Perez was happy this evening. Word came from Bogota that both the justice minister and the driver- bodyguard had been killed in a sniper attack. Rebels connected with the cocaine traders were suspected.
The minister and his bodyguard: two for one. Good news indeed. So Perez relaxed and breathed easier. While political murders were common in Colombia, this one had a particularly high profile. Perez reasoned – correctly – that the airport and even the bus terminals would be saturated with police and army. But he also knew that these things blow over quickly. Among friends and allies, he had good reason to spend the next few evenings in the sleazy bordellos of Villavicencio and celebrate. So he settled in, planning to remain for several days.
FIVE
Early the next morning, Alex arrived in the reception area of the New York law firm Silverman, Ashkenazy amp; DeLauro. After being summoned by a sleepy receptionist, Joshua Silverman greeted Alex personally.
Silverman’s office was a vast space, twenty-five by twenty feet, with two plate-glass windows that looked northward onto Park Avenue toward the Graybar building and Grand Central. Thick pile carpeting covered the floor, and there were several leather chairs and a matching sofa. The walls were done in Asian art, Chinese mostly, which seemed contemporary and for which Silverman had probably paid a good price.
The dark green walls gave the cherry legal cabinets some pizzazz, while antique Tiffany lamps dotted the end tables. Silverman’s desk, which dominated the chamber, was the size of a small Buick. It was dark and expansive and featured inlays of cherry and mahogany. Lion heads were carved on the legs.
“May we get you some coffee? Water?” Silverman asked.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Alex said.
Actually, she wasn’t. She had a middle-range headache brewing and some stiffness in her left shoulder, an affliction that had grown worse recently as some internal flesh healed from a recent bullet wound. This appointment wasn’t helping.
Silverman seated himself behind his desk. He took a long look at Alex, then threw her a question that seemed to come out of the blue. “I’m told you’re a religious woman,” he said. “Should I believe that?”
“I am a Christian if that’s what you mean. Who told you?”
“A Russian told me,” he said. “About a year ago. And if I told you that a piece of business has come forth from our Geneva office, would that suggest why you’re here?”
Alex drew a breath. “It might.”
“Last week one of our associates in a Swiss firm read the last will of Yuri Federov,” Silverman said. “Mr. Federov named you as a beneficiary.”
Silverman stood and leaned forward, handing Alex copies of the papers. She stood, took them, and sat down again. She scanned them quickly. The will was written in French, English, and Russian. Reading such documents, and the legalese therein, was hardly her specialty, since, strangely enough, she had seen very few in her life and none had been happy occasions. It would have taken her several minutes to wade through this one, but it quickly became unnecessary.
“This is for you, Alex,” Silverman said. “Congratulations. I hope you will treat it well and use it wisely. That was what Mr. Federov intended.”
He handed her a small envelope. Her name was written on it in handwriting that she recognized as Federov’s. She glanced at Silverman as she put a finger into the envelope and pulled it open.
Within was a letter from the law firm in Switzerland. It was in French and addressed to her. She scanned it. There was another piece of paper, folded in half. A check. She unfolded it.
Silverman said, “I’m sure you will handle it wisely.”
She barely heard him. The check was made out to her, drawn on Credit Suisse’s offices in New York. She saw a line of zeroes. Then her eyes froze on the second line, the one that conveyed the amount.
“Your life just changed, I know,” Silverman said. “It must feel strange.”
“What’s this about?” she asked. “I don’t get it.”
Silverman shrugged. “What’s it about?” he mused. “Who knows? That’s not my department. The funds come with no strings attached and no further message from Mr. Federov. Apparently he had great affection for you and wished to leave you a gift, something that would impact your life in a positive way. That’s all I know. Other than that, all federal, state, and city taxes have already been deducted. It was apparently the intent of Mr. Federov to leave you a flat two million dollars. I also need a final signature from you on a letter, confirming that you’ve met with me and received the check. I have the letter prepared. It will need to be notarized. I have a notary on call.” He paused. “I assume you’re willing to sign and accept.”
She was hearing all this but had trouble believing it.
“Of course,” she said.
“Then let’s proceed.”
Twenty minutes later, back down on Park Avenue, Alex was still stunned. She stopped outside the office building, trying to put things in perspective. Yes, this had really happened. The check was in an envelope in her purse, along with a business card from a banker named Christophe Chatton at Credit Suisse in New York. Chatton would be at Alex’s disposal if he could assist in any way with the management of the money.
As she took a few steps away from Silverman’s building, her purse had never seemed so heavy. Was this Federov’s strange final way of corrupting her, she wondered? Or was he expecting her to use it to buy his redemption?
She had two million dollars about to go into the bank. And now, it seemed, she had two million new things to think about.
Manuel Perez rested, never leaving the small compound where he lodged. Respectfully, with even a small touch of sympathy, he watched the televised state funerals for the men he had killed. A day and a half later, confident that no one was looking for him, he was ready to travel.
His escorts were part of a network of cocaine traffickers loyal to one of the big cartels from Medellin. They didn’t know what Perez had done or for whom, but they treated him with courtesy. They showed him to a van. The driver was a muscular young punk, about twenty, with black hair, a silk shirt, and a cocky attitude. His name was Mauricio. He was Mexican, Perez noted. Perez didn’t like the looks of him, his surliness, or his singsong Mexican working-class accent.
The plan was to ferry Perez by highway to Cali, and from there he would fly out of the country. They began their trip by the roads that went through the farm areas south of Bogota. Half an hour later, Perez began to talk to Mauricio. The two men discovered they shared a common background: fatherless and dirt poor in the state of Guerrero in Mexico. The driver’s eyes kept shifting between the road ahead, the road behind, and the ominous single passenger in the backseat. A backup team of bodyguards followed in case there was trouble with police or army roadblocks, but no trouble ensued. Perez started to warm up to his chauffeur and wondered if the kid knew who he was and what had been his business in Colombia. Eventually, Perez asked.
“I know you’re important. I’m supposed to get you to the airport,” Mauricio said.
“Do you have a gun?” Perez asked.
“Not with me. Not allowed while I drive you.” Mauricio tipped his head toward the car behind them. “If there’s trouble,” he said, “they’re the shooters, not me.”
“You
“Love them.”
Perez nodded. “A man needs his guns in this world,” he said philosophically.
At the airport, before Perez stepped out of the van, the bodyguards went into the airport lobby to trawl for potential trouble. They saw none. Returning, they gave Perez the all-clear signal.
Perez drew a breath. This was the tricky part. Getting home.
