Andrew Gross - Reckless

“How doesn’t matter, Dani. What does is that you must become invisible to the world. And now.”

“You’re sure of this?” A tremor of concern pounded in his chest. “This information is one hundred percent reliable?”

“More reliable than even you, my friend,” the caller said, his tone unmistakable. “I warned you your prick was your Achilles heel. Apparently, the connection was revealed through your girlfriend.”

“Merrill?” Thibault almost choked. How could Merrill know? She had never even met Glassman or Donovan. Their names had never surfaced. All the bitch cared about was passing herself off as ten years younger than she was or going to her silly garden club gatherings in Greenwich and Palm Beach. She was too busy combing Saks with her personal shoppers for Prada shoes. How could Merrill know shit?

“You know how this has to be handled now, Dani?”

Thibault realized the man on the other end of the line was not someone to be fucked with. He had the network to do anything. He would already be dead if that was the man’s wish. “Yes, you’re right,” he acknowledged-what else could he do? “It’s time to disappear.”

“I can have one of my associates pick you up. I’ve already taken the precaution of having a jet at Teterboro that can take you out of the country, no questions asked.”

“To where?” Suddenly the concern beating in Thibault’s chest became full-out panic. It occurred to him that he was the one go-between among all the connected parties. He had recruited Glassman and Donovan. He had paid them. The funds, however well hidden, originated from his accounts, where, through the maze of partnerships, counterparties, and countries, it would simply appear to be an investment in one of Thibault’s many deals. Out of the country? Thibault swallowed nervously.

There was no way he would ever make it through the Lincoln Tunnel alive.

“A stretch here in Dubai might do you some good about now, don’t you think, Dani? No worry over extradition. And I assure you, we have our own pleasures here too.”

“Yes,” Thibault said, his mind flashing forward. “I think so…”

They arranged for a car to pick him up at five that afternoon. At Dani’s apartment on Central Park South. In three hours. Dani knew he was one dead Serb if he ever got in that car.

As soon as he hung up, he ran over to his safe, hidden behind a false shelf in the bookcase. Fingers barely cooperating, he feverishly spun the lock open and reached for the thick folder of documents he kept inside for just this purpose. Passports. Each with an identity and destination he had worked out. He leafed through the stack and chose the one he wanted. And into the altered bottom of his alligator Hermès briefcase he stuffed several wads of cash, each more than ten thousand dollars in dollars and euros.

Most of what he had stored away was perfectly safe in various banks in Geneva and the Cayman Islands. The rest he would leave where it was, in his accounts in London and New York, so as not to attract attention.

He had rehearsed this moment well.

There was an alternate exit from Dani’s office building. It led straight to the Grand Central subway station. He had chosen the location for just such a situation as this. If the government was investigating him, they might be watching him as well.

He called Air France himself and made a first-class reservation on the seven thirty flight to Paris in the name on the new passport he had chosen.

Three hours. Dani’s blood grew heated. As he thought of how he had somehow been exposed, it irked him more. Merrill. How? Dani Thibault was dead. He had reinvented himself before. Now it was time to do it again.

He just wished, in the time he had left, he could give that bitch one last lesson she would never forget.

Over the past few days Hauck had done his best to put what happened at the rink behind him.

He put the finishing touches on a deal he’d been working on with the town of Milford police department. He gave a second deposition to the police, who were digging into James Merced’s contacts over the past weeks. He talked with Annie. She told him Jared was doing much better. That she might send him back to California to visit his grandparents until things settled down. He was still trying to figure out just how Tom Foley and Talon all fit in.

Wednesday he was coming out of a meeting when his cell phone chimed. He noticed the caller. The United States Government. He went into his office and shut the door and plopped in the chair behind his desk. “So-you made a decision yet?”

“On what?” Naomi Blum answered, acting coy.

Hauck leaned back, knowing his gift of Thibault’s prints and DNA was a game changer. “On whether I’m in or out.”

“In. Do you have lunch plans?” the agent asked totally out of the blue.

“I was just gonna have a sandwich at my desk.”

“Then how ’bout you have one with me?”

“Where are you?” Hauck spun around, looking out the window at the harbor and waterfront estates of Glenhaven, as if somehow she was watching him.

“In a car. Across the street from your office.” Her voice grew in excitement. “We know who Thibault is, Ty.”

“I’ll be right down.”

They bagged the sandwich and drove to the Boxcar Cantina, a Mexican place. He figured it was the most inconspicuous place they could find.

A few tables were filled with moms in yoga outfits and office types in casual business attire. He waved to the owner, Regina, who directed them over to a booth. Naomi was in a stylish brown pantsuit, her short, dark hair curled around her ears. And shades. She had a couple of freckles on her cheeks. Wide, gray eyes. Seemingly not an ounce of body fat on her. She wore a simple chain around her neck with some sort of pendant hidden under her top, which looked to Hauck like a military dog tag. There was something about her, her directness, her brains, that he couldn’t help but find attractive.

The waitress came up. Naomi ordered the tortilla soup and an iced tea, Hauck a chicken enchilada and a Diet Coke. When the waitress left he leaned back against the wooden booth. “So what do you have?”

“The prints you supplied us with came back. They were flagged by Interpol.” Naomi took out a file folder and placed two photos on the table. “You were right.” Her eyes twinkled. “He’s Serbian.”

The large black and white photos were police mug shots. Thibault, maybe ten years younger, his wavy, dark hair sheared close, military style. His meaty face more gaunt, hungry looking. A dark intensity in his brooding eyes.

The name underneath the photo wasn’t Thibault but Franko Kostavic.

And there was a number underneath that: K43750. A prisoner number. And a date, August 23, 1999.

“Kostavic?” Hauck said, studying the photo. The likeness was unmistakable. “These are mug shots?”

“NATO.” Naomi nodded. “You see the date? He was a major in the Serbian Army during the Kosovo War. He was part of what they called the Scorpion Brigade. Apparently, Thibault-Kostavic,” Naomi corrected herself, “was taken into custody after the war trying to make his way through the Italian border.”

“Make his way from what?”

Naomi put another paper in front of him. A report. “The Scorpions were a secret paramilitary offshoot of the Serb army that operated freely during the war and was responsible for some of the most brutal genocidal atrocities.”

“Atrocities?” Hauck looked at the report. Thibault had boasted of how he had seen action in the war. Since he’d claimed to be Dutch, they had all assumed he was part of the NATO contingent there. Richard Snell had done the search, but his name was nowhere to be found. Now Hauck knew why. The scent of Dani Thibault’s secret past had just grown decidedly more rancid.