The Dewey Decimal System (26 page)

But Iveta. My fingers start to tingle as I overbreathe.

“Which,” says the man, “brings us to the other major concern, so. As per my note.”

“She has nothing to do with—”

“Mr. Decimal, I’m very sorry, but she has everything to do with this. She is Branko’s wife. She, like Branko, is wanted in several countries for grievous crimes. Did you not know this?”

I look at my hands, still gloved. I am watching this scene play out as if from far above my body.

“So, so. She has you thinking something else, hmm?” He offers another melancholy smile. “What has she told you, my confused friend?”

“There has been some sort of mistake here …”

“Well. So. You are very confused indeed. This doesn’t bother me, if you are confused. But for yourself, what you should be concerned with is to tell me a) where are the ‘Shapskos,’ Mr. and Mrs. and b) where is the box. Otherwise, we have bigger problems than you can imagine.”

I’m nodding. My lips have gone numb. I look at the yellow keycard on the SUV’s floor. “How would you feel,” I say slowly, “about working out some sort of alternate exchange?”

S
ix pairs of dress shoes clap across the marble of Grand Central Station, ping-ponging off the walls like a beginner’s tap class.

“Here.” We have arrived at the bank of lockers. “It’s number 14, the second set.” Get it? Two. Fourteen. Easy to remember. I’d point it out for them but I’ve still got the cuffs on.

Brian takes the card and looks at it dubiously. Hands it to Agent Mike, who gives me a shitty look, walks over, and inserts it in the slot for the correct locker. He then opens it, and steps aside.

Suddenly the FBI folks are looking anywhere but Brian, all nonchalant.

Brian steps forward, withdraws a plastic bag, looks at me. “So. This had better be what I think it is.”

I nod. “Have a look.”

The older man withdraws the wooden box. Examines it, feels the markings like braille. Smells it. Slides open the side and has a good long gander at the hand within. After a time, he nods to himself and smiles.

I realize I haven’t been breathing.

Brian approaches me, putting the box back in the bag. “You must understand. This is not about religion. For us, it is a thing of national pride. We have so little. So, so, God gives us these priceless gifts.” He’s lost in a fog for a second, then snaps back. “Despite the difficulties you present earlier, you’ve just saved me much … inconvenience. And pain. So. And made everyone here some money.”

I nod.

“The buyer is in Paris, I likely go tomorrow then, so, so. But. What about the other matter?”

“Give me a pen and a bit of paper. And uncuff me, if you would.”

Brian looks at his guys. “So, who has a pen? And keys for these things?”

One of the fellows is behind me removing the cuffs, another hands me a pen and a tiny notebook.

I rub my wrists, then write the following:

Chelsea Market, 9th Ave btw W. 15th + W. 16th

Chelsea Wine Vault

Basemen thru trapdoor behind register

Brian looks at this. Raises his eyebrows.

I say, “You didn’t specify as to dead or alive.”

Brian shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. Alive is always better, people get some peace, so, so,
closure,
like you Americans say so much. But either way. I get paid the same.”

I nod at the notebook. “Go to that location. If things aren’t as I describe, the deal is off and you can do what you need to do. But I think you’ll find some, what, some closure there.”

Brian is quiet, staring at the notebook. Then he moves closer to me. “Speaking of closure. My information. Much of it I got from a man you know. Here, in New York. A man who is your … sometimes employer, hmm?”

“Are we talking about the district attorney?”

He makes an unreadable head gesture. “These titles. Who can say? All I am telling to you is he is making things easier for me, this local government man. Seems to have some … personal motivation, I think. Interested in seeing these two disappear. I don’t know reasons why. Just for you to know. So, so. Do what you want with that.”

“Was he your point person here in the city?”

“Not until recently, but these last days, so, he feeds me information. Yes.”

“I guess what I’m getting at: how extensive is the list of people who can ID Branko and his wife?”

Brian shrugs. “I would think very, very limited. Definitely this man I speak of now. Also some CIA people overseas. And of course, this lovely couple’s victims. So. But they can hardly speak up now, can they?” He gives me an ugly grin.

I’m thinking: uh-huh.

“Anyway,” says Brian, “you won’t see me again, if this all is, hmm, checking out here.” He taps the address I gave him. “So, I am done in this city.”

I extend my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

There’s a pause. “Yes,” says Brian simply.

We shake. I’m given my gear. The agents part. And I am on my way, strapping on my guns as I go.

T
his time, up at the Trump Tower, I go through the service entrance, unobserved. Been neglecting the System. With the System, pathways become clear. Easiest thing in the world.

Walk though a dark kitchen to a stairwell. Climb it to the eleventh floor. Swap out my surgical gloves for a new pair.

I knock three times at number 1119. Wait. Knock louder.

Daniel opens the door, disheveled, in a brown bathrobe. “Decimal. Goddamnit. I can’t sleep.” Gin comes off him in syrupy waves.

I walk in, past him. He weeble-wobbles a bit.

“I, uh, have been waiting. Thinking. About us, all this nonsense.”

I’m looking at him in the dark. He turns a light on. Has to reach for it a couple times before he manages.

“Decimal. Look. Bygones and all that. Fuck it. We got a thing together. That’s bigger than. I just … You wanna drink?”

I follow him into a decent-size office/living area. Computer, papers, lots of files. A dumpy couch, fireplace. He’s got a miniature fridge and a fully stocked wet bar.

“What can I get you? Dewey. Let’s have a drink, fuck it.”

I take out the Sig Sauer. I just take it out, don’t point it anywhere.

“I’m unarmed,” he says.

I produce the silencer.

“Dewey. Wow. It’s amazing. What we can convince ourselves of. She’s got you thinking, what? That in getting me out of the way, what, gonna solve all your problems. Am I right? When I’m right, I’m right.”

“Daniel. You need to shut your fucking mouth. You’re making this worse.” I’m attaching the silencer.

“Decimal. Look at me.” He sways a bit. “Will you give me two minutes? Straighten this out? It’s actually very simple.” His hand is trembling. “Decimal.”

“I’m listening. Won’t make any difference.”

“The stuff I said. About physically, uh, harming you. You know, I gave this reconsideration. Want you to know. Nothing to be worried about there.”

No response from me.

He’s sweating it, tries another approach. “Listen. This fucking broad. You’ve been misled. That’s fine. Me too. Look. Need you to know.” He waves his hand at the stack of papers near his desk. “Top of that pile. There’s a file, behind you. Everything you need to know about the woman we have called Iveta. It’s really bad-news kind of shit. She’s … Decimal, I’m telling you the truth. Right now. She has us both fooled. Playing us against each other. From the jump. Decimal.”

I pull his desk chair around from behind his desk. “Have a seat,” I say. He plops down in the chair. I’m standing over him.

“You gotta know. I met her at one of these goddamn parties. Very persuasive. Plus I’m flattered, you know? Don’t draw ladies like I used to. Anyway. I was, you know, hook, line, and sinker. The whole nine. I mean hell. They were living separate lives. Like me and my ex. Figured, get the husband out of the picture. Safety’s sake. Bring my best man in. That’s you. The best. Then, fuck’s sake, somebody at the State Department drops a dime on the pair of them. Sends this paperwork through. You can imagine. That it turns into this. My shock. So I gotta, I gotta make it right. Decimal. Say something.”

I pull back the hammer and raise the gun to his forehead. A stain spreads across his lap, he’s pissed himself, drink or fear or both, but to his credit, maintains eye contact and keeps his voice steady.

“Decimal. Under her file. You’ll find
your own
file. I think you might want to have a long look at that too. I admit,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I admit I took advantage. So fucking sue me. Your situation. You’re confused. The pills. They’re sugar, they’re nothing. You’ve had a lot of bad breaks. But you’re not what you think you are. Decimal. You’re a lot. Of fucking things. But you’re not this, this person in your head.”

“Are you through, Rosenblatt?”

“No. Decimal. There was never a wife and child. Decimal. Just went with the story. The story you had going. Followed your narrative. You have a whole mythology. I just went with it. But it’s all been, what. Imposed on you.”

I won’t hear this. I don’t hear this.

“So I’m thinking, you and me. Bring the biggest motherfucker of a lawsuit. The military has ever laid eyes on. Decimal, your file. You gotta know. The stuff they did. They opened up your fuckin
brain
…”

No, I won’t hear this. “That’s enough. It’s not working,” I say.

“You’re not—”

“Rosenblatt, you’re about to die. Do you understand?”

“You’re not. A freaking monster.”

I shoot him then, his balding scalp, and he goes floppy. Blood and other viscous stuff hit the far wall. His bowels evacuate, I smell it. Cuts through the plastic.

Dan, I am the sick black monster under your bed. I’m a stone-cold badass freak motherfucker of a baby killer. Doing what I groove on, what I do best.

That’s who I am and that’s how I do it.

Set my gun down behind me, on top of the file folders. Get out the digi camera, lens cap off. Too much backlight. I wanna capture the moment.

I get a shot of him, side on. As always, it’s an anticlimax. If it weren’t for all the blood, you’d think he was sleeping.

I pick up my gun, revealing the words:

International War Crimes Tribunal, The Hague, Netherlands
—
Classified Material

I’m thinking, just leave it be. Better to not know. But of course I flip open the folder.

Right there on page one, a candid shot of Iveta. No makeup, considerably younger. Military uniform and cap. Her hand is raised, she is indicating something to two uniformed men. The name underneath the photo reads,
Jovana Rac, Pristina, Kosovo, 1998.

I’d like to believe this is cheap shit, an amateur forgery. I know it’s not. Flip the page.

The heading is
Prepared for INTERPOL by the ICTY
.

Read:

… Jovana Rac is remarkable in the sense that women were an extreme rarity in the Serbian military forces, otherwise noted for their misogyny. Her usefulness is perhaps illustrated by the charges raised against her.

Rac is accused of furnishing women and girls for convicted war criminal Radomir Kovac and for contractors at CYNACORP for the purposes of sexual enslavement and forced labor; and of involvement with so-called “rape camps” in the region of Foca. Additionally, Rac is accused of one count of genocide, and of human trafficking.

I’m starting to feel sick. I close the file, look at the cover, look at the photo again … go back to the second page.

… active and enthusiastic participant in Operation Horseshoe, a large-scale campaign of ethnic cleansing of Kosovo Albanians. Rac was detained by NATO forces on August 17, 1999.

More photos, mug shots: face-on and face left/right. The hair is shorter still, but it’s her. The caption is:
Jovana Rac, August 18, 1999.

God, she looks great though.

I flip a few pages more, my fingers tingling. I lose my peripheral vision and am overbreathing. Disembodied, I see myself, reading this, landing on:

Escaped September 3, 1999, as a military transport to International War Crimes Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, The Hague, Netherlands, was diverted to Kishinev, Moldova, due to poor weather conditions. She has been traced as far as Odessa, Ukraine. Current whereabouts are unknown.