About Face (4 page)

“Wow,” he says as he exhales. “I never knew what I was missing.”

He extends the joint my way. I remember the old days, when I would have been happy to join in, but I pass. He takes another hard pull. He lays his head back, then spews smoke straight into the air.

“Scott, why exactly did you ask to see me tonight?” I ask, growing impatient. “Is there a problem with our deal? Is there something I need to be told?”

“It has been so many years—” he slurs after a pause.

He props his head back up. His eyes don't meet mine, as his line of vision is just left passing over my shoulder.

“So many years working so hard. And for the most part they've been … law, dealing with the law, legal, dealing with all those battles for the most part I've enjoyed it.”

He throws the last gulp of whiskey down his throat. He balances the empty glass on the ottoman and sits back.

“I grew up in a place called New England. Do you … have you ever heard of New England ever, Ivan? New England in the United States? A state called Maine?”

I decide to forego any further effort to lead the conversation.

“Perhaps,” I lie, “but I can't be certain.”

“I grew up in a place called New England. A place called Brewer, which is a little town in Maine. My family was, in New England—my family never even thought about something like college. They worked in paper mills. I was first. I was the first to make it to college. I made it, took it all the way, made it to New York City. I was a corporate trial attorney, I was … I was a lawyer from a town of nothing. It was, then, to go to New York City, I was like a local hero.”

He awkwardly slides down to his right into one of the couch's pillows. I think he's passing out, a notion quickly dispelled when he slides back into an upright position and his right hand emerges from behind the pillow holding a shiny, silver pistol. His hand can barely grip the thick handle. The barrel is huge.

My heart skips a beat. The last time a man sat across from me with a gun, I shot him dead. Only, this time, I don't have a gun of my own.

I barely know this man. What does Scott Green think I've done to him? My mind starts swirling. Who is this man really? What does he want from me? Am I being set up? Why am I here?

Here.

Shit. No one knows I'm here.

Or do they?

“I wasn't supposed to be anything,” he continues. “I did it right.
All those years, living, working—working—I did it right. Trials. Then, threw my hat into the real estate ring. Private business. In-house counsel. Big business. It—the excitement—I did it, you know, I did it because I was sick of dealing with lowlifes all the fucking time. What do I exchange for—”

He burps.

“What do I get for it? In exchange for it? Same shit. I go from defending corporate scum to working side by side with it. I wish I could have known it would only lead to darkness. To people like Ryan Brand. To people like you.”

First he's counting on me. Now I'm paired with the enemy? I have no idea what's going on. He drags the loosely held gun onto his knee. His eyes drop. They focus on nothing. They're searching, like he's seeing the thoughts he's trying to articulate, but can't.

“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.”

“Proof of what?” I ask, my eyes locked on the gun.

Green lifts his eyes again. He doesn't answer. Instead he abruptly stands up. He starts toward me. My mind takes off. Is he really sober? Is this all an act to soften my guard? Should I jump for the door? No—can't risk it. Drunk or not, he may start firing. He trips, but keeps his footing. He's coming. His bloodshot eyes are focused on me. Every muscle in my body flexes at the same time. Finally I find my place of unbelievable commitment. I find that place in my soul I haven't gone in a long time, a place reminding me I'll maim, ruin, crush anything I must to remain standing.

“Get what you need,” my father always said. “Clean up the mess later.”

My psyche offers a visual pep talk—I see my fingertips gouging like spears into the skin covering his forehead and peeling his face forward as if manipulating fruit. He's two feet away. I stand up. I grip the pen hard, ready to jab it deep into his neck. I gird myself for chaos.

He stops.

“I miss being a kid. I miss Brewer,” he says, his voice sad. “It's my favorite place anywhere. This world. I think of it every day, a time when I was just me. Just a boy.”

He reaches down to his left and plucks the remote from the couch with the same hand holding the joint. He returns to his original spot on the couch. He takes another pull. His eyes settle on mine.

“How have you lived, Ivan?” he asks, his voice straining as his lungs hold the smoke.

“I'm not sure what you mean?” I ask back.

He exhales. A plume of smoke hangs in the air between us.

“I mean, how have you, have you—how many people count on you? Love you?”

My chest tightens. I think of Perry and Max. And Neo. I say nothing.

“If you were to die right now, in this room—” he goes on.

He raises the gun. He points it at me lazily, casually, like it's just another finger on his hand.

“Would anyone miss you?”

Talk about a loaded question. Nine years ago I disappeared from New York City. A few people—my best friend since I'm a kid L, my senior partner Tommy Wingate, my partner Jake Donald—knew what was going on, why I was leaving. But for others, from colleagues to friends to clients to thousands of readers who learned about me in all the prominent business publications, I simply vanished from the earth.

“I like to believe they would,” I answer.

Emotion starts bubbling in my host. He starts getting choked up. Tears form in his eyes.

“Me too,” he says softly.

The gun starts shaking. But now he's holding it more firmly.

“Tell me something honest,” he says.

Fighting to maintain my composure, keep my breathing steady, I ponder the question. For nine years I have lied every day—to
everyone I know, about every aspect of my background—to protect my freedom and probably my life. An unanticipated feeling of gratitude warms me, comforts me in the moment. I welcome the opportunity to say something meaningful.

“All I do, every day, is for those I would miss if something were to happen to them,” I say. “Everything else is just noise.”

He gently nods his head up and down, as if satisfied by my answer. The volume of the music begins climbing. The song has turned over. I'm swallowed by Percussion Gun's “White Rabbits.” Green's sight is still locked on me. The surging fright within has me frozen. The growing anger inside me forces another nugget of honesty to shoot through my mind.

You better be a good shot, you crazy, drunk fuck. If you're not—I'm going to reach down your throat, rip out your tongue, and stuff it straight up your ass so far it's licking the back of your eyes.

The music is so loud I'd literally have to scream for Green to hear me. He drops both the remote and joint and grabs the handle of the gun with his second hand as well. Tears start falling from both of his eyes. He's questioning himself—I can see it. But he's determined. I see that too.

Instinct tears me from my chair. My ass lifts from the seat. Instead of firing at me, I see out of the corner of my eye he's turned the gun on himself. I stop, face him. He puts it so far down his throat I see him gag.

“No!” I scream.

I can't even hear my own voice.

He squeezes his eyes shut, no doubt hoping to see all he cares about one last time. Then he pulls the trigger.

I nearly choke on my own breath as the back of his head explodes. The world freezes for a second, like a snapshot. A sunburst of blood, skull, and brain, most dense in the center, starts dripping down the wall. Some pieces of tissue roll down end over end as gravity takes hold. Others fall to the floor undoubtedly with a squishy splat.

Shock-ridden, bug-eyed, I stare in disbelief. Both of Green's
arms hang slack at his sides. His eyes remain closed. A ribbon of smoke rises from the gun, still in his right hand. I can't move.

The pen drops from my trembling hand, pulling me from my stupor. I pick it up, place it in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I take a step toward the body. I stop almost as quickly as I started. The mess on the wall reminds me there's no reason to check for a pulse. My eyes transfixed, I run my hand through my hair, stopping at the top of my head.

What the fuck just happened?

I put my hands out in front of me, palms down, like I'm trying to keep my balance. I nervously scan the premises, like someone's going to jump from a closet or the refrigerator and try to pin this all on me. My eyes catch the canal outside one of the windows behind my dead associate. A shimmer from the streetlights above blankets the calm water. I leave through the front door doing all I can to remain collected, normal, should I encounter anyone.

I close the door behind me. As I climb the steel ladder back to street level, still able to hear the music, I fight off an image of Scott Green on the couch as I just left him. Relief that his eyes remained closed postblast washes over me. I still have nightmares of the dirty cop back in New York's left eye staring back at me once I put a bullet through the right.

I turn right on Nieuwe Prinsengracht Straat. A cool breeze confronting the thin layer of sweat I feel coating my body under my suit sends an icy chill up my spine. Conscious of controlling my gait, I let my eyes wander a bit without moving my head. The quiet neighborhood remains still around me, unaware of what's just happened. Both questions and answers start flowing, like a dam containing them in my brain has broken.

Could I have prevented this? Were there signs this was about to happen—this nut was about to blow his head off—or have I gotten so used to protecting my own ass I missed a chance to help calm this guy down?

Reality sets in with a thud: it doesn't matter now. Besides—the guy had a gun in my face. At least I think I understand some of the
elements of the scene now. The joint, the booze—courage enhancers. The music so loud was to mask the blast.

But why do that? Why worry about the neighbors when your head's about to be hamburger?

And why me? Why have me there?

How would a guy like this score a weapon within hours of being in the Netherlands?

I reach inside my jacket pocket and touch the pen, as if to confirm all of this really just happened.

I only know Scott Green because of the deal we're both involved in. Is the deal relevant?

Or is the only relevance my arm's-length relationship to this man? Does this have nothing at all to do with the deal?

My name, as I said, is Ivan Janse. My soul is still Jonah Gray. In four days, I'll be returning to New York City. Make no mistake—I've been planning for this trip a long time. Sure, I have a deal to help close. A deal that means a great deal to Cobus, to my firm. But little does anyone know I'm a man on another mission. A wanted murderer intent on clearing his name, a fool by my own half-brother's hand still seeking answers about some of the rarest treasures ever crafted by human hands.

Nothing is going to derail me.

Nothing.

A
MSTERDAM
2013

The de Bont Beleggings Gulfstream G550 lifts off from Amsterdam Schiphol Airport at five p.m. The plan is to touch back down again on this very airstrip in a little over three days' time. Which means by the time we're in New York City I'll have roughly three days to get to the bottom of what happened to Scott Green, determine the fate of Perry, help Cobus make sure this deal falls into place properly, and once and for all, get down to the real meaning behind the lost Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs.

The jet has a black exterior, Cobus's color of choice. Soon the corporate aircraft, powered by flawless Rolls-Royce engines, is cruising over the Atlantic Ocean at more than five hundred fifty miles per hour, though it remains still as if grounded. The interior is a beautifully conceived hybrid of efficiency and luxury. There is a conference area and there are single seats for those needing to spread out individually. There is a state-of-the-art communication center as well as tons of functional lighting options. The finishes ooze richness, from the soft, caramel leather seats to the polished cherrywood tables and moldings.

I look out the window, my mind meandering. Alexander Zhamovsky, Andreu's father, had been brutally murdered in a Russian subway station in 1998. That's when Andreu had assumed control from Alexander of Prevkos—the largest natural gas conglomerate in Russia and one of the most powerful companies in the world. Andreu had called me that fine morning in 2004 because, so he said, Prevkos was looking to diversify in order to throw off risk and they felt New York City commercial real estate was a safe bet. He came to me looking to spend a half-a-billion-dollars' worth of his shareholders' money on commercial office property in Manhattan.

Only he never had the intention of buying any buildings.

Within days of Andreu calling me, I discovered one of the world's rarest treasures in my briefcase. Ever hear of Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs? There were fifty of these treasures made between the years of 1885 and 1916 as gifts from Russia's Czar to the Czarina. Each is a one-of-a-kind handcrafted tribute of precious gems and metals to some aspect of Russian history. And today, each is valued at around forty million dollars. Now, as legend has it, eight of these fifty treasures went missing during the Russian Revolution. Two were found under a barn in Russia in 1979 and auctioned off; one of them—
Danish Jubilee Egg
—was the one planted in my briefcase. The other six? Never found.