On closer examination it was easy to see that Bleecker Street’s maverick risk structure was pretty kissin’ close to gambling, buying chemical companies out of favor in 2004 and taking them public in foreign countries when the old-economy names got hot again. Your best opportunities to sock away millions came when legitimate banks were willing to provide lender leverage into the billions. They acquired and unloaded office buildings faster than playing lightning Monopoly, and were always raising capital for their latest buyout fund.
Rainer was low-profile, hewing to the maxim laid down by Wall Street superstar Aldous Blackmoor: “Never be the poster boy. When the era changes, the poster boy gets ripped off the wall.”
Rainer and his crew were Harvard hustlers, always on the sniff for Justice Department investigations into what were called “club buyouts.” When quoted, they worried about interest rates; in private they amassed astonishing debt in order to bulk-purchase; Rainer’s phrase for it was “economies of scale,” which to Barney translated as that old TV commercial in which the screaming carpet salesman says, “How do we do it? VOLUME!”
It took less than a day for Barney to sketch Felix Rainer’s movement template. The guy began a rigorous workday at 7:30 AM sharp and went everywhere by chauffeured limousine. He owned the entire top floor of the ovoid Capitol Towers Building on Columbus Circle. Private staff and security measures had him pretty boxed, but Barney knew there was no such thing as genuine security this side of the grave.
Finding a photograph had been difficult but not impossible. Rainer was a fiftyish man with hair plugs and one of those skin-cancer sunlamp tans that looked radioactive.
Barney decided to take the guy in his limo, after business hours.
Manhattan was busy losing the last dregs of summer — warm days, cool nights. At a mid-town commercial shipping outlet Barney picked up a clad plastic case festooned with security tape and warning stickers: HIGH-SPEED PHOTOGRAPHIC FILM — EXTREMELY SENSITIVE. The interior surfaces were sheeted in lead foil and the dense, high-impact foam padding ferried Barney’s work kit: a piece, several mags, cleaning kit, extra cash and alternate ID, and a coded emergency cellphone.
The gun was a solid, Nitron-finished P229 Elite in .357 SIG. Karlov liked SIGs and so did Barney. Some guys were Glock men; others swore by the myth-laden Colt, but the names were always spoken with a gravity religious people reserved for saints: Remington, Ruger, Browning, Beretta, Kimber, a whole pantheon of new gods for modern times.
SIG Sauer was proof that Germany had successfully invaded America. The “SIG” was an acronym for Swiss Industrial Company (Schweizerische Industrie-Gesellschaft); the “Sauer” came from the incorporation of German gunmakers J.P. Sauer & Sohn, GmbH, of Eckernförde in the early 1970s. Nineteen eighty-five marked the rebirth of the entire assembly of companies as SIGARMS, which rapidly became a favorite of military and law enforcement during a time when cops were discovering how often they were outgunned in the street. Their handguns were devastatingly well-built and had stopping power to burn. They were also hefty — a real handful — but their actions crisp and their delivery, spot-on. They were no longer made overseas, but in New Hampshire. Barney had never been disappointed by a SIG.
This one featured a short reset trigger that eliminated “trigger slap” and made the pulls short and fast in either single or double action. Karlov had substituted Hogue wraparound grips and beefed the frame by half a pound. There was also a Safariland speed scabbard for concealed carry.
The mags contained Armand’s latest concoction, his version of a 150-grain EPR, or Extreme Penetration Round, that could penetrate 20-gauge steel or most body armor.
Barney had drilled with both this gun and this ammo for a month. It could devastate a kill zone but had the kick of a .22.
His gear installed in a newly-bought attaché case, Barney caught lunch at a Greek diner, barely tasting the food but registering the mild amp of the strong coffee. The nylon steady-straps Karlov had conceived were already around his neck, the thumb loops tucked into his jacket sleeves.
He had thought briefly of wearing gloves with built-in index fingers of foam, slightly curled for a naturalistic look, until he had wandered about in the walking world for awhile and realized no one really took notice of his hands. Some time later, he might have to hide his special attributes, conceal his difference, but he did not feel that way right now. These were his hands; the world would just have to cope. His hands were him — crippled, then altered, then reborn, but still functioning. Like a clip, his hands had so many shots in them before they were exhausted.
He spent an extra day to reliably clock Felix Rainer’s circuit, annotating in-times and out-times. The money-man, per an aggressive transactional profile, did not have time for lunches taken off-site. Evening functions used up 45 minutes in transit from the office to Capitol Towers, allowing for a costume change and spruce-up. Different weapons, evening-dress armament for a different brand of warfare. His chariot was a Corsair stretch that looked to Barney to be armored similarly to the limo he had driven in Mexico. He had two alternating drivers, both graduates of the school of physical threat — skintight suits over imposing bodies, packing hip holsters. The wait zone was a gated garage at Capitol, probably leading to a private elevator. Too many cameras there; too much exposure.
Okay, so it was a quitting-time date, then.
Barney had billeted himself in a mid-range hotel in the upper 50s full of foreign tourists or businessmen. Easy to blend, there. Since his credit card was imaginary, that bill did not matter. He could have watched all the cable porn he wanted. Content did not interest him but he did keep the TV on, volume dialed almost to zero, for the duration of his stay. It was another presence in the room and a harmless one, something he had keenly missed in Mexico, where another presence usually signaled yet another beating.
During off hours, Rainer’s limo enjoyed a special curbside yellow zone on West 58th Street near Eighth Avenue, probably with the sanction of bribed cops. While on duty it circulated around the business district; Rainer’s office was spitting distance from the World Trade Center site. If it parked, it had itself a hide and Barney never spotted it. The driver never seemed to take a meal or bathroom break, and he only left the vehicle to watchdog Rainer in person. The afternoon of the second day was spent tracking the limo’s ups and downs in the city, so Barney had found the car connection provided by Sirius to be useful, although he hated driving in Manhattan traffic as much as any sane person would.
Barney never stopped to ask himself if he was crazy. Any more than Rainer and lunch, he didn’t have the time.
This was going to have to go fast.
Within fifteen seconds of the limousine curbing in front of the skyscraper housing the Bleecker Street Group, at precisely 7:35 in the evening, Barney strolled up to the driver’s side door with his free hand grasping a shield wallet designating him as a New York City detective. He made the familiar hand-rolling motion and the driver, an enormous bodybuilder in livery, buzzed the window down and regarded him impatiently.
Barney stuck the SIG right into his ear canal. The chauffeur’s movements were restricted by the door, his seat belt, and the general fact that he tended to fill the entire driver’s space.