Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

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 entire 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.”