From Manhattan With Revenge Boxed Set (18 page)

“Something like that, Marius.”

“And then what?” Hera Hallas said.
 
“I’m no angel,” the octogenarian
said.
 
“But killing innocent
children, especially in the numbers you’re talking about, seems extreme, cruel
and unnecessary.”

“It won’t come to that,” Katzev said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know Carmen, and she knows me.
 
She knows I’ll go through with it if she
forces my hand.
 
She won’t
second-guess it.
 
She knows I’ll
even set fire to one or more of those group homes if that’s what it takes to
bring her in.
 
I expect to hear from
her.
 
She’ll do what she has to do
to protect those children.”

“Will she risk her own life?”
 
Hera Hallas said.

“I think she will.”

“Carmen Gragera is not without her own army of contacts,”
Hallas said.
 
“Tip her off, and
she’ll have those homes surrounded.”

“Let her.”

“You’re being awfully glib, Illarion.
 
How do you propose to pull this off?”

“Just watch me,” he said.

“I’d rather hear your plan, not what Marius thinks you’ll
do.
 
I think we’d all like to hear
it.”

He knew this was coming and so he told them his plan.
 
He watched the faces first shift into
skepticism, he saw them think it through, and then he watched their eyes meet
his with what looked like a trace of either admiration or respect.
 
He decided he’d take either.

“Any questions?” he asked.

The room went silent.

Katzev looked over at Conrad Bates, who was staring back at
him.
 
He cocked his head at him and
waited for a sarcastic reply, but when he realized that even Bates had nothing
to say, he knew his instincts were correct and that if he was going to succeed,
he needed to act fast.

CHAPTER TW
ELVE

Illarion Katzev, born Iver Kester in Aberdeen, Scotland, before
he assumed the identity of a Russian for the sake of secrecy within the
syndicate he helped to create with Jean-George Laurent, had homes in Aberdeen,
Moscow and Manhattan.
 

It was only in Aberdeen, where friends and family knew him as
the boy who came from modest means and a broken home shattered by an alcoholic
father, that he went by his real name.
 
In his hometown, he was celebrated as a successful entrepreneur in the
States and an example of what could be achieved through risk, luck and hard
work.
 

With his father long since dead, but with his mother still
alive and thriving in her seventies, he visited his hometown once each year, generally
for a week, whereupon he was feted by his mother, his old friends, his aunts,
uncles and cousins.
 
They knew him
only as Iver, who left Aberdeen when he was twenty to go to America, where he
worked long hours to carve out a fortune in buying and selling real estate
while much of his family remained in Aberdeen to work on the family farm.

What his family and friends didn’t know was the secret life he
led.
 

They didn’t know that he went by Illarion Katzev, they didn’t
know that he spent years with a tutor to become fluent in Russian and they also
didn’t know that he had spent the same amount of years with the same tutor to
perfect how a Russian accent would sound when spoken in English.
 

There was more.
 

They didn’t know that he owned a home in Moscow to galvanize
the belief that he was, in fact, Russian.
 
They knew about the apartment in Manhattan, but because they couldn’t
afford to visit him, they had no idea that the apartment was a lavish penthouse
on Fifth Avenue.
 
They knew he had
done well, but they’d never suspect that he had amassed a net worth of
millions.
 
And they certainly didn’t
know about the syndicate, which grew those millions exponentially.

To him, he always would be their Iver, who worked hard when he
was young at any random job he could find in Aberdeen, all in an effort to buy
a one-way ticket to America, where he was determined to change the course of
his life in Manhattan.
 
He
succeeded, only in ways they’d never know or understand.

Now, in his penthouse, Illarion returned from his office on
Madison, where he had addressed the syndicate, who agreed to his plan to root
out Carmen Gragera and have her assassinated.
 
In his living room, which overlooked
Central Park, he fixed himself a Scotch and soda, and thought through his plan.

St. Vincent’s group home services is where Carmen chose to give
a significant chunk of her money.
 
Through Google, he learned that St. Vincent’s served more than seventy
adolescents who directly benefitted from Carmen’s generosity.
 
Earlier, he called St. Vincent’s and
spoke to a woman about making a donation.
 
“I want to make sure that this is where my friend, Carmen Gragera, makes
donations.
 
We were talking about it
at dinner the other night.
 
I’m
fairly certain she said St. Vincent’s.”

The woman brightened at the sound of Carmen’s name.
 
She said that they had a close
relationship with her and that she was instrumental in the lives of many of
their charges.
 

“We know Carmen well,” the woman said.
 
“She’s an angel, that one.
 
She treats the children, regardless of
their age or what they might have done in their pasts, with respect and
kindness.
 
I can’t tell you how many
lives she’s changed.
 
We’d be so
grateful for your support.”
   

“Is there any child in particular that Carmen has ‘adopted’ as
her own?” Katzev asked.

“That’s easy,” the woman said.
 
“There are three.
 
All young women who at this point in
their lives are probably too old for adoption.
 
Two are fifteen, one is one the cusp of
turning seventeen.
 
They’ll likely
be with us until they graduate high school, which won’t be long now.
 
Carmen writes to them monthly and she
visits them when she can.
 
I think
she sees elements of herself in them, especially Chloe, whom she’s closest
to.
 
I know she thinks she can help
them just by being close to them and offering advice about how best to go
forward with their lives.”

“And who better than Carmen for that?” he said without a trace
of sarcasm, though within, he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.
 
“What are the names of the other two
girls?” he asked.

“First names?”

“Sure.”

Giving out first names didn’t rub against the rules of
confidentiality set forth by St. Vincent’s board of directors.
 
She gave him the names, which he wrote
down.

“They think of her as their sister,” the woman said.
 
“Maybe even as close as a surrogate
mother as they’re going to get.
 
Whatever you can do for them and for the rest of our charges would be
very much appreciated.
 
I’m not
ashamed to say that we rely on any sort of generosity.”

“You have my complete support,” Katzev said.
 
“But I’d like to make my pledge a
surprise to Carmen.
 
Can we keep
this between us for now?”

“Of course!
 
I’d
love to surprise her.”

“That’s what I was hoping.
 
I know she’ll be thrilled.
 
Are the girls doing well in high school?”

“All three are excelling.”

“That’s terrific.
 
I’m sure Carmen’s influence has helped.
 
But schools are so important when
college is likely the next step.
 
Which schools are they attending?
 
I might be able to get them into a private.”

“They all attend the same school and it’s one of the best.”

“Which one is that?”

“Forest Hills?
 
Right near Rego Park in Queens?”

“That is a good school,” he said, writing it down.

“And difficult to get in to, but Carmen handled that for
us.
 
Carmen worked her magic.
 
They should be getting out soon for the
day.
 
Would you like to come here
and meet them?”

“Maybe another time,” Illarion Katzev said.
 
“But soon.”

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER THIR
TEEN

The following morning, Carmen woke on a set of towels that
smelled so strongly of bleach, she was surprised they hadn’t asphyxiated her
during the night.
 

With the shades drawn, her room at the hotel was muted gray,
but it was so bright along the periphery of the blinds covering the windows,
she could see the sun shined outside.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, looked
around.
 
In the chair across from
her were the bags of clothes she dropped off when she returned yesterday
evening after shopping for clothes and toiletries in the stores near the hotel.
 
Thanks to Babe McAdoo’s courier, on the
desk at the end of the bed was a new MacBook Air.
 
The hotel actually had Wi-Fi, which
Carmen considered as close to a miracle as she ever would come to a miracle in
her lifetime, so now she was once again fully connected to the world, which was
critical.

She reached for the phone on the table beside her and pressed
the button for the front desk.
 
“I’d
like a pot of coffee, please.”

“Here at the Holiday Inn Express, we have a complimentary
breakfast that includes Gourmet Folger’s coffee, which is being served right
now in our dining area.”

“Gourmet Folger’s?
 
Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“An oxy—?”

“Moron.
 
Those two
words have no business being together in the same sentence.”

“But that’s what it says on the can.
 
‘Gourmet Folger’s’.
 
I’ve seen it myself.”

“And you didn’t question it?”

“What’s to question?”

“How about just delivering a pot?”

“You can have a fresh cup of coffee and so much more in our
dining suite.”

“So, now it’s a suite?”

“Excuse me?”

“A moment ago, you called it a ‘dining area’.”

“It’s a large serving area, currently thriving with hungry
customers.”

“Can you please just deliver me a pot of coffee?”

“While we don’t provide room service, our documented three-star
service nevertheless abounds in our dining—”

Carmen hung up the phone and put her face in her hands.
 
She rubbed it in an effort to wake
up.
 
She had to eat.
 
She knew it.
 
It had been two days since she’d had
anything of substance.
 

But there was no way she was eating at this dump.

She went over to the windows facing the street, parted the curtains,
winced at the bright light and saw a few restaurants across the way.
 
Each looked reasonably busy, which was
promising.
 
She was meeting Babe and
Jake later at Babe’s house on Park, but she had time for a quick shower and
breakfast.
 
She pulled out a pair of
jeans, a bra, panties and a sweater from one of the bags, ripped off the tags,
placed the clothes on top of the towels, grabbed her Glock from the bedside
table, checked the magazine, placed the gun on the basin next to the shower,
turned on the water and stepped into it.
 
Surprisingly, the water pressure was strong and hot.
 
Score one for the Express
, she
thought.
 

She was drying her hair with the hotel’s underwhelming
mini-hairdryer when her cell rang, which was untraceable because it used satellite
technology.
 
She clicked off the
dryer, went into the other room, and picked up the phone on the desk to see who
was calling.

She felt a start when she saw that it was Katzev.

She debated on whether to answer.
 
Instinct and experience told her it could
go either way if she did answer, so she chose to let him connect with her
through voice mail first.
 
Best not
to engage him now.
 
If he left a
message, he’d let her know why he was calling.
 

At least on some level, he will.

She held the device in her hands and waited.
 
It took longer than she anticipated, but
finally came the beep signaling a message was left.
 
She put the phone on speaker and
listened to it.

“Carmen,” he said.
 
“Ignoring me?
 
Really?
 
After all these years?
 
That’s a shame.
 
Here’s another.
 
I know how much you were hoping to
attend Chloe’s high school graduation next year, but that won’t happen for one
of two reasons.
 
You’re either going
to give yourself up so she can enjoy her graduation and thus live out the rest
of her life, or I plan to kill her if you don’t come in.
 
Of course, there’s a chance you might
not come in, that you’ll just sacrifice her because you really are as cold as I
think you are, so here’s the big picture.
 
St. Vincent’s, where I’ve learned you give a great deal of money and
support, has seven group homes around Queens and Staten Island.
 
If you don’t come in, we will torch
those homes late at night, when everyone’s asleep, including the other two
girls you admire—Valencia and Shenika.
 
Do you understand me?
 
All inside will die.
 
So, be sensible about this.
 
You’ve lived an exciting life, so why
cheat these presumably reformed kids from having a few adventures of their own?
 
Haven’t they earned it?
 
I’m hanging up now, but know
this—if I don’t hear from you soon, you never know what I might do.
 
Or already have done.
 
You know the number.
 
I suggest you call and we’ll set up a
time for you to come in so we can discuss the reason we’re eliminating
you.
 
Deep down, you already know
the reason.
 
But to be fair, in case
you’re somehow in the dark about it, we’ll tell you in person and give you an
opportunity to respond before we act.”

The line went dead.

Carmen put down the phone and pulled her damp hair away from
her face.
 
She twisted it angrily
behind her head, flipped it over into a knot and pulled it tight.
 

Those girls meant everything to her.
 
Her contributions supported everyone at
St. Vincent’s, but for years, those particular three girls had her love, her
friendship and received as much of her time as she could give them.
 
She might not be capable of having
children herself, but she had these girls and they were like daughters to
her.
 
She’d known them for eight
years, she knew their hopes and their dreams, she knew of their rotten pasts,
and she’d do whatever she could to protect them.
 

He mentioned Chloe.
 
Had he already done something to her?
 
If not, he was about to.

She picked up the phone and called Spocatti.

“This is becoming a habit,” he said.

“Are you busy?”

“Actually, I’m still in Capri, enjoying the sun.
 
I told Babe I’d help where I can.
 
I have nothing on the books for another
week, so I’m available to talk.”

“Where are you off to next?”

“Mexico.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Doesn’t matter.
 
All of those unpleasant things I’ve been asked to do there will buy me a
house here, where I’ve decided I want to live, at least part of the year.
 
Have you been here?”

“Just once.”
 
Years
ago, her father took her to Capri for a job.
 
She was young, the situation was tense,
the job was difficult, but it also was thrilling.
 
When they finished, her father said he
wanted to buy her a beer, which turned into five.
 
They went to a small bar tucked away in
some random corner of Capri.
 
It was
mid-afternoon, it was mostly empty and it had only one window that overlooked
the street, but her father filled that bar for her with stories about his life
that she didn’t know, but held onto now.
 
“I don’t remember much of it,” she said.
 
“It was years ago.
 
I do remember that it was beautiful.”

“That’s all you remember about Capri?”

“I was there to do a job, Vincent.
 
I wasn’t there to sightsee.
 
And I especially wasn’t there for a
one-night stand.”
 
She didn’t
mention her father.
 
He knew nothing
about him.

“Then you don’t know how to live.
 
So, what’s the problem now?”

She told him.

“That Katzev is a crafty one,” he said.
 
“We’ll get to him in a minute.
 
First, I’m surprised by you,
Carmen.
 
You actually give money to
the poor?
 
Who does that?
 
And why are you so enamored by
children?
 
Is that the reason you
wouldn’t kill that little Hispanic
bruja
on the Wall Street job?
 
The one falling asleep at the kitchen
table?
 
The one I eventually had to
kill?”

“I don’t kill children, Vincent.”

“One day, over a bottle of wine in my new villa in Capri,
you’ll have to tell me why.
 
I mean,
come on.
 
They’re like whacking a
piñata, only money falls out.
 
If
I’m asked to target some bumbling six-year-old for execution because his or her
parents won’t get in line for my client, I’m on it.
 
Quick money.
 
You just sit quietly behind some bushes,
watch them totter blindly around a playground like zombies, and when they
finally settle down to dig in some dirt like the dogs they
are—bam!—they’re suddenly bleeding out and creating the sort of
mess that children tend to create.
 
Then you’re off to the next job.”

“It’s not for me.”

“Your conscience kills me, Carmen, but that’s one of the
reasons I like you.
 
We all have our
limits, though I’ve yet to find mine.
 
Probably kittens.”

“Vincent—”

“So, about Katzev,” he said, the joking over.
 
“He’ll do what he said he’ll do.
 
We both know that.
 
One of your girls will be dead soon if
you don’t ring him up and offer yourself to him.
 
If you don’t, he’ll probably target
another.
 
And so on until he starts
setting buildings on fire.
 
Are you
prepared to die for these children?”

“Yes.”

“Who is this?” he asked, this time with a note of impatience in
his voice.
 
“Carmen?
 
An impostor?
 
Apparently, I don’t know you as well as
I thought I did.”

“You don’t.”

“All right,” he said.
 
“So you want to save humanity from Katzev.”

“No.
 
I want to put
a bullet through his head for killing Alex, for targeting me and for
threatening those girls and St. Vincent’s.
 
By the way,” she said, “the irony of St. Vincent’s name is staggering,
don’t you think?
 
Maybe it’s your
call to action.”

“What do you want me to do, Carmen?”

“I need something on him.
 
Maybe his real name, which I could threaten to send to my contact at the
NYPD.
 
I’d pay him dearly to
investigate Katzev, which would put the syndicate in jeopardy.
 
That’s the sort of information I
need.
 
Something that will frighten
him to the point that he’ll back off until I can figure out where he lives and
take him out myself.”

“We already know where he lives, Carmen.”

She was rendered speechless.
 
A rush of questions rose within her, the
first of which was why she wasn’t told about this earlier.
 
Spocatti spoke before she could reply.

“Babe called Gelling this morning to give him an update on
where things stand now.
 
I hear it
allowed him to take another breath and for his heart to strike another
beat.
 
So, good for Babe.
 
Apparently, Gelling has been working his
contacts since you met with him.
 
He’s found your Katzev.
 
Babe
planned to tell you this afternoon, when you went to her house to
strategize.
 
Gelling also has other
information, though Babe didn’t tell me what it was because I didn’t ask.
 
Given the urgency of your current
situation, I’d recommend that you contact her now, give her an update on
Katzev’s telephone message to you and suggest that you meet immediately so you
can get ahead of this before he follows through.”