About Face (11 page)

“How bad are things at home?”

“You have no idea. You weren't kidding when you said people would be looking for you,” she said. “Police, FBI—two mornings ago, after seeing you the night before for the last time, they swarmed the office like yellow jackets.”

“I was skeptical that you'd actually meet me here,” I changed directions. “I mean—I know we decided we'd do this together, that you wanted it for Max as much if not more than for us. And it's not like I consciously doubted you. I just—still—”

“You know I'm a woman of my word, Jonah. And you also know I'd do anything for Max. Anything.”

I also remembered exactly what she said just a few nights earlier outside Acappella in Tribeca. I had just let my three partners know that the deal presented to us by Andreu Zhamovsky was a sham, simply a ploy to move a large sum of money into the United States.
I could still feel her warm breath on my skin as she whispered into my ear.

“Are you really prepared to let even the dream of us being together die?”

To which, I replied, no.

“You're sure this is best for him?” I asked, immediately sorry I'd let the words slip past my lips.

What was I thinking? Did I want to scare her? Send her running back to the U.S. before they even settled in?

“I am. I was sure when I told you the other night. I was kicked in the ass when I received notification from my ex-animal's attorney that Max should immediately be turned over to his father's fulltime care as a result of those with whom I'm associated.”

“Jesus,” I said softly. “I'm sorry.”

She looked down for a second, then back into my eyes.

“Who's the cop they pulled from the river? Why are they looking for you?”

“It's not at all what you think. Not even close,” I replied.

“I know that.” she said reassuringly. “I do. But I need to know what's going on. Everything. I mean—your father being murdered, Zhamovsky using us to round up these Fabergé eggs, the cop—I need to know what the hell is going on.”

Over the course of the next couple hours, I took her through every hour, every minute, of the previous three weeks.

“You still haven't explained why you're tied to the cop,” she eventually said.

I explained to Perry that I accidentally shot him. And that Mattheau, my father's chauffeur and a man with secrets of his own who viewed me as a second son, clumsily disposed of him. I also told her I was still struggling with the memory of watching his life—dirty bastard or not—drain from his body right before my eyes.

S
T
. M
AXIME
, F
RANCE
2004

For almost the next twenty-four hours Neo and I remained in the room. While Perry and Max spent most of that time with us, her not being a fugitive with her image plastered all over the news enabled her to take Max into the pool midday and get a bite at the hotel restaurant. Both activities were more about not letting Max sense anything too peculiar and less about enjoying the Côte d'Azur.

Around five fifteen p.m., all four of us took a stroll down to the sand as the sun began waving good night by painting the sky with purples and greens. We brought some fresh fruit from the minibar. Max ran down to the surf while Perry—for keeping up the appearance of a true vacationer—spread out on a lounge chair next to me in a purple bikini. After chewing and swallowing a nice chunk of pineapple, Neo jumped down from the lounge chair to my left then up on to Perry's glistening stomach. She gently began petting his back and rolled her head to the left. My eyes moved from Neo, and Perry's awesome body, to her eyes. She stared at me, but said nothing.

“What?” I asked.

“When do we need to leave?”

I shrugged.

“Not exactly sure. Pretty new at all this.”

“But soon,” she continued.

I nodded.

“Real soon.”

“After all this talking, all this strategizing, is there actually a next move?”

Fifty-two hours and counting. So much pondering, thinking, questioning, hypothesizing, querying, evaluating, postulating. The incident back at the market had been gnawing at me since it happened. Being scared for Neo and myself was one thing. Perry and Max on top of that was another. At first glance of them walking into the hotel I thought it would only add to the blizzard in my mind. But their appearance had worked in the exact opposite manner. Adding Perry and Max to the mix seemed to be the precise kick in the ass I needed. Having a next move wasn't an option now. Would never be again. As a broker, I always snapped into my next move. As someone living a one-hundred-mile-per-hour double life the last few weeks, I always snapped into my next move. Now, as a worldwide fugitive on the run with an innocent woman and her child, this had to be the case more than ever.

Take the facts. Take your gut. Snap into the next move.

I clenched my teeth. I turned my head and looked out again over the gently rolling water.

“There is.”

About quarter to seven we all walked back into the room. Max walked out onto the terrace eating a piece of cantaloupe. Neo followed him, hoping for some sharing. Perry headed straight for the bathroom. Just as she closed the door, the phone rang.

“Shit,” I whispered to myself.

“Good evening, Brigette,” I began. “I just got off the phone with American Express and it—

“Bonjour, Mr. Gordon. Good evening. This is Monsieur Acelin Bernot. I'm the manager of La Belle Aurore. I trust you are enjoying your stay?”

Acelin Bernot definitely had a French accent, but his English was perfect.

“I am, Monsieur Bernot. Thank you.”

“Fantastic,” he went on, “we certainly aim to please. Now, I understand there has been an issue with your credit card. Our lovely Brigette has filled me in on the situation and at this point we need to have the issue resolved. According to Brigette it was supposed to be finalized last night.”

This guy was no-nonsense.

“I, yes—she—”

I pulled my mouth away from the phone, covered it, and took a deep breath.

“That's correct, sir. My card was lost, and instead of forwarding me a new one here as I had requested American Express sent it to my home in the States.”

“I understand this, Mr. Gordon. Thank you. I also understand it was supposed to have arrived by this evening, but, unfortunately, it has not yet. Now, I am sorry to bother you—but I would appreciate it if you might join me in the lobby so we can call American Express together. Due to the fact all deliveries have usually been made by this time, it is imperative we take this step if you'd like to continue your stay.”

“I just got out of the shower,” I countered. “Why don't I give American Express a call and see exactly what's happening. If there is in fact a problem with delivery, I could have them call you directly and—”

“I apologize, Monsieur Gordon,” he cut me off, “but I would prefer you to join me in the lobby.”

Huh. I could understand his concern, but such urgency? Something didn't feel right.

“I understand, sir. Of course. Let me get dressed, and I'll be right down.”

The toilet flushed, the faucet ran, then Perry emerged from the bathroom as I was hanging up.

“What's going on?” she asked.

Remain calm.

Own your fear. Or your fear will own you.

“I need to go downstairs to check on something. I'll be back up in a few minutes. In the meantime, I need you to get dressed and get our things together.”

“Should I be nervous? Is something happening?”

“Maybe. Or maybe not. Either way, it's time to go.”

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

The commute to the hotel following the party at Gary Spencer's abode is a quick one—about thirty feet by foot. We're staying at the Mandarin Oriental, located in the Time Warner Center—a monster real estate endeavor comprised of retail, office space, condominiums, and our hotel across the street from 15 Central Park West. Cobus and I grab a nightcap in the Stone Rose, a low-lit, swanky cocktail haunt on the fourth floor of the Time Warner Center, and discuss both details of our deal as well as the players we just met. Then we head into the hotel, check-in, and retire to our respective rooms for the evening.

Half an hour later, I'm back downstairs. I walk outside, hail a cab, and jump in. Jose Aceveda, my Latin-blooded cab driver who doesn't look a day over sixteen, is listening to mariachi music so loud I could swear the band is sitting in the front seat with him.

“Sixty-Eighth between Second and Third,” I borderline scream.

I'm barely done saying the address and Jose tears away from the sidewalk like he's just been given the green flag in the Daytona 500. I'm headed to Perry's building. At this point, with all I've gone through, where I've been, paranoia and being ridiculously careful
have become so intertwined I don't even bother trying to differentiate any more between them. My thinking until this point has been simple. Everything about my life, as well as Perry's, since we left nine years ago must be under constant surveillance—phone lines, our homes, our bank accounts, anything directly linked to our lives. That's why I never called her after she and Max were taken. On my cell, from my office, at a pay phone in Amsterdam—it hasn't mattered to me. Whether I'm crazy or not, I've been influenced by the possibility such a call would lead back to me. A chance I simply can't take.

Could Perry even possibly be there? I mean—even if she is okay, could she possibly just be residing at her Upper East Side condo as if nothing ever happened?

I've been through every scenario imaginable. Yes, perhaps, if it was her husband who found her and literally dragged her back to the States. Maybe he took Max, told her if she just accepted she had made the decisions of an unfit mother, she could quietly go on with her life with minimal visitation rights to see her son. Something he wanted for Max—a mother—instead of letting her rot in jail.

On the other hand, if this was somehow related to the authorities finding her, they would have never just let her back into life after what she had done—what she knew—without getting all they could possibly need on me first. And Perry never would have given me up. Anymore than she would have tried to contact me for fear of leading anyone my way.

The ride is quick. Perry's building is mid-block, but I have Jose drop me off on the corner of Sixty-Eighth and Third. It's dark. It's a strange sensation; I grew up in this neighborhood yet as much as it feels like I never left, it feels like a lifetime since I've been here. The neighborhood is quiet, calm. I start down the street, looking at the townhouses lining both sides, thinking of the one I grew up in just ten blocks or so from here. The townhouse where my father was gunned down.

An image of his bullet-popped head on a gurney flashes in my mind.

I don't even flinch from it. I've seen it so many times.

About fifty feet from the entrance to Perry's building, I stop and wait. Though I'm no longer Jonah Gray to the world, for reasons just mentioned I don't need to be caught on the building's security cameras as Ivan Janse or anyone else who's coming looking for a girl who ran with a wanted fugitive years ago.

I stand silently in the night, pretending to speak on my cell phone. A few people walk by, some of them with their dogs. Every few seconds I glance toward the front of the building waiting for my chance. Finally, it comes. A town car pulls up to the front of the building, and the doorman scurries out to open the door. He's been drawn from the property. He's still no doubt on camera. But this doesn't mean I need to be.

A middle-aged woman gets out of the car. The two exchange pleasantries, then she steps in front of him and heads for the building.

“Excuse me,” I say.

The doorman turns around.

“Good evening,” I continue.

I take a few steps in his direction then pretend to roll my ankle. I stumble and partially crumble to the ground. The doorman, concerned, makes his way over to me. He helps me up.

“Are you all right, sir?” he asks.

I grimace, swallow my first few words, play the part.

“Ahh—yes, I think I'm okay. Thanks,” I push out.

He gestures toward the building.

“Would you like to—”

“No, no, really.” I cut him off.

I gingerly take a few steps, “walking it off” in a circle.

“Really. I think it's fine,” I go on. “I was actually just looking for someone who lives in the building, Perry York. Is she in tonight?”

The doorman doesn't answer. He is clearly surprised by my inquiry.

“Perry York?” I say again. “Is she home?”

“You'll have to forgive me, sir, it's just been a while since anyone mentioned her name. No—Ms. York is not here. In fact, she
doesn't live in this building anymore. She hasn't for many years.”

“Is that right?” I say, casually as possible. “Huh. Her office must have given me her old address.”

The doorman is looking at me as something more than a European guy with bad information. I want to ask more questions: What happened to the apartment? Who lives there now? What happened to Ms. York? But my danger sensors have already kicked into higher gear. Time to move on.

“Anyway, I'll take it up with them tomorrow,” I continue. “Sorry to bother you this evening.”

I extend my hand. The doorman takes it.

“No bother,” he says. “I hope that ankle feels better. I'm sorry—I didn't catch your name.”

That's because I didn't give it to you. But nice try.

“Alphonse. Alphonse Bakema.”

Instead of hailing a cab, I head uptown on foot. The Upper East Side is quiet. I can hear the leaves rustling on the few interspaced trees dotting the sidewalks. The cool night air is refreshing as it fills my lungs. Ten minutes, and ten or so blocks later, I'm standing across the street from the brownstone I grew up in. I see the structure, the windows, the front door. But it's the memories I see that wash through me, and take my breath away.