Death Logs In (30 page)

“And wait until you hear this one, it’s from an obscure journal, called
Geeksville
, it’s kind of like the
National Enquirer
of technology, but sometimes, other reporters admit it’s uncannily accurate:

“It is only a matter of time until a cocktail of advanced artificial and emotional intelligence software allows scientists to duplicate the human mind—or perhaps, a particular person’s mind. Further, since that new artificial or
synthetic
mind would exist
inside
a computer, it is conceivable that this entity could find its way and actually log onto the Internet—on its own—giving it unlimited access to the entire virtual world—from Amazon and Google to the world’s most confidential and sophisticated tracking and eavesdropping programs.

“You can’t make this stuff up,” she said, reaching for her fork and staring back at Michael.

Chapter 76

New York City

F
rank Cortese stood at the foot of his bed at the Sofitel Hotel. Familiar routines and places, whether they were cities, restaurants or hotel rooms, were important to him. Perhaps, he thought, it helped him compensate for the unpredictability of his travels as he stalked his prey.

He liked being back in New York City. It was the scene of some of his most prominent assignments. His successes had been splashed in black and white photo spreads on the front pages of the New York tabloids, the
Post
and the
Daily News
: a Mafia don’s legs, unnaturally sprawled on the sidewalk in front of a prominent Manhattan steakhouse, partially hidden by the open passenger-side door of his limousine, still immaculately dressed in well-tailored trousers, black Ferragamo laced-up shoes and designer socks; an investment banker, the white, bloodstained, barber’s cape, still fastened around his bullet-ridden body, lying on the marble floor of an exclusive Wall Street barbershop.

A trademark of Cortese’s expertise was that his executions always remained unsolved. They were most times assumed to be Mafia hits, not the work of a missionary from the dark world of the Vatican.

The door was double-locked, the chain mechanism in place and the curtains drawn, as Cortese, still in his Italian silk pajamas and white terry cloth hotel robe, surveyed the weapons and accompanying paraphernalia neatly displayed on the bed. The black, Russian-made, semi-automatic Makarov pistol, a screw-in silencer, ammunition cartridges, a nine-inch Italian stiletto; he was as familiar with these instruments as he was with his razor and toothbrush.

His concentration was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. He stared at the black phone on the table near his bed; only one person knew to reach him at the hotel. He finally picked up the receiver and waited for the caller to speak.

“Listen carefully, my friend. There is a change in our plans.” Cortese wasn’t surprised. The monsignor had already hinted at his concerns. “This Sindy Steele, your American assassin, will be with Mr. Nicholas at the baseball game. Assuming you will be successful in killing him, you will be at risk from this woman. We must assume she will be armed. It will make your escape very difficult. We cannot risk this, Frank.”

Cortese listened while Monsignor Petrucceli described the new plan for the murder of Michael Nicholas the next day at Yankee Stadium. When they finished discussing the details of the revised plot, Cortese, satisfied if not pleased with the changes, hung up the phone and returned to his review of the weaponry on the bed.

Then, after carefully placing each item in its designated pocket inside the unique, intrecciato-woven, black leather Bottega Veneta shoulder bag, he poured Campari and club soda into his cocktail glass, grabbed the television clicker and sat down in the comfortable chair near the bed and began his nightly ritual of surfing the hotel’s endless choices of cable stations. He suddenly stopped his searching when, quite unexpectedly, he came upon a scene from his favorite movie, one he had seen more times than he could count. As he watched Julie Andrews singing from the top of a mountain, he settled deeply into his chair, happy that
The Sound of Music
would, for the next two hours, take him to another, gentler world.

Chapter 77

New York City

S
indy Steele, naked underneath her hotel bathrobe, surveyed the weapons arrayed on the king-sized bed in the master suite she had come to believe would be her home: a standard Glock 17 pistol, a subcompact Glock 26, a screw-in cylinder silencer, two seventeen-round magazines, a sleek, black stiletto knife, and a clear plastic envelope containing two cyanide pills.

She sat down on the upholstered club chair, put her long legs up on the matching ottoman, sipped her vodka and cranberry juice cocktail, reached for her BlackBerry on the coffee table, and replayed the crystal-clear recording of the conversation between Michael and Samantha Nicholas, picked up from the bugging device she had concealed in Michael’s cell phone:

“How could you let that nutcase woman come near me? How could you?

I had no idea you were seeing her. I’ve been crazy since last night when I couldn’t reach you. …

You haven’t slept with her again have you? Oh my God. I must be crazy. You had sex with her after our discussion, our agreement, just a few days ago?

Samantha, I’m so sorry. I know it was ridiculously wrong but … she’s a cold-blooded killer. I’m afraid of what she might have done if I broke everything off with her. … She could kill either one—or both of us. … She’s not a normal person, Samantha.”

She switched off the device, stood up, returned to her display of weapons and, with the expert precision of a surgeon, she screwed the silencer cylinder into the barrel of the subcompact Glock.

Chapter 78

London, United Kingdom

J
onathan Goldstein appeared gaunt in his eight-thousand-dollar Brioni suit. This added to his unhappiness. He glanced around the conference table, his deep-set dark eyes assessing the nervous Gibraltar executive team. Then, directing his attention to Richard Perkins, he asked sharply, “Where’s Michael Nicholas?
He
runs this company, doesn’t he?”

“He’s back in New York. We’ve decided to deal with some things here in this office without him. He had a schedule conflict, so I told him it wasn’t critical for him to be here this week and that I could cover for him.”

Goldstein didn’t waste any time establishing his dominance over his new underling. “Richard, when I call a meeting, I expect the people that work for me to be there. All of them. Nicholas reports to you, it was your job to see that he was here today. There are no ‘conflicts’ when it’s my company. Do I make myself clear? Don’t let this happen again.”

Perkins answered simply, “Yes, sir. I can assure you, this won’t happen again.”

Goldstein liked what he’d heard, he knew Perkins was a tough Southern Baptist; a guy’s guy—everything he wasn’t. Seeing Perkins nearly castrate himself in apologies, made Goldstein feel good, on top of the world. He’d deal with Michael Nicholas later, when he was more confident of the situation. He wondered, however, about this elusive character whose unusual reputation he had learned more about during the last several weeks. For now, as he surveyed the rest of the Gibraltar European management team, all of whom, except for Perkins, reported directly to Nicholas, he needed simply to welcome them into their new reality: the world according to Jonathan Goldstein.

Goldstein wasted no time with introductions or small talk. “I know you are all busy so I will get right to the point and then we can leave this room and go back to our business. Just some things you need to know about me. I don’t like meetings, I don’t like presentations, I don’t like PowerPoint. I don’t care how good you sound. I don’t even want to hear you. What I
do want
is money. I want to make money and I expect that this company will be more profitable immediately. Right now, you are a mediocre company in terms of profitability. I could make more money with no risk if I had simply bought T-bills. That will change—or you won’t be here. And I don’t mean you won’t be here a year from now. I mean you won’t be here in
ninety days
. It’s all about the money. From this day forward, as they say, ‘show me the money.’ ” He looked around the room, sipped from his glass of water, and resumed speaking. “Before I move on to some pressing issues, are there any questions?”

The room was silent. Not an executive was stirring. “Sounds like you know a rhetorical question when you hear one,” he said.

“So let me continue. After today you’ll take your instructions from Richard.” He looked to Perkins, seated directly next to him and realized he had forgotten to mention one name. “And, of course, Michael Nicholas, who will be your day-to-day head, as he was prior to the acquisition. But in his absence, let me make some announcements that can’t wait until Michael decides he can join us.”

He noticed a few of the executives exchanged glances.

“Anyone who tells you that things will not change is a liar. First, we can’t make more money unless we have fewer employees. You’ll leave here with a list of all the employees who report to you. By next Monday, you will return that list to us with a twenty percent reduction in staff. Figure it out—
or add your own name
to the termination list. If this sounds harsh, it is. We’re not running a charity here.” Goldstein paused again, took another sip of water, adjusted the gold cufflinks on his French-cuffed shirt, and with a look of complete seriousness said, “I will tell you, though, if you follow me, you’ll each make more money than you ever dreamed of. I will make you rich. You decide.”

Finished, Goldstein sat down and nodded to Perkins. He watched as Perkins surveyed the room, locking eyes individually with each silent, shell-shocked executive seated around the conference table. He could see they weren’t going to challenge Perkins. This was what he liked about him.

Perkins proceeded to speak in his deep but low Southern drawl.

“Just some final housekeeping items folks. First,
I
am your boss. Michael Nicholas is the CEO of this organization, but make no mistake,
I
am your boss. Second, Mr. Goldstein is
my
boss. I’m glad you’ve had an opportunity to meet him. I know that under Michael Nicholas, you’ve had a rather free-wheeling, open-door culture. That ends today. Do not believe that because you have met Mr. Goldstein, you may call him. If any of you should ever find it necessary to call Mr. Goldstein, it will be the last call you will make as an employee of Gibraltar.”

Chapter 79

London, United Kingdom

H
ans Ulricht sat in the Connaught Hotel’s bar, swirling his snifter of Armagnac, wondering whether his father enjoyed the same view when he frequented the hotel in the years leading up to WWII. Certainly, he thought, his drinking companion this evening, Claus Dietrich, a nephew of the notorious Nazi, Joseph Goebbels, would have had his father’s approval. For tonight, he thought, it was a meeting of two members of the generation that once expected to live a life of power and dominance.

Ulricht breathed in the strong aromatic fumes from his large glass and took a sip of the Armagnac. It burned his throat as it made its way down into his chest, leaving him with a calm, contented feeling. As he spoke, he feared that Dietrich would notice that his eyes were glassy; he’d brought himself back to a lost but happier time in his life.

“I have a clear recollection of driving with my father and Herr Hitler in his big, black, open Mercedes. I was just a little boy, of course, but I can visualize it now as though it happened just yesterday, the crowds waving and saluting as we went by, the other children staring at me, wondering who I was and how I was chosen to ride in the Fürher’s limousine. It was such a grand automobile, its heavy black body spotless, the chrome shining in the bright sunlight, the windows were bulletproof, so thick. The flags on the fenders, with our glorious swastikas, were waving rapidly in the wind as we sped through the streets. The Fürher stood up, perfectly erect, in the front seat, next to the driver, his arm outstretched, saluting the crowd. He was like an uncle to me—yet I, like the crowd outside the car, was in awe of him.”

He paused, took another sip of his apertif before he resumed, his eyes swollen, glistening. Dietrich appeared to be fascinated.

“Hitler took us that day up to the Banz monastery. To this day, I don’t know why, but I remember my father saying that we were taking a detour from our planned itinerary. The monks were shocked when they saw us drive up. We all went on quite a long tour of the baroque monastery while the Führer disappeared into one of the rooms for a long talk with the abbot. We never found out what they spoke about, but when Hitler rejoined our tour, he said, ‘There’s a reason this Church has survived for two thousand years.’ ”

Ulricht sometimes wondered how he could have such a detailed recollection of an event that occurred while he was still a young child. He feared that he supplemented his own memory with the details provided by other, more mature observers, perhaps even historians or reporters. At this stage of his life, he was too often unsure of what he actually remembered. He suspected that, occasionally, details or even events that he could picture were what he had read or been told about. The confusion, when he allowed himself to think about it, was disturbing.

Dietrich smiled, his facial expression seemed to erratically and suddenly alternate between an angry grimace and a forced, self-conscious smirk. His quick smile was broad yet looked strained and artificial. “There is a new regime in the Vatican. The new pope is a complex man, but he is our friend; he is a German after all.” As his expression reverted back to a smirk, it appeared that there was no coordination between his words and his facial countenance. He was one of those people who smiled at random, disorienting those around them.

The setting in the Connaught’s bar room, designed by jet-set favorite David Collins, inspired by English Cubist and Irish 1920s art, with textured walls shimmering in platinum silver leaf overlaid with dusty pink, pistachio and lilac, was the embodiment of the updated, stylish, modern yet still classic English bar. The classic elements of the room suited the two old Nazis well while the stylish elements made them seem out of place, odd figures from another time.