About Face (31 page)

To this day, I have still not seen Perry.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

As I walk down the hallway, passing by examination rooms on each side, a man steps out of one and into my path.

“Excuse me, what's going on here? Can we help you?”

It's Perry's douche-bag husband. I remember exactly what he looks like.

“You can, Dr. York. You and I need to have a talk in your office.”

“Excuse me? If you don't turn around and walk out of here right now—”

I grab him by the throat, slam him into the wall, and grab his nuts as hard as I can with my free hand.

“You'll what?”

I squeeze harder.

“Ahhhh!”

I slam his head against the wall again, then give him a quick bitch slap across the face.

“Your office, Tough Guy. Now.”

I lock the door behind us.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

I take the gun from my inside jacket pocket. He gasps, puts his arms up slightly from his sides. He's confused.

He's scared.

As he should be.

“I'll be asking the questions,” I tell him.

I walk up to him. He backs away from me right up to the wall. I reach down and jam the point of the gun upward into his nuts.

“You feel that? That's the actual tip of a gun buried in your ball sac. You wondering right now what that might feel like if I pull the trigger? I can tell you one thing—you won't die right away. But you'll be in so much pain, you'll be begging me to kill you.”

He swallows hard.

“What do you want?”

“Where's Perry?”

York's eyes can't hide his surprise.

“What?”

“Perry. Where is she?”

I think of what Max told me on the playground. I need to know where Perry is. If she's alive or dead.

“If I don't get answers, make no mistake—I am going to kill you. It will be slow, and it will be painful.”

Still nothing.

“Too much time,” I say.

I shatter his nose with the butt of the gun. Before he drops I grab him, prop him back up against the wall. Blood gushing from his nostrils, forming one thick stream flowing into and around his mouth, I put the tip of the gun between his eyes, which are welling with tears.

“It's only going to get worse. Where's Perry?”

He's genuinely freaked now. His breathing is ragged, choppy. He's having trouble gathering words.

And time is ticking.

“Stop crying like a little bitch,” I growl. “Because if one of your assistants, or that nice receptionist, comes in here and interferes, I'm going to shut their mouth with a bullet. You got that?”

He nods yes.

“Where is Perry?”

“Okay! Okay—just, please. Just—”

I take a step back. I hold the gun down. He uses his white doctor's coat to wipe away some of the blood coming from his nose.

“It was a bunch of years back. This Russian guy named Andreu found me at home one night. He was asking about my wife's partner, this guy named Jonah Gray.”

“What did he want to know about this Gray?”

“Where he was. I told him I had no idea; that he'd been either missing or on the run from the cops for all kinds of shit for a few years already. I told him I didn't have any more idea where Gray was than where my wife was. But one thing was for certain.”

“Which was?” I press.

“I was sure they were together. And that they had my son. So the Russian made me a deal. If I was ever to hear about either of their whereabouts—Perry or Gray—I was to let him know. And in return he'd help, if he could, to return my son to me.”

I process his words.

“That's all very interesting,” I say. Then I raise my gun again. “But you didn't answer my question. Where is Perry?”

“I don't know.”

“Bullshit. Where is she?” I say louder.

“I don't know,” he responds, his voice growing louder with mine. “I don't! I swear! But if you'll let me just explain—”

“You'd better. Because me leaving here with you still breathing is looking less likely by the second.”

“A few years ago something happened. A phone call from my brother,” York continued. “He was traveling in Europe. In Amsterdam. He was sure he saw Perry. So he followed her. It was her, he said. Then he saw Max. My son. That's when he knew it was real. So I called the Russian. His first question was if she was with Gray. As much as I wanted to tell him she was, apparently they were with a guy, but it wasn't him. The Russian told me no Gray, no deal. I pleaded with him. That's when he came up with a solution that
benefitted us both. He said he'd get me back my boy if he could keep Perry for himself. Because one day he was sure Gray would come looking for her. So I said yes.”

The reality of the situation washed over me like typhoon-fueled wave.

That day in Amsterdam.

The van.

The abduction.

“And that's it?” I finally push out.

“And just like that you hand your wife over to this Russian? Not caring what he does with her? Not asking who he is?”

Rage starts coursing through my veins, beyond my control. I step back to him and put the gun to his head again.

“Who the fuck does that? What kind of man are you? I should just kill you right now!”

Pleading, he holds his hands out.

“Please. Please. Do you have kids? All I needed was my son back home. I'm his father. It's my responsibility to know he's safe. That he's home.”

“What about your
wife
? What about a commitment to keeping her safe too? The woman who brought your son into the world?”

“The woman who left me. And took my son away from me.”

Fucking asshole. What woman wouldn't have left a womanizing, disrespectful, disgraceful son of a bitch like you?

I see Perry in my head. I see her laughing in a restaurant with me in Amsterdam. Then I see her in her office, in New York City, back when we were brokers before the storm broke.

I shake my head.

I need to gather myself.

Stay on course.

Tick.

Tock.

“I need his number. Andreu, the Russian. I need the number he gave you. And I need it now.”

“Look, I told you what you wanted to know. Now, please, just—”

I slowly move the gun down, and push it into his mouth, killing his words.

“The number. Now. Blink twice if you understand.”

He blinks twice. I remove the gun and wipe off the end on a clean part of his doctor's coat. Slowly, his arms still out at his sides, he moves behind his desk. He picks up his cell phone and finds the number in his contacts. He reads it out loud. As he does, I enter it into my phone.

“Zero, one, one—”

The country code to dial international out of the U.S.

“Seven—”

The country code for Russia.

“Four, nine, five—”

One of two area codes for Moscow; the other is 499.

He finishes it out from there, not knowing I'd have known if he was dishing bullshit digits.

The number is legit.

“I'm going to walk out that door now,” I explain. “Know this. If you call the police about this or call Andreu and give him a heads-up, I will be back. Only next time it won't be here. It will be at your home.”

With the gun, I point to a picture of a woman on his desk.

“Where I will sit you down with Replacement Perry and proceed to slit her throat while you watch her life run out of her. Then, Dr. York, I will do the same to you.”

I step to the desk.

“We clear?”

He nods yes.

“Say it.”

“We're clear.”

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

Back in my hotel room, I have a couple hours before the Alessi crew looks to dazzle us at their latest-and-greatest Manhattan venture. I'm rifling through Internet sites, reaching every corner I can in cyberspace about the lineage of all the players with the eggs. At the same time, I'm seeing, going over every inch, of the walls at Herengracht.

Who is V.A.?

I get it why Gustav Bjerg—Imposter Derbyshev—needed to go such a silent route with passing messages to his cousin. Had the Russian royal family learned of their true intent, they no doubt would have been executed. And being that G.B. was a man of nothing but service to Maria Feodorovna, not only was his time with her—if there was any at all—limited, but would have undoubtedly always occurred under supervision.

But who was he getting his information from? Who was V.A.?

Who would G.B. target that would be accessible?

And willing to give such damning evidence against a czar?

I begin with Czar Alexander III's closest government and church-related compatriots—Konstantin Pobyedonostsev, Count
D. A. Tolstoy, Mikhail Katkov—as well as others who supported his efforts as czar. I dig as far as I can, not just with these individuals but with their circles, their families. Nothing. I move on to those affiliated with the different Russian royal family residences like Livadia Palace, Winter Palace—still nothing. Not one person with the initials V.A.

I slam my fist on the table.

Fuck!

What am I missing?

I shake my head.

And as I do, an image of the Alexander III wall at Herengracht shakes loose from my mind.

Yes.

I see it.

But, could it really be?

I jump back into cyberspace and confirm what I believe to be true. Alexander III had five brothers and two sisters. And one of those brothers had the initials V.A.

Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich.

I start digging. Vladimir Alexandrovich was a bit of a party boy it seems, but it also appears he had a deep love of the arts. So much, in fact, he was appointed president of the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts in 1880. The highest end jewelry designers—like those at the House of Fabergé—were considered masters of the arts themselves, and were very much involved in organizations such as this. Not only does the timing of their lives and careers fall perfectly into line with one another in terms of both proximity to one another as well as the timing of the eggs' creation, I learn an interesting nugget about the Grand Duke. While his brother Czar Alexander III promoted his career at certain points, according to history they were not particularly close. In fact, it appears there was nothing short of both resentment and rivalry between the two.

The kind that might very well result in spilling the beans on a murderous brother.

I need to get to D.C.

I need to see
Danish Jubilee Egg
.

At one p.m. we walk into the Alessi family's latest venture in the heart of Midtown, a very cool spot that is a combination restaurant and art gallery modeled after a similar place they recently opened in Milan. The space—operating under a partnership with a major downtown gallery owner—is massive, open, bright. Metal, industrial-looking lights hang from the ceiling, highlighting the huge, wood-and-metal sculptures set between the tables. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the tablecloths, the servers' outfits—everything aside from the lights is white. It reminds me of my house in Amsterdam. Apparently, one of the interesting things about the place will be every couple months not only will the artwork change, but the décor will as well in a way that best highlights whatever work is being shown.

The place, for what it's worth, smells awesome. Rustic yet sweet scents from the Italian countryside. Trays with champagne and hors d'oeuvres are floating around the room. But eating is the last thing on my mind. I have work to do.

Julia's already here. Statuesque and fine as always in a black Armani suit and matching sky-high Manolos, she heads over to us. Brand is with her.

After quick, cordial hellos all around—neither Julia nor I acting like people who had torn each other to shreds just hours earlier—I turn my attention to Brand.

“Actually, Ryan, I was just thinking about something on the way over here so I am happy to see you.”

“Of course. What's on your mind, Ivan?”

“The minority partner.”

“Excuse me?”

“The minority partner GlassWell has in the property we're buying. What's their name again?”

“It's a family-owned firm named The Dunham Group.”

“Right—The Dunham Group. It occurred to me that we have
had no contact with this company, even though they are one of the selling parties.”

“Why would you? They own only a quarter of the property, and we have all decision-making authority.”

“Of course,” I respond, “but in a situation like this where it is clear they had such a different—philosophy, if you will—on how the property should be run, I can't help thinking it would be an important perspective to have. You know, even just a quick conversation, in terms of proper due diligence.”

“Perhaps,” Brand comes back, “but I'd figure such an exercise to be nothing more than a waste of time, especially this close to the finish line. In my experience, best practice is to separate the relevant from the irrelevant. And in this case—now this is just me speaking here—Dunham is simply irrelevant. Why? Because they have no say.”

“Why didn't you buy them out?” I change directions. “We both know how the building performs. And it's GlassWell's bread and butter, in terms of the kind of building it is. So why?”

I want these answers. Not just for me, but for those we're standing with to hear as well.

“Good question, Ivan. And frankly you're bringing it up again makes me think we should reconsider selling it,” he answers with a weak attempt at a joke—that no one finds funny. “Why do you think? Dollars. I told them what their twenty-five percent is worth. They thought I was trying to get over on them.”