by Ted Krever
-I don’t like that.
You won’t. Look, I’m trying to make this easy for you. Go with my story, it’s the one Rahim already prefers. And you organizing everything so it all lines up, makes you a very valuable asset for him.
-How do you know he prefers this story?
Because I ran it by him in the hold of the ship. I told you—you’re just a buffer in case something goes wrong. Except nothing’s going to go wrong.
-(long pause) You’re certain the ship’s captain will back your story?
As certain as I am that the suitcase carrying our $750,000 is missing.
-Someone could still write about the transport. And the race car—you bought that with Dieter’s money!
I explained to you how all that happened.
-And if the reporters track down Mr. Woczynski?
I’ll guarantee you, word is already getting around that Mr. Woczynski used American contractors to loot Syrian relics; by tomorrow, all the relevant parties will know he stiffed the Russian mob. In forty-eight hours, nobody’s tracking down Mr. Woczynski.
(Silence)
What? That’s not enough for you? What’s the problem now?
-There are just a lot of loose ends.
Of course! That’s what’s real life is—nothing but loose ends. Thereby providing employment for security chiefs, spies and public relations executives, in order to provide something more convenient.
Such as, let the media loose in the hold of that ship. Give them a photo op with Prince Rahim, the heroic ship’s crew and you, the head of the valiant security force, posing with the winged bulls and the bust of Alexander. At that point, nobody’s going to be worrying the fine print.
The Last Act
And then, within ten minutes, we’re gone.
Swept out of the room by a team of muscle boys—close proximity, very clear direction, arms locked below the elbows, which can easily be broken if they’re provoked. You move where they move you. You sit the way they tell you to sit. You go to the bathroom and they’re knocking on the door every ten seconds, demanding to hear your voice. Where are we going, on an airplane in flight?
This is a private jet, ten high-back seats in buttery leather, ours rendered slightly less luxurious by the restraining straps for arms and legs. The crew don’t seem to notice—they ask if we want food or drink. Would they feed me if I said ‘Yes’? I decide not to find out.
The guards don’t talk to you. They pretend they don’t speak English. They know it’s more intimidating if they say nothing and they’re right. They don’t read, they watch hunting and fishing shows on the inflight TV and watch the crew with enough distrust that you wonder if assassins aren’t seeded just everywhere waiting for you. They keep us isolated, different sections of the plane, facing away from one another.
That’s when my confidence ebbs away. It was all braggadocio anyway but now it just runs out of me like juice from a rotten melon.
I can hear Harry talking at one point—one point that goes on for close to an hour, actually. Pretty interesting too—who knew one geisha caused the Japanese deflation crisis of the 90’s? But it’s still just talk, without a single reply, so you can’t really call it conversation.
As for me, I don’t think I’ve ever spent such a long time without speaking. Just as well—I gave being truthful a shot and it hasn’t done a bit of good. Nobody’s told us the next step and I’m damned if I’m going to offend anybody before the hearing. Will they give us a hearing? Or was that the hearing?
I should be more remorseful. It’s not like I did much right, but we came out of it alive, which was the only consistent goal I had. So now I’m exhausted and lost.
Skimming over the checkerboard farmland of Juilly, the last couple of miles before De Gaulle Airport, is one of the saddest moments of my life. I was so looking forward to returning to Paris and now it’s surely one of my last moments of freedom.
We pull up to the private airline terminal and the Security boys lead us off the plane, past the gate and out to the airport roadway, where the cabs queue up. We’re waiting for a car—but who? The flics? Deuxieme Bureau? CIA? What are we looking for—a government-issue Escalade? Some generic, invisible-in-traffic Peugeot?
At least they didn’t march us off in cuffs—the fact that we’re standing here on our own suggests they don’t want a fuss, don’t want us on the front pages. Does the public know I escaped at all? Did they ever broadcast my face? If they had, they wouldn’t leave me on an airport roundabout, would they?
Harry looks surprisingly relaxed. And he should be. I’ll plead guilty if they’ll leave him alone. I can’t imagine him passing the psych test for court anyway.
Sara scans the scene with her reporter’s eye and an odd half-smile. I look around and finally notice what’s missing. Where have the Security guys gone? The courtyard is full of expensive cars dropping off and picking up customers, people chattering on their way in and out—but nobody with that hollow paranoid eyeflick.
It’s a queasy moment, searching for someone you don’t want to see, actually getting what you desperately want.
“They’ve vanished,” she says finally. I wouldn’t dare.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“Go home,” Diamante says.
“They’ll say we’re attempting to escape.”
“If you insist, we can go to a police station and turn ourselves in.”
“I’ll bet they’re not looking for you.”
“You’re so special,” she snides.
“I’m the man who brought the bomb to Paris.”
“I actually did try to blow up Saudi Arabia,” Harry remarks. “That should count for something.”
“If they ask, you don’t remember a thing.”
“About what? Not a problem. I suggest we eat a fine lunch.”
“Harry—”
“What? We’re in Paris! We’re at large, for the moment, on our own recognizance. Are we fleeing, if we tie up for a good bouillabaisse?”
“No.”
“Then we might as well go out happy.”
We end up at D’Azur, of course, sign for lunch now and pay later, if ever. Harry receives his usual warm welcome and we order every damn thing on the menu.
It’s the feast condemned prisoners would eat, let loose in a fine restaurant on an expense account. We’re having a lovely time until Millard Hastings hustles in and over to our table.
“Please—don’t feel obligated to join us,” I say. “Surely there must be some other restaurant willing to charge you full price.”
“Ha ha,” he says. “You’re such a wit.” And then he sits down! I know blunt and disagreeable is not my reputation but what does it take to drive him away?
“Honestly—please don’t join us. Just send the flics and I’ll hold out my hands for the manacles. But I don’t have to eat with you.”
He pauses for a moment and takes us in—whatever his secret is, he’s actually savoring it, the sadist.
“You don’t know, do you?” he smiles, pulling the newspaper from his briefcase and dropping it on the table.
SHOCKWAVES IN WADIIRAH—CROWN PRINCE,
23 OTHERS, PURGED IN ‘ANTI-CORRUPTION’ MOVE
Qumrahdi, Wadiirah — In a sweeping series of midnight raids, Wadiiran police took 24 leading citizens into custody, including the country’s Crown Prince, Ibn bin Salim, its Justice and Defense Ministers, Chief of the National Guard, Chairman of the Royal Broadcast Authority and Haram bin Haram, Wadiirah’s best known and most influential financier, owner of Trump Tower Qumrahdi and major investor in Google, Uber and Tinder.
The move was widely seen as a consolidation of power for Prince Rahim Suleiman Musafa Hattan, nephew of the 86-year-old King Tallah and long-time power behind the throne. Sources close to the Prince, speaking anonymously as they were not cleared to speak to the Press, said the move was focused on “eliminating corruption and a dissident element that has become a cancer at the top level of Wadiirah’s elite.”
“Irrefutable evidence has emerged,” said Colonel Suleiman Qadir, the new Chief of Security, “of a serious plot against the security of the Gulf region, a plot made possible by outsiders seeking influence with sensitive portions of our government. The traitorous element has now been isolated and removed from power.”
Rumors spread like wildfire through the capitol this morning, after police retrieved scores of high-ranking officials, conveying them to house arrest in the luxurious Stabler Milton Hotel, of a plot involving rogue security contractors corrupting high-level officials in order to both loot the region of its historic wealth and destabilize Wadiirah, traditionally one of the most secure Gulf states. “I saw the evidence with my own eyes,” Prince Yusuf Musaffa Hattan, the new Chairman of the Royal Broadcast Authority and a well-known video blogger in the region, said in a prepared statement.
“I saw the evidence, dog and it was dope!” I say, looking up from the page goggle-eyed. “Wow! Yusuf gets the broadcast authority, Colonel Qadir runs Security and Rahim gets the kingdom.”
“He gets the hot seat, more likely,” Harry says. “Now he’s the boy everyone else is aiming at.”
Hastings is smiling. It’s just such an unnatural expression, coming from him.
“And what do you get out of this, Millard? You seem awfully peppy—I can’t imagine Mr. Woczynski is thrilled by all this.”
“Ah, there’s lots of old junk out there to keep him happy,” Hastings dismisses. “In the meantime, we get the contract to investigate the corruption in Wadiirah and rebuild whatever needs rebuilding.”
“That sounds wide-ranging,” Harry says blithely.
“It sounds lucrative,” adds Sara.
“It should be,” Hastings says comfortably.
“More to the point, you certainly aren’t going to start picking holes in Rahim’s story if you’re profiting by it.”
“That would be ungrateful,” Harry says.
“So you’ve surrendered Dieter to the Gods? The Rogue Security Contractor, I see in the papers?”
“The Rogue Security Contractor is being held incommunicado, I’m told,” Hastings says. “Dieter was crucial to capturing him. He is heading our security detail.”
“Job security is a wonderful thing.”
So far, this is a cynic’s wet dream. Nonetheless, this is Hastings—there is surely a twelve-tone chord on the way.
“I just have one little chore left.” Here it comes. I notice Harry stirring as well, anticipating the knife.
Hastings turns to Sara. “It’s about the wife,” he says.
“Am I?” she replies.
“I don’t know, are you?” I ask, nervously awaiting her answer.
She stretches in her chair like a cat and throws me a flat-out grin. “We have to make a deal,” she says. “I’m just not ready to part with the mattress and I still like the apartment, too.”
“We can negotiate something,” I say.
“Good for you,” Hastings says. “My concern is the recent events in Wadiirah. You’re not renowned for tact,” he tells Sara. This is where we would normally laugh but his tone says ‘No’. “You’ve historically been unable to let sleeping dogs lie, shall we say.”
“And you’re here to find out if I’ll be a good girl.”
“You’re not known for that either,” he smiles, not in a nice way.
“Thank you. What about Harry?”
“He’s off his nut, everyone knows that. No one will listen to anything he says.”
“Unless I’m calling for the cheque,” Harry says. “And Diamante?”
“We assume Diamante will do what you ask.”
“I will,” Diamante says, fingers moving on phone screen, probably creating a new cybercurrency pegged to the price of bat guano.
“What about me?” I ask.
“Oh, you’re the hero,” Hastings says, “who tipped everyone off. You discovered the forged shipping certificate. If you hadn’t tracked that to the Middle East, we’d never have intercepted the fatal shipment. That’s the story—as long as Sara here can be counted on.”
Sara takes all this in, nods and raises her hand, taking the oath. “I just want the pony,” she says, with as earnest a look as I’ve ever seen on her face sober.
“No offense, please,” Hastings continues, “but how do we know we can believe you?”
“He’s speaking in the royal ‘we’, dear.”
“That’s because of all those other people behind him,” she responds, “waiting for him to get results.”
“Pay no attention to the men behind the curtain,” Harry mutters.
Sara drapes her arm around Harry’s and my shoulders, her two adoring men flanking her. “Harry always gets the last word,” she says and puts on her show-announcer voice. “Harry! What’s RULE ZERO, the Rule of Rules?”
“RULE ZERO?” I protest. “There’s no Rule Zero.”
“I didn’t have to teach you this one. You knew it already,” Harry says, putting down his fork, relishing, as always, the moment and the spotlight and the last word. “It’s the old Irish proverb: ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.’”
The End
Acknowledgments
Claire is my wife, partner, lover, best friend, editor and inspiration in every way that matters. She was my most important reader, critic and we wrestled out some crucial development together (fifteen rounds, no decision).
Who else helped put this thing together?
Samantha Talbot and Elisabeth Lohninger gave invaluable advice—if this is confusing or unreadable, it’s my fault. If it’s compelling and pulls you along like it should, they deserve major credit.
Alexandra Sokoloff helped me online during a crucial moment with a structural issue that’s bedeviled me for years, over several books—pinning down what the hell I mean. Where’s the center?
Michael Hirsch introduced me to Carolina Salguero and the crew of the Mary Whalen, a visit that gave me invaluable details of the feel and workings of a freighter ship, though the Mary Whalen is somewhat smaller than the ship I imagined here.
And friends and acquaintances who were familiar with the workings of the military transport system generously gave time and attention, vetting details that I would never have found on my own. They know who they are.
Other books by Ted Krever
Mindbenders
Max Renn is a legend of the Soviet mind control program, a genetic experiment, the product of three generations of psychics bred by the state for their power. Before his first mission, the Soviet Union collapses and he disappears.
We meet him twenty years later in the Everglades, keeping as far from people as he can get, until his best friend–his only friend–is murdered and he is forced to assemble a team of people like him to fight the international conspiracy behind the murder.
‘…non-stop action…’ ‘…dialog that left me breathless…’ ‘…I couldn't put the book down....finally crawled into bed early hours of the next day…’ ‘…very few books I read that seem as fresh to me as Mindbenders did…’ ‘…an emotional roller-coaster ride…’ “Mindbenders…will make you wonder if your mind really does belong to you.”
Mindbenders 2: The Fiery Sky
Renn and his Mindbenders team race from a murder-without-clues in Belgium to a floating village in the South China Sea, from an amphitheater in Africa to the Australian Outback, facing a terrifying new opponent who uses Renn’s deepest secrets to betray him. Because the most dangerous enemy is the one in your own mind.
‘…a more than worthy followup to the first…’ ‘…picks up literally where the first ended…’ ‘…characters are skillfully drawn…’ ‘…intense, memorable scenes…’ ‘…great style and substance…’ ‘…fast paced, well written and exciting!’ ‘…a complete thrill ride…’
Green
Paul and Emily have been friends for decades. Emily’s beautiful, well-off and has always pursued Paul, in her subtle way. He has never been quite sure
why he’s not crazy about her. Now, as he hits low ebb, Emily invites him to Ireland, where she trains horses. And Paul wonders, maybe it’s time to let her catch me? And then falls for the firebrand Irish barmaid, during international protests against the Iraq War and a chance to turn his whole life around-if he can summon the will to be bold.
‘…not your typical romance…’ ‘…a smart, witty and wise look at love later in life …’ ‘…a unique look into the mindset of men…’ ‘…I found myself laughing aloud more than once, only to shortly thereafter find myself deeply touched.’ “The descriptions…of Ireland are alone worth the price of the book…”
A Crafty and Devious God
At the height of the first dotcom boom, when novices were becoming billionaries before lunch and all a girl had to do to be a sensation was take her clothes off now and then, a middle-aged man going through a rancorous divorce gets involved with an Internet exhibitionist. A brilliant and ambitious exhibitionist, determined to gain fame and an IPO -and not above concocting a fictional life story to ensure getting the attention she wants.
“Weirdly excellent” ‘…an engaging character study…’ ‘…kept reading and reading and reading…’ “[The] writing is very natural, loose and easy, yet deep and thoughtful.” ‘a great read…’
Howling at Wolves
Out of work after 9/11, what would you do? Drive to Canada to see the girl you were crazy about 25 years earlier--but never even kissed--carting along your 77-year-old former writing professor who can't sit more than two hours at a clip and swears he's vegan despite the fact that he has a butcher (with great boobs)? Nearly destroy her business, bringing Canadian men in touch with their masculinity? End up in bed with her--and her sister--after being accused of trying to blow up the Prime Minister with a Super-8 projector? You wouldn’t? Well, here's the story of someone who did.