Dead and Gone b-12

by Andrew Vachss

  The Excursion’s cavernous back area was filled with the old man’s special chair, his oxygen tanks, and his new private nurse, Gem. The back windows were deeply tinted. Randy drove, Max on the front seat next to him. The Prof and Clarence would pick them up somewhere out of town, and ride cover for them all the way, the Mole in the back seat of the BMW.

  We figured it for approximately the same distance that the Manhattan-to-Key West run had been. Then we factored in some extra time to attend to the old man. He wouldn’t like staying in anonymous rattrap motels along the way; but he’d bought into the whole total-secrecy thing, so he’d go along quietly enough.

  And if not, between Max and Gem, he’d stay quiet.

  His yacht was already on the water, heading for the South Texas coast. “Just in case,” I had explained it to him. “Nobody wants any exposure here. If your boat’s on the water, you’re on the water, should there be any … interest in your whereabouts. We have people who can move the boat back out to sea while you’re at the clinic. And we’ll just keep it there until you’re ready to return.”

  “My own crew is on permanent—”

  “But they don’t need to know your business, do they, sir? Wouldn’t it be a better plan to simply tell them you’re having work done to the boat where it’s being taken, give them a month off, and have them stay no more than a few hours’ drive from where it’s tied up? No matter how long they’ve been with you … well, you know what the tabloids are paying for information today.”

  “I do,” he said, grimly. “The bloodsucking Jews.”

  Michelle and I flew ahead to Houston, where we picked up another rental and headed down to Galveston. The hand-over of the clinic went nice and smooth. The doc who owned it didn’t want to know anything—just when he could come back.

  The Excursion pulled in about an hour before we expected it. But we’d timed it for three in the morning, so we unloaded the old man in darkness, as planned.

  “Thanks, kid,” I told Randy. “We’ll take it from here.”

  “Burke, you know I’d do—”

  “You just did,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Let me finish, okay? I don’t know what you’re up to, and it’s none of my business, okay? But if you need to leave here quick, I’m your man, and you know it. Besides, who’s going to truck the old guy back to Key West? What’s it going to be, a week or two? Let me hang out with the Prof and Clarence, catch up on old times. Please?”

  “My man’s hip, and he’s got the chips. I say, let him play,” the Prof ruled.

  The old man had a good night’s sleep, thanks to one of the Mole’s potions.

  And in the morning, we all went to work.

  First we explained to the old man that we’d have to run a lot of tests. Sure, we had his complete medical records—he’d had a copy in his safe—but this wasn’t exactly a routine medical procedure. The clinic had all kinds of incoming communications. Bigscreen TV, radio that could pick up anything on the airwaves, a T-1 line to the Internet. But we only used cell phones, outgoing. We explained that the clinic was off the charts. And any land-line call could be traced. We wanted him to be able to do any business he needed to do, so he was free to use one of the cellulars, but if he had a fax or an e-mail or even a FedEx that needed to go out, he’d have to give it to us, and we’d see it was sent from another location.

  He just nodded. Hard to tell if it was from understanding or the drugs.

  The Mole showed me how the cellulars would patch through a microphone into the harmonizer. I’d learned my lesson from Max’s daughter, and I wasn’t going to have this whole thing die if the target had voice-recognition software.

  The T-1 found it in a few seconds. Darcadia had its own website, very slick and professionally done. But the phone and fax numbers were offshore. And there wasn’t even so much as a PO box for a physical location.

  On the surface, it looked not only legitimate, but … possible. Why shouldn’t an island in the Pacific form its own country? Darcadia was nothing but an intersection of coordinates on a map, the very tip of a long archipelago, several hundred miles from its nearest neighbor. And it was unoccupied, so there wouldn’t be any indigenous people to dislodge. It could be purchased outright from the country it was … theoretically … part of. And a sovereign government could make its own laws.

  The language of the website’s prospectus was veiled, but so thinly that even a third-generation inbred could figure it out. Strict control of immigration. Specific citizenship requirements. Complete freedom of religion “within the obvious constraints.” No gun control. No taxes—all revenues to be generated from “pre-screened tourism.” Abortion was against the law in Darcadia, which had a no-extradition policy for “citizen warriors charged with acts of revolution against New World Order nations.” Restrictions on “acts of personal or intrafamilial conduct” would not be tolerated. And on and on.

  It sounded as if everything was in place. Although it was called “the Republic of Darcadia,” the site said the new country was “a confederation, not a democracy.” It had a chancellor, and a Cabinet consisting of various “ministers,” all of whom were named. I didn’t recognize any of them, and their affiliations weren’t listed. But a few hours on the Internet connected some of them with the kind of groups I expected, covering the White Night spectrum. No pedophiles, though; they weren’t going that naked. Not yet.

  Then it got down to the money.

  “Citizenships” were going for ten grand. For that, you got a passport, “business banking” privileges, and a whole list of “exemptions” while on sovereign Darcadia soil. You could visit your new homeland at will, since citizens, unlike tourists, would be exempt from visa requirements. A “homestead” would set you back a hundred thousand, which bought you a five-acre plot and the right to build on it “free of the sort of building codes and restrictions under which many have suffered in other jurisdictions.”

  Voting was limited to owners of developed property, and various configurations were offered, including “self-contained” electrical and sewage systems, pending development of a country-wide grid. In something lifted right out of H. L. Hunt’s Alpaca, Darcadia would not hobble itself with a “one man, one vote” system. Votes were allocated on a “unit” basis, the units being reflections of property ownership.

  The crown jewel was an “ambassadorship,” a fully loaded package which included—what else?—diplomatic immunity in the ambassador’s posted country. That package was a cool million.

  As soon as the old man wanted a message sent out—to an online broker—we captured his e-mail, and I was ready to roll. Using the “investment information” button of their website, I clicked into a blank screen and typed:

  I am considering an investment of a magnitude considerably beyond an ambassadorship, provided the benefits are commensurate. I have the resources to relocate immediately should your bona fides prove adequate. Please feel free to conduct whatever investigation of my standing in the various communities of concern to which you refer thematically. I await your response.

  W. Allen Preston

  We kept the old man in a twilight stupor while we waited on the answer. He seemed fine with it, almost blissed out. Maybe because that big TV had a VCR and DVD with about a thousand movies to choose from—anything from black-and-white gangster flicks from the thirties to porn foul enough to gross out Larry Flynt. Or maybe the Mole had recombinated some anti-anxiety drugs into a cocktail that would make a heroin high look mild.

  It was four days before the old man’s e-mail popped open with the message I’d been waiting for.

  Sir:

  Because your proposal is intriguing on several grounds, not the least of which is the potential for you to contribute in ways well beyond financial to the growth and development of Darcadia, it was referred to my personal attention. However, as we are certain you will understand and support, certain precautions are necessary. Cyber-communication is immune to neither impostoring nor government s
urveillance. Please indicate your current whereabouts so that the negotiations toward a personal meeting may commence.

  Garrison König, Chancellor,

  Republic of Darcadia

  “Very cute,” Gem said, looking over my shoulder.

  “What do you mean?”

  “König. Do you know what it means in German?”

  “Nope.”

  “King.”

  “How fucking subtle,” I told her, already at work typing out my response.

  To: Garrison König, Chancellor of Darcadia Current location is southeast coast of Texas. My yacht, whose name should be known to you if your research is adequate, is being modified for a protracted cruise. We will depart as soon as all is in readiness, and I will be at sea for approximately 4–6 weeks. However, the ship is fully equipped with all communication devices, and whatever method you choose to make contact can be accommodated.

  W. Allen Preston

  I held it for six hours, then let it fly. This time, he fired right back. He had a big fish on the line, and he didn’t want it running before the hook was set. Deep. His message got right to it:

  Please call the number below. Monday, April 3 @ 20:10 CST. Principals *only*, both ends.

  As soon as I saw that the number started with 011, I knew I’d be calling offshore. And probably from there to a relay. But that was okay—the freakish fisherman had hooked an orca.

  “Monday is three days from now. Are you not anxious?” Gem asked.

  Max tapped her shoulder to get her attention, made a “Nothing you can do about it” gesture.

  She nodded. “Flacco and Gordo are in Brownsville now. They can be here in a day’s drive.”

  “That’s close enough. Let them stay where they are for now. I don’t know how this is going to play out. We’ve got the ship’s papers from the old man. I think all they’ll have to do is get the damn boat out into the Gulf and let it hang out there for a while, anyway.”

  Max pointed at Gem. Then at me. Clasped his huge, horn-ridged hands together and brought them to his heart, and then turned his face into a question.

  “Yes,” Gem said, nodding her head for emphasis. She’d already figured out Max could read lips. “He was asking if I am your wife,” she said to me.

  “No, he wasn’t. He was just asking if we are in love,” I told her.

  Max shook his head “No!” Then he pointed at Gem, and nodded “Yes.” Telling me she’d gotten his question right.

  I made a “Why not ask me?” gesture.

  “Michelle never asked me,” the Mole contributed.

  I shut up.

  The old man was holding up fine. Apparently watching porno flicks under the influence of the Mole’s mixtures was a new experience, even for a guy who had enough money to buy pieces of a whole country.

  The Prof and Clarence kept a low profile. Their part was firepower, and it wouldn’t come into play unless we had visitors.

  So far, all quiet.

  Monday night, 8:08 p.m. I punched the long string of numbers he’d given me into the cellular, giving myself a two-minute margin for the international connections to go through.

  The Mole nodded to tell me the harmonizer was working perfectly. Gem knelt at my feet, her cheek against my thigh. Max was in another room of the clinic, watching the old man. The Prof and Clarence were outside, checking the grounds.

  Showtime.

  The phone was answered on the third ring. By a crisp-sounding young woman who spoke unaccented English. Aryan English.

  “Chancellor of Darcadia’s office. How may I direct your call?”

  “To Chancellor König himself, please. This is W. Allen Preston. I understand he is expecting my call.”

  “Yes, sir. Please hold while I connect you.”

  The connection took a lot longer than it would to push a button. No surprises yet.

  “This is Chancellor König,” a voice said. Not one that I recognized. I brushed the dark fluttering wings of panic off my mind, staying focused. Would I really know his voice after all these years, anyway? And with the bridged-through connections …?

  “Chancellor, this is Allen Preston, calling as agreed. I am honored to speak with you.”

  “The honor is mine, I assure you,” he said. “So I trust you will forgive my bluntness, sir. Before we get to specifics, to the entire authentication process”—a window opened in my mind: Authentication. Lune’s own word. What if? I slammed that window shut, focusing hard on him saying, “… we would need to know the size of your contemplated … investment.”

  “I am prepared to invest twenty-five million dollars,” I told him, my tone conveying that, while I respected such an amount, I wasn’t in awe of it.

  “You do understand that, given the fledgling nature of Darcadia as an international entity, we cannot, at present, accept—”

  “The investment would be liquid,” I cut him off, trying for an old man’s imperious timbre. A rich old man’s. “The twenty-five million would be in American dollars only as a point of reference. It could be delivered in any currency you select, via wire transfer.”

  “Yes, I see we understand each other. And you would expect … what, precisely, for your investment?”

  “The opportunity—no, the guarantee—to live as I choose, exactly as I choose, without fear of government intrusion. Any government’s.”

  “Surely that sum of money could buy you those same—”

  “Forgive an old man’s abruptness,” I cut him off again. “But all such options have been explored, thoroughly. And rejected on two grounds: First, I wish to be a participant in government, not a mere guest. This is because I will not tolerate being an extortion victim for various ‘taxes’ of an ever-escalating variety. Second, the most accommodating governments are inherently unstable, and I cannot risk a change in power placing me at risk, especially as I will not use air transport of any kind.”

  “I understand. And on Darcadia—”

  “I assume the third consideration is not necessary to mention, despite its being inherent in my requirements.”

  “I am sure not,” he said, smoothly, refusing to take offense at my constant interruptions. “Waterfront property is available, with sufficient dockage constructible to accommodate ships of any size. But I believe ambiguity is a potential source of dissatisfaction between associates and, thus, should be eliminated. So, as to your other specifications, if you will enlighten me …”

  “Certainly, sir. Those ‘accommodating’ governments of which I spoke are run by mud people. I will not spend my final years in a country controlled by animals. You describe Darcadia, if I have read your prospectus correctly, as a country which would be openly racialist in its orientation.”

  “Darcadia is a sovereign area. As such, it is free to—”

  “Are you deliberately evading my question?” I snapped at him.

  “Mr. Preston, my apologies if you took that to be my intent. Let me match your bluntness with my own. Non-Aryans will not be permitted on Darcadian soil.”

  “Ah, that is unfortunate,” I said, setting my own hook.

  “Sir?”

  “I have certain … servants, if you will, who are not Aryans. They are my … preference. Am I communicating sufficiently?”

  “You are,” he said, returning serve effortlessly. “My apologies. I should have explained that the prohibition is against citizenship and tourism. But Darcadians who enjoy a certain … status would be free to operate their private estates entirely at their own discretion. Is that satisfactory?”

  “It … sounds so,” I said, centering myself for the bluff that the whole thing hinged on. “But I would need to see who I would be dealing with as well as the specifics of the deal. After all, what I would be investing in is, to some extent, intangible … at least for the present. But what I would be delivering is quite tangible. So, if you can come to my estate on Key West, at your convenience of course, we could finalize—”

  “My regrets,” he said. “This would be, fr
ankly, impossible. News of Darcadia has attracted considerable government interest. And I am, at least on paper, an American citizen. Neither I nor my Cabinet can subject ourselves to the jurisdiction of—”

  “Yes, yes,” I cut him off, impatience dominating my voice. “All right. You pick our meeting place, then. But let me caution you: I will not fly. I simply don’t trust airplanes. So, if it is a considerable distance, be prepared to wait until I can make the journey by ship.”

  “You are being more than reasonable, sir. Could I ask you to call back in twenty-four hours? I will have an answer for you then. A satisfactory answer, you have my word on that.”

  “Twenty-four hours from right now? Or at eight-ten my time tomorrow night?”

  “You are a very precise man.” He chuckled appreciatively. “Let us say eight-ten once more. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” I said. And hung up on him.

  “Call them in,” I told Gem.

  The next night, I went through the same routine, including the “receptionist,” and got him on the line. As soon as he started talking, I had to shut him down.

  “Look,” I told him, allowing the impatience of the character I was playing to come through clearly, “just because I own a yacht doesn’t make me a damn sailor. You’re going to have to go slow; I need to write this all down.”

  “Certainly,” he said, calmly. “Remember, we are meeting on your terms. That is, a place you can reach by boat. Your captain will know the Oregon coast …?”

  I felt a bone-deep chill. How could he …? I rotated my head, slow and soft, like Max had shown me. Then reversed the direction. When I had control of my voice, I said: “What are you asking? Can he find the damn coast, or is he familiar with it?”

  “The former, sir.”

  “Then of course!”