The Deal (37 page)

I began to furiously go through the drawers on the right. Once I opened the second one down I knew I had found what I was looking for. It was Pop’s contact book. He had tried to move to the new technology, but had remained stubbornly steadfast in his insistence of keeping his handwritten leather-bound book rather than moving his contacts to a wireless device. There were too many to bother with. My father knew more people, probably in the business world alone, than most individuals meet in their entire lives.

I grabbed a pen—Edgar Allan Poe—and a piece of paper and threw the contact book on top of the desk. Had he maintained contact with Galina Zhamovsky in private all these years?

I started at G. Nothing. Next I went to Zhamovsky. I found all of Andreu’s father, Alexander’s, information. His numbers at home, the office, on his yacht, all from before he died six years ago. Nothing for Galina.

I looked at the picture again, the sketch of the baby that seemed to be staring up from the floor at me, making direct eye contact.

Ia.

I flipped to I. Sure enough there were two numbers. My heart racing, I jotted the numbers down, stuffed the piece of scrap paper in my back pocket, and put Pop’s contact book back in its rightful place. Then I closed the drawer. The two sheets of Russian paper that were still on the floor were the last order of business. I picked up the note sent to Pangaea-Man and placed it in my back pocket with Ia’s phone numbers. Then I retrieved the charcoal drawing of a baby Andreu. Before I put it back, I took one long, last look at it. Devastation turned to anger.

Chapter 38

I headed south on the New Jersey Turnpike. The distant landscape passed both sides of the car smoothly as if on conveyer belts. It had stopped raining so I lowered the windows. The moist highway air swarmed me like yellow jackets working a hive. I didn’t bother with any music. I just drove in silence, careful not to speed, and listened to all the passing cars.

I was more than shaken up. I suddenly had a Russian half-brother, someone I had known for most of my life, someone my father knowingly allowed me to take on as a friend. Both secrets and new characters alike were entering stage left faster than I could handle. Each frustrating, disappointing step forward seemed to only turn into a giant step sideways. In between nervous glances toward passing eyes, I looked out at the lush countryside in the distance. I just wanted to feel the air entering, then leaving, my lungs.

Two and a half hours later, still driving in silence as I merged onto I-895, I finally pulled my father’s cell out of my pocket. It was T-Mobile. He used this service because he swore it had the best worldwide plan and reception for his international calls, something we both agreed on. I slid the piece of scrap paper with Ia’s phone numbers from my back pocket and dialed the first one.

Just as the sun showed itself, teasing me as to what a beautiful day it could have been, the line started to ring those long, deep-pitched, hollow-sounding international rings. As I waited, my mouth began to feel as if it were lined with cotton. I wanted so much for her to pick up, almost as much as I didn’t want that very same thing.

No answer. Just as I was about to end the signal I heard a voice.

“Privyet.”

I had heard her voice a number of times before. It was unmistakably Galina Zhamovsky.

After a brief pause I answered her.

“Mrs. Zhamovsky?”

“Yes?”

Her Russian accent was extremely rich. I couldn’t even begin to try and duplicate it.

I was hesitant.

“Galina?”

“Hello—yes?”

“It’s Jonah Gray. I’m calling from New York.

Silence.

“Galina?”

“Yes—yes, Jonah. I’m here. I’m just very surprised. It’s the middle of the night here.”

“Ah—”

I paused as if checking the time.

“— I’m sorry. I was so focused on calling you the time difference slipped my mind.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s great. In fact, working on this deal with Andreu is what made me think to call you.”

More silence.

“You are aware of Andreu and I working together, aren’t you?”

“I...yes. I mean, he...I don’t really get involved with the Prevkos affairs.”

“Really? I remember you always a part of my father and Alexander’s business discussions. When I was young, no matter where we’d meet up with—”

“That was a long time ago, Jonah.”

“It was. Anyway, Pop’s birthday is coming up. There’s this
European artist he likes, Ia, who does these amazing illustrations of animals. I figured your ties to the artistic community in that part of the world could help me find him. It’s the perfect opportunity to help Pop grow his collection.”

“Is that so?” she asked after a pause.

“You think you could help me find one of his larger works? There’s a great spot for it in Pop’s living room.”

“Jonah—”

“Maybe not his absolute biggest, but something close.”

No response.

“Galina?”

Nothing.

“Galina?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Can you help me with this?”

“Jonah,” she cut me off, “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s late.”

“Of course. I apologize. What would be a good time to—”

“I’m sorry, Jonah. Good night.”

She hung up.

Fuck.

I dialed her number again. On came her Russian voice mail. I had lost her. Most likely, I figured, because she wanted to speak with my father. I ended the signal before trying the number one last time.

Nothing.

I knew the ride to Baltimore well, only needing my MapQuest directions once I hit the Baltimore Beltway Outer Loop. One of my clients was based there. A couple years earlier they liked the team’s work with their Manhattan satellite office so much they asked us to handle relocating their four-hundred-thousand-square-foot headquarters. For a few months the team flew there on Monday morning and back Monday night. I would leave on Sunday. It was summer, so for me it was a perfect opportunity to let both myself and the car out on the highway. At the end of the day Monday, as they headed back to the airport, I headed back to the open road feeling more like a bird, between the stars and the wind, than anyone ever has enclosed in an airplane.

Just before eight
p.m.
, the directions and the printout from Ryan’s office on the passenger seat, I slowly made the final turn into Phoenix, Maryland, one of Baltimore’s many suburbs. I was headed toward Jarrettsville Pike. There I would find the home of Pavel Derbyshev.

Always get them in person.

I could barely see the house because of the high gates and trees surrounding the sprawling property. All I could tell, from the points and towers toward the top of the structure, was that it looked like a big castle. I followed the quiet, rising street of über-rich suburbia as it slightly veered to the left. As I came around the bend, the gates of the estate started to open.

The strong sun was about to doze off, creating a wicked glare on the horizon. I squinted and focused on the road. In the blazing rearview mirror I saw a large limo, I figured a Bentley or a Rolls, leaving in the opposite direction. I turned and followed it.

Having never followed anyone before, I had no idea how far to stay back. Overly cautious, I almost lost him twice at the get-go. I threw on my sunglasses looking for any advantage. After a few minutes I found what I determined to be my safe zone.

The ride into the city was uneventful. I was worried at first about the traffic impeding my pursuit but it turned out to be a helpful boundary. After twenty minutes or so the limo turned onto North Calvert Street and pulled up to the valet at a restaurant. The place, one of the most upscale in Baltimore, was called Prime Rib. I had had a number of power meals there myself.

I pulled to the right of the street and stopped. The limo’s chauffer got out of the car and started for the opposite side passenger door. I shut my engine down, checked my jacket pocket for the gun, and made my move.

I jumped from the Porsche and strode briskly toward the front of the restaurant. The chauffer opened the limo door. Just as I reached the car, a very tall man stepped out. He was alone.

“Excuse me, Mr. Derbyshev?”

Both men looked at me. The chauffer took a protective step in front of his boss.

“Mr. Derbyshev?” I asked again.

“Who’s inquiring?” asked the chauffer.

I knew from Ryan’s information that Derbyshev was an older guy, but this I never would have guessed. He looked like a fucking count or something. He stood no shorter than six foot five, had a long face with a huge nose, and a full head of silver hair. He wore a navy pin-striped suit, black alligator shoes, bright red ascot, and had an overcoat thrown over his shoulders like a cape even though it was in the high ’70s. Once his chauffeur spoke, Derbyshev turned his attention back to the restaurant as if the inches I stood below him represented more than just height.

“That’s for Mr. Derbyshev’s ears. No one else,” I responded.

Derbyshev started for the restaurant.

“Sir, excuse me, sir, I really do need to talk to you.”

He kept walking. I took a step toward him. His chauffeur cut me off.

“Please, Mr. Derbyshev,” I continued, “it’s extremely important…”

“I imagine it is,” the tall man stated in a heavy Baltic accent, never looking back or breaking stride. “Why else would you follow us in such a ridiculous car? You may as well be driving a fire engine.”

I shrugged off the flip comment. He was getting closer to the front door. I couldn’t let him disappear inside.

“Andreu Zhamovsky!” I desperately blurted out.

The man stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t turn around. He just stood there. I looked at his car and chauffeur again then returned my eyes to his back.

“Only three types of men get driven around in the back of a Bentley, Mr. Derbyshev. Smart, lucky, or corrupt.”

Finally he turned around. His large, sunken eyes glowered at me.

“Depending on how you’re involved with Andreu, there’s a very strong chance I can either make or save you a lot of trouble. Isn’t that alone worth five minutes?

Pavel Derbyshev received a king’s welcome. Not two feet inside the building the maître’d stormed him, as did his pretty young sidekick who removed Derbyshev’s overcoat. They all said their hellos. We were then led from the dimly lit entranceway past the coat check and bar toward the more vibrant, swank dining room. Boris, the chauffeur, had come in with us, no doubt to keep an eye on me. He walked ahead of us and settled in the lounge.

The dining room was dramatic, a true throwback to a supper club in 1940s Manhattan. A tuxedoed waitstaff tended conscientiously to all of the patrons, who were sitting in leather high-back chairs. Naughty Louis Icart lithographs adorned the black-
lacquered, gold-trimmed walls. Soft sounds hummed from the piano and bass. There was a timeless feel of elegance.

We cleaved our way through savory smells of steaks and seafood and were shown to Derbyshev’s table in the rear.

“A drink to start off?” asked the host, waving our waiter over as we sat down.

“Just the wine list, Bernard,” Derbyshev said, “and a bottle of still.”

Bernard hurried off and we settled in.

“You often dine alone?”

He was in no mood for small talk.

“Your five minutes are ticking.”

“You’ve never banked with Salton Lynear Bank before,” I jumped in. “Twelve days ago you opened an account with them for the first time. Why?”

“What’s your concern with it?”

“My concern is that the name Andreu Zhamovsky seems to ring loud and clear with you.”

“And?”

“Your partner may be trying to set me up. If he is, that means you’re possibly an accomplice.”

“What’s your name?” he went on, dismissing me.

“You tell me,” I snapped back. “You expect me to believe you’re working with Andreu and you don’t know?”

The waiter returned with a large bottle of Fiji water and poured each of us a glass.

“I don’t— work— with anyone. I buy and sell people, interests, things. I’ll ask you one more time or this meeting is over. What’s your name?”

I took a sip of my water.

“One-five-eight-six-two-six-four-seven-two. You want a name, that’s my fucking name.”

Nothing.

“I can do a lot better than your social security number and recent banking history,” I bluffed. “And I’m ready to take you down if I have to. You sure my name’s still so important?”

“What is it that you want?”

“I’ve done my homework, Pavel. The day after I told Andreu where we’d be parking his cash, a corporate account for a private company called Partners International opened at the same bank. A corporate account in the care of—in the control of—Pavel Derbyshev. A man with the same last name as Piotr Derbyshev, who, considering what’s been happening in the news—”

“I never expected to see that,” Derbyshev interjected.

“See what?”

“That Danish Jubilee Egg had been stolen. I was just as surprised as you were.”

“Bullshit! You and Andreu—”

The waiter appeared again so I clammed up.

“Have you decided on a bottle, sir?”

He hadn’t looked at the wine list.

“Bring me a bottle of the 2001 Chateau Mouton Rothschild.”

He looked from the waiter to me.

“One glass. We’re almost through.”

The waiter moved on.

“You and Andreu are planning to...to...”

“To what?”

“The only reason you would have opened an account when you did was because you were expecting funds. Because you were—”

“If you had done the homework you claim to have, you would have learned that I single-handedly built a shipping empire,” he cut me off, leaning in towards me. “My firm has accounts all over the world.”

“But you’ve never before banked with Salton. Ever. Why now?”

“That would simply be none of your business,” he went on, leaning back again. “I don’t answer questions about my personal affairs from people I don’t know. The reason you’re sitting here is because you said you could either make or save me a lot of trouble. I suggest you tell me how. Or you’re on your way.”