About Face (38 page)

I open the e-mail. It has three attachments. I open the first one, a photograph of a doctor—or dentist I'm guessing from the chair in the center of what appears to be an examination room. The dentist, dressed in dress pants and a button-down shirt with a white smock-type thing on top is on the far side of the room, half-turned toward a counter with a canister of tongue depressors and the like on top. The picture gives a good shot of his face. He's writing in a chart. The photo is clear. The subject seems to have zero idea he's on camera.

“David,” I hear over my shoulder. “Our son.”

I open the next attachment, another photo. This one is of a twenty-something brunette seated in a restaurant—brasserie I'm guessing from the décor—at a table with another woman. They're having coffee. Both seemingly unsuspecting of a photo being taken.

“That one,” Anne says, pointing, “that's our daughter. Wendy.”

I open the final one. It's of Anne Green. She's accepting a package. The person making the delivery, standing right in front of her, snapped this shot. Anne Green never knew it.

“Oh, my God, that's right here, at our home,” Anne says. “We have to go to the police.”

Green wasn't kidding. Brand had made it clear if the truth got out, Green's family would pay. These photos drove that message home.

“It's definitely time for the police, Anne, but I'm going to have them come to you. You are to tell no one about any of this—no one—except a man named Detective Lovell. When he comes here, and he will come here, you show him everything we just looked at—the call-log website—”

I bring
VivRecord.com
back up, and minimize the window so it's ready to go.

“—and the e-mail and photos we just looked at. Got it?”

Anne nods yes.

“Detective who?” I test her.

“Lovell.”

“That's right. Until he's standing here in front of you, in this study, not a word of it to anyone.”

The disposable vibrates in my pocket. It's Jake. I pick up.

“You're all set for three twenty p.m. Go to the Visitor Center. James Reynolds will be on the list.”

N
EW
J
ERSEY
2013

Amtrak Acela number 2155 from New York's Penn Station to Union Station in Washington, D.C., is tearing down the East Coast. The ride is smooth, steady. First Class on any luxury train line is sure to be emptier than coach, and even more so during the middle of the day such as the 11:00 a.m. I'm riding on. Essentially alone aside from a few other scattered folks in the car, I take out both phones. I put them on the small table in front of me. First I check the iPhone. There are numerous texts from Julia.

WHAT'S GOING ON?

WHY DID YOUR SIDE DELAY THE CLOSING AGAIN THIS MORNING?

IVAN—WE NEED TO TALK.

CALL ME NOW.

Leaving Julia alone for now, I find the number Perry's husband gave me for Andreu. I pick up the disposable, dial the number, and hit send. It's ringing.

“
Zdravstvuj?
”

I pause for a second before speaking. The sound of him both angers and excites me.

“Been a while, Andreu,” I say, making sure Jonah Gray's voice is
coming from Ivan Janse's throat. “Sounds like your stint in jail was a pretty quick one. Whose dick did you suck to get out?”

“If by whose dick did I suck you mean who'd I pay off—what's the difference? It's nice to have a couple bucks. Isn't that right, my half-brother?”

“We may share some of the same blood, but make no mistake. We're far from family.”

“Anyway, that's all in the past for me. Unfortunately for you, jail very much remains in your future should you ever try to return home. Is that hard? Any harder than knowing that scumbag of a man who fathered us was murdered in cold blood, like the animal he was?”

The words sting. My father was a lot of things, but he was far from the kind of man who deserved to die the way he did. Gunned down in his own front doorway.

“I'm coming to Russia, you fuck. And I'm going to be there sooner than you know, so keep your phone close. I'm going to give you—and your slut mother—something you both want. You're going to give me Perry.”

“I knew even if it took years it was only a matter of time before you came looking for her, Jonah.”

“Looks like for once you were right about something. Because that time is now.”

I get off the train and head right for the public restroom. I take the second to last stall, close and lock the door. I've done my homework. Once at the Capitol there are no restrooms available until after one has gone through security. Therefore the gun in my pocket might be an issue.

I remove the piece and place it on the ground, behind the base of the toilet, out of sight. I step back, look at it from every angle possible—sides, crouching, on tiptoes, the works. Then I take a leak. I exit the stall, wash my hands, and leave.

As I step out of Union Station, I swig down my last Life Fuel and toss the empty little bottle in a garbage can. The sky is gray, the air is cold but a refreshing slap in the face. I head up Massachusetts
Avenue. Twenty minutes later, my iPhone's GPS system has me staring at the U.S. Capitol.

The Capitol Visitor Center, the new main entrance to the U.S. Capitol, is located beneath the East Front plaza at First and East Capitol Streets. I review the game plan in my mind as I head there, going over the map of the property, and the sequence of events exactly as they will unfold from the moment I step through the front doors until I exit them again. I suck in a breath and cross the threshold. The security area is tight, buzzing. There are tourists of all ages, lots of cameras and lots of passes and badges hanging around necks. I wait for a few minutes in line to check-in.

“James Reynolds,” I say when my turn comes, my best Midwest accent in play. “I'm here for the three twenty tour.”

The serious-looking woman in the U.S. Capitol garb checks her computer. She has both the glasses and the black, beehive hairdo to suggest she's had a bit of trouble leaving the sixties behind.

“Reynolds, James, yup, right here,” she says.

Morante. Nice.

They don't usually ask for ID, something else learned from my homework. I'm ready with a story in case, but don't need it. The agent hands me my pass. I get in line for screening and again wait my turn.

I step up to the conveyer belt that will be carrying the contents of my pockets through the X-ray. I take a bin. I place everything in from both cell phones to the loupe to my keys to my shoes and lay my suit jacket on top. My belongings start their trip through the tunnel. When they do, I'm invited to step into the magnetometer—same type of screening machine used at the airport—which will X-ray my person.

“Is there anything in your pockets?” asks an older fella also proudly wearing his U.S. Capitol uniform.

“No.”

“Hands above your head please,” he goes on.

Within minutes I'm through security, as are my belongings. I place everything back into its rightful pocket. I look at the Perregaux—3:18 p.m. Right on time.

I step into Emancipation Hall, the centerpiece of the new Visitor Center opened in 2008. My eye immediately catches the plaster cast of the Statue of Freedom standing in the space—a replica of the actual statue sitting atop the building. The space is wide open, bright; the colors are predominantly lighter shade earth tones. Despite projecting a feeling of both history and dignity, Emancipation Hall also feels fresh, modern. My group is comprised of about fifteen people, some whom I recognize from the security process.

The tour begins in the Orientation Theatre with a thirteen-minute film entitled “Out of Many, One”—a piece about our country's struggle to create the world's first truly representative democracy as well as the remarkable building that houses the U.S. Congress. But I don't hear a word of it. Our tour will last about an hour. I'm thinking solely about what takes place at minute thirty. That's when I'll be breaking off from the tour and heading back to the same place the tour begins—the Visitor Center. More specifically, Exhibition Hall. This way any of the people I'll have been with, who might recognize me, will still be off somewhere in the Capitol. By the time they return to where they started, I'll be long gone.

At 3:50 p.m., once the group has already been to the Crypt of the Capitol and is coming toward the end of their time in the Rotunda before heading to the National Statuary Hall, I literally stop in my tracks as we collectively take a turn. As the rest of the people following our guide make a hard left to turn a corner, I simply do an about-face and head right back where I came from. I retrace my tracks, stopping for a second to pretend I'm looking at something on the wall to unzip my fly and pull a pair of latex gloves from my underwear. Within minutes I reenter the Visitor Center and make my way to the lower level where the Exhibition Hall is located.

Though I have never been here, I have full knowledge of all that exists within these walls. The main purpose of Exhibition Hall is to tell the story of the U.S. Congress and U.S. Capitol. It does so with original documents and artifacts, utilizing computer interactives, touchable models, and videos. Exhibition Hall also hosts all kinds of other interesting documents and artifacts that are
significant in our country's history, such as the display entitled “Instruments of Change” dedicated to highlighting events or material pieces that signify moments that have affected the lives of U.S. citizens and the direction of the nation. Whereas
Danish Jubilee Egg
used to reside in the Rotunda, it now rests in the portion of Exhibition Hall dedicated to the “Instruments of Change,” symbolizing our sometimes-contentious yet today sound relationship with world superpower Russia.

I know exactly where the famous treasure is, but more importantly I know everything about its display case, a specially designed glass pedestal showcase with a pull-out deck made by a company called Wilhelm & Odo. Two columns hold up a deck that is encased by a large rectangle of glass. In order to open and close the case, the deck slides out along with the back wall of the rectangle's glass. It does so with the turn of a key.

The sixth key on my keychain.

Wilhelm & Odo is based in Hamburg, Germany.

My weekend trip to Hamburg Cobus asked me about at Annabelle's party had nothing to do with old friends. It was to meet with folks at the Wilhelm & Odo headquarters. I had been in previous discussions with them fronting as a man about to open a high-end jewelry store in The Hague, Copenhagen, and other locales throughout Europe. In doing so, I explained to them I was only interested in going with their display cases, in particular one model—the exact model in the U.S. Capitol holding
Danish Jubilee Egg,
a nugget I kept to myself—if I'd be able to have one skeleton key for all the cases, no matter what location I was in. They said this was no problem. I also told them I'd like to know if they were fine with me picking up the same display case used when opportunities arise—something their competition made clear to me was fine so long as I committed to an initial order of a certain amount of cases. Because of the economy and these size orders being far and few between, they went for it.

I had figured because of security concerns there would be further conversation about my needing a more universal skeleton key
because of this—one not just able to work on those made specifically for me—but there wasn't. They basically told me that though not something they publicize, any skeleton key for a certain model works across the board. For them, they had me on camera in their headquarters, they had my name—Lars Hildengird—which I'd given them over the phone. The fine folks over at Wilhelm & Odo had no reason to see me as anything but an honest entrepreneur and a big sale, not someone looking to get one over on them. That's when I asked if I could borrow a skeleton key for a week or so since I'd be traveling and looking at a few used cases.

I spot the case and enclosed treasure. A funny feeling washes over me, a mixture of anticipation and concern. We can't yet speak—
Danish Jubilee Egg
and I—as we're too far away, but we're eyeing each other. Like two old friends about to be reacquainted.

The space is populated, but traffic is not heavy. As expected, there are security guards standing at strategic posts around the hall. Looking the part, walking with the gait, posture, and speed of someone who belongs, I stride toward the security guard closest to the case.

“Yes,” I say while putting on the latex gloves and speaking with a full American accent, albeit with pitch lower than that of my God-given Jonah voice, “I need you to accompany me to the Fabergé egg case. We'll only be a second.”

My father always told me to own every single word that rolls off your tongue.

Be the fucking words. Live them.

Make everyone see exactly what you need them to.

Get what you need. Clean up the mess later.

Now. More than ever.

Go get it.

“I'll be opening it for no more than sixty seconds. I just need you to stand in front of the area until I reclose the case. Understood?”

I turn and take a few steps toward the case, knowing full well I won't be followed. I stop. I turn back.

“What's the problem?”

The security guard, a young, serious, tall and thin clean-shaven white guy doesn't budge. Not because he's looking to be a hard ass, simply because he's confused. I walk back toward him.

“Sir, I'm sorry, who … who are—”

I hone in on his tag.

“Security officer—” I say, going with “officer” as opposed to “guard” to offer some respect, “—Mitchell. We need to do this quickly. The fewer people in the hall the better, hence the reason for handling it now.”

“Handling what?”

“Not your concern. Your job, as always, is simply to
secure
. Leave the work surrounding the artifact to me.”