by James Codlin
Martín started the car and drove to Dulles Airport. A Latino Union military plane was waiting for him, and he directed the pilots to take him to Miami. Once he landed, he would head straight to Little Havana. Martín glanced at his phone and saw that he had messages. A few from Dave, which he assumed were confirming his arrival in the United States and no doubt giving Martín a hard time for abandoning him at the airport. There was also one from Lenin and a text from—he did a double-take—Gina! A familiar cocktail of anguish and longing, along with a healthy dose of anger, flooded his synapses. What could she possibly want to talk about? Perhaps Dave had put her up to it. It would have to wait, though. He had a long series of grueling days ahead of him.
Martín strapped himself in as the military plane began to taxi toward the runway for takeoff. Within moments he had dozed off.
*
It was early evening when Waro Moto was admitted to President Ishikawa’s study. Moto strode in with the swagger of a man who considered himself the most important person in any room. The two men bowed several times to each other, with Moto correctly acknowledging Ishikawa’s technically higher social standing by bowing a little deeper. They then exchanged greetings and statements of respect in Japanese.
Over tea they traded questions about health, business, and politics. Eventually Moto asked with deference if he might inquire about a matter of mutual interest. Ishikawa nodded.
“Mr. President, I wish to report that the last of the communications satellites you ordered has been completed, and is being flown in from Japan today.”
“And the plan is still to have the launch coincide with the inauguration of San Juan Diego?” Ishikawa asked.
“I spoke to Paris a half hour ago, and they assured me that everything is in order.”
“The booster will be the new Ariane 6?” The president took a measure of pride in being able to name drop the state of the art European Space Agency rocket.
“Yes, Mr. President.” The large man shifted in his chair. “There is another matter of great delicacy we must discuss.” He looked around the room.
“I assure you, we are not being recorded.”
“It will be best for you if we are not.” Waro Moto’s gaze, which had been directed generally at the floor, now locked onto the president’s, and his stooped shoulders abruptly straightened. He smiled at Ishikawa with a tight mouth.
“The transfers to your party’s bank account are being made today. My media experts will arrive within the hour. Your leadership will be unchallenged.”
Ishikawa gave a single nod of his head and looked away.
“Oh, come now, Mr. President. Surely you are not having qualms? Remember, Ishikawa-san, your union needs your discipline and order. Years of gaijin running these countries into disaster after disaster have proven their unfitness to rule. Contrast that with the miracles Fujimori-san accomplished in Peru. Only the combined intelligence and discipline of the Japanese mind can accomplish these things.”
Ishikawa sat in silence for a moment. He had heard this from Moto before and loathed it and its racist implications. More and more, he hated himself for getting involved with the Japanese billionaire, but the die had already been cast. “You forget—I am Brazilian, not Japanese,” he said.
Moto gave a dismissive wave. “You were raised Japanese. Your parents did not forget themselves when they arrived here.” Moto leaned forward. “It’s the money that makes you uneasy, isn’t it? Don’t be stupid. Speak of your ideals to that mass of mongrels that make up this hemisphere. Don’t think for even a moment that I will permit you to go weak on me now. Especially considering the size of the favor I am doing for you.”
Ishikawa stiffened, shocked by Moto’s gravely insulting breach of etiquette.
Moto sat up straighter, raising his head higher than the president’s. “I have accepted a huge liability in taking your… damaged goods.”
Ishikawa savagely sucked in air through the corners of his mouth. His face froze and his voice became hushed. “You are on very dangerous ground, Moto-san.”
“I don’t think so. Your daughter will now marry within our race, even though you let her go to local schools and American and European universities. Even though you gave her a gaijin name, not Japanese. And even though you allowed her to sleep with a gaijin—a Cuban-American Jew, no less.”
Ishikawa was determined to keep face even if Moto was losing his by being blunt beyond all belief. It was unthinkable to speak of such things, particularly with the agreement having already been struck. He would have demanded instant satisfaction from this wealthy but barbarous man—except that he himself had to bear the shame of brokering the unconscionable deal.
Ishikawa desperately needed the money to grease the political machinery so that he could remain in power. To gain the certainty and stability that he needed to get the Latino Union on its feet, he had given Moto two things. First, he had ensured that the Union’s full telecommunications contract—including the state-of-the-art mobile telephone and high-speed data network that was now fully operational in the capital—would be awarded to Moto Electric. Second, Ishikawa promised Moto his daughter in an arranged marriage, forging a bond between the billionaire and the Latino Union’s political and social landscape that would persist even after Ishikawa stepped down.
When Ishikawa ordered Gina to end her relationship with Martín Ibarra and marry Waro Moto, he offered no explanation of why, and she didn’t ask for one. Gina simply left the room and began packing to leave Brazil to be with Martín. Ishikawa reminded her of her traditional filial obligations to him, to her race, and to her culture. He left the room, fearing she was lost to him, along with the political ambitions he had for his country and continent.
Then a miracle had occurred. Gina came to him several hours later, her face an impassive mask, and announced that she would accept her obligations. She requested only that she be allowed to practice her university major, journalism, for a two-year period before she married Moto. Ishikawa feared this was a trap—that she would spend the two years with Ibarra, making it impossible for Moto to have her. But instead she had taken an assignment in Rome, and from all indications he believed that she would follow through on her word.
Sitting across from this foul, arrogant man, it broke his heart.
*
Martín startled as the Latino Union Air Force pilot shook him awake.
“Rise and shine, dormilón! You’re home.”
Martín took a few moments to shake the cobwebs out of his head and wipe the drool from his mouth. His body ached from the awkward position he’d slept in.
“It’s 1900 hours right now,” the airman said. “What time do you want to be wheels up tomorrow?”
“Uh, 1400 hours work for you?”
“Sure thing, jefe,” the airman replied, and headed back toward the cockpit.
Martín checked his belongings and saw that Lenin had called twice more, leaving a voicemail. Unusual. Feeling a twinge of concern, he tapped the message.
“Martín, when you get this message, call me right away, day or night—”
The urgency in Lenin’s voice was unmistakable, so Martín abandoned the message and called. “Doc? What’s going on? I just got back to Miami and—”
“Have you heard anything from David Broch?”
“There are a few messages I haven’t listened to yet. My flight just landed and I haven’t had time—”
“Come over to my place right now.”
“What? Look, I—”
“Just do it. I don’t want to say more by phone.”
The line went dead.
*
When Martín arrived at Lenin’s house, the professor greeted him stiffly and with obvious distraction. Instead of leading him directly into his study, Lenin stood with Martín in the entry hall.
“What about the messages from Broch?” Lenin asked.
“After we got off the phone, I listened to them. They raise a lot of questions.”
“I h
ave a bad feeling,” Lenin said. “And someone else needs our help too.” With that he stood to one side and gestured toward the door to the study. Martín opened it and saw Gina sitting at the professor’s desk. He froze just inside the doorway.
Martín’s mind raced, shocked by her sudden reappearance in his life. The omnipresent dull ache that had been with him since their breakup rose to a roar. This surge of emotion was topped off with a dose of self-loathing—in this moment she clearly needed him, but he was making no move toward her.
Martín tried to speak, but his vocal chords weren’t working. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You… look great.”
Gina felt her resolve ebbing. Martín looked so surprised and vulnerable—even desperate. “You too,” she said. The clock on the wall ticked noisily as they struggled for how to proceed. “Look, let’s just agree to be civil and work together on this specific problem, okay?”
Martín nodded.
Lenin strode across the room purposefully, and sat down at his desk.
“Let’s get to work,” he said.
*
Martín listened carefully to Gina’s voicemail recordings, hearing Dave’s voice above the din of laughter and Brazilian music in the background. Dave said he was planning to travel the next day, but was interrupted by someone in the background. They leaned in close to the phone’s speaker.
“Yeah, Julio, I’ll be there en seguida, okay? Tell Ray to hang on, momentito, keep his pantalones on!”
“Who are Julio and Ray?” Gina asked.
Martín shook his head. “Some friends he met in Europe, I guess.”
They listened to the message fragment when Dave told Gina he had specific words for Martín before being cut off. Then Gina relayed the conversation she’d had with the man answering at the Vincennes rectory.
“I listened to Dave’s messages on the way over,” Martín said, “but I couldn’t make any sense of them. Let’s see if they somehow fit with the ones he left for you.” He set his phone down on the desk in front of them, turned on his speaker, and played the voicemails.
The oldest message began with a flourish of guitar chords and the furious hammering taconazo of flamenco music. Dave’s familiar voice came on, saying, “Marty, my main man! Sorry I had you on alert for my homecoming but bailed on you. Sounds like you’re not around to pick me up anyway! Such a terrible, unreliable friend!”
Dave laughed heartily and then started to talk again, but the music and taconazo had risen to a thundering level, drowning out Dave’s next words. Gina, Martín, and Lenin could hear a woman’s voice shouting at Dave, “Come on, cariño, come back to the dance floor. Come now… please… I want to…” The next words were a breathy whisper that they couldn’t understand because of the music. Then the woman’s voice, audible again, “I’ll dance without you until you come to your senses and get off the phone! You get to see for free what others have to pay for!”
Dave laughed again and then continued in a more serious tone, “Don’t know how you feel… uh… about this, but I left a message for Gina yesterday. She’s—” Wild applause and cheering drowned him out. Finally, he could be heard again, saying, “… hope we can catch up soon. Over and out.” The time stamp put the call at yesterday evening at 8:20 p.m. Miami time, which would have been 1:20 a.m. in Madrid.
Dave’s next message played. “Yo, Marty—just wanted to let you know that I’m going to hang out a while longer here. I’m rooting around in stuff C-R would love.”
Martín and Gina couldn’t help but laugh as Lenin looked at them with a raised eyebrow. Cr, the periodic chart identifier for the element chromium, was the students’ name for their bald, shiny-headed professor.
“Look, I’m just going to check out Spain for a while. You won’t be able to reach me, but I’ll call in a few weeks. And, hey, Marty—remember our nine holes at Gables? The deal was twenty bucks a hole. We knotted the first three holes, you eagled four and birdied seven to win, but I birdied five and eagled six, winning those—you won with a bogey on eight, and we both parred nine. I owe you twenty and will pay you as soon as I can.
“And one last favor. Talk to Gina as soon as you can. It’s important. Marty, you’re a choice guy. Some other guys know that too, and they want to give you a Saint Benny. Gina’s got more about that. I’m out of here.”
The recording ended.
They listened to all the messages again. As Martín replayed Dave’s last message, he shushed Lenin when the professor interrupted to ask what was so important about a golf game.
“I don’t get why he said I wouldn’t be able to reach him,” Martín said. “He’s in Spain, not Mongolia. And what bothers me even more was what we didn’t hear.”
“What are you talking about?” Gina asked. “We heard all of it—repeatedly.”
“Yeah. But, I mean, you literally didn’t hear it.”
“Hear what?” Lenin asked with irritation.
“That last message. There was no party—no music.”
CHAPTER NINE
Monastery Toribio de Liébana, Spain—1805
“Brother Cobo, you’re early,” the Augustine monk said enthusiastically as he took the reins from the arriving man’s horse and tied them to the hitching post.
Brother Cobo slid down from his saddle and stretched his cramped legs. “With all the uncertainties that these wars have brought upon the kingdom, I left very early—but even then, I had doubts that I would get here. I was shot at by both sides!”
“Yes,” Brother Enríquez said. “First we invade France because they killed their king, and we fail. So it only makes sense that we would then fight the British alongside the French revolutionaries who started it all with their regicide!” He smiled and cast his arms outward to indicate the absurdity of it all.
Cobo, tired and stressed from his perilous journey, was unable to share in the humor. He looked back at the horizon, squinting to see if perhaps he could spot the third member of their elite cabal making his way up through the Cantabrian foothills. But he saw nothing but the road winding its way out of sight between lush green hills. “Perhaps Cardinal Gasco will be late for the same reason I was early,” Cobo said, shaking his head.
They retired to Brother Enríquez’s cell, and Cobo noted that they passed no one as they walked through the abbey. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here,” Cobo commented.
“Yes, I’m alone for several days,” Enríquez said. “I had to tell the abbot a white lie that I was sick and could not accompany the other monks on a nearby mission.”
Cobo nodded, somewhat uncertainly. Though he was pleased that they could speak freely, it seemed impossible that the location of the Lignum Crucis, the greatest fragment of the Cross of Christ remaining in the world, would be left to the care of a solitary monk.
Enríquez read Cobo’s dubious expression. “By ‘alone,’ Brother, I mean down here among our simple devotional spaces. I can assure you that your approach was monitored carefully from the bell tower by those whose job it is to ensure the security and tranquility of this sacred site.”
Cobo relaxed a bit and sat down, accepting the cup of red wine that Enríquez poured for him. He sipped it, relished the robust flavor, and sighed. “Our meetings in person are occurring more and more frequently, against Guardian rules.”
“It is regrettable,” Enríquez agreed with a shrug. “But the uncertainty and instability of the world have forced our hands. Even the great Torquemada, when he penned the Guardian laws, could not have foreseen the turmoil of the last century.” Enríquez tugged at his robe. “It is the changed world and its uncertainties that I want the three of us to discuss. Since you are here first, let’s talk about it a bit before the cardinal arrives.”
“It would be unusual to discuss Fourth Angel matters without all three of us being present.”
Enríquez smiled. “You and I have been exchanging letters for many years. I feel that I know you better than the cardinal, and I feel I can speak more freely with you. I am c
oncerned about the transfer of our gold to the Rothschild Bank in Frankfurt. They are Jews.”
“That concerns me as well,” Cobo said.
Enríquez visibly brightened at their shared prejudice. “I believe you and I have a common thought about this matter. I would like to add these additional points for you to consider. The British naval blockade is bankrupting the Spanish monarchy, which is borrowing heavily from the Rothschilds. What is to keep them from lending our assets to a king—a Bourbon king!—who has no possibility of repaying his loans? Or worse, what if the Rothschilds decide to foreclose on the entirety of the Fourth Angel assets, keeping it all for themselves? You know the Jews—they only look out for themselves. We could lose the entire fortune!”
Cobo took a larger swig from his cup and sloshed the wine in his mouth, mulling Enríquez’s concern. “I am uncertain as to what you are suggesting. Where else should we keep the fortune?”
Enríquez leaned toward Cobo, lowering his voice as a gleam of joyous menace crept into his eyes. “I say we take possession of it ourselves.”
The words hung in the air. “You mean the Holy Office should take possession?” Cobo asked.
“No, I mean you and I will take possession.”
Cobo shook his head. “Are you mad?”
Although the sardonic gleam remained in his eyes, Enríquez’s expression flattened somewhat and he assumed a lecturing tone. “You need to be practical. The Hapsburgs are in decline, and their power in the Austro-Hungarian Empire is waning. Why should we continue to safeguard a fortune for them? Why should we risk the Bourbons, or the Jews—the people who murdered our Lord and Savior!—taking over the fortune?”
The lecturing tone gave way to passion and Enríquez’s voice swelled. “And our Guardian cardinals in Valladolid? For all these years none of them, including Gasco, have been confessors to the Bourbon kings. We have had no inside knowledge for a hundred years—none! Their role within the Guardianship has been utterly useless.”