by Mario Bolduc
He pointed in the direction of the dhow and its cargo of refugees. “That’s the Africa of the past, exploited and resigned. Little by little it will disappear, I’m convinced. Thanks to us. Thanks to America. Obama’s message about dictators is clear. He doesn’t want them to have a seat at the table.”
Harris let his words settle, then added, “Our new president’s position will have more impact than all of George W. Bush’s armies put together. Obama understands that diplomacy and public relations are the best weapons to fight the barbarians weighed down by obsolete customs.”
Max caught the expression on the young lady lawyer’s face. She was glowing, radiant. She drank in the billionaire’s words. America had evolved, and every ounce of her strove to represent that change. Years of chaos and bad decisions, years of international relations that were no more than a farce — now the government was moving in a new direction. America’s superiority must be based on a moral contract. Power would be applied through respect and restraint.
“We can’t impose justice, democracy, and civil rights on the rest of humanity if we continue to make a mockery of our essential principles,” Harris went on.
Ferguson set the drinks before the passengers, then retreated behind the counter where he pretended to polish the copper fixtures.
As Max sampled the Scotch, Harris said, “I admit it. Dominating the world was a responsibility, and we were poorly prepared for it until very recently. That’s why there were so many mistakes, bad alliances, and other false starts. We cozied up to every dictator on the planet, and that tarnished our reputation among the very people who needed our help and support.”
Silence greeted his words. If Harris expected Max to comment, he made no indication. The Scotch was excellent. Max placed his glass on the table and shot a smile at Harris, who returned it.
Now that the preliminaries were over, it was time to get down to business. Despite the air conditioning, Max was burning up. Was it the Scotch? More than likely nervousness could be blamed. He might appear self-assured, but deep down he knew the stakes were high and the situation might sour at any moment. Too late to turn back now, though.
With amusement in his voice, Harris said, “All these stories about pirates seem exaggerated, Robert. Like you, I’ve seen the items on TV, but all the same —”
“They’re former fishermen pushed out by the boats of other countries that pillage Somalia’s territorial waters to their heart’s content,” Max retorted.
“The poor bastards have no government to protect them.”
“They’re well armed and bolder by the minute. One day, you’ll see, they’ll attack ships right outside Mombasa.”
“I doubt that. The Kenyans will stop them.”
“There’s still time for you to turn around.”
Harris burst out laughing. “And let those hoodlums decide which way the Sunflower will sail? Not on your life.”
“As you wish.”
“I’m telling you. In my opinion the threat’s overblown. Boarding a yacht by force, neutralizing the crew and passengers. Demanding ransom …” He pointed to the dhow again. “Now those are guys who can’t defend themselves.”
“And neither can you,” replied Max, seizing the opportunity.
“Pardon me?”
“Boarding a yacht. Demanding ransom.” Max looked Harris in the eye. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
A moment of silence, then Harris burst out laughing. “That’s the best one I’ve heard all day!”
Max ignored the sarcasm. “Two million dollars.”
Harris took a step back. Ferguson stopped polishing his counter. The lawyers on board looked at one another.
“Payable immediately,” Max added.
In the Sunflower’s salon, a pin dropping could have been heard if the floor hadn’t been richly covered in triple-ply shag carpet. The atmosphere had suddenly cooled dramatically, and it wasn’t because of the roaring air conditioner.
“So you’re not —”
“A maritime security specialist? No.” Max paused for effect, then went in for the kill. “I’m a con artist. My specialty is billionaires like you, Harris, self-important, who have too much money for their own good. I’ve always detested people like you. Your speechifying, your fake generosity, your good intentions absolutely oozing with hypocrisy — it makes me sick. Just be happy making money, Harris, and don’t bother preaching your two-bit morals.”
For a moment Harris stared at Max in disbelief. He hated to be made fun of, especially in front of his underlings. Hated to be lectured. He was sure Max was making a terrible mistake.
“You’re a rat, Flanagan. A bold rat, but not a very smart one.” He sighed, finally gathering his wits. Ferguson took a step in Max’s direction, but Harris motioned him to stop. “It’s obvious you don’t know who you’re talking to. I don’t get kinder when provoked.”
Max said nothing. He couldn’t wait for this to be over, to be rid of these clowns, starting with Harris.
“Why don’t you leave this yacht right now?” Harris offered in the voice of a used car salesman. “I’ll forget this even happened and won’t call the police. I’m giving you a chance. Your only one. The last one. If I were you, I’d take it.” He smiled. “I have a big heart. Too big, some have said.”
“Two million dollars.”
Harris said nothing. Max kept one eye on Ferguson who, he knew, wanted only one thing: permission to demolish this imbecile who believed he could fleece his boss.
“Come now, Flanagan, be serious. Do you think you can really get away so easily?”
“Yes.”
Harris smiled again, munificent. “I made you an offer. Accept it now and get lost. I want you gone from my life.”
The silence felt endless.
Max pulled out his Stellar telephone as Harris and Ferguson watched, curious. He pressed a button, as if wanting to demonstrate the phone worked, as if to say that even in the deepest reaches of Africa a man couldn’t live without his Stellar.
“What’s this all about?” demanded Harris, confused.
Max’s call went through. On the screen, mountains appeared, snow and blue sky. He held the phone out to Harris. “Here. It’s for you.”
Harris frowned at it, puzzled, then recognized the voice scratching through the speaker. “Dad, Dad … are you there?”
He grabbed the phone from Max. His son appeared on the screen, head shaved, wearing the robes of a Buddhist monk.
It was windy in Nepal. From time to time, a length of fabric blew across Little Jim’s face, and he pushed aside the cloth impatiently.
The lawyers strained to see. They didn’t understand, either, but they did pick up on their boss’s distress. Ferguson pushed past them and moved toward Max like an enraged animal, stopping only inches from him.
“Jim, are you okay?” Harris asked, voice trembling.
“Of course,” Max answered. “He’s in perfect health. For now.”
On the screen, a second monk appeared, revolver in hand: Jayesh Srinivasan. He pointed the weapon at Jim’s head. With his other hand, he held the Stellar phone, it, too, pointed at the boy.
“Despite what you see, my colleague believes in non-violence,” Max explained. “He’s been meditating with your son for the past couple of weeks. They’ve been discussing and interpreting the various sutras that contain the Buddha’s teachings. Today the two monks went on an excursion to the mountains. No one has any idea where they are.”
A gunshot issued from the phone’s small speaker. Harris jumped back.
“My offer is very simple. Either you pay me two million dollars now, or Jayesh puts a bullet in Little Jim’s head. After meditation comes reincarnation.”
“You’re completely out of your minds!” Harris shouted. “This is terrorism!” He had lost his self-confidence, and his billionaire’s smile had faded, as well. “If you touch a single hair …”
Another gunshot echoed from the phone speaker. Max took the Stellar
from Harris. “If I were you, I wouldn’t push my friend too far. He tends to get edgy. Impatient, too. Non-violence does have its limits.”
Again, silence. Harris was caught in a trap, and everyone knew it.
A third gunshot rang out.
“I … I don’t have that much money on me,” Harris stammered.
“That’s your problem. In three minutes, if my colleague hasn’t had word from you, he’ll kill your son.”
Ferguson, his muscles bulging, waited for the order to rip off Max’s head. Fat drops of sweat stood like beads on his forehead.
“Two million,” Max repeated.
Harris turned to the man who did his dirty work, who was waiting for directions.
Max held his breath.
Then Harris glanced back at Max, without speaking to Ferguson. “All right.”
Max handed him a scrap of paper with a series of numbers. “Your account in Zurich. And mine in another bank in Europe. A phone call, your password, voice recognition, and the transaction is done.”
“They’ll refuse. They won’t want —”
“It’s Saturday,” said the lawyer from Atlanta, her voice breaking. “Everything’s closed.”
“Ask for Alison in the foreign deposit service,” Max said. “She’s working overtime. And she’s a friend.”
“You’re a bastard, Flanagan,” Harris snapped.
“Two million.”
Harris took out his smartphone with a trembling hand. Placed a call to Zurich. Asked to speak with Alison, who wasn’t immediately available.
Max was concerned, Alison was Jayesh’s contact, not his. But she ended up taking the call.
Harris ordered the transfer, choking on the words. A moment later Max received the confirmation on his second phone. The call came from Zurich, as well, from a colleague of Alison’s at Deutsche Bank who had been recruited by Jayesh.
It was in the bag.
Max whistled off his drink.
He couldn’t resist looking back at Ferguson as he exited the salon. The bodyguard seemed totally bewildered by the situation, his hypertrophied muscles useless all of a sudden. Everyone else, Harris included, wore identical expressions of blank astonishment. Max rarely had the chance to see his victims’ faces. Usually, they came to the realization that they’d been bilked long after the fraud artist had disappeared.
On the bridge, the overwhelming heat nearly knocked him down. Rashid was waiting in the boat at the foot of the ladder. His eyes were still glued to the tiny screen where President Obama’s visit was being played out.
Captain Robson appeared out of nowhere and came toward Max, surprised to see him leaving so soon, unaware how the visit had ended. Max gave the man’s viscous hand a brush-off handshake and put his foot on the first rung of the ladder. Harris and his friends watched from the open sliding door. The sun blinded them.
“You’re worse than the pirates, Flanagan,” Harris snarled.
“I am the pirates.”
“You’re going to pay for this.”
It wasn’t worth answering, or humiliating him further.
Harris cursed but said no more. Max noticed the dhow weighted down with Somali refugees. The boat had drifted and now lay off to starboard. The tarp offered a little shelter to the unfortunate souls who’d been baking in the sun. How many would die before the end of the day?
Max turned to Harris. “Those poor folks are dying of thirst. Invite them on board. A few minutes ago you were so eager to relieve their suffering.”
Harris’s look changed from anger to incredulity.
“I’m sure your well-stocked bar could be used to good purpose, even if they are Muslims. They’re thirsty, they’re hungry. You’re the only one who can help.”
Max took out his Stellar phone again. It had become a weapon as death-dealing as a pistol. It featured a virtual trigger he could pull from far away. Once more, Little Jim’s life hung by a thread.
“Come on, Harris. Charity never hurt anyone.”
The billionaire hesitated, then nodded to Captain Robson, who didn’t react. Harris insisted. Resigned, Robson ordered his crew, who began waving toward the dhow, urging its captain, if it had one, to tie up to the yacht.
Max watched as a kind of frenzy took hold of the refugees. Men began working to start the engine, pushing women and children aside. Shouts and cries came from their craft. Slowly, the dhow moved toward the yacht, which no doubt seemed like an impossible vision to the refugees, as if it were just one more mirage.
Max called out to Harris, who was posted by the sliding door, “Good work! With guys like you, Africa’s in good hands.”
Harris stalked into the salon as Robson’s men sprung into action. The Third World in all its misery was about to invade their space, and measures had to be taken.
Not long after, as Rashid was slowing in preparation for entering the harbour, Max tried to reach Sophie in Bukoba to announce that Valéria’s money problems were now a thing of the past. She must have turned off her cellphone, so he left her a succinct message, leaving out the particulars.
Before they docked, Max took a last glance backward. The dhow was securely tied to the yacht and the passengers were moving up the ladder in a steady stream, then spreading across the boat like a column of army ants on a mission. The crew had clearly lost control, though Robson and his men were doing all they could to herd the crowds into one corner. Harris and his guests hadn’t returned to the bridge. They must have locked themselves in their cabins as the human wreckage, the other Africa, the Africa of poverty that was supposed to be disappearing, took over their yacht.
The next evening, all around the Serena Inn, Zanzibar was transformed. Decorated. Illuminated. All in honour of Barack Obama, whose face was seen everywhere, on enormous billboards, a combination of rock star adulation and Soviet-style propaganda.
The new president’s personality fascinated and charmed the population, and his African origins made him one of them. No one had believed he would be elected, and his victory still felt unreal.
A black man leading the world’s most powerful country. No one could wrap their mind around it.
“Now the Americans will have a reason to think about Africa instead of just exploiting it,” said the barman from behind his counter.
Max sipped his drink and ignored the attempt at conversation.
“What do you think about it?” the barman wanted to know.
“I don’t think anything. I don’t know Africa well enough, and the United States, either. A bad combination.”
“Finally, Tanzania is turning around.”
“I sincerely hope so,” Max said in a neutral tone.
At the end of the previous day, Vincent Kalitumba, manager of the Dar es Salaam branch of the Bank of Baroda, confirmed that the money had been transferred to the account Max had opened for Valéria. After his success with Harris, the latter’s money had zigzagged across the world, making it harder for an investigator to follow it, if ever one got on the case. Jayesh took his share, and Max did the same, which left a million for Valéria.
“The Europeans are missing the boat!” the barman exclaimed. “Especially the British. Not to mention the Chinese. A new world is about to begin, Mr. Cheskin.”
Cheskin — the pseudonym Max had given when he checked into the hotel. He’d been using it since settling in Africa.
“Then that’s a good thing,” he told the barman.
His cellphone gave him the perfect excuse to escape the babbling barman. It must be Sophie, finally returning his call.
“Robert Cheskin?”
A man’s voice. Something was wrong.
“Who are you? Where’s Sophie?”
“Inspector Henry Kilonzo, Tanzanian police.”
“What’s going on?”
“Where are you, Mr. Cheskin?”
He had no reason to lie. “In Zanzibar. I want to talk to Sophie.”
The silence was endless.
“Sophie Stroner is dead.”
/> Max felt the earth falling away. “Then I want to speak to Valéria.”
“She’s dead, too. They were both murdered.”
4
Albert Kerensky chose the retirement home because the room on offer had a window on the Walls Unit at Huntsville, the oldest penitentiary in Texas. His entire career had been dedicated to that place, outside of a short stint at the Dallas prison. Stanford Hill wasn’t the most modern residence in the area, its equipment outdated, sheets worn thin. Roselyn took it all in the first time she visited.
Money wasn’t what motivated his choice. With his generous government pension, he could have treated himself to Woodbridge Manor or even Brighton Lodge on the road to Houston. But Albert insisted on Stanford Hill, and that was that.
Roselyn gave in.
If her husband wanted to end his life in solitude as he contemplated a lugubrious penitentiary all day long, that was his problem. If their daughter, Norah, had been on this earth, she would have convinced him to change his mind. But there was no one left except Roselyn now, and Albert had never listened to her, even when her arguments were worthy and well founded. He wasn’t the sort of man to listen. All her life she’d tried to accept his capricious nature as her mother had done with her father. She hadn’t had as much success.
After Norah’s death from chronic kidney failure several years earlier, Roselyn suddenly saw the extent to which her daughter had been the only thing that had provided a semblance of order and stability in her husband’s life. She was the one who provided the motivation for him to get out of bed in the morning. Not Roselyn. After Norah’s death, Roselyn thought they might recover some of the companionship they’d had earlier in their marriage, but that wasn’t the case. Albert had always been prone to nostalgia, and the tendency worsened as he grew older. He lived entirely in his memories that meant nothing to anyone else except for his pal, Glenn Forrester, with whom he could exchange stories of the good old days.
To her dismay, Roselyn realized she wasn’t indispensable to her husband. At age seventy-six she was still alert, strong, even though time had taken its toll. Her back was straight, she was tall and elegant, the way her mother had been. Next to her, Albert was fragile and self-absorbed; over the last year he had lost all appetite and seemed depressed. Even the TV had stopped holding his attention. One evening he announced he was going to leave Houston, where they’d been living since he retired and they had sold their house. He intended to go back to Huntsville and get a room at the Stanford Hill Residence.
