MARTA KRALL TOOK a cab to 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue and bought a turkey, avocado, and bacon sandwich at the ’wichcraft kiosk in Bryant Park. She found a quiet table under a London plane tree in the northern promenade and called Etienne Gravois in France.
He wasn’t happy to hear from her. He never was. Marta had saved Etienne’s life, and he had been paying for it ever since.
Etienne was a compulsive gambler who made the mistake of borrowing twenty thousand euros from an Algerian drug dealer and failing to pay it back. Marta was hired to kill him. Instead, she paid off his debt. Etienne was much more valuable to her alive. He worked in computer records for Interpol.
“Bonjour, Etienne,” Marta said. “I e-mailed you a photo of a young man.”
“I’ve left the office for the evening,” he said.
“Then go back.”
“I’m meeting my wife for dinner. It’s her birthday.”
“Please give her my best. And tell her that in a few days I, too, will be meeting her. Only by then she’ll be your widow.”
“I’ll go back to the office.”
“The photo was taken at Grand Central Terminal in New York City a few days ago,” she said. “I want to know who the man is and where to find him.”
“Do you know anything about this man?”
“No. That’s your job, Monsieur Gravois. You sold your worthless soul to the devil. Now go back to your computer and get the devil what she wants.”
“Yes.”
She gave him a phone number. “How long?”
“If he has a criminal record, maybe two hours. If I have to dig deeper, a little longer.”
“Don’t waste time. I need it now.”
“I understand.”
“One more question, Etienne. Do you have anything new on the Ghost?”
“No.” He laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just that half the police agencies around the world are looking for the Ghost. Now you, too.”
“Well, if you get anything on him, I hope you don’t make the mistake of calling any of them first.
She hung up.
Marta Krall rarely smiled. All those years of posing for fashion photographers had drained the joy from her. Her eyes were cold and malevolent-looking. Her face could not hide the evil in her heart.
But that was before Chukov hired her to kill the Ghost. She opened her bag and took out a pocket mirror.
Just as she suspected. She was smiling now.
Chapter 27
MARTA WAS CONFIDENT that Gravois would identify the handsome guy in the photo. His life depended on it. As for tracking down the Ghost, she had a better resource. And he was right here in New York City: Ira.
She took a cab down to lower Manhattan and got off on Canal Street, where the air was thick with the fumes of the hundreds of trucks and a few scattered cars that crawled their way into the Holland Tunnel heading for Jersey.
She walked from Canal to Laight, then along West to Watts, and finally, positive that no one was tailing her, past the sprawling UPS truck garage to a soot-gray brick building on Washington Street.
The building was a little piece of old New York gone to seed. Six stories; six doorbells. She pushed the only one that had a name on it — ACME INDUSTRIES.
A voice answered. “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“I’m told that you’re open late for your premier customers,” Marta said.
The voice came back. “What level premier customer?”
“Titanium.”
She was buzzed in. She walked past the elevator and took the stairs. On the second-floor landing she saw a rat gnawing on a moldy bagel. He didn’t move, just glared at her and bared his teeth until she passed.
Ira’s door was on the fourth floor. Another buzzer and she was inside the loft. It was three thousand square feet, every inch of which was covered. There were rows of mismatched tables holding electronic equipment, and a kitchen area where Marta could see two more rats scavenging on a countertop. There was a bed littered with food containers, beer cans, and porn magazines. Stacks of computer manuals piled waist-high were parked next to an overflowing garbage can.
A path wide enough for a wheelchair wound its way through the chaos. The man in the chair was somewhere between thirty and fifty, grossly overweight, and seemingly uninterested in personal hygiene. He had an open bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on his lap and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi on the computer stand next to him.
“I’m Ira,” he said. “Sorry if I smell a little gamey. We don’t get many social calls, and getting in and out of the tub is a bitch.”
“No problem,” Marta said. “I’m Giselle.”
“Who sent you, Giselle?”
“A friend.”
“My best reference,” Ira said. “If I ever meet this Mr. A. Friend, I’d love to buy him a beer. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a husband who can’t keep his dick in his pants, but if you can’t get in and out of a tub, I doubt you can do anything for me. My problem requires someone with a lot more muscle.”
“We have a division of labor at Acme Industries,” Ira said. “Brains and brawn. I’m brains.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Ira,” Marta said, “but I already have brains. What I’m looking for is someone strong enough to toss a hundred and ten pounds of shit off a roof.”
“I’m guessing the husband with the wandering dick weighs more than one ten,” Ira said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a hard-bodied little mistress about that size.”
“Well,
“Absolutely. Do you want your husband roughed up as well?”
Marta laughed. “I could rough the dumb bastard up. I could also bash his head in with a cast-iron skillet when he’s sleeping. But I’d rather see the look on his face when he finds out that his little office-manager — slash-whore did a swan dive off a building.”
“No problem. I have several candidates who can handle the job.”
“I don’t want several. I want one. The best man you have.”
“I can give you second best,” Ira said. “But my number-one man doesn’t do matrimonial.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“He gets top dollar for hunting down hard-core dirtbags. He doesn’t believe in killing some pretty little thing just because she’s banging your old man.”
“A killer with a conscience. How noble. What’s his name — Don Quixote?”
“They call him the Ghost.”
