Alexei touched the pool wall, turned, and moved into the adjacent lane. “To make sure he will exist,” Alexei said. “We’re going to create him.”
“I think I understand,” Emma said. “Do you have a specific company in mind on which to base our profile?”
“It just so happens that I do,” Alexei said. “Pearl Knight Holdings.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Over the years, Alexei Drovosek has sat in rooms with some of the richest and most influential individuals on the planet. Among them were presidents, prime ministers, princes, sheikhs, religious leaders (including the first African pope), drug lords, weapons dealers, media moguls, generals, and CEOs. As powerful and distinguished as each of these individuals was, Alexei could not recall a single one of them being as difficult to access as the headmaster of the New Rutherford Academy for Boys in Boston, Massachusetts.
Not only were Alexei’s calls to Dominique Levin never returned, but after leaving several messages, his handset’s IP address was blocked. Similarly, the first few correspondences he sent went unanswered, and subsequent messages bounced. He tried searching several indexes—most of which he had to buy his way into since they were illicit—hoping to uncover alternative means of making contact, but he never found a single hit that didn’t ultimately prove to be a false positive or otherwise a dead end. Attempts to schedule a meeting with Levin in person did not even get Alexei past the front security gate, much less as far as a secretary or an executive assistant he hoped might be susceptible to bribery, coercion, or some form of seduction.
Eventually he resorted to renting an apartment in Cambridge and tapping his local connections to get himself invited to a series of private and very exclusive functions. The idea was not to network, however. Networking was not what one did at these types of affairs. These people owned the network. They were the network. Networking was for outsiders trying to find a way in; for members of the working class who were cursed with more ambition than birthright; for those who were still either optimistic or ignorant enough to believe that success was about who you knew rather than who you could gain leverage over. One does not network at events where unsmiling men in dark suits, dark glasses, and earpieces stand with their hands crossed before them at every entrance. Rather, one mingles. One mixes. One exchanges gossip about whoever happens to be just out of earshot at that particular moment. Communication occurs through complex innuendo, and inside information is exchanged with nothing more than a slight twitch of the corner of the mouth, or the subtle elevation of the eyebrows, or perhaps a well timed but enigmatic toast. Either that, or one gets drunk and makes a complete ass out of oneself before being ushered away and chastised by one’s spouse in harsh but hushed tones.
Progress was slow but steady. Security measures designed to expose extortionists, kidnappers, paparazzi, ex-wives, illegitimate children, and other undesirables required diligent and methodological navigation. It was at an art auction in Beacon Hill where Alexei learned that Dominique Levin was, in fact, female, and that she owned several racehorses. During a private gathering at Suffolk Downs, Alexei was seated with a group who believed Levin was expected to speak at a charity event at the end of the month. And it was at the Artists for Humanity EpiCenter during the annual Winter Gala Benefit for students of inner city public schools that Alexei was finally able to walk right up to Levin, introduce himself, and pitch the idea of a new scholarship fund in front of enough of her peers that there was no way she could decline a short follow-up meeting to discuss the matter further without coming across as exactly the type of person she was there to prove to the world she wasn’t.
A background check on Alexei’s fake identity had already been completed by the time he arrived, so after a backscatter scan inside of a windowless room in the rear of the guard house, he was escorted by two formally dressed, severe, and predictably reticent individuals across the grounds. The students they came across were surprisingly disheveled: shirttails hanging out over belts; collars open and unstarched; ties both loose and askew; hair down to their eyelashes in the front and their collars in the back, undoubtedly to within fractions of a millimeter of regulation, and probably well beyond when wet. They watched Alexei and—failing to identify him as any of their friends’ fathers, chauffeurs, or lawyers—regarded him with a combination of disdain and curiosity.
The campus buildings were precisely what one would expect from an exclusive private academy located in New England: red bricks, white columns, and lofty steeples. Although it was well past the winter solstice, the lawns were perfectly verdant and the trees—having probably been genetically compelled to do so—still shone in bright autumnal hues.
Levin’s office was on the top floor of the main building beyond one final checkpoint and the desk of a young male assistant. After fastidiously consulting his records and privately conferring with Alexei’s chaperones, the young man faked a half-assed smile and granted Alexei passage. The heavy wooden double doors were ceremoniously pushed open before him, and Alexei was invited to pass beyond the threshold.
The headmistress sat behind a glass panel which, as Alexei entered, pivoted and lowered into a flat horizontal plane embedded in the surface of her dark mahogany desk. She was still reading as the office doors were closed and Alexei took the liberty of seating himself in a plush leather chair. From where he was sitting, the panel appeared to be blank.
“Mr. Drovosek,” Levin finally said. She touched the corner of her screen and looked up. “Very well played yesterday. You are nothing if not a persistent man.”
Levin was probably in her late fifties, with straight black hair infused with such stark silver strands that they stood out like tinsel. It was cut for efficiency—the absolute minimum that could still be considered remotely feminine—and was merely brushed rather than styled. Her lips were thin and pale, and she wore a dark suit over a plain white blouse. As he assessed the woman in front of him, Alexei guessed that Levin had gone so long without wearing makeup that it was now impossible for her to do so without drawing the kind of attention that she would outwardly abhor, but that some deeply buried part of her has probably always craved.
That, Alexei decided, would be his way in.
“And you are nothing if not the most evasive and inaccessible individual I have ever tracked down.” He said this with a slight smile and in a tone that bordered on flirtatious; however the effect was entirely lost on the headmistress.
“My time is in very short supply—as is yours, I’m sure—so perhaps we would both be best served by skipping right to the point of your visit.”
“Right,” Alexei said. “Straight to business, then.” He cleared his throat and crossed his legs. From here on out, he would need to improvise. “I’d like to sponsor a nationwide chess competition, and I would like the winner to receive a full scholarship to your school.”
“I see,” Levin said. “Thank you for thinking of us; however I’m afraid we don’t have room to accommodate even a single additional student. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. The guards will see you out now.”
“Hold on,” Alexei said. He uncrossed his legs and straightened himself in his chair. “I’m not asking you to waive tuition, of course. I intend to cover everything: room, board, uniforms, stipend—all of it. In fact, I was even planning on making a very generous donation to the school.”
“It isn’t a question of money, Mr. Drovosek. It’s more a question of affiliation. If the best junior chess player in the country belonged at the New Rutherford Academy, surely we would know about him, and surely he would already be here. However, since we do not know about this individual—whoever and wherever he may be—he obviously does not belong with us, and therefore could not possibly be successful here.”
Alexei frowned. “Surely you agree that an aptitude for chess is a sign of intelligence,” he insisted. “Certainly a boy who proves himself one of the best critical and analytical young thinkers in the country belongs in one of the best schools.”
Levin sighed with great exasperation. “You went to a lot of trouble to track me down, so I’ll do you the courtesy of a succinct explanation. How much do you actually know about this school?”
“I know it’s the most prestigious preparatory school in the country.”
“That’s correct. Do you know what it is that we prepare our boys for?”
“College, presumably, and whatever careers they choose beyond that.”
“That is incorrect. We do not prepare these children for higher education or for their chosen careers. We prepare them for one thing and one thing only: power. You see, Mr. Drovosek, college is a foregone conclusion for these boys. Not only will each and every one attend a top university, but each and every one will graduate with honors. Similarly, it goes without saying that each of our boys will embark on a successful career after college. That is not what makes my school unique. You can find academic excellence at any number of private institutions around the world, and even several fairly good ones here in this country, but I promise you that you will find no better instruction on the acquisition, retention, and application of power. That is the core of what we teach.”
Alexei leaned forward. The woman he had pegged for an insufferable bureaucrat was turning out to be unexpectedly enlightening. “Indulge me, Ms. Levin. How does one teach power?”
“How much have you really thought about the nature of power, Mr. Drovosek? Have you ever considered what it is that makes one man powerful and the next man weak?”
Alexei shrugged. “I assume attributes such as intelligence, money, and connections.”
“Again, foregone conclusions. Table stakes, as we say. True power is about one thing and one thing only: control over others. And do you know what it is that gives one man control over another?”
“His position?”
“No. Hierarchies do not bestow power. They are occasionally an approximate expression of its distribution—and I emphasize occasionally—but they do not, in and of themselves, make one man more powerful than another. The correct answer is charisma.”
Now that he had gotten Levin talking, Alexei was determined to either find a way to circumnavigate her resistance, or at the very least walk out of her office with something of an education of his own.
“Interesting,” he said. “I’ll accept that. But how do you define charisma?”
“Charisma, Mr. Drovosek, is not what you say, but how you say it; it is the difference between what you wear, and how and when you choose to wear it; it’s not about the doors that are unlocked to you, but about how you occupy the room once you’re inside. Charisma is about the tone of your voice, the length of your pause, the distribution of your attention among those who crave it. It’s not about always dominating a conversation, but it is about always determining its outcome. It’s about knowing when revealing a vulnerability might be more advantageous than projecting invincibility. It’s about knowing the difference between being cruel in order to bend others to your will, and being cruel so that you might one day be kind in order to make others want more than anything in the world to please you. Intelligence, money, and connections are, by themselves, blunt and uncut tools. Charisma is what puts the edge on them.”
“What about humility?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Humility. Compassion. Limitations. How do you teach your students to be responsible with their power? How do they know when they’ve accumulated enough?”
“Enough power is ultimate power, and ultimate power is unobtainable. The nature of power can best be characterized by Zeno’s best-known paradox. Are you familiar with it?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“Consider a journey between points A and B.” The headmistress illustrated with her hands on the surface of her desk. Her fingernails were well manicured, but short and unpainted. “In order to cover the full distance, you must first travel half the distance between the two points. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“After you’ve covered the first half, you must then cover half of the remaining distance. And then half of the remaining distance again. If you keep dividing the distance between yourself and your destination in half—which, of course, you must—you can never actually arrive. So you see, those who seek ultimate power will never truly arrive at their destinations. Instead, they must somehow find meaning in vanishingly small distances and details and victories. It is not my job to teach these boys humility and limitations, nor is it my job to teach them how to be content. My obligation is to their families, and it is fulfilled not by instilling a sense of peace, but rather by opening in each and every student a boundless and insatiable void that they will spend the rest of their lives trying to fill.”
“With all due respect, Ms. Levin, I believe you’re wrong.”
The headmistress was amused rather than offended. She leaned back in her leather chair and, for the first time during the course of their conversation, actually smiled. “Am I, Mr. Drovosek? How so?”
“There is true joy and fulfillment to be had in wealth and power, but not in its accumulation. Peace is found only in passing it down to the next generation. That’s the real value of what you provide. You’re not here to make your students happy—I understand that—but what you do might just account for the only real fulfillment and joy that these boys’ parents will ever experience.”
The headmistress’s smile had vanished. She watched Alexei with a curious intensity. “I must admit, Mr. Drovosek, that perspective had not occurred to me.”
“Ms. Levin, I’ve spent my life accumulating a great deal of material wealth. I have everything anyone could ever want, but what I don’t have is someone to pass it all down to. To be perfectly honest, I’m not here to ask you to give some poor, underprivileged chess prodigy a chance at a better life. I’m asking you to give me a chance at a more peaceful death. I’m asking you to give me the one thing every man eventually seeks: a legacy.”
The panel in the desk illuminated. The headmistress watched Alexei for a moment longer, then looked down.
“Mr. Drovosek, I’m afraid our time is up.” She touched the screen, and a moment later, Alexei heard the double doors open behind him. “But I believe I have your number.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Ukrainian-built hydrofoil known as Predvestnik was met well east of the Marshall Islands by six orange-hulled response boats with .50-caliber forward-mounted machine guns and two belt-fed, gas-operated, 7.62mm fully automatic cannons mounted port and starboard. Beyond the response boats was a 418-foot Legend-class warship, angular and bright coral-white against the turquoise Pacific, its bow still emblazoned with scarlet from its former life in the United States Coast Guard. The deck and bridge of the long slender cutter bristled with antenna supporting its shipboard electronic warfare suite and barrels of varying lengths representing the business ends of both close-in and long-range weapons systems. The eye of its main 57mm naval gun watched the comparatively tiny hydrofoil with eerie impassivity, and when the lead patrol boat hailed, Alexei promptly gave the command to cut the engines, lower Predvestnik’s colors, and stand down.
The private maritime fleet’s job was to protect a flotilla of fifty-nine decommissioned and partially dismantled luxury cruise liners with tonnages ranging anywhere from sixty thousand to a quarter of a million. The ships were connected by a network of railed gangplanks, and were permanently moored inside the tropical and still partially irradiated embrace of the twenty-three coral islets collectively comprising Bikini Atoll. The primary concern of the cutters, response boats, multimission choppers, and one of only three privately owned Virginia-class submarines was to defend the flotilla against pirate attacks. The region had actually been fairly stable until the Combined Maritime Forces who were sent in to investigate the relatively minor problem of Australian pirates themselves went feral. As a result, the islands of the North Pacific had become home to thousands of enterprising and opportunistic nomads from all over the world—motley bands perpetually casting
about for new sources of supplies, wealth, and human commodities suitable for hard labor, organ harvesting, or any and all forms of carnal indulgence.
The clump of entangled hulks was collectively christened Celebration Island, and its improbable existence owed itself to a chance seating arrangement at a wedding reception. At the corner table sat the CEO of Celebration Cruise Line who was at his wits’ end as to what to do with an entire fleet of vessels which were no longer economically viable now that the very rich tended to favor either their own custom-built private yachts or jet-accessible corporate-owned islands, while the most popular form of vacationing for just about everyone else in the country had finally been reduced to the ultimate low of camping. To his left sat the United States ambassador to the Republic of the Marshall Islands who was desperate for ideas on how to inject new economic life into a region whose reputation was still recovering from the twenty-three nuclear tests conducted at Bikini Atoll way back in the 1940s and ’50s and the fact that the International Atomic Energy Agency still recommended against eating more than one or two locally grown coconuts a year for fear of inadvertently slow-cooking your digestive tract from the inside out. Beside him was a slim and taciturn man who made his fortune several times over supplying food to American military contractors all over the world, and continuing on to his left was the chief marketing officer for ICC—International Corrections Corporation—the largest administrator of private prisons in the world and, as she herself often quipped, the one-stop shop for all your large-scale incarceration needs. Purely for the sake of appearances, she had brought along her excessively pouty philanthropic husband who usually filled his days planning and participating in various charity events benefiting American children who were forcibly removed from their homes by the Federal Bureau of Domestic Affairs—or, as he put it with a dramatic and meaningful eye roll—“the system.” The result was Celebration Island: a joint business venture which, in less than three years, had become the largest and most densely populated orphanage in human history.
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