ERICA CABS DOWN TO THE Rusk Rehabilitation Center on East Thirty-Eighth Street—it’s a nondescript, could-be-anywhere building, but she knows it’s one of the best rehabs in the world. She gets Mark’s room number and heads up to the fifth floor. The elevator doors open and she sees him making his way down the hallway on a walker with an aide by his side. The bandage on his head is much smaller, revealing his shaved skull. Erica is touched by his determination as he methodically places one foot in front of the other. Then he looks up and sees her—a beautiful smile breaks across his face, and Erica feels an intense wave of affection for her brave friend.
“Look at you,” Erica says, going to him. Without thinking, she cups his face in her hands and kisses him on the forehead. “You’re up and about.”
Mark struggles to speak and when he does, it’s slowly, but his voice is stronger, his enunciation clearer. “G-g-goo-d . . . mor-ning . . . E-e-ri-ca.”
Erica feels her throat tighten but she fights off the sentiment—it’s not what anyone needs right now. “You sound so much better. Not quite ready for voice-over work, but getting there.”
They make their way to his private room, where the aide helps him into bed. He sighs with relief.
The aide leaves, and Erica and Mark are alone. He indicates the rolling bedside tray, and she maneuvers it in front of him. There’s an iPad on the tray. Mark slowly but steadily pecks out the letters: I NEED MY HOME COMPUTER.
“Do you want me to get it for you?” Erica asks, and Mark nods. “Is it in your apartment?”
Mark nods again. Then he types: 704 GREENWICH ST, # 7
“I’ll need your keys.”
Marks nods to his bedside table. Erica opens the top drawer and takes out his keys.
“N-n-now,” Mark says, then he types: LAPTOP ON TABLE
“Back in a flash.”
Erica cabs downtown to Mark’s building in the West Village. It’s a converted stable—four-story, brownstone and brick, with two enormous doorways in front. She climbs two flights to Mark’s place. It’s one large room. A windsurfing board hangs on one wall like a sculpture. There’s a bed with a cool steel headboard at one end of the room, and a modern kitchen with a rustic farm table at the other. The place is minimal, masculine, and cool, hardly the nerd pad Erica was half expecting. As she picks up the computer and slips it into its case, she takes another look around and wonders about Mark’s love life. He’s a catch.
She cabs back up to the hospital. When she walks into Mark’s room and he sees the computer, his eyes light up. He indicates his tray, and Erica takes out the computer and opens it up. Mark turns it on, and as the screen comes to life, he comes to life, sitting up in bed, leaning forward—alert and engaged at a whole new level. For the first time since his assault, Erica allows herself to think, He’s going to be okay.
“Mark, what was it you were going to tell me at Starbucks?”
His face grows serious. He moves his attention from the laptop to the tablet and types: THE FERRY HACK ORIGINATED IN THE UNITED STATES.
“Are you sure?”
He nods emphatically.
“Do you know where in the US?”
He types: DETERMINING THAT IS MUCH TRICKIER. THERE ARE SO MANY SERVERS AND OVERLAPPING NETWORKS. IT’S GOING TO TAKE SOME SERIOUS DIGGING. BUT I’M WORKING ON IT.
He smiles, and at that moment he looks like a happy kid with his favorite toy, and Erica again feels that swelling of emotion toward him. She puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him an encouraging squeeze. He takes her hand in his and holds it to his cheek for a moment, in a gesture whose innocence takes her breath away. “You’ve made amazing strides, my friend, and you’re just going to keep getting better. And I am going to be here for you every step of the way, for as long as it takes.”
As Erica is leaving Rusk Rehab, she runs into Detective Samuels on his way in.
“How’s he doing?” the detective asks.
“His progress is pretty remarkable. I found out what he was going to tell me the morning he was assaulted: the Staten Island ferry was hacked from within the United States.”
Samuels rubs his chin. “If that’s true, it’s a game changer. Can he prove it?”
“Yes. Hacking leaves a trail. It’s a matter of having the skills to follow that trail. He’s working on determining the exact location.”
“That information would break this thing wide open.”
“Any leads on Volodin?”
“He’s connected with Bratstvo D’yavola, a Russian Mafia crew out of Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, led by one Leonid Gorev. We’ve staked out their clubhouse but Volodin hasn’t been seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns up dead. At this point he’s worth more as a corpse.”
“Where are they in Brighton Beach?”
“They operate out of a caviar shop on Brighton Beach Avenue. But don’t be getting any ideas, Erica.”
“Ideas?”
“Do you know what Bratstvo D’yavola means?”
Erica shakes her head.
“The Devil’s Brotherhood.”
As Erica steps off the curb to hail a cab uptown, she thinks, I really should educate myself about caviar.