Cries of the Lost (34 page)

B
ACK
AT
the hotel room, I woke up the computer and checked all my email accounts. One from Shelly stood out.

“They know about the computer tap.”

“Gotta go,” I said to myself.

I tried to visualize the connection between Joselito’s computer and mine—the links, routers, IP addresses. Instead, all I saw was a huge dark room filled with computer screens and projected images of New York City, with an overlay of multicolored circuits and communications pathways. All narrowing in on me.

I shut down the wireless broadband access, unplugged the laptop and stuck the external hard drive in my backpack. I searched around the room. Fingerprints, DNA, miscellaneous data everywhere. Printouts and travel documents. Not enough time to wipe clean. I stuffed the backpack with identity documents.

“Natsumi!” I hissed her name.

“What?” she hissed back from the adjoining room.

“Put on your hoody and grab all your passports and drivers’ licenses. Get the makeup kit. Leave your smartphone.”

I looked around the room one more time. I saw a lot of things hard to leave behind, but it was too late. I went in the other room where Natsumi was putting on her own backpack. Her face was tight, but calm and alert. She hid all that under the hoody.

We were halfway to the elevator when the doors slid open and people in black helmets and baggy equipment-laden vests poured out into the hall. We pressed ourselves against the wall and stared, which was likely the smart thing to do, since any normal person would. One of the men looked at us, put a gloved finger to his lips and shooed us down the hall. We watched as they used small battering rams to smash their way into both our hotel rooms. In the midst of all the urgent commands and crashing around, we slipped through a pair of swinging doors into the utility room that served the maid staff, fed by a service elevator which took us to the laundry room in the basement.

From there, we found the parking garage, and then our rental car. I drove up toward the exit and immediately fell into a long line. I got out of the car and saw the reflections of flashing blue lights. I pulled the car into a parking space and we went on foot to a stairwell that took us up to the street.

The world was filled with police cars, blue and white SWAT-team trucks and ambulances. people were standing around the sidewalk wondering, I’m sure, if it was a theatrical moment or the real thing. One of them was a limousine driver leaning against his black Crown Vic.

“Hey, man,” I said to the driver, “this is freaking my wife out. Can you give us a ride out of here?”

The man was short and dark, with unruly black hair and a uniform a size or two too small. I held up a fifty dollar bill.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Just head downtown and I’ll figure it out as we go,” I said.

We were well past Columbus Circle before I had the address of a tiny hotel in Tribeca that had vacancies for two connected rooms, room service and broadband access. All within walking distance of Soho.

“So we’re not fleeing to Madagascar?” Natsumi whispered in my ear.

“Not yet.”

“Good,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder.

After getting settled into the new room, I lay down on the bed and Natsumi lay next to me.

“I’ve never been fingerprinted or labeled by DNA,” I said.

“I have.”

“I know.”

“We’re gonna get caught,” she said.

I lay there quietly and thought about that.

“No, we’re not.”

“Oh, good. Nice to hear you say that.”

“Though we might get killed.”

“That’s okay. As long as we go together,” she said.

“I was kidding.”

“I wasn’t.”

N
ATSUMI
SLEPT
while I stared up at the ceiling and took stock.

Our smartphones were back in the other room and the laptop we brought was disconnected from wireless access. As far as I knew, there was no other way to track us electronically.

I’d used a clean ID to secure the room in Tribeca. There was no paper trail to follow. More so the electronic trail, though I’d been scrupulously careful with IP addresses and searchable keywords.

Shelly Gross was another component. Either he’d been reeling us in all along, or truly was operating as a quasi-free agent. In which case, he could go to management with the mole story. Though even that didn’t guarantee anything. For all I knew, the mole was an official operative.

Then there was Joselito. An experienced security guy like him was capable of finding the tap and subsequently uncovering my secret communications with Rodrigo Mariñelarena.

He’d know a meeting had been set up between Rodrigo and a fictitious version of himself. Rodrigo, meanwhile, had to be prepared for the possibility of a trap. He couldn’t know that the possibility had turned into a sure thing.

My objective had been to squeeze more information out of Rodrigo, not assassinate him. He might well deserve it, but since I really didn’t know, I couldn’t let that happen.

I waited until Natsumi was awake and ordering coffee to make the call to the Nose Stud anthropologist.

“Ella here.”

“Hi, Ella. Did you get the thousand dollars?”

“I did. Cash stuffed in a FedEx envelope. Very interesting.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“How much for the right answer?”

“Is there such a thing as a mercenary anarchist?” I asked.

“You betcha.”

“Two fifty. I don’t want to be a schmuck. You won’t respect me.”

“Okay. Ask away.”

“Do you know the name of the woman across the hall and where she works?” I asked.

“I think she works out of her apartment, but I see her a lot at the deli down the block. She was really loading up on stuff this morning.”

“Thanks for this,” I said. “It might save a life.”

“Is it worth saving?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a strangely persuasive person, even if you do have a lot of crazy shit going on,” she said.

“I appreciate the favor.”

“It’s not a favor if you’re paying me. It’s a task.”

“So you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. I love crazy shit.”

T
HE
DELI
at the end of the block was called Milt and Jerry’s, and not a single person working the place could have possibly been named either Milt or Jerry.

There were about five tables crammed in the back, but from there you had a clear view of people coming in to order from the counter. A sign hung on the wall announcing free WiFi, so I took that as an invitation to sit with my new laptop—purchased the day before—long enough to see Ella’s neighbor swoop into the place.

I snapped the computer shut and brought it with me to stand in line behind the woman. She was ordering bagels, muffins, sandwiches and coffee. She had a pronounced Spanish accent. The guy behind the counter tried to be friendly. The woman was polite, but not engaged.

“
Gracias
, Clementina,” said the deli clerk when he slid a paper bag filled with her order across the counter. She nodded, and while she waited to pay at the cashier, I got a free coffee refill.

I followed her out the door, came up close behind, and said, “
Perdóneme,
Clementina.”

She whipped around, alarm in her face.

“I have a message for Rodrigo,” I said, in Spanish. “It’s extremely important.”

“Who are you?”

“Tell him not to meet with Joselito. It’s a setup. And stay away from him. It could mean Rodrigo’s freedom, or his life.”

“Tell me who you are,” she said.

I stuck a disposable phone in the bag.

“The number’s queued up. Just hit send. Tell him to call from the street. I’m not sure your offices are secure.”

I turned and walked away. After crossing the street, I looked back and saw her standing there watching me.

Ten minutes later, the phone chirped.

“Si. "

“Explain yourself,” said Rodrigo in Spanish.

“She wanted to know who I am,” I answered in English. “Remember an outdoor café on the Calle Dulcinea del Toboso?”

“You should be dead.”

“You keep trying to achieve that and I keep saving your life. Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I’m looking for information, and you can’t give it to me if you’re dead.”

“What do I get back?”

“The same.”

“I thought you worked for the VG,” he said.

“No, but I might start if you don’t cooperate.”

“I don’t like threats.”

“I know a lot about your organization, but you know nothing about me. That should be threatening enough.”

For a moment or two, he was quiet on the other end of the line.

“What do you want?”

“A meeting. At a place where we both can feel safe.”

“Where would that be?”

“Top of the Rock, 10:00
A
.
M
.,” I said, “It’s a day before you’re supposed to meet Joselito. Consider it a practice run without the hats.” Then I hung up.

I
T
WAS
a cool, windy morning. I was with one of Little Boy’s Bosniak crew, known to me only as Kresimir, on my way up to the top, open-air observation deck of the GE Building at Rockefeller Center. I was wearing a false moustache and wig. Kresimir came as himself.

It was 9:00
A
.
M
., an hour before our meeting with Rodrigo. I would have been very disappointed if he wasn’t already up there.

We’d passed through the metal detectors without a hitch since the Bowie knives we each carried were made of an unbreakable polymer.

There were plenty of people keeping us company on the elevator, and a healthy crowd up on the deck. I quickly spotted Rodrigo with one of his boys, Jueventino. I did a pass around the deck to see if he’d brought another guy along, but saw no one I recognized.

“Welcome to New York,” I said, as we approached Rodrigo.

“I want my money back,” he said.

“What money?” I asked, artlessly, not knowing what else to say.

“The money you withdrew from the bank in the Cayman Islands. It belongs to me.”

“I’m not Joselito.”

“I know you’re not. You were just pretending to be. You’re the man with the Asian woman who is trying to destroy me.”

“I’m not. I just want some information.”

“We are calling you
El Timador
,” said Rodrigo. “The Trickster. Maybe better
El Tonto,
The Fool.”

“Why did Florencia Zarandona establish the Caymans account and why did she have a list of your safe houses?”

His grin faded.

“You killed her, you bastard,” he said.

“I didn’t kill her.”

“How else would you know about the account? You killed her and framed other people so you could take the money. You think we’re stupid, Timador?”

“No, but you don’t know the facts.”

“Give me the money and maybe we’ll let you live.”

“Give me what I want to know, and maybe I’ll give you the money.”

“He don’t kill her,” said Kresimir. “I know for sure.”

Rodrigo looked at him.

“There you have it,” I said.