by Chris James
Wiser heads than Victor Bosse’s had decided that only when the world stopped laughing at France could that country once again cast a covetous eye on Ile de Bonne Fortune. They believed that French interest in the island would be better served by affecting disinterest. All those who had bungled since the island’s ascension had been purged. In the aftermath of Bosse’s undoing, the former ‘One to Watch’ of French politics had been transferred to their embassy in Sofia as assistant to the cultural attaché there and was no longer being watched. Major Domaigne’s recorded promise to personally see Pilot dead, a threat heard by a television and internet audience in the hundreds of millions, had earned him demotion, public humiliation and a sumptuous dinner at the home of a retired French general – son of a veteran of the Algerian troubles− where much was discussed and agreed over a fine Courvoisier L’or.
In demanding reparation from Eydos, the French, via their bungling representative Bosse, had conceded the settlers’ sovereignty over the island. But one didn’t have to be a student of history to know that treaties or truths agreed to in the world of men only stood until the first group who wanted to, muscled in and overturned them. There was no such thing as an absolute victory or an absolute defeat. And there was certainly no room for complacency. No one on the Island would have ever expected that the next assault would come from within.
Adolf Eichmann, Radovan Karadzic and Saddam Hussein had all been run to ground and brought to justice− an end which international fugitive, Henry Bradingbrooke, had no intention replicating. So, a few days after the second cistern had been completed, he and Pilot visited Mirko Soldo in his workshop with sketches for a new project Bradingbrooke had conceived to help keep the hounds at bay.
Always the jovial host, Soldo insisted that his two guests join him in a drink before getting down to business.
“I suspect this can unblock drains,” Bradingbrooke gasped after downing a fiery first mouthful of the clear liquid Soldo offered him. “What is it?”
“Raki. From home. My family have been growing grapes and making wine and raki for generations.”
“I like it,” Pilot said, sipping his slowly. “Where’s home, Mirko?”
“The Konavle valley, south of Dubrovnik.”
“Are your parents still alive?”
Soldo looked at his boss as if he were crazy. “Alive? No Soldo male has expired before the age of 90 for seven generations… apart from my grandfather. The Kordas, on my mother’s side, also have industrial-strength genes. My grandfather only died because he was murdered.”
“Who killed him?” As soon as he’d asked the question, Bradingbrooke withdrew it. “I’m sorry, Mirko, it’s none of my−”
“He was shot in 1944 by his next-door neighbour,” Soldo said, “a Chetnik. My father was five years old when it happened, but young memories burn brightest and in 1958 he got his revenge. Patient man.”
“Your father killed him?”
“Executed him for his crime, yes. Twenty years after that, a new Soldo was born.”
“You,” Bradingbrooke and Pilot said in unison.
“The one and only Mirko.” Soldo refilled the glasses. “To answer your original question, my parents still work the vineyard like teenagers. And you two? Are your parents still living?”
“My mother’s alive and well in Wiltshire,” Bradingbrooke said.
“What about yours, Lonnie?”
Pilot hesitated before answering. “My mother breathes the air, yes.”
The longer the three talked, the more Pilot warmed to Soldo. The next hour slipped through their tongues like honey.
“Have you ever been married, Mirko?” Bradingbrooke slurred.
“I have never been unmarried. My fourth wife, who is soon to be my fourth ex-wife, is the sister of my future fifth wife, if all goes to plan.” Soldo winked at his two drinking companions. “She’s very beautiful.”
“Your future fifth?” Pilot asked.
“No, no, no. Your girlfriend with the spade.”
Time to stop the small talk, Pilot thought. “We have a new project for you, Mirko,” he said, rolling out the drawings.
Aaron Serman was making the trip with Pilot on the strength of his grandmother having a summer home near East Hampton. For it was in that very house, usually closed up until June, that the meetings were to take place.
Two tête-à-têtes had been arranged for Lonnie Pilot’s three days on Long Island. The first was to be the next step in a bonding, so far by letter only, between Pilot and Senator Paul Dasching of Wyoming. Dasching, at thirty two, the second youngest senator in U.S. history, was also proving to be the greenest, in the environmental, not inexperienced meaning. He was known for his outspoken criticisms of American over-consumption and lack of awareness – outspoken for a man in public office, that is. Nonetheless, he was still a politician and knew that the people in your pocket were as important as the words in your mouth, if not more so. He was forever forging links, therefore, with those whom he felt might be of use to him. Pilot had impressed him from the outset and within a month of the landing, Dasching had fired off a letter of introduction, written so as not to incriminate him should the letter be intercepted. It was signed P. Ginschad, with a P.O. Box number address in Washington. It took some detective work on Pilot’s part to figure out who it was from. When Pilot invited ‘Mr. Ginschad’ to visit Eydos, the Senator had declined, feeling that for him to be seen on that controversial rock shelf in the Bay of Biscay before he had properly assessed Pilot’s credentials would be too great a risk to his own. So they had agreed to meet in secret at the Serman retreat at Sag Harbour instead.
For his part, Pilot wanted to meet Paul Dasching for his value as a provider of useful intelligence. He also wanted to meet Charles Williams. As Dasching represented the moderate voice of environmentalism and sustainability in the States, so Williams represented its primal scream. He’d been in correspondence with Pilot too – but openly− and would also be making the trip to Sag Harbour the day after Dasching. So, Lonnie Pilot was travelling all the way to the New World – though not as new as his own he had to remind himself – to spend time with a cowboy and a subversive.
The outward journey went like clockwork− mail helicopter to Jersey, short haul to London City Airport, tube to Heathrow and long haul to JFK on false passports. From there, they’d taken a cab to Queens where they picked up the Hampton Jitney bus to Sag Harbour, reaching the Serman house just before midnight. They were cutting it fine, because Pilot’s first meeting was scheduled for 11am the following morning.
Right on time, the sound of car wheels could be heard surfing the slush of the Serman driveway. Within seconds, Pilot was at the window watching a lone sedan pull up outside. Visible a hundred yards beyond it, through the entrance of the estate, was a second car, engine idling, exhaust like steam from a locomotive in the cold morning air.
Two figures emerged from the first car and reached the front door just as Serman opened it. Standing in the doorway was a large man with a thin neck and wire spectacles. A small, oriental man was beside him.
“Good morning. I’m Joe Conrad, Paul Dasching’s Press Secretary.”
“Aaron Serman, Lonnie Pilot’s… uh… Ambassador to the United States.” They shook hands and Serman ushered both men into the study.
“Do you mind if Mr. Tsuchida here has a look around the house before the Senator comes in? Paul insists on total confidentiality in his meetings. No reflection on your integrity,” Conrad lied, “but there are opponents of ours who would love to hear what’s said here today.” He gave a hearty ‘we’re all in this together’ laugh, but the bonhomie, like his suntan, was manufactured. Conrad waited for Tsuchida to finish his inspection, then walked out to wave in the second car.
Paul Dasching, when he eventually entered the house with his secretary and driver, was the picture of New-Frontier-Thrust-with-Glamour. He smiled Pilot’s name more than spoke it. “Welcome to America, Lonnie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shook Pilo
t’s hand firmly, but not gluily, and removed his parka to reveal a red lumberjack shirt beneath. Dasching ate life whole and was no grazer. “Lonnie,” he said without preamble, “I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do about this country of mine.” He spoke the words like a King. “I’m not talking about shit creek, or anything half as simple. If it was as easy as making paddles, it wouldn’t be such an insoluble problem.” He turned to the window and stabbed his forefinger at imaginary points beyond the glass. “They won’t even let me make the goddam paddles. It’s almost impossible to be a successful politician and be true to the planet. And that puts me in a tricky position, Lonnie. I’m about as far upfront as I dare go on the political-environmental battlefront without outrunning my lines of supply – the people who pay my campaign bills and the people who vote for me.”
Serman handed the Senator a mug of coffee, which only shut him up for a sip.
“The U.S. electorate isn’t ready for people like me to be seen talking to people like you,” Dasching continued. “Likewise, for you to maintain your stance of neutrality, you can’t be seen talking with me. It’s a dire situation when the job of saving the world has to be conducted in secret.
“By the way, I know you’re seeing POCS tomorrow, and that’s another group of people I can’t be linked with, even through once-removed association. Williams is dangerous in my view, so be careful. Involvement with him, if it ever got out, could damage your cause irreparably.”
“How did you know I was meeting Williams?” Pilot asked, speaking for the first time.
“It’s my job to know these things. It won’t leave this room, don’t worry. It’s not even that I disagree with their views – just their methods. Even so, they’ll extend the fight into areas I won’t, because they don’t give a damn what people think of them. No one in POCS will be running for President term after next.” This was a reference to Dasching’s own ambitions which he never tried to keep secret.
How many other people know I’m meeting Williams? Pilot thought, beginning to feel the early flushes of fear.
“All you need on Eydos is the time to build up your influence,” Dasching said. “There’s areas nobody else will be able to touch, and I can see that’s where you’re headed. That’s why I wanted to meet you. I also wanted to make it clear to you, in case you think I’ve been pulling too many punches, that if I’m going to stay on course and attain the power I need to start changing things around here, then I’ve got to be careful, Lonnie. American’s don’t like it if their gas goes up one cent, let alone if we did what was really called for. Do you mind if we sit over there?” He pointed to a pair of comfortable armchairs. It was a sign for some serious talking.
“I’d like to give you an overview of the main problems as I see them, and what can be done ... what has to be done to solve them ...”
Dasching’s overview was overlong, and fell well short of the mark, by Pilot’s criteria. The longer it had gone on, the more depressed Pilot had become. On the one hand, it was encouraging to find someone of potential power who was capable of seeing far enough up the road to realise it was leading the wrong way, but disappointing to see him then alter course by only a few degrees.
During the two and a half hours their meeting lasted, Pilot spoke for less than ten minutes in total, and then just to clarify some of Dasching’s statements. The young Senator, for his part, didn’t think this in any way an unfair division of the floor.
At half past one, Dasching’s voluptuous secretary had started making little scissors signs with her long, sexy fingers, and, five minutes later, the entire senatorial entourage had disappeared west.
At one o’clock the following afternoon, a compact rental car pulled into the drive. No train of aides and security men for Charles Williams. He came in on his own and plopped himself and his attitude in the most comfortable chair he could find.
Williams took after his black mother in looks, albeit a shade lighter, but had his father’s green eyes. It was a striking combination that held Pilot immediately, as it did everyone.
Charles Williams was a political troublemaker. It was in his blood. His grandfather had been a ‘Weatherman’, one of that band of underground militants from the University of Michigan who had terrorized America in the 60s and 70s. In forming POCS, Prisoners of a Consumer Society, Williams was carrying on the family tradition of opposition.
“So, you’re him,” Williams said, beginning to wonder why he had agreed to meet with Lonnie Pilot. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Prisoners of a Consumer Society,” Pilot said. “Who are they, what do they represent, how did you find them?”
“O.K. It’s a list of prisoners’ names and addresses. Not a membership roster or anything like that. They’re not members of POCS in literal terms, only figurative. This might surprise you, but we’ve got agents in almost every major US city working with the homeless, the unemployed, the sick− in other words, people who have fallen off the gravy train and are finding it hard just to stay alive. Add the radical green, the marginalized left and the plain anarchical, and you’ve got a pretty sizeable recruiting base. I was thinking of hitting them all with a mail-shot,” Williams joked without smiling. “Free Molotov Cocktails.” Anyone who knew Williams well knew that he never smiled.
“There’s forty or fifty million prisoners at least out there.” Williams’ eyes were burning with the same fire his grandfather’s had shown when he planted an incendiary bomb outside a Philadelphia police station in 1969. “An army of fifty million, each unaware of the others’ existence, but all with the potential to rise up together. All we have to do is push a button they all respond to and blam. Our very own Arab Spring.”
The more fervent Williams became, the more uneasy Pilot felt.
“What sort of button are you thinking of pushing?”
Williams froze like an elk hearing a hunter’s footstep and squinted at Pilot. He never wore his glasses when in conversation. “I think you and I will have to get to know each other better before I tell you that,” he answered. Pilot withdrew that particular feeler and asked another question.
“Would a Prisoner of a Consumer Society consider blowing himself out of prison?” Pilot asked. “Because I’m not a believer in the overnight revolution myself. I see it lasting a few hundred years.”
“Impossible,” Williams snapped. “You can’t keep a revolutionary ideal alive across such a long time span. It’s hard enough to keep it going a few years. Even my dad and his dad got tired trying. Look, ideas, ideals, motivations… they’re like a morning mist that soon gets burnt off by the sun. Everything is constantly on the move. Things get superceded by new things every second. For one thing to remain on the surface and visible for more than a few months is impossible. If you’re in prison, you don’t want to die there. You want to escape now. You people are free out there in the Bay of Biscay. I envy you. But over here we’re suffering.”
Pilot didn’t like the inference, although he could understand the sentiment behind it. “It’s all the same, Charles. Cleveland, Nillin, Mexico City. Our suffering isn’t any less acute than yours or the other POCS’. But a bloody revolution wouldn’t work in this case. Its effects wouldn’t last more than a few years or decades, then we’d all find ourselves back in prison again.”
Williams was both angry and disappointed at Pilot’s words. “In spite of what you say, man, it’s easier day by day to live in an open prison like yours than in the solitary confinement most of us in the real world have to endure.”
Pilot thought the point eloquently expressed and felt Williams deserved a better explanation. “The revolution, when it comes, won’t – can’t – be us against them. It has to be us with them against ourselves. And by ourselves, I mean human nature.”
“What kind of crap is that?” Williams spat, being not quite so generous in return. “Judas Priest.”
Pilot said nothing and instead tried to imagine what Williams was thinking of him – that Lonnie Pilot was a dud
and hadn’t been worth the drive to Sag Harbour. For his part, and in terms of the support they might have been able to give him when he was ready to act, Pilot felt neither Charles Williams nor Senator Paul Dasching had been worth the voyage to Sag Harbour either.
“I don’t think you people can help us,” Williams said, softening slightly. “I really don’t.”
Pilot just looked at him sadly. For some reason the only thing that was going through his mind was a scene from ‘Dumbo’. It was the part where the locomotive pulling the circus cars is trying to climb a very steep hill. As he painfully nears the top, his steamy voice strains, “I think I can… I think I can… I ... think ... I ... can… I ......... think....... I …….can…….. I……………” and, as he crests the top of the hill and starts racing down the other side, he whoops, “I... knew... I... could… I knew I could … I KNEW I COULD.” Eydos would have to pull the train on its own. There would be no political support from Dasching, even if he were to reach a position to give it. And the kind of things POCS had in mind, Pilot could do without. He had almost forgotten his own words from the Eydos Declaration of the previous August− ‘we have left everything behind’. To remain impartial, Eydos could not afford to have links to anyone, and with sudden realization, Pilot knew that he had very nearly sunk his island.
The next morning, Pilot and Serman, faces covered with scarves, caught the Hampton Jitney bus back to New York. They got off at Grand Central Station, called Forrest Vaalon’s office, spoke a few coded sentences, and hung up. Ten minutes later they were picked up in the Nissan by Vaalon’s new PA and driven to the empty apartment of a major art collector.
