Astor carefully replaced the annual reports before picking up the paper. Cherry Hill was the name of the family estate in Oyster Bay, his boyhood home. Someone had written on it-a woman’s feminine, looping script.
Cassandra99
Before he could study it more closely, the phone rang. The caller’s name and number appeared on the screen. “Donald Costanza. Doorman.”
“Phone,” he said. Then: “Yeah, Don, what is it?”
“There’s a problem with your car. Can you come downstairs and take a look?”
“What? The Ferrari? Are you kidding me? It’s after eleven.”
“There’s a problem with your car. Can you come downstairs and take a look?”
“I heard you the first time. Be right there.”
Astor hustled downstairs and dug a keychain with a black stallion rampant on a yellow background out of the key drawer. The car in question was a 1972 Ferrari Daytona. The last time he’d checked, it was valued at just over $7 million. He did not drive it frequently in the city.
“Elevator.”
Astor walked to the entry alcove and waited. If Don the doorman was calling at this time of night about the Ferrari, it meant that something bad had happened. Astor housed the car in a separate bay and kept it covered with an apron 24/7. He had no idea how any harm might have come to it. Unless…
Visions of Don the doorman taking the $7 million machine out for a joyride, hurtling down the scarred, potholed streets of Manhattan, filled his mind. He thought of the pummeling given to the rebuilt Koni shocks, the wear and tear on the tires, the damage to the undercarriage.
The elevator arrived.
Astor stepped inside.
But the elevator was not there.
Astor stared into the bottomless shaft. One foot dangled in the abyss as his momentum propelled him forward. Frantically he threw his arms out. He twisted, looking for something, anything, to grab hold of. His hand skidded off the wall. The other flailed at empty space.
And then he saw the cable hanging in the darkness.
He lunged, and caught it with both hands.
He swung back and forth, quickly coming to a halt. He tried to wrap a foot around the cable, but the tension was too strong. The cable did not bend. He slipped a few inches. A ladder ran up the wall. He kicked a leg out. His heel struck a rung. Notching his toes beneath it, he pulled himself closer until he could grasp the ladder with his hands.
The door to his apartment closed.
Darkness.
Astor let go of the cable and took hold of the ladder. Below, a faint light shone through the roof of the elevator, stationary on the ground floor. Somewhere in the shaft a machine engaged. It was the pleasant, efficient whir of the elevator rising. He looked past his feet and saw the tiny light coming toward him, growing larger, brighter.
He tilted his head back. The dark was impenetrable. The shaft ended at the sixth floor. He did not think there was room for him and the elevator. His only hope was to jump on top of the rising elevator and pray that he would not be crushed.
The elevator drew closer. It no longer sounded pleasant or efficient. To Astor’s ears, the elevator sounded like a table saw. He was stuck. He could only wait.
The elevator approached. He could see it clearly now. As it came near, he extended a foot, threw himself onto the roof, and made himself as flat as possible. The car continued to rise, and he felt the cold cement of the shaft around him. The light from inside the elevator illuminated the top of the shaft. Four feet became three…
The elevator stopped.
Astor found the handle for the emergency exit and forced it upward. The hatch opened grudgingly. He maneuvered around the elevator’s roof, finally slipping his feet through the opening and lowering himself into the elevator. He pushed the Door Open button and stepped back inside his home.
He stood still for a moment. His knees shook. His breath came in gasps. The elevator door closed. He staggered and threw a hand against the wall for support. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. He stood upright and walked into the kitchen.
He needed a drink.
36
Legio. Patria. Nostra.
Alone in her study, Alex typed the words into the laptop’s search bar. Her phone lay on the desk beside her, its screen illuminated with a picture of the colorful symbol inked on Randall Shepherd’s chest. She knew the tattoo signified membership in a military organization, but which?
She tapped the Enter key, and her response appeared immediately.
“Our Country’s Legion.”
It was the motto of the French Foreign Legion, or Légion Étrangère.
Alex searched for tattoos associated with the Foreign Legion. She found one similar, but not identical, on the second search page. The 1º stood for “first company.” The 2 REP for second regiment.
It was a solid start, but Alex wasn’t finished.
She examined the other noteworthy tattoo inked on Shepherd’s arm. It showed the Roman numerals III.III.V and beneath them the words Vincere aut Mori. “Conquer or Die.” She performed a search combining the numerals and the Latin phrase. Fewer than a dozen pages appeared. None offered a further clue to Shepherd’s true identity.
Alex reasoned that the roman numerals represented a date. III.III.V translated to March 3, 2005. She was rewarded with 2 million hits. She added “Win or Die” and the number fell to 200,000. No help there.
Alex retreated a few steps. Several of her young lions had served in the marines, and each had body art to remind him of a difficult campaign-Fallujah in Iraq, Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Perhaps the tattoo was to commemorate an operation or a battle won or lost. Diligently she culled through accounts of the Foreign Legion’s recent engagements. There were deployments to the Middle East and Kosovo, as well as less publicized actions in Africa and Asia. Nowhere, however, did she find a mention of a specific battle or operation that had taken place on March 3, 2005. She could not validate her supposition that the roman numerals signified a date.
Alex slid back the chair and padded into the kitchen. The clock read 11:30. She realized that she hadn’t eaten since early that afternoon. Her stomach informed her in no uncertain terms that she was starving. She opened the fridge and found a piece of Gruyère and an apple. Slim pickings. She had a memory of sneaking into the kitchen with Bobby late one night after making love, finding a giant bowl of leftover spaghetti carbonara in the fridge, and sitting together at the table, toes touching, wordlessly scarfing it down. It was too bad they got along only when they didn’t talk to each other. The carbonara sounded delicious right about now.
Bobby was a wonderful cook.
Alex sat lost in her thoughts until the minute hand reached twelve. Rising, she returned to her office and at 12:03 placed a call to Paris, France, where the day was just beginning.
“Allo?” said a sleepy voice.
“Jean. It’s Alex Forza in New York. We have a situation.”
Jean Eyraud, deputy director of the French DGSE-the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, France’s national counterterrorism organization-snapped to attention. “How can I help?”
“I have some fingerprints I need you to run. He’s one of your guys. Former Légion Étrangère.”
“Send them over. I’ll see to it immediately.”
“And Jean…vite.”
37
It was not an accident.
Elevator doors do not open by themselves when the elevator itself is six floors below, Astor told himself as he stood in his kitchen, stunned, unsure why he was still alive, part of him not quite believing what had happened.