Authors: John R. Maxim
He hated being frightened. He hated it all the more
because it had been so unnecessary. Yes, Big Jake Fallon
had reacted to that photograph of Rast. He saw past
twenty-five years of aging and the loss of some eighty
pounds of weight. He saw past jowls that had been tucked
and one protruding ear that had been reduced. And yes,
he saw that so-called dueling scar that was made by no
Leipzig saber. It had been made by a ring on Jake Fa
ll
on's right fist.
But the very fact that he reacted argues that Rast's por
trait looking back at him must have come as a total sur
prise. And he
still
could not have been certain. The
moment he got home, however, he went straight to that
dictionary. A large one, they say. One of those monsters
that have foreign language sections in the back. French-
English dictionaries. Spanish-English. German-English.
What will we bet that he was looking up “Adler” to see if it meant what he thought it meant.
The Baron certainly hoped so. He prayed so. It would
be all the more poetic if just as his eye found “Adler,”
just as it moved a fraction to the right and he saw that
the word meant “Eagle,” the first blow of that bat came down across his shoulders.
But Parker's man—this Walter—could not be sure of
that. All he could swear to, and the autopsy seemed to
bear him out, was that Big Jake Fallon knew why he was
going to die and had ample time to think about it. He
knew on whose orders. He knew why the means was to
be a baseball bat. Rast's orders, through Parker, were very
specific. The arms first, then the legs. Smash every joint.
Stay away from the head. He is to be conscious through
out. Revive him if necessary. Make him beg you to end
it. When he does, however, first go to work on his face.
The taxi driver followed his instructions. Or claimed
that he had.
“Do you believe him?” Hobbs had asked Parker.
Parker shrugged. “As long as the old man's happy.”
“What did Fallon really say, if anything?”
“When my guy asked him to beg?”
“Yes.”
“What I would have said. Go fuck yourself.”
Parker's man had been waiting, behind the wheel of a
stolen cab, a few doors down from Michael's building.
Bronwyn was to flag him. She was to give him one signal
if the elder Fallon had seemed to recognize Franz Rast
from that photo. Another if he had not.
If the former, or even if he showed an undue interest
in the AdChem annual report, Parker's man was to finish
him that night. He was to take him home, say how
glad
h
e was to have a fare to Brooklyn because his wife was
due to give birth at Brooklyn General, then gain entrance
by claiming that his dispatcher would not relay personal
messages and ask if he might call the hospital on Fallon's
phone. Should Fallon refuse, but only then, and only after
Fallon unlocked his door, he was permitted to gain en
trance at gunpoint.
Just inside, if Parker's information was correct, he
would see an umbrella stand that usually had at least one
baseball bat in it. This would do. Much preferred, how
ever, would be one of Fallon's more treasured bats which
the taxi driver would find, first door on the right, in Jake
Fallon's library.
If, vis-a-vis Bronwyn's signal, he had shown neither
recognition nor interest, Jake Fallon was to be spared but
only for the time being. Long enough for Bronwyn to
satisfy herself that young Michael's coming to Lehman-
Stone was simply a coincidence. If it was not, he would
confide in her soon enough. He was, after all, infatuated
with her. He would want to protect her against being in
volved in an organization that he knew to be criminal. At
the very least, he would give himself away by the sort of
questions he asked her.
Ridiculous. Every bit of it.
This, thought Bart Hobbs, is the sort of micro-manage
ment that is typical of Franz Rast. Everything done just
so. His way. No room for individual initiative.
Granted, the stakes were enormous. And Rast was the
ultimate wellspring of the millions they'd all made. What
Jake Fallon knew would have ruined him. AdChem's stock
might have lost tens of millions and would have dragged
an entire industry down with it. Trading would have been
suspended. The Baron Franz Gerhard Rast von Scharnhorst
would have lost every friend his money ever bought him and would likely end up in a federal prison. Minus his
testicles. The Countess would have sliced them off.
And this was just Rast. The tip of the iceberg. Once
the SEC got its hooks into this, and the Justice Depart
ment, and about ten other jurisdictions both here and
abroad, that prison would need to build a new wing.
Ho
bbs
reached Madison Avenue. There were cabs. But the thought of climbing into one suddenly gave him pause.
Silly, of course. A brisk walk, however, might do him
good after all. Madison Avenue was lined with shops,
plenty of pedestrians, perfectly safe.
This was all so unnecessary. It should not have
happened.
Michael had never
penetrated
Lehman-Stone. He had
not spent his life training for the moment when he could
unmask the chairman of AdChem and bring his whole
empire down around his ears. Why go to all that trouble
when a single phone call to the
Wall Street Journal
might
have done the trick.
The answer? Bronwyn had been right. He knew nothing.
His uncle had never told him.
“Naive,” Rast had thundered. “This is childishly naive.
This is whistling past the graveyard.”
Rast's point, which had modest merit, was that even if
one believes in coincidence, even if Michael knows noth
ing, would Jake Fallon not have wondered why the young man would end up in Pharmaceuticals of all things? Would
it not have struck him as odd?
Perhaps. But it's quite a leap to think that Jake would
zero in on AdChem, which was, after all, just one of many clients with whom Michael was involved. Why would he?
Simply because it's German? Nonsense. Until Bronwyn
stuck that report in Jake Fallon's face, he had no reason
to think that Armin Rasmussen was still in that business.
Or that he was even still alive.
Totally stupid.
It grew out of one routine meeting, one of several that
both Michael and Rast had attended. Rast had known him,
worked with him, for two years. The name had certainly
rung a troubling bell but even Rast admits that he dis
missed the possibility as too far-fetched. It was only then, during this one meeting, that he began to notice the family
resemblance and told Parker to look, quickly but quietly,
into Michael's past. What he learned gave him nightmares.
The nightmares made him crazy.
Lost in these thoughts, Hobbs turned west onto 77th
Street.
His poor chalet.
Jocelyn, his wife, will be devastated. She was so fond
of the place. She could name every variety of tree, every
wildflower. Every summer weekend she would have a
houseful of guests, friends from school or from her charit
ies, and she would take them on her famous nature walks. In winter, she'd take them cross-country skiing the length
of the valley or for a few downhill runs from the top of
Black Mountain.
It was Jocelyn who had that sign made up.
Playing
Hobbs.
She surprised him with it last summer. Now he
didn't know what he'd tell her. She had no trouble be
lieving that drug dealers had broken into the Palm Beach
house, killed the guard who tried to stop them, and set
the place ablaze. But how would he explain that it's hap
pened to them twice?
Damn.
Damn Rast for all of it. Damn him for—
Hobbs noticed the two men.
They were black. Young, by the look of them. They
were dressed in hooded sweatshirts, baggy trousers, high-
topped sneakers. They were walking in his direction, prob
ably coming from Central Park. Must have filled their
quota for the day, their pockets filled with cash and credit cards from women's purses and from the Velcro wallets of
joggers. Going home now to spend it on their crack habits.
Hobbs started to cross to the other side of the street.
But no. Damned if he would. Michael Fallon didn't.
Oh, my.
That taller one, the lighter one, could almost be Michael.
Hard to tell with the hood. The other one, darker, could be Jake Fallon's bodyguard, the one they call Moon.
Hobbs slowed. He stared. They kept on coming.
By day, Marvis Shockley worked for the Parks Depart
ment. By night he took courses at NYU toward a degree
in education. The smaller man was Ahmad
Shabaz.
He was a plainclothes officer with the Transit Authority
Police.
If this were a subway, he might have given chase to
the middle-aged white man who, just ahead, just now,
suddenly turned and ran. Back toward Madison Avenue.
Shouting. Coat flying. Losing one of his shoes.
“He seen a ghost?” asked Marvis Shockley.
“He seen two spooks,” said Officer Shabaz.