Trump Tower (17 page)

“Sure,” she said, “when you let me drive the Ferrari.”

Every morning, he made his coffee pod espresso, and she made her Jura Capresso espresso, and the possibility of her driving his Ferrari was never discussed again.

“It's the Coves,” David said when Keung answered the phone at the Autumn Moon on Third Avenue. This was one of the only Chinese restaurants in New York that did not deliver—except to some people. “Will you send up the usual, please?”

“Cove?” Keung said.

“Yes, Cove.”

“Usual?”

“Yes, usual.”

“Address for usual?”

He shook his head, “The usual address.”

“Cove?”

“That's right.”

“Twenty-five minute,” Keung said and hung up.

“How long?” Tina asked, watching the coffee come from the machine into her cup.

“If there's no traffic, sometime next month.”

The phone rang. David answered it. And a man with an odd accent said, “I'm looking for Mr. Cove.”

“Who wants him?”

“My name is Vasyl Zhadanov. And I'm ringing on the advice of Asil Özgür in Istanbul. Is this Mr. Cove?”

“If Asil said to call, yeah, it is. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping I might be able to do something for you. I'm an attorney here in New York. Is there a possibility we could meet this afternoon? The matter is rather urgent. My office? Your office? Neutral ground? Whatever is convenient for you. I assure you it will be worth your time.”

“Where's your office?”

“I'm at Forty-Second and Fifth, right opposite the library. But I'll tell you what, instead of you coming downtown, why don't I come up? It's easier for you and no problem for me. You're at Trump Tower, right? So how about a glass of bubbly across the street from you at the Plaza?”

“When?”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Lobby?”

“Champagne bar.”

“Sure.” David hung up and explained to Tina, “Lawyer friend of Asil's. I'm going to run across the street and find out what he wants.”

“Lawyer friend of Asil's?”

“That's what he said.”

“You going to call Asil and check?”

He looked at his watch. “I could. What time is it in Istanbul?” Then he decided, “But if I do and something comes of this, the son of a bitch will ask for a finder's fee. Remember the guy with the four cigarette boats in Orlando? Asil stuck us up for seventy grand.”

“But Asil was the one who helped put that deal together.”

“That's not what you said at the time.”

“Do what you want.” She took the first sip of her coffee. “But don't forget, he's a friend of Asil's, so after you shake hands, count your fingers.”

A
S SOON AS
David walked into the Champagne Bar—a high-ceilinged room with gorgeous chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows—a man walked up to him and extended his hand.

“I'm Vasyl Zhadanov. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.”

He brought David to a table in the corner and handed him his card, which read, “Vasyl Zhadanov, Attorney at Law.” It gave his address as Suite 6501, 500 Fifth Avenue, New York 10110. Below it were phone numbers for the New York office, plus offices in Geneva and London.

David read it, then put the card in his pocket.

Zhadanov was somewhere in his midfifties, stout, with a weathered face, stubby hands, and dandruff from his black hair all over the shoulders of his off-the-rack blue suit. “What would you like?” he asked, signaling for a waiter.

“Mr. Zhadanov? Good afternoon,” the waiter said. “Nice to see you again. What can I get you?”

David said, “Glass of champagne will do fine.”

“Two,” Zhadanov said. “Not the house stuff . . . the usual.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter left them alone.

“I'd been meaning to get in touch with you for about a week now,” Zhadanov began. “And when I spoke to Asil a few days ago . . . by the way, he asked to be remembered to you and your lovely wife, Tina . . . it reminded me that I had not yet made contact.”

Smiling to be polite, David thought to himself,
how come Asil didn't tell me this guy was going to call?
“What's this all about?”

“Some clients of mine are looking to place some money, a rather large sum, that will have to be handled with the utmost discretion.”

David wanted to know, “Who are your clients?”

“There will be time to talk about that.”

“American?”

“No.”

“So who . . .”

“You will meet them.”

“And their money? Where's it all coming from?”

He looked at David. “Shall we call it investment money?”

“I didn't ask where it's going. I asked where it's coming from.”

There was another long pause. “When you buy and sell a distressed cargo, you guarantee the purchase or sale with a line of bank credit, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How big a line do you now run?”

He didn't like that question. “What's it to you?”

“Please . . .” Zhadanov held up both hands. “I do not mean to pry. But I
wanted to give you an example of what my clients are thinking. If, say, you run a line of . . . pick a figure . . . two million dollars . . .”

“We'd be broke,” David interjected.

“Then, say, five million.”

David shook his head. “Flat ass out of business.”

“Perhaps I should have done my homework,” Zhadanov went on. “Shall we say, twenty million?”

“Still too low.”

“What I'm trying to say is . . . what kind of business could you do if you had a line of, say, one hundred million?”

David conceded, “Pretty damn big.”

“Then how would you like to be a pretty damn big player?”

The waiter arrived with two champagne flutes and six small verines. There were two tiny glasses, each with avocado mousse and smoked salmon, fois gras with ravioli, and crabmeat with pink grapefruit. “Your usual, sir,” he said.

Zhadanov thanked him, picked up his champagne, and toasted David, “Your health.”

David raised his glass, nodded, took a sip then. “Your client wants to sink a hundred mil into my business?”

“Let's say . . .” Zhadanov paused as if he needed to phrase this delicately . . . “my clients wish to extend your credit by sizable amounts. How much, for how long, and what we do about points against trading profits for the use of the credit line are mere details. The important thing is to see if you're the right person for my clients and, at the same time, if my clients are the right people for you.”

“Where's this credit line going to be managed?”

“My client account, you name the bank.”

“My bank?”

“You choose.”

David needed to get this straight. “You're going to open an account at my bank and make that money available to me to secure credit . . .”

“What could be simpler?”

“And your clients are . . . who?”

“My clients are,” Zhadanov paused, then admitted, “Colombians.”

“Fuck me, pal. A hundred mil in drug cash? I don't think so.”

“I don't, either. Because that's not what this is.” He asked calmly, “What do you know about money laundering?”

“Enough to know I can wind up in jail for twenty years.”

“Federal statutes dictate . . . that's right . . . twenty years per count. But that's for laundering money.”

“Drug money.”

“Any kind of money. The crime is laundering. In very general terms, that's defined as an act to conceal or obscure the origin, destination or beneficial owners of monies obtained illegally. But if the money is legitimate . . .”

“There is no such thing as legitimate Colombian money.”

“Just because they're Colombians, it doesn't mean they're drug traffickers.”

“Let me guess . . . they're dentists.”

“No. They're . . . currency brokers. But they only broker dollars and Colombian pesos. And you don't have to worry about that. Once you meet them and they meet you, if you both get along, then that's the last you'll have anything to do with them. You'll be dealing with me.”

David hesitated. “It's still Colombian money.”

“Which you never actually touch. Your line of credit comes through your bank. This money merely secures it . . . big time.”

In the back of his mind, David replayed a conversation with Tina.

Airplane parts
.

Way out of our league
.

Big money in that shit
.

Big downside because we could never cover it
.

Maybe someday when we grow up and get really rich
.

He looked at Zhadanov for a long time. “This account you're going to open . . .”

“A lawyer's client account is protected by client-attorney privilege.”

“When my bank guy asks . . .”

“He won't because he knows that the names behind the account and the source of the funds are protected.”

“So it
is
drug money.”

“It's money being brokered.” Zhadanov insisted, “Meet these people. If you think they're traffickers, I'll get up and walk away with you. But when you meet them and realize they are who I say they are . . . we're talking a hundred million dollars. This is a game changer for you.”

David stared at Zhadanov for the longest time.

Maybe someday when we grow up and get really rich
.

“If they're drug traffickers, I'm walking out.”

Tina had the fourteen cartons from Autumn Moon spread out all over the kitchen table.

“What did the lawyer want?”

David sat down, looked for the
mu shu
pork, took the carton, rolled some pancakes, and started eating.

“Made us an offer to extend our line of credit to a hundred mil.”

“Who do we have to kill?”

“I'm meeting with his clients first thing Monday morning.”

“Who are they?”

He paused, then told her, “A consortium of brokers.”

“Wall Street?”

“Bunch of foreign guys.”

“Tell me more.”

“Not much to tell until I see the whites of their eyes. I'll fly down tomorrow . . .”

“Fly down to where?”

“They're at some sort of meeting in Curaçao.”

“You're going all the way to Curaçao?”

“If I don't like them, I'm turning around and coming straight home. But if I do like them . . . Tina, this could be huge.”

“I'm scheduled at T'ien tomorrow. I'll cancel and come with you.”

“No. It's an initial meeting. You go ahead and do your thing. Anyway, I'm playing golf tomorrow morning, and I'll go straight to the plane from there.”

“And this lawyer guy?” She asked, “How come Asil never mentioned him?”

David showed her both his hands. “Look, I came away with all my fingers.”

“O
y!”

Someone was banging hard on Ricky Lips' front door.

“Oy,” he shouted again, “I'm on the way.”

He came out of his bedroom, where he'd been watching a British snooker tournament on cable, wearing a pair of baggy, green Bermuda shorts, a well-worn gray Doors T-shirt that said, “Hello I Love You,” his Ugg boots and, of course, his ankle bracelet.

Someone banged a third time on the door.

“Oy.”

He maneuvered through the mess that was his living room, got to the door and yanked it open.

“Oy.”

Neville Manley Jones, whose claim to fame was that he once played bass with his schoolboy chum Bob Marley, was standing there with a fierce-looking older black woman.

“Why didn't you ring up?” Ricky asked.

“I did ring up,” Neville said in his island lilt.

“They're supposed to announce you at the front desk downstairs.”

“They did.”

“Who answered the phone?”

“How do I know?” Neville said. “Meet Mrs. Whelan. I told you about her.”

“When?”

“When I said I'd bring Mrs. Whelan up to meet you.”