A Vial Upon the Sun

by James Codlin

  Then an unanticipated call had come, and now Moto was listening to a banker’s pitch while the man’s client sat silently across from him.

  “So, you can see the broad strokes up here on the screen. Moto Electric will get a one-time capital infusion that it will use to retire all of its existing debt, including all of the default premiums and fees. In return, we will get a 49% interest in Moto Electric with the veto rights described in this slide here.”

  The Japanese banker waited for any indication of assent or understanding from the CEO, and got none. He paused, uncertain as to whether he should continue, and looked over to his client for some guidance. The Spaniard twirled his hand in an impatient gesture to keep the presentation going, and the banker clicked on to the next slide.

  “As you can see here, Phase Two of the investment by Guardians Capital will come in the form of loans to Moto Electric. From this day forward, Guardians Capital will be your sole source of debt or equity funding, and all proceeds will come with strict covenants as to how they can be used—as such, Guardians Capital will have sole veto power over all Moto Electric budgets, as well as any acquisitions or expenditures in excess of one million United States dollars.”

  “That’s outrageous,” Moto growled. “I won’t be able to buy toilet paper for my workers to wipe their asses without coming to you to seek permission!”

  For the first time since they had entered the conference room, the Spaniard spoke. There was no trace of anger or irritation in his voice. “If there is a better deal out there for you, Moto-san, I encourage you to take it. We’re offering you a chance to remain the majority shareholder as well as the face of the company. I would also note for you that the interest rates on these loans are well below market rates. Market rates for a healthy company. In your current state you wouldn’t be able to get the yakuza to lend you money.”

  Moto scowled.

  “Please don’t think of us as adversaries, Moto-san. We want to help you carry out exactly what you had planned—a dominant global telecommunications company with unparalleled reach and scope. Our goal is only to ensure that certain aspects of that plan are prioritized above others. At the end of the day, you will find that the financial restrictions we are imposing are only there to ensure that you do not take advantage of our generosity.”

  “Like an electric collar on a dog,” Moto said.

  “Whatever metaphor suits you, Moto-san. I think you’ll find that we are excellent partners to work with, and that you will have a great deal of flexibility—again, so long as certain priorities are adhered to.”

  “Excellent partners? And what track record am I to base that on? I’ve had my people digging around since you first called and no one has heard of you. You have no standing in the private equity community, and no portfolio of companies. Do you have any idea the massive amount of funding it will take to finance my vision for this company going forward? Your initial investments would be just a drop in the ocean.”

  The Spaniard gave an almost imperceptible nod to the Japanese banker, who clicked through to the next slide. “Here are our projections for the capitalization of Moto Electric to be provided by Guardians Capital for the next 10 years. Does this comport with your estimates?”

  For the first time in his life, Moto was truly stunned. No private equity firm on earth would be able to fund these amounts. “Impossible,” Moto said. “And even if it was, the dilution I would experience…”

  “There will be zero dilution beyond your fifty-one percent holding, Moto-san. You will remain the majority holder and face of the company at all times.”

  Again, the Spaniard nodded at his banker, who responded by reaching into his briefcase and producing a stack of papers. He slid them across the conference table to Moto.

  “The documents Fujita-san has just passed to you show the current Guardians Capital cash, currency, and precious metal holdings here in Japan. I trust you recognize the names of the signatories attesting to each of these accounts? They are, after all, some of your largest creditors.”

  Moto flipped through the documents. This was not just impossible. It was completely insane. It was a joke that he would be expected to believe that these were legitimate numbers.

  The Spaniard relished the moment, waiting until Moto had leafed through the entirety of the papers before speaking. “Impressive, no? And those are just our domestic holdings here in Japan. Moto-san, it is with deepest respect and admiration that I submit that you will not in your lifetime, no matter the state of your company, find a better proposition than what we are offering here to you today. My lawyers will send you the paperwork tomorrow. You will not try to negotiate a single word or comma within those documents. If, by Friday, we have not received your signature on them, the offer will be removed and we will go elsewhere to invest our holdings. Please take careful note of the confidentiality provisions. Guardians Capital requires the highest level of secrecy from those that we deign to do business with. You will find that any violation of these provisions will result in consequences that are quite… draconian.”

  Fujita nodded toward the stack of papers still in front of Moto, who dutifully slid them across the table. The banker neatly restacked them and slid them back into his briefcase.

  The Spaniard rose from his seat, and he and his banker bowed. Moto could have sworn that beneath the man’s exquisitely knotted tie he saw the distinctive white of a clerical collar. It was just another preposterous detail in a day full of absurdities.

  Thirty-six hours later, Moto signed all of the documents.

  Forty-eight hours later, the first wire from Guardians Capital hit Moto Electric’s accounts.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There was nothing Martín could do but sit quietly and wait.

  The van he had been hauled into had been in stop-and-go urban traffic for some time, then picked up speed as it left the city. An hour or so later it turned on to what sounded like a gravel road.

  When it stopped, Martín was lifted out of the van, carried a hundred meters, and dumped on the ground. The sound of boots on grass receded. Martín listened for several minutes to the insects buzzing around him. He didn’t hear anyone approaching, so he was startled when someone ripped off the tape around his eyes and mouth. The dazzling sun blinded him as the zip-ties binding his arms and ankles were cut, freeing his hands to rub his burning eyes.

  When at last his eyes focused he saw his brother Nicolás squatting in front of him. His eyes bore into Martín’s.

  “Three good people, dead because of you,” he said.

  Martín dully returned his brother’s gaze.

  “Three?”

  “Lenin. Ishikawa. De Valencia.”

  Martín’s mind whirled, but came up blank. “I don’t know a de Valencia,” he said.

  “Yes, I am afraid you did. You knew him as Gallego.”

  *

  Lenin called the United States on the disposable mobile phone he had purchased in a neighboring hotel’s gift shop. He used the office extension number Efraín Bertrán had given him in case further questions arose. It went to voicemail.

  Lenin hung up and thought for a moment. He turned Bertrán’s business card over and read a number written in pencil on the back. He entered the digits, and Efraín’s voice answered, “Hello.”

  “Efraín? Teodoro Lenin, calling from Caracas.”

  “Teodoro, good to hear from you,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Are you on speakerphone?” Lenin asked.

  “Yes. I’m on I-4 heading for Tampa. Programming meeting in Saint Pete. Beautiful day here in Florida! What can I do for you?”

  “Just a moment, I’m going to turn on the speakerphone too. I have Gina here with me.” He tapped the icon and laid the phone on the table between them.

  “Good morning, Efraín,” Gina said.

  “I had some additional thoughts last night,” Lenin said. “It’s about Carlos—”

  “Teodoro, hang on a minute,” Efraín interrupte
d. There’s an officer waving me off to a detour. Okay, you mean Carlos, the king of Spain?”

  “Yes. We need his full lineage—as far back as you can go, please.”

  Efraín let out a long whistle. “First the pope, now the king? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Lenin said. “I’ll explain when I can.”

  “Got it. I won’t be able to get to it for two days because of this conference. If you’re in a hurry, one of our missionaries in Maracay can help. Hold on.” After a moment, he recited the number. “Name’s Scott Westfield. Just tell him you’re on a project with me and—sorry, there’s someone trying to pass me. They’re right on my tail, driving erratically—drunk or something. Hold on.”

  Through the tinny speaker, Gina and Lenin heard a sudden crash followed by a popping noise.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!”

  There was the brutal crunch of metal on metal, a series of loud thumps and grunts, and then the continuous bleating of a car horn. “Efraín! Efraín!” Gina shouted. Lenin and Gina looked at each other in horror. A long groan issued from the telephone, and then stopped, along with the horn.

  A man’s harsh voice growled in Castilian Spanish, “You son of a bitch. Time to talk.”

  A high-pitched scream blasted from the small speaker.

  “I’ll do it again unless you talk to me,” the voice said. “Who asked you to research the pope?”

  Efraín screamed again.

  “I know you didn’t just do it on your own. Who wanted it?”

  After a pause, there was another scream, and fast panting.

  “Please… no more. Len.”

  “Who?”

  “Len.”

  “Lenin? Teodoro Lenin? You’re lying, he’s dead.”

  “Lenin.”

  “If you’re lying, what I’ve done so far will be insignificant compared to what’s to come.”

  “Lenin.”

  “Was there a woman, too? Looks like a Jap?”

  “No.” A sharp yelp of pain. “Yes… woman.”

  “What did you do for them? What did you tell them?”

  A pause, another scream, and racking sobs.

  “Pope… Pius. Parents.”

  Another scream.

  “Grandparents… everything… all the way back… Flanders.”

  A scream ripped from the telephone, a flurry of popping sounded again, and then there was silence.

  *

  Gina drove west on the highway to Maracay. The horror of Efraín Bertrán’s torture and murder rode with them in the car, silencing them.

  When they arrived in Maracay, Lenin tapped his phone. A man answered on the first ring. “Hola?”

  “Is this Scott Westfield?” Lenin asked in English.

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is… Ted Espinosa. I’m visiting from the States. I… uh… know Efraín Bertrán… of your church. He said to look you up while I’m in Venezuela.”

  “Oh, I see—Ted, was it? Are you staying for a while?”

  “No, actually, just today. Would it be possible for me to come by right now?”

  “Well, I was heading out,” Westfield said.

  “It’s quite important that I see you… I need to use your computer.”

  “My computer? May I ask why?”

  “Yes,” Lenin said. “You see, I’m a professor doing some research. Efraín helped me earlier this week but he isn’t available today and he said you could work with me. Just an hour or so.”

  “Well, all right. Let me give you directions.”

  Lenin took them down on a notepad and hung up. They decided that Gina shouldn’t come along. She was famous enough that her failure to be dead might raise uncomfortable questions. She put on a floppy hat and sunglasses and Lenin dropped her off at a dingy and poorly lit café.

  Westfield was staying in a tiny house in Maracay. It was humble, but freshly painted and neatly kept. As they sat on a sofa in the front room, Lenin noticed a newspaper on the end table. He could only see the right-hand side of the front page, but the last word of the headline said “Asesinata!” There was a photograph of Gina.

  “I am a professor of history at the University of… Florida,” Lenin said. “I’ve been doing some genealogical research on Spanish kings. Efraín helped me research some names in the Flanders Hapsburg branch, and now I need some background on the Spanish branch. Can you help me?”

  “Do you have a specific name?”

  “Yes, the current king. Carlos Juan Pablo Paredes Duarte.”

  Scott opened his laptop. Lenin turned to the newspaper. The headline read LATINO UNION PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER MURDERED! Lenin’s heart skipped when he looked further down and saw a small photo of himself. Fortunately, the paper’s printing was poor, and the picture was very dark.

  “Listen,” Lenin said, “I know you have things to do.”

  “Actually, yes. There is a family we’re welcoming into the church. I’m going through the catechism with them.”

  “Oh, that is important. Any chance you could just let me mess around with this for a while? Efraín showed me the basics of the software, so I can find my way around the database. No need for you to babysit an old man on a computer, as hard to believe as that might be.”

  Westfield looked dubious. But it was very much in Efraín’s nature to send unannounced visitors to mutual friends.

  “I’ll even lock up when I leave,” Lenin said.

  “Okay, no problem. Just close the barred door behind you—I have the key.”

  “Thanks, Scott. This will really help my research.” The young man shook Lenin’s hand and left, pedaling away on a bicycle. Lenin finally relaxed.

  He typed, “Carlos I,” the name of the first Hapsburg king of Spain.

  *

  “Gallego?” Martín asked.

  “You were seen visiting Takeshi Ishikawa,” Nicolás said. Then at Langley. Then three people die. You set them up, and then the CIA took them out.”

  “You can’t think I would kill them! They were my friends!”

  “Spare me the innocence routine. It took pros to get to Gallego. He had years of experience protecting himself from both the left and the right.”

  “I did see Ishikawa. He asked me to find out what you’re up to. The CIA briefed me about the movements of your… band of merry men, I guess, whatever you call them. They knew you were in Venezuela and they knew you left your camp to come to Caracas two days ago. That’s all they told me. Nico, I swear on… anything you want me to, I didn’t… I could not, do anything to harm Gallego or Teodoro or—” His voice caught in his throat. “Or Gina.”

  Nicolás stared at his brother for a long time in silence. “I think I believe you, but that means you unwittingly led someone else to them. If it wasn’t the CIA, then perhaps Ishikawa’s men.”

  “Ishikawa’s a cold, calculating politician. No one knows that better than I do. But he couldn’t kill his daughter. And why would the CIA want to kill Gallego? Gallego helped the government.”

  “The CIA wants to get to me,” Nicolás said. “It’s their old battle that started with Fidel and even after his death it has never really ended.”

  Martín shook his head. “Killing Gallego severs the link. If they were behind this they would have kidnapped him and waterboarded him until he gave up your location. I’d think a terrorist, trained by the best, could figure this out by himself.”

  Nicolás brightened. “I did train with some of the best.” He pushed aside some brush to reveal a round metal hatch. “My brother the expert, what do you think of our ‘architecture’? That’s the main entrance to four kilometers of tunnels. A kitchen, a hospital, schools, armories. An example of me being trained by the best—I worked with Hamas to build tunnels in the Gaza Strip.”

  “So Ishikawa’s right,” Martín said. “You’re leading a revolutionary force.”

  “The main force isn’t here anymore, they’ve moved south to—” Nicolás stopped short and smiled conspir
atorially. “But I can’t tell you that, can I? You’re the enemy.”

  “The Latino Union is determined to stop you,” Martín said. “Previously, you were a nuisance. But now you’re somebody they can no longer ignore.”

  Nicolás shrugged. “You might be their newly trained dog, but I’ve been in this game for a while. They’ve been after me for longer than you’d think, and I’ll be gone in a few hours.”

  “This ‘game’ ended decades ago. You’re not fighting over the fate of civilization—you’ve aligned with monsters who are trying to destroy it.”

  “It’s time to burn everything down and start over.”

  “Oh, please, you sound like a high school stoner. The Soviet Union’s dead, Mao’s dead. And now in a final attempt at glory, you’ve gotten in way over your head.”

  Nicolás bristled visibly. If any man who was not his flesh and blood had uttered those words, he would have killed him on the spot. “Cuba remains a socialist fortress.”

  “If I ever need a 1950s Ford I’ll move to Havana,” Martín said. “Or maybe North Korea if I want to starve to death while getting whipped.”

  “So you want to get fat lapping up the scraps from a fascist like Ishikawa?” Nicolás asked. “Is that the modern way, my brother?”

  The wheel on top of the hatch turned and a woman in faded baggy fatigues climbed up the ladder from the tunnel entrance. She looked to be in her thirties and was lean and hard. She carried a small plastic bag, which she dropped in Nicolás’s lap. He looked up at her fondly and took her hand.

  “She is the best thing that has happened in my life,” he said to Martín. “Carolina is the right hand of our movement—a dedicated revolutionary with the best credentials in the business. A Basque by birth, she grew up in the ETA until their cowardly ceasefire with Madrid. I was becoming a burned-out shell until I met this woman. She ignited my fire again, both as a revolutionary and as a man.” He took her hand and kissed it. She smiled thinly, but made no move or sound.