Conspiracy In Kiev Part 29

"Mr. Collins has contacted me three times since Kiev."

"How do you know him?"

"I worked for him several years ago. He mentored me in a way. Summer of 2001."

Gamburian nodded.

"He's a decent man and a good employer. He has an offer he wants to make to me. A job. I don't know anything about it, but somehow he knew I might want to take leave of here."

"He's savvy to the ways of the world, Collins is, which is why he's so wealthy. He also knows how the government works."

"The job would take me back to New York. I should listen to what he has to say."

"You'd be a fool not to." Gamburian nodded sadly. "What type of job? Do you have any idea?"

"Mr. Collins is in his seventies now. He's been using a lot of his fortune to help the Christian churches fight poverty and disease in the Third World," she said. "That has its appeal to me right now. So I'm going to listen to what he has to offer, do some soul searching, look for some divine guidance if I can get some, and then see where I am."

Gamburian followed.

"Hopefully at the end of the day I'll be in the right place," she said.

"I have no doubt you will. No doubt at all."

He embraced her.

"I'm sorry it turned out like this here," he said. "Really, I am."

"Yeah," she said. "Me too."

FIFTY-FOUR.

Lt. Rizzo finally was making progress. Or at least he thought he was.

He remained visibly furious that people from the US Emba.s.sy had removed the two bodies from the morgue and sent them back to America. But he was not about to let that stop his investigation. Inside, he didn't care much what they did with those corpses, but he was not shy about vocalizing his stated displeasure.

Allora bene, he thought to himself. Very well. If they wanted to block his direct access to resolving four murders by blockading his route to two of the bodies, he would pursue the matter from a different direction. Over the last decade, the Americans had been directed by a bunch of know-nothings who lacked the sophistication to understand how other countries, other governments, worked. He would fly under their radar, he told everyone he worked with, then bored everyone with another rant about American duplicity and interference.

Accordingly, his people had tracked down the drug-addled musician by going through pay receipts in the apartment where he had lived. Rizzo personally had interviewed the dead guitarist's disgusting band mates and the owners of the club where he had played. He had even found the marriage license of the girl who had died with him in the apartment and now knew her name was Lana Bissoni and she was indeed from Toronto.

From there he had the location of the wife's family back in Canada. Rizzo was not surprised to learn that they hadn't heard from her in five years. Nonetheless, Rizzo allowed her body to be s.h.i.+pped to Ontario.

Rizzo and his other detectives spent hours canva.s.sing the building where the couple died and the club where the musicians had played. He knew that the key to any criminal investigation was talking to the day-to-day people who are in the same place every day. The people who see things and eventually tell you something.

From there he accessed some of the girl's friends and people who knew the couple from the nearby cafes. Apparently, Lana and her husband had had some fallings out of late. She hadn't been in the habit of showing up in the clubs where he was playing. In turn, she seemed to have fallen in with some of the Eastern European underworld that populated Rome.

Well, no wonder she "woke up one day and was dead," as Rizzo liked to say. You can't sleep with a dog without waking up with fleas. And certainly, in his opinion, many of these Eastern Europeans from the old Soviet republics were packs of mutts.

Now at least he had a direction to send his investigators.

He called another special meeting at his headquarters. He a.s.sembled all four of his newly acquired homicide people. They were each allowed to select one top a.s.sistant. So now he had eight people on this case, in addition to the ragazzi in the computer rooms, the interns, who acted as wild cards and who knew when they were going to come up with something good.

Then, finally, he used the extensive contacts he had with the underworld to make inquiries about the mafia ucraina in Rome. Had there been any special activity, he asked. Did anyone know of any shooters who had come into the city, done a job, then vanished? The local Italian hoods had no love for the foreigners who were coming into the city and cutting into their rackets. They hated the Russian and Ukrainian mobsters almost as much as Rizzo did. They would welcome the opportunity to put the heat on some of them.

But the inquiries turned up nothing. Whenever Rizzo and his people mentioned the Ukrainians, someone always changed the topic to the near-death of the American president in Kiev.

A lawless place and a lawless people, the Italians said. A true frontier of civilization. Dangerous.

FIFTY-FIVE.

The Stanhope Hotel was on Fifth Avenue at Eighty-third Street, across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was a regal old building dating from the 1920s, parked on some of the world's most expensive real estate. Its open-air terrace on street level stretched to the neighboring building that was every bit as distinguished.

The terrace was a relaxing place for drinks. In the middle was an island bar, surrounded by tables. Thick dark wood, accented by potted palms.

Alex arrived a few minutes before noon. Her one-time employer, the entrepreneur Joseph Collins, arrived almost simultaneously from the opposite direction, walking briskly.

Collins was a st.u.r.dy man for his age. He had led a good life, staying away from vices and excesses, active in the Methodist Church all his life. He had been married to the same woman for forty-two years, a woman whom he still referred to affectionately as "my best girl" and whom he described as "a cookie-baking Methodist."

The clean living showed. Collins possessed an easy grace. He kept one of his many residences a few blocks up Fifth Avenue, a co-op encompa.s.sing the top three floors of one of Manhattan's most exclusive buildings. He owned an even more impressive spread in London, and then there was his "little boat," as he liked to call it, the two-hundred-foot one, in Key Biscayne.

Mr. Collins's bodyguard, burly and pink-faced, in dark wraparound shades, a suit, and an open-collared s.h.i.+rt, took up an un.o.btrusive position by the front entrance, saying nothing. The bodyguard buried himself in a New York Post as he kept one eye on the entrance to the terrace. To Alex, the bodyguard had ex-NYPD written all over him. An even closer glance told her that he carried his weapon on the left side under the arm.

Alex and Joseph Collins found places at a reserved table on a far edge of the terrace, recessed back into a carefully secluded corner.

A waitress, young and pretty, cleared the extra place settings and brought them coffee. They ordered fruit and a plate of breakfast rolls. The waitress wore a name tag that said Priscilla. Her softly accented English suggested that she came from somewhere in the Caribbean.

"So," Alex said at length, turning to her former boss and breaking the ice, "normally when we meet you tell me ahead of time what's on your agenda."

"Well, first I wanted to know how you might be feeling, how you were recovering," Collins said. "G.o.d knows, you've been through h.e.l.l and back, haven't you?"

"The answers are 'okay' and 'okay,' " she said.

"So I see," he answered.

"I appreciated the flowers and the notes. And the calls. Honestly, I did."

"The least I could do. I know how horrible it must have been," he said. "I'd be remiss if I didn't at least mention it."

"Thank you. I'm trying to move on."

"Is the government seeing after you?" Collins asked.

"To the extent that they ever do," she said. "There are some wrinkles."

"Anything I can help you with? I know the president personally, plus both of the current New York senators."

"I'll be okay," she said with a sigh. "It's just going to take me some time."

"What are you planning to doing with yourself other than meditate, haunt art galleries, and go to Yankee games while you're in New York?" he asked.

"It depends how long I can use your son's apartment. Very generous of you, by the way. Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"He's away on one of his missionary visits?" she asked.

"Yes. We have a few places around the world, as you know. He's in Brazil right now. Rough posting. He brought it on himself. It's the work he wants to do."

She smiled.

"Okay," he finally said. "Let's talk about why you're here. Que tal tu espaol?"

"Buensimo. Excelente. Hablo muy bien todava. Y por que?" Very good. Excellent. I still speak well, I think. Why?

"How do you feel about some travel?" he asked.

"To where?"

"South America. A trouble spot."

The waitress arrived with the fruit and the rolls. Alex appreciated the breather. Mini-Danishes and mini-croissants. Collins offered the plate to Alex before taking anything himself.

A noisy group of women, tourists, moved into a nearby table. One of them noticed Collins and nudged her acquaintances, a celebrity sighting in Manhattan.

"I know it's only been a few months since Kiev," he said. "That can seem like a short time or a long time. Do you think you're ready for something new?"

"I'm ready to listen," Alex said.

"Then I'm ready to make you an interesting offer," he answered. "Have you ever been to Venezuela?"

"A couple of times. When I was with the Treasury Department."

"Caracas?"

"That and Maracaibo."

Collins drew a breath and began. "I need someone to fly down to Venezuela and troubleshoot a problem for me. Someone who's good with people, speaks the language fluently, has good instincts for trouble, and most of all someone I can trust."

"I'm flattered."

"First cla.s.s airfare, the proper support and security when you get there. Just meet some people, a.s.sess what's going on, come back, and report to me."

"Sounds easy," she said. "It couldn't possibly be."

"You're right. It won't be. I'd guess it would take you maybe a month to properly complete the a.s.signment. I'd pay you twenty thousand dollars for the month, plus expenses. You'd need to go almost immediately. Sorry about the weather conditions this time of year. It's brutally hot." He smiled. "You're going to think you died and went to the wrong place. How's that sound? Miserable?"

"I'm still listening," she said.

"For almost five years, I've been financing a group of Christian missionaries who have been living among a large tribe of primitive indigenous people," Collin explained. "They're in a village named Barranco Lajoya. It's a very remote area south of the Orinoco River in the Guayana region. Very rugged area in the southeastern quadrant of the country, not far north of the border with Brazil. Not that there are signs posted in the jungle. Most of the region doesn't even have accurate maps yet."

"What are they doing, the missionaries?" she asked.

"They import medical care and are also trying to bring electricity to the area. They also support the local churches. Methodists, Episcopalians, and a cross section of evangelicals. Americans mostly, some Canadians, several others. Our people have also learned the indigenous language. It's mostly an Indian dialect, but with a lot of corrupted Spanish. They're translating the Bible into the indigenous language. That way they can bring the good news to the people. If they want it."

"Commendable," she said.

"I like to think so," he said. "My gift, if they choose to accept it. Look, it's not even that big an operation. The costs on the ground are quite minimal. I think my whole budget on this is maybe two hundred thousand dollars a year. Maybe two twenty-five. Small stuff."

"For you, maybe."

"Granted, for me. I've been blessed in my life, so I try to pa.s.s it along while I'm still on this earth. And this is also a pet project, you understand, translating the Bible into a new tongue. I'm convinced it's helping the people who are there, and the missionaries like what they're doing. I'd like to keep things going in the right direction."

"So what's the problem?" Alex asked.

"Well, after some considerable early success, we're being sabotaged. A lot of our work gets undone. There seems to be an effort coming from somewhere to discourage our people and drive the missionaries out of the country."

"That's unusual, isn't it?"

"Very. Most countries in Central and South America encourage missionaries even if they don't like them. They bring dollars and provide social services the governments are unwilling or unable to provide."

" 'An effort coming from somewhere,' " Alex repeated, thinking back a beat, framing Collins' own words. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know. Caracas. Was.h.i.+ngton. Maybe Havana." He paused. "There are a few ragtag guerrilla organizations in the area, but the army keeps them in check."

She sipped her coffee. "So interference with missionaries doesn't make sense."

"It's South America. It's Venezuela. It doesn't have to."

Collins produced a sealed manila envelope and handed it to her.

"Obviously, your ultimate job is to report back to me on where the problems are coming from. And what we can do about it, if anything."

She nodded.