Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
Last night, Nordeshenko had written a long letter to his wife and son. He had left it in his hotel room, in the event he did not make it back.
In the letter he admitted he was not exactly the good man they may have always thought he was, and that the things they may be hearing about him were probably true. He wrote that it saddened him that he had had to hide so much from them over the years. But in each life, he added, one is never all bad or all good. What was good about his life was the two of them. He wrote that he loved them both very much, and trying to close with a joke, he told his son that he too had grown to prefer poker over chess.
He signed the letter,
from your loving husband and father, Kolya Remlikov.
Nordeshenko’s real name.
A name neither of them knew.
At precisely 11:40 a.m., Nordeshenko put down his magazine and made his way outside and up to the third floor. It was mostly court and administrative offices. He found the men’s bathroom along the elevator bank and ducked inside. A heavyset black man with a large mole on his cheek was finishing up washing his hands. Nordeshenko ran the water, waiting for him to leave.
When the black man departed, Nordeshenko removed the top to the trash receptacle, dug his hand through the balled-up paper towels, and removed the carefully wrapped bundle that he knew was there. Just as Reichardt had said it would be.
Nordeshenko went into a stall and unwrapped the bundle: a Heckler and Koch 9mm pistol, his gun of choice. He checked the magazine and, seeing that it was fully loaded, tightly screwed on the suppressor.
He knew the judge was a stickler for regimen. He always let out his court a few minutes before 12:30 p.m. for lunch. The story went that no lawyer arguing before Barnett wanted to be in the middle of a key point around that time.
Only a few minutes more.
From his pocket, Nordeshenko took out a tiny cell phone. He had checked one at security, just like everyone else, but kept the second hidden away.
No messages.
That meant Nezzi was gone and everything was set now.
He checked the code that would get things started. All that was left to do was to hit Send.
Nordeshenko left the stall and took a last look at himself in the mirror. His heartbeat started to quicken.
Remi, be calm. You know how people will react. You know human nature better than anyone. The element of surprise is with you. Just like it has a dozen times before, everything will go your way.
With his newly dyed hair, the fake beard, and glasses, the thought passed through him that in the next few minutes he might die as he always feared:
unrecognized.
With someone else’s name. The prints would have to be matched, and even then, the trail was blank. Just a sergeant in the Russian army, a deserter. It might be weeks, months, before anyone even knew he was dead.
Of course, and Nordeshenko smiled to himself at this, he might live, too. He cocked the Heckler and stuffed it inside his pocket.
It was like pushing all your money into the center of the table. In this case, a 2.5-million-dollar fee.
You never knew for sure until you turned over the last card.
DOMINIC CAVELLO WAS eyeing the courtroom clock too, trying to block out the idle chatter, which he knew, in just moments, would have very little to do with the rest of his life. That was when Judge Barnett would lean into the microphone, no matter who was speaking, and ask if this was a good time to take a break.
And then, as if on cue, at 12:24 p.m. the judge cut in on the prosecutor’s questioning. “Mr. Goldenberger . . .”
Cavello felt his pulse start to race.
Sayonara,
he snickered.
Playtime’s over. Little Dom here is ready to go home.
The judge instructed the prospective jurors to reconvene at exactly two o’clock. Slowly, the jury pool began to file out. “Marshals, you may take possession of the defendant now.”
Cavello stood up. He didn’t give a shit about what was going to happen next. In fact, he’d make their job easy. “Okay, fellas.” The same two who had brought him in this morning were taking him back to jail. The broad-shouldered guy with the thick mustache held out the cuffs. “Sorry, Dom.”
Cavello put out his wrists. “Not a problem, Eddie-boy. I’m all yours.”
He knew their names. He knew a half dozen little things about them. The black guy had been a tank commander in Desert Storm. The one with the bushy mustache had a son who was being recruited by Wisconsin to play football. He snapped the shackles tightly over Cavello’s wrists.
“Jeez, guys, can’t you give an honest citizen a break? Hey, Hy,” he called out to his attorney, “you guys have a nice big steak on me. See you back here at two.”
The marshals led him out the side entrance to the elevator in the hall, on the way back to his prison cell, a couple of blocks away. He’d made the trip so many times, he could probably do it in his sleep if he had to.
“You know what the worst thing is about spending the rest of your life in jail?” He winked to the marshal with the mustache as they headed out into the hall. “The food! Especially at that pigsty, Marion. You know the only thing that keeps you going out there?” He nudged him with an elbow. “The death sentence, that’s what. The lethal injection.” Cavello laughed. “That’s the only thing that gives you any hope!”
A third guard, with a radio in one hand, was holding the doors open when they got to the elevator. He barked into the radio, “They’re on their way.” Eddie and the black guy escorted him inside.
The black marshal pushed
U,
for
underground.
He knew that if the basement was selected, the elevator wouldn’t stop at any other floor, unless it was overridden from inside. The doors closed.
Cavello turned to the black marshal, who never talked very much. “You like pizza, Bo? Black people eat pizza, don’t they?”
“Yeah, I like pizza, Dom,” the black guard growled.
“Sure, all cops like pizza.” Cavello sighed. “Hey, you know what we should do? Screw this jail thing. How ’bout we ditch this baby at the lobby and take a spin out to the old neighborhood in Brooklyn for an hour or two? I’ll show you what a real Italian meal is. C’mon, I’ll have us all back by two. They won’t even know we were gone.”
He nudged Eddie as the elevator descended, watching the floor lights start to go down.
“That would be a pisser, wouldn’t it, Eddie-boy? The whole free world is out looking for us—and we’re just sitting at Pritzie’s having a veal and peppers and a beer. So whaddya say?”
The burly marshal grinned. “Sounds like a plan, Dom.”
“That’s what it sounds like to me, too,” Cavello said, following the lights of the floor panel as the elevator descended. “A plan.”
ANDIE WAS WAITING for me out in the hallway. She said that she’d seen enough. She didn’t have to be there anymore. I rode down the elevator with her and a couple of prospective jurors to the lobby. There was a little awkwardness between us there. I told her how brave I thought she was to come. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, Nick. It was a good idea.”
On my way upstairs, I stuck my head inside the security room for a check on Cavello. He was headed down to the basement now. I watched over the shoulder of one of the agents as Cavello moved in front of the elevator, chatting with his guards. Everything was under control. The security captain was in close contact with all points along the exit route. “The subject’s in motion,” he reported in.
Suddenly, the ground beneath us rocked. It was like an earthquake! Coffee cups, pens, clipboards clattered to the floor.
“Jesus, something’s happened,” one of the agents monitoring the screens shouted and pointed. “In the garage! There’s been an explosion down there! Holy shit!”
We crowded close to the monitor and watched what happened next in shock. Billowing gray smoke began to block the screen. Then everything went completely black.
A radio report crackled in from one of the units stationed underground. “There’s been an explosion down here. The garage is on fire. There may be casualties. I can’t make much out. Too much smoke, smoke everywhere.”
The captain seized a microphone. “This is Meachem. We have a situation in the garage! Some kind of explosive device has been detonated. I want SWAT, backup, and medical units down there pronto. And I want to know what the hell’s going on.”
I didn’t have to look at the screen. I
knew
what was going on.
The screens kept flashing back and forth to different monitors in the garage, trying to locate a clear view of what was taking place. I grabbed Meachem by the shoulder. “Captain, this isn’t about the garage. It’s about Cavello! Get all agents on alert. He’s on his way down there now!”
I rushed back to the other end of the console and checked the elevator scene.
Jesus, no!
My eyes bulged in horror. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—only I knew it was happening again.
I ran to the door.
CAVELLO WAS STILL in the elevator, kibitzing with the guards, joking for all he was worth. His eyes angled toward the control panel. The descending lights flashed:
7, 6, 5.
Now!
In that instant he lunged toward the panel, pressing his thumb solidly onto the heat-sensitive square for the third floor.
“
What the hell?
” The elevator jerked to an unexpected stop. The door started to open. The black marshal reached out to rein in Cavello, powerfully pressing him up against the wall. Then someone stepped inside.
The marshal’s jaw fell open. “What the—”
The first shot caught him between the eyes and hurled him against the paneled wall. He sank to the floor, leaving a dark-red smear.
The next two shots caught Eddie-boy in the chest. Two plum-colored circles appeared on his white shirt. The guard released Cavello with a deep groan as he crumpled to the floor. He looked up at the shooter. “I’ve got kids.”
“Sorry, Eddie-boy,” Cavello said. Two more silenced thuds ripped into his chest, and the guard went still.
“Hurry,” the Israeli snapped, pressing the button for the lobby, then tossing Cavello a pouch. “We don’t have any time.”
Inside the pouch, Cavello found a dark woman’s wig and a raincoat. The Israeli plopped the wig on Cavello’s head and draped the coat loosely over his shoulders, doing his best to conceal the fugitive’s cuffed hands. He knew they only had seconds, no more, while attention was diverted by the explosion in the garage.
Cavello pressed down the wig. “Is everyone in place?”
“We had better hope so,” Nordeshenko said, positioning himself behind Cavello in order to conceal his gun. “You’re ready? This is no sure thing.”
“Whatever happens,” Cavello said, “it beats life in prison.”
“Perhaps,” said the Israeli.
The elevator doors opened again at the lobby. A couple of people were waiting to board.
“It’s broken. Take another,” Nordeshenko growled, pushing Cavello past them. Then he and the disguised mobster rushed down the long corridor toward a side entrance onto Worth Street.
Behind them, people had seen the bodies in the elevator. They were screaming. Nordeshenko never looked back. “
Hurry!
Or we both die here. I’m allergic to prisons.”
It was about forty yards down the corridor to the security station, but it seemed like more as they wove through bystanders, ignoring the shouts behind them. Nordeshenko spotted Reichardt and two of Cavello’s men posing as press at the entrance. He turned up the collar of Cavello’s raincoat and hurried toward them.
Fifteen yards more. That was all.
As they approached, a radio crackled. “Something’s happened!” one of the guards shouted. “Close it down, now!”
Reichardt removed a dark metallic object from under his jacket. Then everything went completely nuts. Shots rang out, automatic gunfire in the courthouse lobby. Two guards went down before they had a chance to get to their guns. The last one, a blond woman, fumbled frantically with her holster as Reichardt slammed her against the marble wall with a burst of automatic fire. She hit the floor dead.
Nordeshenko and Cavello were running as they reached the security station.
They heard a shout. “FBI! Everybody get down!”
Nordeshenko took a look and saw a figure at the end of the corridor, arms extended in shooting position, trying to get a shot off through the crowd.
Shit.
He pressed Cavello in front of him. A round whizzed past his face, ripping into the chest of one of Cavello’s hoods. Reichardt returned the fire. The noise of the gunfire was deafening. People were screaming and scrambling for their lives.
Nordeshenko shielded Cavello with his own body. It was the job. He pushed through the doors.
Outside!
It was chaos all around them. Cops were running toward the entrance to the underground garage down the block. The detonated bomb had worked well. A cloud of dark smoke rose into the sky.
A young cop came up to them, not sure what was going on. “We’re hurt,” Nordeshenko said to him. “Look.” As the cop leaned closer, Nordeshenko stuck the muzzle of the Heckler into his chest and pulled the trigger. With a groan, the policeman sank to the sidewalk.
A black Bronco screeched to the curb in front of them. The back door was flung open, and Nordeshenko, Cavello, and Reichardt dove inside.
Nezzi was at the wheel. Without coming to a complete stop, the Bronco sped away.
A commercial truck pulled out directly behind them, then suddenly stopped in the street, blocking any pursuit.
At the corner the light was green. They shot onto St. James and drove up two blocks, through Chatham Square, then made a right on Catherine, in Chinatown. They made another quick right on Henry, then Nezzi pulled the Bronco into a vacant lot.
Nordeshenko leaped out, still shielding Cavello’s body, and ripped open the sliding door of a blue minivan. He pushed the gangster in. Then he jumped behind the wheel. Reichardt and Nezzi got into a tan Acura parked across the street. The Israeli saluted them.