Nele Neuhaus - Swimming with Sharks

The telephone rang, and Sergio winced.

“Yes?”

“Sergio!” Levy yelled in a hysterical voice. “Godfrey disappeared! The FBI showed up at Levy & Villiers a few days ago. They had a search warrant, and they brought people from the SEC and the US embassy.”

“So what?” Sergio replied in a bored voice. “Didn’t you go down there to make sure that the accounts were deleted? Let them search for what they like.”

“I tried!” Levy lowered his voice into a hiss. “The computer was locked up, and we couldn’t do a thing.”

Sergio was stunned.

“What a fucking mess! I thought Godfrey had taken care of everything and deleted the files, but now he’s supposedly been visiting his sick mother in Idaho since Tuesday. His parents have been dead for years. That miserable son of a bitch!”

Sergio listened to Levy’s rant while his brain worked in high gear. There must be something more going on here. Did the other side have information directly from the bank’s database? Would people like de Lancie, Harding, Governor Rhodes, or Senator Hoffman react differently if the FBI rang the doorbell instead of the US Attorney’s Office?

“What could they possibly find?” Sergio asked.

“I don’t know,” Levy replied, “I’ve never dealt with these matters—it was St. John’s job. For God’s sake, why did I ever get myself into this? My reputation will be ruined if this comes out!”

“Shut up,” Sergio said. “It does no good for you to keep wailing like a fucking wimp.”

His mind churned feverishly. If the FBI or the SEC had concrete evidence, they would have showed up at LMI to question Levy. Their appearance at the bank in the Caymans seemed more like a shot in the dark. If his name had been dropped in connection with this investigation, his friends at the SEC would have informed him by now. It couldn’t be all that bad.

“Listen, Vince,” Sergio said. “If they have found something and they ask you about it, then you claim you know nothing. Tell them that St. John was solely responsible for the LMI subsidiaries. They’ll never be able to prove we had anything to do with it.”

“Actually, I really don’t have anything to do with it,” Levy responded, and Sergio caught his breath. Rotten bastard, he thought to himself. It wasn’t for nothing that Nelson had warned him about Levy. Nelson had called him an opportunist. How right he had been!

“Vincent,” Sergio said, hardly managing to contain his anger, “it was only because of me and my money that you were able to turn LMI from a small-time outfit into what it is today. You’ve fulfilled your lifelong dream—and, if I might add, you’ve done it with an impressive criminal energy. You’re in just as deep as anyone—if not even deeper. As the president and chairman of the board, you’re responsible for everything that happens in your firm. You’ll regret it if you decide to turn your back on me.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m only saying, in for a penny, in for a pound. You’re part of this to the bitter end, and if you’re smart and keep your nerve, then nothing will happen to you. I can promise you that. But if you don’t, you’ll go under just like MPM.”

Sergio hung up and slammed his fist on the table. You’re about to lose control …Nelson van Mieren’s words echoed in his head, and suddenly Sergio felt an unfamiliar, frightening sensation of panic rising inside of him. Had he overlooked something? Did he make a mistake somewhere? There was no one left he could ask for advice. Nelson and Zack were dead, and Alex, whom he’d never deemed especially important, seemed to have become pivotal in this situation. Did he make a mistake not letting her in on his business and making her his confidant? He sighed and stood up. It was pointless to grapple with ifs and buts . Now it was important to keep a level head. He needed to cover his back as quickly as possible.

The Delta Airlines flight from Miami landed in Newark at nine thirty p.m. Alex picked up her luggage at the baggage claim. Before exiting to the arrival hall, she disappeared into the restroom. She had no desire to run into the arms of Sergio’s henchmen, which is why she quickly undressed, slipped into a business shirt and gray suit, knotted a tie around her neck, and put on men’s shoes that she had bought—along with everything else—at the airport in Miami. Then she pulled her hair back tight and stuffed it beneath a blond short-haired wig. A fake moustache completed her costume. Alex reviewed her work in the mirror. She looked like a man—at least at first glance. As she left the ladies’ restroom, she caught a surprised and disapproving glare from a woman washing her hands at the sink. The disguise worked.

Alex spotted Sergio’s people immediately. Two men were standing at opposite sides of the automatic doors and closely observing every person walking between them. She slipped past unnoticed, and her heart somersaulted in relief. It worked! She hailed a cab outside the terminal. An icy, stormy wind was blowing, whipping the sleet sideways across the highway.

“Pretty nasty out there, isn’t it?” the taxi driver asked. “Where are you from, sir?”

“Florida,” Alex replied. “It wasn’t much warmer down there if you can believe it.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Manhattan. Do you know a cheap hotel in the Theater District?”

“Let’s see. On Forty-Seventh Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. The Portland Square Hotel. It’s cheap, but clean.”

“Sounds good. Take me there.”

The taxi drove off. Alex had carefully deliberated on where she should stay after returning to the city. She had first considered a large, anonymous luxury hotel, but it might raise suspicions if she paid in cash. She would be less conspicuous at a cheaper hotel.

Alex longed for a hot shower and a soft bed. In the past forty-eight hours, she had been on so many airplanes that she had completely lost her sense of time. She’d traveled through Switzerland, Germany, France, and then Miami. She was wide awake and dead tired at the same time. The news was on the radio, and suddenly Alex jerked to attention.

“Could you turn the radio up a bit?” she asked the driver.

“Whitewater, who had been the chief judge of the State of New York since 1982, was found dead in the garage of his house in Patchogue on Long Island this morning. Speculation as to whether the death was a suicide has not yet been confirmed or denied by the US Attorney’s Office…”

The blood rushed in Alex’s ears. Clarence Whitewater was one of the men Sergio had paid off. She had personally met the stately, white-haired man with an impeccable reputation at Sergio’s house. Did the judge commit suicide because he feared his connection to Vitali would come to light? Nick had given the bank statements to the US Attorney’s Office, and they had apparently already gotten to work.

The taxi passed through the Holland Tunnel to Manhattan. It was too late to turn back. Alex took a deep breath, hoping the avalanche she’d triggered wouldn’t suffocate her.

Shortly after ten, Nick returned to Gracie Mansion. He had spent the evening at a charity gala at the Waldorf Astoria, which he left immediately after the official portion ended. He didn’t feel like being around laughing revelers, listening to gossip. Clarence Whitewater’s death was the main topic of conversation. Everyone knew something about it, but no one had anything concrete to say. Nick wished the security officers a good night and walked to the wing of the house where his private rooms were located. Just like every evening when he returned to the house, he contemplated finding himself an apartment somewhere in the city.