About Face (28 page)

I look at the antique clock—3:08 a.m.

Time's running thin. I need to move.

“Here we go,” I say. “Let's keep moving while we're in the flow.”

I start toward the
Empire Nephrite Egg
, the next in chronological order. The one I assumed was in Galina Zhamovsky's possession. The one bought from a man named Mehmet Nas from Istanbul. There is as little known information about this egg as any of them, but according to the actual invoice for the treasure, it is a gold and nephrite egg with two rose-cut diamonds. Siberian nephrite is a semiprecious stone the czars enjoyed as part of their jewel-making arsenal, an element they tightly controlled the mining of in order to increase its value. I had learned this in my research. As well as the fact that truly beautiful Siberian nephrite is a striking, bright shade of green.

Seconds are officially starting to feel like minutes. Locating the most hidden portion of gold the words pop immediately, like I knew exactly where they'd be.

“
Min Kaere P.D., min familie. Gron son—Sort son! AIII knytte af Narodnaya Volya! Bekraeftelse taettere
—”

“My dear P.D., my family,” the count comes back immediately as I start in with my photographs, “Green son—Black son! AIII associate of Narodnaya Volya! Confirmation closer—”

I stop, perk up.

“Green son, Black son,” I repeat. “Fair to say he's not saying the color of his skin.”

“What the hell is—”

The count moves his face closer to the screen to make sure of his pronunciation.

“Narodnaya Volya
?”

“
Narodnaya Volya
means ‘The People's Will.' It was a left-wing Russian terrorist organization responsible for the death of Czar Alexander II—Alexander III's father,” I explain. “The thing is,” I go on, “according to history, Narodnaya Volya was also plotting the assassination of Alexander III, an operation led by Vladimir Lenin's elder brother Alexander Ulyanov. A plot that was foiled. So why would G.B. be reporting that Alexander III was, in fact, an associate of the terrorist organization looking to cut him down?”

I look at the column with nothing on top. The one where
Danish Jubilee Egg
is supposed to be instead of on display in the U.S. Capitol. The seventh in chronological order of the eight.

“What are you going to do about
Danish Jubilee Egg
?” asks the count.

I turn and face him.

“Inspect it. Just like I'm doing the rest of them. Now let's look at number eight,
Alexander III Commemorative Egg
, and I'll be on my way.”

I pause.

“Which, actually, brings me to one last question. Might you have a car I can borrow?”

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

At 6:18 a.m., I pull into L's Meatpacking District Distributorship driveway and park in a far, out-of-the-way corner. With the turn of the key I bring the grumbling engine of one of the count's “weekend vehicles”—a black, 1961 Jaguar XKE, to a stop. While it's a nice, classic little antique vehicle, it's a far cry from the beast I left behind some random house in Baltimore. But I simply couldn't take the chance of driving it back, considering how many are undoubtedly looking for it.

Accessing the building through the always-open emergency exit in the alley, I make my way up to L's office. In his desk's top drawer, where I know the first thing he does each morning is drop his car keys, I leave the Jag key and a simple note reading: “Here's a loaner; far corner of your lot that never gets touched. Call your car in stolen ASAP this morning. I know you want to kill me—sorry. I had no choice. And I know you don't want to hear it, would have done the same for you in a second. This means that much.”

I jump in a cab and head uptown. The blue Canali suit I've been in far too long feels heavy, creaseless. Fighting fatigue, but
feeling my lack of sleep, I put my head back on the seat and stare at the taxi's ceiling.

The deal.

The coveted Freedom Bank Building.

Enzo Alessi and family. Ryan Brand.

Fuck.

Never saw this coming.

The deal was supposed to be the easy part.

My iPhone rings. Fumbling through the numerous objects in my right inside jacket pocket, I grab it and pull it out. The caller, surprisingly, is Julia Chastain.

Before answering, I look at my watch and mentally review my schedule for the next ninety minutes. The plan is hotel by 6:45 a.m. for quick shower, shave, and new suit, 7:20 to 8:00—return e-mails on other corporate matters unrelated to the target. 8:00 to 8:30, review last minute changes to the Purchase Agreement and related exhibits e-mailed to me from the attorneys about six hours ago, just after midnight. Then, meet Cobus and Arnon downstairs for breakfast to discuss said changes as well as other specifics of the deal.

“Is this an early or late start for you?” I answer.

“Depends on the morning,” she responds. “But today has been like most—my first cup of coffee was at five fifteen.”

“You mean you actually sleep? Not us Dutch. We save sleep for the weekends.”

“Not surprised,” she counters. “You all have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Interesting. Is that your insight—or have you been using the euro versus the U.S. dollar as your basis?”

Raspy giggle.

“Point taken, Mr. Janse.”

“What can I do for you this morning?”

“There are some security deposit specifics we still need to cover regarding a few of the tenants. I think it may be a good idea to sit down and go through these items before our respective days get
going as the two teams won't be getting together until the luncheon at Alessi's.”

Right. The big dog-and-pony show luncheon at Alessi's new Midtown showpiece.

“And we both know there won't be much shoptalk occurring at that function. We're really rolling downhill into this closing at this point; each minute we can find counts. I want to make sure we have the details buttoned up.”

“Well, I have breakfast with my team at eight thirty, so perhaps—”

“Perfect,” she cuts me off. “I'll make some fresh coffee. You meet me at my apartment at seven fifteen and we can run through this. I live Midtown on the west side—One Sixty West Fifty-Ninth Street. You'll easily be back to your hotel by eight thirty. And I'd rather not put these punch list items on hold until late this afternoon. Sound good?”

Good?

About as good as a punch in the face.

But business is business.

And I've got to sort this one out.

Now.

“Sure. Sounds good. See you soon.”

After sucking down a cup of coffee I had delivered to my room and having a world-record speed shower and shave, I step off the elevator and look for apartment 22A as instructed by the concierge. I locate the proper door immediately. It's open a couple inches.

Thinking this was done to tell me to come on in, I still knock gently out of politeness.

“Come in. I'm in the kitchen,” her raspy voice calls.

The apartment is bright from the newly awakened sun forcing itself in through the large picture windows in the living room. From the décor to the furniture to the artwork, Julia's home is sleek, smart, contemporary, intriguing, like the woman who lives here.
There are no moldings; the cloud-white walls and ceilings run seamlessly into each other. The floor underfoot is wide, dark planks of smooth wood finished in black. Beautifully appointed recessed lighting is throughout, some strategically placed for artwork, the rest for evening or gloomy day illumination.

I notice a bunch of photos on a shelf just a few feet into the living room. I check them out quickly, interested because I notice one of them is of Julia, Brand, and Scott Green—Houseboat Guy. The same Houseboat Guy she said she didn't really know. I move down the central corridor. I pass a small den, a bathroom, a laundry room—the apartment is not overly large, but large. Probably a couple bedrooms as well for a grand total of a couple thousand square feet worth a couple million bucks. Not bad for a young, single, hotshot woman.

I must be approaching the kitchen. The smell of coffee is getting stronger by the step, and I need another huge cup immediately. My eyes are heavy. I'm fighting fatigue harder perhaps than I ever have in my life.

I turn into the kitchen, which is nouveau, yet traditional. The walls are comprised of perfect rows of brick-size white tiles. There's a pot rack hanging from the ceiling with shiny stainless steel cookware. The appliances are all Sub-Zero and Viking and look like they were installed this morning. Guessing not very much actual cooking goes on in here.

Standing across the room, by the sink, is Julia. She's facing out the window, which looks east out over the city, and drinking a cup of coffee. I'm surprised that she isn't exactly dressed for her day. Unless there's something underneath it—which I'm guessing there isn't—all she seems to be wearing is a black satin robe with pink lace trim around the edges that stops just below her ass.

The space is quiet now that my footsteps have stopped, aside from the faint sounds past the walls of the city coming to life down below. I squeeze my eyes closed. I see Perry. My gorgeous Perry who I miss so much, who I vow to return alive to her son. I see the exact
image of the perfect physical specimen that is Julia on the other side of my eyelids. I'm praying this is a dream.

Or am I praying it's not?

I open my eyes. And as my sight spills again from my eyeballs, emotions, urges, cravings, feelings I haven't felt in three years—three lifetimes—drain from my soul all over the floor.

“So, Ivan,” she says, placing her blue ceramic coffee mug on the white marble counter flanking the sink, “you ready to get to work?”

I say nothing. She turns around. She leans back casually against the counter, her hands behind her. The black satin tie around her waist is barely holding, her robe one movement away from coming completely undone. I see the top of her six-pack abs and, inside, half of each of her perfect breasts. I see the birthmark running farther down her neck and shoulder than I've previously seen.

I look her up and down, I drink her in.

Those legs.

This is wrong.

Right.

Fuck.

“You don't seem surprised,” she says. “And
that
doesn't surprise me.”

The coffee, caffeine. I'm craving it. Like I'm craving what the sweat on her neck will taste like once she's heated up.

No.

Stop.

“Why now?” I ask.

“Because I'm a girl who knows how to make shit happen, Ivan. And I don't know when else I'm going to get my shot with you since you're here to close a deal within a couple more days before flying back off to Amsterdam.”

Cravings. Urges.

For Perry.

For gratification.

From sex. From substance.

Fuck, that coffee smells good. I know this feeling. I want it like I used to want coke. Which wouldn't be so bad right—

Stop.

I'm so tired. As I stand here, at this very moment, I have no idea where the desire, the need, for sleep begins or ends.

Damn my body might drop. Or start running.

Damn her body is insane.

Like Perry's. Which I haven't touched or seen aside from in my dreams in so long it feels like I'm about to explode.

“I'm committed to someone,” I say.

“That's not what your eyes say when they lick me every time I walk into a room.”

I don't flinch. But I feel my teeth clench a bit.

“No,” I respond, matter-of-factly, “I'm committed. But that doesn't change whether I destroy your body right here and now in this kitchen or not.”

A sexy, scandalous smile creeps onto her face.

“That's more like it, Ivan.”

It's been so long. Until this moment I had no idea how much I'd been suppressing. Out of love.

Out of guilt?

I should walk away.

I need this.

Don't I?

Fuck. I can't help thinking, I need this more than I even know.

I feel myself reach for my tie, my eyes never once leaving hers. She, with barely a tug, releases the tie around her waist, the robe sliding down her back to the floor. I toss my tie onto the island, topped with the same white marble as the rest of the counters. Again, my eyes never leaving hers.

Hers never leaving mine.

I'm on autopilot.

I move on to my shirt, slowly unbuttoning from the top down. Once completely open, I remove and it toss onto the island as well.
At this moment beautifully naked Julia gently lifts herself onto the counter behind her next to the sink. She gently parts her legs, reaches down, and starts pleasing herself while I keep undressing.

“You see the color of this birthmark?” she purrs. “Think you can make the inside of my thighs the same color?”

“It's been a while,” I admit.

“Which means what? This might not last as long as we're both hoping?”

“Which means just the opposite,” I counter. “Which means you may not get out of here alive.”

Once all my clothes are in a pile on the island, my shoes clumsily off to the side on the floor, I make my way over to her. I ease myself right in between her legs excited by the way the skin just above her knees feels against the skin of my waist. I move in to kiss her but stop an inch before her lips. Her breath is warm, faintly bitter from coffee. I finally move my eyes. I move them to the birthmark running down her face, her neck, her shoulder, her arm, and upper torso farther than I previously realized. I trace it with my finger, taste and kiss it with my lips.

I reach up with my left hand, behind her, and take a handful of her hair in my fist. I pull her head back, surprising her, arching her back. I move my eyes back to hers.

“You ready, Julia?”