A man dressed in tan chinos, a white open collared shirt and a blue sports jacket walked into the Palm Beach offices of S3 and strode confidently to the desk of Jill Kline who would later describe him as “perfectly non-descript”. He appeared to know where he was going and with whom he wished to deal.
“Good morning, sir. May I help you?”
“It is I who can help you.” The man was expressionless as he withdrew an ordinary white envelope from his jacket pocket.
“Excuse me?”
“If you wish to see your employer again, follow these instructions.”
The man placed the envelope on the edge of Jill’s desk. Before she could react he turned and walked out. A few seconds passed before the stunned woman’s brain processed her visitor’s advice. She sprang to her feet and ran toward the main entrance screaming all the while.
“Mac! Mac Larsen! Help me! Help me!”
The nimble Larsen took scant seconds to drop his phone, vault over the desk, and intercept Jill at the office’s front door.
“Jill, what the hell is going on?”
Rather than answer she grabbed the big man by his shirtsleeve and dragged him out onto the sidewalk.
“Jill, you have to tell me what’s going on. Calm down.” He put a hand gently on her shoulder.
“A guy came up to my desk. Blue jacket and tan pants. We have to find him.” She pulled on Mac’s shirtsleeve again. He followed her with an eye peeled for the man she described. The parking lot contained a handful of cars and no men in blue jackets.
“Jill, what did this guy do?”
“He said, ‘if you want to see your employer again follow these instructions.”
“What instructions?”
“A letter. He left a letter on my desk.”
Mac did an immediate about face, sprinted into the building, and directly up to Jill’s desk. It took her more than a full minute to catch up with him.
“Jill, stand back. Let me take a look at this first.”
“Why?” Jill asked the question, but obeyed his instructions. Mac fished in his pocket for a pair of rubber gloves then gingerly held the envelope up to the light.
“Do you remember the anthrax attacks after 9-11?”
“Yes.” Jill, you dunce!
She watched as the ex-secret service agent thoroughly inspected the still sealed envelope. Satisfied it contained no threats he motioned for Jill to follow him into Joey’s office.
“This looks OK. Let’s see what’s inside.” He took a letter opener from the desk, slit the top edge of the envelope, and extracted a single piece of plain white paper. The sheet bore a short message typed in caps:
FRANK: YOU HAVE THE WOMAN I WANT AND I HAVE THE WOMAN YOU LOVE. CALL ME.
“What the hell? Does this mean Joey’s alive?” Jill peered up at Mac Larsen, her face a question mark.
“The fire department couldn’t find any trace of her at the house so my guess is ‘yes’. I worried about kidnapping from the beginning.”
“At least she’s alive.” Jill’s feeling of relief was tempered by Mac’s response.
“For now.” He had a grim look on his face as he picked up the phone on Joey’s desk and dialed a number from memory. There was an answer before the second ring.
“Mac.”
“Frank, we need to talk.”
“Go.”
“A guy delivered a message to Jill this morning. He said, ‘if you want to see your employer again follow these instructions’.”
“What were the instructions?”
“A single sheet of paper. “You have the woman I want and I have the woman you love. Call me.”
“Serge.” His voice remained steady, but Frank labored to keep his pulse rate level.
“I agree. What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing for now. I’ll get back to you.”
“Standing by.” Mac hung up and gave Jill a wry smile. “Boss says ‘stand by’ until he gets in touch.”
“Like I said, at least we know she’s alive. She’ll be back soon.”
“From your lips to god’s ears, Jill.” Mac lumbered out of the office carrying the envelope and sheet of paper in his still gloved hand. He’d have it examined, but he already knew there would be no prints, nothing remarkable about the type and no DNA on the seal. Worth a shot, anyway.
Frank picked up one of his cell phones, the one set to route calls through his Palm Beach office number. An expert could eventually trace the call back to its source, but in this case, that was the point.
A pensive Serge Malroff sat in his suite at the Principe di Savoia when his phone buzzed with a call being forwarded from his office.
“Well, the Big Bad Wolf.”
Frank chose to ignore the smirk in Serge's voice.
“Your stooge visited my office. What do you want?”
“I’m surprised you need ask. I want Anya Kovich.” The psycho’s voice became smooth and self satisfied.
“I don’t have her.” Beretta said flatly.
“You can get her. Just do it!” Malroff maintained his calm almost cheerful demeanor.
“If I don’t?” Frank goaded his nemesis to see how he’d react.
“You deprived me of a playmate once. I’ve been looking for a replacement for years and your little Joey is such a beautiful thing. I wouldn’t mind keeping her around to play with for awhile.” Now he spoke with the cheerful lilt of a psychopath. He thinks he has the upper hand, just like the last time.
“Serge, tell her you blew her house up and see how playful she is.”
“You’re wasting time, Frank. Call back when you have Anya.”
“One last thing, Serge. One way or the other, you’re dead.”
“Of course, Frank. You said that the last time.”
Frank hung up and dialed another number.
“Katya, I need your help.”
59.