The Clause (14 page)

Thirty-two

DCSNet 6000 Warrant Database

Transcript Cell Phone Track and Trace

Peerless IP Network / Redhook Translation

Target: Tito Raykovic

Date: Monday, August 9, 2010

Time: 1206–1207 EDT

TITO: IDI?

IDI: WHAT IS IT?

TITO: YOU HAVE NOT BEEN HOME SINCE SATURDAY NIGHT.

IDI: I KNOW.

TITO: [UNINTELLIGIBLE] WHAT AM I TO THINK?

IDI: I NEED SOME TIME TO MYSELF, THAT’S ALL.

TITO: WHERE ARE YOU?

IDI: AT A VERY NICE HOTEL IN MANHATTAN.

TITO: IN MANHATTAN?

IDI: OF COURSE.

TITO: MOTHER OF GOD, HOW MUCH IS THAT COSTING ME A NIGHT?

IDI: YOU’RE NOT PAYING FOR IT.

TITO: WHO IS?

IDI: MR. SPIKIC WAS KIND ENOUGH TO GET ME A ROOM. IT HAS BEEN QUITE AN ORDEAL TO HAVE MY THINGS PAWED THROUGH BY STRANGERS, TO HAVE HAD ALL MY JEWELRY STOLEN.

TITO: WHY DON’T YOU COME HOME?

IDI: I LIKE IT HERE. I WILL COME HOME WHEN I FEEL LIKE IT.

TITO: ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH THIS MAN?

IDI: HE IS A GENTLEMAN. HE KNOWS HOW TO TREAT A LADY AND DOESN’T YELL AT ME ABOUT MONEY BECAUSE, UNLIKE YOU, HE HAS IT.

TITO: I AM TRYING NOT TO BE ANGRY. I AM TRYING NOT TO BE JEALOUS. YOU ARE MY WIFE AND I WOULD LIKE YOU TO COME HOME. IT IS NOT RIGHT FOR YOU TO BE STAYING AT A HOTEL THAT ANOTHER MAN PAYS FOR.

IDI: IT WAS NOT RIGHT TO HAVE BEEN ROBBED, IT WAS NOT RIGHT TO HAVE A CARELESS HUSBAND. IT WAS NOT RIGHT THAT—

TITO: I AM COMING TO GET YOU!

IDI: [LAUGHTER] SO YOU THINK YOU ARE MAN ENOUGH TO GO UP AGAINST DRAGAN? HM? HELLO? IDIOT HUNG UP ON ME, JUST [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

*END.*

Thirty-three

I took the crosstown
shuttle to Times Square and switched trains to the Downtown 1 train to 23rd Street. I walked toward the Toyota, stopping briefly for a slice of pizza and a Pepsi. At the car I lit up Phone #3 for the first time and called directory assistance. It took me a little squabbling with the operator, but I found a messenger service on 8th near 23
rd Street. At a CVS on the corner I looked for a box of some kind. Didn’t have to be anything special, just had to have a little weight. I settled on a boxed set of old-fashioned glasses. I also bought a gift bag and a fancy bow. When I was done it looked like a birthday present. Forgot the card, but I think the message I was sending was clear enough without it.

I walked into Chelsea Messengers. “Hi.”

The Middle Eastern guy at the counter smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. See, I need this delivered to a special friend at four o’clock, at the Banana Republic at Grand Central. It’s his birthday. I’d take it, but I have to catch a flight.”

“Certainly. Do you have an account?”

“No. I have a credit card, but I just sold my car and I’m trying to unload cash. Is that all right?”

“Certainly.” He slid a form in front of me.

I filled it out, handed him the gift and a hundred dollar bill.

He scrutinized the form. “Vugovic?”

“Yes. Deliver to Vugovic at the returns counter at Banana Republic at four. He works there.”

“We need a last name.”

“He only has one. He’s Serbian.”

“They only have one name?”

I shrugged. “Weird, huh?”

He handed me my change and said, “Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

Back at the car I used Phone #3 to call directory assistance for western New Jersey, out in the sticks near Pennsylvania.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Gill Underwood.”

“Jesus. Gill Underwood. Well, how the hell are ya, Gill? I haven’t seen you since Portsmouth Medical.”

“I know, it’s been awhile. This is sort of out of the blue.”

“Man. So how you been?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Whoa. What’s up? You having relapse?”

“Sort of.”

“Have you been going to therapy?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve been with Trudy.”

“Trudy Elwell? From IPT?”

“Yup, same Trudy.”

“Holy shit. No kidding. Tell her I said hi.”

“Can I come out for a visit, Larry? I need to talk.”

“You mean right now?”

“Yeah, right now. I can be there in an hour or so, depending on the traffic.”

“You okay to drive, Gill?”

“Yes. I haven’t been drinking, no drugs or anything.”

“I’ll have to move a few things around. I refinish furniture now—funny, huh? Ordinance disposal to woodworking. I know, I know, woodworking is what I chose for interpersonal therapy, but I found I liked it. Sanding and scraping wood is like grinding all the shit out of my brains. What about you? Hell, you’re not a jewel thief or anything, are you? Ha! I sometimes thought about you and that whole role-transition thing with you as a jewel thief.”

“Got directions?”

“Sure, come west on I-80, head north on Route 15 to 206, make a left at Fratelli’s Italian toward Dingman’s Ferry Bridge. In Layton, make a right at the old red schoolhouse, and I’m all the way at the end by the creek with the green pickup.”

“Leaving now.”

“Well, it’s good to hear your voice, Gill, and I look forward to seeing you. I hope I can help.”

“You told me to call anytime, for any reason.”

“Ha! That sounds like something I might say. But I meant it. We go back, and that was hard stuff we did. See you soon.”

As you drive west on I-80, the housing developments thin a little though the shopping malls don’t thin much at all, at least up until you veer off and north on Route 15, where New Jersey gradually becomes hilly and densely wooded. Trudy and I once did a picnic hike into the hilltops of Stokes State Forest, which open up to sweeping valley views. To the north, you see the Delaware River Valley and the Catskills and Kittatinny Range. To the south, you see woodland diced with occasional farms all the way to the Watch-
ung Range, I-80 and a less wild corridor leading back to the city. We saw a bear that day, with her cubs, angling through a blueberry hollow. The mom didn’t look at us, just lifted her nose over her shoulder to give us a sniff as she retreated, the cubs bounding in front of her. That was a good day. A jillion years ago.

When I saw the park entrance on my right, I pulled in, paid the entrance fee, and wound around the curves of the forested road toward the overlook. Every mile or so there’s a pull-out for a trailhead. Where trees thinned, glimpses of the scenic view flashed until the road split and I drove right up a steep road to a parking lot. Only one other car was there. Monday midday in August wasn’t that popular a time for Stokes State Forest, I guessed.

It is only a short walk along a well-worn path to the view. The pavilion there looks like a log cabin without any walls, its timbers carved with the names of countless visitors. The summer skies were hazy, not as they’d been in the fall when Trudy and I were there, but you could still make out the Catskills, and the cut of the Delaware Valley. Other people there were on a bench, a middle-aged couple curled up like teenagers. I wondered if they were married, or if they were cheating.

A warm breeze rose from the valley floor, and buzzards skated and roller-coastered on the thermals across the face of the escarpment.

A path led down to a more secluded spot, to a bench and a view off to the southeast. I hiked down and took a seat.

The smell of warm pine and goldenrod washed over me, as did the touch of Trudy’s hand to my face.

“I’m sorry, Gill.”

“I know, sugar, I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

It wasn’t her fault she was dead—it was mine.

My vision swam, and not just with tears; my breathing was rapid and I couldn’t seem to get enough air. My hands trembled when I held them out, and when I tried to stand I lost my balance and lurched toward the edge of the cliff. I fell to my side at the ledge, and kicked my feet to push myself away from tipping over into a seven-hundred-foot tumble. The world was darkening, shadows of the buzzards plunging me into darkness, the sound of their wings crackling on the thermals like death’s snicker, laughing not because I was going to die, but because I was going to live. Because I was going to be the one to survive. Again. I smelled diesel fuel leaking from the upturned transport. A dim shaft of sunlight. Lifeless soldiers bundled in gear. The clutter of guns and ammunition and binoculars and maps.

Cupping my hands over my mouth, I restricted the air to my lungs, and crawled on my elbows and knees back to the bench. I had to stop hyperventilating. I had to stop the panic attack. I focused on being a child in bed by the night-light, the sound of my parents downstairs, the murmur of their voices, the tinkle of ice, a piano and a whiff of tobacco.

“Whoa! Buddy, you okay?”

There was a hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t answer.

“Let’s get him up.”

“He could be injured, we might hurt him.” It was a woman’s voice.

“I don’t see any blood, and we saw him walk down here. I think he’s having a seizure or something. He could roll right off that edge. Help me.”

I felt myself being dragged, and when I opened my eyes the people standing over me were the couple from the bench.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I will be.”

“Should we call you an EMT?” he asked.

“No, it’s passing.”

“Are you epileptic?” she asked. “You shouldn’t come to places like this if you’re epileptic. You could have a fit and fall right off.”

I took my hands away from my mouth and breathed deep and long through my mouth. A vulture was eyeing me from a nearby tree. The couple was just as intent, and so I tried a smile. “Thank you for helping me. I’m not sure what happened. Memories. Too many all at once.”

“Let us drive you to the hospital,” she said.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“If you’d walk me back to my car that would be a big help. I need to shake it off. There’s nothing they can do for me at a hospital.”

I stood and they took my arms.

“Is it mental?” she asked.

We turned and began the climb back to the pavilion.

“Honey, you can’t ask the man that.”

“He as much as said so.”

“Yes, it’s mental,” I said. “But it comes and goes, hasn’t happened in a long time. I’ll be all right, and fine to drive.”

“Are you sure?”

Back at the car I did some deep knee bends and breathing exercises. “Thanks again for helping me.”

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Stay away from high places for a while,” she said.

“Honey, you can’t tell a man what to do. He knows he almost died.”

“I can’t very well let him drive off and then fall off some other cliff, can I?”

I opened the car door. “Thanks again. You were both very nice to help like that. A lot of people wouldn’t have, and I hope I didn’t ruin your day.”

“Go see a doctor,” she said.

He rolled his eyes and led her toward their car.

THE ABLE WARRIORS OF OLD FIRST SITUATED THEMSELVES BEYOND THE POSSIBILITY OF DEFEAT, AND THEN WAITED FOR AN OPPORTUNITY OF DEFEATING THE ENEMY. TO SECURE AGAINST DEFEAT IS IN YOUR POWER, BUT THE OPPORTUNITY OF DEFEATING THE ENEMY IS PROVIDED BY THE ENEMY HIMSELF. THUS THE ABLE WARRIOR IS ABLE TO SECURE HIMSELF AGAINST DEFEAT,

BUT CANNOT MAKE CERTAIN OF DEFEATING THE ENEMY. THUS IT IS SAID: ONE MAY KNOW HOW TO CONQUER WITHOUT BEING ABLE TO DO IT.

—
Sun Tzu
, The Art of War

Thirty-four

Layton is just an
auto mechanic, a post office, a deli, and a bar.

I followed the directions and turned at the schoolhouse, and after the last turn the road turned into gravel that got thinner and thinner until finally a white clapboard house with porch and large barn appeared between the trees. In coveralls, Larry was out front, a yellow mutt hard by his side, a shotgun tucked under one arm lazily.

We both registered surprise—me over his long beard and him over my white hair.

I parked at a worn spot by the barn and got out.

“Larry, have you gone native or what?”

His cheeks went rosy—he was the kind of guy who blushed all the time. Larry lost his hands back in Kuwait, replaced with articulated hooks. He extended one, and I shook it, and he pulled me in for a bear hug.

“Look who’s talking! What’s with the white hair? Lost weight. You look like Billy Idol or something. I hardly recognize you.”

“Long story. What’s with the shotgun?”

“It goes with the beard and overalls, don’t you think?”

“Let’s not forget the dog.”

“That’s my bitch, Marianna.”

The dog panted lazily, with the kind of sleepy contentment you only seem to see in farm dogs.

Larry cocked an eye at me. “Let me show you around.”
The barn was a fully fitted workshop with an array of antiques—dressers, rockers, bureaus, highboys, lowboys, end tables—in various states of repair. There was a dust-free room for drying final finishes, and another that was an office strewn with invoices and empty coffee cups. A small stream ran behind the house and barn, and he’d built a bridge over it to a small clearing and a bench. Sun dappled a gravestone in the middle of the grass clearing. The engraving read:
All the Shit That Doesn’t Matter.

I smiled at the gravestone. “Nice.”

“This is my place, this is where I come to re-center myself.” He sank into the bench, Marianna flopping down in the grass next to him. “So what shit matters to you, Gill?”

I settled in next to him, my jaw tightening.

“Okay if I open up here a minute?”

“That’s why you came, that’s why I waited.”

“Here it is in a nutshell. I’m a jewel thief, and so was Trudy. We stole from Gold Coast high-rise apartments from people who flashed it around, you know, not only the gems but the cars, the furs, all that. Not a justification, but these people wouldn’t know what that gravestone meant. Maybe there was a little revenge in it, I’m not sure. You know, getting back at all the people who create that shit that doesn’t matter.”

“Wow, that’s kinda cool, even if it may not have been the most healthy life. You said you
are
or
were
a jewel thief?”

I leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the grass.

“I’m not sure what I am now.”

“And Trudy?”

“She died.”

“When?”

“Night before last. In my arms. Shot. During an operation.”

“Damn. As we used to say in the service, life really sucks sometimes. Gill. I am so sorry.”

I couldn’t speak for another five minutes, so lit a Winston. Larry began to hum a slow version of “Amazing Grace.” I could hear him slowly flexing his hooks. But he stopped when I spoke again.

“There’s a lot to regret, and a lot of healing that I need to do. But I have something to do before I can start that.”

“You want to stay here for a while?”

“I have to accomplish something.”

“No, I don’t think you do, Gill. Revenge isn’t the answer.”

“It isn’t revenge. I need to know she didn’t die for nothing.”

“So what is it you have in mind?”

“This operation: we stole from the wrong people, by accident.”

Larry leaned forward. “Which wrong people? Not the Russians.”

“Worse.”

“The Serbs?”

“Yup.”

“Woo boy.” He leaned back again. “I assume you’ve been very tactical?”

“I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t draw them here. In fact, I’d already be chopped up if I hadn’t been careful, especially with the phones. I’ve been using prepaids. They have a hard time listening to those, and I turn them off so they can’t ping them. I’ve been on the move almost constantly.”

“If anybody can stay a step ahead, I guess it would be you. How much you steal?”

“There’s about a hundred and fifty’s worth.”

“Thousand?”

“Million.”

“Million? Holy cow. That’s too much, Gill. The goons will go apeshit and do anything to get that stuff back. Just walk away. Get out of here.”

“I thought about that option, believe me. But I’ve got to complete the operation. I can’t let it end in failure and death.”

“Operation? That sounds like spook speak, must have picked that up from those CIA types you worked with.”

“Well, I don’t know what else to call it, and it’s just as complicated as any mission I ever devised. The Chinese want to take it off my hands for ten, or nothing if they can figure a way.”

“Ten million. Man.”

“And I can’t count out the Cubans. I’m on friendly terms with them, but there’s an understanding that everybody is out for their own interests, part of the rules of engagement.”

“Mind if I do a little head shrinking, Gill?”

“Have at it.”

“You realize that the world you created as a jewel thief to replace the military is exactly the same, don’t you? I mean, you hear yourself, right?
Operations
,
rules of engagement
. The idea was to create a new persona for yourself, one divorced of the past.”

“I realize all that. Now.”

“So let me get this straight. You have the Serbs, the Tong, and the Corporation after you? Have you left anybody out?”

“Feds.”

“Damn, you don’t do anything halfway, do you, Gill? Which ones?”

“FBI has been following the action through surveillance. I’m guessing they’ve been following the Serbs trying to make a bust, and then suddenly I came along and fouled everything up. Now of course they want me to turn for them, with the usual assurances.”

“You and me have had a belly full of those assurances. How on earth do you think you can make the exchange with all these parties involved?”

I grinned, with little enthusiasm. “I have a few ideas, but it’s going to be dicey.”

“You didn’t come here just to talk, did you?”

“I did. Mostly.”

“You need something diversionary, in a small package.”

“Yup. I need a diversion and I need a hot tamale.”

“I’m not sure I should help you, because I’m not sure it will. I think it might just make things a lot worse.”

I met his eye. “How exactly could it be worse?”

He frowned and stared at the gravestone.

“I don’t do that stuff anymore, Gill. People get hurt.”

“The same way I don’t do that stuff anymore?”

“It’s fireworks. I think of it as fireworks.”

“Can you make me some fireworks that I can detonate with a cell phone?”

Larry stood and walked around the gravestone. “You don’t need to do this, Gill, you can just walk away. It won’t bring her back.”

“Nobody needed to shoot her. She didn’t have a gun, she was on a bicycle, pedaling up the road. Just say no and that’s that, no regrets. I can make do on my own. Though I can’t guarantee what I come up with will be as controlled as what you would.”

“You knew being a jewel thief was dangerous. You took your chances and now there are consequences.”

“We had an exit strategy, and I still do. Trudy would want us to get away with what we took. If for nothing else, she’d hate the Kurac that did it to her. I have a place to go to recover and leave all this behind once and for all. I’ve lost too many people I cared about. I can’t do it anymore. I realize that. Now.”

“Have you ever heard of synchronicity, Gill?”

I shook my head.

“Life is made up of events that sometimes happen at the same time as other events and create a result or outcome that was unanticipated.”

“You mean the fact that Trudy and I happened to target this guy’s apartment just when the Serbs were storing gems there? You’re not going to dive into some sort of space-time continuum crap, are you?”

“Would it make it easier to call it the collective unconscious?”

“Either way, what does this have to do with my exit strategy?”

“
Destiny, not fate
. These things that have happened and what will happen next may have a life of their own, are destined, and there may be some other event or person you can’t even anticipate that will change the game. But your destiny does not have to be your fate. What I’m saying is, don’t turn this into a suicide mission to take out the people who killed Trudy. Trudy wouldn’t want that, would she? She would want you to get away.”

“I didn’t have in mind a suicide mission.”

“You may not know what you really intended. What sort of device you come up with if I didn’t help you?”

“Nitrates and fuel oil, what else?”

“And the hot tamale?”

“Kerosene and benzene.”

“What’s the incendiary tamale for?”

“Destroying evidence.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“A car.”

“And your detonators?”

“Model rocket engines, battery pack, remote control toy.”

“Going all Radio Shack here, I see.” Larry grimaced. “Do you even have any idea how much you need to first blow out one car and then burn the other one to the ground?”

I shook my head.

“Benzene and kerosene? Where’s your oxidizer?” He stood, and locked his hooks behind his back. “You have to promise me there will be no innocent bystanders killed or injured. That kind of bad karma sticks a lifetime. On you and on me.”

“Promise.”

Larry walked through the patches of sunlight to the bridge, Marianna trotting behind, and me a few steps behind her. We crossed the creek, past the barn, around back of the house to where a rusty steel shipping container stood. Opening the back doors of the container revealed a wall of what looked like old chairs, banisters, dressers that had been salvaged for parts. He pulled away two chairs, pushed aside a dresser, and revealed a concealed metal door. A key on a long chain from his overalls unlocked the door. He shoved it open, and pulled the chain on a battery-operated light.

“This is my lab. You have a phone you want to use?”

I handed him Phone #3 and we both sat at a workbench surrounded by hand-operated hobby tools like awls and coping saws and files. There were rolls of wire, plastic drawers, and large Tupperware along the surrounding walls. The place smelled like linseed oil and hydrogen peroxide. I had no idea why.

Larry opened a drawer and handed me a set of small screwdrivers. “Remove the back of the phone.”

While I did that, he turned on a battery-powered soldering iron. He reached into an insulated drink cooler. From it he came up with what looked like a brick of shrink-wrapped white cheddar and set it on the counter. He opened a few plastic trays and picked out small lengths of wire and what looked like what would be the blasting cap. From a large drawer he selected a battery holder and six AA batteries. On a shelf he found a cigar box.

“Got it open?” Larry held a pair of pliers.

I handed over the phone, back removed. He glanced it over, found the counterweight that made it vibrate, and rolled it into the housing. Then snapped off a piece of the outer casing on the side where the counterweight could be accessed. “Put it back together.”

While I did that, he mixed some epoxy, and glued the block of cheese into the right corner of the cigar box, and the battery pack into the center. I handed him the reassembled phone and he glued that into the left corner.

“Anybody have the number to this phone other than you?”

“You’re the only one I called on it. Except for directory assistance.”

“Good. I’m setting it for vibrate and then making sure it’s off. Don’t turn it on until you’re ready to arm it. And make sure it is still on vibrate, otherwise it won’t work.”

“Got it.”

Larry wired and soldered the batteries into a circuit that would connect the batteries to the hot detonator. The trigger was a small plug with two wire ends extending from the end. He pointed to it.

“When the phone vibrates, the counterweight spins and connects these two wire ends, completing the circuit.”

He used a circuit tester to check that the circuit was hot before removing a battery and setting it inside the box.

“Here’s what you do. Step one: turn on the phone. Wait to make sure that there are no messages or anything from the service provider that will make it vibrate and blow you up. Step two: plug the trigger into the hole in the side of the phone—about like this. Step three: insert the battery into the power pack. Step four: attach the alligator clips to the cap, holding it away from the charge in case it goes off because of some unforeseen change in the setup. Step five: insert the cap into the charge, place the cigar box where you want it, and get away from it.”

“How powerful is it?”

“It’ll demolish that car of yours, likely kill anybody inside if it’s under the front seat or on the back seat, likely injure anybody standing near it.”

“That’s some firework.”

“Something tells me you’re going to need a sizeable distraction if you plan to get away. You ever hear of a Mark 77?”

“The new napalm bombs.” Technically they weren’t napalm, but they amounted to the same thing, and were dropped from F-18s.

“Mm-hm. Hot tamales made with kerosene and benzene, but they have an oxidizer, thermite, and a touch of white phosphorus, just for fun. Melts the snow and ice off my driveway in February but quick.” Larry stood and dragged a heavy, white pickle bucket from the corner. “In the Gulf, ground troops liked to flush out caves with the stuff, only it wasn’t regular issue, was only supposed to be used from the air. Seems someone figured it wasn’t PC to kill the enemy that way, even if it meant it put the good guys in harm’s way. So we sometimes helped out the infantry on the sly.”

He pried open the pickle bucket. It was filled with water. It was also filled with olive-drab cylinders about the size of a submarine sandwich. Larry lifted one out with both hooks and dried it on his coveralls. One hook tapped at a cap on one end of the cylinder. “There are four notches. Each one is five seconds. Turn it all the way, that’s twenty seconds before it goes off. Then you pull the cotter pin out of this hole and get away.”