The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) Page 8

  "Sure, Martin knows him, he can set it up. He'll be back in a few minutes," she said.

  "Also, I’m visiting Mr. Zhao for breakfast tomorrow. I need to get something nice for him. Any ideas? If your aunt was a psycho-sadist, what would you buy her for Christmas?" I was trying to initiate some brainstorming.

  "I don't know, my aunt has Alzheimer's, so it's not easy to imagine her being a psycho-sadist. But wait, just yesterday I was watching 'Shutter Island' with Leonardo DiCaprio, very good plot. I remember, they mentioned something about lobotomies, which were used in the 1950s to pacify uncontrollable patients in mental institutions, as I understand. If Mr. Zhao is into that kind of thing, he might enjoy receiving a surgical instrument used for lobotomies?"

  "Sounds interesting. Tell me more."

  She went to help computer and googled something. It took her a few minutes but eventually she had some interesting information.

  "I’ve just been browsing online. This thingy is called 'orbitoclast'. Just like in the movie. It’s sold along with a hammer. It has a Dr. Walter Freeman inscription on it. He was great proponent of transorbital lobotomies after the Second World War according to Wikipedia. It’s next day delivery if we order now."

  "Let's get it, should be ok. A transorbital lobotomy, what the fuck is that?" I asked.

  Zara browsed Wikipedia and said: "It seems it's just fancy way of saying a lobotomy through the eye socket. You’re putting this orbitoclast, aka icepick, through the eye socket and move it back and forth to sever some nerves in the frontal lobe, whatever that means."

  "I think Mr. Zhao will be delighted, let's get one."

  Martin Keenan just returned.

  "Martin, I just spoke with Zara, I need to meet Igor Ivanov today."

  "No problem, I'll sort it out."

  "Zara, can you print off the description of this lobotoclast from Wikipedia for me?"

  "Sure."

  I went to my office, checked my emails. Nothing interesting, just the usual penis enlargement pills spam and how to earn a billion dollars a day scams.

  Soon after, Martin told me I could meet the Russian mafia boss in three hours.

  "He's based in New York, I have a jet waiting for you at the airport. Unfortunately, we have to pay for the flight, but we can ask Dermot to chip in. You need to leave in the next 15 minutes to get there in time. A pick up car will be waiting for you at the airport."

  17.

  I TOOK MY car and drove to the airport. A Hawker 400 was waiting on tarmac. The pilot greeted me and we got on board.

  "The flight will take approximately 30 minutes," the pilot announced.

  We took off within ten minutes. The weather was okay, so the flight was pleasant enough. I didn't mind private jets, but there was one problem with them. These were very small planes, and when it was windy and turbulent, it was far less comfortable than a commercial plane. The Hawker 400 was a small, light jet. To call this category a vomit-comet would be an exaggeration, but bad weather could introduce a little excitement, and it wouldn't be easy to sleep if you wanted to have a power nap. I was tired, so I did sleep for a few moments. I woke up when the plane hit the landing strip.

  "Thank you Mr. Greystone, hope you enjoyed the flight."

  "As always, James," I said. James Rathmines works for Dan Stillorgan, who owns the jet company. We paid them well, and they were always able to accommodate our last minute requests. Truth be told though, we often used government jets, courtesy of Dermot Clenaghan from Research & Execution.

  A limo was waiting for me when I arrived. I jumped in and the car drove to Igor Ivanov's place. His house was impressive, without a doubt, but good taste wasn't its strongest point. In fact, if there was a TV series 'Worst home designs ever', and I was pretty sure there had to be, Ivanov's house would be prime contender. Turrets, bartizans, embrasures, merlons, and battlements here and there, finished off with clock tower with ... a weather cock on the roof. It wasn't strictly a castle, but seemed to clumsily imitate one. I’m not sure where the idea came from, you don't get too many castles on these shores. Perhaps it was a longing for his homeland, or unfulfilled childhood dreams. Perhaps he wanted some kind of Disney castle, but it hadn’t worked here, you didn’t need an architect to see that. Besides, a Disney-style castle was actually quite a pleasant sight. It was apparently designed after the famous Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria at the foot of the Alps. You probably asked yourself how the fuck I knew that. I told you before, I was born in Germany, even though my father was American, and there was a mandatory trip for all school children to see the thing.

  Ivanov's residence, however trashy it looked, was still reasonably impressive, especially for me as it was well-guarded by his gunmen. I hadn't dealt with Ivanov in person before. My guys did some small jobs for him, so it was about time to meet him in person to do some relationship management and perhaps prospect for future business. These guys were loaded with cash, not as powerful as the Italians historically, but far more brutal and ruthless, and because of that more effective, and consequently increasing their market share.

  I normally preferred meeting in public places, like restaurants, busy parks, or shopping malls, as it reduced the risk of being shot, but on occasion I needed to take a calculated risk. I said calculated, as I had some safeguards. I had a deal with Dermot Clenaghan, our coordinator at Research & Execution Agency, a secret joint venture of the CIA, NSA and HS to deal with crap nobody wants to deal with officially. I had 5 million bucks set aside with private bankers for Dermot and Martin Keenan to organize a retaliation operation in case I was shot on a scheduled visit. This news was quietly publicized in ‘society’. The big crime bosses knew that if I got shot on their premises, Dermot would send a chopper or two with missiles to level the buildings and wreak havoc. The damage would be considerable, including all family members if they happened to be on site. Plus they would hire a few hitmen to track down and kill anyone who survived. The remainder of the money would go to Dermot, and Martin would get a separate reward. I trusted Dermot to follow this procedure, but I prefered to trust and check, so I told Dermot if he got the money and didn't fulfill his obligation, my men would track him and his family down and kill all of them, including his children, grandchildren, wife, parents, siblings, and the dog, and destroy all the flowers in his garden. Not easy, as we didn’t know much about Dermot, but with enough money you could find a lot. It was not a perfect setup, there was always some residual risk, but I wasn't expecting any problems during my visit at Ivanov's “mansion” anyway.

  Ivanov was waiting in the reception room. I was frisked to check for guns and wires and entered the room.

  "Good evening, Mr. Ivanov, nice to meet you at last," I greeted him.

  "Hello Mr. Greystone," he answered.

  Ivanov was tall, six foot three, big, and ugly. A thick neck and a broad chest with plenty of muscles. A clean-shaven head, and the facial expression of an unsophisticated gym drugs-and-supplements muscle builder. Had he taken part in a Neanderthal beauty contest a hundred thousand years ago, he would surely have put on a stellar performance. But these days with a face like this he could only play thugs in movies. With a little targeted makeup he could pass for Frankenstein. However, I knew it was only appearance, as with violence alone he wouldn't have reached the top of the hierarchy in the Russian mob. He must have had some brains, no doubt. And anyway, I needed information from him.

  "What a lovely house you have, I haven't seen anything so classy and tasteful for a long time," I lied to flatter him and put him in a good mood. I had been lying a lot recently, hopefully it wasn't a permanent trend.

  "Thanks Mike," he said. "Can I call you Mike?"

  "Sure, Mike, Michael, whichever’s suits. I presume I can reciprocate and call you Igor?" I asked.

  "Yeah, no problem. Would you like to have a snack for dinner?"

  "If it is not too much trouble," I agreed, being a little concerned about food poisoning. On the other hand, I knew if something happened to me,
Dermot would send a Bell chopper, or an F-22 if he wanted to splash some more cash, to blow the whole fake castle away.

  "Would you like an aperitif?"

  "Sure, gladly," I said.

  He went to a cabinet on the wall, opened it, took out two glasses, and poured half a glass of vodka each. I would consider an aperitif to be half an inch at the bottom of the glass, but had no reason to complain. I was in general a whiskey/bourbon guy, but it was worth trying an alternative sometimes.

  "I love vodka, this is the perfect drink," Igor explained. "It's just pure distilled alcohol, no additives, no allergens," he continued. "In beer there's yeast, in wine there's yeast and sulphates. Champagne is decent, it has just a very little yeast. Whiskey is fine too. But vodka really is purity and simplicity."

  "Sounds interesting, I wasn't aware of that," I tried to sound interested.

  I was sipping it slowly, but Igor gulped the whole glass down in one go.

  The table was ready, two waitresses brought in the food. Both had boobs the size of watermelons, and I admit my eyes were glued to those lovely protrusions.

  "I see you are a connoisseur of female curvature?" he asked.

  "You can't ignore views like those," I admitted.

  Dinner consisted of steamed salmon, with steamed sweet potato, broccoli, asparagus, and quinoa.

  "I’m quite impressed, a very healthy meal," I commented.

  "Yeah, I like eating good stuff. It's all organic."

  "You must be leading a healthy lifestyle?"

  "I try. I love salmon. Have you heard that in countries with the highest intake of omega 3, salmon being the perfect source, the crime rate is the lowest?"

  "Funny to hear that from you," I said.

  "Funny it is. I do have some activities that I wouldn't necessarily advertise, but I value order. I don't like thugs running loose, unless they belong to me."

  I may have underestimated him. He seemed to be a really smart guy.

  "Also, if you like an occasional glass of vodka as I do, the liver is under some strain. So there's no point taxing it even more by eating rubbish."

  "Fair point," I nodded.

  We finished our dinner, and Igor said: "Another glass of something stronger for digestion?" and he poured another half glass of vodka for me, without waiting for an answer. This time it actually looked like three-quarters of a glass, but I wouldn’t dwell on details. We finished off the glass, and he poured another, whereupon we went through to the lounge.

  "Okay, Mike, so what can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for a certain guy."

  "Why are you looking for him?"

  "I need to capture him, preferably dead, but alive would be fine too, I can convert his status myself."

  "What's his name?"

  "Ron Morgenthal."

  "What has he done?"

  "My principals want him dead. He's responsible for the St Brigid School shooting."

  "Sounds serious, what's his name again?"

  "Ron Morgenthal," I repeated.

  "Not sure I can help you, but I'll ask around."

  "Appreciated, I need to get this motherfucker as soon as possible."

  "I'll do my best. Sorry I can't be more helpful, but glad to meet you anyway. I think we can do some business together in the near future," Ivanov said, offering future cooperation. If he paid well, I wouldn’t mind doing a job for him.

  "Very glad to hear that," I said, although I was disappointed with the result of the visit.

  I was surprised he didn't know the guy. The Italians and Chinese said he didn't work for them. That only left the Russians. I couldn't pursue the topic as I didn't have sufficient intelligence on Ron Morgenthal yet. I should have some news from Martin or Mr. Zhao the next day, so I'd call Igor if needs be.

  "In the meantime, would you like another glass?" This was rhetorical question, as before he started the sentence he’d already poured a full glass of vodka.

  I left his residence and once more praised the design of his dwelling. My driver took me back to the airport, I boarded the plane and I was back home late that evening.

  18.

  I WOKE UP early the next morning. I ate scrambled egg with fried onion, parma ham, and tomatoes. Delicious and nutritious. The key was to prepare it slowly. I did the onion first, chopped it into small pieces, but not too small as it would fry too quickly. Added some butter into the frying pan, and fried the onion over a small flame, stirring it often with a wooden spoon, so that it wouldn't burn, but remained soft and tasty. Ten to fifteen minutes should be sufficient, depending on how thinly you chopped the onion. Then I added the parma ham, less than one or max two minutes before adding eggs was sufficient as the slices were very thin and it fried quickly. Then I added the eggs, and mixed them in, stirring all the time to avoid burning any of the ingredients. Three eggs plus some wholemeal bread would keep you going for at least a few hours. If I was short of time, I would use spring onions instead, as they were more tender and fried quicker. That way I would have all the flavor in less than half the time.

  After breakfast I took a shower, dressed, and left my house. I drove to the office first. I turned on my laptop and searched the Internet for ‘lobotomy.’ I found some fairly comprehensive information on ‘lobotomy’ on Wikipedia. I printed off a few pages as a souvenir for Mr. Zhao. A courier with the orbitoclast and hammer that Zara had ordered the day before had arrived earlier that morning. She’d packed it into a nice box. So I was ready. I left the office, and drove to Mr. Zhao's residence.

  There was no doubt, Mr. Zhao had much more taste architecture-wise. His house was much more tasteful and stylish than Ivanov's, with his turrets and merlons.

  "Good morning, Mr. Greystone," I was greeted by Mr. Zhao. He led me into the breakfast area. I handed him the gift.

  "Thank you Mr. Greystone. May I ask what this is?" he said.

  "Please open the parcel to find out," I responded. He handed it to one of his goons, safety first, just in case there was something lethal in the packet. The guy unpacked it, produced the orbitoclast and hammer and handed them to Mr. Zhao.

  "Looks very interesting, what is this?"

  "It's an orbitoclast, also called a leucotome," I explained, sounding very educated. I could play smart as I’d read it on Wikipedia just that morning. "And the other tool is a hammer. Both are useful for performing a lobotomy."

  "A lobotomy, sounds interesting, I think I may have seen one in a movie many years ago," he said. He became very attentive. I surely aroused sadistic propensities in Mr. Zhao.

  "The procedure is essentially severing the connections between certain sections of the brain, between the prefrontal cortex and the thalamus, if I remember correctly," ah, Wikipedia was indispensable these days, I thought to myself. I must remember to donate a few bucks to Wikipedia, as those guys did really great job, but they didn’t have any advertising revenue, they just relied on donations. "This procedure could be useful for disciplining unruly individuals without actually killing them. And I'm sure you would have some fun along the way."

  "Tell me more, Mr. Greystone," Mr. Zhao said. His eyes were gleaming with barely disguised interest.

  I took out the printout about lobotomies and read a few lines: "Transorbital means through the eye socket. Lift the upper eyelid, put the orbitoclast under the eyelid resting on the top of the eyeball, position it upwards at a certain angle, then hammer the orbitoclast two inches into the frontal lobes, pivot toward the nose, return to the neutral position and send it a further four-fifths of an inch into the brain. There's quite a detailed description here," I summarized the text and gave it to Mr. Zhao.

  "That is really is one of the best gifts I’ve received recently. You are a man who really appreciates my interest, I will not forget it, Mr. Greystone," Mr. Zhao said enthusiastically. I just prayed that I wouldn't create even bigger monster further down the line through feeding his sadistic instincts. But I needed his help.

  He put the box and the instruments away, and we s
at down at the table. Two girls brought in food. I’ve no idea what it was, but looked like a soup with eyes floating in it. Funny coincidence. We started eating. I took a few spoonfuls of the soup. It was quite tasty, a bit spicy, but overall a nice flavor in the mouth. I avoided the floating eyes though. Mr. Zhao picked out the eyes from the soup first. It must have been a delicacy.

  After a few moments, he cleared up any doubts I had about the contents of the soup. "In case you were wondering what the soup is made of, it's monkey’s eyes. Not a traditional Chinese dish, but wonderfully pleasant to the palate regardless of that. Have one, I'm sure you'll be delighted with the taste and flavor," he encouraged me.

  "Thank you Mr. Zhao, the soup is delicious indeed," I wasn’t getting the gagging reflex yet, but the thought of eating monkey's eyes, in fact eating eyes in general, was sure to make me retch. "Eating eyes is not part of my cuisine either. If I remember rightly, my mother didn't cook eyes at all, although she died young. I think I'll just stick with the soup, not to upset my stomach with unfamiliar food," I tried to wriggle out of having to taste the monkey's eyes.

  "As you wish, Mr. Greystone, you have no idea what you’re losing," he said. A note of disappointment was present in his voice.

  After brunch, there was some tea with an equally horrible taste as last time, probably some kind of green tea again, although this time it was even more pungent. After tea, Mr. Zhao offered some drinks, and I was happy to observe he had some good whiskey, Middleton, so I washed away the taste of the tea with half an inch of decent whiskey.

  "Mr. Greystone," he finally proceeded to business, "I made some inquiries and my contacts told me there was a recent transaction where a hand rocket launcher was purchased. I have confirmed the name – it was Ron Morgenthal, the same name you mentioned during your last visit, if I remember correctly? My informers told me that Ron Morgenthal is closely connected to Igor Ivanov, the boss of the Russian mob. He's a freelancer, does occasional jobs for other organizations as well, but the Russians are his main employer."