Death Benefit

EPILOGUE

MARCH 26, 2011, 6:05 A.M

.

Even though it was Saturday, Russell Lefevre had set his alarm for 5:45. He clamped down on the buzzer, before it woke his wife. Lefevre padded into the bathroom and then downstairs to make coffee and to check on events on the Internet. As the coffee was brewing, Lefevre scanned the online headlines of The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and The Washington Post. Russell had always been fastidious about keeping up with the news, but in the past few weeks he’d become obsessed, especially since Edmund had become less and less communicative.

Even though Russell had asked him numerous times, Edmund had never told him what he and Jerry Trotter had talked about at Edmund’s house a few weeks before, even though Edmund had looked thoroughly shaken afterward. A week or so later, Jerry Trotter disappeared. When Russell called Max Higgins, Max said Jerry had gone on a fact-finding trip to Asia, and he had no idea when he’d be back. Edmund had nothing to say about that. Then Russell read about Gloria Croft being attacked while out running one morning in Central Park, and Edmund told Russell he had no idea what had happened then, either.

Two days earlier, all the newspapers carried the story about Rothman and Yamamoto, first about their being sick. Then they reported that the pair had died in a tragic accident in the lab. Russell didn’t know what to feel or what to think. First Jerry disappeared, then Gloria was attacked, then Rothman and Yamamoto died. On its own, each of the latter two events was a piece of good fortune, but together, they were surely more than a coincidence. Did Edmund have anything to do with it? Could these events have been what he and Jerry talked about? It seemed impossible to comprehend that Edmund was involved, but Russell couldn’t bring himself to confront his partner.

Russell made coffee and looked for the New York Post. When he saw the newly updated headline on the home page he nearly choked:

COLUMBIA MEDS IN KGB COPYCAT SLAY?

Under Jemima Meads’s byline was an exclusive about Rothman and Yamamoto. Hedged with “allegedly” and “reportedly,” the story said that acting on an anonymous tip, the reporter had contacted members of the New York Office of the Chief Medical Examiner who were working on the theory that the exotic radioactive agent polonium-210 was involved in the deaths of the two prominent Columbia University researchers. The find was made by the husband-and-wife team of Drs. Jack Stapleton and Laurie Montgomery, who, having been reached by the reporter at their Upper West Side town house, refused to confirm or deny the story, referring the reporter to the OCME’s public relations department.

The discovery was immediately reported to the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and the NYPD Joint Organized Crime Task Force because of its significant implications and similarities to the 2006 murder in London of a defected Russian FBS agent by the Russian FBS, the current incarnation of the Soviet KGB.

Polonium-210, the article said, is a remarkably poisonous compound millions of times more deadly than cyanide if swallowed or respired. It’s also extraordinarily difficult to come by because of its association with triggering nuclear weapons and is thought to be available only in Russia, Pakistan, and North Korea.

At this time it wasn’t known if the deaths were connected to a shooting reported outside the Columbia Medical Center that evening.

Russell dashed to the phone and fumbled to call Edmund. He knew he was waking him as the phone rang for the sixth time.

“Russell, what the hell?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Edmund, go online, look at the Post. It says the researchers were murdered, with some nuclear poison. Oh my God, Edmund.”

“All right, Russell, calm down. You better get over here.” Edmund hung up. Russell wanted to throw up, but he composed himself, went back upstairs, and got dressed.

He started driving toward Edmund’s house, his mind racing, trying to make connections, thinking about the coincidences and how they now looked like something so much more. Like murder. As he drove, Russell failed to see that a beat-up old Toyota Corolla had pulled out and was following him through the twisty Greenwich back roads.

Edmund had opened his gates and Russell drove directly into the walled courtyard in front of the waterfront mansion. He leaped from the car and bounded up the front steps and impatiently leaned on the doorbell, whose muffled chords he could just make out coming through the massive door. Where was Edmund? He rang the bell again. The only other sound he could hear was the gentle cacophony of songbirds.

At last, Russell heard a bolt being drawn back on the heavy door, then another sound, of a car coming quickly up the drive. He turned and watched bemused as a tan sedan skidded to a halt inches from his own vehicle and two figures jumped out and ran toward him. They were wearing hoods and holding guns. The door opened and Russell twisted his head back and said one word. “Edmund.”

“They sold us out,” Edmund said.

Then the men opened fire, both with pistols muffled with silencers. Russell fell forward the way he was facing, across the threshold of Edmund’s house. Edmund had no time to process what he was seeing, that there were two men firing weapons at him, that he’d gambled on this venture and this was how he lost. He fell backward, propelled by three bullets in the chest. He fell straight back, only the soles of his most comfortable pair of slippers visible.

The first man walked up the stairs, looked at Edmund, leveled his gun, and shot him once more in the forehead. The second man kicked over Russell’s body and did the same to him. The men looked at each other and nodded. They found the spent cartridge cases and picked them up, then walked back to the car, got in, and removed their balaclavas before driving off.

At the wheel, Prek Vllasi navigated the drive out of the gate and turned onto the road. Prek turned to Genti Hajdini and banged once on the steering wheel. Both men smiled.