Two Jakes (57 page)

Scarne
hesitated.

“I
think Ari is making a reasonable request, Jake,” Emma interjected. “Considering
what he’s willing to do.”

“I’ll
do what I can,” Scarne said.

“Great,”
Arachne said. “That’s all I can ask. Now how about we rejoin the party? I
really soaked some of those people tonight. The least I can do is get them
drunk. Let’s have some fun.”

CHAPTER
18 – THE VULCAN

“Would
you like some more champagne, Mr. Sobok?”

Hagen
Sobok was sitting in the first-class cabin of an Air France A340 Airbus reading
The Long Lavender Look
by John D. MacDonald. He looked up at the smiling
hostess and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

The
Air France service, always superb, had even been ratcheted up a notch after he
mentioned that the woman he was seeing also worked as a flight attendant for
the airline. Indeed, the luscious creature filling his flute had once shared
routes with Juliette.

“Excuse
me, but did she call you Mr. Spock?”

Sobok
smiled and turned to the voice, which belonged to an attractive woman sitting
across the aisle from him.

“It’s
Sobok, but I get that a lot.”

“Well,
you do look like him, except for the ears, of course. Does it bother you?”

“Not
at all,” he said, holding up his right hand and splitting his fingers in a
rough approximation of the Vulcan ‘live long and prosper’ sign.

The
woman, whom he recognized from a recent picture in some business magazine,
laughed. She was the chief financial officer a large American commercial bank.
She pointed to the book he had put down.

“Are
you enjoying that?”

“Yes.
Not his best, but there are really no bad Travis McGee novels. It’s one of the
seminal mystery series in American literature.”

“I’m
afraid I don’t read thrillers. They seem all the same. High-tech and
unbelievable. But I’m sure they are entertaining.”

“You’re
right about most of the stuff coming out now. But MacDonald was a wonderful
writer. This series ended decades ago, after 21 books. And he wrote perhaps 800
short stories and almost 60 other novels. I have most of them. The novels, not
the short stories. I bet you have seen some of the movies they’ve made from his
books. How about
Cape Fear
, or
Seven
?

“The
one with Brad Pitt and the head in the box? Truly disturbing.”

“You
might even like the thrillers. McGee is always unraveling some complicated
financial scheme or another. Right up your alley.”

The
woman smiled. It was obvious he knew who she was. Interesting man. And a
handsome figure, dressed as he was in a conservative black suit and dark grey
turtleneck that did little to hide his athletic physique.

“I
might just try one, then. Could give me some ideas in dealing with our friends
in the Emirates. Dubai still isn’t too friendly to woman bankers.”

“I’m
sure you can hold your own. But if you want, I can always lend you some photon
torpedoes.”

“You’re
on.”

A
meal service interrupted their conversation, and when it was over the woman
pulled out a laptop. She was attractive and had that middle-40’s, moneyed,
divorced look. Sobok thought he had a better than even chance of exchanging
business cards. After cleaning up the mess in New York, he wouldn’t mind a
little R&R. She wouldn’t sleep around, but when she got someone in bed, she
would be a tiger. He wondered which card would impress her the most. Probably
one of the diplomatic ones.

Sobok
finished a chapter and put the book away. He pulled out his iPad and began
culling through the research material he had quickly assembled. Much of the
information on his first target was in the public domain: news clippings,
police reports and the like. All basically useless. Sobok could have just as
well watched
The Godfather
or
Goodfellas
one more time. He would
obviously need the help on the ground that his new employer promised. Not
because the target was particularly dangerous. These people were laughable. But
it would be prudent to take them unaware and he was as yet ignorant of their
daily habits. And he had to keep them alive, for a time at least. That was
crucial in solving the problem of the second target.

Sobok
was uneasy. He didn’t like relying on local help, especially from an
intermediary. The slightest of doubts about his new client embedded itself in
his mind. Of course, being a professional, he would reserve judgment until
after meeting the man. But he would be careful. He didn’t like rush jobs.

***

The
previous Saturday, Hagen Sobok had been shopping for perfume in Printemps, the
enormous, glittering, multilayered Paris department store just off Boulevard
Haussmann on the Right Bank, when his mobile vibrated. A text message. One
word.
Mass
. He sighed and looked at his watch, startling the salesgirl
who was about to spray a sample of Cristalle on the back of his hand. He smiled
at the reflex; he could just as easily have looked at the time displayed on the
mobile held in his other hand.

“Pardonnez
moi, mademoiselle,” he said, giving her back his hand.

This
was cutting it close, the closest ever, he thought as he felt the cold spritz
and idly raised the hand to his nose.

“Tres
bien, merci,” he smiled to the girl. And in English, “Gift wrap?”

She
nodded and stepped away. Sobok took the opportunity to tap a text answer on his
phone. Again, one word.
Oui.
With his rates now at a minimum of 20,000
Euros, it was almost always a “
oui
.”

The
perfume was a tad stronger than he would have liked, but he also wanted to get
some chocolates for Juliette and now had only an hour left to shop. Dating an
Air France flight attendant had its obvious advantages, but she was hard to
please. He’d also have to remember to change their dinner reservations to
someplace on the Left Bank.

After
paying for the perfume, Sobok headed home to change his clothes. He would buy
his chocolates on the way. There would be a shop. In Paris, there was always a
shop on the way home. He couldn’t remember the last time he made it there
without a small purchase of something, at least a baguette. He thought it might
be a law.

Ordinarily,
Clovis gave him several days’ notice. But whenever it came, Sobok knew to show
up for the evening service the following Saturday. It was always a job, or
“assignment,” as Clovis preferred calling it. The shorter the interval between
the call and the meeting, the higher the fee – that was a given. A same-day
call was unheard of, and Sobok wondered what the market would bear. He decided
not to be too greedy. Clovis was a reliable source of income and a terrific
negotiator , as well as – if the word had any meaning in their line of work --
a friend. The fact that Sobok could perform on such short notice would redound
to their credit with the type of people who used his services.

It
was 6:15 PM when Sobok crossed the Pont D’Arcole over the Seine onto Île de la
Cité, the largest of two adjacent islands sitting in the river between the Left
and Right Banks, and walked to Notre-Dame. Throngs of tourists were milling
about the plaza in front of the famous cathedral and dozens were lined along
its side waiting for a tour that cost 15 Euros. Those who had already paid were
being led into the church by a side door.

Sobok
blithely walked to the main entrance of the church and joined a clutch of
people going in the front door. He and others were forced to step over a Muslim
woman who knelt in their way. She was dressed in a tattered brown burka and
held out a plate in a grimy hand. The plate held a few coins but Sobok didn’t
see anyone contributing and assumed that she had salted it herself. Such women
were ubiquitous all over Paris, particularly around tourist destinations. At
first Sobok had been generous with the pitiful-looking women, until an old
Frenchwoman upbraided him one day.

“Their
husbands stay home on welfare,” she said, “and put these women out on the
street to beg. It’s a racket. Half the money probably goes to Hamas.”

Sobok
took a program from an usher in the vestibule. It was one of the best- kept
secrets in Paris that the 6:30 Saturday night mass at Notre-Dame was open to
anyone and was rarely crowded. He took a seat near the right rear of the huge
church. A stream of tourists already on a tour walked the perimeter separated
from the worshipers by the ropes and brass stanchions lining the side aisles.
Some whispered and pointed at the many architectural wonders surrounding them.
Sobok smiled at a small boy tightly clutching his mother’s hand and gave him a
slight wave. In effect, he and the other celebrants inside the ropes were now
part of the tour.

For
the next half hour, Sobok relaxed in the dark beauty of his surroundings and
enjoyed the mass. The liturgy was in French, of course, and while he was
becoming more acclimated to the language in his recently adopted city, he only
got the gist of the fiery sermon delivered by the tall black priest. (The
Catholic Church in France, and elsewhere in Europe, had a hard time with
vocations among increasingly secular populations and relied on clergy from the
Third World). Sobok, in any event, was unlikely to be moved by any sermon. He
was affected, however, by the ancient hymns sung by the lovely lector. French
was a language made for such music.

The
collection plate was passed. Sobok put in 100 Euros, drawing startled looks
from some of the other worshippers. In return he gave them what he thought was
a saintly smile. It would have been a lot cheaper to take the tour, he
reflected, but then he doubted any of the tourists came to the church to
arrange murder. He wasn’t religious or superstitious, or beset by conscience,
but there was a limit to sacrilege – although he was fairly certain that in
centuries past many killings had been discussed, and possibly committed, within
the walls of this particular house of God.

Sobok
knew Clovis wouldn’t enter the church until sometime after the collection. He’d
teased the man about being a cheapskate. In truth, they had no set time to
meet. The mass lasted an hour; they always managed to conduct their business
before it was over, no matter who got there first.

***

Clovis
St. Germaine arrived just after Communion, sitting down after Sobok removed his
small packages from the folding chair next to him. St. Germaine, with his
turtleneck and cloth cap, looked like the elderly French pensioner he was,
although in his case, his pensions came from service in both the Foreign Legion
and Sûreté Nationale.

“The
same woman?” St. Germaine whispered, nodding toward the packages now in Sobok’s
lap.

“One
even more beautiful,” Sobok said.

“In
Paris, the next woman is always more beautiful. I should know. I’ve been
married three times.” St. Germaine looked around and laughed under his breath.
“Once, here.”

Other
than an occasional comment about the weather or an inquiry into their
respective health, this would be the extent of their personal conversation.
After their initial introduction, brokered by one of St. Germaine’s old Legion
contacts, they never met outside of Notre-Dame, although they knew where each
other lived. They also knew each other’s real name. (“Clovis St. Germaine? You
must be joking,” Sobok had commented years earlier. “Look who is talking,” the
other man retorted.) Their joint knowledge was a symbol of their trust,
hard-earned.

St.
Germaine handed Sobok an envelope. He opened it and looked through the papers
inside. Good. He hadn’t been to the States in a while. He read further. The
instructions were, of course, filled with euphemisms, some quite humorous. But
the intent was clear.

“Given
the short notice,” Sobok said, “I presume there is some urgency.”

St.
Germaine smiled at the gambit.

“Your
usual minimum is my commission on this one.”

Sobok
raised his eyebrows.

“The
client is very rich and somebody has apparently botched the job,” St. Germaine
said. He leaned into Sobok. “Mafia. He seemed to think that might be a problem.
I asked extra for it.”

***

Hagen
Sobok, the “Vulcan,” as he was actually known in the trade, passed through
security at JFK International and waved goodbye to the woman with whom he had
just exchanged cards. Hope to see you soon, he thought to himself, right after
I make sure my targets neither live long, nor prosper.

An
hour later he checked into The Peninsula Hotel on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
After unpacking he took a long walk, heading to the West Side. A heavy dinner
would be counterproductive, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy some of the
best pizza in the world. He had two slices, a glass of the house chianti and a
small salad at Patsy’s on West 74
^th
. Then he headed back to his
hotel.

Sobok
always listened to his body. He was tired and wanted a good night’s sleep
before his meeting the next day with the intermediary who would provide the
information he needed. A doctor named Bimm. Presumably one who had never taken
the Hippocratic Oath too seriously. Sobok shrugged. He was actually looking
forward to it. He’d never been on the famous Staten Island Ferry.