Sins of the Father (4 page)

“Yippee-ki-yay,
ai hee-ah
,” Peter muttered to himself, checking his watch.

Two-fifteen. Right on schedule.

He walked down to the elevator and pushed the button.

When the massive textured steel doors slid open there was a waiter with a rolling cart stacked high with dirty dishes. He gave Peter a knowing nod, and then rolled the cart out of the elevator and down toward the kitchen.

Peter stepped in. Unlike the showy exterior glass lifts that ferried guests up to their luxury suites, this one was dull and utilitarian. The floor was textured rubber and the walls were scratched and dented steel. It was large enough to stable a bull elephant, and there were doors on two sides. When Peter got in, he pushed the button marked 30E, so that when the elevator arrived on the thirtieth floor, the rear door would open, discharging him into the east tower.

As the elevator rose, he closed his eyes, breathing slowly and trying to relax the bunched up muscles in his neck and shoulders. He had everything planned down to the millisecond. Clockwork. It was going to be perfect. No worries.

When the elevator reached the top floor, the back door slid open, letting Peter out into a service area. It was a stubby white hallway with a supply closet, an employee restroom, and a holding area used to stash housekeeping carts between shifts. At the end of the short hallway there was a doorway that led into another world.

Whereas the hidden service areas were unremarkable and strictly functional, the areas of the hotel which had been designed for guests were all sleek, subtle luxury. The hallway Peter entered had that velvety, cocoon-like hush shared by expensive places all over the world. It was as if the vulgar bustle and noise of the city below had been muffled by an insulating layer of hundred-dollar bills. Subtle, recessed lighting spotlighted minimalist, monochromatic flower arrangements in angular, ultra-modern blue glass vases. The immaculate cobalt-blue carpet was thick as quicksand, silencing Peter’s footsteps completely.

* * *

The suite he’d selected sat directly in the middle of the wasp waist that connected the two towers. It was precisely equidistant from the places where he had arranged for each group to wait while the deal was in progress. There were two such suites—one in each of the conjoined buildings, located at the narrowest point. The door to his suite pointed east, and its twin faced west.

His payoff to Jaruk had insured that both suites would be unoccupied that night. The eastern facing door was pivotal, because he would need to make his escape from the roof via the eastern staircase.

He used the key card to let himself into the suite, but didn’t turn on the light. Relative darkness was essential—both inside this suite and its western facing twin. If the lights were on, the glow would shine upward through the skylights, illuminating the area of the roof where his most crucial sleight of hand needed to occur.

He stood for a moment in the semi-darkness, letting his eyes adjust. Although the lights were all off, the room was
far
from pitch black. It was indirectly illuminated by the candy-colored
Blade Runner
skyline which filled the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a hell of a view. Guests who paid the exorbitant fee to stay here expected nothing less.

In the dim glow, the room seemed even more seductive and appealing than it would have been with the lights on. Its lines were stark, modern, and minimalist. Understated in a way unique to things that are outrageously expensive.

Crossing to the window, he stood there, drinking in the view. He saw the Grand Palace in the distance, its needle-like pointed rooftops glowing gold in the nighttime. Peter couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he was going to have to keep hustling before this kind of lifestyle came within his reach. Luxury hotels, fast cars—the entire world at his fingertips. No matter how hard he worked, he just couldn’t seem to get ahead.

It didn’t seem fair that the whole take from this potentially fatal caper would go to pay off his debt to Big Eddie. It seemed like he really ought to get
something
extra for his troubles. Danger pay, so to speak.

Yet that kind of thinking was what got him into this mess in the first place. His “take” from this job was his life. Period. And, given the way he’d been jerking Big Eddie around for the past few months, he ought to be damn glad to have it.

Enough with the daydreaming
, he decided.
Time to go
.

He checked to make sure the empty suitcase was there, and found it sitting on a folding rack beside the bed.
Thank you, Jaruk
. It was a generic black roller bag, exactly like a million others that passed through any given airport on any given day, and it was exactly the right size to fit both briefcases.

Check.

Then he looked up at the large, multi-paned skylight. There was an automated shutter that could be controlled using a bedside button, for travelers who hadn’t yet adjusted to local time, or just wanted to sleep in without the interference of daylight. The shutter was fully retracted, revealing the thick, milky frosted glass of the skylight. There were five long, rectangular panes in a row, and the one closest to the door had been removed, allowing a brisk, exhaust-scented breeze to waft into the room.

Check.
Everything was as it should be.
Time to head for the “rooftop garden” to put the final pieces into place.

He stuck the key card into his hip pocket, grabbed the two briefcases, and left the suite as he found it. Out in the center hallway he headed for the fire stairs at the far end.

Inside the stairwell, there was only one way to go, and that was down. Unless you had the key to the door on the right, which was marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Peter did.

He swiped his key card through the lock and it beeped its acquiescence, accepting him as suitably authorized. He pushed through the heavy door and onto the narrow stairs that led up to the roof.

At the top of the flight stood a second door that also required a swipe of the card. He had to push hard to open the door against the wind.

Once he was able to squeeze out, he found himself at the far eastern end of the infinity-shaped roof. This high above the city, the wind kept the stifling heat and humidity at a reasonable level. The 360-degree view was breathtaking—the owners of the hotel had missed out, he decided, by
not
installing some kind of garden, sun deck, or lounge.

Then again
, he thought,
if they had, I wouldn’t be able to pull this off
.

Turning so that he faced west, across the roof, he saw a lot of empty space with very minimal cover. Each tower boasted a tall, thin antenna with a blinking red light at the top to warn away aircraft. There was a slight zigzag in the middle of the rooftop, created by the two knee-high, raised skylights that stood above those twin suites. That was the critical spot—the one where he would make the switch.

Peter had never been particularly afraid of heights, but he kept to the center of the oval-shaped eastern tower as he walked toward the wasp-waisted spot where the twin buildings joined. The spindly metal railings around the edge didn’t do much to instill a feeling of safety—upright posts with steel wires strung between them, more like an afterthought, really. Barely crotch-high when measured against his six-foot-two frame, and thin enough that he was pretty sure they would buckle under a person half his weight.

Still buffeted by the wind, he arrived at the middle of the little zigzag. He turned and looked back at the door leading to the eastern stairway. It was visible, but dimly lit in the ambient glow from the city.

Checking its twin to the west, making certain there was no one there, he stashed the two briefcases next to the raised steel framework of the skylight that looked down into his suite, on the side away from the missing pane of glass. The height of the framework was perfect—almost exactly the same as that of a briefcase, standing with its handle up, ready to grab.

With the cases positioned right where they needed to be, Peter peered toward the western stairwell to the west. He envisioned all of the players, in place and ready. Koreans to the west, and the more temperamental and unpredictable Chechens to the east.

He’d gone back and forth on the placement, trying to determine who should be where, and who could be counted on to react appropriately when the time came. The Chechens were the clear winners, he decided—the most likely to shoot first and ask questions later. The downside, however, was that in order for Peter’s plan to work, the more potentially dangerous group had to be placed on the same side as his escape route.

All he could do was hope that they didn’t decide to shoot the messenger.

He checked his watch.

Showtime.

Peter took the other cell phone from his pocket, pressed the “talk” button and dialed the second number he’d been given—this one by the Koreans. His call was answered on the first ring. He told the man on the other end to meet him by the entrance to the western staircase, on the thirtieth floor.

Then he hit the “off” button.

Taking a moment to breathe deeply, and arrange his face into the affable, trustworthy
I’m just here to help
expression that had served him so well for so long, Peter headed over to the western stairs. As he walked, he twisted his shoulders, rolled his neck, and shook out his arms. In deals where no one was speaking their first language, body language was crucial. He had to appear comfortable and relaxed.

Confident, but not cocky.

He had to look like a man who had everything under control. He just hoped that if he could make the Koreans believe he did have everything under control, maybe he would be able to convince himself.

He opened the door to the western stairwell and headed down to the thirtieth floor. When he arrived at the AUTHORIZED PERSONEL ONLY door, he heard Korean voices on the other side.

You got this
, he told himself.

Then he pushed the door open.

There were four men waiting in the stairwell. Two were obvious muscle—bulky knuckleheads in tracksuits, with big hands and cold, stony expressions. The other two were a Mutt and Jeff pair. The taller one was handsome and lanky with a bleached, pop-star haircut, a mournful expression, and a briefcase just like the one Peter had hidden up on the roof. The shorter one looked like an accountant, with wire-framed glasses and a little bit of a belly under his unremarkable navy-blue dress suit. But the way the others silently deferred to him, it was clear that this was the boss.

“Mr. Park,” Peter said, extending a friendly hand to the accountant. It was the name the man had given him on the phone, but “Park” was the Korean equivalent of “Smith.” Not that it really mattered.

He’d told Mr. Park his name was Baker. It seemed more appropriate than “Butcher” or “Candlestick Maker.”

Mr. Park eyed Peter’s hand as if he suspected Peter might have failed to wash up after his last visit to the men’s room. Reluctantly, he accepted it with a limp, moist handshake that felt like gripping a dead squid.

They had a brief exchange in Japanese, in which Peter explained that the seller was shy, and didn’t want to meet directly with the buyer. To protect the anonymity of both groups, they would wait on opposite sides of the roof, with Peter acting as a go-between, ferrying the money to the seller and the product back to Mr. Park.

The Korean nodded with a wordless grunt of acceptance.

It was very hard for Peter not to pump a victorious fist in the air. Instead he did a little happy dance in his head, while maintaining a stoic expression. Turning, he motioned for Mr. Park and his men to follow him through the locked door and up to the roof.

When they stepped out into the wind, the tall, handsome guy immediately set the briefcase between his designer sneakers, trying and failing to fix his trendy hair. The muscle twins flanked the boss as he stepped forward and surveyed the roof. Park was frowning.

“Where are they?” he asked in Japanese.

“I will call them now,” Peter assured him. “I wanted to give you the strategic advantage of being first to arrive.”