About Face (2 page)

I eventually turn on to PC Hooftstraat, the city's most upscale stretch of retail. Hermès, Zegna, Cartier, D&G—it's got them all. My destination is a watch store called Tourbillion. I look at the Audemars Piguet on my left wrist, a gift my mother gave my father and my only tie to my previous life. My mind drifts back to the summer of 2004, to Andreu Zhamovsky. Our fathers met in 1979 with Communism on the precipice of crumbling. Alexander Zhamovsky, Andreu's father, was in control of most of the Soviet Union's natural gas resources. He was attending New York City as part of a series of secret conferences with the purpose of strong American business minds teaching our Cold War counterparts about the finer points of Democratic capitalism, a win-win for both sides in the ultimate game of what all governments want most regardless of their actual political views: making money.

Andreu and I connected, clicked. We became fast friends. Though we lived on opposite ends of the globe, we remained tight. Our families traveled together. If my father and I were overseas—business or pleasure—we'd try to all meet up for a day or so. Andreu and I would write. We were like pen pals. As we got older, we drifted somewhat but only in terms of length between communications. If a week or a year passed it didn't matter, the next time we spoke it was like we had just done so five minutes ago. Like we were family.

In four days, I'll be making my long-anticipated return to the United States. The last thing I can allow to happen, after all these years being so careful and with much unfinished business, is for someone to put together who I am because of a hunch and an image of me caught on film at Newark Liberty International Airport the day I left with the Audemars on my wrist. Crazy paranoid? Maybe. But like I said, I've got unfinished business. And here's my reality.
When I'm driving, I stop farther than necessary behind the car in front of me at a light in case I need to make a break for it. When I walk into a restaurant—or any public place for that matter—I first scout all possible escape routes then survey every set of eyes in the room to see which might be the ones looking to arrest, or kill, me. When I sleep, I always do so with a gun within reach. When I fled America, I did so a wanted man. I was wanted by the law for inadvertently killing a crooked New York City cop and for taking the matter of my father's murder into my own hands. I was wanted by a very powerful Russian family for denying them the storied eight missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs that are in fact not missing at all. Did I do some things I still, to this second, regret? Definitely. Were all of my actions, in my mind, justified? Absolutely.

I reach address number 72 and enter the store. The walls, like my home, are white, and the floor is darkly stained, wide, hardwood planks. There is a quaint sitting area comprised of four modern, cubelike brown leather chairs around a rectangular glass coffee table. In the center of the table is a vase with fresh white roses. The rest of the space is occupied by glass display cases filled with expensive timepieces. Realizing it feels like eons since I've shopped for a watch—or a trophy as I sometimes called them back in New York, since I usually bought one following the close of a deal—I can't shake the feeling of nostalgia that passes through me. I can't deny the sense of entitlement, wanted or unwanted, that hard-earned wealth brings.

I know, I know. Right now you're thinking, “Hasn't this guy learned his fucking lesson?”

The answer is yes.

I have.

I understand better than anyone that millions of dollars ensures only two things: a roof overhead, food in the mouth. Nothing else. Not love, not happiness, not faith, nothing. But I also know that in the big play of life, I've been cast in a new role. And this role, like my last part, calls for a certain level of wardrobe. At my core I'm fine with a Timex or Swatch. But all this would do is bring
questions from those who surround me, successful professional types not very different from my old associates back in Manhattan. And questions, for me, bring one thing. Unwanted attention.

“
Dag
,” the statuesque, brunette saleswoman says to me.

“
Dag
,” I say back.

The true sign of a Netherlands native is the ability to speak either Dutch or English on a dime. Something I have been able to do for years now.

“
Bent u zoekt
…”

“
Perregaux
?” I cut her off.

“
Natuurlijk. Juist deze manier
.”

She leads me to the case holding the Girard-Perregaux watches. Like I said, the watch I'm buying is more prop than anything else. Therefore I don't need to spend much time browsing, especially since I have somewhere to be. The moment I learned I was going home, and that I needed to leave behind the watch that is the only connection to my mother who died when I was five, a Girard-Perregaux World Time jumped into my head. It was next on my list of desired timepieces back when I was a commercial real estate power broker in New York who still cared about extravagant bullshit.

She hands me the watch. It is large and heavy. The rose-gold case is forty-three millimeters in diameter. The face is white with a cream inner bezel where the chronograph dials are located. It tells time in all twenty-four official time zones around the globe and has an exposed backing, allowing the handcrafted movement to be viewed as it works. I slide it on. The crystal backing glides silkily over the skin on my hand. The smell of the fresh leather strap fills my nose.

“
Hoeveel
?” I ask.

“
Zestien duizend, negan hindered negentig vijf Euro
,” she responds.

A little more than seventeen thousand Euro, or just under twenty-four thousand American dollars. To tell time.

I wear it out of the store.

A
MSTERDAM
2013

It's Saturday evening. The cool air feels refreshing. My destination is 23 Kerkstraat, which is just off Leidseplein—“Plein” meaning Square—one of three main Pleins in the city. Once I reach the Van Gogh Museum, it's only about another five minutes. I turn right on Kerkstraat, a quiet old cobblestone road. Old street lamps with energy-saving bulbs on top where a gas flame used to be supply the night light. I look at the two opposing rows of coach houses. When I arrived nine years ago, part of me was still so angry, so bitter, I saw these houses as nothing more than simple lines of four or five-story buildings that seemingly ran in to one another, like the townhouses of Manhattan's Upper East Side can look at first glance.

Today I see these buildings for what they are: a twenty-four-foot-wide, five-story, red-brick coach house with red moldings and three tall ground-level windows; followed by a thirty-foot wide, four-story, brown-brick coach house with white moldings and what appears to be a single-windowed attic, or smaller level, on top; followed by a thirty-foot-wide, five-story—you get the idea. The houses, in actuality, are similar but far from the same. Even the pulley—each house has a pulley centrally located on top to hoist
objects up since the internal stairways are so narrow—is different in quality and characteristics upon inspection from one to the next. Attention to detail in my constant battle to remain free of my past life, as if I'd shed that life like some spent reptilian skin, has been my greatest ally these past years. Just as it has been my greatest ally in becoming a professional success all over again from scratch.

I enter the restaurant. A happening bar and restaurant catering to Amsterdam's young elite throbs before me. Architecturally the space begins and ends with crisp lines. The colors—mostly browns and creams—are earthy yet rich. Although the space is packed, square mirrors running the entire shell of the rectangular bar give an odd illusion of a sea of legs. Slicing upward from the bar, beginning in the center of one of the rectangle's short sides to the second floor is a golden staircase.

Abeni, the striking, six-foot-tall African hostess with a shaved head, is mobbed. I wait for her eye. On sight of me, while mid-sentence with a patron, she smiles and motions me upstairs.

I reach the top, the main restaurant. A waiter points me in the right direction. Cocktail hour is well underway. In the far corner, enmeshed in conversation, is Cobus de Bont. Cobus is my boss. He is the founder of de Bont Beleggings—
Beleggings
means Investments in Dutch. De Bont Beleggings is one of the largest and most successful private investment firms—and the single largest private owner of commercial real estate—in the Netherlands. The dinner party is in honor of his wife, Annabelle's, fortieth birthday.

Cobus, chatting with local real estate player Martin Gemser, sees me. He waves me over. I pass through the crowd, shaking hands and kissing cheeks.

“
De heer Ivan
.
Hoe we vanavond gevoel
?”

Cobus, who also more readily chooses Dutch over English, just asked me how I'm feeling tonight. From this point on, to make things easier, I'll go with English in all cases.

“Feeling great, actually, I even managed to get in a nap this afternoon,” I respond.

“You know I meant to ask,” Cobus continues, “how was your
excursion to Hamburg last weekend? How was your visit with your friend from university?”

Was I in Hamburg?

Yes.

Was I with a friend from university?

Not quite.

“The weekend was great. It was a lot of fun catching up. Where's your beautiful wife?” I change directions. “Has she arrived yet?”

He points. Annabelle, a gorgeous, smart, blond fashion photographer, is across the room giggling with others at some guy's story. A waiter approaches, asking if we need cocktails. Before I can answer, Cobus tells him I need a Belvedere over rocks with a twist.

Yes—I even changed my drink of choice.

“Three buildings.” Martin continues their previous conversation. “Forty-four Utrechtsestraat and Sixteen Muntplein definitely. Possibly also Eighteen Damrak. Utrechtsestraat and Muntplein alone could be stolen at a seven cap. Easily. We all know how Henrik Bosch markets property. These buildings should have occupancy levels much higher than seventy, seventy-two percent. Because Damrak—”

“How much?” Cobus interrupts.

“I—maybe—eighty-five; perhaps a bit—”

“Where are the rents today?” Cobus continues. “Where should they be?”

“For which property? I mean—if—”

“I need to cut you off, Martin. And I apologize in advance if I sound disrespectful. I know you think you're giving me information. But each time you do this—each time you present me with a potential property minus the meaningful numbers—all you're really doing is wasting both of our time.”

“I'm not sure why you say that, Cobus. Even looking at the scenario in general terms—”

“I don't do general terms, Martin. You know why?”

Martin Gemser is a local real estate player with bigger dreams
than bank accounts. He's in nowhere near Cobus's league and neither of us particularly like him. Unfortunately, Annabelle's sister is married to this guy. Martin stares back blankly.

“Because numbers don't lie. People do. Now, I'm not calling you a liar, Martin. What I'm saying is that, intentionally or unintentionally, people can paint the wrong picture when it comes to real estate. People's accounts can be—disputable. Not the numbers. The numbers do not—cannot—lie. The numbers, Martin, are indisputable. The numbers are irrefutable.”

Martin takes a sip from the whiskey-filled lowball glass in his hand.

“You want to bring me a deal we can make?” Cobus goes on, “Here's the way I suggest you do it—”

Martin is too dim-witted to realize he's about to get a gift. Most individuals anywhere near the commercial real estate game in the Netherlands would kill to hear what Cobus de Bont needs to take a potential deal seriously.

“Numbers. Nail down every last number. Rents, occupancies, depreciation, commissions to be paid, operating expenses, capital improvements—I want every pertinent line item of the true financial run in front of me so I can see the financial landscape down to the last penny. Include conservative forecasts. Include aggressive forecasts. Include explanations of where the numbers might be improved and include explanations about which numbers may not be as appealing in the years to come. Don't worry about things like Bosch's ability to market a property or why a particular building may be a sleeper in terms of the retail space—I'm fine to evaluate all remaining tangible and intangible aspects on my own. All I want from you is one thing.”

Cobus sips his glass of Chianti.

“Numbers,” Martin says.

“Not after a deal is presented—before,” Cobus goes on. “E-mail them to me. This way, to be frank, we'll both know if a discussion is even going to take place.”

“Numbers first,” Martin says again, gently nodding his head.

“Wrapped in a bow.”

Cobus smiles. He takes another sip.

“Get me the numbers for the three buildings. If I like them, we'll talk.”

This is one of the things—Cobus's respect for others—I respect most about Cobus. Real estate evaluation, from Amsterdam to New York City to anywhere else for that matter, is a multifaceted undertaking. But anyone with half a brain who plays in property understands clear as day that a deal begins and ends with the numbers. In this same situation another guy of Cobus's stature might have spoken down to Martin, in some way made him feel inferior. Not Cobus. In typical fashion he used the opportunity to enlighten Martin, to teach him. Knowing Cobus as well as I do, I clearly understand there are two reasons for this. Number one, he genuinely cares for, feels for, people. Number two, the buildings Martin speaks of may, in fact, work for him.

Martin walks away. Cobus leans over the table next to us. He grabs a toast point and scoops on some steak tartare.

“Eat something,” he says before taking a bite.