Cries of the Lost (29 page)

I sent the email and immediately received an automated reply. It said they had my request and I should expect a response in about three to six weeks.

I went out to the balcony where Natsumi was in a lounge chair reading
This Side of Paradise
by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

“Seemed fitting,” she said. “Though I gotta tell you, kids in the 1920s were just as self-involved and grandiose as kids are today. They just dressed better and actually talked to each other.”

“We need to move again,” I said. “Nothing scary. For research purposes, though it’s not a bad idea to get a little distance from recent events.”

“Where to?”

“Since you’ve become accustomed to the beautiful and exotic, how about Albany, New York?” I asked.

“Do they speak English?”

“A form of it.”

“Great. I’m sick of all these extra vowels.”

T
HE
JFK airport is not a kind place, nor an easy place to navigate. In some ways, it was stranger to return there than it had been to leapfrog through foreign environments. Though I liked speaking again in our regional vernacular.

“How ya doin’?” said the customs agent rummaging around in our bags.

“Doin’ okay.”

“Got stuff to declare?”

“Nuthin’.”

I’d sent all the electronic gear ahead via FedEx, including equipment sourced in Europe and other far reaches of the world. There was nothing suspect or explosive in our luggage, with the exception of the tie I bought in Como.

We coasted through, and were in a rented Chevy Impala shortly thereafter. We headed into Manhattan where I’d made reservations at the Remsenberg, a tiny boutique hotel on West 45th, on the same block as the old offices of
The New Yorker
and near the Algonquin Hotel. They’d turned the Oak Room, where Dorothy Parker, Alexander Wolcott and the other Roundtable luminaries once set unsurpassable standards for witty repartee, into a breakfast buffet, but I still liked to be in its proximity.

Another appeal was the availability of two rooms with a connecting door. This allowed us to separate the computer array from the sleeping quarters. Not only could Natsumi now sleep with the lights off, she didn’t have to listen to me chat with myself, mutter gentle swear words, guffaw, hum jazz riffs, and make other assorted sounds, something I hadn’t realized about myself.

“Are you kidding?” said Natsumi. “It’s like eavesdropping on a patient with severe DID.”

“DID?”

“Dissociative identity disorder. Split personality.”

That might have explained how I was able to spend the bulk of my life alone in a home office glued to a computer screen. I kept myself company.

A
S
SOON
as we were thoroughly settled in, I called Evelyn.

“So, tell me you’re in Kazakhstan,” she said.

“West 45th Street.”

“As in New York City?”

“Yup.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“I’ve been working on getting you protection, so you might be able to come home fairly soon.”

“Take your time. I spent the whole day at the Twelve Apostles yesterday. Gigantic stone pillars off the Southern Coast. Been dodging kangaroos and emu. Everything’s backwards and upside down. I feel like I’m marooned on another planet.”

“Have you heard from Bruce?” I asked.

“He sent me the agreement with the broker, and a valuation. How should I get it to you?”

I gave her a secure route.

“What’s the bottom line?” I asked.

“Eight million. After taxes, fees and commissions.”

“How long?”

“A month, max,” she said. “Unless due diligence turns up another nasty surprise.”

“Excellent. How’s Bruce holding up?”

“Better now that he’s back on St. John’s with a security team hanging around with him and his wife. Everyone else is working from home and things are running fine. Maybe better.”

“Give me a computer and a broadband ISP and I will move the world.”

A
FTER
SLEEPING
off the jet lag and getting fully organized in our new rooms, we took a field trip to the upper West Side. Far to the west, on 72nd Street, where Joselito Gorrotxategi lived out his dazzling lifestyle.

It was mostly a wasted effort. The block was lined with apartment buildings and the street with cars lucky enough to snag a spot. No different from hundreds of other city blocks. We looked at the door buzzers, as if that would reveal some grave secret, but learned nothing we didn’t already know.

We walked the rest of the way to the park and sat on a bench for a while, looking at the Hudson River. Joggers and dog walkers passed by.

“So what’re you going to do next?” Natsumi asked.

“We need to shake the tree again, but frankly, I’ve lost the stomach for playing bait.”

We walked all the way back, from 72nd to 45th, my hands stuck in my pockets, her arm through mine. We talked about everything but recent events, instead pointing out city sights and reminiscing over trips to New York in our pasts and the adventures we had there.

“We came on a field trip in high school,” she said. “A rare boyfriend and I peeled off from the group and spent the day drinking beer in delis and kissing between the stacks at the New York Public Library. Since both of us were little, ignored nerds, nobody noticed we’d been gone when the group got back on the bus. A good day.”

I had a few tales myself, none so romantic and brash. More involving long gawking moments in museums and art galleries.

“And tourist traps, though I was more concerned about the load-bearing physics of the Empire State Building than the gift shop.”

When we got back to the Remsenberg, I made a cup of coffee and went into the computer room to check on things. None of my key mailboxes had seen any recent activity, which is all I normally cared about. But occasionally, I’d check dormant addresses still live since they posed little security risk. One of these had belonged to Kirk Tazman, the mythical executive from Deer Park Underwriters that supposedly managed Florencia’s secret account.

There was one email, about three weeks old, from Dominic Etherton, the stern safe-deposit manager from First Australia Bank, Grand Cayman.

Mister Tazman:

It is with a heavy heart I write you, despite great jeopardy to my life, that the confidential information on your account with us has been breached in several egregious ways. I take this as a personal shame, though I was in no way able to prevent it.

On the day you came to withdraw the contents of your safe-deposit box, I was alerted individuals were in the bank asking to engage with an account under the highest level of legal surveillance. At that time, I was instructed by my superior manager, Mr. Sato, to inform both the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service and the American consulate office in George Town.

I did so, though I refused Mr. Sato’s demand we confine you and your assistant until the authorities arrived. I believed, and still believe, this would have been an unforgivable betrayal of our bank’s and nation’s commitment to our valued customers.

I was censured for this by my bank’s management, but that was the end of it, until two weeks ago when a Latino man came to my office and told me he had guns pointed at my children and wife and would shoot them if I did not turn over every record relating to your account.

I did as he asked, of course, in full. My bank does not know this happened. Neither do the police. I am telling you because I feel a powerful moral obligation. I am also trusting you not to reveal my transgression, understanding that my family’s lives were at stake, and still are, I believe, if this event comes to light.

With the humblest and sincerest apologies,

Dominic Etherton

C
HAPTER
18

T
he next day we were in a bar not far from our hotel drinking straight vodka with Ekrem “Little Boy” Boyanov. More specifically, Little Boy and Natsumi were drinking straight vodka. I was hard into my third club soda.

Little Boy was, not surprisingly, huge. His head alone probably outweighed Natsumi. Boyish only in his tussled good looks and ready grin, his hands could crush golf balls and had, in fact, mashed a few heads.

“So how’s Mirsada doing?” I asked him, after about a half hour of perfunctory pleasantries and expressions of irrevocable devotion and regard.

“She’s in good graces, which I take to mean getting laid, which believe me, no problem for Mirsada. The girl loves her work.”

“I need her to get Joselito out of his apartment for a hunk of time. Not just a night out. A weekend in Atlantic City, or St. Barths.”

“This we can do.”

“Thank you,” said Natsumi.

“And I could use the help of a good B&E man. A New York City apartment specialist.”

“Sure. We do anything for you two nuts,” he said.

“We are honored to have you as trusted partners,” said Natsumi, with a little Japanese bow.

“See? This is why. Respect.”

Before it got too ripe, I called the waiter over and we ordered our meals. With that accomplished, I asked Little Boy what he’d been up to.

“A little of this, a little of that,” he said. “Nice business in copper from old buildings. We learn this from you, Mr. G. Metals rule. High-end hookers, still too profitable to let go, though the wife don’t like this too much. But what the hell? Girls keep signing up, boys keep looking for business, this is my fault? Otherwise, core interests in boosting general merchandise, cigarettes and booze going good. Very dull but profitable, with little exposure. I don’t look for glamour, just reliable ROI, you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

He downed a full glass of Grey Goose and said, “So, what’s the big picture?”

I paused to focus his attention. “Joselito is affiliated with an organization out of Spain who we think are right-wing vigilantes, though we’re not sure,” I said. “We think they’re in a fight with another group, also underground, though we’re not sure about that, either.”

“Things can get pretty murky with Europeans,” said Little Boy.

Having fought in the Balkan War, Little Boy’s opinion on that had some standing.

“It turned out we could have used your friends over there,” I said, and told him about the attack at the outdoor café.

“Sorry about that, Mr. G. Scary shit, right?”

“Oh, yes,” said Natsumi. “And that lake is colder than you think.”

“So you want some company now?” he asked.

“Again, not yet. But we might.”

“Give the word. We got local representation here in Astoria. Can be in midtown in half hour or less, depending on traffic.”

“Thanks, Little Boy,” said Natsumi.

“You got it, Mrs. G.”