-Sixth Street. “Loop back over to Eighth Avenue and pass it again.”

  When they drove past the restaurant, she saw that butcher paper still covered the windows, and that they again weren’t open.

  “Keep going,” she said, pointing down the block. Nothing else caught her attention; still, she questioned her judgment in not having Milton drive her. She told the driver to cross Ninth Avenue.

  After paying and getting out, she took a moment and looked at the sky. There were no stars visible, but the moon was above her and it looked about three-quarters full. She took a deep breath and started walking toward her meeting.

  Inside the restaurant, at the same table as before, Yakov Rabinowitz sat reflecting on the state of his own mental condition. What the hell was wrong with him? It boggled the mind to think he’d given the green light for this incredibly stupid plan. Was his brain softening? Was he becoming senile?

  He frowned at the thought, and then checked the time on his cell phone. The lawyer had sworn the woman would come—where the hell was she? He glanced at Grigory Levchin, who sat across from him.

  Newark—thought Yakov, squeezing his eyes closed—to put Newark at risk! And for what? For the boys to run some kind of prank? What would Vadim Vertov say if he found out about this? My God, am I losing my mind?

  His thoughts jumped back to the locksmith. Ossip dead! Because of this! Because of me! A memory of Ossip back in Russia, drunkenly standing on a table, passed through his mind. It must have been forty years ago.

  I’m sorry old friend, thought Yakov. It was not supposed to end like this.

  Right then, the proprietor of the restaurant appeared in the doorway. “She’s here,” he said in Russian, rubbing his hands together in front of his chest. The silence of the place seemed to make him nervous.

  “Bring her,” said Yakov, speaking to Grigory. The large man stood and walked toward the front. “Ask for her phone. Leave it in front.” Left alone in the back room, Yakov rubbed his nostrils, dug his finger into his ear, and brushed at his face with his hands.

  A moment later, Valencia entered the room with Grigory. Yakov stood as she walked toward the table. She looked prettier than he’d remembered, more glamorous. She was perfect. Her black velvet triggered a wave of nostalgia. Yakov signaled to Grigory to leave them alone.

  “I wasn’t expecting a call from you tonight,” said Valencia.

  He felt himself squint at her English, ran a few test responses through his mind, and came out with, “Are you hungry?”

  He didn’t know if he should offer to kiss her cheek or shake her hand. Finally—awkwardly—he decided to pull her chair out from the table. He felt like a teenager again. Even as an old man, he thought. Even still, to this day.

  He smelled perfume in the air. “Vodka, whiskey, wine, vermouth?” he asked.

  “Are we celebrating?”

  Yakov sat down in the seat next to her. “Not celebrating …” He searched his mind for the right phrase. “My lawyer …”

  He stopped speaking and tried to arrange what he wanted to say,
but his thoughts were not easily corralled. “I want to tell you, before anything else: the Wall Street Journal story—not us. We have nothing to do with that.”

  He molded his face into a look that he hoped conveyed concern. “I want to be clear.” He shook his head and put his hands on the table in front of him. He watched the woman’s eyes narrow.

  “You could have called and told me that,” she said.

  Yakov put his hand to his chest. “I want to apologize for everything that happened.”

  “You’re so sweet,” she said, but her face remained impassive. “Apologies are good.”

  “This should have never happened,” he said.

  In his mind, Yakov saw his boss, Vadim Vertov, the man who truly ran the business in Newark. He looked away from the table for a moment, let his eyes settle on a painting of a beach. Then, quietly, like he was telling a secret, said, “We’re returning the money.”

  With her raised eyebrows and dropped chin, she looked genuinely taken aback. “Well, Mr. Rabinowitz, I don’t know what to say to that,” she said. “I’m at a loss for words. I really am.”

  Yakov considered telling her the money had been stolen and that he was paying it back from his own pocket. Instead, he asked, “But it makes you happy?”

  “It will make my clients happy, which always makes me happy.”

  A weight lifted; Yakov smiled. “People do such stupid things,” he said. His relief was such that he felt for a moment like standing up and dancing. “Cheers.” He lifted his glass. “People do crazy things.”

  “Indeed, they do.”

  “I always say the easiest path is the one you should take. Fix things if you can. Don’t be stubborn.” The vodka was making him feel poetic. He breathed in deeply, thought about saying something more, but stopped himself again.

  “I think I like you,” she said. “I felt it the first time we met. I said to myself, ‘I like this man, he’s a man who thinks like me. He sees the world like I do.’”

  There was something charming about the way she spoke, and Yakov found himself nodding along.

  He poured another glass and they drank. “The money’s in the kitchen,” he said, waving his hand in that direction.

  The woman seemed to study him for a moment. “Everything will be okay,” she said.

  Yakov thought of his friend Ossip, and his eyes filled with tears. “So many problems,” he said, shaking his head. “The best we can hope for nowadays is friendship, family, and quiet times.” He worried he was babbling and frowned into his empty glass.

  “I feel the same way,” she said. When he looked up he saw that her face had become serious. “Sometimes you meet someone, and it feels like you’ve known them for a long time.”

  “Are you Jewish?” asked Yakov.

  “No, but I feel like I am.”

  “I feel like you are too.”

  Valencia reached out, grabbed the bottle, and filled their glasses again. “May I propose a toast?”

  “Please,” said Yakov.

  “No matter what happens down the road, I want to propose that I will help you, and you will help me. We’ll be friends. Can we toast to that?”

  “It would be my honor,” said Yakov, raising his glass.

  The next morning Valencia woke with a hangover. Her mind went immediately to the night before. At some point, the owner of the restaurant had come out with a bottle of expensive scotch; soon, both he and Rabinowitz’s bodyguard had joined them at the table. They drank many rounds.

  By the end of the night Grigory Levchin was reciting poetry from memory, and Rabinowitz was translating and dabbing his eyes with his napkin. After their final drink, Rabinowitz offered her a ride home.

  When she refused, he insisted on personally hailing her taxi. Once she was settled in the cab, he put the bag of money on her lap. She remembered him leaning in and kissing her cheek. He tried to pay the cabbie, but she waved him off. It had been one of those nights.

  As soon as the cab turned onto Tenth Avenue, Valencia—setting wheels in motion—sent a coded text message to Billy Sharrock: Good morning Billy, I have a meeting at Horowitz Barnes tomorrow at 9:00 am, so we’ll have to reschedule lunch.

  He responded a moment later: Sounds good.

  When she got home, drunk, and humming a tune, she deposited the $750,000 into the safe in her office.

  In the morning, after taking four painkillers and putting coffee on, Valencia grabbed a garment bag out of the far left-hand side of her closet. The bag held a blue pantsuit, a white shirt, a khaki trench coat, and a paisley silk scarf. Underneath were a pair of black suede flats. She checked the pocket of the trench coat and confirmed her sunglasses were in it.

  At 8:35 a.m., dressed in that outfit and carrying a small tote bag, she took the elevator down to the ground floor. She stopped and made small talk with the doorman for exactly one minute and twelve seconds. Then, she stepped outside and waved down the first taxi that appeared.

  Sitting in the back of the cab, squeezed down on the floor like a stowaway, was Sonya Radovani—Billy Sharrock’s girlfriend. She was dressed in the exact same clothes as Valencia and wore a brown wig that had been specially made in Valencia’s image. She wasn’t wearing the sunglasses, but she had them in her hand. The driver of the taxi was Nawaz Khan, a real cabbie they paid for jobs like this. He’d make $2,500 for an hour’s work. Sonya was more expensive; she’d get $6,500.

  After Valencia told the cabbie the address of Horowitz Barnes—a law firm she worked with—the cab started moving. Valencia put her hand on Sonya’s back and gave it a reassuring rub. Sonya turned her head, looked up, and made two silent kisses at her. Valencia then took her phone out and called Milton, and for the purposes of appearing normal to listening ears, she started a mundane conversation about some business matters.

  The driver made his way through Central Park toward the east side. While they rode, Valencia kept talking to Milton. As they approached the first tunnel, Valencia patted Sonya three times on the back. When they passed under the tunnel, Valencia popped down to the floor, and Sonya popped up.

  Valencia—finding Sonya’s hand and giving it a squeeze—kept the phone conversation going from the floor. After ending her call with Milton, she handed her phone to Sonya. The cab bumped along. Then she passed her wallet up.

  Sonya meanwhile slipped Valencia a large manila envelope that Billy had given her. After that, Sonya, as she’d been instructed, opened the browser on Valencia’s iPhone and began reading a story from the New York Times. If anyone was monitoring the phone’s activity, all would appear normal.

  Horowitz Barnes was on Lexington Avenue, not far from CDH’s offices. When they arrived there the cab stopped and Sonya used one of Valencia’s credit cards to pay. It wasn’t cold enough to justify wrapping the scarf over her head, but with sunglasses on, she got out and entered the building. At the front desk, she announced herself as Valencia Walker and said she had a 9 a.m. meeting with Lynn Duggins. She gave the security guard Valencia’s driver’s license and he swiped it on an ID scanner.

  Lynn Duggins, a lawyer at Horowitz Barnes, had no idea what was going on. But she’d been prepped for this type of scenario. Billy had alerted her that same morning by calling to confirm Valencia’s meeting.

  When Sonya arrived on the twenty-third floor, the lawyer was waiting for her. Playing her role, Lynn said, “Good morning Ms. Walker,” and accompanied Sonya to a reserved meeting room, usually used by interns, in the back of the office.

  Before entering the room, she asked for Sonya’s coat, which held Valencia’s phone. There would be no listening in to this meeting.

  Sonya accepted Lynn’s offer of coffee and then was left alone in the small conference room. She sat with her back to the door, pulled out her Anne McCaffrey novel, and began reading.

  In the taxi, Nawaz Khan, ignoring a man waving at him, looped over to Third Avenue and made his way through traffic toward Forty-Second Street. On the floor of the cab, Valencia opened her tote, pulled
out a black wig and a hooded black nylon jacket. She pulled her trench coat and suit jacket off, folded them together, and stuffed them into the tote. She left the tote on the floor, she’d collect it later from the driver. Then she put on the jacket. After that, she pulled on the wig and set it right. It was awkward changing down there, and she was slightly out of breath when she finished.

  As the cab approached Grand Central, Nawaz Khan, in order to alert Valencia, began whistling a tune. As soon as they were under the Park Avenue Viaduct, he stopped the cab. Neither drone, nor satellite would see Valencia exit the taxi and enter Grand Central. Six months had passed since Valencia, Nawaz, and Sonya had practiced these maneuvers. Still, everything ran smoothly.

  She swiped her way in with a card that had been purchased with cash. Then, blending in with the crowd, she walked straight to the downtown-bound 6 train platform. It occurred to her that it was the same train the pickpocket had taken. She only had to wait a minute.

  During that time fourteen people joined her on the platform from the same direction she’d come. None of them looked like Redgrave’s men, but she couldn’t be certain. All she could do was take note of them. As the train rolled into the station, she felt her stomach cramp with nervousness.

  Inside the train, advertisements for online dating services were plastered all over the car. Despairing-faced passengers sat in their seats with their eyes either closed or on their phones. Valencia checked her reflection in the window and pushed her wig back half an inch.

  She got off at Fourteenth Street and spent the next hour getting on and off trains, leaving stations, and running countersurveillance moves. Finally, at Queensboro Plaza, convinced she wasn’t under human surveillance, she jumped on a downtown-bound N train and returned to the city.