The chase was easy. The path well traveled. It was a foregone conclusion that he would find what he was looking for. At the heart of it all lay what people call “intuition.” Walter understood intuition as hidden calculation, invisible counting, and weighing. It made some card players rich, told goalies where to stick the glove without ever seeing the shot, drove scientific breakthroughs. As Walter had tried to explain to Billy and Ike, the conscious mind can’t find or control the place where these calculations are made.
Intuitive people get results through a one-way door in the mind. This worked better for some than others. Walter believed that to fully exploit intuition, people needed intelligence. What’s more, high intelligence plus intuition equals genius. True, people of average intelligence also have hunches and often know how to play them. Walter considered himself an average man with better-than-average hunches.
These skills and the resources he nurtured in thirty years spent finding people gave him a great advantage over cops and associated freelancers. He was confident of that. He faced no bureaucracy or any of the other multitudes of institutions that claim to be so vital to human sociology, yet more often than not are designed primarily to make things harder than need be. He worked without warrants, court orders, or permission, unshackled by rules. He encountered none of the legal, political, or jurisdictional red tape (priding himself on actually knowing the origin of the term) that plagued law enforcement. Most of all, when he thought about what made him a success he credited much of it to the simple fact that he knew what he was doing. His natural affinity for the process, going all the way back to Freddy Russo in Saigon, was only sharpened by years of experience. He wasn’t quite able to recognize it, let alone have such feelings see the light of day, but deep inside he knew he loved it. The plane rides, the long drives to the middle of nowhere, the finest hotels in the capital cities of the world and the cheap ones in towns nobody wanted to spend time in. He loved the solitude, the privacy, the assurance of being alone, the certainty he could not possibly run into anyone who knew him. Especially himself.
Over time, Walter accumulated and cultivated a list of people who could get him access to information he needed either to begin or continue his searches. He made a conscious point of staying in touch with former clients and others he met along the way who could be useful to him in the future, and he was a truly good friend to those among them whom he really liked. He learned to distinguish gratitude from relief. Some clients lost their gratitude fast. Some never had it at all. Some never lost it-and many of these were positioned to help. The well was deep, and now he drank from it yet again.
“Hoe gaat het, Aat,” said Walter, sitting on his deck, the tropical sea spread out beneath him, the telephone resting easily on his shoulder.
“Walter, my friend,” was the surprised and happy reply. “How are you?”
Aat van de Steen was a Dutchman, a man of rare candor with a ripe sense of humor and a self-confidence Walter knew to be of awe-inspiring proportions. If you asked what he did, he most probably would describe himself as a soldier of fortune. And he would do so with a flourish, a smile, and a twinkle in his eye. What did Aat van de Steen do? Who could be sure?
“How are you, old man?” said the Dutchman. “So wonderful to hear your voice again.”
“Old man?” said Walter. “You’re older than me.”
Van de Steen laughed. “Not in the ways that count, my friend. For there I am forever young.”
“Yeah, you and Zimmy.”
“Zimmy?”
“Dylan. Bob Dylan. ‘Forever Young.’”
“You think I don’t know your Bob Dylan?” The Dutchman laughed again. “You are-how do you say-kidding me.”
Walter said, “Good to hear your voice too, Aat.”
The Dutchman was suddenly serious. “You must need some help, no?”
“I do,” said Walter. “I certainly do.”
Walter and Aat van de Steen first met in Laos in the summer of 1971. Both men were new to their trade, both blessed with special abilities, which, if handled with care and developed properly, were certain to make both successful. Van de Steen had begun with a few small deals with some Eastern European irregulars. He soon branched out to Northern Africa and the former Dutch colonies in Asia. It was through an Indonesian that he got his first contract in Laos. Over the years, the decades, in fact, Aat van de Steen had become one of the world’s busiest and wealthiest arms dealers. From his headquarters in Amsterdam, on the city’s fanciest canal, the Herens Gracht, he bought, sold, and controlled a lion’s share of the movement of weapons-from handguns to tanks, helicopters, even heavy artillery-on every inhabited continent on the planet. “War is the most fundamental attribute of humanity,” he once told Walter. “I serve the species.” Over the years, Walter ran into him on his occasional trips to Europe. He made a point of it. At each meeting they renewed their friendship with genuine warmth, affection, and respect. Then, eleven years ago, Aat’s brother suddenly disappeared when he was unable to pay a substantial gambling debt. Although Aat’s reputation and unquestioned power protected his brother from harm, Jan van de Steen panicked and went to hiding. He left behind his wife, three children, and a brother who was a friend of Walter Sherman. It took Walter a month to find the younger van de Steen holed up in an apartment in Vancouver, Canada. By then, Jan was ready to be caught. Walter returned him safely to his family in Zoetermeer, and, of course, he refused any money from Aat.
Walter detailed the guns, the equipment, and the ammunition Leonard Martin used and deposited with Isobel. As Walter spoke and Aat jotted some notes, the Dutchman said nothing more than an occasional “okay.” Had the two been in the same room, a nod of his head would have sufficed.
“I will call you when I have something,” van de Steen said. “And Walter, you would do yourself well to come see me in Amsterdam. Not now because it’s too cold here for an island man like yourself, but in spring-then we can sit in the Leidens Plein, drink coffee, and watch all the Swedish girls.” He laughed again, and so did Walter. “In fact, Walter, I will tell you what I will do. I will take you to the Yab Yum. Yes I will.”
“What’s the Yab Yum?”
“You will not be disappointed, my friend.”
A picture was developing in Walter’s mind. After Leonard’s family died, his ties to everyone in Atlanta began slipping. When he discovered what really happened-when he received Dr. Roy’s CD-he cut the remaining shreds. Sources in the financial world had already provided Walter with Leonard Martin’s history. He knew Leonard had gone to cash and the money trail led straight to the Caymans. “We all keep our money there, don’t we?” he thought, and wondered if they shared the same bank. If so, Leonard’s account dwarfed his own. The move to Jamaica had been a hoax; a cheap one at that. There was a deed with Leonard’s name on it, but the property had been bought for only a few thousand dollars. It made no difference. Leonard was probably never there. But he was somewhere, for two years. Wherever that was, he had managed to stockpile weapons, some quite exotic and expensive, and found a way to use them proficiently, expertly. “Practice, practice,” thought Walter. Like a golf pro hitting hundreds of balls every day, rain or shine, he envisioned Leonard Martin firing round after round, day after day, week after week, month after month. As Walter put the puzzle together, he guessed there had been no way Leonard could have used a commercial shooting range. He would have been like a pool hall junkie, hanging around for hours on end, day after day after day. That would have attracted too much attention. There was no way that happened. Isobel had told him about Leonard’s use of a small trampoline, one he used to stand on to learn how to shoot accurately even while unstable. So where then did Leonard Martin stay? Where did he shoot? Something didn’t fit. Perhaps the answers would come from Aat van de Steen. Wherever the guns went, Leonard was there. Walter would wait until the Dutchman called.
New York
Maloney was worried. The stories in the New York Times -Christ! Every day they print something else with his name in it. Photographers, TV trucks, reporters of all sorts hounded them everywhere. The publicity was making it impossible for him and the others to conduct the normal business of the firm. Day after day the public relations machine so much a part of the Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills operation labored to deny, deny, deny. Nathan wanted Louise to direct this effort, but he was dissuaded when she looked at him in disbelief, the left side of her mouth noticeably twitching, and said, “That’s madness, Nathan. None of us-and I mean none of us-can be seen touching this. It will explode in our faces. Get someone else. You’ve got resources.”
Wesley Pitts said, “It’s already blown up in our face, Louise.”
“No it hasn’t!” she shouted. “It’s just a fucking newspaper article, some talking heads on the cable. Shit, nobody watches those goddamn cable networks anyway. It can’t hurt us. It will go away!”
“I think Louise is right,” Tom Maloney interjected, seeing the need, as always, to get things under control. He tried not to show how desperate he was to get them all calmed down before it was too late. He knew Louise Hollingsworth didn’t believe a word she’d said. He could see fear in her eyes. Her reaction was visceral. She felt she was doomed. They were all doomed. Her emotions erupted into an open sore. Maloney did not share those feelings. No matter what the New York Times wrote, the killings had stopped. Leonard Martin had stopped killing people. Tom had earlier confided as much to Nathan, and Nathan, he thought, had bought in. Or so it seemed.
“We’ll get someone to handle this,” Tom said. “The real problem is that we can’t operate effectively with any sense of routine. We can’t talk to clients because all they’re thinking about is what they saw on TV or read in the paper. No matter how many times the firm denies any involvement, it’s still out of the question to call someone-anyone-and say ‘Hey, let’s have lunch.’ Who wants to be near us? After all, who among us is willing to walk in the street like a normal person?”
It was a question not requiring an answer. Nevertheless, Pitts said, “Not me.”
“It’s not ‘out of the question,’” Nathan said, “it’s fucking impossible! The way they treat us you’d think we were priests, goddamnit! As of right now,” he said, rising from his big chair, looking as tall as he ever had, “we’re all on leave. Go home, or wherever you want to go, and don’t come back until this is over. We’ll stay in touch with cell phones.”
The room was deathly quiet. The light behind Nathan’s desk was such that none of the other three could actually see his face. Were his eyes darting from side to side? Was his nose twitching? They had no idea. Despite the brief outburst, his voice was calm and smooth, his demeanor subdued, not agitated. Louise and Wes took the moment as a sign of Nathan’s leadership. Had they thought it through they would have seen the folly in such judgment, but they badly needed reassurance, and how they got it was of no importance. Maloney stayed seated and Stein stood, towering above him as Tom Cruise might be made to appear tall when shot from the proper angle. “He might be a wee little man,” thought Tom, “but his name’s on the door.” Wesley Pitts and Louise Hollingsworth left.
“Let them go hide,” Nathan said. “This is real horseshit, Tom. You know that. What the fuck is going on with Sherman? He knows his guy is Leonard Martin-the whole fucking world knows it. Results!”
“I haven’t heard from him, but that means he’s working, Nathan. That’s what it means. The time will come when Walter Sherman calls, and Leonard Martin will be right there.”
“You still think we’re safe?”
“No, not safe, not the way you mean it. People we know are already dead, for Christ’s sake! We’re in the crosshairs alright, but Leonard Martin has something up his sleeve.”
“Great. When do we find out?”
“If Sherman doesn’t find him first, and soon, we’ll find out when he wants us to. In the meantime there’s nothing we can do, Nathan. Nothing.”
Louise and Wesley went home, kept their blinds closed, and stayed away from the windows. She drank and he paced, talking to himself, cursing. They didn’t hurt for any creature comforts. The very rich can have anything delivered. They were used to having things brought to them. Each passed off the new, higher cost of such luxury to market conditions. Their stocks were tumbling, and in the end they knew the servants would just as soon pick their bones as wish them good morning. For both of them, bitterness and anger grew in direct proportion to personal jeopardy. After a couple of days of this, Tom called to say Nathan wanted them to “take off,” to go somewhere they won’t be found and try to relax.
Under different conditions Wesley Pitts might have flown off to Cabo San Lucas or Palm Springs. Not now. Instead, he bought a first-class ticket with a private cabin on the Amtrak train that ran from Washington, D.C. to New Orleans. Lawrence made the long drive from Manhattan to Union Station in the nation’s capitol. From there, Wes was on his own. Although his ticket was to the end of the line, he got off the train when it stopped for a few minutes in Meridian, Mississippi. From there he rented a car and drove the hundred miles or so to the tiny town of Hintonville. His grandmother welcomed him with open arms and a warm smile.
“Are you hungry, honeychild?” she said. “Oh, Wesley, I’m so happy to see you.” She squeezed her grandson, although she barely came up to the middle of his chest. “I love you so, boy.” She was not surprised to see him. Even in the backwaters of the Deep South people read the newspaper, even the New York Times.
Like Wes, Louise would have preferred La Costa or Vail. Unlike him, she had no grandmother who would take her in, no family who had been proud of her since childhood, eager to protect their loved one. There were many men she slept with, but none of them were of any use to her now. What she did have was an enormous amount of money. She called a real estate agent she found on the Internet in Brattleboro, Vermont. The same day she bought a house nearby, just north of the Massachusetts state line. She was adamant. She wanted privacy, off the beaten path, no neighbors. The agent suggested three properties. Louise chose the second one, a six-year-old cabin with all the amenities, three bedrooms and three and a half baths on two and three-quarters acres at the foot of what passed for a small mountain. The agent offered to fax Louise pictures of the property and directed her to a website where she could take a 360-degree virtual tour of the house. “Not necessary,” Louise said. She wired power of attorney and approved a wire transfer from her bank to the realtor’s escrow account in Vermont. “Close on it immediately,” she instructed the agent. “Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.” She packed and began driving. She thought of Nathan’s house in Wevertown and prayed the one she just bought would be as nice. It had to be, she figured. She paid almost six hundred thousand dollars for it.
Tom Maloney believed the best place to hide was in plain sight. He moved into a suite at the Waldorf, arranged for private security, and settled in for the duration. He was quite happy to get away from his current wife for a while, and she was so pleased with his decision she immediately left for Switzerland, telling friends she’d be gone until the spring.
Nathan Stein stayed home in the city for two days, then took off for the country, upstate. A day after arriving in Wevertown he was already going stir crazy. He called Maloney.
“Get a bigger suite,” Nathan said. “Hell, get the whole fucking penthouse.” By dinner he had moved into the Waldorf with Tom.
St. John
The phone woke him at six o’clock the next morning. It was noon in Holland and van de Steen had other business to attend to that day.
“Hoe gaat het, Walter.”
“Hoe gaat het yourself. What time is it?”
“It’s nice to see you haven’t lost all your Dutch.”
“No, I still know how to say ‘hello’ and how to find the toilet.”
“And the polar bear.” Van de Steen laughed, recalling an old joke between the two men.
“Waar is de ijsbeer?” said Walter with a smile. “I don’t remember much, but I remember that.”
“Listen Walter, some of your man’s arsenal is too common, too available to trace to any one individual. You knew that, of course, but not all of it. The Holland amp; Holland, a fine and excellent piece of equipment-truly a work of art-that one I am sure came from California. How do you say S-a-n J-o-s-e?”
“San Jose,” said Walter. “How did he get it and where?”
“I cannot say for sure it was the man you are looking for, but the rifle itself was sold through a dealer, on the Internet, paid for in money orders.”
“Money orders? I thought that gun sold for more than twenty-five thousand dollars. That’s a helluva way to pay that kind of money.”
“Yes. Quite normal, actually. And it was twenty-seven thousand, plus a dealer’s fee and shipping.”
“That’s great, Aat. I think I can find the trail of a money order that size. Is there a name?”
“Not so quickly, my friend. These dealers never sell to people who use their real name. In your country there are many named Smith or Jones. It will be a name like that. Dealers know the name is untrue. They don’t care. The name-whatever it is-will do you no good. And, you will not be able to track down a money order.”
“Why not?”
“Most individual clients pay in this manner, and they do so with a group of money orders, none for more than nine hundred dollars, all of them purchased separately. It’s an inconvenience, but it serves its purpose. Again, the dealers have no interest in the procedure, only the result.”
“Where did they ship to?”
“Ah ha, now you are talking-what is it-turkey? Do you know where is Fargo, North Dakota?”
Walter listened as van de Steen told him how the Holland amp; Holland double rifle was shipped from an anonymous owner in San Jose, California to a PO Box at a private mail and packaging store in Fargo, North Dakota. The transaction was completed under the auspices of a dealer Walter’s Dutch friend saw no need to name. He wasn’t asked. The owner of the PO Box was listed as Evangelical Missions Inc. Van de Steen said the commercial mail store, following instructions, forwarded the package, knowing nothing about its contents, to a private address in Raleigh, North Carolina.
“Jackpot!” said Walter.
“The Israeli gun,” van de Steen said, “I believe it too went to this address. Of that one I cannot be totally certain, but I think it is so. There are many of them-it too is a wonderful piece-and I believe at least one went to this place in North Dakota.”
“That’s great,” Walter said. “The Holand amp; Holland is enough. That two of them were sent to the same place makes it a hundred percent.”
“A word of caution, my friend. It was not on your list, but I can trace a Walther WA2000 to the same destination.”
“What is that?”
“ That, as you call it, is the finest rifle ever built in the sniper class. It is a NATO 7.62mm semiautomatic regarded by most people who are familiar with things of this nature, such as myself, as the most accurate long-range weapon in the world. And there lies the trick, Walter. The Germans-a people so good at making things like this-built only seventy-two of them. If you asked me to get one for you today-and you would be a rich man, a very rich man to do so-I could not.”
“You’re serious? You couldn’t find one? How could a rank amateur?”
“He did not. It was no amateur. A Walther WA2000 is a transaction to be proud of. I think it could be sold for a hundred thousand euros, maybe more. A dealer I know in Hong Kong made just such a sale at the same time as these others, all bought within a few months of each other. I remembered hearing about it. We brag, as you Americans say, even in my profession. I called him last evening. He was bursting with pride still, and told me he arranged for it to be delivered to the same place-North Dakota. Be aware, Walter. With that gun you can kill anyone, anywhere.”
“No need for the concern. My man doesn’t want to kill me. He doesn’t even know me.”
“He will kill someone with it. When you do what you do you can never know what can transpire. If he does not know you, make sure it stays that way.”
“Don’t worry, Aat. But thanks.”
Aat van de Steen said, “No man spends that much money for such a thing and doesn’t use it. Besides, having played with it, practiced with it, held it in his hands and against his cheek and shoulder, taken it apart, cleaned and reassembled it, I am certain he will be unable to resist shooting it at someone. It must be so.”
“Thank you, Aat,” said Walter, acutely aware of the intensity in his friend’s voice. It struck him as almost religious-sexual. Every business has its Holy Grail. “As always,” Walter said, “I am in your debt.”
“Quite the contrary, Walter. It is I who owe you. It is my pleasure to assist. Do not forget. I am planning on it. In the spring, the Yab Yum.”
St. John
When the address in Raleigh turned out to be an empty lot, Walter was not surprised. No delivery service-not UPS, not Fed Ex, not anyone-would simply drop a package in an empty lot and drive away. Someone had to be there when it arrived, and Walter was sure it wasn’t Leonard.
He was certain, as certain as he could be absent real proof, that Isobel’s Kermit was Carter Lawrence. He was convinced, although less certain, that Carter had been present at the empty lot in Raleigh. It must have been he who took delivery as the packages of weapons and ammunition arrived there. What did he do with them? Probably, Walter conjectured, he shipped them on to wherever Leonard was. Most likely Carter loaded the packages into his car and drove south on interstate 85 back to Atlanta. If he had sent them out again it would have been from there, from somewhere in Atlanta. And if the two men had seen each other, Walter was sure it was Leonard who had come to Carter, not the other way around.
For the last twenty years, at least, no contacts had been more valuable than those that enabled Walter to see credit card records. With friends in the right places, vital information could be gathered instantly. Walter knew the authorities could accomplish the same thing, but it would take them weeks, even months. There would be search warrants, court orders, and, of course, the inevitable screw-ups caused by multiple and overlapping jurisdictions. The cops would have to deal with their own internal politics. Somebody might have the idea to check out credit card records, and somebody else, often times the next guy up the line, would kill the idea, simply because it wasn’t his. Walter’s years in the business also taught him that even when the cops, the FBI, or any of a slew of government agencies got it right-when they knew what to look for and where it was-they still missed it at least as often as they didn’t. Just as he once told Isobel the best way to follow someone can sometimes be to walk in front of them, he knew the best way to look for a clue was to know what you were looking for before searching for it. Easier said than done, but Walter trusted his instincts. For three decades they led him in the right direction.
Carter Lawrence’s credit card receipts gave Walter the confirmation he expected. Gasoline purchases tracked him from Atlanta to Raleigh and back again, more than once. Walter could even see where Carter stopped for lunch along the way. And, best of all, UPS records showed shipments from Carter Lawrence to a PO Box in Las Vegas, New Mexico-no doubt a private mail and package store just like the one in Fargo. The shipments were in Carter Lawrence’s name, paid for with his Visa card. The recipient was EM Inc.
After his ex-wife and two sons died, Carter hunkered down in Atlanta. Except for the trips to Raleigh, he went nowhere for more than two years. Some of his gasoline charges in Atlanta were separated by many weeks. He wasn’t even moving around in town. The only vendor that showed up on Carter’s records in any regular fashion was a Kroger supermarket. From the amount of the charges-never more than forty dollars-Carter was obviously eating alone. Then, only a month ago, charges appeared for gas and food in Birmingham, Alabama. “What was he doing there?” Walter wondered. This month there was another out-of-town charge. This time for a Hampton Inn in Clarksville, Tennessee-plus a restaurant bill of $130.46 at the Clarksville Holiday Inn. He wasn’t eating alone that night. Another gasoline charge showed up the following day in Springfield. Walter opened the travel atlas he kept handy on top of the refrigerator and turned to the map of Tennessee. Atlanta to Clarksville was about three hundred miles. He traced out a route, simple and direct, going north on I-75 and picking up I-24 just past Chattanooga, going west right into Clarksville. The round trip was too long to make on a single tank of gas, and the refueling stop fit the trip perfectly. Springfield was just down the road on the way to Nashville. It was clear to Walter that Carter Lawrence had driven from Atlanta to Clarksville, eaten dinner with someone, spent the night at a nearby Hampton Inn, and drove home the next day. Walter had seen his share of Holiday Inns, from Maine to Montana and too many places in between. There was no way anybody could spend $130.46 in any of their restaurants-not alone. Carter had more than one dinner guest-at least two, more probably three, Walter figured. There were no more surprises after Clarksville. Carter wasn’t hiding from anyone. He never thought to cover his tracks by paying cash. By now Walter expected to see the airline charge for Carter’s ticket to New York. Yes indeed, he was Kermit. No hotel for New York. Walter made a mental note to check the addresses for Carter’s brother and sisters. He was sure he’d find one of them living in New York City on the Upper West Side.