The freedom of being together in that great, hot city, no clock calling. She wanted to head up to East 9th Street, check out Hasaki Sushi, Joey Ramone’s favourite sushi joint. He wanted to go to his alma mater, NYU, sneak in to the students’ bar for an early beer. So they compromised on a kefir - fermented milk - parfait with balsamic strawberries from Treat Petite on Grove St. Then they agreed to stroll downtown.
The brilliant blue sky made Jacob nervous, walking down the Bowery from the Village. Sophie wanted to explore Chinatown along the way, look at the fish outside the stores on Canal Street, smell stuff.
The live fish freaked him out, so he forced his eyes to look at the ground as his brain filled with the art that awaited his gaze downtown, as well as the shows he had to catch. Ai Wei Wei’s According to What out in the Brooklyn Museum, seen it before, so see it again, and, oh, the sweetest of ironies, the Degenerate show up in the Neue Galerie on 86th and 5th, celebrating the artists that the Nazis tried to shame in 1937. Is it just me or is everything coalescing?
He caught a plasma screen as images of Andy Warhol’s Amiga computer art from 1985 flashed in brazen colours. I like that digital soup can.
There was that sour smell of hot morning. Jacob pleaded for solace so she let him bring her into a tiny Italian coffee shop, where they had Lavazza double espressos with lemon peel and spoke in movie Italian accents, Why you can’t get a decent cup of coffee in this town? Cah-PEESH?, until the waiter overheard them and stared filthy stares.
They laughed down the street like, like none of the bad stuff had even happened. Had it? Jacob fought to dig up memories of contact dread and crushing insecurity. They crossed Delancey Street and reached the Chinese strip from Elizabeth Street.
She took his hand and led him. He didn’t mind.
They left Canal Street, turned left onto Broadway downtown, smelled the Potbelly sandwich shop, reached City Hall, when Jacob took her elbow and led her into a cab.
They got out at Trinity Church and walked to the corner of Wall Street. Sophie liked the buzz of the place. Jacob wanted to choke.
A guy in a sharp suit hails a yellow cab, arm pointing, whistling. As he gets in he says ‘Let’s go, asshole,’
This kind of person, this kind of animal, this was his life, his future. The art market was up every day, better returns than property or stocks or bonds. And the tens of millions of dollars that propped up every big art sale passed through these trading houses, or were magicked into existence, as debt, around the corner in the Fed. It had become increasingly clear to Jacob that the only way was up, for the artists who peaked for the hundred years from the late nineteenth century. Computers announced the death of painting, the two media are mutually exclusive - they cannot genuinely coexist. More and more rich philistines after fewer and fewer pieces of true, indisputable art. Oil, oil with pigments, we’ve already passed peak. This depressed Jacob so much.
‘Is this us?’ said Sophie, pointing with her thumb at the monstrous, Brutalist office building before them.
Jacob squinted at a sign by the revolving door.
‘Yep. Vierte Trading. Looks like they’re into all the stock market bullshit. It explains Rod’s wealth. And maybe his craziness.’
They passed through the lobby area, many blazered security men standing around, a steady buzz of suits coming and going through airport-style metal detectors before the elevators.
Jacob gave their names to a woman at a desk. She picked up a phone and asked them to take a seat. They waited a couple of minutes until a sharply-dressed man came to them. He didn’t look like he’d been up all night.
‘I’m Frank Hester, head of security.’ He shook their hands, gave them a business card each, ‘That’s my cell number. Please call me at any time, twenty-four seven. You both have critically important tasks. And things may get even more complicated. We’ll know today.’ Sophie and Jacob exchanged glances, just like back in the day. He brought them to the desk for fresh security passes. ‘We operate a separate guest security system here. I’m sure you understand.’ Biometric data processed, badges printed, Hester took them through to the elevators and the top floor.
A floor-to-ceiling window followed the entire perimeter of the space. The elevator was in the central block, with all the supporting structure, from which the concrete floors hung.
‘Jesus,’ said Jacob, walking to the window. ‘One World Trade Center looks great from here. But I don’t know if I’d be happy to work there. Could I ever really relax, without keeping one eye on the sky? What floor are we on here?’
‘We’re at fifty here. The highest building on Wall Street, Trump’s, stands at seventy-one, just behind us.’ He jerked a thumb towards his shoulder.
Jacob turned away from the window, saw the task taking shape. A row of large trestle tables filled the north side of the space, away from direct sunlight. Trolleys were arranged beside the tables, holding the artworks like magazines in a rack, each painting or drawing protected inside an acid-free card envelope with a transparent plastic front panel. Three guys in overalls were checking the artworks against clipboard lists.
‘Is this okay for you?’ asked Hester.
‘Perfect. Should be no problem getting through this by?’
‘Wednesday, 4pm. We need to have the valuations lodged with our insurer by close of business.’
What’s your hurry? ‘Fine. I’m halfway there and the other valuers have done a pretty good job.’
‘We need to start setting up the art from Thursday. The dinner will be held right here. Should be quite the feast. Sophie, your kitchen is down a level, food coming up the service elevator round back. Would you like to get started?’
‘Let’s go. See you for lunch, Jacob?’
‘But everything round here’s overpriced and lacking depth. Including the food.’
‘No. I’m cooking. I need a guinea pig.’
The congressman met his detective escort in a Chipotle. Danny was eating a chili tortilla for breakfast.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Thank you Danny. Now I don’t want to hear any more, understood? We’ve a tough couple of days to get through but the weekend should make up for it.’ His phone chirped. ‘Ah, perfect timing,’ as he saw the incoming caller ID. ‘Mr President, good morning.’
They talked while Danny finished his food, nursed his hangover, amazed at how the congressman managed to maintain such a professional front after his devastating loss. His kid. The call ended.
‘The President?’
‘Yes. He heard the news. Good of him to call. Turns out he couldn’t refuse my invitation, under the circumstances. He’s going to attend our dinner on Saturday. You’ll be liaising with Secret Service. Hester too. Shouldn’t be too big a deal as we’re within the secure zone.’
‘Some news on that. Coffee, sir?’
The congressman’s heartbeat had slowed dramatically, the cocaine almost out of his system now. The buzz had been replaced by a hidden horror, like there was a giant rat inside him, squirming around his guts, gnawing at his spine.
‘Coffee? Yes. Black. Thank you.’
The congressman slumped into a chair, unaware of the glances from the queuing customers. Most Americans knew just a handful of politicians by face and name. The congressman was almost in that gilded clique.
Danny brought two coffees, sat back at the little birch plywood-topped table. ‘News. The guy who brought your daughter’s finger into the restaurant? He identified our man for the job. So that’s all tidy. Reduced threat of terrorism, both for you and, now, the President. The DA’s not pressing charges either, diminished responsibility.’
‘That is good news. And those Homeland Security guys?’
‘I’m sure I’ll be dealing with them on the security for the event. They’ll be good. No loose ends.’
‘Just like cops.’
‘Exactly. So, how are you?’
The congressman rubbed his eyes. ‘I need a smoke. You got one?’
Out on the sidewalk, in the startling early sun, they smoked and the congressman told Danny about the shock of loss.
He was very convincing, really getting into the act.
They went to the congressman’s office then, where he cleared his schedule for the rest of the week. Then he asked Danny to drive him home, so he could be with his wife, in mourning. The bag of cocaine waited in his suit’s inside pocket, to help get through it all.
‘I won’t need you until tomorrow, Danny. The funeral. You can take the day planning security downtown.’
Danny drove to the 1st Precinct offices, down on Ericsson Place, near Canal Street. Wall Street belonged to the 1st, so the presidential visit was to be coordinated from there, even though Police Headquarters was much closer.
The control room was buzzing when Danny arrived, the daily chores relegated to a couple of the big screens at the far end, every other asset focussed on ensuring the President got in and out in one piece. The commissioner was at the control desk, chatting to the Homeland Security guys. She spotted Danny, excused herself, took him by the arm to a couple of chairs.
‘How is he?’
‘As well as can be expected, ma’am.’
‘Good. It’s important, no, it’s critical that the congressman stays safe through all this. That will be your specific responsibility. Grab yourself a coffee. We’re having a run-through in the briefing room in ten.’
That’s when he saw her. The detective who’d solved the case and finished the job, killed the piece of shit and saved the City a few million in legal and prison costs. The commissioner saw that his attention was compromised, looked around, saw Detective Taylor enter the space. Her media profile, with the talkshows fawning over her, the men’s magazines begging for photo spreads, the glamour mags demanding haircare tips, as well as no small amount of political pressure, meant that she had to be seconded to 1st for the visit. Run. Join the circus.
‘Sorry?’
‘Ha. It’s your lucky day, Danny. Here comes your partner on this task.’
The commissioner made the introductions, then made her way to the briefing room to get organised. Danny mad cop smalltalk, held himself back a little. Just don’t say anything too dumb, for Chrissakes.
‘Good kill. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, blowing on her coffee. Those lips!
‘What’d you get in his apartment?’
‘Plenty of body parts, but not too much else. He managed to keep a really clean online record, and with his cellphone. That worries me.’
‘How so?’
‘If he could cover his digital tracks so... completely, I worry that we’re not just dealing with a lone wolf. Could he be part of something bigger? Something with military-grade technological expertise?’
The commissioner’s assistant called from the conference room door and the working group gathered inside. The Presidential security detail, the Secret Service, was represented, along with four agents from Homeland Security. The meeting was led by the commissioner and attended by local detectives, the top brass from the 1st, Danny representing the congressman and the host building’s head of security, Hester.
The commissioner talked about the local area, pointing to key locations on a giant digital map. Then she spoke about threat levels generally, passed over to HS. They had nothing specific to bring to the party. No terrorist chatter, al-Qaeda or home-grown, no reason to expect anything. The threat matrix, displayed on the screen, showed all the usual suspects, including homegrown jihadis back from Syria or Pakistan, neo-Nazi activists, anti-Government leaders. Every one of them was being monitored twentyfourseven, mostly digitally, but the most dangerous threats had human contact.
‘But I stress that we have no intelligence, direct or indirect, of anything in the pipeline. Few people outside this room even know that the President is coming. The visit won’t be announced to the press until he’s in the air.’
Tori turned to Danny, ‘Suspiciously quiet, I’d say.’
Then Hester, rose and spoke. He called up a 3D map of the building, rotating and zooming the image as he briefed the meeting on access points, elevators, stairwells, the location of the event, the roof.
‘The building is quite tough,’ said Hester. ‘It was designed shortly after the War, by engineers with extensive military experience. The central core is very strong and the structure will withstand anything up to a nuclear explosion.’ He had to consciously suppress a smile.
‘What about a secure zone, in the event of an emergency situation?’ asked an impeccably-dressed secret service agent.
‘Yes,’ answered Hester, fidgeting with his mouse to bring the lower levels up on screen, ‘here, in the basement. The first basement level is used for storage and parking. There will be no vehicles permitted on the night of the event. Below that is the safest place in the building. It used to hold the mainframe computers, but they’re all offsite now. We’ve fitted it out as a lounge, in case of another 9/11-type event. It has its own dedicated elevator. The President could be brought here in sixty seconds. If required.’
‘Anything below that?’
‘Just bedrock. No surprises possible.’
As the plane’s tyres screeched on runway 4R-22L at JFK, Julia felt physically and emotionally crumpled. It might be lunchtime, but I’m going straight to bed. The congressman had been fully briefed on all developments across Asia and Europe. And he was occupied, stuck at home with his miserable wife. Marry for connections, repent in power.
A successful trip, yes, but why the feeling of dread in her guts, down in the dark places? Just jet lag.
As she walked through Terminal 4, she pulled up a town car on Uber, as you never know who’s driving those filthy cabs. She inhaled the airport buzz, the one smell the world over, musing about how all this would be changed in just a few days. Will all flights be grounded again? Or will everything just carry on during the transition? Impossible.
She declined an offer to have her shoes shined, noticed more armed police and TSA officers than usual, smiled at the long lines at the immigration desks for non-US travellers.
Her car was waiting at the pick-up zone, the driver a smartly-dressed woman. She waved and opened the door for Julia, who fell into a cool, calm, air-conditioned leather embrace.
The car raced towards Manhattan, Julia drinking in the view of the gleaming, ever-reaching city. So pretty from here, so clean.
Within an hour, she was in her apartment, sitting on Marie Antoinette’s favourite chaise longue, sipping a perfect Pinot Grigio, wondering whether to get straight to sleep or to give Jacob a call, see how he was getting on. Curiously, while she’d been talking and flirting and drinking with some of the world’s most powerful men, she’d found herself thinking of her art expert patsy. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
After Beijing, Delhi was unbearably hot, but also colourful and dynamic. The Indians had learned from China to play the waiting game. Let the West choke itself and Asia will rule the world. They questioned Julia on the new regime’s attitude towards Pakistan, which would be pleasingly icy, then presented her with a silver swastika pendant. It was ours first. It means well-being.
Moscow was cold. The Russians enjoyed Schadenfreude, harm-joy, from America’s decline and impotence in places like Ukraine and Afghanistan. While in no hurry to see the final collapse, their reactors had been making gold for decades so there was little fear of the new economy. Gold, gas and guns would see Russia through.
Berlin? Better. German politicians positively welcomed the idea of a solid US dollar and an end to fractional reserve lending, derivatives and short-selling. Short-selling was all about hoping for financial failure, and not very German at all. The awkward root of Vierte, 1933-1945, wasn’t mentioned: this was the New New World. Later, a tertiary representative of the Bundesbank met Julia for cocktails in Kreuzberg. He listened, nodded, drank his mojito, wished Julia a safe journey across the Atlantic, then melted into the night.
Julia went straight to Tegel Airport, the plain where Wernher von Braun tested rockets in the thirties, leading directly to the Nazi terror weapon, the V2 and, finally, NASA’s Saturn V which took men to the moon.
And now, in New York, it all finally coalesced. The plan, the sheer gravity of it all. What will the world be like next week? Are we doing the right thing?
Julia rarely doubted herself. She didn’t enjoy the sensation.
Jacob met Sophie just after one o’clock. There was a small dining room just off the kitchen, set for two.
A waiter stood by and poured Jacob a glass of excellent Bordeaux. Sophie appeared, carrying two steaming bowls and a clipboard tucked under her elbow.
‘Beef consommé, with gold leaf decorations.’
‘Waiter, there’s gold in my soup.’
‘There’s no shortage of gold leaf back there,’ said Sophie. ‘Very strange. Eat. I’m trying to improve the menu while sticking with the spirit. Food orders need to go out today.’
‘This is very good. But no taste from the gold. I was expecting something metallic.’
‘Gold’s an unreactive metal. That’s why it’s so valuable.’
‘Then why did they bother eating it?’
‘Because they could.’
The waiter left and returned with the second soup, a chestnut and truffle. Then there was hare, salted salmon and iced cheese for dessert.
Sophie talked about the food, about how the challenge would be serving all the guests on time and with the dishes at the correct temperature.
‘I just want to taste that Champagne,’ said Jacob.
Then the head of security came by, Hester.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’ He turned to Jacob. ‘There’s a call for you, sir. Would you like to take it in my office.’
‘Of course. Excuse me, Sophie. Will I see you later?’
‘Venison at six?’
He smiled at that, ready to burst through his chinos, then followed Hester along a corridor and into the security office. It was a low-ceilinged room, which smelled of electronics, that hot, stale hum, and body odour.
Two men sat watching a bank of screens. Jacob saw Sophie, still sitting at the table, sipping her wine, writing notes. An odd sensation, witnessing the watching, the surveillance of everyone, everywhere, all the time.
A few screens showed Jacob’s working area on the top floor, the guys setting up the banquet space, the armed guards on their constant circuits.
Jacob took the phone. It can only be Julia, calling on the landline to get me away from Sophie.
‘Hello, handsome,’ her voice warm, a vague slur.
‘Hi Julia. Welcome back. Good trip?’
‘Oh, marvellous. I picked you up a little something. Would you like to see it later?’
What happened to you, Julia? Where’s the Nazi ice goddess, the Aryan pin-up with the submachine gun in her arms and the blood of children on her cheeks? ‘I don’t know how late I’ll be here.’
Silence. The distant glugging of liquid being poured into a glass, half of Manhattan away. ‘Fine. Well I’m going to bed now. I’ve flown halfway across this damned planet and I need some sleep. If you care to join me when your work is done, let Hester know.’
‘He’s hardly going to just give me your address.’
‘I’ve already briefed him.’
Jacob looked to Hester, got a raised eyebrow and a smile in return.
‘Oh,’ said Jacob, the feeling jumping from his stomach to the back of his throat, choking his breathing, the feeling that he was a mouse in a maze, going this way and that, bumping his head against every wall, watched and prodded by distant entities, forms that he could not fully comprehend.
‘One more thing, Jacob. About the event on Saturday? Special guest of honour for you to meet?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The President himself. Should be a memorable evening. Now back to work.’
He watched Sophie on the screen, handed the phone to Hester.