Book of Nathan (12 page)

“Yeah.”

“From the looks of it, it gets a workout.”

“When the temperature hits forty degrees or so, fog builds
up inside the windshield. The damn defroster doesn’t do what it’s supposed to.”

“There you go,” said Doc with a smile. “It’s all about
knowing what clues to look for and figuring out what they mean. A Buick Century
with a defroster problem and an engine that idles rough or stalls usually add
up to a faulty vacuum hose.”

Doc didn’t explain how a history professor knew more about
cars than General Motors. He was an enigma and it was best to leave it at that.
My malfunctioning defroster did remind me, though, that Doc had an incredible
ability to problem solve—except when it came to extricating himself from his
own self-made troubles. While I had long admired Doc’s logic, I had no idea I’d
be using it as a life preserver in the days ahead.
  

A few minutes later, we were on the road again. My Buick
purred its way to the front of an iron gate that blocked the main drive leading
to the interior of the investment banker’s spread. I pressed a red button on a
squawk box attached to one of the two impressive stone columns that loomed like
sentinels on either side of the drive. A raspy voice leaked through the
speaker, and after I delivered the right answers, the gate swung open and I
navigated my Buick into a mini-Versailles. The Silverstein grounds were
enclosed by a perfectly trimmed six-foot hedge and a lethal-looking electric
fence. Doug Kool would tell me later that Silverstein had purchased enough
electronic surveillance devices to monitor nearly every inch of the sprawling
estate. For added protection, he employed a squad of security personnel to
patrol the place.

En route to the main house, there was nothing but
spectacular scenery. Every tree, shrub, and blade of grass appeared to be in
top-notch shape. If the flora scored high, Silverstein’s home was off the
charts. We circled around a colossal fountain and parked in front of a tier of
steps that could have been the walk-up to the Lincoln Memorial. The four-story
mansion was by far the most imposing private residence I had ever seen. Doc
pulled himself from the Buick, took a long look at the building, and blew out a
whistle. My sentiments exactly. Even the bedraggled Maurice Tyson was obviously
impressed.

We were greeted at the door by Arthur Silverstein’s
aide-de-camp who introduced himself as Abraham Arcontius. Thanks to an earlier
phone conversation with Doug, I recognized the man the second he came into
view. He had a long, narrow nose and his ears were so freakishly big they
resembled feelers. According to Doug, Arcontius’s physical appearance was as
strange as his personality.
 

“You’re Bullock?” Arcontius asked.

“I am.”

Arcontius leered at Doc and Maurice. “We weren’t told you’d
be bringing company.”

“Mr. Silverstein wants information about the Benjamin Kurios
murder investigation,” I explained. “I brought along my—associates to help
spell out some of the details.” The exaggeration seemed to suit Maurice just
fine, a dose of importance making him beam.

“Come this way.” Arcontius didn’t walk, he slithered.

Doug called Arcontius “a composite guy—part chief of staff,
part appointment secretary, and part butler.” There were, he told me, those who
claimed Arcontius pulled Arthur Silverstein’s strings while others said he was
an indentured servant who had given many years of his life trying to please his
master without ever succeeding. My own take was that he was just plain nasty
all the way from the tip of his balding head to his polished oxfords.

“Mr. Bullock is here to see you,” Arcontius announced as we
entered a two-story chamber with as much warmth as the New York Public Library
reading room. The walls were all dark wood but barely visible behind shelves
and shelves of books. A monstrously large desk in one corner of the room ruled
over the other lesser pieces of furniture. Behind the desk hung a
larger-than-life oil painting of a young blonde woman wearing a red dress and a
smile more forced than genuine. The lady in the portrait was not as well
endowed as Twyla and was perfectly groomed and dressed. But there were
startling similarities—high cheekbones, the shape of the mouth and,
particularly, the eyes.

A short man wearing a dark suit and striped bow tie stood as
we walked into the room.

“Ah, yes.” Arthur Silverstein held a cigar in one stubby
hand and greeted me with the other. “Welcome, Mr. Bullock.”

I shook hands with a five-foot-five-inch man who resembled a
shrunken Winston Churchill.

Arcontius jerked his head toward Maurice and Doc. “These two
accompanied Mr. Bullock—unexpectedly.”

I introduced the two men by name.

“I see. Abraham, would you show Mr. Bullock’s companions to
the sitting room?” It was clearly an order couched as a question. The banker
turned to me. “Would you be interested in a short tour of my home, Mr.
Bullock?”

Without waiting for a response, Silverstein led me to the
grand foyer. We began ambling through corridors that would have made a
Ritz-Carlton proud.

“I understand you had a narrow escape yesterday.”
Silverstein said as we walked.

“Very narrow.”

Silverstein had a low, strong voice that didn’t match his
diminutive size. He sounded more like a billionaire than he looked. “I’ve often
thought about how vulnerable we are to chance—to circumstances and events that
we don’t control. When fate treats us badly, it’s sad indeed. But of course,
there are times when our own reckless behavior puts us at risk. When that
happens and the consequences are unpleasant, well, we have no one or nothing to
blame other than ourselves.”

I was trying to sort out whether Silverstein was being
philosophical or sending me a warning, when the billionaire motioned to an
array of paintings displayed on the corridor wall.

“Do you enjoy art?” he asked.

“
National Geographic
covers.
French postcards. That sort of thing.”

Silverstein found no humor in the comment. He stopped in
front of a picture that gave star billing to two men—one lying naked on a pile
of logs and a second standing over him holding a knife.

“Are you familiar with this work?” Arthur asked. “It’s quite
well known.”

“Afraid not.”

“It’s a Marc Chagall. Called
The Sacrifice of Isaac
.
Do you know the story?”

I pleaded ignorance.

“It’s from the Bible—Book of Genesis. God decides to test
Abraham’s allegiance by telling him to sacrifice his son, Isaac. This is the
scene on Mount Moriah where Abraham agreed to go along with God’s wishes.”

“Why?” I asked and silently answered my own question.
Because the father was a religious
fanatic.

“Abraham was committed to carrying out God’s will without question—in
other words, he proved himself worthy of God’s trust. Consequently, he became
the father of all of us. Jew. Christian. Muslim. We’re all Abraham’s children.”

Abraham wasn’t the kind of man I wanted anywhere near my
family tree. “Asking someone to sacrifice his child seems a little extreme,
doesn’t it?”

“There are times when a personal sacrifice must be made for
the greater good. No matter how difficult that sacrifice might be.”

While I tried to fathom what he had just said, Silverstein
resumed the tour. “The white-haired gentleman you brought with you,”
Silverstein asked. “Is he the same Professor Waters who once taught at
Rutgers?”

I nodded. Silverstein pulled the cigar from his mouth and
grimaced. Doc’s testicle-squashing misfortune had a predictable
cause-and-effect impact on all men regardless of their income.

“As I recall, he’s as brilliant as he is misguided,”
Silverstein noted. “No matter what shape or form it comes in, I respect
intelligence. Always have.”

“When it comes to figuring things out, there’s no one
smarter than the professor.”

“Good. That’s a quality that should prove quite helpful,
shouldn’t it?”

We continued our stroll past more art and artifacts. There
was no further mention of what was hanging on the walls or perched on
pedestals. Instead, Silverstein shifted his attention to the business of the
moment.
 

“So, tell me about Miklos Zeusenoerdorf.”

I cannot recall one other occasion where someone other than
me pronounced Zeus’s name correctly.
  

“He says he’s innocent—claims he didn’t kill Benjamin
Kurios.”

“I see.” Silverstein thought a few seconds before
continuing. “And what’s your opinion? Is he innocent?”

“Could be that he’s just a poor slob with a low IQ who
stumbled into something that wasn’t his doing.”

Silverstein shook his head. “Public opinion doesn’t seem to
line up with that possibility. Quite the contrary. Most seem to think Mr.
Zeusenoerdorf is, indeed, a cold-blooded killer.”

I glanced at the short man. “And what about you?”

Silverstein smiled. “I never accept probability as
certainty. That’s why I’m interested in assisting you, Mr. Bullock.”

“Assisting me?”

“You and your—team—have a connection to Mr. Zeusenoerdorf
that no one else seems to have. I’m anxious to learn what you already know and
what else you’re able to find out about Kurios’s death.”

Silverstein stopped, put his cigar-free hand into his suit
jacket pocket, and pulled out a letter-sized envelope.
 

“This is to retain your services as a—let’s call you a
private investigator. I have two ten thousand dollar checks in here that I want
you to have. The first is made payable to your men’s shelter, which I
understand can accept tax-deductible donations. The second is made out to
you—consider it an advance.”

“But—”

“For other reasonable expenses, just let Mr. Arcontius know
and we’ll reimburse you over and above your retainer.”

This didn’t smell right. It was the kind of thing that ended
up as a page-one story in the
New
Brunswick News Tribune
laced with words like “under-the-table
payoffs” and “indictment.”
  

Silverstein read my anxiety. “Don’t worry, Mr. Bullock. I’ve
gone through all the necessary channels to make sure this is legitimate. One of
my legal staff contacted your board chairman and verified that your employment
contract doesn’t exclude you from working on the side.”

It was all too neatly packaged. I tried protesting again,
but it was wasted energy. Silverstein had already moved on.

“What did you find out when you visited Mr. Zeusenoerdorf in
Orlando?”

I fed Silverstein just some of what happened in Florida,
including news about the
Quia
Vita
medallion discovery. But I didn’t mention what Zeus claimed were Kurios’s last
words—Father Nathan
.
And
I left out cousin Binyamin’s report that the blood on the silver medallion
belonged to a dead man named Juan Perez. Time and trust—not a few thousand
dollars—was what it would take to buy full disclosure.

“How much do you know about my involvement with Benjamin
Kurios?” asked Silverstein.
 

Why did I think this was more of a bear trap than a simple
question? I picked my words carefully. “From what I’ve read and what a few
people have told me, you were a major donor to his religious movement.”

“More of an investor in Benjamin than his movement,”
Silverstein amended. “And I am sure you know my reputation when it comes to
making prudent investments.”

Next to Warren Buffett, there was no one who could throw the
Wall Street dice better than Arthur Silverstein. The tycoon was best known for
being a hedge fund genius, but in recent years he’d become what
Fortune
called
a “natural resource speculator.” He had untold landholdings around the
world—especially in Latin America, where he owned mineral and oil rights in
Mexico, Guatemala, Venezuela, and Brazil.