by A. Sparrow
Damage control had been outsourced to a new company that specialized in fixing complex problems through a combination of public relations, graft and mob-style persuasion. In other words—whatever worked. The project leader was a cheery, rosy-cheeked Mormon named Mr. Christopher. He was one of those guys who always looked cool, even in a tweed jacket at 120 degrees in the shade.
“Why the fuck did we have to come all the way out here?” said Gus, scanning the faces lining the table, as they waited for a few more client reps to show.
“This is a bad sign,” said Harry. “Might be a harbinger of things to come.”
“Crap. You’d don’t think they’d disband ERICC over….”
“They just might. This has to be the ugliest op ever. Everything that could go wrong, did. Our top two agents—dead. Collateral damage up the yin-yang. Besides the settlements with de Marazul, we got a fucking billion dollar radio complex to rebuild.”
“Guys like Black and even Whitey are as rare as dodo birds. I don’t know how they expect to replace them.”
“Not only that,” said Harry. “This fucking story’s got legs. It’s been in the Times every day, and now even the Post has gotten in on the action. But those will blow over. I’m more worried about that reporter from Rolling Stone.”
“Any word on the identity of his whistleblower?” said Gus.
“Not a clue. For all we know, it might be Parsons himself.”
Gus sighed. “Well, at least we got the B team out without a scratch.”
“Hodges still in jail?”
Gus rolled his eyes. “He’s de Marazul’s fucking sideshow act. They show his face every night on the tube. Knowing that fool, he probably enjoys the attention.”
Someone appeared at the door. Harry craned his head around for a better look. “Ah! Here comes the Oxy rep. Good to see they’re still in the game. I thought for sure we’d be the first ones out.”
“So who have we lost so far? Do you have a sense?”
“Not sure. BP’s here. But I think at least two companies have pulled out. We’ll see what’s what once we’re all at the table.”
“Our base was small enough as it was,” said Gus. “I’m not sure how we can continue to operate if we lose any more.”
“Well, we’ll just have to step up the recruiting again. Everybody needs security. It’ll just take time to get them interested in the value-added stuff again.”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking of putting in for early retirement.”
“But Gus … you’re too young not to be working.”
“Never said I wasn’t gonna work,” said Gus. “Might just be time to take up a new profession.”
“Where does a techno-crypto-geek like you move onto? Government work? NSA?”
“I was thinking more like … landscaping.”
The shed door was slammed shut and latched. Mr. Christopher crossed the shed, flashing his teeth, shelf of gelled hair bouncing as he led the last consortium rep to the table.
“Alright Gentlemen, before we go around the table for introductions, I’d like to set the mood with a couple short clips.” He stuck a memory card into a micro-projector and proceeded to play a video recording of a rally in Accra for Simon Appiah’s son, Wilbur, a dark-horse candidate for his late-father’s Parliamentary position.
It was followed by aerial stills of the destroyed Voice of America compound in São Tomé, including a photo of the São Toméan police removing the sheet-covered body of Agent White. A few seconds of de Marazul giving a fiery speech on National TV was translated in English via subtitles.
He ended with a clip of Michael Kremer marching down a beach toward a threatened mangrove reserve in southern Liberia, a crowd of community protesters chanting and dancing and drumming alongside him.
“Gentlemen, I’m here to talk the services we offer in the realm of ‘Political Environments and Community Engineering.’”
The screen transitioned to logo—‘PEACE,’ in a bold white font over a satellite view of Earth.
Chapter 39: Fontainebleau
Their chateau was spacious if rustic and it looked out over a forest studded with strange rock formations and boulders that sprouted like morels among the pines. Something about them made Archie want to climb them free, without ropes, the way he used to when he roamed he was a teen encountering glacial erratics in the forests of Connecticut
Melissa was on the phone with her mom. He waited for her to finish her conversation to give her a chance to accompany him. She was in no condition to climb, but it would be nice to have her along in case he did something stupid, like fall and break a leg.
“Ask her about my kitties,” said Archie.
She flashed him a quick glare. “Your kitties are fine.” She continued to chat with her mom.
Archie looked wistfully up at the exposed beams and the little half-loft of a bedroom that they cradled. “You know, she really shouldn’t be staying in my place. It isn’t safe.”
“Oh please,” said Melissa, lowering the phone. “Mom can take care of herself. Some of the neighborhoods we used to live in … forget about it.”
“But … those people … this consortium, they might—”
“I’m telling you, my mom will be fine. You don’t know her mom. She can handle herself in a one-on-one situation.”
Archie’s eyebrows arched. “Genetics?”
She turned back to the phone. “Sorry, mom. It’s just Archie. He’s being a pest.” She said her goodbyes and promised to visit soon.
“Is there something you need to tell me?” said Archie, arm draped over the back of a suede sofa that smelled like a tannery. “Are you leaving me?”
Melissa looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh. That? That’s just something you tell your mom. Though, you know, the doc did say I’m fit enough to travel.”
“I was just joking, Mel. Of course you should go visit her.”
“I will … eventually … I just wish you could join me.”
“Well. Maybe I can.”
“How? Considering you’re still officially deceased.”
“You gotta admit. I smell pretty good for a dead guy.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. By the way, mom’s still paying your condo fee, but she needs a letter from you saying it’s okay for her to stay in your place.”
“They’ll accept a letter from a zombie?”
“I suppose. I mean … until you make it official that you are still alive. I really don’t understand this fear of embassies, Arch. You’re gonna have to get over it if you ever want your life back.”
“You know, your mom really shouldn’t have to pay out of her own pocket. I should set up an automatic pay from my account.”
“What account? I thought it was frozen by the probate court.”
“Not that account. My new account.”
“Huh?”
“My new friend, um, Fernando … he sent us a package.” He handed her an oblong box plastered with DHL stickers and customs declarations.
She opened it and pulled out a bag of coffee beans. “Oh! That’s nice.” Next, a packet of tomato seeds. “Brandywines, of course. The de Marazul strain. Interesting.” Beneath that was a Banco de Portugal bank book.”
“Holy shit, Archie!
“My reward. Nothing extravagant, but it’ll keep us going a while. You’re a pretty cheap date.”
“Thanks,” she sneered.
“That’s not all that’s in there. Dig around some more.”
She plunged her hand in deep, like a magician searching for a rabbit in a top hat. She came up with a fistful of documents.
“Holy cow! Passports? They’ve made us official São Tomé citizens?”
“Yup. The only catch is … they’ve changed your name.”
Melissa opened his crisp, new passport and snickered. “Archibald do Inocente de Preto? You’re not black or innocent, I’ll vouch for that.” She opened her own passport. “What the…? Wherever did they get such a horrid photo? I look uncon
scious. And … Melissa do Inferno de Violento? What’s up the jokey names? Who picked these?”
“Don’t worry about it. What matters is that these are official passports. We can travel incognito!”
Melissa cocked her head. “So … where will we go?”
“Grab yourself a sweater and we’ll talk,” said Archie bounding up off the sofa. I’m going to climb me some boulders. You can call the ambulance when I screw up.”
***
They hiked to a patch of boulders that were particularly picturesque. One resembled the head of a gnome, complete with a fringe of mosses and birches for hair.
Archie went after them like a clumsy goat. His strength and technique were diminished from his younger days, but he was pulling off moves on overhangs that he never would have dared try only a month earlier. The twenty pounds he had lost made a huge difference.
To his chagrin, impressing Melissa was out of the question because she wasn’t even watching. She had found a sunlit patch of dry grass and had buried her nose in a paperback.
For late spring, the air was quite brisk. A chill settled in when he stopped to rest and the wind went to work on his sweaty back. “How about we head back? I can make some soup for lunch.”
Melissa nodded and joined him on the wide trail that meandered through the pines and crossed a causeway across a gurgling stream. The chateau was up-slope, above a series of lupine-lined switchbacks and stone steps.
“You’re awful quiet,” said Archie.
“I’m just … I’ve had enough of this place. I mean, it’s nice and all. It’s been a great place to get healed, but … I’m ready to move on.”
Archie didn’t quite share that sentiment. He loved it here. If it had been an option, he might have wanted to stay in Fontainebleau forever, but the STP government would need their chateau back before start of the summer season. Word was, the President himself was scheduled to stop by for a few days. Funny, but it did seem like de Marazul’s kind of place. Archie wondered how much of a role he had in selecting it.
“So where do we go first?” said Melissa. “See my mom or …”
“I’ve always wanted to see Namibia,” said Archie, trudging up the steps.
“Haven’t you had enough of Africa?”
“Not a chance,” said Archie without missing a beat.
“Me neither,” said Melissa, grinning. “So I’m game.”
Archie reached the door first. They hadn’t even bothered to lock it. “How about we catch a ride into Paris tomorrow?” he said. “It’s been a—”
Archie froze. A black briefcase rested askew the coffee table.
“Holy Christ!” said Melissa, grasping her side. “Is it … from them?”
“I don’t know,” he said, hyperventilating. “I have half a mind to toss it down the hill. I mean … what if it’s a bomb?”
Melissa tip-toed up to it and looked at the tag attached to the handle. “Archie … I think it’s okay. It’s from—”
“Melissa! Put it down! Get away!”
“But Arch, it’s from the STP consulate in Paris. I think you should open it.”
Archie expelled his breath in one long burst and came up behind her. “What the heck … are they sending us on a mission? Who do they think we are?”
“Open it!” Melissa said, her eyes twinkling.
Archie laid it down, clicked the latches and opened the lid. Embedded in the familiar grey foam in which the consortium had sent so many weapons of personal destruction was a pair of wine glasses, a fancy cork screw, and a bottle of Quinta dos Roques Reserva 2000.
In the sleeve he found a pair of one-way tickets to São Tomé, and a printed room reservation for the Bom Bom Beach Resort in Príncipe. It also contained a note from the President:
“No, this is not one of my own wines but it is made from a varietal that is said to do well in tropical highlands. Tell me what you think. Sincerely, Fernando.”
“I think Fernando wants us out of his pad,” said Melissa, giggling.
*****
THE END
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