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 sturdy 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 encompassing 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 shirt, took up an unobtrusive 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. “God knows, you’ve been through hell 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. ¿Qué tal tu español?”
“Buenísimo. Excelente. Hablo muy bien todavía. ¿Y por qué?” 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 class airfare, the proper support and security when you get there. Just meet some people, assess 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 assignment. 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.”