Dead and Gone

by Andrew Vachss

  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 surveillance. 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 ent
ire 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, frankly, 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!”

  “All right. Please set sail for the coastline on the California-Oregon border. Once you are in that area, I will provide your captain with precise instructions.”

  “I’m not pulling in to any—”

  “No, sir. We will meet at sea. Fair enough?”

  “I’ll be traveling a long way—”

  “I understand that, sir.”

  “—with a lot of money. I trust I won’t be disappointed.”

  “You will not, I promise you. Until then.”

  “By the time we get there, it will be right around the first of May,” Flacco said. “Even out where he wants to meet, the sea’ll be sweet and calm. Like glass, especially at first light. Anyway, as calm as it ever gets off Oregon; that is one bad coastline, hombre.”

  “That’s more than three weeks,” I said. “It’ll take that long?”

  “I’m giving us a little margin, just in case of weather, but that’s about right. We looked his ship over, and she’s like new. Perfect. We can carry about thirty-five hundred gallons, cruise around twenty-two knots, and we’re working with a range of maybe four thousand miles. So figure Galveston to Progreso to Panama, maybe a week. Then we go through the Canal to Cabo San Lucas.…”

  I gave him a “What?” look.

  “That is the tip of Baja, hombre. Me and Gordito, we know it well, don’t we, compadre?”

  Gordo just smiled.

  “Our next leg is into Dago, then up to San Francisco. Got to allow, oh, two weeks max for that one. Finally, we lay in once we get near the Oregon border. From there, we can hit any spot he picks in two, three hours max.”

  “I thought the Panama Canal was only for commercial ships.”

  “No way. You pay the freight, they let you ride. We lock it from port to port—Cristobal going in, and we exit at Balboa. Whole trip takes maybe nine, ten hours; nothing to it.”

  “How much is the toll?”

  “Depends on the size of the ship. The one we got, under five grand, my best guess.”

  “And you just drive up and pay the toll, like going over a bridge?”

  “No,” Gordo answered. “It is not like that at all, my friend.” He used his fingers to tick off requirements he’d obviously memorized. “We have to radio prior to arrival—ninety-six, seventy-two, forty-eight, and twenty-four hours in front. We make contact on VHF Channel 12, then they find us a working channel to finish up. Then everyone on board needs ID; it’s called a Landing Card. You get those when you hit the first pier. After you pay them.”

&nbs
p; “Damn.”

  “Oh, there’s more,” he went on. “They’ll want a Quarantine Declaration and one for any cargo, too. A crew-and-passenger list. Lots of stuff. And they can inspect you at any time. So we also need an International Tonnage Certificate with all its calculation sheets attached, Lines Plans for the Offset Tables, mucho paper, man. I don’t know if all that’s on board. It should be—that beauty’s an oceangoer, no question. But they’ll do all the measuring and stuff right there if we want. So long as we—”

  “—pay for it,” I finished for him.

  “You got it. And when it comes to paper, Gem …”

  She nodded. “We have all gone through the Canal before,” she said. “It is no problem.”

  It took a half-line in under eight hours.

  “You still want to walk that path with me?” I asked him. “Yes.”

  “Ever been on a boat?”

  “I was a Marine,” he said, as if that answered the question.

  I gave him the meet-point in Galveston. “Bring your tools,” I told him. “There’s something we’re going to need to fix.”

  “Can you make one, Mole?”

  “It would depend on whether the contact point is organic or inorganic.”

  “Huh?”

  “Wood is organic. Metal or plastic is inorganic.”

  “Ah. I don’t know.”

  “I would have to make two, then. The simple one is a penetrator. The other would require either a magnet or suction of some sort. How long would it have to remain in place?”

  “An hour?”

  “Exposed to the elements?”

  “Hell, yes. Probably get blasted with salt water all the time.”

  “The miniaturization is very simple. But given your limited options for a propellant, and the need for accuracy, both devices would have to be the same external configuration.”

  “I guess so.”

  “My man can do it,” Michelle said, confidence radiating off her gorgeous face.