The Garden of Betrayal (19 page)

“I have no idea. And your failure to keep me properly informed means that I’ll likely have difficulty finding out.”

“Sorry,” I said, hoping a generic apology might prevent another flare-up. I wasn’t in the mood for histrionics. “What can I do to help?”

“You’ve done quite a lot for this family already. I have only one more favor to ask.”

“Name it.”

“I want you to pack up your stuff, get the hell out of my office, and never come back.”

I was sitting at my desk ten minutes later, feeling poleaxed, when a message from a friendly client popped up on my screen:
Hearing Cobra terminated your contract because Walter thinks you’re untrustworthy. What the hell is going on?

I reached for my keyboard and then stopped, realizing that nothing I wrote would make any difference. It was true if Walter said it, and plainly he had. Short-term, I had nothing to worry about. My clients weren’t lemmings; most would stick with me, if only because I’d been so hot recently. But they’d be more standoffish, so as not to offend Walter, and because something like this would give me a bad smell. Long-term, my relationships would deteriorate, and I’d get more cancellations. A year or two hence I might well be out of business. I sat quiet for a second, thinking about it.

The truth was that I didn’t give a damn. I could always make money. Alex’s death was a wake-up call, a reminder that the only important thing in my life was the people I loved. I picked up my phone and dialed home, tired of being clever. I’d come right out and tell Claire I knew about her audition in San Francisco, and make her understand that I’d do anything to be with her—that I loved her and couldn’t be happy without her.

“Hello?” she answered.

“It’s Mark. You busy?”

“I’m heading over to the hospital in a few minutes. I have rehearsals all day. Why? Is everything okay?”

“Not really. I need to talk to you.”

She was silent for a moment, and I wondered what she was thinking.

“Come early tonight. Before the reception. I’ll meet you in the Pediatric Pavilion at five o’clock.”

“I love you.”

“Five o’clock,” she repeated distantly. “There are some things I need to talk to you about as well.”

I took a minute to pull myself together and then buzzed Amy. She opened the door a few seconds later, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“You heard?”

She nodded.

“What happened? Is it something to do with Alex?”

“In a way. It’s a long story. I’m not completely sure how things are going to shake out for me yet, but I’ll be leaving here immediately. You need to think about your own situation. I’d love it if you came with me, but I understand completely if you’d rather explore other options. You know what kind of reference I’ll give you. It’s your decision.”

“‘If you faint in the day of adversity, your strength is small,’” she said, attempting a smile. “Proverbs. I’ll stay with you.”

“Thanks,” I said, touched by her loyalty. “I appreciate the confidence. How quick do you think we can get some cardboard boxes up here?”

“The warehouse just dropped off a stack. I was getting ready to purge files. You want help assembling them?”

“I think I can handle it. I’d prefer it if you lined up a moving company and began investigating short-term space. With a premium on speed, please. I’m as anxious for me to get gone at this point as Walter is.”

The packing kept me busy well past lunch, in part because I’d been overoptimistic about my ability to assemble the origami-like boxes, and in part because everyone I knew was calling in to find out what had
happened between me and Walter. I solved the box problem by asking Amy for a tutorial after mangling a few, and the other by simply telling everyone it had been personal. To the handful of clients who pushed harder, I let slip that Walter and I had fallen out over Alex, assuming it would get around the market quickly enough. It was the least damaging version of events I could circulate, and it had the advantage of being true.

Amy buzzed for the umpteenth time shortly after two. I left off wrapping a bunch of old deal mementos and punched the flashing line on my phone.

“Mark Wallace.”

“I was disappointed not to hear from you this morning.”

I recognized the voice immediately. Narimanov.

“It’s been a difficult twenty-four hours.”

“I read about Alex Coleman. You were close?”

“Very.”

“I’m sorry. I was going to suggest we get together to discuss my offer further, but we can put if off if you like.”

I wasn’t much in the mood for business, but my circumstances made it stupid to discourage him.

“Get together when?”

“Three o’clock? My flat at the Time Warner Center?”

I double-checked my watch. I’d still have plenty of time before meeting Claire.

“Three o’clock works fine.”

“Enter on Fifty-eighth Street. The doorman will direct you.”

“I look forward to it.”

The Time Warner Center is a slice of Hong Kong transplanted to New York City—a cramped, upscale mall topped by a generic luxury hotel and a host of overpriced, absentee-owned condos in linked towers, with a few million pounds of marble tossed in to make everything classy. Narimanov kept a penthouse, but I had the sense that he didn’t spend much time there. The immaculate, Scandinavian modern living room I was shown to was entirely devoid of photos or other personal items, every throw pillow freshly plumped and perfectly placed. It made me wonder if the maids worked from brochures. I noticed a simple wooden chessboard on a table by the glass wall overlooking Columbus Circle. It was set wrongly, with the pieces randomly arranged behind the pawns. I walked over and began correcting it.

“You play?” Narimanov asked from behind me.

“Some.” I turned to face him. He was wearing the same outfit he’d had on the other day—charcoal slacks and a black turtleneck—and he was carrying a manila envelope. I wondered if it contained an offer letter. “Years ago. When I was in college. I never wanted to spend time memorizing moves, so I never became very proficient.”

“My objection precisely. Have you ever played Fischer Random Chess?”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a modern variant of a game called Shuffle Chess, codified in the mid-nineties by your eccentric former champion Bobby Fischer. You roll a die to determine the arrangement of the high-value pieces, eliminating reliance on memorized openings and combinations. There are
nine hundred and sixty legal starting positions. We’ll have to play sometime.” He motioned toward the seating area. “It’s good of you to come. Sit, please.”

I sank down onto a white leather sofa and he settled in the matching end chair, tucking the envelope he was carrying between the seat cushion and the chair’s arm. He leaned forward, muscled forearms resting on his knees and thick hands clasped loosely. Broad shoulders and typically Slavic features gave him the look of a Russian movie heavy, but there was a delicacy to his movements that saved his appearance from coarseness.

“Nice place you have here. Great views.”

“My only instruction to my people was not to buy in any building that said Trump on it,” he said wryly. “And this is what they came up with. Trump without Trump.”

I smiled, liking him more and more.

“Drink?” he asked.

“Nothing, thanks. Before we discuss anything else, I want to thank you for the heads-up on the Russian/French attack. Russia’s a big black hole to most analysts. I’m looking forward to learning more about it.”

“Russia’s a big black hole to me sometimes. The only thing the Russian people really learned from seventy years of Communism was the importance of keeping their mouths shut. I heard about the attack from a senior French oil executive, who heard about it directly from the general in charge. It’s much easier to gather confidential information in France than in most other places. The Grandes Écoles graduates are all in bed together.”

“So, what happens next?”

He shrugged.

“The French went out on a limb for Russia. Next, they’ll want payback. That means preferential consideration for French companies bidding on Russian energy projects.”

“A number of which you control,” I said, deciding to probe how good-humored he really was. “I’m curious—how does that work exactly? You get a phone call telling you who to award contracts to?”

“In the old days,” he replied easily. “Russia’s become more Westernized. We negotiate with carrots now, instead of sticks. The Kremlin has a list of things they want, and I have a list of things I want. Business gets done.”

Liking him didn’t mean I completely believed him. It had been only a few years since the Russian government deliberately broke the oil giant Yukos and sent its billionaire owner, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, to prison. The charge was tax fraud, but his actual crime—in the opinion of most Western observers—had been funding opposition political parties. Narimanov might negotiate with his government about some things, but there had to be times when they made him toe the line. I made a mental note to learn what I could about his political connections.

“And you seem to have done well by it. I’m flattered by your offer.”

“And surprised that I followed up again so soon?” he asked shrewdly.

“A little,” I admitted. “It’s not a standard negotiating technique.”

“Unless something’s changed. I heard about your difficulty with Walter Coleman.”

I made an effort to keep my face blank. I’d wanted to tell him the story myself. His having heard from someone else was bad, because it put me on the defensive.

“You invited me to your apartment to retract your job offer?” I asked, playing it cool. “That’s equally nonstandard.”

He laughed.

“Not at all. But I need to know what happened between the two of you if there’s a possibility of our working together. Walter’s very well regarded in the markets. I can’t just ignore his judgments.”

It was the reaction I’d expected. A public condemnation from Walter was a huge burden to be carrying around, regardless of my track record. Narimanov’s offer entitled him to more information than I’d shared with my clients.

“Walter’s son, Alex, directed me to some confidential market information,” I explained carefully. “The source of the information is an open question, as is the nature of Alex’s relationship with the conduit. Walter only found out after Alex died. He felt I should have kept him informed.”

“Walter realized his son had a secret arrangement with some third party and was angry at you for not telling him?”

I nodded, impressed by how quickly his mind worked.

“I see.” He tapped the tips of his fingers together, considering. “Is this about the Saudi Arabian oil field data?”

I felt the ground shift under my feet, wondering how the hell Narimanov
knew about the Saudi data, and, more to the point, how he knew that Alex or I knew. The last couple of days spun by in my head at high speed as I tried to figure out what hidden connection Narimanov might have to the events that had transpired. Nothing leapt out at me.

“You’re going to have to explain how you knew to ask that particular question,” I said, as evenly as I could manage. “If there’s a possibility of our working together, that is.”

He grinned, apparently enjoying my discomfiture.

“I got a call from an acquaintance in Washington a few days ago, telling me that Alex Coleman had been asking questions about a trove of confidential Saudi Arabian information. He was insistent that the people he spoke to not mention his inquiries to his father.”

“And these people kept the secret from Walter but told you. That seems odd.”

“Why? I’ve made it known that I pay well for information that interests me. It’s been an important element of my success. I get calls from all sorts of people, on all sorts of subjects. It’s as I told you yesterday—I have access to information that isn’t normally attainable.”

“You get calls from people in the U.S. government?”

He gave me a condescending look.

“Of course.”

I’d seen too much in my career to be shocked by corruption, but the notion of people in my own government selling information to foreigners pissed me off. And the realization of the extent to which Narimanov had manipulated me the first time we met pissed me off more. He hadn’t even mentioned Saudi—I’d been the one to bring it up, thinking I was clever. I wasn’t in any mood to be jerked around.

“I suppose we’re done, then,” I said, getting to my feet.

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking up at me.

“You approached me because you wanted to collaborate on an analysis of how much surplus oil there is in the world. You already have most of the information you need to figure out the answer, or you can get it from your friends in Washington. Either way, it doesn’t seem that you have any real need of my services. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Good luck.”

I took a step toward the door.

“Wait,” he said. “Perhaps I’ve expressed myself badly.”

“On the contrary—you’ve been remarkably clear. It’s just that I don’t like being toyed with.”

He stood as well, his brow furrowed.

“I apologize,” he said, looking me squarely in the eye. “You’re correct that I should have been more forthright the other day, when we first spoke.” He gestured toward the couch. “Please.”

I sat down again, surprised and encouraged. Most guys as rich as Narimanov were constitutionally incapable of apologizing.

“The truth is that I don’t have the information,” Narimanov admitted, settling back into the end chair. “Alex only made inquiries. He didn’t pass the data along. And I’m reluctant to fish for it at the source.”

“You know what the source is?”

“I do. A U.S. agency most commonly known by three initials.”

Which was consistent with Walter’s theory. The information had been passed to Senator Simpson from the CIA or the NSA, and then Simpson had arranged to get it to me.

“And you’re reluctant to fish for it why?”

“I draw the line at suborning state intelligence agencies, and at cooperating with them. Russia’s, America’s, or anyone else’s. Intelligence agencies make bad friends and worse enemies. I troll exclusively in open waters—or at least waters that aren’t too heavily restricted.”