T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Hayek accepted the absence of name with a sharp nod. The man gave the same back. His face was all angles and danger, his eyes Siberian ice. Hayek shifted to Russian and said, “Will you take champagne?”

The man showed an instant’s ire at being caught out so swiftly. The Brazilian banker poured laughter like oil over the disjointed moment. “Pavel, Pavel, you are too piercing for us. Of course, pour us some champagne, and let us speak of how you will make us all rich.”

Hayek stripped the foil and the wire netting and popped the cork. Russian mafia money buying Brazilian banks, then aiming at an American hedge fund. A world gone truly insane, ripe for its own destruction. “You are already rich.”

“As are you, my dear sir. As are you. But a little less rich than before your Ecuador fiasco.” The Brazilian cut him a scalpel-sharp look, there and gone so swiftly Hayek could pretend to have missed it. The banker accepted the first glass, as was his due. “But there is always more power to be gained, is there not. More power and bigger toys.” He sipped from his glass, nodded approval. “My youngest mistress does so dearly love her helicopter.”

Hayek gave the second glass to the Russian, raised his own, and said, “If you retract your gray-suited dogs, we might just succeed. Given the present circumstances, we risk yet another disaster.”

The dark eyes congealed. “We had nothing to do with the girl’s demise in Washington. As I have repeatedly told you.”

“Washington is history. There have been more incidents, as you well know. Those dolts of yours create havoc wherever they go. Only one of them manages to speak anything resembling English. They endanger everything.”

“Pavel, Pavel, I shall speak frankly. You have the habit of treating other people’s money as your own. We shall therefore have people in place to ensure you follow our agreed-upon policy.”

Hayek bristled. “Nobody regulates me.”

“Ah, but that is precisely what we shall do, if you want our money.” The voice turned soothing. “I have spoken personally with their chief. They shall obey you to the letter from now on.”

Hayek pretended to accept the inevitable with bad grace, and groused, “If there is one more problem, one more failure of any kind, they’re out.”

“Yes. Very well. To that I agree.” He moved the cigar to the hand holding his champagne so that he could pat Hayek’s shoulder. “You should be pleased with the gift, Pavel, not complaining like an old woman. These are highly trained specialists. If they have failed, it is because they are not used to, how shall I say it, handling such minor matters. Their connections cover the globe and are there for you to command.”

Hayek hid his satisfaction with a gambler’s skill. “You just make sure they learn to follow orders.”

“Of course, my dear Pavel. Of course.” The smile returned. “Now let us enjoy this excellent champagne while you explain to my new associate why he should help to finance your little project. What was that remarkable name you gave it?”

Hayek took a long breath, and replied evenly, “Tsunami.”

Hayek’s cellphone chimed just as he was ushering his guests back indoors. Burke sounded as frantic as Hayek had ever heard.

Hayek felt a sudden rush of rage at the report, so great he could only manage, “I will call you back in two minutes.”

“But-”

“Two minutes.” He slapped the phone shut, wheeled about, and strode to the balcony’s railing.

Not even the night could mask Miami’s rough edges. South of TOPA rose a ghastly high-rise parking garage, leering at him like a face with rotting teeth. Beyond that, crowds streamed along Lincoln Avenue, a pedestrian mall filled with nightclubs and shops. Hayek grimaced at the sound of Latin rap exploding from a car trolling Collins Avenue below him. Those who found Miami enticing drew their points of comparisons from more barbaric lands, of that he had no doubt. He forced himself to take a slow breath, to relax in stages, to think.

Hayek knew what others did not. There was one path to holding dominion over might and wealth. Just one. He was not referring to what satisfied most people, what passed for achievement. No. To attain the pinnacle, the rarefied heights for which Hayek had been born, there was only one narrow trajectory. There must be a tightening down of all energy, every shred of emotion and force and desire, until all life’s impetus was aimed at the one goal. A hunger so great it redefined the very breath of his body. A motive so strong every action and personal contact must help achieve the goal or be counted as dross to be scattered and forgotten. Aspirations must be honed to such a level that they became fiercer than the sharpest blade, cutting through all of life, carving away everything but the essential kernel. Nothing counted except the goal. Nothing. All else was simply the debris others lived for, what they lied and claimed was enough.

Then he realized that the night had already presented him with the answer. Hayek tossed a laugh to the garish scene and punched in Burke’s number. Hayek informed him, “Our opposition must be pounded and ground and milled to the fineness of Caribbean sand.”

“A tough thing to do,” Burke replied, “considering who they are.”

“Not if the work is done for us and cannot be traced back.” Hayek then outlined his plan.

Burke’s reply was instantaneous. “They’ll fail.”

“Then they seal their own fate.” He cut the connection but remained at the balcony’s railing until he had fully repressed the flush of triumph.

Only then did Hayek return inside. He followed the waiting usher back to the director’s box, utterly content with how events were developing. The Brazilian’s men would botch at least one of these new jobs. Of course they would. The resulting chaos was the perfect weapon to free him from their menacing presence. Hayek was under no illusions as to why the gray-suited dolts had been sent. They were not there to guard the Brazilian’s money. They were there to remind him of what would happen were he to fail. A constant reminder, and a means by which Hayek’s mind would be kept from searching out the Brazilian’s other mole. The one who would send word back so the Brazilian could mimic Hayek’s actions, and win double.

Hayek slid into his seat just as the curtain was rising. He tried to check his program, but the light was too dim. Then the orchestra played the first faint strains, and Hayek smiled his satisfaction. Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. His mother’s favorite piece. Even the Russians danced to his tune this night, signifying to all the world that the phoenix was about to rise.

Wednesday

When Jackie arrived downstairs the next morning, a trio of impossibly elegant women were doing coffee in the Hassler lounge. Several groups of businessmen watched her passage like lazy predators. The doorman gave her the sort of good morning that came with a five hundred dollar room, and ushered her into the sunlight. She crossed the cobblestone plaza and sought breakfast and a dose of reality in a corner café. Even if by some fluke she was ever granted the money and the ease, she would never become a Hassler type of gal. Her view of reality had come at too high a price to ever put her nose that far in the air.

Twice during the taxi ride to Sant’Egidio she glanced behind her, but the only things tracking her progress were sunlight and pigeons. The church was empty save for an old couple polishing the pews and four women kneeling before a side altar. The air smelled of dust and cold incense. Jackie pursued the sound of quiet chatter to a hallway leading off between two chapels. At the end, four Gypsy children sat sentinel outside a closed door. As soon as they spotted her, they rose and adopted the tragic whining cadence of professional beggars. Jackie did as she had seen the locals do the previous evening, touching their heads and outstretched palms, wishing she had an accompanying blessing to offer as well.