About Face (14 page)

“Mike O'Grady is the chief building engineer,” I go on. “He'll be waiting for you in the lobby to take you through. I'll catch up with you in a bit.”

“Our schedule is tight,” Cobus says. “If possible, I'd like to meet Larry Elman for a drink before dinner.”

Larry Elman oversees retail leasing for all GlassWell properties. Cobus wants to talk about the target's retail tenants, as well as retail in the surrounding submarket as a whole. Dinner, as he's referring to it, is with the GlassWell team at Del Posto.

“So try and be quick about it,” he goes on.

A cab on the far side of the street slashes through traffic on a dangerous sixty-degree angle to pick me up. It's like the driver can sense my urgency. Other cabs, a bus, civilian cars, all honk furiously. I jump in.

“Let's head toward the Upper West Side,” I say to the cab driver. He or she could be Santa Claus for all I know as my nose is already buried in the disposable as I access the browser. I go to Google, and type in “Columbia Grammar NYC.”

“Ninety-Third and Central Park West,” I continue, as we head up Sixth Avenue.

My eyes hidden behind gray-shaded turquoise Gucci lenses, I walk east along the south side of Ninety-Fifth Street toward the park. I hear kids laughing, playing, and screaming. I walk toward the joyous, youthful voices. As I get closer I can start to see a red brick building come into focus across the street: Columbia Grammar and Prep, a prestigious private school for children grades kindergarten through twelve. Straining my eyes, I do my best to glance while maximizing my shades and peripheral-vision skills.

My timing is right-on. It looks like school just let out. Kids are everywhere. Black, white, Asian, Latin, every ethnicity under the sun seems to be represented within only a hundred square yards of Manhattan sidewalk.

Near the main entrance, on the stairs, a bunch of boys toward the older end of the spectrum are talking. Apparently they're
cracking jokes or discussing something funny as they all keep bursting into laughter at the same time. Only one of the boys isn't laughing.

Max.

He's staring right at me.

I stop.

Thank God. Max. He's safe.

I swallow hard. My eyes well up. My legs feel weak. Like if even for just a few seconds I want to collapse to the ground, let all the worry that's been bottled up for these last years spill out of me onto the sidewalk.

I also feel an overwhelming sense of hope.

If only a safe Max means a safe Perry.

I know my window is small. I quickly scan the area and notice the strategically placed adult supervisors because of the younger children. I look back at Max. I cross the street and head toward the school. He takes the cue and begins toward me.

He wraps his arms around me. I squeeze him back.

“Max,” I say. “Oh, man. I'm so happy to see you. I missed you.”

Window.

I pull my face back. I take him by the tops of his arms, by his shoulders, and separate us just enough to face each other.

“Are you okay?” I go on. “Are you safe?”

He nods.

I look him up and down.

“My God,” I say, realizing he's almost as tall as me, “you're a man now. You look like you even shave. College in the works?”

“I'm going to Syracuse next year.”

“Syracuse,” I repeat. “Good for you. Great school. Look, I couldn't—” I change direction, stammering, “I couldn't … I mean, I didn't … or, I didn't not want—”

“I know,” he said, surprising me.

“You know what?”

“That you've been worried. And that we wouldn't have been there with you if my mom didn't think it was the right thing.”

I move my right hand gently from his arm to the side of his face.

“You're so smart. And so brave.”

In all of this, I still have zero idea why they were taken. How they were found. What went down.

“How about Mom?” I go on. “Is she okay too?”

“I don't know,” Max responds with a shrug. “I hope so.”

“What do you mean? You haven't seen her?”

“Uh-huh. Not since that day.”

“That day,” I repeat. “You mean—”

“That day. The last day we saw you.”

I feel like I'm going to vomit. Or pass out. Maybe vomit then pass out. Or vice versa.

What the fuck is going on?

So many questions.

Window.

“You haven't seen her—but have you talked to her?”

“Uh-uh. Dad said she went away. And that she isn't ever coming back.”

“Is that right,” I respond to this interesting nugget. “What else did Dad say?”

“That sometimes the stars align when we least expect it. That's how I made it back to him.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense something. I look, and a heavyset, thirty-something brunette is headed my way.

Time for one more.

“How about me? Did you ever tell your Dad about me?”

He shook his head no.

“I've never told anyone about you. Mom whispered in my ear not to when—”

The teacher reaches me.

“Excuse me.”

“Hi—Ken Millman,” I say, extending my hand. “I'm Brian York's cousin.”

We shake.

“I'm in from Connecticut, and even though we're all having
dinner together, I figured I'd swing by and say hi to Max since I was doing a little uptown shopping.”

I turn to Max and tussle his hair.

“I'll be seeing you later.”

I jump in a cab.

“One Sixty-Six East Thirtieth,” I say to the cab driver.

F
RENCH
R
IVIERA
2004

While en route, the salty Côte d'Azur air surging through the car as we hugged the coastline, Perry called Rail Europe on the disposable cell I'd purchased at the airport. Little more than an hour after leaving La Belle Aurore, we were on the 8:52 p.m. train from Nice, getting in to the Lyon Part-Dieu station at 1:10 a.m. where we'd be picking up our connection—the 3:50 a.m. from Lyon Part-Dieu arriving in Geneva at 5:36 a.m. We were on a TGV, one of the fastest trains in the world. Perry purchased four premier class tickets in cash.

The premier cabin was basically empty, for which I was thankful. Upon walking into the cabin, solo seats were to the left and duo seats—two per row next to the window, as opposed to one—were to the right. An older couple occupied seats 12 and 13, the first duo row. A thirty-something woman was sound asleep in the third solo seat. There was no one else. We took the last two duo rows, seats 62 and 63 followed by 65 and 66.

The lights were low. The main illumination was from the bright night sky blanketing the passing French countryside coming
through the windows. Within minutes Max was fast asleep in seat 62, and Neo was out on his side in his carrier in 63. We were behind them. Perry was in seat 66, the window, and I had the aisle, seat 65. I took the disposable from Perry and dialed. As she sat next to me, we stared into each other's eyes as it rang. She had no idea who I was calling.

“Hello?” asked an older gentleman's voice on the other end.

Gaston Piccard. He was one of my father's closest friends and our financial consultant based in Geneva. Gaston had overseen every aspect of our portfolio overseas since my father started making real cash back in the day. He managed not only our Swiss bank accounts, but he'd helped us devise every aspect of our financial portfolio both domestic and foreign as to how best shelter us from what some Americans might see as “unnecessary” taxes. Not only was he one of the most respected, sophisticated, and loyal bankers in Switzerland—if not the world—reaching this level in life clearly told me he must also be one of the most resourceful.

And for the plan I was looking to put in play, to say I'd need serious resources was an understatement.

“Gaston. It's Jonah.”

He didn't respond.

“Gaston?”

“Yes—yes Jonah. I'm here. I'm just—I'm so sorry about your father.”

“I appreciate that, Gaston.”

More silence.

“I'm in Europe. I'm just leaving—”

“Jonah—your father and I—we certainly go way back, and I have the utmost respect for him, for your family. But I just—I'm just—”

“Gaston—please. I need your help.”

“Jonah, I'm sure I don't have to tell you but you are serious international news right now! I mean—”

Gaston, becoming more anxious with each passing second,
reeled his voice back in. “I mean, according to the news you are an international fugitive. And they're saying you may be tied to your own father's murder.”

“I know, Gaston, I know what they're saying. But it's not as it seems. Please. You need to believe me.”

More silence.

“I know you believe me. You've known me my whole life. You've known me since I was a little kid. I'm a lot of things. But I could never be who the cops or FBI think I've become. You have to believe me.”

I heard a sigh on the other end. I kept going.

“I promise I will tell you everything. But, for now, as I'm running for my fucking life, I have no one else to turn to, Gaston. You have always been one of the most trusted members of my father's inner circle. If my father were still alive—and I needed his advice on who to call right now, at this very moment—he'd be telling me to call you.”

“Okay, Jonah, okay.”

“You've been so loyal to us, Gaston. I'd never want to put you in harm's way. But this is literally my life we're dealing with here.”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“On the train from Nice. I'll be in Geneva first thing in the morning.”

“How did you get to the train station?”

That was the question I wanted to hear. It was the question that meant Gaston wanted to know how I'd been covering my tracks. Which meant he was now invested in my survival.

“Rental car from the airport. I left it in the middle of the parking lot.”

“What did you do with the keys?”

“I took them with me.”

“Good. Give them to me when I pick you up. I'll deal with the car.”

Just as I suspected. Resources.

“What time exactly do you get in?”

“We get in at five thirty-six a.m.”

“We?”

“Like I said, I promise to tell you everything.”

“Silver Bentley Mulsanne. Five thirty-six a.m. Till then.”

I hung up the phone. Perry pulled her eyes from the passing countryside and buried them deep into my own. She reached up, put her hand on my face. Without a word, we spoke to one another. I put my hand on hers, moved her fingers to my mouth, and kissed them.

Perry started to stand up. As she did, I grabbed her hips firmly, and helped her straddle me. We kissed each other slowly, deeply, passionately. All we could hear were our choppy, nervous breaths against the sound of the train slicing through the night. My mouth moved to her right shoulder. As I savored the taste of her bronzed skin, I lifted her wifebeater up to her neck. It wasn't long until my lips tasted her chest and her right breast was in my mouth. I wanted every inch of her, had wanted every inch of her for years. Chills shot up my spine as she ran her fingers through my hair. Every stroke, kiss, breath from each of us was strong yet laced with restraint. We wanted to tear each other apart. But our boys were sleeping soundly in front of us.

At 5:36 a.m. on the dot our train stopped in Geneva. My senses on overdrive, the four of us quickly got off and followed signs for the exit. The dawn air was crisp, invigorating. Immediately I noticed Gaston though I hadn't seen him in years. Not simply because there were so few cars waiting to pick up passengers at this hour, but because he was memorable. He was a tall man—around six foot three—with a full head of bushy silver hair and strong facial features. Inside Gaston Piccard was a swirl of brilliance and bigheartedness. Outside he had a big head, big nose, big hands, an imposing figure.

Gaston was in his silver Bentley. As we walked toward it, I saw the trunk pop. I threw in our bags, put Max and Perry in the backseat, and jumped in the front with Neo's bag on my lap. Gaston
nodded hello, and we pulled out. My eyes wandered as we did, and noticed from the fine automobile's details we were not only in Bentley's top-of-the-line model but a Mulliner commissioned one, or essentially a custom-built Bentley. A serious car for a serious man.

It wasn't long until it was clear we were leaving the city limits.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

He put his hand out. I gave him the rental car keys, which he dropped in the inside pocket of his blazer.

“Somewhere safe.”

He looked in the rearview mirror at his backseat passengers.

“Tell me everything, Jonah. And don't leave anything out.”

Perry handed Max his mini-DVD player, put headphones on him, and pushed play for whatever video he'd been watching. For the next four hours, I filled Gaston in on everything from the moment I found
Danish Jubilee Egg
in my briefcase until my call to him the night before and everything in between. Accidentally shooting the dirty cop bastard trying to shake me down, the real story surrounding my father's murder, the Fabergé egg situation, the connection between Galina Zhamovsky, my father, Andreu Zhamovsky, me—all of it. At times I wanted to blast my fist through the windshield. Other times I wanted to crumble from the weight of reliving it all again.

We rolled into the beautiful Canton of St. Gallen, Switzerland, into the town of Valens. Our heads were all on swivels. There were lush green fields and scattered farms. We were so high up in the rolling mountains it felt like we could reach up and grab the unencumbered, low-hanging blue sky. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I could breathe.

I felt safe.

We pulled into the driveway of a huge mountaintop chalet. We walked inside. The open space footprint was bathed with light from every angle. There were windows everywhere. The foyer and “Great Room” immediately in front of us must have been
three-stories high. All of us were drawn toward the rear wall of the home—a solid wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor piece of glass—like a magnet was pulling us. We slowly walked toward it. As we got closer, it felt like we could fall out of the back of the house like it was a cliff. We were so entrenched in the view of the Tamina Valley, I could feel myself almost losing my balance. Once up against the glass all three of us put our hands out as if to make sure there was really even a window there. Neo put his front paws up on it as well and stood looking out with us.