Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  Timing it to be pulled from the oven as the guests arrived was Marthe’s genius.

  Where would he be without her?

  Rip Blackson gave the introductory remarks and led a moment of silence for Tom Duncan. Then he introduced Koven. “Ladies and gentlemen, our host for the next three days is a war hero who distinguished himself in Operation Iraqi Freedom…” Koven didn’t hear the rest as he mentally rehearsed his speech. Then came his cue. “Allow me to introduce Daryl Koven.”

  He bolted up the three short steps to hearty applause, thanked Blackson, switched on his lapel mic, and turned to the group.

  “Folks, it’s cold, so I’ll be brief.” He paused and let the halogen lights catch the sparkle in his blue eyes. “Commerce is like water, it’s a force of nature. Water carved the Grand Canyon and commerce carved modern civilization. Both are perpetual and relentless, constantly seeking the most effective routes. Some would dam it to harness its energy. Others would channel it for their own purposes.”

  He paced the stage, extending his arms. “Our investors and shareholders aren’t interested in the dams and channels. They want to see commerce flow straight into our quarterly earnings. And yet, we have to deal with the reality: there are those in both parties who still toil with twentieth-century thinking focused on outdated models. The dynamic energy of free-flowing commerce no longer carves canyons; it’s been channeled into stagnant backwaters and left to evaporate.”

  He smiled as the executives gave each other knowing nods.

  “We are not alone. In other countries, from Stockholm to Johannesburg, from Tokyo to Santiago, rules and regulations prohibit tributaries from joining with our rivers. Businesses like the gold mines of Burkina Faso find themselves unable to buy American bulldozers because of outdated sanctions. The Cold War ended a generation ago and yet these ancient prohibitions persist.”

  He paused to look each guest in the eye.

  “Future Crossroads is the place where possibility meets practicality. At Duncan, Hyde, and Koven, we specialize in opening the floodgates in both directions. Opening new markets is a simple matter of matching incentives to needs.”

  Koven threw his hands in the air.

  “Welcome to the future, where your river will rush to global opportunity. The Future Crossroads Symposium will align your goals with someone in need of your resources.”

  His guests nodded and muttered affirmations.

  Koven smiled. “Folks, I smell baking bread. So—who’s ready for lunch?”

  A hearty round of applause followed. He hopped off the stage and led the group into the Grand Treaty Room. Corinthian columns carved from solid oak held up a vaulted ceiling; knights in antique armor stood guard; priceless sixteenth-century gold and silver pieces from the castle treasury littered the ancient inlaid tables; flames danced in both fireplaces; lovely maidens in renaissance smocks served drinks.

  Koven stood at one end, looking over the crowd. He smiled to himself. Everyone was talking and drinking and having a good time.

  Across shoulders and between heads, he saw Rip Blackson glance at him, then quickly away. Koven’s heart stopped. What was in that look? Fear? Insolence? Treachery? His blood boiled.

  He cooled himself down and returned his attention to Olga Benning, who was telling him about the horrific ordeal she had endured: the limousine company sent a small Maybach for her shopping trip in Paris. Everything had gone downhill from there.

  He chuckled politely before catching a glimpse of Blackson again. The traitorous son of a bitch was chatting with Alan Sabel. They were leaning their heads together, no doubt conspiring to tear down everything he and Marthe were building.

  Blackson flicked a guilty glance his way and their gaze met for a split second. The younger man’s eyes darted away instantly.

  Sabel laughed at something and patted Blackson on the back. He turned to Bobby Jenkins of Jenkins Pharmaceuticals. That left Blackson unattached with nowhere to go. Reluctantly, the young man met his gaze.

  With a flick of his nose toward the door, Koven ordered Blackson to the next room.

  “Have you found Zola yet?” Koven asked when they stepped into the whitewashed Armory.

  “He went to his mother’s. Some kind of family problem.” Blackson’s eyes darted left and right.

  Koven stared hard, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ground together. Muffled laughter and music bled through the heavy oak door. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

  “You’ve been in touch then?”

  “Just a couple texts,” Blackson said. “There was a lot to do getting the symposium ready.”

  “When did you last text him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been through several time zones. A while ago.”

  “I heard he left LA.” Koven watched Blackson’s eyes wander.

  “Who told you that?” Blackson asked.

  “Never mind. Find out where he is. I need to talk to him.”

  Blackson met his gaze and held it. “Why?”

  Koven shook his head and waved a hand at the crowd beyond the door. “Because he has a job to do.”

  Blackson dropped his head. “He knows. It was a family—”

  “He’s not at his mother’s.”

  Blackson shrugged, still facing the stone floor.

  “Let’s not kid each other, Rip. Someone inside the firm was involved in David Gottleib’s murder, which means we both suspect each other.” Koven waited for Blackson to look up. “I know it wasn’t me. So I’m only going to ask you this once: where is Brent Zola?”

  Blackson’s mouth drew tight. He leaned back against the wall. “Where’s Jago?”

  “That’s your answer?” Koven crossed his arms.

  “Jago was sneaking around outside Zola’s mom’s house. They called the cops. What’s he going to tell them? Who sent him there? For what purpose?”

  “Last I heard, Jago was your shadow.” Koven left a long gap. “Did you send him?”

  “Why would I? I had a good thing going with Duncan. Now I don’t know where I stand. Zola’s the only one I can trust.”

  Koven lifted his chin and leaned forward. “You trust him?”

  “I was with him when David was murdered. I know it wasn’t me. And I know it wasn’t him. And Jago left the office early that day. Jago never does anything without being told. In your scenario where we don’t trust each other, that leaves only you.”

  Koven felt his rage burning his face. He raised an angry fist between them, then pulled himself under control and shoved it in his pocket. “How dare you accuse me of killing Gottleib. I let you get away with it last time, but no more. I brought all three of you up from nothing. I pulled every support-the-veteran card I could to get you into law school. Duncan made me swear the three of you would bring in enough new business to pay your salaries. I did it for you, Rip. I did it for Brent. And I did it for David. I would never kill him.”

  “Then who’s running Jago? Where was he that night?”

  The two men stared hard at each other, the threat of violence rippling between them.

  “Let’s ask him,” Koven said.

  He pulled his phone out, set it on speaker, and dialed Jago Seyton.

  When Jago answered, Koven was direct. “Where were you on the evening David Gottleib was murdered?”

  “Traffic school. Speeding ticket. The detectives verified my attendance. Anything else?”

  Koven clicked off. The two men stared at each other.

  The big oak door slammed open and bounced off the wall. Alan Sabel’s bear-like frame stormed straight to Koven. His big hands grabbed the man by the lapels and threw him against the wall. Eyes blazing red, snorting like a steam engine, Alan pressed his nose up to Koven’s. “What the hell did you do?”

  CHAPTER 23

  People scurried and bumped and roller bags squeaked and public announcements echoed through the cavernous terminal at Narita International Airport, Tokyo. In the middle of all that humanity, I was lonely. Lost-in-the-dese
rt lonely. All around me people talked and called and shouted and whispered—but not to me.

  I was not on my meds and there were no voices in my head.

  No strange god pranced around in a toga.

  The silence was chilling.

  Carlos proved to be a good traveling companion; he hadn’t said a word. He trotted alongside me, his short legs barely able to keep my pace.

  A man bounced off me and berated me in Japanese. Carlos stood to the side, watching my passive reaction. The only word I could remember was arigato, thank you. I picked up the handle of his bag and put it in his hand while he continued to shout profanities at me.

  I felt disconnected, as if life was an uninteresting movie.

  Godless was a terrible state.

  But then, so was the god state.

  Which is worse: having a trigger-happy divinity whose moral compass hasn’t been updated since gladiators ruled weekend entertainment, or no one at all?

  Why did I miss his presence when he wasn’t around? Mercury was nothing more than the god I’d grown used to. He was my comfort god. So comfortable, in fact, that if Jesus walked up to me, I’d tell him I was waiting for a different messiah. One who was easier to live with. Looser rules. Less demanding. None of this give-all-your-money-to-the-poor stuff.

  Holy crap. I was starting to think like Mercury.

  I walked around without a clue about where to go. Tokyo has just shy of 40 million people flung over 16,000 square miles, close to four times the density of New York City, and somewhere in that tangled mass of humanity one scared lobbyist was hiding from an assassin and hoping I would take a bullet for him.

  I love this job.

  So far, Zola-the-scared-lobbyist hadn’t returned my calls.

  I stopped below a sign and tried to decipher the instructions. There were two trains, an unknown number of buses, fleets of taxis, hundreds of limos, and a few helicopters to boot. With the richest economy of any metro area in the world, Tokyo had every means of transportation known to man. They probably had a submarine if I looked hard enough. The only thing I needed was a destination.

  I turned to Carlos with a rhetorical question. “If you were hiding in Tokyo, where would you go?”

  “Minami-Senju,” he said without hesitation.

  After I did my double take, he shrugged. “The yakuza were good customers, ése. I’ve been here a few times. Mostly by boat, though—at night.”

  Since I didn’t have any better idea where to start, we figured out the right train and crowded on. I held an overhead bar facing front and he held a post to my right and the doors pinged shut and we lurched into the unknown. Bodies of strangers pressed against every inch of me.

  With an hour to kill, I had to ask Carlos the question my peers at Sabel Security were dying to have answered.

  “You ready to tell me your story?” I asked.

  Carlos stared at me with the gangster’s version of the soldier stare: ask again and I’ll kill you. It wasn’t as heavy as a soldier’s, but he made his point. I shrugged and looked over the heads of three old ladies.

  He stared at the side of my face. “I heard you have a guardian angel or some shit.”

  “OK.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Kinda, I guess.” I kept staring straight ahead. “I’ve been lucky a few times.”

  “You talk to this angel?”

  “He’s not an angel.” My voice was too loud and I’d faced him with a scowl. I felt my face flush.

  “Sorry.” Carlos held up a palm and nodded sympathetically.

  I returned to the view over the old ladies.

  “I had a dream, ése,” he said. “Detailed and real as life. No angels, no demons, just a clean view of my future. And she was in it. Big time. I’d never heard of her. Maybe on the news, but who pays attention to girls’ soccer? Anyway. I was in the prison hospital, a month from parole, with only bad options ahead of me. I kept thinking about that dream for two weeks and finally got up the courage to write her a letter about it.”

  He paused and took a deep breath.

  “She wrote back,” he said. “She sent a lawyer and gave me a job. A place to live with no conditions, no rules, and all the therapy I wanted. We made a deal. So, I came east, took the Sabel training course, and passed.”

  “You were a rock star.” I glanced at him. “I heard.”

  “If your guy’s not an angel, what is he?”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek for a minute.

  What the hell, why not tell somebody?

  I said, “He’s Mercury, the winged messenger of the Roman gods.”

  Carlos burst out laughing. Head back, mouth wide-open laughter poured out of him.

  I rolled my eyes and caught a glimpse of Mercury at the end of the train.

  Behind him were Seven-Death and a huge monkey in a hat and robe.

  Mercury said, Was that so hard, brutha? See, you could evangelize for us once in a while.

  I pointed at Carlos. Is that the reaction you’re going for?

  Mercury said, It’s been a millennium since someone invoked my name—I’ll take it. We’ll work on your delivery later.

  I said, What’s with the monkey?

  Mercury said, Whoa, dude, keep the voice down. He’s no monkey, he’s Sanou Gongen, mountain god, and a real big deal in some parts of Japan. He and Seven-Death were frat brothers in god college. They’re going drinking.

  I said, God college? Don’t tell me things like that. Don’t even joke. I can’t handle it. I’m going back on my meds.

  Mercury said, Chill, homie. Don’t do anything rash, OK? Don’t worry about those two. Next time we see them, they’ll be too hungover to talk. Everything’s gonna be fine. Hey. Who’s in need of cultural diversity now?

  I said, Why did you leave me? What’s with Dr. Harrison?

  Mercury said, I left you because you were being a dick. But Jupiter says, that’s how mortals are and I gotta suck it up. Harrison, well. Too late now. We’ll figure a way out of that one later. At the moment, you’re on the wrong train. Zola’s at the Tokyo National Museum with no cell phone service because he went to a different country and didn’t spike his plan. Since he’s from California, he’s not going to figure that out for another hour.

  “You OK?” Carlos asked. “Cause you look like you ate a lizard.”

  “We’re on the wrong train.” I yanked his coat and pulled Carlos through the bodies at the next stop.

  After a few minutes of standing around on an empty platform, our new train slowed to a stop. The doors whooshed open, we pushed in, and grabbed new railings.

  We had another half hour to kill, so I restarted our conversation. “Why were you in the prison hospital?”

  “Shanked by a fucking Crips enforcer. I died. The nurse told me the doctors argued about whether I was worth it. One guy kept trying after I’d flatlined for a minute. He stuck with me and pulled me through. Like a resurrection.”

  He watched my eyes for a reaction. I’d witnessed many stories like his in the war. There is no end to the mystery of life and death.

  We were ten minutes out when my phone buzzed.

  “Jacob, it’s Brent Zola,” he said. “I’m at the—”

  “I know where you are. What exhibit are you near?”

  “How did you—”

  “Never mind that. Go to the Sculpture Exhibit in the Honkan building and turn your phone off.”

  “OK, but—”

  “Brent, shut up and do what I told you. They can track your phone.” I clicked off.

  Carlos stared at me. “Your angel told you where he is?”

  I gave him my soldier stare until he looked away.

  Pisses me off. Why don’t people get it? A god is a god. An angel is a share-cropper of souls who didn’t even negotiate a lease-to-own option.

  People jostled and yakked while others used earbuds to tune out the steel brakes and squealing rails.

  We exited the Keisei-Ueno Station and pushed our way up to t
he street. Breaking into frozen daylight, I checked out the foreign cityscape. Across the park in front of us, we expected to find the museum. I checked a map to get my bearings and look around.

  Jago Seyton walked toward me.

  From the direction of the museum.

  There were several possible reasons for his presence, none of which I liked.

  His eyes were focused to my left. As he came within reach, I put my hand out to stop him. “Hey Skippy, what are you doing here?”

  “Visiting Japan,” he said and kept walking.

  I watched him and Carlos watched me.

  Dark clouds gathered above the icy streets like bums around a fire. I looked around, on one side of us was a big, noisy city and on the other, a quiet park. A few moms and grandparents pushed strollers and toddlers down broad walkways. No snipers, no killers, no one out of place. I glanced at Carlos and took off running for the museum.

  It was a kilometer from the subway, and I had been a track star during my one year of college. Carlos was not a runner. I got there a good minute before him. I ran inside and turned right, fully expecting to find a body in a pool of blood.

  Brent Zola and a teenaged boy stared at a grouping of Buddhist sculptures. They were alive and alone in the room. And Brent was holding his phone to his ear.

  Carlos skidded in behind me while I was still checking the darker corners for dangers.

  We walked up to them with light footsteps.

  They acted as if they were on a field trip. Zola had no idea I was there. He was a laid-back guy, born to laid-back people in the laid-back heartland. The kind destined to die first when disasters cull the population. I glanced at Carlos, who read my mind and shook his head.

  I tapped Brent on the shoulder.

  “Oh hey, Jacob,” he said with a big smile. “Good to see you, buddy. This is my son—”

  “I just saw Jago Seyton catching the subway. We’re getting out of here. Where’re you staying?”

  Brent choked and turned white.

  Carlos snapped his fingers in front of the guy. Nothing.

  I looked at the boy, surfer-blond and the kind of thin you only see on teenagers who spend all day playing outdoors. “You have a hotel near here?”