Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  The problem remained that she wasn’t all that interested in having Steven make her decisions for her. That complicated matters.

  All he could do was keep her away from any further fallout. She was a big girl, who seemed as headstrong as she was beautiful. And she wanted to help.

  Just like Peter – who’d been killed for his effort.

  Helping.

  Him.

  Steven finally decided he’d have to make the best of the situation with Antonia. She was an adult, and besides being stubborn as a mule, was highly intelligent. He’d been honest with her, and she was dead set on accompanying him, so he would have to concentrate on keeping her safe to the best of his abilities, and be extremely careful in his investigations from this point on. No more do-it-yourself interviewing. He’d hire private investigators to do the footwork, and stay in the background, out of harm’s way. That was safest for them both.

  After paying for breakfast he traversed the breezy waterfront, familiarizing himself so as to be acquainted with the layout later in the day. Satisfied he was oriented and understood the basics of the town’s geography, he made his way through the huddled streets until he came upon a hair salon. A young girl was just opening it up. He went in and communicated that he wanted to get his hair colored.

  “Bon, quelle couleur? What color?” she asked.

  “Noir. Black,” Steven told her.

  The rest of the transaction went smoothly. Forty-five minutes later he had black hair; sort of a Joey Ramon post-punk artist look. Very Romanian, he thought absently.

  Next up, he went in search of one of the information booths situated around the town, to see about air charter companies. The woman there was not very helpful, exuding a ‘you are nothing, leave me alone’ attitude. Very French, and not exactly consistent with someone hired to give out information. What a strange island. So it was back to the waterfront and the small café, and back on the web; there were several air charter companies in the surrounding islands.

  He jotted down a few phone numbers and looked for the nearest major airport that had regular flights to Buenos Aires. Hmmm. Caracas, Venezuela. About six hundred or so nautical miles, as the crow flies; or the small plane flies, in this case. Looking at the schedules, he learned that Aerolineas Argentinas had daily direct flights from Caracas to Buenos Aires.

  He called the charter companies. Caribe Air Specialists, had a turbo-prop Cessna 414A II that would take about three hours to fly to Venezuela. They were willing to take the charter for $6,000, or $5,400 cash. He booked it for the following morning, then made reservations online for the flight to Buenos Aires.

  Everything was falling neatly into place.

  Next, he checked availability for St. Martin hotels, just in case Antonia couldn’t get in touch with her friends. Plenty of availability, so that wouldn’t be a problem. He called the Cap Juluca.

  “Mrs. Donitelli’s room, please. Number nine-o-five.”

  “Certainly, sir. One moment.”

  Ring. Ring.

  “Hallo?” Antonia answered.

  “Buon giorno, cara,” he replied.

  “Steven! Oh my God. I’m so happy to hear your voice. How is everything?” She sounded excited.

  “It’s all good. You can come over on the ferry whenever you want. I’m done with my stuff,” he said. “I miss you already.”

  “Me too. I’ll leave right now.”

  “Call me when you get to the ferry terminal. Were you able to get hold of your friends?” he asked.

  “No, I think they may have left already.”

  “No problem. We’ll get a hotel once you’re here. Oh, and we’ll be going for a little trip tomorrow.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “It’s a surprise. Just hurry up and get over here.”

  “Okay. Ciao, pirate boy.”

  “Ciao, Antonia.”

  As Antonia was paying the hotel bill a policeman came up to the desk and asked to speak to the manager. Jenkins appeared, and she overheard the officer asking if there was a man staying there who had a goatee and short hair, about 6’1”, using the name Marvin Simpson or Steven Archer. Jenkins went through the motions of looking through the computer, and said that no, no such person was checked in. Jenkins asked why the police were looking for him, and the reply was: “To assist with our inquiries into an assault.”

  Jenkins promised to keep a sharp lookout.

  The shuttle delivered her to Blowing Point, where she purchased a ticket on the ferry and called Steven, briefly letting him know she was on her way. She held off on telling him about the encounter at the hotel, deciding that such information was better imparted in person. She was worried that the police, in their search for Steven, were characterizing him as the perpetrator of an assault; and was further troubled they’d apparently had a very accurate description of him. Antonia noticed a policeman watching the passengers waiting for the ferry, no doubt scanning for Steven. His plan to get off the island discreetly, first thing, had proved prescient. She hoped his luck held.

  As she sat lost in her ruminations, the boat arrived. Only a few people disembarked; several workers, a couple of locals carrying shopping bags, and a group of somewhat bewildered-looking tourists.

  She collected her belongings and noted a police car parked by the little reservation area. Two rugged-looking men with carry-on bags were escorted off the ferry by an officer and waved past customs. They looked very tough, like mercenaries, and she heard them talking to the policeman, answering the inevitable questions about their trip. Russian accents, heavy on the consonants.

  A chill went up her spine in the ninety-degree heat.

  She noted one had a pronounced scar across his nose, where it looked like something sharp had struck it, breaking it in the process. Both were well-muscled, sporting crew-cuts and with a military bearing and carriage. And both emanated a sense of danger and menace.

  Then they were past her, climbing into the car, and she was boarding the boat for St. Martin.

  Checkmate: Chapter 5

  The trip across to St. Martin was shorter than she expected. Twenty minutes and Antonia was standing on the dock at Marigot. She carried her bags through customs and up to the street (thank God they were on wheels) and looked around, spotting Steven’s red hat thirty yards away; he was busy studying the passengers disembarking from the boat after she had, making sure she hadn’t been followed. It both frightened and reassured her that he was on top of things – being cautious. She figured when he was satisfied, he’d make the first move towards her. She looked back at the boat to watch the last of her shipmates making their way up the dock; looked back around, and his hat was gone.

  She felt his arms encircle her from behind.

  “Hmmmmm. Welcome to St. Martin, beautiful.”

  “It’s nice to be here, handsome.”

  She turned to face him, laughing in surprise at the black hair and wrap-around sunglasses. He was holding his cap in his hand. She kissed him.

  “I didn’t recognize you. Now you really look like a pop star. What’s next, a Mohawk?” she teased.

  “Depends on how my boy band audition goes,” he answered.

  She told him about the police looking for him, the cop at the terminal, and the suspicious-looking Russians getting off the ferry. That jolted him.

  “Sounds like they’re bringing in pro talent since the amateurs didn’t get the job done. I’m not surprised they know my name; word travels fast. Thankfully, I’m no longer a U.S. citizen, and they don't have any information about my new passport,” he explained.

  “So what nationality are you? Swahili? Serbo-Croatian? Vanuatuan?”

  “I’m a nobleman from Bucharest. Vampire country.”

  “Romanian?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “I always wondered what a hot gypsy would be like. Heard good things. Now I see the reputation is deserved,” she mused.

  “Is it my dye job that gets you the hottest?”

&n
bsp; “No, it’s the five identical button-up shirts that drive me wild. I must have you now. Take off your pants.”

  “I have news as well. I hope you’ve always had a deep and abiding dream of visiting South America. Tomorrow you’ll get your big chance,” he said.

  “Oh, Steven. Rio? Carnival? Copacabana?” she asked excitedly.

  “Uh, not exactly. How does Buenos Aires sound? The Paris of South America?”

  She paused. “I’ve actually heard marvelous things about Argentina. Big Italian population, mostly from Genoa in the Twenties and Thirties. Good food and wine. When do we leave?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow morning, first thing,” he explained. “I chartered a small plane to get us to Caracas, and then we’ll catch a jet to Buenos Aires.”

  “It sounds wonderful. Is there a bed around here?” she inquired.

  Steven laughed. “Don’t you think of anything else?”

  “I suppose we don’t really need a bed. We have to be practical. An international secret agent and pop star like you, always on the run, must be endlessly inventive, no?”

  Steven had seen a billboard for Les Printemps, a resort hotel located about five miles from the port area, which had availability when he’d checked online. They took a taxi, and Steven walked the grounds while Antonia checked in. She came out to him once she was done – they were in room forty-four. They’d agreed to stay separate so he wouldn’t be on record as having been at the hotel.

  Once they were safely ensconced in the room, he checked on Allied while Antonia got settled in, and saw it was slowly dropping day by day. Knowing what he did about Griffen’s position, that had to be hurting. He again wondered what Griffen had up his sleeve, and how he could short circuit it. He tapped a message to the Group.

  [It’s Bowman. Can anyone find some other companies that have been pumped and dumped by Griffen, and put together a profile of how the manipulations occur? I’m trying to figure out what the next move will be.]

  He then went to Hotmail and sent Spyder another message:

  [On the move again tomorrow. Off to Argentina to check out Terrasol. Any suggestions for a PI or how to go about looking into things?]

  He logged off and considered what he knew. Griffen’s offshore fund was verifiably involved with dirty money, probably laundering, at the very least. It was also underwater and precariously over-extended on the Allied position. The bankers were worried. The missing pieces consisted of who the other investors were, and what Griffen’s next step was on Allied’s share price.

  From his side, he needed to make all the information public with one big, credible splash, and stay alive in the process. He was almost done with part A, and would have to consider how to achieve part B.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sergei got a call from his field director, Sasha, who had disappointing news from the islands; there was no trace of the mysterious Marvin Simpson. He’d never passed through customs, never stayed at a hotel, and the police had been unable to deliver any leads. It was possible he was staying in a private residence; it was also possible he was already five hundred miles away. Anything was possible.

  Sergei advised Sasha to keep the team in place since they were already there. He’d flown them to St. Martin on one of the company jets, a Citation Ten, so they could get just about anywhere quickly if and when the mystery man surfaced. And surface he would. Sergei was sure of it.

  He considered that Griffen might have finally bitten off more than he could chew, because so far this one man had disrupted much of Griffen’s plan for Allied, and was now proving to be a formidable adversary. He hadn’t run and hidden; he’d instead gone on the offensive and begun probing for Griffen’s weak spots. And he’d taken down three armed men on the island with seeming ease. Even if they were amateur thugs, that was impressive. This was not a good man to be up against, Sergei mused.

  Sergei hoped Griffen knew what he was doing with the financial end of things. The website told a compelling tale of a manipulation now gone badly wrong, and where there was smoke there was often fire. He’d have to monitor this closely. He decided against calling Griffen with the latest; he was doing his friend and colleague a favor by not signing up for hourly reporting to him.

  It would be interesting to see what this Steven Archer’s next move would be.

  ~ ~ ~

  Steven and Antonia spent the evening over a slow dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, where they discussed travel plans. Antonia wasn’t a huge fan of small prop planes, and truthfully, Steven wasn’t crazy about them either; but if it got them off the island and to Caracas quickly, so be it. He’d booked business class seats for the seven-hour flight from Venezuela to Buenos Aires, and planned to throw his jet ticket from Caracas on his company credit card and reimburse Antonia for her costs in cash. He didn’t want any record of her connected to him, even on an anonymous credit card. He was starting to get the hang of the whole paranoia thing. Griffen had made that easy enough for him.

  The next morning they were up at 6:30, and at the airport by 8:00. They approached their pilot, who took the $5,400 cash from Steven and confirmed the flight was expected to be smooth. The plane seemed sturdy and could fly up to thirty thousand feet, although their flight plan would have them cruising at twenty-six thousand feet most of the way. Once their luggage was stowed they were soon bumping down the runway and onward to Caracas. Antonia fell asleep within an hour, and so Steven spent the trip gazing through the window at the spectacular views of the islands, set in an ultramarine ocean, as the engines droned their monotone lullaby.

  Checkmate: Chapter 6

  Robert Townsend got the call right after he’d settled into his seat with his first cup of coffee of the day, relaxing with his feet up on his desk. It was an islander. He wouldn’t identify himself, but he wanted to know if there was any kind of reward for information on the white man with the goatee, Marvin Simpson.

  “I suppose we’d be willing to pay for information,” Townsend told him, “depending on how good it is, of course.” He’d just bill Griffen for whatever he had to part with. That’s how the game was played.

  “It’s good all right. I want ten thousand dollars. I can give you everything you need to trace him. Everything.”

  “It’s a deal. As long as the information’s as good as you say it is.”

  “I’ll meet you at headquarters in an hour. The information is rock solid.” Simon hung up, and smiled to himself. They were safely off the island for a full day, so why not make a few dollars selling his knowledge? He could tell them about Antonia Donitelli, had copied her hotel phone records, and could give them some other tidbits about the man.

  Money was money. And it was hard to come by on an island. A fellow had to be practical to prosper in such a harsh environment, after all.

  ~ ~ ~

  When the little plane arrived in Caracas, their first hurdles were to clear customs and get to the commercial terminal, which was in a different part of the airport than the charters. It took a while, but their flight didn’t depart until nine p.m., so they had time. Stiff from the trip, they walked around the large departure area, the movement giving them a liberated feeling, as did the anonymity of being in a crowd. They chose a reasonable-looking café near the entrance, where they ate a relaxed lunch before deciding to go clothes shopping for Steven; who didn’t have much apparel other than two pairs of long pants and his shirts. The weather in Argentina called for an average high in the fifties, and lows around freezing. The seasons were reversed in the Southern Hemisphere, so they were headed to Buenos Aires in the dead of the Argentine winter. Clothes designed for the tropics wouldn’t cut it.

  They ventured into town, stopping at the store recommended by the information booth attendant at the airport. Even though the selection of goods left something to be desired, within half an hour Steven had a serviceable heavy jacket, a blue blazer, and a couple of long-sleeved thermal shirts.

  Antonia took a little longer to satisfy. She’d packed for summer and also ne
eded clothes, but didn’t really like much of what she saw. She had several pairs of jeans with her, so she limited herself to an overcoat and two sweater tops.

  She was pensive as they rode back in the cab. The reality of the situation was weighing on her mind. On a whim, she’d flown to South America with a man she’d only known a few days, who was involved in a dangerous conflict that was starkly immediate and real; and this man was being hunted by some seriously nasty characters who would clearly stop at nothing to take him down.

  She glanced at his profile. Strong cheekbones, the kind of non-traditional handsome she would have described as ‘interesting’, and with an energy about him that was both troubling and seductive. Her intellect told her this was a bad idea, but her emotions needed her with him. That was a conflict she was unfamiliar with, having numbed herself to any real feelings since her husband died, instead focusing on neutral matters such as running the magazine.

  Antonia was overwhelmed by their powerful attraction for each other – how natural their interactions seemed, how easy they were together. Whatever this was, it warranted more time.

  She thought about it. She had resources, and once she knew more, could probably help him. It wasn’t clear how at the moment, but she was confident she’d figure out a way. Right now the best thing she could do was get rested and think about all the players and the pieces that Steven had described. Maybe he’d missed something. Two heads were usually better than one, even if he imagined he could battle the whole world by himself.

  They’d be careful. At least for the moment, things seemed safe; they’d slipped away from the islands free and clear. There was no trail to follow, no tracks to give them away; that was a positive. And considering they were traveling to the other side of the planet, she sensed they would lose whatever problems were pursuing them…at least for a while.