TEN
The next morning Alex had a right-hand window seat on the train for her three-hour trip to New York. She had booked the seating intentionally; she wore her Baby Glock on her right side, so it would be better concealed and guarded. As the train raced northward, Alex watched the East Coast of the United States roll past her: Baltimore, Wilmington, Philadelphia, Trenton, and Newark. Old cities that seemed almost antique and quaint-old for North America anyway.
She thought of Venezuela. Earlier that year, she had gone there to investigate a problem for philanthropist Joseph Collins, who was financing a group of missionaries in a remote town called Barranco Lajoya. Their work was being sabotaged by outsiders. Alex had stayed in the village for several weeks until an unnamed armed militia attacked, slaughtering many of the residents, destroying the village, and driving survivors to other locations. The reason for the attack remained unknown and still haunted her.
Forcibly, she shifted her thoughts away from Barranco Lajoya and pondered the potential move to New York, a more pleasant development. She had already decided that, all things being equal, it would be a good move for her, both professionally and personally.
A new venue, a new chapter. New people, new challenges.
To some degree, a new life.
The train arrived punctually at 11:30 a.m. She carried only a small overnight bag, a duffel that she slung over her shoulder. She had worn good walking shoes. New York, Paris, and London were her favorite cities for walking and picking up the feel of the metropolis. So she walked easily from Penn Station up to the Gotham. She checked in and unpacked.
By 2:00 p.m. she had ventured out again on foot. Although the weather was brisk, she didn’t mind the exercise and wore the proper footwear for a two-mile walk directly uptown, taking a path through Central Park, where the trees were already bare. She noticed in passing that a few of the stores were done up for Thanksgiving but most were already well into Christmas. The holidays hit a bittersweet chord within her; the absence of a family, the loss of a fiance. Best to keep going, keep the chin up, and not dwell upon it.
After forty-five minutes, she had arrived at the home of Joseph Collins, or, at least, his luxury apartment building at Fifth Avenue and 95th Street. There he made do with a duplex worth twenty million dollars-by the jaded estimates of Manhattan real estate.
The building had once housed several Rockefellers and a Kennedy or two. William Randolph Hearst had once bought a floor there for a mistress, and Winston Churchill had stayed there for two months with friends after being voted out of office in the late 1940s. It still housed numerous heavy hitters of the New York financial and industrial community.
The building was the work of the famous New York architect Rosario Candela, a prolific designer of impeccable apartment buildings in Manhattan between World Wars I and II. With its polished granite entrance, flanked by three doormen in subdued dark green uniforms, this was among the most luxurious apartment houses in Manhattan. The facade was sheathed entirely in limestone, and the entrance details were pure Art Deco. The front doorway told all anyone needed to know. Carved through a granite slab, topped by finials, were the letters that announced the address: 1240 PARK AVENUE.
Inside, the lobby was as Alex remembered it from previous visits: dark, lush, and wide, with comfortable sitting areas and plush carpets on marble floors. Even the elevator that brought Alex to Joseph Collins’s floor bespoke old money. The elevator man wore white gloves. Alex wasn’t sure whether she had walked into a time warp or a bank vault.
By 3:00 Alex was comfortably seated in a leather chair before Collins’s desk. Though showing slow signs of aging, Collins still had his easy grace and charm. At seventy-six, he was a man at peace with himself and the world. He sat behind his desk in a tie and suit and spoke fondly of his son, Christopher, who was now involved in missionary work in Argentina.
“The news from Venezuela is not all bad,” he said at length. “The land where the village of Barranco Lajoya stood is unpopulated now. All of the survivors moved to a different settlement. It’s down the mountain a little way and near the valley. I’ve seen pictures. I’m told it’s a beautiful area.”
“What are the plans for permanent resettlement?” she asked.
“I’m not sure there will be a resettlement,” he said. “The people of the village, I think there are about four hundred of them, have adapted somewhat to their new location. I’ve financed new housing for them. It’s nothing elaborate, but it’s functional. Oddly enough, the government offered no resistance when we put new buildings there, even though that dreadful demagogue Chavez is still in power. I know, I know, they criticize us as Yankee imperialists in one breath and accept our charity with the next. But the army can better keep an eye on the people of Barranco Lajoya in their new location.”
“The settlement has the same name?” she asked.
“Well, the people are the spirit of the village, so why not?” he asked. He paused. “I’m thinking, assuming you can get free of your other work, maybe you could make a trip down there in the early spring. Or even February before it gets too hot.”
“I might be able to do that,” she said. “All else being equal.”
“God willing,” he said.
She agreed.
“I should mention,” she said, “one reason I’m in New York is to interview for a job here.”
“You’re leaving Treasury?” he asked with surprise.
“No, not at all,” Alex said. “FinCEN is initiating a new operation that will work out of New York. They offered me a potential promotion that would include a transfer here. I interview tomorrow.”
“I’m sure they’ll invite you to work with them here,” he said.
“And I’m sure they have fifty qualified candidates for every job that might be open,” Alex answered.
Collins snorted slightly. “Of course. You and the forty-nine runners up.”
“You’re too kind,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said, “and now I’ll be too kind again. My son asked me to continue to administer his apartment while he’s out of the country,” he said. “Chris will be gone for another four months, barring unseen circumstances. So if you’d be comfortable there in his apartment on 21st Street or need a place on short notice, the key is yours. Just say the word, even if it’s on an hour’s notice. Lady Dora will let you in and give you the key. Hotels are so darned impersonal, aren’t they? I believe you were comfortable down on 21st Street.”
“Very much so and thank you,” Alex said. “And I was right, you
ELEVEN
That evening Alex seated herself in Peacock Alley in the WaldorfAstoria. She selected a table for two that gave her a good view of the elegant lobby in front of her as well as the plush bar and restaurant that was to her back.
She glanced to the entrance, looking for Federov. Behind her, the bar was busy with wealthy New Yorkers and tourists, largely foreign, meeting for a drink after business, as a prelude to the theater or dinner. A waiter called on her immediately, but she declined to order until the arrival of the gentleman-she used the term loosely-who was to join her. The waiter smiled, disappeared, and returned with a small dish of nuts and pretzels. Alex scanned the lobby again. No Federov. She brought out her cell phone and riffled through the day’s calls. She returned two, finished them, glanced at her watch, and saw that it was 6:32. She looked to the lobby again.
She spotted Yuri Federov before he spotted her.
Her first impression was that something had happened to him. His face looked haggard. He seemed years older than when she had seen him last. He walked without the same self-assurance that she had previously seen in Ukraine, Switzerland, Italy, and France. As he crossed the lobby, she saw that he still had a thuggish wise-guy charm about him, if there was such a thing. But he did look, she decided, worn and troubled.
Then he spotted her. His expression changed and somewhere within him the sun seemed to emerge from clouds.
He walked directly to her, smiling broadly. “Ah,” he said. “The most beautiful woman in the world.” He extended a hand and took hers. They exchanged a clasp.
“Hello, Yuri,” she said.
He drew her close to him and wrapped her in a quick hug, then released. She went with it.
“What a pleasure this is,” he said affably, sliding his massive frame into the seat next to hers. For some reason, the image flashed before her of them together the previous February at the nightclub in Kiev, Yuri on his home turf in all his overly macho glory, she in a micro-mini dress prying him for information and getting increasingly soused as the evening went along. Well, all in an evening’s work.
Federov turned and signaled to the waiter.
“You have to try their specialty drink, ‘The Peacock,’ ” Federov said to Alex.
“Named after the Shah of Iran?” she asked, making light of it. “He would have liked this place. He used to stay here, in fact, if I remember.”
Federov laughed. “The place still stinks with Iranians,” he said. “They’re disgusting people.”
“What’s the drink?” she asked. “The Peacock. What’s in it?”
“It’s a vodka drink,” he said. “Cranberry-infused vodka and apricot brandy with a sour made from scratch. The vodka is Russian.”
“Sounds lethal,” she said.
“It is. Russians are lethal. You know that. That’s why I order it. I had three last night.”
“Well, you’re still alive,” she said.
“Ha! Just, hey.”
The waiter arrived.
“I’ll take your recommendation,” Alex said. “But I’m sure one will suffice for me,” she said.
“Two Peacocks,” Federov said to the waiter. “Make mine a double.”
