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62
Pierre Hotel
During the thirteen-block ride from Phillip Somerset’s town house to the Pierre Hotel, Leonard Silk made a series of hurried phone calls. The first was to Executive Jet Services at MacArthur Airport on Long Island; the second, to a man who had run guns to the Contras and cocaine for the cartels. Lastly, Silk called an old friend from the Agency named Martin Roth. Marty was a supplier of cyber-and-surveillance specialists and, if circumstances warranted, muscle and firepower. His private security business was based in a warehouse in Greenpoint. Silk was a regular customer.
“When do you need them?” asked Marty.
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“The traffic in Midtown is a bitch. And I’m stretched pretty thin as it is.”
“Do what you can,” said Silk as his Escalade drew to a stop outside the Pierre’s Fifth Avenue entrance. “My client will be grateful. And so will I.”
Inside, the hostess in the Two E Bar & Lounge greeted Silk by name and showed him to a corner table. A glass of single malt appeared a moment later, followed soon after by Ray Bennett, aretired NYPD detective who now served as the Pierre’s director of security. Nothing happened inside the hotel’s walls that escaped Bennett’s notice, which is why Silk paid him a substantial monthly retainer.
Bennett wasn’t alone. There were others like him at every high-end hotel in town, all feeding Silk a steady stream of dirt, most of it accompanied by receipts and security video. Information about the private lives of reporters was a priority. Bennett had once given Silk the means to kill aNew Yorkmagazine exposé about one of his most important clients. Silk had rewarded his asset with a $25,000 bonus, enough to take the financial sting out of his divorce settlement and pay for his kid’s tuition at Holy Rosary.
Hotel regulations forbade Bennett to sit down with a customer, so he remained on his feet while Silk made his request. “There’s a woman staying in a suite on the twentieth floor. She’s acquainted with an important client of mine. The client is concerned she might be in danger.”
“What’s her name?”
“She checked in under Miranda Álvarez. Her real name is—”
“Magdalena Navarro. She’s a regular.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, she’s only set foot outside the hotel once since she arrived.”
“What’s she been doing with herself?”
“She had a dinner party last night.”
“Really? With whom?”
“Her friends from across the hall. They checked in at the same time. False names. Just like Ms. Navarro.”
“I need their real names,” said Silk.
“How badly?”
“Ten thousand.”
“Twenty.”
“Done,” said Silk.
Ray Bennett returned to his office, closed the door, and sat down at his computer. As director of security, he had unlimited access to guest information, regardless of their demands for privacy. He called Leonard Silk a moment later and read him the names.
“Sarah Bancroft and Gabriel Allon.”
Bennett’s iPhone pinged with a text message.
“Look at the photograph I just sent you,” said Silk.
Bennett enlarged the image.
“Recognize her?”
