by Blake Banner
“Really? I heard he’d got in too close with Sinaloa and Al-Qaeda and one of them took him out.”
He sliced into the tender meat with a very sharp knife.
“Who told you that, Bob?”
A devil in my head wanted me to tell him I knew because it was me who blew his propane tanks. Instead I said, “Oh, you know, like a lot of Americans I have a weakness for conspiracy theories. Kennedy, the Twin Towers, Roswell…”
“Successful conspiracies, and conspiracies that get blown, like Watergate, get called history. Conspiracies that are only partly successful, or get partly exposed, get called conspiracy theories. It is a very successful second line of defense. Make anyone who espouses the theory look like an idiot. The emperor’s new clothes.”
“So, are you saying he was assassinated?”
He shook his head. “No, there was a leak in the propane tanks that they used for hot water and cooking. It was an accident.”
“Oh,” I ate lamb and sipped the superb wine. Then, “So, was it true that he was mixed up with Sinaloa and Al-Qaeda, and involved in all that shady business?”
He chuckled and snorted. “You said yourself, Bob, you don’t get that powerful without resorting to violence. He was a master of manipulating the market. He took cocaine, heroin, diamond mining concessions, oil concessions,” he made an “on and on” gesture with his hand, “you name it, if he could exploit it, Charles would accept it in payment for weapons. It was an approach that made him fantastically rich, even by my standards. But of course, it was almost impossible to demonstrate a direct connection to him. He was able to maintain this external persona as a great philanthropist, a genuinely good man.”
“But he wasn’t?”
“As I said to begin with, Bob. When you achieve this kind of power, it is because you have abandoned the idea of good and evil. There is just power and freedom, or weakness and slavery. Up here, we are not in kindergarten.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
He ate hungrily for a moment, and then regarded me through hooded eyes.
“If he had not had that accident, I might have had him killed myself.” I laughed, like he was joking. He didn’t, and all three of them observed me very closely. “I am serious,” he said. “His death led directly to a huge increase in business for me. People who dealt with him, now deal with me.” He returned to his food and asked, “Do you think, Bob, that there are people who undertake that kind of contract for large sums of money?”
I puffed my cheeks and blew, swirling my wine and gazing at the color.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Gabriel. On the one hand I’d be real surprised if there weren’t assassins of that caliber. On the other hand, it has got to be next to impossible to get at a guy who is that well protected.”
Marianne spoke up again. Maybe the alcohol was loosening her tongue.
“I think there is an organization, a secret organization like Murder Inc., which specializes in taking out high-value targets. I should imagine that the operatives, the assassins, work on a freelance basis for very high fees, and they specialize in either making the kill look like an accident, or shifting the blame for the kill onto other criminal organizations.”
I chuckled. “That’s a nice idea. Do you have anything to go on, or is it just something you’d like to do?”
She shrugged. “It stands to reason. The United States has Delta Force. They need to get rid of somebody, they send in a team of their special ops men. Or they use the CIA. Other countries have similar setups. But what about organized crime? Organized crime is more powerful and better organized every day. They must have a similar sort of organization.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, “it’s well above my head. I’m not poor, but I am pretty sure I could not afford to have somebody taken out.” I laughed. “How about you, Gabriel, you ever had anybody rubbed out?”
His face was deadpan. “Oh, yes, several times. When I worked for the KGB we used to request terminations quite regularly. When the KGB closed, I remained in contact with several of our operatives, and I used them several times as I was building my empire. Now, I don’t really need it so much.”
“Wow.” I looked at Ben and then at Marianne. Ben was eating, unconcerned, while Marianne was grinning at me, but it was hard to tell what the grin meant. I said, “That’s pretty intense. Are you yanking my chain?”
“You were in the army, Bob.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement and it took me by surprise. All I could think of to say was, “I was?”
“It is in your eyes, your look. I have seen this look before. It is in your walk, the way you hold yourself, the way you play your part. Special forces, SEALs, Delta, perhaps Marines but I think not. You have not enough discipline for Marines. What I am wondering is, why are you hiding it?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Yes, so why do you hide it?”
I shrugged and spread my hands. “Force of habit, Gabriel. There are a lot of memories, a lot of things you did, that you don’t especially like to think about or talk about. And people think of special ops guys as a kind of superheroes who can do all kinds of crazy things, but we’re not. We’re just regular guys who are well trained to perform certain tasks.”
I paused. He was watching, waiting, unsatisfied with the answer. I flopped back in my chair and sighed.
“You go to a social gathering and from the guys you get one of two reactions. Either they hero-worship you and ask you a lot of dumb questions like, ‘Did you ever kill a guy?’ or ‘What was the most dangerous spot you were in?’ or they want to pick a fight with you. And the women either find you disgusting, or want to screw you because they think you must be so fit you can keep going all night.”
He threw back his head and laughed out loud. Marianne was giving me a look that said she was in the second category. She said:
“So who were you with, the SEALs? Delta?”
I was about to say Delta. I knew a lot of guys from Delta, and the Regiment had a pretty close relationship with them. But I remembered the brigadier, and my instructors telling us over and over, “Keep your lies to the minimum. Nothing is more believable than the truth. Lie only about what is essential.” So I took a calculated risk.
“Neither. I was with the British SAS.”
Yushbaev’s reaction was nothing more than a fraction of a second. It was a minute freeze, and then a smile.
“You hide it well. Whom do you work for now?”
“I don’t work. I just bum around, taking it easy, making up for lost time.”
He chortled. “I think we both know that’s a lie. But you are entitled to your secrets, Bob. I have no wish to pry. But if you ever feel like undertaking some gainful employment, keep me in mind.”
I made like I found the proposal interesting. “You serious?”
“Very. I have a great deal of respect for the SAS. We have been on the receiving end of their skills a few times.”
I nodded a few times, aware that Marianne was not taking her eyes off me. “Well, that could be interesting. How can I contact you?”
“Ben will give you a number before you leave. Perhaps I’ll drop in on you tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to think it over.”
“Yeah, that would be good. Terms would be crucial.”
“I can be generous, Bob, when I think it is worth it.”
“I believe you.”
We had coffee, cheese and dates helped along by some very fine Macallan. We talked about this and that, current affairs, nothing of importance, but I tried to act like I was out to impress him, motivated by his idea of employing me.
A little later I said farewell and he had one his surly identi-goons take me ashore. I jumped down onto the sand and the goon pushed the boat back out into the water. Beyond him I watched Marianne walk out onto the deck in the late, russet light of the afternoon. She stood watching me watching her for a moment. Then gave a small wave. I returned it and walked away, pushing through the s
and toward my Jeep.
Ten
I sat drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, looking through the dusty windshield at the figure of Charlotte sitting on the sand by the shore. I swung down from the cab and slammed the door. She must have heard it—aside from the sigh and lap of the waves, the late afternoon was silent. I approached across the sand. She had a white, semi-transparent blouse on that was tinged with gold from the declining sun. It flapped listlessly in the salty breeze. Her feet were bare, and surprisingly white, digging into the gray, damp sand.
I stood next to her, but she didn’t look up.
“How was lunch?”
“Interesting.”
“Did you satisfy your curiosity?”
“Partly.”
“What were you today?”
I frowned at her. “What?”
Now she looked up at me. “Californian beach boy? A cowboy from South Dakota? Tough guy from the Bronx? Or were you sticking with the Texan friend to oil billionaires?”
I smiled. It must have looked like an unhappy smile, because she turned back to the sand, picked up a stick and started drawing geometrical shapes, then rubbing them out.
“You’re a bit harsh, aren’t you?” I sat cross-legged, casting a long shadow across her feet. “I was curious about him. You painted a pretty crazy picture for me. You said he owned you, body and soul.” I shrugged. “So I played a stupid game.”
She didn’t answer right away. Eventually she gave a small shrug. “It’s none of my business, really. I own a hotel. You’re a customer. He’s a man I once had an affair with. Now we just have a business relationship. It’s just shitty, cruel life, rolling along.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
She looked at me, like she was vaguely surprised. “Are you?”
“Yeah. I like you. You’re a pain in the ass and you complain too much, but I still like you.”
She laughed, not a lot, but enough. “I’m sorry. It’s a bad habit. You don’t complain much, do you?”
“It was beaten out of me in the Regiment. If things go badly you haven’t got time to complain. You have to fix them, usually pretty fast. When I left it was a choice: take up residence at Grand Central, or get busy doing what I did best.”
“What was that?”
I looked out at the sea, and the horizon beyond it. The blue was turning to violet. I shrugged. “Special operations.”
“Oh.”
“I made a lot of money working in private security. Enough to retire. But before that happened the going got pretty tough. When the going gets tough, you have to think about the solution, not the problem.”
“Good grief, Bob, that sounds like something out of one of those dreadful self-help books.”
“No.” I shook my head. “First time I heard that was from a Kiwi sergeant. I can’t tell you where I was because I wasn’t supposed to be there.” I smiled. “Your government sent me there illegally, to do something even more illegal. We did it—”
“This illegal thing?”
“Yes, but on the way to the extraction point we were spotted and attacked, and had to escape into the wilderness. I was very young and had very little experience. The sarge saw I was becoming a danger to myself and to the other guys, so he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, shoved his big, bearded face into mine and snarled at me,” I did my best New Zealand accent, “‘Listen to me, you sniveling little shit! Do not think about the fuckin’ problem! Focus on the fuckin’ solution!’ I will never forget it. I am probably alive today because of those words.”
She smiled, then gave a small laugh. “I suppose that does rather put it into a different context.”
“He’s not a good man, Charlotte.”
“Who, your sergeant? He sounds excellent to me.”
“Gabriel.” She drew a few more geometric shapes. I went on. “He is not a good man, and he is not good for you.”
“Don’t.” She became serious and scrubbed out a pentagram. The sun slipped behind the headland to the west and she shuddered. I saw the goose bumps on her arms. “The last thing I need is another man to become dependent on.”
“I agree. But another thing I learned from my Kiwi sergeant was that one thing is depending on a friend, and another is becoming dependent. I could use a coffee. You want to join me?”
“Oh Lord, why do you Americans have to be so nice? Can’t you be bitter and cynical sometimes?”
I stood and she gave me her hand to pull her up. We turned toward the hotel and she slipped her arm through mine. I gave a listless shrug.
“Oh, sure, cynical, like that would make any difference.”
She laughed and briefly leaned her head on my shoulder as we walked. And that was nice.
After coffee I walked down to the port to give my preparations one last review. I checked the mines, checked my weapons and went over the layout of the boat a hundred times, rehearsing what I would have to do at every stage. I had finished putting the assault rifles and ammo in the waterproof bag with a few other bits and pieces when I heard feet up on deck. I stepped out of the cabin and locked the door as a familiar female, French voice called down.
“Bob? Are you there?”
“Yeah.”
Dusk had fallen and there was a translucent evening sky making her into a dark silhouette as she came down the steps. She paused on the last one, with one knee bent. Even in that half-light she looked exquisite.
“You don’t look so pleased to see me, Bob.”
“Am I obliged to, Marianne?”
She shrugged. “If you want I’ll leave.”
I approached to within six feet of her and half sat on the table. She was in a low-cut white dress that hugged her skin and told you she had nothing on underneath.
“Did you come to see me, or did you come for me to see you?”
“Why do you have to be so mean?”
“I don’t know. You seem to bring it out in me. What do you want, Marianne?”
“I am bored, I want you to take me to dinner.”
I thought about it for a second. It wasn’t such a bad development. Whether it was rational or not, the Regiment had always been pretty clear that we did not wage war on women or children. If I could take Marianne out of the equation early on, that would make things easier. I smiled.
“OK, but I have two conditions.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Conditions? You don’t put conditions…” For a moment she was lost for words. “I should put conditions on you!”
“Yeah, maybe that’s the way it works in France, but I am not French. First, we don’t eat at the hotel. I want you to show me somewhere more interesting.”
“Fuh!”
“And second. I have had about as much as I can take of people—including Gabriel Yushbaev—telling me how goddamn amazing Gabriel Yushbaev is. We talk about anything you like, but not Gabriel Yushbaev or how amazing he is.”
She smiled and it was almost a grin.
“You and me both, Bob. I thought I was a total narcissist, but mon dieu! C’est impossible! This man is totally in love with himself! Totally!”
“Deal? Because right now you are talking about how amazing Gabriel Yushbaev is.”
She laughed. “OK, deal.” She stepped down the last rung and came up close to me. “So what shall we talk about, how amazing you are?”
“Nah, we can talk about how amazing you are. I’m comfortable with that.”
She poked me in the chest. “You try to come across as a stupid, foolish man who knows nothing. Naïve, innocent. But it is a lie. I was watching you, listening to you. You are an actor, a bastard. I don’t know what is your game, but I can tell you are a big bastard.”
I took her small, silky chin in my hand and kissed her. Then I whispered in her ear, “You have no idea.”
She shuddered and giggled.
An hour later we emerged from the Apollonis and climbed into the Jeep. The moon had not risen yet, but there was a glow of starlight off the sea. The air was
balmy, with an occasional waft of cool air off the ocean that made your skin shudder agreeably. She’d brought Yushbaev’s Land Rover, but I refused to use it and insisted we go in the Jeep. She pretended to be annoyed, but gave in easy enough.
We went to the To Steki Tis Marias. It was on the beach on the far side of the port, a half mile drive across the scattered buildings and dirt tracks that tried and somehow failed to be a town. We could have walked it, but I wanted to have the car handy as soon as I needed it. I was improvising and I still didn’t know how it was going to play out.
Tis Marias was a nice place. It was a traditional, blue and white Greek building on two floors, with at least two big terraces and large, chunky wooden tables with gingham tablecloths. We sat at a table on the top terrace and a waiter in jeans came and greeted Marianne with a small bow and stood jerking his knees, waiting for us to order. She ordered a dry martini and a gin and tonic in Greek and he went away.
“How many languages do you speak?”
“Six, and I am studying Chinese.”
“How does Yushbaev feel about you having dinner with me?”
“You said we were not going to talk about him.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “But I don’t get this. He’s supposed to be this anarchic, possessive, territorial guy who is so dangerous to cross. But here you are.”
“Who said he was territorial and possessive?”
“Charlotte.” She made a dismissive noise. I went on, “And Ben, he said he beat seven bales of shit out of some tough guy who made a pass at you. And everyone keeps talking about how he owns people. Are you on loan for the evening or what?”
She made a face that was oddly ugly, with the corners of her mouth drawn down, and shrugged. “He beat Igor because he was disrespectful, not because he was jealous. Gabriel does not own me. I am along for the ride. This is a unique experience. I live in supreme luxury, in exchange I have sex with him sometimes. It is not a problem for me. I enjoy sex. He is good-looking. He is an OK lover. But I will get bored and I will move on.”
“And he’s OK with that?”
“Sure, why not?”
