Stop it. Ivy would never-
My phone rang. It was Eric Volke. He and our CEO had spent the last twelve hours at the New York Federal Reserve in downtown Manhattan, in a room once used to cash coupons on Treasury bills. On the other side of the table had been the masters of the world’s biggest economy-the Federal Reserve chairman, the secretary of the treasury, the New York Fed chief, and the Securities and Exchange Commission chief.
Eric was calling from his limo. “Meet me at my house in thirty minutes,” he told me. “It’s important.”
He hung up before I could ask what it was about.
But I already knew.
37
IAN BURN STARED OUT OVER THE FLAME OF HIS BUTANE LIGHTER.
His fascination with fire was logical enough, given his surname. It was bogus, of course. So was the name Ian, an acronym for “Islamic Armed Nation,” a terrorist organization that Burn supplied with the tools of the trade-detonators, explosives, and munitions of all sorts. He had an especially reliable source of white phosphorous. He was paid with Saudi oil profits that poured into a certain American hedge fund run by Jason Wald’s uncle. “Burn” was a nickname he’d earned by torching anyone who got in his way. Only once had a job blown up in his face-literally. Working with napalm was dangerous stuff. Burn had a grotesque scar on his neck and a melted right ear to prove it, but even that mishap had unfolded true to the old playground adage: “You should have seen the other guy.” It amazed Burn how so many people had never even heard of fifth-and sixth-degree burns, as if the always-fatal flame that caused complete destruction of muscle and bone didn’t belong in a class by itself.
“I’m not the enemy,” said Girelli, but his voice betrayed him, cracking with fear.
Burn capped his lighter, extinguishing the flame. Another thug jumped out from behind a tall stack of tires, and two more emerged from behind a canvas tarp. Before Girelli could react, there was a gun at this head. They forced him into a wooden chair and tied him to it with a heavy-duty extension cord that wrapped around his body several times.
Burn stepped closer and dropped a handful of eight-by-ten photographs on the concrete floor in front of Girelli. Wald switched on a snake light and aimed the beam at the photos.
“Jason shot these from his uncle’s building,” said Burn.
Immediately upon seeing the close-ups of the woman seated at the table in front of Prometheus-Vanessa-he knew he was in trouble.
“You lied,” said Burn. “And some very important people are extremely angry.”
Girelli stood firm. “That’s not who you think it is.”
“Really?” said Burn. He took a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it on the photo at Girelli’s feet. “A hundred bucks says you’re lying.”
Girelli knew the routine, and he forced a nervous smile. “Come on. Let’s not play this game.”
“You’re right. You aren’t worth a hundred bucks.” But he wasn’t smiling. He never smiled.
Burn tucked the bill back into his pocket, then grabbed a paint can from beneath the work bench. The can had no lid on it, and beside it were the remnants of several Styrofoam coolers that had been chopped to pieces-a ready source of polystyrene. Burn pulled on a pair of thermal gloves, then grabbed a paint stick and stirred the sticky mixture inside the can as he approached Girelli. The consistency was near perfect, but for Girelli’s benefit he dropped another chunk of Styrofoam into the can and let it dissolve. He stirred slowly, making sure that Girelli could smell the gasoline. And the benzene. Most of the amateur pyromaniacs on the Internet simply dissolved Styrofoam in gasoline, which basically created a sticky gel that burned. Add benzene-available from chemical companies if you had phony credentials-and voilà: You had essentially the same “super napalm” used by the U.S. military in Vietnam.
“This burns at about a thousand degrees centigrade,” said Burn.
He lifted the stick from the can. A big glob of gel clung to it. Burn held it over Girelli’s head and let the gel slowly drizzle down onto Girelli’s hair.
“Ever seen the pictures of the napalm girl from ’Nam, Tony?”
The goo ran down Girelli’s forehead, swallowed the bridge of his nose, moving at a lavalike pace until it covered his right eye.
“That shit stings!” Girelli shouted. “Get it off!”
Burn scooped a second glob from the can and again held the stick over Girelli’s head. This one oozed over his left ear and down his neck.
“Not a pretty sight, that napalm girl,” said Burn. “Clothes burned off, running down the street naked, her burned flesh ready to fall from her body.”
Girelli’s hair was soaked with gel, the right side of his face completely covered.
“This gel sticks to your skin,” said Burn, “and you can’t get it off. It just keeps burning and burning, hotter and hotter.”
“Okay, okay!” Girelli shouted. “It was her!”
Burn dropped the stick onto the concrete floor and set the can aside. “That’s a problem, Tony. Because you were supposed to get rid of her four years ago.”
Wald said, “He told us he did get rid of her.”
Burn pulled a stick match from his pocket.
“Don’t burn me!” Girelli shouted.
Burn struck the match, but he held it away from the gel. “Why’d you lie to us, Tony?”
Girelli’s voice raced with fear. “I thought she was dead! I really did!”
Wald said, “You told us you shot her. You said you took her from the sailboat, did the job, and fed her to the sharks.”
“She was dead!” Girelli shouted. “That’s all that mattered. You wanted her dead so-”
“So you told us what we wanted to hear,” said Wald.
Burn dropped the match. It fell onto the glob on the floor, igniting it instantly. The fire produced a black, noxious smoke. Above them was a huge overhead fan that normally sucked out car exhaust. One of Wald’s thugs switched it on to keep them all from suffocating.
“Why did you lie?” asked Burn.
“I thought she was dead, I really did.”
“Did you work with her? Did you help fake her death and let her run?”
“No, no! I swear, I thought the bitch was dead. I just needed the money, and the only way to collect my fee was to say I shot her before the shark got her.”
The homemade napalm continued to burn near Girelli’s feet. It was close enough to make him sweat, and he was peering out nervously with the eye that wasn’t covered in goo.
“Tony, Tony,” said Burn, shaking his head. “What are we gonna do with you?”
“Get this shit out of my eyes. It’s killing me! Please, just give me another chance!”
“Hey, now there’s an idea,” said Burn.
“Yeah,” Wald joined in. “We let Tony live if he does the job right this time.”
“I’ll do it for free,” said Girelli. “Just don’t burn me, dude.”
“Brilliant,” said Burn, and then he glanced at Wald. “Why don’t you and your buddies beat it so Tony and I can work out the details.”
Wald smiled as he reached for his car keys and climbed into his Lamborghini. The garage door opened, and he pulled out. Three other men walked out after the car, and the door closed automatically again.
Burn watched the fire at Girelli’s feet, which had grown hotter with the shot of fresh air.
“I can do this right,” said Girelli. “No bullshit this time.”