processing time, all to figure out that the check was a fugazis all along. But the empathetic homeowner wouldn’t know that for many days.
The con man would take the owner’s check directly to the owner’s bank, cash it, and be off into the world, thousands of dollars richer.
It was a solid con for a very long time. Until people stopped writing checks. Until people started checking the identities of not just people they were doing business with, but every person they encountered, usually out of simple interest. Meet a person on the street, find them interesting or alluring, and two clicks later you’re looking at their vacation photos on Facebook, know where they went to kindergarten, elementary school, high school, junior college, college and whatever other clickable institution of learning one can imagine. In short, an entire involuntary database that can tell you whether or not the person you’re interested in is to be trusted with even your phone number.
So the world has become more cautious and, for the most part, no one accepts a check for a large purchase without first getting a DNA swab from the inside of your cheek, at least metaphorically speaking.
Except for charitable organizations. Charitable organizations accept checks every single day because they are created to be generous and forgiving. If you write a bad check to a charity, your karma suffers, but they usually won’t have you arrested. It just isn’t a charitable thing to do.
And when you show up with a cashier’s check for a million dollars, they tend to really turn on their warm and caring side. Or at least that’s what I was hoping would happen when I walked into the Moldovan Consulate with that check in my hand. Plus, warm and caring people tend not to blanch when you ask them to take you on a tour of their facility, even if they’re preparing for a black-tie gala.
So after Barry came back with the cashier’s check for me, I brought Sugar back to my loft and called Sam to let him know that I’d need a chauffeured ride over to the Moldovan Consulate. Preferably a chauffeur with a gun, if need be.
“What kind of car?” Sam asked.
“Big and American,” I said. “Something we can all fit in tonight.”
“Mikey,” Sam said, “you realize that the potential for snafus tonight is high.”
“I realize that,” I said.
“So, in that light, what are you going to do with Sugar?”
“I thought I’d have him sit in the car with the engine running,” I said.
“I like that idea,” Sam said. “You’re not thinking of arming him, are you?”
I was in my kitchen and Sugar was sitting at my counter watching YouTube videos of people getting smacked in the groin.
“No,” I said. I smiled at Sugar and then walked outside to my landing, where I wouldn’t have to hear Sugar’s cinema verite. “What do you have on Drubich and his ties to Moldova?”
“My sources tell me his mother is actually from there,” Sam said, “and that while he is Ukrainian he keeps a vacation home in beautiful Chisinau, where he regularly spends his afternoons reading Tolstoy in Stefan cel Mare Central Park.”
“He’ll have plenty of time to read at Leavenworth,” I said. “Where’d you get this?”
“I called the Moldovan Consulate and asked them how they could be so brash as to honor a dirty Ukrainian,” he said. “Except I said it in a really bad Russian accent. They transferred me to a very nice woman in the press office named Reva, who informed me that Mr. Drubich has deep, inalienable ties to the area and that in addition to all the time he’s spent sitting in the park reading, he also found time to meet his wife in Moldova, too, when they were both just children, which is why he’s so committed to the education of Moldova’s young ones.”
“What a heartwarming story,” I said.
“They didn’t mention anything about him earning most of his money selling technology to terrorists, but I thought that was probably just an oversight.”
“Maybe mention that in your speech,” I said. “See if he’s able to pat himself on the back with his arm in a cast.”
It would be harder still in a few days when he was wearing a waist chain, too, if I had any say in things.
An hour later, Sam and I pulled up in front of the consulate building (in a black Navigator Sam assured me was loaned to him by a very close friend who’d parked it in long-term parking at the Miami Airport) and parked in a space that was marked NO PARKING-RESERVED TONIGHT ONLY FOR MR. SIGAL. I was fairly certain that Mr. Sigal, whoever he was, wasn’t going to show up six hours early for anything, so his parking space seemed safe. If you’re important enough to have a one-night-only reserved parking spot, after all, you’re probably the kind of person who shows up right when the Chicken Kiev is being served and not a moment sooner.
“Mikey,” Sam said, “are you sure you should go in there alone?”
“We can’t risk both of us being seen ahead of time,” I said. “Besides, I want you listening in on those bugs I placed in Odessa.”
“Thus far, it’s just been a lot of people remarking on how good the butter cookies are when paired with the Prince Vladimir tea,” Sam said. “Unless that’s someone speaking in code.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. I got out of the Navigator and examined the street in front of the consulate. Even though it was hours before the event, already a valet service was getting set up at the corner, which meant it was going to be difficult to have a getaway car parked right where we’d need it, so I had to hope a million dollars was enough to get me a reserved space for the evening.
Unlike the consulates you might see in Washington, DC, or even Los Angeles or New York-the kind of big, ornate structures that announced the presence of an entire country, or at least the presence of a few key government and goodwill officials who were, most likely, spies themselves-the building that housed the Moldovan Consulate was more like a building that happened to house several very nice law firms, which in this case were called the Isle of Man, Morocco, Antigua and Moldova. There was a security presence in the outer foyer where three very large men who looked bored and tired and hot sat stuffed behind a sunken circular desk. All three wore black suits with white shirts and blue ties, and gold name badges, though no actual badges. They each had Bluetooth earpieces and matching BlackBerrys strapped to their belts, but no guns. Surrounding the men in the sunken area were a dozen closed-circuit televisions showing alternating shots of all sides of the building, including one that showed Sam sitting in his new Navigator. There were also several laptop computers open on the desk. One was running a program that controlled the closed-circuit cameras: Three of them showed open Facebook pages, two were on ESPN. com and the other one I could see appeared to be running an in-progress game of solitaire.
Behind the men and the security console was a bank of elevators that were guarded by yet another large, bored, tired, and sweaty gentleman. The only difference I could see between this man and the others was that he had a key card around his neck on a chain, which probably meant he had to scan visitors in who wished to go upstairs to the various consulate offices. That he also was holding a clipboard made it all the more clear that he was a man of terrible importance, at least in this ecosystem.
To the left of the security console, there were several tables being set up in front of the grand entrance to a surprisingly ornate ballroom that I could see was filled with people dressing tables and such. A woman with a walkie-talkie in one hand stood in the middle of the ballroom and barked out orders, first in English and then in Russian and then, for good measure, in Spanish. I couldn’t make out what she said exactly, but the general thrust was clear from the way the workers suddenly picked up their pace. Somewhere in the building food was being prepared. Prime rib. Something made primarily of garlic. A million-dollar meal, no doubt.
“May I help you?” one of the security guards asked. He had an accent that sounded vaguely British, but not like he grew up in Leeds. His name tag said MR. CHISOLM and beneath that THE ISLE OF MAN. I looked at the other two guards and saw that they were Mr. Plutak and Mr. Reigor, from Moldova and Antigua, respectively. Morocco must have been guarding the elevators.
“Yes,” I said. “My name is Dr. Liam Bennington. I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment, but I’d like to purchase a table for this evening’s benefit.”
“All of that is handled by the consulate’s press office,” Mr. Chisolm said. He began clicking away at the computer directly to his left, one of the Facebook-enabled ones, but nothing seemed to be happening, perhaps because it was on a page of photos of a young woman. “I’m sorry, sir. Just give me a moment.” He kept clicking, but all that was happening, as far as I could see, was that he kept letting everyone on the planet know that he was quite fond of a photo of the young woman standing in front of the Empire State Building. “Bloody hell,” he said under
