“And if I don’t?” Harriman asked in a strangled voice.
“Then we’ll simply leave the money where it is. Soon, it will be noted the money is missing; and then, a reasonably astute investigation will find the trail and uncover the owner of that numbered bank account. Of course, if the investigators have any trouble, we’ll be glad to give them a little anonymous help.”
“This…” Harriman paused to catch his breath. “This is blackmail.”
“And you simply do not have the knowledge, or the resources, to undo it. The clock is ticking. At any moment the missing money will be noted. You’d better hurry up.”
Ozmian shifted in his chair. “As Ms. Alves-Vettoretto says, it’s really quite simple. All you have to do is agree to our two conditions — neither of which is onerous. If you do, everyone stays happy — and out of prison.”
Harriman could barely believe what he was hearing. Five minutes ago, he’d been a lionized reporter. Now he was being framed as an embezzler, at the expense of his own deceased girlfriend. As he sat there, barely able to move, a dozen scenarios — none of them good — paraded before his mind. With a shudder that racked his entire frame, he realized that he had no choice.
Silently, he nodded.
“Excellent,” said Ozmian, still without allowing any expression to form on his face. “Ms. Alves-Vettoretto here will give you the bullet points for the article about Grace.”
The woman on Harriman’s other side reached into her briefcase again, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it over.
“And now that concludes our business.” Ozmian stood up and walked back behind his desk. “Ms. Alves-Vettoretto, would you please escort Mr. Harriman to the elevator?”
Two hours later, back in his apartment, Harriman lay on the living room sofa, from which he had not moved since returning from the DigiFlood tower and checking online to discover that the account was, indeed, empty. His beautiful career lay hanging in the balance, victim of a slick and heinous blackmail scheme. And his beautiful theory lay in ruins. Of the two, the former was the worse: as much as he hated the idea of losing the story of his career, he hated the thought of the disgrace more — the shame and infamy of everyone believing he had embezzled from his own dead girlfriend’s memorial fund. That humiliation and scandal was almost worse than the stiff prison term that surely would result.
But what could he do? How was he going to frame this Grace Ozmian story her father was insisting on, this sudden about-face, and make it look credible? Maybe he could write some human-interest piece, pointing out the good things in Grace’s life, trying to position it as attempting a laudable balance after all the bad press she’d gotten, the moral being that even the worst villains had a good side. But that wouldn’t go down well with his editor at the Post, a newspaper that so loved their villains. He likely wouldn’t even be able to get it past his editor. And the thought of succumbing to blackmail made him feel sick; his whole being revolted at knuckling under to that arrogant billionaire bastard.
The longer he thought about it, the more Bryce Harriman, the newly minted celebrity, the darling of the papers and the airwaves, began to reassert himself. Scurrilous lies, Ozmian had said. Character assassination. Well, two could play that game. This blackmail of Ozmian’s — perhaps it could be a story in itself. He, Harriman, had the backing of the entire might of the Post behind him, from Paul Petowski all the way up to Beaverton, the publisher. More than that — he had the backing of the people of New York as well.
He was not going to take this shit. It was time, he realized, to do some more digging — this time into Anton Ozmian. And in short order, Harriman felt sure, he’d dig up enough dirt from Ozmian’s own past to turn the tables and neutralize this frame job. And who knew? The story might just deflect attention from his problems with the late Saint of the United Nations.
He leapt up from the couch and headed for his laptop, filled with sudden new purpose.
38
When D’Agosta stepped through the Second Avenue entrance to the Nigerian Mission to the United Nations, he was instantly aware of a heavy pallor hanging in the lobby air. It had nothing to do with the barricades outside, or with the heavy NYPD presence, supplemented by Nigerian security. Instead, it had everything to do with the black armbands that were worn by practically everyone in sight; with the lost-looking, downcast faces of the people he passed; with the small knots of people who spoke together in mournful tones. The mission had the feeling of a building whose heart had been ripped from it. As was indeed the case; Nigeria had just lost Dr. Wansie Adeyemi, its most promising stateswoman and recent Nobel Prize winner, to the Decapitator.
And yet, D’Agosta knew, Dr. Adeyemi couldn’t be the saint she was cracked up to be. It just didn’t fit the theory he believed, also enthusiastically endorsed by the NYPD task force. Somewhere in that lady’s background he would find a cruel and sordid past, which the killer knew about. Earlier in the afternoon, he’d called Pendergast and run by him various ways to uncover the smoking gun D’Agosta knew must be hidden somewhere in the woman’s history. Pendergast had finally suggested that they arrange an interview at the Nigerian Mission with someone who’d known Dr. Adeyemi intimately, and he offered to set it up.
D’Agosta and Pendergast passed through several layers of security, showing their badges numerous times, until at last they found themselves in the office of the Nigerian chargé d’affaires. He knew of their coming and, despite the people milling about and the heavy cloak of tragedy that lay over everything, he escorted them personally down the hall to a nondescript door labeled OBAJE, F. He opened it to reveal a small, neat office, with an equally neat man sitting behind a spotless desk. He was short and wiry, with close-cropped white hair.
“Mr. Obaje,” the chargé d’affaires said in a stony voice, “these are the men I told you to expect. Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI and Lieutenant D’Agosta of the NYPD.”
The man rose from behind the desk. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” said the chargé d’affaires. He nodded at Pendergast and D’Agosta in turn, then left the office with the air of a man who had just lost one of his own family.
The man behind the desk looked at his two guests. “I am Fenuku Obaje,” he said. “Administrative assistant to the permanent UN mission.”
“We greatly appreciate your taking a moment to speak with us in this tragic time,” Pendergast said.
Obaje nodded. “Please, take a seat.”
Pendergast did so, and D’Agosta followed suit. Administrative assistant? It looked like they were going to get the royal brush-off with some low-level functionary. Is this the best Pendergast could do? He decided to withhold judgment until they’d spoken with the diplomat.
“First,” Pendergast said, “let me extend to you our deepest sympathies. This is a terrible loss, not just for Nigeria, but for all peace-loving people.”
Obaje made a gesture of thanks.
“It’s my understanding that you knew Dr. Adeyemi well,” Pendergast continued.
Obaje nodded again. “We practically grew up together.”
“Excellent. My colleague, Lieutenant D’Agosta, has just a few questions he’d like to ask you.” With this, Pendergast turned pointedly toward D’Agosta.