Nele Neuhaus - Swimming with Sharks

They entered the church. A slight smell of incense and fir boughs was in the air, reminding them that Christmas was just around the corner. The old Jesuit priest’s steps on the church’s polished marble floor echoed. Behind the high altar, they turned into the church’s side aisle. They entered the cloister through a small gateway connecting the church with the other monastery buildings, and went their separate ways.

Walking to her room in the monastery, Alex thought about Sergio. Today was his big day. She had accompanied him to the ball last year, and she remembered the magnificent party vividly. How arrogant and confident she had been back then! And Sergio…she felt a chill as she thought about him. At this moment, he was probably about to leave for the St. Regis looking handsome, meticulously dressed, and in the best of moods—with no clue what awaited him tonight. Or did he have a premonition? Had something leaked through somewhere? Maybe he had been warned and was on his way to South America or Europe. Alex felt a chill at the thought that he might escape. As long as he was free man, she wouldn’t be safe anywhere. Not even here behind the thick walls of this monastery.

Sergio Vitali stood in the gallery of the grand ballroom, looking around in satisfaction. The big charity ball had been organized by his VitalAid Foundation on behalf of disabled children. It was in its fifteenth year and was already a complete success. Every year was more magnificent than the last and its invitations more coveted. Sergio smiled. Even though Sharon Capriati had turned out to be a bitch, she was a true master of her trade. She had created the perfect scenery in just forty-eight hours: snow-covered pavilions and small forests, ice sculptures, and millions of Christmas lights and candles had transformed the bland ballroom, foyer, and adjoining rooms into a winter wonderland. The buffet table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies prepared by the chefs of the hotel’s own posh Lespinasse restaurant, and the most expensive French champagne bubbled from the fountain.

Sergio Vitali couldn’t care less that Vincent Levy didn’t attend the ball this year. Clarence Whitewater was also missing and—unfortunately—also Nelson van Mieren. But that’s the way things were. Some people left, others joined. Sergio understood perfectly well how to select new people he could use. Even if some ambitious, young US attorney tried to shake his throne, it didn’t bother him much. Nick Kostidis had tried to take a crack at him in the past; now it was someone else. But none of them stood a chance. He had the better connections, and this ball was the ultimate proof of his unshakable power. Storms came and went. Some people were sucked up by them and swept away. But he—Sergio Vitali—withstood them all. He was untouchable.

Four men sat in an inconspicuous dark Chevy across from the St. Regis and observed the guests’ arrival. They didn’t talk much, and their faces were tense. Shortly after ten, the message the men were waiting for was transmitted over the radio.

“All units are at their posts,” the voice squawked from Deputy Spooner’s radio. “The entire building is sealed off.”

“What about Vitali’s people?” the US marshal asked in return.

“They won’t notice. They’re busy with the events at the hotel.”

US Attorney Lloyd Connors exchanged a glance with Gordon Engels.

“Okay. We’re going in,” he said curtly, grabbing a briefcase that was sitting by his feet. His heart was beating in his throat, and he noticed his palms were clammy from the excitement. The time had come. Nothing should go wrong. Deputy Spooner pressed the button on his walkie-talkie.

“To all units,” he said. “We’re coming in through the main entrance. Team C and D will follow, and secure the entrance, the elevators, and the foyer. Keep it low-key, understood?”

He waited for acknowledgment from his men, and then he nodded. The four men got out and crossed Fifth Avenue at Fifty-Fifth Street. Then they entered the Beaux-Arts-style hotel. Another group of four men got out of a vehicle parked further up the street. As was typical of a big society event held in New York, onlookers and press people were gathered behind barriers. Vitali’s security personnel denied access to any unauthorized person, but Spooner had prepared for that in his minutely detailed operation plan. Each of his men knew the stakes. They were intercepted at the magnificently decorated foyer’s entrance by these men, who’d exchanged their regular suits for tuxedos on this festive occasion.

“Can I see your invitations, please?” one of the bodyguards asked.

“US Marshals Service.” Engels pulled out his badge.

“I can’t let you in if you don’t have an invitation.” The blond, broad-shouldered man shrugged apologetically.

“Step aside,” Lloyd Connors said, “I’m the US attorney for the Southern District of New York. I’m here on official business.”

“Sorry, but I have orders—”

“What’s going on here?” A brawny, grim-faced man with a walrus moustache appeared behind the blond giant, reinforced by an army of bodyguards.

“Who are you, and what do want here without an invitation?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Vitali,” Lloyd Connors countered.

“Mr. Vitali is busy at the moment,” snarled the fat guy—who wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the appearance of multiple US attorneys and US marshals. “Come to his office on Monday.”

“Fine, if you want trouble.” Connors smiled thinly. “Deputy, arrest these men for obstruction of justice.”

He pushed his way through the group of bodyguards, who watched with dropped jaws as handcuffs clicked around their boss’s wrists.

“Wow.” Deputy Spooner whistled through his teeth as he stepped into the ballroom. “So this is what a party for the upper crust looks like! Holy smokes!”

With fully loaded trays, liveried waiters made their way from one magnificently decorated table to another as ladies in the finest designer gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos with tails enjoyed lobster bisque, salmon mousse, filet mignon, and truffles.

“I prefer a comfortable barbecue,” Lloyd Connors answered dryly, looking around the gigantic ballroom.

A full orchestra played onstage, and the guests sitting at tables on various levels of the ballroom were in a splendid mood.

“I’d like to know how many insurance companies are sweating blood tonight that all this stuff gets returned safely,” Deputy Spooner observed with his usual sarcasm.

“Keep your eyes peeled for Vitali,” Connors said. “I don’t want anyone to warn him before we find him.”

The US attorney was trembling with excitement. If something went wrong and Vitali escaped, every effort of the recent weeks would be in vain—not to mention the fact that he might be forced to resign tomorrow.

“Over there!” Royce Shepard whispered. “The table at the very top of the gallery. That’s him.”

“I see him.” Connors nodded with grim determination. “Come on, let’s get him!”

They shoved their way through guests, who responded with indignant remarks and looks.

“The complete corrupt gang in one pile,” Deputy Spooner said with a grin. “A thousand years of prison time sitting here. It’s too bad that we can’t take all of them with us at once.”

The monastery’s guest room was slightly larger than the simple cells in which the Jesuit priests lived. It had its own shower and toilet, which was an unheard-of luxury for the priests. That morning, Frank Cohen had brought Alex the suitcase she had left behind at the Portland Square Hotel. Alex stepped under the hot water of the shower. She still thought she smelled the sharp stench of men’s sweat on her skin. Just as she was drying herself off, someone knocked on the door. She wrapped the towel around her body and opened the door just a crack. Her heart jumped when she saw Nick in the dim of the hallway.