New York City
Avery Snowden had been in counterintelligence for decades. He had met Charles and Fergus several years ago, when MI6 was tracking suspected terrorists in London, assisted by Scotland Yard. It had been a bit tense among the men in the beginning—each trying to be top dog. But after a few clandestine meetings, they had developed the trust of a band of brothers. They’d been able to uncover a plot to strike several soft targets. Thanks to their intel, the raid they devised had gone off without a hitch and resulted in the arrest of half a dozen terrorists. The official record showed the suspects had been convicted and sentenced during a trial that was off-limits to the press and public. They had been transported to an “unknown location” and had never been heard from again. Justice could be sweet.
Avery had got his orders from Charles and had put two of his best shadows on Dr. Corbett and Dr. Marcus. He would handle Dr. Steinwood personally. Eileen was a supersleuth and could plant a bug in the most highly guarded offices and homes. With occasional help from Alexis, master of disguise, Eileen could be anything from a Pakistani cabdriver to a school librarian. She would handle Marcus in London.
Sasha, another longtime operative of Avery’s, would handle Corbett. She knew the streets of New York better than most cops in the NYPD. Getting out to Long Island was a piece of cake. She would employ the services of Wings Air, an outfit whose helicopter pilot she knew, intimately. He never questioned Sasha about her work. It was his understanding that she was a photographer for a very high-end private detective agency, the identity of whose clients was confidential. Which, for the most part, had the virtue of being true. Of course, Sasha never mentioned the parts of her activity that would be considered illegal.
Avery would take Steinwood on himself. He tapped out the information and instructions he had on the three men, or “subjects.” Each operative would tail her subject for a week and would report to Avery every day. Avery would send their reports, as well as his own, to Charles, who would then share them with the sisters.
Day one was upon them. Dressed like a bike messenger, Sasha waited on the pristine sidewalk in front of Corbett’s apartment building. It was one of the very few sidewalks in the city that was clear of all debris, especially dog poop. There were CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR DOG signs everywhere. Most New Yorkers referred to the statute requiring people to clean up after their pooches as the pooper scooper law. She could never understand why someone would want to walk six or seven dogs at a time—which was not uncommon in the posh neighborhood Corbett lived in. Who in their right mind would want to carry that much dog poop on a hot summer day? It was a question she had once asked her friend Carlos, who had been walking dogs for years.
“You get paid by the walk. If there are dogs who get along, I walk as many of them as I can. I can clear six or seven hundred dollars a day,” he’d told her.
She’d shrugged. People in this part of town spared no expense on anything, and dog walkers were in high demand. Still, carrying bags of poop was not her idea of a good way to make a living. She also thought that having dogs in New York City wasn’t fair to the dogs. They needed a yard. A place to run. Not to walk on sidewalks along busy streets, with cars honking, sirens blasting. People were selfish. Sasha was glad her interaction with most of them was from a safe distance.
She pulled her phone out one more time to get a good look at the man she was going to track. Five feet ten inches, medium build, neatly cut brownish hair, impeccable suit, Brooks Brothers trench coat. It looked like rain. She quickly spotted the well-dressed man leaving his apartment building and waited to see if he was going to hail a cab or get in a private car. Neither. He started walking south on Madison Avenue. She’d let him get a block ahead before she began pedaling the bike. His pace began to slow as he neared the Bottega Veneta boutique. He stopped and glanced in the window, then back at his watch, and moved on. Sasha could only imagine the thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise sitting on display. She knew she was going to draw attention to herself if she kept riding her bike like she needed training wheels, so she opted to get off the bike and walk it partway down the street.
Corbett stopped and peeked at the window of the restaurant. He did not do it to see if his lunch date was waiting but to get one more good look at himself. Satisfied with his appearance, he swung the heavy door open and entered. Sasha anticipated that this was going to be a long lunch.
Gerardo, the owner of San Pietro, greeted Corbett in a manner that puffed up his already inflated ego. “Buongiorno, Dr. Corbett! So nice to see you! Your guest is already waiting. Follow me.” Manolo, the maître d’, gave Corbett a modest nod and bow. Yes, Corbett loved the attention. It was going to bode well for his financial prospects.
Gerardo motioned to the table as the guest half stood to shake Corbett’s hand.
“I see Gerardo has taken care of the wine. I called ahead to have him choose something I thought would be to your liking.”
“It’s quite nice.” The man twirled the red Sangiovese liquid in the balloon glass. “You seem to be very popular here.”
“I try to come here once a week when I’m not out on the island.” People in the know understood that “the island” embedded in the phrase “on the island” was Long Island, not Fire Island or Coney Island. Exactly where on the island was usually noted in the next sentence. “In Sag Harbor.” God forbid someone thought he lived in Hempstead, where the school system was rife with complaints about misappropriations and where the charges of police corruption had resulted in the chief of police being fired. Of course, his own business was as corrupt as anything that happened in Hempstead. But his corruption swindled only the rich and took private money, not the taxes everyone had to pay. Nor was any violence involved.
“Been out there for a golf outing a few times.” The man’s name was Leffert, as in one of the biggest tobacco families in the country. Because the market for cigarettes was in decline, tobacco companies were investigating new sources of revenue. The CBD business was a natural for them. “Lovely restaurant, too, by the way.” Leffert glanced around the room and recognized the CEO of TD Ameritrade and the CFO of Home Depot. A gathering of the rich and powerful.
Gerardo returned with a glass for Corbett and poured from the $275 bottle of wine. “One of my favorites.” Corbett lifted the glass and inspected its contents, swirled it in his mouth, and gave Gerardo a thumbs-up.
Trying to break the ice, Corbett engaged in some informal conversation. Sports mostly. Safe subject, for the most part. Manolo approached the table and began to recite the specials for the day, beginning with appetizers, then moving on to entrées. There had to be a dozen specials, all of which Manolo could articulate from memory. And if you missed any of the scrumptious dishes, he would go over the list again, this time in reverse order. That performance in itself was worth the money it cost to dine there. You could tell this was Manolo’s passion. Corbett wondered what his own passion was, besides having prestige and money. After Manolo completed his presentation, he handed them menus, bowed, and returned to his station near the entrance.
“What do you recommend?” Leffert asked, displaying his Southern drawl.
“I usually start with the burrata with prosciutto and figs, then the fettuccine with shaved truffles.” It was noted as “market price” on the menu, which meant very expensive.
Leffert perused the menu and motioned for Manolo to return to the table. “Can you fix me a veal chop? Rare?”
Manolo nodded and turned to Corbett.
“I’ll have my usual.”
Then, turning back to Leffert, Manolo said, “Signore, would you care to start with an appetizer?”
“Caesar salad, please.”
“Grazie mille.” Once again, Manolo gave a short bow and moved away from the table.
Corbett wondered if he should start the conversation, but Leffert was already there. He lowered his voice and leaned in slightly. “Tell me about this property you have in mind for a grow house.”
Corbett almost choked on his expensive Brunello wine. He had not been expecting that question at the beginning of the conversation.
“Ah, yes. As I mentioned in our previous discussion, I became aware of Leffert Industries expanding into the CBD business. I have a very large piece of property in Michigan, not far from the border with Canada. The building is over thirty-six thousand square feet and could easily be converted into a grow house.”
“The government isn’t making it easy as far as legalization, and we’re investing in real estate where growing marijuana is legal,” Leffert said matter-of-factly.
“Of course. Very smart move. I am not necessarily looking to sell the property but perhaps to partner with a company looking for the same benefits.” Corbett knew he could get a half million for the land and building, but he was looking for something more long range. Something that would keep bringing in the cash.
“I see.” Leffert paused. “What kind of partnership did you have in mind?”
“Lease option? Percentage of profits? What exactly are you looking for?” Corbett was trying not to be cocky or anxious.
“Can you get me a survey of the property? I’d like to see the location and the schematic for the building.”
Corbett thought for a moment. He did not want to reveal the exact location of the cooker. Not just yet. “I can certainly do that.” He knew he could stall for a while, but for how long?
Outside the restaurant, Sasha was getting antsy. The men had been in there for two hours. She spotted her reflection coming off the door as the men finally exited the restaurant. She quickly shifted her fanny pack, which held a high-tech camera, in the direction of the men. A few snaps, followed by a backup using her phone. She should have enough images to identify the man with whom Corbett had had lunch. Sasha immediately sent the photos to Avery, jumped on her bike, and began following Corbett again.
This time he stopped and entered Bottega Veneta. He felt he had earned it. His plan was beginning to take shape.
Within fifteen minutes, Corbett was seen leaving the boutique with a large shopping bag and heading toward his apartment building. Sasha spoke into her recording device. “Subject is returning to apartment after two-hour lunch at San Pietro with person yet to be identified. Photos sent at fourteen hundred hours.” Sasha pedaled her way between the cars and settled outside the luxury apartment building, waiting for Corbett’s next move.
An hour later, he exited the building, dressed in a pair of khaki slacks, a button-down shirt, and a gray cashmere blazer, carrying his new Bottega Veneta duffel bag. He had opted for the four-thousand-dollar bag instead of the briefcase when he had returned to the store. It was much more practical, he had told himself, and a lot more noticeable. He hailed a cab, and Sasha pedaled toward it, dodging other cyclists, cabs, Ubers, and buses. The taxi made a right turn down Lexington Avenue and pulled over at Fifty-Ninth Street. Corbett got out and got in line for the Hampton Jitney. A young, well-dressed collegiate-looking kid walked up to him. They shook hands and exchanged cordial greetings and eventually swapped manila envelopes. The young man smiled and nodded and waved as he walked away. Corbett put the manila envelope he had been given in his new bag. He found the smell of the Italian leather intoxicating.
Sasha thought it likely that what she had just witnessed was a drug deal, so she took a quick photo of the young man and hit the speed-dial number for her helicopter pilot pal. “Jason? Hey. You busy? Want to give me a lift to East Hampton?”
It would take Corbett almost three hours on the Jitney. The chopper would take thirty minutes. That would give her plenty of time to grab her gear and meet up with Jason. Once they landed, she would rent a car, wait at the Jitney’s first stop in Southampton, and follow the luxury bus until Corbett got off.
* * *
Just as Avery Snowden landed in Aspen, his phone buzzed. Sasha had sent photos and some info. Avery immediately recognized the mystery man in the photos. It was Carlton Leffert, CEO and part owner of Leffert Industries. That’s odd, Avery thought to himself. Why would someone like Leffert be having a very expensive lunch with Corbett? I guess we’ll find out.
Avery unfolded himself from the small passenger plane that had brought him from Denver to Aspen. He really hated bouncing around in those things. It was like being on an amusement-park ride but without the fun. Happy to be on solid ground, he headed to the car-rental kiosk and punched in the membership number he had under the alias of Harry Walters. A set of keys and a contract were delivered by the machine. He picked them up and walked to the rental car. After he was behind the wheel, Avery pulled out a road atlas to get directions. He did not want to put anything into the car’s GPS, so he had to rely on good old-fashioned cartography. But that was something all of them were used to doing: keeping the use of technology to a minimum when not in control or in a secure environment.
He found directions to his motel and registered under another assumed name, Walter Harrison. He was beat and hungry. He called Uber Eats and asked them to suggest a place where he could order a BLT and fries. After a long hot shower, he would pull out the maps and plan for the next morning, when he would begin tailing Dr. Harold Steinwood.
Eileen was already in Europe, so she would arrive in London that same evening. Within the next twenty-four hours, they would have a good idea about the doctors’ routines.