“JONAH, WE’RE LOOKING at twenty minutes or so until we begin taxiing,” Ken, the pilot says.
“Great. Thanks.”
Ken disappears into the cockpit. The G550 is a luxurious private jet on the larger side, comfortably able to carry up to fourteen passengers intercontinentally. Tonight, amongst the polished mahogany and brass finishes, it’s just me. Settling into a big, plush, caramel leather chair about mid-cabin, I stare out the window at the personnel and odd-shaped airport vehicles coming and going, preparing us for liftoff. Soon Jennie, my usual flight attendant, appears from the galley.
“Good evening, Mr. Gray. May I bring you something to drink?”
Jennie is a tall, sultry brunette with a scratchy, soulful voice. Every time I see her I think she’s more country western star than flight attendant. Yet, once again, here she is.
“Do we really have to do this every time?” I answer her question with one of my own, returning my eyes to the cabin, to her. “Jonah. Please. Call me Jonah.”
“Of course, Jonah.”
“Thank you.”
I check the time. 8:45 p.m. Five hours and change flight time plus a six-hour forward time difference equals me needing to get a few hours of sleep.
“Do we have any tequila on board?” I continue.
“Will Gran Patron Platinum do?”
“It will. Tall glass. Just a couple rocks.”
“You got it.”
I take my MacBook Air out of my briefcase and fire it up. I had hoped to finally get a look at the Three Twenty One Park security footage from the night in question on the way to the airport but got stuck on several calls. As I log into the web-based surveillance system we use for all Resurrection properties, and choose the appropriate building, Jennie places my cocktail down along with a plate of cheese, grapes, and crackers. I thank her and take two huge gulps of the tequila.
I decide to go back to the night in question, and watch the main entrance of the building, working backwards from the time Marilena supposedly left. Just as I had previously seen, at 9:55 p.m. Marilena exited the property, alone. I cue the time up to begin an hour earlier, at 8:55 p.m. I press play.
As I watch I see nothing out of the ordinary. Traffic is thin this time of the evening, as most have long gone for the day. There’s a stretch of fourteen minutes at one point when no one comes or goes. Still, I watch as though I’m viewing the most eagerly anticipated Hollywood blockbuster of the year. I barely notice when the jet barrels down the runway and takes off.
“May I bring you another?” Jennie says once we’re airborne and cruising.
I look at my empty glass.
“Please,” I answer.
I look back at my computer screen. When I do, I see something as interesting as it is unexpected. I hit pause, but I’ve already missed him. I rewind a few frames and let it play again. Yes, it’s him. I rewind again and hit play. This time I hit pause at exactly the right moment.
Greg Shand.
The founder and owner of Spectrum Global.
Spectrum Building Services, the cleaning company Mr. Esparanza worked for that cleans our buildings, is one subsidiary of Spectrum Global. Global handles all of the competencies a building might need from the cleaning services to the security guards to even the messenger centers—a subsidiary called Spectrum Swiftly. It’s literally one-stop shopping for commercial property owners to cover all bases. We use Spectrum for all of these services throughout our entire portfolio.
I look at the time he entered the building. 9:29 p.m. Shand owns a small empire; his company employs over five thousand people. There’s no doubt a guy like this has a streamlined hierarchy in place to handle all day-to-day building-related affairs, from the menial through management level oversight. So why would he show up at this particular property, at this time of night, on a date where not only a member of his overnight cleaning crew died, but there may have been a security breach?
Jennie places my fresh cocktail down. Before touching it, I take out my iPhone. Until we’re further out over the ocean I should still have service. I call Morante. He doesn’t pick up. I leave a voice mail.
I look back at the screen. Greg Shand. I move forward again with the footage to see when he exited the property. Like I’ve seen now multiple times, out comes Marilena at 9:55, alone. Just as alone as Shand is when he exits at 10:22 p.m. I rapid-fire a few grapes into my mouth. Then like a college kid, I down my huge glass of tequila in one shot without coming up for air.
* * *
“Jonah, it’s time to wake up,” I hear.
I know that voice.
My eyes, heavy, slowly open in spite of a hangover just settling in. I’m lying on the soft, charcoal leather couch across from where I was sitting earlier. I can see my laptop still on the table where it was earlier, the screen dark while in sleep mode. The cabin is softly lit. Outside the windows the world is still black. All I hear is the whirring of the two Rolls Royce engines. We must still be midflight.
Then why wake me?
“Jonah, it’s time to wake up,” I hear again.
Cobus.
I look up through groggy eyes. He’s standing over me. His eyes and expression are stern, dead serious. As I take him in, he takes a few steps backward so I can see more of him. He’s wearing his suit pants, but the shirt is gone. His hairless torso is lean, shredded, each muscle from his stomach up to his shoulders then down through his forearms and hands as if cut from stone. From his waistline up to his neck, right where the top of his collar rests, he’s covered with finely written, intricate, orderly ink. There are words, names, numbers, as if his body is some sort of journal or ledger.
The last time I saw these tattoos was when they were first revealed to me. Two years ago, on a private jet from New York City to Moscow. We were going to find, and retrieve, Perry. And Cobus—or whoever this man really is—was explaining to me I had only survived my journey because he had my back.
“Who are you?” I remember asking.
“You’ll never have my name. And you don’t want it,” he answered. “There are a number of large organized crime syndicates in this world. Let’s just say one of them answers to me.”
I look left. Then right. No sign of Jennie anywhere. I look back at Cobus.
“How did you get here?”
He dismisses my question, and gives me one of his own.
“Do you remember this writing? Do you remember what it means?”
He told me on that same flight.
“Insurance,” he said. “Dirt. Bargaining power. Though few can get to me—or even know my true identity—there are a lot of people who want me brought down in this world. I’m very careful about who I get in bed with. But when I do decide to deal with someone, there’s nothing for buying loyalty like showing them their name, next to an account number I know they use for money laundering, tattooed on my body. Or maybe their name next to an address that represents a safe house where a certain missing person is buried in the concrete foundation. My connections run deep—in business, in government, in the underworld. No one will ever get to me, and they know that. This—what you see—is my way of letting those I allow into my world, whether they like it or not, know there is no turning back. And they’d better be looking out for my best interests. Because it doesn’t matter whether it’s the authorities or another crime syndicate. There isn’t a database in the world that can bring down the house more than my body should it fall into the wrong hands.”
“Do you remember,” Cobus asks again, his voice louder now. “And do you remember that photographs of this writing—photographs of every millimeter of this body—are with the proper people in case of a day I might end up in hands other than those of my choosing?”
“Yes,” I respond. “I remember.”
Without another word he steps back to me. He reaches down, grabs a fistful of the shirt where it covers my chest, and sits me up. With his left hand he grips the back of my head like it’s a softball as he slightly turns his torso right. He pulls my face to within three inches of the rear end of his external oblique muscle, on the side of his body just above his belt.
“What do you see?” he asks through clenched teeth.
I see Jonah Gray tattooed on his body in black ink. Beneath it, I see Ivan Janse. Under both names, there’s more writing. I squint as I try to make out what it says.
“You owe me, Jonah,” he continues, his voice tainted now with a slight growl.
“We’re even,” I reply, still trying to make out the words.
Damn.
Why can’t I read this?
Are these words written in script?
Stop moving.
Fuck!
He squeezes his fingers tighter around my head. I reach back with my right hand and grab his wrist, still trying to make out the words under my name.
My names.
“You. Owe. Me. Jonah. Now stop worrying about things you needn’t worry about. Get back to New York. And get the fuck to work!”
* * *
“Jonah, it’s time to wake up,” I hear.
Lying on the plush, charcoal-gray leather couch across from where I sat at the beginning of the flight, I flinch backward as my eyes open.
“I’m sorry,” Jennie says, “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that we’re about thirty minutes out of Schiphol, and I know you like to freshen up, change, and have a little something to eat before touchdown.”
Schiphol. Amsterdam’s international airport.
The cabin is filled with sunlight. Across from me I see my laptop still on the table where it was earlier, the screen dark in sleep mode. I look around for Cobus, realizing immediately he’s not here.
“I have your fresh clothes hanging right over here,” Jennie goes on.
“Right. Thanks, Jennie,” I say, my voice raspy as it sputters to life. I look at the clothes hanging on a hook on the wall about twenty-five feet from me.
“Some coffee, perhaps? Or some ice water?”
“I’d love an iced coffee. Just a little skim milk. Thanks.”
“Of course.”
Jennie heads off to the galley. I look at my watch. It’s 7:55 a.m. in the Netherlands. My first instinct is to call Morante and tell him what I saw on the footage. But I realize this will have to wait until later as 7:55 a.m. here means 1:55 a.m. back home.
I stand up. When I do, I feel a terrible pain in my right thigh. Without taking another step I undo my belt and lower my previous day’s suit pants to my knees. There’s a bunch of thin, centimeter-long stab wounds—maybe twelve or fifteen of them—in my right thigh near the previous cuts. I touch them gingerly with my right hand. As I do, out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of my sterling silver collar-stays on the ground next to the couch I was sleeping on. With my right hand I reach up and touch my right collar. Sure enough, the collar-stay slot is empty.
I pull my pants back up, pick up the collar-stay, and head to the bathroom. The door closes behind me and I splash my face with water. I—Jonah Gray—stare into the mirror. Only to see Ivan Janse—the man I was known to the world as my last time in Amsterdam—staring back at me.
Jonah Gray.
Ivan Janse.
Once this jet’s wheels touch that ground, it’s going to take both of us to get what I need.