The Ardoon King

by Samuel Fort

  Chapter 52: Ridley in Denver

  The Year 1987, First Era

  “The New World Airport Commission,” reiterated the young architect, flipping back to the front of the packet and staring at its embossed cover. “Never heard of it.”

  “Newly formed,” replied Ridley. “For this specific project.”

  Jesse Beavers, architect and engineer, frowned and very slowly shook his head. He was a handsome young man in his late 20s, clean cut with thick, well-groomed hair. He wore a pressed white shirt and thin black tie. On his nose rested a pair black-rimmed glasses of the kind popular in the in the 1960s. He was a good-looking geek; the kind of geek that drew in members of the opposite sex who had no room in their lives for jocks.

  “I’ve heard you enjoy challenges,” prodded Ridley.

  “Challenges, yes. But this? This has trouble written all over it, and to be honest, I doubt it will ever happen regardless of who your backers are.”

  “It will happen, Mr. Beavers. You will either make it happen or you will watch it happen.”

  Beavers sniffed the air as if trying to pick out a scent. Staring at the many framed awards on the wall to his right, he said, “The cost will be exorbitant, especially given the subterranean facilities you’re requiring – which, I might add, have no utility whatsoever. Denver has a perfectly functional airport.”

  “It does not meet my requirements.”

  The man laughed. “Your requirements? What are those, exactly?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Beavers pushed his glasses higher on his nose and began spinning a pencil between his fingers. He smiled at his ancient visitor. “So…you’re, ah…you’re just going to move the whole airport, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re – I mean your commission – you’re going to move a major international airport away from the city it serves to a plot of land thirty miles away – basically to the middle of nowhere?” He chuckled. “The taxi companies are going to love you.”

  “Wonderful,” said the man.

  Beavers blew out his cheeks. “Look, I’m sorry. The whole scenario is just too unbelievable. There’s no reason to move the airport, the location you’re moving it to makes zero sense, and the cost is going to be through the roof. I could go on and on.”

  The scribe nodded and checked his watch. “I understand your concerns, of course.”

  The architect waited for additional comment. His guest simply watched him. It was unnerving. “Mr. Ridley?” he asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Was there something else you wanted to say?”

  “Not just now.”

  Beavers’ desk phone rang. Ridley nodded at the instrument. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

  “Sorry, I’ll just be a moment.”

  The architect picked up the receiver. “Jesse Beavers speaking.” A moment later, the man’s brows shot upward. “Really?” Seconds passed. “No, that’s…I’m flattered. I’m grateful, of course, but-” The young man’s smile was bitter. “I had no idea he was involved. Well, I’ll definitely consider…right.” A long pause followed. “Which commission is that? Uh-huh. No, I think I’ve got it.” He looked at Ridley. “Absolutely…uh-huh…yes, I’ll be in touch. Thank you.”

  The call ended, Beavers leaned forward and created a steeple with his fingers. “Okay, I’m having second thoughts. You have powerful allies, apparently.”

  “Powerful enemies, also.”

  “What? Oh, sure, of course. I guess that comes with the territory.” The architect glanced at the ceiling and moved his head side to side. “Since it’s apparently going to happen with or without me, I might as well throw my hat in the ring. Even if the project is a disaster economically, the design will be recognized as-”

  “You’ll be working anonymously, Mr. Beavers.”

  The other man’s eyes became saucers. “Anonymously?!”

  “It’s a security precaution. I’ll arrange for a proxy team of designers to take credit for your work and to manage the project.”

  “No! That’s outrageous!” exclaimed Beavers. “No. Unacceptable!”

  “You’ll still be paid handsomely, if that’s the issue.”

  Red-faced, Beavers rose from his chair. Placing his fists on his desk, he barked, “That is not the issue. Money is not the issue, Mr. Ridley. You’re asking me to devote years of my life creating something almost unimaginable, most of which will never be seen because it will be buried underground. I could tolerate that, but to remove my name from the project entirely is both nonsensical and unfair. What is built aboveground will be seen by everyone. It would be…” The man waved his hands in the air, his anger limiting his vocabulary.

  “A monument to your creative process?” offered Ridley.

  “Something like that, yes,” nodded the man angrily. “You are asking me to sell a decade of my life. I would go from one of the top architects in the country to the subject of a ‘where is he now?’ article in Architectural Digest.”

  “We can work around that, Mr. Beavers. I will have other designs – quite marvelous ones – credited to you even as you work with me. Your fame will not fade, I assure you.’

  Beavers slammed his fist into his desk. “My God! Now you are suggesting I plagiarize? That I take credit for someone else’s work?”

  “It seems a fair exchange.”

  “Get out!” screamed Beavers, pointing at the door. “I want nothing to do with this insane project of yours!”

  The old man didn’t move. “No,” he said calmly.

  “Get out, I said!”

  “No.”

  This refusal caused the architect’s anger to reach new heights. He strode passed Ridley to the door of his office and attempted to hurl it open. It didn’t budge.

  “It is locked,” said his client. “Not that it matters. The men standing outside would prevent you from going anywhere.”

  This declaration caused Beavers to take a step back. Then another. He slowly circled back to his desk, the expression of anger replaced by one of confusion - and fear.

  “Sit down, please, Mr. Beavers.”

  The architect sat. His face slack, he mumbled, “You’re…what?” He shook his head. “Mob? Organized crime?”

  “Organized, yes. Crime, no. I do not break the laws, Mr. Beavers. I write them.’

  “I don’t understand,” said Beavers. “Who are you? CIA?”

  “I’m your creator,” replied the other man evenly.

  “What?”

  “You are my creation, Mr. Beavers. You cannot understand how – that is very much beyond you, because you are Ardoon. I was the person who scripted your parents’ marriage, your conception, your interests, your friends, your hobbies, and your education. I have, in almost every sense, made you, and I have made you for this specific purpose. I have made several others just like you for the same purpose. They remain available to me. If you do not follow this script, I will move you into a different one.”

  Beavers raised his dazed eyes to meet Ridley’s. “A different one?”

  “I will make you a killer.”

  The architect’s chin dropped. “I would never-”

  “You enjoy a remarkable track record for a man your age. You’re famous. Many consider you the reincarnation of Frank Lloyd Wright. Your designs are innovative and daring and unconventional. Your buildings seem to defy the laws of physics.”

  “So?”

  “In the coming months, three of your most notable buildings will suffer catastrophic structural failures. Hundreds will die and thousands will be grievously wounded. One of the casualties will be a powerful U.S. senator’s beloved daughter. Your blueprints will be pored over and in time experts will find that your designs were inherently unsound.”

  Beavers’ face went white. “Impossible.”

  “During the design phase of each of these buildings I took the liberty of tweaking your structural calculations to make them just a bit ‘off.’ I am very good at mat
h, Mr. Beavers. You cannot fathom how important math, statistics, and probabilities are to a man in my position. It was not difficult for my associates to replace a few of your drawings with my own. The changes are practically invisible. I don’t blame you for failing to detect them. You could not even now. They are in a thousand different places, all of which seem inconsequential, but as a whole, they are exceptionally dangerous.”

  “But-”

  “Work with me, and I shall have these little issues addressed. Quietly. With a few minor renovations seemingly unrelated to the structural integrity of the buildings, your works might stand forever. Otherwise, they will fall, Mr. Beavers.”

  “You’re insane!”

  The scribe stood. “A familiar accusation. I sense you doubt my capabilities, so I’ve required a few other things undone, merely as a demonstration of my resolve.”

  Beavers came to his feet. “What do you mean by ‘undone?’”

  Ridley checked his watch. “As of…three minutes and thirty-three seconds ago, you have no professional licenses, college transcripts, or credit history. You have no DMV record and no bank accounts. You have no home, auto, or life insurance. You have no social security number and no retirement accounts.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “You will see that I am. That should only take a few hours. Tomorrow morning, I will send my servant, Mr. Fetch, to speak to you on my behalf. You will never see me again. Agree to work for me and I shall restore your life to you, Mr. Beavers, and increase your fortune a thousand fold. Refuse, and I shall demonstrate my displeasure by having two of your associates killed by sunset. People with whom you are attached, I’m afraid.

  “Additional killings will follow, at random, until your buildings collapse. That should undo you completely, at which point you will try to kill yourself in a rather horrible manner. The attempt will fail, but the physical consequences will disfigure you in such a way that you will pray for death for the remainder of your life. A death I will not allow.”

  The ashen-faced architect said, “I’ll call the police.”

  Ridley shook his head as he moved toward the door. “Why ruin still more lives? Anyway, I don’t think you will. I have spent almost three decades shaping your mind, Mr. Beavers. I am perfectly aware of what can and can’t do. You’ll do the right thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some artwork to inspire.”