‘Yes, good afternoon,’ he said, ‘I’m looking for a flight to Cork in Ireland. What’s that? Oh, sorry, from New York; any of the major NY Airports will do. Yes, I can hold.’
He cradled the receiver and waited. He never did anything spontaneous; maybe it was time to start.
Chapter 19 – Resurrection
13th May 2011 – Three Days after the Storm.
It is not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection. – Voltaire.
The beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, like stars in a cloudless night sky. He didn't notice the small sprinkles of perspiration on his upper lip, or the way his tongue was stuck out to one side of his mouth, so intense was his concentration.
For years, Max had regarded himself as an in-between. He had a sliding scale in his head of what he should be earning; his true net worth. At this precise moment of his life, he was definitely the wrong side of the middle. In other words, he was not happy.
He had done moderately well in his career, but nowhere near as well as he felt his talents deserved. He lived in a nice area, not in a private and fashionable new resort, with celebrity neighbours and twenty four hour security. He drove a nice car, not a self-indulgent, Connolly leather bound Italian sports car. His kids had gone to a nice school, not the best and most exclusive school that money could buy. In other words, in Max’s eyes, his reward was in no way commensurate with his ability.
Then to top it all, one day, he had come home early from work, to find the impossibly tanned and handsome gardener, completely at odds with the white of the living room couch, and the naked, writhing paleness of his wife.
He didn’t complain; in all honesty, he had been getting bored with home life. He didn’t contest the divorce, and his wife got half of everything. He didn’t mind that either; he’d hidden the majority of his income from her for years. He never really saw her again after that, and his relationship with his two kids drifted into a resigned acceptance, and then almost boredom. He rarely spoke to them, and when they both hit college age, he only really met them at special occasions. Even then, they only spoke in the stilted code language of related strangers.
Max had moved to a small apartment downtown, which he rarely graced, apart from sleeping and the occasional takeout. But it was here that his true personality began to take hold. Divorce and hard work combined to create a fertile breeding ground, and he inhaled the toxins gladly; greed and resentment, the twin pillars of corporate America.
He kept it well hidden, especially from his employers. A man with a chip on his shoulder is dangerous. A man who feels superior to the people he works for is slightly more dangerous. But the man who feels he has something to prove to himself; he is the most dangerous of all, a viper ready to turn and strike.
Max was always looking for the angle. He didn’t see things in black and white; he didn't see things as legal and illegal, he just saw things as opportunities. If he thought he could get away with it, he would exploit those opportunities to the maximum. In his eyes, that is what made him a danger to his employers. He secretly saw himself as superior. To him, it was all about intellectual power, an area where he had always excelled.
He did not realise how focused and ruthless his employers were. Their street smart intelligence trumped his Walter Mitty dreams, and although he didn’t know it, he was becoming a liability to himself.
He looked up, as the entrance to his office darkened. His eyes flicked back to his watch; it was a quarter to nine, another late-night.
‘We’re heading home now, Max,’ said Jerry, one of his post-grad students.
‘Are you coming, or are you going to stay a little longer?’ asked Ben, the other one.
Max waved the two of them away.
‘No, you guys head home,’ he said. ‘I’ve just a couple more things to tidy up and then I’ll be off myself.’
As he heard the outer door to the office bang shut, he was unreasonably reminded of ice cream. Then he realised what the ongoing tickle in his mind had been; his two students were called Jerry and Ben; Ben and Jerry. He smirked and then his stomach gave a little rumble. All this thinking about food was making him hungry. He checked his watch again. He must be nervous; he had already checked it numerous times, it was quarter to nine.
He slid the photocopied page into the front of the folder. He’d tried to make it look as authentic as possible, or as authentic as a Photostat could. The butterflies in his stomach told him he had done the right thing. Keep hold of the real one for insurance. He took the other folder back to the safe in the corner of his office. He closed it firmly and spun the dial. You could never be too careful.
Ten minutes later, his cab pulled up outside Rudino’s Restaurant. He’d picked Rudino’s purely because of its association with the Mancini's; hiding in plain sight they called it.
He’d thrown the taxi driver fifty dollars; the man had kept up a steady stream of conversation since he’d got into the cab, but Max hadn't understood a word of it. The drivers face brightened and a broad smile cracked his dark African features. Money talks, thought Max with a smile. Everyone understands the language of cash.
The Maitre D nodded towards Max as he walked through the door; Max was a regular customer, well-known and respected in the area. He gestured toward the corner and got a thumbs-up; his normal table was free.
When he got to the booth, he slid sideways into the seat and immediately busied himself, laying his attaché case beside him, before checking his BlackBerry for text and phone messages.
He was so engrossed in what he was doing, that it took a polite cough to make him look up. He blinked in surprise; a surprise compounded by the head waiter running across the room toward him, while trying to disguise it from the other diners.
‘Glad to see you are on time,’ said the stranger. ‘If you remember, punctuality is one of the tenets by which I judge character.’
‘I’m terribly sorry Mr Max,’ said the head waiter, a couple of seconds afterwards, and slightly out of breath from his fast glide across the floor. ‘I had quite forgotten that your guest had already arrived.’
‘No problem,’ said Max distractedly, as he waved the waiter away.
‘Do you always stare like that at old acquaintances?’ asked the stranger, interrupting his train of thought.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Max, closing his mouth with a snap. ‘It’s just I was expecting someone....’
He searched for the appropriate word, before the stranger found it for him.
‘Different, maybe? I’ll take that as a compliment,’ offered the stranger. ‘I like being different. Or have I changed that much?’
Max shrugged. The waiter brought the menus over, which they studied in a slightly stilted and awkward silence.
‘I’ll have the Caesar salad to start,’ said the stranger, ‘followed by the seafood tagliatelle.’
The waiter nodded his understanding.
‘And for Mr Max?’ he asked.
‘I'll have the bruschetta to start,’ said Max, ‘followed by the Italian mixed grill.’
‘Any drinks or wine?’ asked the waiter.
Max flicked a stare at his companion, who declined to comment. Max glanced quickly at the wine list.
‘Give me a large bottle of still and a large bottle of sparkling water. And bring me a chilled bottle of the Pinot Grigio, too,’ he said.
‘An excellent choice, Mr Max,’ said the waiter. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
‘Long time, no see,’ said the stranger, as they watched the retreating back.
‘I only make contact when it’s something good,’ responded Max.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said the stranger.
‘Have I ever let you down?’ asked Max.
‘I don’t know, have you?’ asked the stranger.
Max leant forward across the dimly lit gloom of the corner booth.
‘I think you are going to like this,’ he said with a smile.
He reached f
or his attaché case, but was interrupted by the arrival of the first course. They both sat back as the waiter placed their dishes in front of them. Max dribbled some olive oil onto the corner of his plate, and picked up his bruschetta. He dipped and ate methodically, groaning inwardly at the perceived effect the oil would have on his cholesterol. He could hear the crunch and snap, as his companion slowly dispatched the Caesar salad.
‘So, what’s this amazing thing that has you twirling your Rolodex to my number after fifteen years?’ asked the stranger, through the last mouthful of salad.
Max laid his plate aside and placed his attaché case in front him on the table. He extricated its sole contents, a black ring binder, which he handed wordlessly across the white tablecloth and then he sat back and waited. He knew it would take a while. The empty plates were collected and the main course was deposited. Max tucked in with gusto. His companion, using a fork with one hand, eagerly digested both the tagliatelle and the black file. The main course went, with espresso and grappa replacing the empty plates.
Eventually, the stranger sat back, grabbed the small shot glass of colourless temptation and knocked it back in one go.
‘Where did you get this?’ asked the stranger.
‘From you, obviously,’ answered Max, with a smile.
‘Don’t try to be smart, it doesn't suit you,’ said the stranger.
Max’s own expression hardened.
‘Let me worry about where it came from,’ he said.
‘This is a photo copy,’ stated the stranger. ‘If we do business, it has to be all of the copies.’
‘If I get what I want, you’ll get what you want,’ said Max.
‘Your original source?’ asked the stranger. ‘How can you be sure they don't have a copy?’
‘Who are they?’
‘Yeah, right!’ snorted the stranger. ‘Like you found this idly discarded in the trash.’
‘I am certain of it,’ said Max eventually, ignoring the slight. ‘They came to me because I have particular talents in this area. They trust me implicitly.’
‘Do they?’ asked the stranger. ‘Well I don't. I need hardly remind you what will happen if you cross me.’
‘If I get what I want, then so will you,’ repeated Max emphatically.
The stranger nodded, as if making up their mind about something.
‘Okay, meet me at the normal place,’ said the stranger. ‘If you can remember back that far, that is.’
Max smiled; he remembered.
‘What time?’ he asked.
‘Midnight,’ said the stranger. ‘And you better have all the copies with you.’
Max watched dispassionately as the stranger got up to leave. He waved away the offered money which was wordlessly withdrawn.
‘You can reimburse me later,’ he said under his breath, to the fast retreating back.
#
The hotel was exactly as he remembered it. The dingy yellowing foyer, the movie posters on the walls, the battered leather sofas next to the old fashioned payphones; it was like a snapshot from his memory. In fact, the only thing that had changed in the last fifteen years was the man behind the desk. He was slightly uneasy at the unfamiliarity, but he needn’t have worried. He handed over the plain white envelope with the word MEETING written in capitals on the front.
The desk clerk slid the envelope around to face him, read the single word and stared up at him for a minute or so.
‘Room six-sixty,’ he said unblinkingly.
The familiar sights, sounds and smells of cheap hotels assaulted his eyes and nostrils, as he made his way up the rickety stairs. The lifts had never worked, so he was quite out of breath when he made it to the sixth-floor landing. He made a mental note to check out his fitness level. Maybe this time he would last the full year of his gym membership renewal, without letting it lapse.
The light bulb was blown at his end of the corridor, which made it seem gloomy and almost sinister. He gave himself a couple of minutes to recover his breath, as his eyes became accustomed to the artificial twilight.
As he shuffled past the rooms, counting down the numbers, he could almost visualise what was taking place inside them. The rhythmic banging of a headboard on a flimsy partition wall, the chink of glass on glass, a TV blasting the best of the days sporting highlights, the screams and thumps of flying words and objects; all the facets of human behaviour playing out.
At last, he came to the door in question. He knocked once and then tried the handle. The door was open, but unusually there were no lights on. He stepped quickly into the room; cautious but not overly scared. Suddenly, he heard a click behind him as the lights came on. The room was completely empty.
He whirled around; the only thing his panicked brain could think of was the word giant, before a familiar voice spoke to him.
‘Hello Max.’
He barely had time to register the blur of movement. He didn't even feel the impact of the cosh on the side of his head, as he slumped to the floor in blissful ignorance.
#
He came around slowly, disoriented at first, but gradually realising that he was lying on his side. He could also feel the cold metallic embrace of the handcuffs that were fastened around his wrists and ankles. As consciousness flooded back, he realised his body was bent backwards around something; a large cube of some kind. There was a chain between the shackles that bound his ankles and his wrists; a chain that maintained the tension in his oddly curved body, making it impossible for him to straighten from the imposed banana shape he was being forced to endure.
As full understanding returned, he realised that as well as contending with the painful bindings, he was in a completely unfamiliar place. It was most likely a warehouse. He could smell the vigorous saltiness of the sea and hear the harsh shrieks of the gulls; probably somewhere on the docks.
‘Max, Max, Max,’ said a familiar voice.
Max swallowed hard.
‘We really don't like our employees stealing from us,’ stated Guido simply.
Max gave an involuntary cough, as the boot thudded into his lower abdomen. He lay on the floor, retching and gasping as Guido turned to the man beside him; the not so gentle giant, who would always do his masters bidding.
‘Thank you Antonio,’ he said. ‘You have done very well tonight. I think that will be all.’
‘As you wish, Mr Mancini,’ replied Antonio.
He dragged two chairs to the centre of the warehouse, in front of the prostrate and slowly recovering Max.
Guido and Ernesto sat and watched, as Antonio’s retreating footsteps echoed loudly off the empty warehouse walls. They regarded Max with rueful interest, but didn't speak again until they heard the double clang, as the warehouse door was opened and then closed again.
Ernesto tapped the attaché case he was holding.
‘These are only the photocopies,’ he said. ‘You were told to bring the originals.’
Max opened his mouth and screamed as hard as he possibly could. The two old men watched him dispassionately and with a slightly bemused amusement. The fear in his eyes was palpable, as he shrieked and cried until his voice finally cracked; their expressions never wavered.
‘Feel better now?’ asked Guido.
He got up and kicked Max; a light contact compared to the last one, the mental impact not helped by Guido immediately wiping the toe of his Italian loafer on Max’s clothes in distaste.
‘Nobody’s coming,’ he said, as he sat down again. ‘So you need to focus and answer our questions.’
‘As I was saying,’ said Ernesto, continuing the train of the conversation. ‘These are only the photocopies. You were told to bring the originals.’
‘Go to hell,’ responded Max quietly, without any trace of aggression.
It was a simple statement.
‘It’s such a pity,’ said Guido, addressing Ernesto directly, as though Max was no longer in the building. ‘He was such a good worker; very useful.’
‘Just like any other tool
,’ Ernesto replied. ‘They get blunted and broken with use. You either mend or re-sharpen them or you....’
He left the rest of the sentence blank.
‘Still, a pity all the same,’ said Guido.
The two men got up heavily and walked around behind Max. He could hear their soft footfalls retreating. From his prone position on the floor, he had to strain his neck to try and see where they were going.
‘Please, I can explain,’ he started to beg.
The tears were coming in floods, the self pity well and truly engaged.
‘Too late, I’m afraid,’ Ernesto shouted back sadly. ‘Once the worm has turned, he can never go back to his original hole. The time to talk is over.’
‘Do you think this is far enough back?’ asked Guido. ‘It’s where Antonio told us to stand.’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Ernesto.
Max heard a click.
The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space. Antonio had wired the hinges of the safe, as well as the dial that controlled entry. The simultaneous detonation of the concentrated high explosive at the three points had blown the door clean off.
As the ringing in their ears diminished, and the smoke and dust cleared, they could see the door, lying a full thirty feet away from the initial source of detonation. They walked back from their place of concealment, a hastily erected shield of steel plate that Antonio had bolted to a couple of concrete filled oil drums.
The scene resembled a grisly and gruesome butchers shop. Max’s torso had taken the full concentrated energy of the explosion. The flying metal square had ripped his chest completely out of the middle of his body. It was missing; just not there anymore.
His disconnected legs twitched and danced in a macabre tango, while the blood poured from the shattered blood vessels like a gruesome fountainhead. They could see the pain etched on his ravaged features, the crushed bones and tattered flesh of his blood soaked rib cage trailing off to nothing.
The Storm Protocol Page 17
