The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) (8 page)

15.

Just as I
was leaving Zhao's house, I got a phone call. It was my ex-wife.

"Hi Gudrun, haven't heard from you for a while," and would prefer to keep it that way, I thought to myself. I'm sure she needed more money, she wouldn't be calling otherwise.

"You bastard, you fucking prick," Gudrun's courtesy left much to be desired. "What have you done with my credit card, it was rejected in a shop."

"It's my credit card, darling," I tried to be factual.

"I'm not your darling, we're divorced, and the court awarded ten grand a month to me, so it's my credit fucking card, you just need to repay it every month."

"Glad you mentioned the limit awarded by the court. If your, as you call it, credit card doesn't work, it's probably because of the limit you exceeded, darling. There's not much I can do."

"You miser, you miserable niggard. You can't do this to me!" she yelled. "You’ve been trying to hit me from every angle since we divorced. How can I keep the house and bring up our daughter? You know how expensive life is," Gudrun complained, not for the first time.

"I have no idea what you’re spending money on. I’d like to remind you that on top of the ten grand limit on, as you call it, your credit card, I pay your mortgage as a bonus and Sophia's school and expenses. I give you extra for Christmas, and some extra for Easter, I can't imagine you spend ten thousand on food each month?" I asked somewhat inconveniently.

"Shut up, I don't have to tell you what I spend my money on."

"Sure, your choice, you just need to budget carefully," I concluded.

However, Gudrun didn't seem to appreciate this idea. Instead, she gave an ultimatum.

"If I don't get a check for three grand in two days, I'll tell Sophia we'll be starving because her father hates her mother."

I hoped Sophia, being a smart girl, would see through this nasty piece of blackmail, but I preferred to be on the safe side and said: "I'll send a check for one thousand. Last time."

"You skinflint," was her last word and she dropped the call.

I called Martin. "Hi Martin, need some information. Can you check what my ex-wife is spending money on? Can you run a search on her credit card – it's in my name by the way. I looked at the monthly statement, but the list was too long for my limited computational capacities, and I don't know all the fancy names of the fancy shops. And I don't have MS Access to process the data," I laughed. "In fact, can you check if she’s perhaps meeting somebody? She’s constantly asking for cash, it’s unbelievable. I don't mind her meeting somebody, but that has to be a proper somebody.

"Sure, no problem, I'll do that for you," Martin answered.

My phone rang. It was Mr. Xiang of the Chinese mafia. Fuck, it could actually be Mr. Zhao? I wasn’t sure which was given and which was surname. I always got confused about that. Shit, I looked at the note app on my phone; I’d written it down earlier, just to be sure if it was Xiang or Zhao. Just confirmed, it should be Mr. Zhao, Zhao was his surname. I picked up the phone confidently.

"Hi Mr. Zhao, glad you're calling, wasn't expecting your call so soon," I greeted him.

"Good day, Mr. Greystone. Glad you still remember my surname," he answered only a tiny bit less sarcastically then last time.

"How could I forget, Mr. Zhao. I have quite a good memory for names," I lied.

"I know, Mr. Greystone, I know," he pretended he believed me.

"Do you have any news for me?"

"I do, but let's not hurry. Would you accept an invitation for a cup of tea?"

"Sure, I would enjoy that a lot," I lied again, this time big time. But I needed the information from him, so would have to endure another cup of tea.

"Tomorrow morning for breakfast?"

“No time today?”

“Unfortunately not, tomorrow morning.”

"Sounds good."

"See you then, Mr. Greystone," he said and finished the call.

16.

I dropped by
my office. Martin Keenan was having lunch and browsing something on the numerous screens on his work station. Our analysts, computer geeks, and some support staff were stationed around the office. We also had some trusted in-house security guys, just in case. Most of the staff had guns and were trained to use them. Even though we didn’t expect any problems at the office, in this line of business you had to be prepared. The office was on a large plot of land, in a reasonably secluded area on the outskirts of Philadelphia – I didn't want it to draw too much attention, so a secluded plot of land was perfect. It was a large, converted two-storey residential house on a slight elevation, with nice views of the area, yet offering sufficient privacy. Good connections with the road network and proximity to the airport completed the picture.

Martin, Head of Operations, had his desk in the open area. He didn't want to sit in an office. He did have one, but he didn't use it too often. Speed of response and the necessity of communicating with analysts and geeks required his presence on the ground. My office was on the ground floor, next to the open space. Nice view, large space, you know, owner's privilege. In case you’re wondering, yes, the windows and walls had been bullet-proofed. If somebody drove a tank into the courtyard and fired, the building would probably fall, but it was sufficient for a gun assault (even from heavy guns). Needless to say, access was restricted and controlled. On the ground floor, there were also three small offices and two meeting rooms. These were sometimes used by our, let's call them that, subcontractors. Maya Turner was our permanent contractor. She did some other freelance jobs on her own, but I tried to keep her busy. Maya looked like a supermodel. But she wasn't so sweet, in fact she was quite lethal. Deadly medley – looks and skills to kill. And if you were curious, I haven't slept with her. There was also a kitchen, dining area, restrooms, and armory.

The underground area was converted into a kind of bunker or panic room. It was fully equipped to continue operations in case of an emergency, if the upper areas were to be evacuated. Underground, there was also a decent-size interrogation room. It was certainly nothing to boast about, not comparable to Mr. Zhao's torture arena, no doubt about it. But we treated it more as business, not as art, like Mr. Zhao did. Even though I didn't fancy interrogation myself, I didn't shun it either, as it was an unbelievably useful and often an indispensable tool for getting information. Consequently, without any extravagance, our interrogation room was well soundproofed and had a few effective toys and gadgets to loosen tongues. In fact, our best operative, Maya Turner, was the most creative during interrogations and was almost capable of making a stone talk.

The upper floor had a few bedrooms, bathrooms, and a lounge. Our working hours were sometimes quite intensive, so there was space to have a nap. That was the time when the bedrooms came in handy. They also come in handy for a little romance; Martin told me this happened every now and then. You know, busy schedule, long hours, irregular work patterns, all perfectly geared to not having a social life. And the lounge was useful for a quick break or ... meditation. Yes, you heard right, meditation. One of our associates, Zara Martello, who was our secretary, kind of office manager, was a big fan of yoga and meditation. Zara had a beautiful body, long black hair, and was nearly a match for Selma Hayek. Except I doubt Selma Hayek could contort her body like Zara could. Zara was so flexible, that when she was doing a so-called full wheel, sometimes called a bridge pose as she had told me, if she’d been a man, she could have see her dick. Obviously, she wasn't, so she couldn't. She could only see her pelvis, which was, I suppose, no big deal for her, but which was quite an enjoyable view for me. And in case you were very curious again, yes, we did have some pleasant moments together. Maybe a couple of times. I remember she was once trying to show me how to meditate during a night shift. I was breathing in and out, but instead of focusing on my breath and imagining the air flowing in and out of my lungs, I was visualizing her boobs and ass. It was quite relaxing, I must admit, although not necessarily the breathing part, but the visualization. Well, both. That day I became even more chilled out when she put her hand on my thigh and maneuvered it towards my crotch. If I remember rightly, on a few other occasions she was also trying to teach me meditation, but at some stage dropped her efforts and we just transferred to one of the bedrooms on the upper floor for a quickie. Our jobs could be stressful, and these little memorable moments helped alleviate the pressure. Zara was a very valuable team member, no doubt about it. In her office worked capacities, or course.

"Hi Zara, how are things?" I greeted her.

"Couldn't be better, thanks for asking," she answered.

"You look stunning today."

"Thank you," she said with a big broad smile. It was a genuine compliment. She did have amazing lips, large and juicy. She was very adamant in saying that they were natural, not done by a plastic surgeon. I would be inclined to believe her, as even though I paid her well, she certainly wasn't earning as much as Selma Hayek to be able to have a high quality surgical beauty enhancement procedure.

Zara reciprocated: "You look great too, and as mature as usual."

"Are you sure that was a compliment?" I smiled, but remained skeptical.

"Well, everybody would love to date a guy who looks great for his age and has millions in the bank," Zara clarified. Her logic was reasonably, well, logical. I wasn't Brad Pitt for sure, but I also wasn't Gerard Depardieu. I may have been be biased, but I bet I was closer to Brad Pitt.

"Zara, I need two things. Let Martin know I have to meet Igor Ivanov today, he needs to arrange a meeting," I requested. Igor Ivanov was Russian mafia boss for the whole East Coast and East Central region.

"Sure, Martin knows him, he can set it up. He'll be back in a few minutes," she said.

"Also, I’m visiting Mr. Zhao for breakfast tomorrow. I need to get something nice for him. Any ideas? If your aunt was a psycho-sadist, what would you buy her for Christmas?" I was trying to initiate some brainstorming.

"I don't know, my aunt has Alzheimer's, so it's not easy to imagine her being a psycho-sadist. But wait, just yesterday I was watching 'Shutter Island' with Leonardo DiCaprio, very good plot. I remember, they mentioned something about lobotomies, which were used in the 1950s to pacify uncontrollable patients in mental institutions, as I understand. If Mr. Zhao is into that kind of thing, he might enjoy receiving a surgical instrument used for lobotomies?"

"Sounds interesting. Tell me more."

She went to help computer and googled something. It took her a few minutes but eventually she had some interesting information.

"I’ve just been browsing online. This thingy is called 'orbitoclast'. Just like in the movie. It’s sold along with a hammer. It has a Dr. Walter Freeman inscription on it. He was great proponent of transorbital lobotomies after the Second World War according to Wikipedia. It’s next day delivery if we order now."

"Let's get it, should be ok. A transorbital lobotomy, what the fuck is that?" I asked.

Zara browsed Wikipedia and said: "It seems it's just fancy way of saying a lobotomy through the eye socket. You’re putting this orbitoclast, aka icepick, through the eye socket and move it back and forth to sever some nerves in the frontal lobe, whatever that means."

"I think Mr. Zhao will be delighted, let's get one."

Martin Keenan just returned.

"Martin, I just spoke with Zara, I need to meet Igor Ivanov today."

"No problem, I'll sort it out."

"Zara, can you print off the description of this lobotoclast from Wikipedia for me?"

"Sure."

I went to my office, checked my emails. Nothing interesting, just the usual penis enlargement pills spam and how to earn a billion dollars a day scams.

Soon after, Martin told me I could meet the Russian mafia boss in three hours.

"He's based in New York, I have a jet waiting for you at the airport. Unfortunately, we have to pay for the flight, but we can ask Dermot to chip in. You need to leave in the next 15 minutes to get there in time. A pick up car will be waiting for you at the airport."

17.

I took my
car and drove to the airport. A Hawker 400 was waiting on tarmac. The pilot greeted me and we got on board.

"The flight will take approximately 30 minutes," the pilot announced.

We took off within ten minutes. The weather was okay, so the flight was pleasant enough. I didn't mind private jets, but there was one problem with them. These were very small planes, and when it was windy and turbulent, it was far less comfortable than a commercial plane. The Hawker 400 was a small, light jet. To call this category a vomit-comet would be an exaggeration, but bad weather could introduce a little excitement, and it wouldn't be easy to sleep if you wanted to have a power nap. I was tired, so I did sleep for a few moments. I woke up when the plane hit the landing strip.

"Thank you Mr. Greystone, hope you enjoyed the flight."

"As always, James," I said. James Rathmines works for Dan Stillorgan, who owns the jet company. We paid them well, and they were always able to accommodate our last minute requests. Truth be told though, we often used government jets, courtesy of Dermot Clenaghan from Research & Execution.

A limo was waiting for me when I arrived. I jumped in and the car drove to Igor Ivanov's place. His house was impressive, without a doubt, but good taste wasn't its strongest point. In fact, if there was a TV series 'Worst home designs ever', and I was pretty sure there had to be, Ivanov's house would be prime contender. Turrets, bartizans, embrasures, merlons, and battlements here and there, finished off with clock tower with ... a weather cock on the roof. It wasn't strictly a castle, but seemed to clumsily imitate one. I’m not sure where the idea came from, you don't get too many castles on these shores. Perhaps it was a longing for his homeland, or unfulfilled childhood dreams. Perhaps he wanted some kind of Disney castle, but it hadn’t worked here, you didn’t need an architect to see that. Besides, a Disney-style castle was actually quite a pleasant sight. It was apparently designed after the famous Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria at the foot of the Alps. You probably asked yourself how the fuck I knew that. I told you before, I was born in Germany, even though my father was American, and there was a mandatory trip for all school children to see the thing.

Ivanov's residence, however trashy it looked, was still reasonably impressive, especially for me as it was well-guarded by his gunmen. I hadn't dealt with Ivanov in person before. My guys did some small jobs for him, so it was about time to meet him in person to do some relationship management and perhaps prospect for future business. These guys were loaded with cash, not as powerful as the Italians historically, but far more brutal and ruthless, and because of that more effective, and consequently increasing their market share.

I normally preferred meeting in public places, like restaurants, busy parks, or shopping malls, as it reduced the risk of being shot, but on occasion I needed to take a calculated risk. I said calculated, as I had some safeguards. I had a deal with Dermot Clenaghan, our coordinator at Research & Execution Agency, a secret joint venture of the CIA, NSA and HS to deal with crap nobody wants to deal with officially. I had 5 million bucks set aside with private bankers for Dermot and Martin Keenan to organize a retaliation operation in case I was shot on a scheduled visit. This news was quietly publicized in ‘society’. The big crime bosses knew that if I got shot on their premises, Dermot would send a chopper or two with missiles to level the buildings and wreak havoc. The damage would be considerable, including all family members if they happened to be on site. Plus they would hire a few hitmen to track down and kill anyone who survived. The remainder of the money would go to Dermot, and Martin would get a separate reward. I trusted Dermot to follow this procedure, but I prefered to trust and check, so I told Dermot if he got the money and didn't fulfill his obligation, my men would track him and his family down and kill all of them, including his children, grandchildren, wife, parents, siblings, and the dog, and destroy all the flowers in his garden. Not easy, as we didn’t know much about Dermot, but with enough money you could find a lot. It was not a perfect setup, there was always some residual risk, but I wasn't expecting any problems during my visit at Ivanov's “mansion” anyway.

Ivanov was waiting in the reception room. I was frisked to check for guns and wires and entered the room.

"Good evening, Mr. Ivanov, nice to meet you at last," I greeted him.

"Hello Mr. Greystone," he answered.

Ivanov was tall, six foot three, big, and ugly. A thick neck and a broad chest with plenty of muscles. A clean-shaven head, and the facial expression of an unsophisticated gym drugs-and-supplements muscle builder. Had he taken part in a Neanderthal beauty contest a hundred thousand years ago, he would surely have put on a stellar performance. But these days with a face like this he could only play thugs in movies. With a little targeted makeup he could pass for Frankenstein. However, I knew it was only appearance, as with violence alone he wouldn't have reached the top of the hierarchy in the Russian mob. He must have had some brains, no doubt. And anyway, I needed information from him.

"What a lovely house you have, I haven't seen anything so classy and tasteful for a long time," I lied to flatter him and put him in a good mood. I had been lying a lot recently, hopefully it wasn't a permanent trend.

"Thanks Mike," he said. "Can I call you Mike?"

"Sure, Mike, Michael, whichever’s suits. I presume I can reciprocate and call you Igor?" I asked.

"Yeah, no problem. Would you like to have a snack for dinner?"

"If it is not too much trouble," I agreed, being a little concerned about food poisoning. On the other hand, I knew if something happened to me, Dermot would send a Bell chopper, or an F-22 if he wanted to splash some more cash, to blow the whole fake castle away.

"Would you like an aperitif?"

"Sure, gladly," I said.

He went to a cabinet on the wall, opened it, took out two glasses, and poured half a glass of vodka each. I would consider an aperitif to be half an inch at the bottom of the glass, but had no reason to complain. I was in general a whiskey/bourbon guy, but it was worth trying an alternative sometimes.

"I love vodka, this is the perfect drink," Igor explained. "It's just pure distilled alcohol, no additives, no allergens," he continued. "In beer there's yeast, in wine there's yeast and sulphates. Champagne is decent, it has just a very little yeast. Whiskey is fine too. But vodka really is purity and simplicity."

"Sounds interesting, I wasn't aware of that," I tried to sound interested.

I was sipping it slowly, but Igor gulped the whole glass down in one go.

The table was ready, two waitresses brought in the food. Both had boobs the size of watermelons, and I admit my eyes were glued to those lovely protrusions.

"I see you are a connoisseur of female curvature?" he asked.

"You can't ignore views like those," I admitted.

Dinner consisted of steamed salmon, with steamed sweet potato, broccoli, asparagus, and quinoa.

"I’m quite impressed, a very healthy meal," I commented.

"Yeah, I like eating good stuff. It's all organic."

"You must be leading a healthy lifestyle?"

"I try. I love salmon. Have you heard that in countries with the highest intake of omega 3, salmon being the perfect source, the crime rate is the lowest?"

"Funny to hear that from you," I said.

"Funny it is. I do have some activities that I wouldn't necessarily advertise, but I value order. I don't like thugs running loose, unless they belong to me."

I may have underestimated him. He seemed to be a really smart guy.

"Also, if you like an occasional glass of vodka as I do, the liver is under some strain. So there's no point taxing it even more by eating rubbish."

"Fair point," I nodded.

We finished our dinner, and Igor said: "Another glass of something stronger for digestion?" and he poured another half glass of vodka for me, without waiting for an answer. This time it actually looked like three-quarters of a glass, but I wouldn’t dwell on details. We finished off the glass, and he poured another, whereupon we went through to the lounge.

"Okay, Mike, so what can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for a certain guy."

"Why are you looking for him?"

"I need to capture him, preferably dead, but alive would be fine too, I can convert his status myself."

"What's his name?"

"Ron Morgenthal."

"What has he done?"

"My principals want him dead. He's responsible for the St Brigid School shooting."

"Sounds serious, what's his name again?"

"Ron Morgenthal," I repeated.

"Not sure I can help you, but I'll ask around."

"Appreciated, I need to get this motherfucker as soon as possible."

"I'll do my best. Sorry I can't be more helpful, but glad to meet you anyway. I think we can do some business together in the near future," Ivanov said, offering future cooperation. If he paid well, I wouldn’t mind doing a job for him.

"Very glad to hear that," I said, although I was disappointed with the result of the visit.

I was surprised he didn't know the guy. The Italians and Chinese said he didn't work for them. That only left the Russians. I couldn't pursue the topic as I didn't have sufficient intelligence on Ron Morgenthal yet. I should have some news from Martin or Mr. Zhao the next day, so I'd call Igor if needs be.

"In the meantime, would you like another glass?" This was rhetorical question, as before he started the sentence he’d already poured a full glass of vodka.

I left his residence and once more praised the design of his dwelling. My driver took me back to the airport, I boarded the plane and I was back home late that evening.