Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
On Hassan Shukri, near Memorial Park, he overtook a city bus and swung the car in front of it to block its path. “I’m looking for my son,” he yelled, and pounded on the door for the driver to open. “Please, let me in!”
People would be panicked, he knew. They would think him a terrorist! “Look, I’m not armed.” He put out his arms. Finally, the hesitant driver opened the door.
“Pavel!” Nordeshenko jumped on, searching the rows of startled passengers.
Pavel wasn’t there!
“I’m sorry, but we must move on,” the driver said. Nordeshenko stepped back onto the street.
Mira was right. They would have to call the police. There was no escaping it. Even to delay a minute could endanger his son more. Reichardt would have to leave—immediately. But surely Mira would mention him. The police would look into him.
This was very bad!
Minutes later, Nordeshenko pulled into his driveway. He slammed the Audi door and ran into his house. “Any word?”
“No.” Mira shook her head, clearly panicked.
“We’re in trouble,” Nordeshenko said, realizing now there was no other choice.
Reichardt came in from the deck. “What’s wrong?”
“You have to leave.
Now.
Pavel is missing. We have to call the police.”
The South African’s eyes stretched wide. Nordeshenko instinctively knew what the man was thinking. The conversation would turn to their visitor. They would have to explain him—and why he had had to leave so suddenly.
The telephone rang, reprieving them.
Mira covered her mouth. “Maybe that’s him.”
Nordeshenko ran to the phone. He didn’t want to let the South African out of his sight. He swallowed, lifting the receiver.
“Pavel?”
“You have a nice boy,” the voice on the line replied. “I’m going to give you instructions, and the degree to which you follow them will determine whether you ever see him again.”
“What?” Nordeshenko grunted. So it was some kind of kidnapping. He spoke in English.
Perfect English.
“I have your son,” the caller said again. “The good news is you can have him back safe and sound in a matter of minutes. The bad news is if you don’t do precisely what I ask, you’ll never see him again.”
“Who is this?” Nordeshenko demanded.
“Never mind who it is. What I’d focus on now is which of those two scenarios you see taking place.”
Nordeshenko looked at Mira, gave her a bolstering nod. “Let’s proceed with the good news. Getting Pavel back.”
“That’s wise. First things first. I think we’re both aware that it’s not in either of our interests to involve the police. Do we have an understanding on that?”
“We don’t have an understanding on anything, except that you will give me back my son. I want to speak with him.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be happening. Let’s just say he’s wearing jeans and a red sweatshirt and Nike sneakers, and he’s carrying some chess books and a wallet with a picture of his family in his pocket. As far as the rest, I’m afraid you’ll have to trust us on that.”
“You don’t have any idea who you’re dealing with,” Nordeshenko threatened into the phone.
“Oh, yes I do. I know who I’m dealing with,
Kolya Remlikov.
”
IF SOMEONE HAD suddenly burst in and blasted Nordeshenko up against the wall with a shotgun, he would have been no less stunned. No one had uttered that name to him in ten years.
He realized he was dealing with a more serious adversary.
“You hurt him,” Nordeshenko said, “you’ll be paying for that mistake the rest of your life.”
“
Hurt
him?” the American caller said. “I believe that’s more your style, Remlikov. You mean hurt him as in the elevator of the courthouse back in New York? Like what you did to those two marshals?”
Whatever color was left in Nordeshenko’s face drained.
Who could this be? Who had traced him?
Even Cavello’s people didn’t know who he was. This was worse than a ransom. His whole life was unraveling.
Nordeshenko’s mouth was as dry as sandpaper. “How much do you want?” he muttered.
“How much do we want? Not a cent, not a penny. You can have your boy back and go on with your decrepit, lying life. All you have to do is give me a single piece of information.”
“Information.” Nordeshenko wet his lips. “And what is that?”
“
Cavello,
” the caller answered.
Nordeshenko’s heart crashed to a stop. He had never once given a client up. He had never traded with anybody, never considered it. The list of people he worked with was sacred.
The American went on, “I’m giving you
one hour.
After that, you’ll never see your boy again. Your identity and Interpol dossier will be turned over to the Israeli police.”
“And what if I can’t help you?” Nordeshenko asked. “What if I don’t know?”
“Then I’d start packing.”
What could he do? They knew his name. How to reach him. They knew it was he who had helped Cavello escape. And they had the one thing that he valued most in the world in their possession. “Okay,” he said.
“Give me your mobile phone number—I’ll contact you within an hour. Drive down the hill. Wait for my call. The meet will be quick. And Kolya, I think we both know what a tragedy it would be if the police were involved.”
“You’ve got a lot of balls,” Nordeshenko said. “Whoever you are.” But he gave the man his number.
“That’s quite a statement, Kolya, after what I’ve seen you do.”
The line went dead. Nordeshenko gave Mira a reassuring nod. Then he signaled to the South African.
“Come on, Reichardt. There’s work to do.”
WE DROVE THE CAR to an abandoned tobacco warehouse I had scouted in the seedy Hadar section of town. And waited. The boy was sleeping peacefully. I gave him a breath of fresh ether every time he stirred.
Over the years, in the course of my job, I’d done a few things I wasn’t proud of. None like this. The boy was innocent, whatever his father had done. We watched him sleep in the backseat. Andie was sitting next to him, calming him. Once or twice she brushed his light-brown hair.
The exchange couldn’t come too quickly for either of us.
“Where are we going to meet?” Andie asked, the boy’s head resting on her thigh.
“You mean, where am
I
going to meet him? In the Baha’i Gardens. Six o’clock. There’s an outdoor concert going on an hour later. The place should be jammed.”
Andie nodded.
“I’ll need to tape his mouth and bind his hands, Andie. It’s necessary. He’ll be awake. I want him in the car with you. You can reassure him he’s going to see his father in a few minutes. When it’s time, I’ll call you. You drive up, look for my signal, then you let him go. And you get the hell out of there—you understand? I don’t want you anywhere around after it’s done.”
“Where?”
“Back to the hotel.” We’d changed lodgings this morning, out of the fancy Panorama to a smaller pension in the Old Town, where we didn’t even have to leave our passports. “We’re leaving for Tel Aviv tonight.”
“Where are we heading?”
“Paris. Late flight out. Assuming all goes well.”
“And after that?”
I opened the car door. “That part of the itinerary is yet to be determined.”
The boy stirred. The anesthetic was wearing off. Soon, I would let him wake. I glanced at my watch for about the fiftieth time. The hour had passed. “Time.”
Andie smiled bravely.
I got out and called Remlikov on his mobile. I told him the location where we were going to meet. I didn’t want Andie to hear what I had to say.
I came back to the car and sat in the front seat. “It’s done.” I nodded, leaning back with a sick expression, as if I’d been chewing rancid meat.
“You know, I’m okay with this, Nick.
I am.
There’s just one thing that doesn’t seem right.”
“What’s that?”
“Remlikov. And the blond guy. They’re the ones who killed Jarrod. They get off free?”
“We knew that coming over here, Andie. We came for Cavello. He’s the one who ordered it done.”
Suddenly, I heard the sound of the boy stirring. “Father?”
I got out of the car and opened the rear door. “Here.” I tossed Andie a baseball cap. “I want you wearing this at all times. And the sunglasses. The boy cannot see your face. This is when it starts to get dicey, Andie. I want you to be very careful from this point on.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Andie nodded flatly.
I took the rope and some duct tape. She stroked the boy, as if she were comforting Jarrod. “Sshh . . . it’s going to be all right.”
“And one more thing.” Our eyes met, as close as I could come in this moment to an embrace. “After the exchange, you wait an hour, that’s all. If I don’t come back to the hotel, you drive to Tel Aviv. You make that flight.”
“Assuming things go wrong.”
“You won’t know. You just take off. Okay?”
She shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Believe me, if I’m not back in an hour, you won’t have to worry about that.”
I’M NOT SURE who first decided to build the vast, multiterraced gardens that climb steeply up the slope of Mount Carmel and are dedicated to the Baha’i faith, but whoever it was had perfect insight into the art of the clandestine exchange.
The grounds were public enough to get lost in and open enough to spot any unwanted accomplices hanging around. It had multiple exits leading to heavily trafficked thoroughfares. Tours were constantly going around, and that Thursday, late in the afternoon, the gardens were as crowded as the lawn at a Tanglewood concert.
If this goes well,
I told myself, trying to calm my nerves,
I might even give some thought to converting.
I got there at 6:45 p.m., a few minutes early, and stood around the statue of someone named Sayyid Ali Muhammad, or the Bab, on the lowest level of the gardens, where I told Remlikov we would meet. I had given him only thirty minutes’ warning, not much time to prepare. The elaborate park had eighteen different terraces. He didn’t know whether I was at the upper or lower gardens. And with Ben Gurion Street only meters away, it would be easy for Andie to drop the boy and escape.
Me—that could be an entirely different story.
I’d done secret meets dozens of times, but always with the confidence that someone with a listening device and a sniper’s rifle was watching my back. Never naked, on unprotected turf—and with the slight complication of having kidnapped some cold-blooded killer’s kid.
Crowds were starting to form. Some Israeli folksinger was performing two levels up. The setting couldn’t be better. I told myself, just think like it’s Madison Square Garden. All I had to do, once the exchange was made, was blend in with the crowd and get away.
At five of six, I took out my cell in front of the statue and gave Remlikov our final call. “Are you here?”
“
I’m here.
What about my son?”
“Walk to the statue of Ali Muhammad off Ben Gurion Street. You know it?”
“I know it. How will I know you?”
“I’ll be the one holding the twelve-year-old with tape over his mouth. Don’t worry, I’ll know you.”
Remlikov sniffed, unamused. “It will take me a few minutes. I’m on the upper level.”
“Don’t bother, then. In five minutes, I’ll be gone.” I punched off the line. He’d be here. I didn’t want to give him a single extra moment to prepare.
I HAVE TO ADMIT, the following couple of minutes were as tense and heart-stopping as any in my life. I tried to focus on the crowds, mostly young people and families heading up to the higher terraces. An occasional policeman wandered by, dangling the ubiquitous Uzi.
I checked my Glock one last time. I adjusted my sunglasses. I tried to calm the riot in my gut.
5:59 p.m. Come on, Remlikov. This has to happen now!
Then I spotted him coming out of the crowd. He was wearing an open-collar print shirt and a black leather jacket. A few people passed in front of us, but he focused directly on me. Must’ve been the chess book I was holding prominently. He walked right up to me. He removed his sunglasses and took a long look into my eyes. I had seen the faces of many professional killers. There was always a dull glaze in the eye, even when they smiled. Remlikov had it in spades.
“Stand in front of me,” I said, shifting my back to the statue. I didn’t want any sudden ambush taking me by surprise.
He glanced at the chess book. “I believe that’s mine.”
I handed it over to him.
“And my
son,
” he added as if we were talking merchandise.
“Cavello,” I replied.
“You’ve come a long way on the premise I know where he is.” He smiled.
“You’re wasting time that could be very valuable. I leave here in two minutes.”
“Two minutes.” He pursed his thin lips. “I’ll take my chances. Neither of us wants to walk away empty-handed. You surprised me today. Surprise is a reaction I’ve grown used to doing without. I’d take it as a courtesy if you told me how you found me.”
“The business in New York or your real name?”
“Any order.” He shrugged back politely.
I glanced toward the ground. Then I looked back at him with a slight smile. “Your shoes.” He was still wearing them. “Not very high-tech, I’m afraid. But I hear they’re all the rage in this part of the world.”
“My shoes.” Remlikov snorted, at first with surprise, then with a roll of his eyes. He shifted on his bum left leg. “My feet kill me.” He shook his head. “Even now.”
“You might think about a change of brand, if you plan to continue work.”
“No more,” he said, “I’m finished.”
“Wise. You’re a family man. Now, you have something for me?”
“You didn’t finish.” Remlikov continued to look at me. “Though I have the feeling I can take it from here. If you were able to identify my shoes, you must have seen some kind of security tape of what took place. To link that to me, my history, and find me here, that would take a lot of help. Resources. Governmental resources, I’m quite sure. Homeland Security? FBI?”