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“Mr. Asher.” I’m not as good at this as he is.
“Go ahead,” Trap says to the PI. “Alix is read in on this. Why don’t you give us the executive summary?” He pushes the massive stack of paper away, as if it’s the source of the eye-watering cigar stench. Which, come to think of it, it might be, if the paper has spent more than fifteen minutes anywhere near Harry Asher.
The detective shrugs. “Klaus, Jonas, and Ansel Herzog are German nationals. They were born in Hamburg, to a postal clerk and a high school English teacher. Klaus is forty-three years old. Jonas is thirty-eight. Ansel, thirty-six. All three were educated in the German equivalent of public schools and attended the University of Hamburg.”
The facts are so mundane, so absolutely commonplace, that for a moment, I think they don’t matter. Herzog and his brothers terrorized me, but they’re nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was just unlucky. In the wrong place at the wrong time.
Betrayed by my twin brother.
But Mr. Asher goes on. “Separately, they’re each worth northward of fifty billion dollars. Combined, they rank up there with Bezos and Gates. Musk. Zuckerberg. That type of wealth.”
Trap grunts. He’s a billionaire himself, but he doesn’t havethatkind of money.
Yet.
Mr. Asher continues, as if Trap actually asked him a question. “Between the three of them, they have six homes. Berlin, London, New York. Zermatt. St. Tropez. Napa. Those are the ones listed in their personal names. They probably have more—a lot more—held by their corporations.”
Trap peels away the top inch of paper, making a show of studying something that looks like a family tree. Mr. Asher leans across the desk, pointing a yellow-stained index finger at the top square. “They run a construction firm in Germany, Herzog GmbH. They’re into big scale stuff—World Cup soccer stadiums, Olympics venues, airports in the Middle East. The main company has dozens of subsidiaries—architecture, finance, building supplies, the usual.”
Trap scowls as he takes in the scale of brothers’ operations. He holds up half a dozen pages with columns of fine print. “This is private banking data?”
Mr. Asher shrugs. “I know a guy who knows a guy. Best estimate, you’re looking at half their accounts. Probably less. We can’t get at anything in the Caymans or Switzerland. Belize or Singapore, either.”
Trap swears and pushes the listings away. “That’s it?”
“That’s not even the tip of the iceberg.” Mr. Asher seems to enjoy Trap’s exasperated sigh. “Near as I can tell, they’ve got the main distribution system for crystal meth in Western Europe. They’ve got their hands in other pies too. Heroin. Coke. Some new shit called Crash, supposed to be like acid, but it’s formulated special, to mess with kids’ heads. They’ve got something called Stag, too, like Viagra for college kids, or high school, whatever. They say it lasts longer than the blue pill and supercharges the pleasure center in the brain. Starting about ten years ago, they made a major play for the East Coast of the US. They’re muscling in on established gangs from Boston to Atlanta.”
“Charming,” Trap says.
I don’t say anything. I’m too busy trying to remember to breathe. My one experience with Crash scarred me for life, and my neural pathways are a hell of a lot more developed than the children the Herzogs are targeting.
Trap leans back in his chair. “So, bottom line. How am I getting at these assholes?”
“Bottom line,” Mr. Asher says. “You aren’t.”
“That’s not an acceptable answer.”
“What do you want, boss? These guys are the real deal. International agencies at their command. Whole governments in their pockets.”
“Bullshit,” Trap says.
Mr. Asher takes offense. “You gave me twenty-four hours, and I came up with all this shit. Dig any deeper, and I’ll probably find their private army.”
“Do it,” Trap says.
“Find an army?” Mr. Asher sounds tired.
“Find a wedge. A lever. I need to get to these guys, and I need to do it yesterday.”
“It’s gonna cost, boss.”
“Do I look like I give a fuck?”
Mr. Asher stands.
Trap gives him a pointed look. “Forty-eight hours, max,” he says. “Double your rate, if you get it to me in twenty-four.”
I didn’t expect the bandy-legged Mr. Asher could leave the room with that much speed.
