The Garden of Betrayal (15 page)

I exhaled slowly.

“Which suggests what?”

“Hard to know. One possibility is that Munoz is the guy we’re looking for. There was a security camera in the parking lot. The tape showed him arriving with the hooker at five-thirty and driving away alone at six. Kyle left your place a little after seven-thirty.”

“I’m confused,” I said, making an effort to remain analytical. “Didn’t you just tell me that Munoz was murdered at the motel?”

“Right. In bed and with his pants down, the way we all should be lucky enough to go. Second security camera in the lobby caught him when he arrived the first time but not leaving or returning. Parking-lot camera showed him arriving and leaving but not returning. Best our guys were able to figure, Munoz checked in, left by the fire stairs, propped the door open behind him, moved the car, and then came back in by the fire stairs. They reckon maybe he went out for cigarettes and left the car somewhere else.”

“That make sense to you?” I asked incredulously.

“Nope. Sounds like a load of shit. I read enough files to be able to tell that the guys who caught the case mailed it in. Dead diplomat in a seedy hotel room; semen on the sheets; watch, wallet, and money clip gone.
He went walking on the wild side, and he got more than he bargained for. All she wrote. Nobody was interested in loose ends.”

“So, what are the chances that he kidnapped Kyle before he was murdered?”

“Slim, in my book. ME made his time of death around nine, which doesn’t give him a big window to have grabbed Kyle, ditched the car in Harlem, and found his way back downtown.”

“This is weird,” I said, wishing again I’d had more sleep.

“No shit.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Munoz’s car key was still in his pants pocket. Maybe he really did just move the car around the corner for some reason and then some third party boosted it. Or maybe we’re chasing a fairy tale. Bottom line, it makes me want to talk to Gallegos even more. He was interviewed at the time, but he made his brother-in-law out to be a saint. I’m reckoning he might know more than he said. So, let me know as soon as you hear back, okay?”

“Okay,” I said unhappily. The last thing I wanted was more uncertainty.

“Hang in there,” Reggie urged. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Amy buzzed as I hung up.

“Walter’s free now.”

“Thanks. I’m on my way.”

Walter’s office was modest in the scheme of things, a ten-by-fifteen glass-walled chamber in the middle of the trading room, backed against the building’s core. Guys on the floor called it the fishbowl, and nobody ever wanted to be in it, save at bonus time. Conversations about the market were held on the trading desks so everyone could listen. A summons to the fishbowl meant you were in for a reaming.

“Come,” Walter said, beckoning with one hand as I tapped on his door. He turned the report he’d been reading facedown on an otherwise empty desk and fixed his pale blue eyes on me. One of his defining characteristics was that he was never distracted, always entirely focused on whatever he had at hand at the moment. Admirable in concept but disconcerting when what he was focused on was you.

“I’m worried about Alex,” I said, figuring it was best not to beat around the bush. “He hasn’t seemed well recently.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he replied curtly. “But Alex isn’t twenty-two anymore. He doesn’t need a minder.”

“I’m not saying he does. He might need help, though. My sense is that he’s been drinking heavily. Having his positions liquidated isn’t going to improve his outlook.”

Walter stared at me unblinkingly. I stared back, wondering if he was deliberately trying to intimidate me.

“Close the door and sit down,” he ordered.

I did as he asked, chafing at his tone, as always.

“Every guy out there works his ass off to keep his job,” he said, stabbing a finger toward the trading floor. “I can’t play favorites just because Alex is my son.”

“I’m not suggesting you should. I’m suggesting you reach out to him. Because he’s your son, and because I suspect he’s in a bad way.”

I endured the stare for another few seconds, wondering what he was actually thinking. It was hard to believe he didn’t care about Alex at all, even if they’d had a falling-out. He glanced down, nudging the upside-down report with a fingernail to align it more precisely with the front edge of his desk.

“I’ve expressed my concerns to Alex directly,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t know that there’s anything more I can do at this point.”

“You agree he has a problem?”

“It seems that way.” He frowned. “His mother and I are worried.”

The highlight of Walter’s ugly divorce twenty years previously had come when Alex’s mother submitted evidence from an animal psychologist asserting that Walter’s negative energy made her Yorkie suicidal. The tabloids had a field day, leading Walter to temporarily relocate to London. The admission that he was discussing anything with his former wife was a better indication of his level of concern than his mild declaration.

“I’d be happy to talk to Alex about getting help,” I offered, warming to him a little, father to father. “I’d like to know that I have your support, though. He values your opinion.”

Walter’s phone rang before he could reply. He picked it up, listened, and then held the receiver out to me.

“It’s Amy. She says it’s urgent.”

“Sorry.” I took the receiver from him and put it to my ear. “Amy?”

“Nikolay Narimanov is calling,” she announced apologetically. “I tried to take a message, but he insisted I interrupt you.”

“Narimanov,” I relayed to Walter, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. “He wants to speak to me right away.”

Walter raised his eyebrows, and I shrugged.

“Take it,” he said.

“Put him through, please,” I told Amy.

The phone clicked.

“Nikolay?”

“Mark. Your secretary tells me that I’ve reached you at a difficult time.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Let me get straight to the point. I’ve been reflecting on our conversation yesterday, and I’ve decided that I don’t want any of my confidential information put into the public domain, with or without attribution.”

“Then there isn’t much for us to talk about,” I said, feeling simultaneously crestfallen and pissed off. Narimanov was theoretically only backing me up on Saudi, but I was counting on him as my primary source for Russia. “All of my prime clients see everything I’m working on at the same time. I can’t do a special analysis for you and not share it with my other subscribers.”

“I assumed as much, which is why I’d like to change the terms of my proposal. I’ll buy you out. I’ll capitalize your current income stream at a favorable discount rate and pay it down in cash over five years. In exchange, you agree to work for me exclusively for the same period.”

I swallowed hard, running the numbers in my head. It worked out to three or four million bucks a year. Walter was staring at me quizzically.

“That’s unexpected,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “I’ll have to give it some thought and get back to you.”

“Do. And think about this—working for me will give you access to information you won’t be able to obtain elsewhere.”

“I understand.”

“Perhaps not as fully as you imagine. Here’s a small sample: Russian and French paratroopers have just completed a clandestine assault on a Ukrainian ultranationalist paramilitary base north of Zhytomyr, about a hundred kilometers west of Kiev. Early reports are that they’ve seized
evidence of Ukrainian involvement in the Nord Stream assault and captured two prisoners directly linked to the attack.”

My jaw dropped.

“You’re certain?”

“What?” Walter interjected. I waved him silent, intent on Narimanov’s answer.

“Yes. There’ll be a press release within the hour. Act quickly. And get back to me on my offer as soon as possible, please. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

He hung up. I was too shocked to move for a second, and then I leaned over Walter’s desk and punched a free line on his phone, dialing Amy.

“What’s going on?” Walter demanded.

“News,” I said. “Just listen.”

Amy answered on the second ring. I cut her off mid-greeting.

“Open an e-mail to my full client list immediately.”

Walter got up and moved to the door, poised with one foot in his office and one foot on the trading floor.

“Done.”

“Subject line
URGENT
, all caps. Message body:
Reliable report received of successful Russian/French military strike in Ukraine. Evidence seized implicates Ukrainian ultranationalists in Nord Stream attack. Press conference expected soon. Look for capital markets to rally strongly and energy markets to decline. Detailed analysis follows
. You got that?”

“Got it.”

“Hit send. I’ll be at my desk in two minutes.”

I hung up the phone and turned around. Walter was already out on the floor, barking orders to his trading staff. He looked calm and collected, like a battle-hardened officer directing troops in an attack. I guessed we were done talking about Alex. I closed the door behind me as I left his office. It was going to be another long day.

Amy popped in on me just before lunch. She had a plate in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.

“You got a minute?”

It had been a crazy couple of hours. The Russians and the French had staged a mind-blowing press conference about half an hour after I got the heads-up from Narimanov, replete with slick exhibits detailing the forensic evidence that had prompted them to act and capped by stark video footage of their combined forces carrying out a successful
Apocalypse Now
–style daylight assault on the Ukrainian paramilitary camp. It had been a heck of an impressive show, and both foreign ministers managed to sneak in backhanders suggesting that the United States could learn a thing or two about dealing with terrorism without laying entire countries to waste. The Ukrainians were screaming that they’d been set up and threatening to raise the issue of their violated sovereignty at the United Nations, but nobody was paying them much mind—even their former Soviet bloc allies were keeping quiet. The United States had been reduced to having a junior State Department spokesperson affirm that America supported responsible efforts to combat terrorism globally. Game, set, and match to the bear and the poodle. The markets reacted as I’d anticipated, and my in-box was stuffed with congratulatory messages from clients.

“Sure,” I said, glancing at my computer screen for the hundredth time. The red progress icon on the depletion model was still flashing at the same infuriatingly leisurely pace. “Come on in.”

“I have more toast,” she said, setting the plate down on my desk. “You ready for some coffee now?”

The question made me realize how tired I was.

“Please,” I said, stifling a yawn. I washed a bite of toast down with a sip from the mug. My stomach wasn’t any happier, but I needed the caffeine. “Any word from Alex?”

“None. He didn’t answer Lynn’s knock. She’s worried.”

“She tell Walter?”

“She spoke to Susan. Susan promised to talk to Walter.”

Susan was Walter’s assistant.

“I’ll stop by on my way home,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Anything else?”

“Rashid called earlier to set up a meeting between you and someone named Mariano Gallegos. He said not to interrupt you.”

“Good. When and where?”

“Tomorrow morning, nine a.m., at the Turtle Bay Diner on the corner of Forty-sixth and Second. I’m assuming you’ll walk over?”

“Right. Do me a favor and let Reggie know also.” She looked at me curiously, but I wasn’t inclined to explain. “And one more thing.” I scribbled a quick explanatory note and then took the iPod and the cable Kate had purchased from my desk. “Seal these in a Bubble Wrap envelope and have an in-house messenger run them over to Rashid, please.”

“Will do. Also, you got a bunch more inquiries from prospective clients, and about a million calls from reporters.”

Talk of prospective clients reminded me of Narimanov’s offer to buy out my business and employ me exclusively. I didn’t know him well enough to jump to any decision, but it was an intriguing opportunity. The money he’d mentioned would support a major upgrade in our lifestyle. And I could probably work for him from anywhere. New York, London—maybe even San Francisco. I wondered again how serious Claire was about moving, and whether her plans included me.

“Fill out background reports on the potential new clients, please, and e-mail me a list of the reporters.” I needed to get back to the ones I was friendly with, even if I didn’t intend to tell them anything.

“Okay. Also, I spoke to Claire. She ordered a lasagna from Butterfield, and she’d like you to stop and pick it up on your way to the Christmas concert at Sloan-Kettering tomorrow night. You want me to book a car?”

“What time does it start?”

“Potluck dinner at six o’clock and concert at seven o’clock.” She waited for my answer. “Mark?”

My eyes had drifted back to my computer monitor. The progress icon for the depletion model had stopped flashing and turned green.

“Sorry. What?”

“I asked if you wanted me to book a car.”

“That’d be great,” I said, reaching for my keyboard. “Thanks.”

I was working at the big table in the main conference room a few hours later when I heard someone enter. Lifting my head wearily, I saw Walter. I’d had another five or six cups of coffee in an effort to stay alert—my shirt was soaked with sweat, and my nerves were jangling. I was in a bad mood, in part because the results I was examining were so shocking, and in part because I couldn’t figure out whether or not to believe them. If the data were false, someone had gone to a heck of a lot of trouble to make them look real, and to use me in some way I hadn’t completely figured out yet. I wondered if Walter knew who that someone was. He was the only person I could think of who might have been able to persuade Alex to lie to me.

“Quite the display,” he said, looking at the array of documents I’d taped to the long glass wall.

“I needed some space to spread out. You here to talk more about Alex?”